Alyosha was reflecting quietly to himself. ‘I don’t know if there’s much point going for it.’

  ‘What have you got to lose?’

  Later that day, he went to see the boss. He was in his shirtsleeves, reading the Völkischer Beobachter with his feet up on the desk when Alyosha entered his office. The man was a Berliner, born and bred, with a burly frame and a three-day stubble. The large desk filled the small room, and was covered in piles of messy paperwork and files.

  He asked Alyosha impatiently for his work permit. ‘Or the police will be on my back.’

  The last thing Wenzel needed was any attention from them, especially after the hellish time he’d had with those bastards from the tax office. The boss took the precious grey card and examined it carefully. Alyosha had applied for the permit a couple of months previously and, to his surprise, it had been granted, on condition that he renewed it on the third Wednesday of every month. He had never experienced anything coming to him so amazingly easily as that permit. That was one of the advantages of working for the NASAP.

  ‘Why are you applying to work here,’ asked Wenzel suspiciously, ‘when you already have a driving job?’

  ‘I never know when they’ll need me,’ he lied. ‘I don’t know where I stand with them; they’re really unreliable.’

  How could he tell him the truth: that he was sick and tired of promoting the cause of pure blood by spilling blood. Supporting the cause of the NASAP had become too violent. His needs were simple, he thought: he just wanted a secure job with regular working hours and good pay, without having to put his life in danger every day. Was that too much to ask?

  ‘Russian?’ Wenzel asked coldly.

  ‘We’ve all got to be something or other. Russian, Polish, Hungarian…’

  ‘You a fucking Bolshie on the sly?’

  He denied it. Was he sure? Perfectly sure.

  ‘I hope you’re being straight with me. Tell me lies and I’ll have you. I’m not letting a single Bolshie bastard near my taxis, not with all their crap about unions and rubbish about workers’ rights, got that?’

  The room stank of strong tobacco, cheap perfume and sex. Heinrich had told him that it was an open secret that the boss and his secretary had been rubbing against each other for years. If the door was shut everybody knew to keep well clear, if they valued their job. ‘Going over the accounts,’ they called it. Poor Agna had tried her best over the years to persuade Wenzel to leave his wife, but with no success so far.

  Alyosha, feeling he had nothing to lose, as the man clearly had no intention of giving him a job, asked, ‘So is it just Bolshies you hate? Or all Russians?’

  ‘The last one I employed cost me a packet…’

  He didn’t elaborate, and Alyosha didn’t ask. He felt too dispirited.

  ‘Right then.’ The boss wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘You’re on a fortnight’s trial.’ He threw the permit back at him and picked up his copy of the Völkischer Beobachter. ‘But you fuck me around, you little bastard, and you’re out on your arse.’

  57.

  Artyom returned to Paris with a lighter heart, having arranged the first shipment.

  Zepherine, meanwhile, had been thoroughly upset when some man called at the house and shouted at her aggressively for his money. As he left, he told her he’d be back.

  ‘Artyom, what was that about?’ she asked.

  ‘Just a temporary nuisance,’ he told her soothingly.

  ‘Are you sure that’s true?’

  On her birthday, he took her to the Hôtel Continental on Rue de Rivoli, under a pale-lemon winter sky. She was put out when she was accosted by an old tramp, dressed in a filthy mustard coat tied around the waist with a rough piece of twine, his fluffy white hair blown everywhere by the wind. He had the gait of a man who had been walking for many years down roads beset by difficulties and obstacles. The doorman shooed him away, and Artyom watched him trudge off, talking sullenly to himself, his gestures suggesting some empty boast. He must have had a home once, thought Artyom. A father and mother. Had they always scratched a living an inch or so away from destitution? Had he been forced to work when his bones were still soft? Had that been the beginning of his troubles? How had he come to beg? A family breach? A marriage break-down? A disappointment in love? Who knew?

  A few weeks later, Inessa and Philippe returned to Paris after touring the Netherlands. Artyom and Zepherine were due to accompany them to the annual dinner dance for the Russian community in Paris, which was held in the George V. Artyom was waiting to hear whether all had gone well with the first shipment, and was irritable and distracted, but couldn’t think of a good enough excuse to cancel.

  The Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolayevich Romanov – his face red and glistening – and his wife, Princess Anastasia of Montenegro, greeted the guests as they arrived. Her dress was as dazzling as a harvest sun, leaving her shoulders and arms bare, and her hair was piled high on her head, crowned with a narrow tiara. She was a tall, fair woman, with nut-brown eyes and smooth skin, without a wrinkle to be seen.

  The master of ceremonies – a short little hassock of a man – stood at their side, announcing the guests, and the Grand Duke and Princess murmured exactly the same greetings to everybody in their turn. It was a laborious task, and neither of them showed much enthusiasm for it, the Grand Duke sniffing his disapproval every now and again.

  Many eyes turned to look at Inessa when she was announced. She was arm-in-arm with Philippe, who wore a dreamy, almost drowsy expression. Her dress, from Coco Chanel’s latest collection, looked slightly too young for her, but undeniably chic. A pink feather boa was draped over her shoulders, and dangling coral earrings accentuated the length of her graceful neck. Her eyes, thick with mascara, were a smouldering black, contrasting with the powdered whiteness of her skin. Her nails were painted black as well, and as she moved into the room, she left a cloud of Chanel No 5 behind her.

  They found their table, and Inessa placed the little silver bag which had been hanging on her wrist on it. Philippe sat at her side, and opposite were Artyom and Zepherine, who had been placed next to Prince Alexander Buxhoeveden, there with his wife, Princess Olga, and their five daughters. Princess Olga was in her forties, with a round, compact face under ringlets so densely and uniformly black, it was obvious they were dyed. The Prince, a small man, square of body, with a weathered face, now sold houses and apartments in Nice for a living, but had very little to say for himself.

  Before a phalanx of servants brought the food out, a woman stepped onto the low stage in front of the orchestra and began to sing ‘Arise, Russian Land, Defend Your Faith!’ Everybody joined in the chorus:

  Again, march ahead!

  Again, the bugle calls!

  Again, we’ll join the ranks

  And all march into the holy battle.

  Arise, Russian Land, defend the faith!

  Between the fourth and fifth course, Artyom motioned to one of the waitresses and whispered something to her. In no time, more wine was brought and his glass refilled.

  ‘Artyom,’ chided Zepherine, ‘What is the matter with you tonight? Can’t you enjoy yourself without getting blind drunk?’

  He told her he was enjoying himself very much, but in fact he was in a foul temper. The taste of uncertainty filled his mouth, and he was engulfed in a dark cloud.

  Inessa was animated and charming, and the Princess was a cheerful little thing, so Zepherine tried her best to be their equal.

  ‘That hour you spent being happy, you didn’t spend being sad,’ said the Princess, appearing very pleased with her own cleverness. ‘That’s what my mother used to tell us when we were children.’

  ‘True enough,’ smiled Inessa, ‘I must remember that. With your permission, I’d like to put it in my diary, so I don’t forget.’

  This pleased the Princess very much.

  A man in dress uniform strolled past their table and put his hand on Artyom’s shoulder. It was General Vladimir Dmitrievich Kuzmin-Karavaev, and Artyom stood up to greet him.

  ‘I hear things have been difficult,’ the General said.

  ‘A little,’ answered Artyom.

  The General tapped his elbow and said, ‘The two of us will have to have a proper talk.’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  A date and time was arranged at a brasserie on Rue de l’École-de-Médecine.

  ‘I look forward to it,’ said Artyom, though, for some reason, he felt that there was some evil spell in the man’s voice.

  ‘Until then.’

  For a little while, Artyom managed to slip away to sit on his own at the bar, pondering why he had such a strong feeling of dread, but Zepherine found him.

  ‘What are you doing here? I thought you’d gone and left me,’ she told him crossly.

  They returned to their table where Princess Olga was talking in platitudes about how important it was when dancing to allow oneself to let go, to give oneself up to the euphoria of the purely physical.

  ‘I’d love to be able to dance the Charleston like Josephine Baker.’

  Artyom had barely spoken a word with his sister all evening, or Philippe for that.

  ‘What a tedious evening,’ said Zepherine in the taxi.

  Artyom grunted his agreement.

  Early the next morning, he was arrested.

  58.

  He was given ten minutes to dress. Zepherine stood by, looking wild and bewildered.

  ‘What has he done? You don’t have any right to take him.’

  Artyom admonished her gently to be quiet. He held her face tenderly and kissed her, telling her he’d be home in no time. The motor car sped away through the empty streets of Paris. It was the hour before dawn, and the gloom of the streetlights gave a desolate look to everything. They took him to the Sûrété, where he was put in a cell without being questioned. At seven, he heard doors being unlocked and the chatter of the prostitutes as they were released, but still nobody came for him. Hours went by. Had they forgotten about him?

  Artyom cursed himself silently for his recklessness. Someone came and looked in at him, then sloped off again. He paced up and down the cell restlessly. They hadn’t let him wash when they’d come for him, and he felt sour and stale. He kicked the bottom of the cell door until his foot was sore. Still nobody appeared.

  Eventually a policeman brought him food, and after another hour or two, he was finally taken from the cell, upstairs to an office. Sitting there was a short, bald, sour-faced man in a black suit and tie, who looked like a funeral undertaker. ‘Monsieur Artyom Vasillich Riuminskii? he asked.

  Artyom nodded.

  ‘Monsieur Artyom Vasillich Riuminskii?’ the man repeated, still smiling.

  Why ask twice?

  ‘That’s the name I was christened.’

  ‘Is that still your name?’

  ‘That’s what I call myself.’

  ‘That’s what other people call you?’

  ‘To my face, at least. I don’t know what I’m called behind my back.’

  The man began at the beginning. How had a Russian such as himself come to France in the first place? The interrogation went on for hours. When the sour-faced man flagged, towards evening, another individual took his place. This one had a sober, intense expression, and a detailed but dreary way of questioning, but by then, Artyom had realised exactly what was at stake. A little before midnight, he was taken back to his cell, and given something to eat. He barely had the strength to lift the food to his mouth, he was so tired.

  The next day, the door was opened and the Saint was ushered in by a policeman. The door was locked, and the two men stared at each other. The Saint looked terrible.

  ‘They’ve just accused me of importing and distributing heroin. They say I brought it in from Turkey,’ he started to gabble. ‘Even if I knew how to go about such a thing, why would I do something so evil?’

  Ears in the walls listened to every word.

  ‘Why would they accuse you of such a thing?’ asked Artyom, taken aback.

  The Saint explained everything, but Artyom was dismissive.

  ‘I was dismissive to begin with, too. But I believe they’re serious. It’s such a disgusting accusation: that I would use the charity’s ship – a ship carrying the necessities of life to those poor children in the Levant – in order to import morphine through Marseille. They say I’m in cahoots with you. Forgive me… but is there any basis at all to what they say?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ answered Artyom in a clear voice, so that everybody could hear.

  But the police had shared the details of Artyom’s racket with the Saint.

  ‘They say they know everything,’ the Saint said. ‘They say they have evidence and witnesses, and that I’m a part of it. But the whole thing is completely repugnant to me. I’ve told them that, but they won’t believe me. Won’t you tell them?’

  ‘I’m in the dark,’ said Artyom, ‘just as much as you are.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear you say that, tremendously glad. Because the things they’ve been saying about you, horrifying things…’ He trailed off.

  ‘There’s obviously been some ridiculous misunderstanding about the both of us.’

  ‘That’s what I told them. But they won’t listen.’

  Three days later Artyom was brought before the judge, to be formally charged with importing nearly half a ton of opium into France. They had evidence that he had brought it in through Marseille, and had stored it in the Orphans’ Friend’s warehouse in Paris. Artyom denied the charges and the judge ordered for him to be kept in custody until the court case.

  The Saint was locked in the next-door cell to Artyom in the Santé prison, accused of being an accomplice. He was distraught, and Artyom would hear him through the wall, writhing and praying for deliverance from this unjust imprisonment for hours at a time. He wished he could do something to help him, but he had plenty on his own plate to deal with. It was quite plain that the police were very confident that they had a watertight case against him. Somebody had opened his mouth. Somebody had betrayed him. L’Oreille? No. The Sicilians? Probably.

  Lying on his wooden bed that night, Artyom imagined himself in a monastery. But around him he could hear low murmurings, the odd indistinct knocking, and someone above his head howling for release. He wasn’t in a monastery after all, but a lunatic asylum. Apart from the daily wailing, and doors being locked and unlocked, there was no other sound to be heard inside the Santé walls. No twitter of birds, no laughter of children, no evening breeze rustling the leaves of the trees. Nothing but iron and stone and sorrow. The world outside had sailed away.

  59.

  The sky above Berlin was a vault of blue that Saturday. Alyosha parked the Austro-Daimler at the rank opposite the picture house on Hauptstrasse, after a quiet enough day. The motor car had seen better days and was covered in scratches and small dents, while the rust underneath the motor was gobbling it up like cancer. He got out of the vehicle to stretch his legs. There were six other motor taxis already parked at the rank. Two or three of the drivers were chatting outside their taxis, but the rest were sitting at the wheel, their noses in their newspapers, reading the racing results. Horses were their religion.

  Alyosha was just locking up his taxi and looking forward to having a bite to eat at the nearby bierstube, when he heard them. Looking up, he saw a flock of children of about ten to twelve years old, streaming out of the picture house’s double doors into the daylight. In their red caps, they looked like a troop of dwarfs, and he smiled as he saw them break out of their lines to form little groups, chattering away, full of energy and mischief. He saw from the billboard that they’d been to see Eisenstein’s film, The Strike.

  He jolted upright when he saw Margarita coming down the stairs with three other young women, and watched as they chivvied the children to form a choir. All the other taxi drivers looked up as well when the little voices started to sing ‘The Internationale’. Leaning back against his taxi, Alyosha crossed his arms across his chest and listened. But as the song continued, it had to compete with the sound of heavy marching growing ever louder as it approached, accompanied by harsh voices shouting out a song:

  ‘Heute gehört uns Deutschland

  Und morgen die ganze Welt…’

  The young voices were quickly drowned out, and Margarita’s face filled with panic when she saw the squad from the SA marching towards them. Alyosha saw her lean to whisper something in the ear of the child nearest to her. He immediately turned to the child next to him, and the message spread from ear to ear as the choir lost the rhythm and the singing trailed off.

  With no quarter given for women and children, a hailstone of fists started battering them. Those who could, scattered to the four winds. It happened so quickly, it took Alyosha a moment to collect his wits, but then he sprinted across the road to save his cousin. Two or three of the other drivers followed him across the asphalt.

  In a frenzied rage, two yards of Nazi had hold of Margarita by her hair. With her hands wrapped around his fist, he slammed her down onto her knees, and then spun her savagely around him. Reaching them, Alyosha kicked the tall Nazi as hard as he could in the small of his back, sending him flying against the concrete steps, hitting his forehead. Then, he grabbed his cousin’s arm. She looked at him with a confused half-smile. As she was opening her mouth to say something, somebody made a lunge at Alyosha, grabbing him around the throat.

  ‘Let him go!’ she shouted.

  He was choking.

  ‘Let him go!’

  Alyosha was dimly aware of Margarita fumbling in her bag and then she was flying at his assailant. Howling, Vlasich Pesotski let Alyosha go, and staggered backwards, stamping his feet frantically like a wooden puppet. Squealing like a stuck pig, he staggered backwards two or three steps, and then ducked down, his hands supporting his face as something viscous flowed through his fingers. His squeals turned to something almost unearthly as he writhed on the pavement in agony. Alyosha didn’t know what had happened until he looked at Margarita, standing there stunned, holding a small pair of blood-soaked nail scissors in her hand.