'But is there a journal, do you know, whose name begins with the letters R and E?'

'R. E.?'

'Yes. A name comprising two words, such as Russian Word. But in this case the letters are R and E. I imagine the first word must be "Russian." It seems to be a very popular epithet in journalistic circles.'

'There is only Russian Era,' said Blagosvetlov dismissively.

'Ah yes, Russian Era. Of course. Thank you. That must be it. Were you aware that Kozodavlev contributed also to Russian Era?'

'Never!'

'Never? Why not? Surely a journalist must place his pieces where he can?'

'But it's impossible to conceive of anything written by Kozodavlev appearing in that Slavophile rag. Not only would he refuse to submit to them, but they would not consider publishing anything by a radical journalist. They are unremittingly hostile to our goals.'

'But if he submitted under a false name?'

'Impossible!'

Porfiry fumbled for the two articles he had tucked away in an inner pocket. 'Let me see. Now where is it? This is the article he was writing for you. And . . . don't tell me I've lost it.' More fumbling in another pocket finally produced what he was looking for. 'This, here it is. Yes. "R. E. piece". That is what he wrote. At the top. Underlined three times.' Porfiry handed the sheets to Blagosvetlov. 'You helped me out by reminding me that the only t.i.tle those two letters could possibly refer to is Russian Era.'

After a moment, the editor thrust the papers back at Porfiry. 'If Kozodavlev was not dead already, he is dead to me now.'

10.

Men of the shadows.

Back in Stolyarny Lane, Porfiry Petrovich called in on Nikodim Fomich. The chief superintendent seemed surprised to see him.

'I will not keep you long,' said Porfiry.

'Please, stay as long as you like.'

Porfiry seated himself on the government-issue sofa, identical to the one in his chambers. 'The other day we were talking about the fires, do you remember?'

'Yes, of course.'

'It seems that the individual I was to have met at the Summer Garden may have perished in the fire at the apartment building on Monday night. The fire which claimed six dead in all.'

'I see.'

'Do you know who is conducting the investigation into that? Is it a police matter, or has it been handed over to other authorities?'

'The Third Section, you mean?'

'That is what I am wondering.'

'I can find out for you.'

'Thank you. Either way, I wish to see the file.'

'If it is still under the jurisdiction of the police and an investigating magistrate, that won't be a problem. If it has gone to the Third Section, then I am not sure I will be able to help you.'

Porfiry nodded tersely in acknowledgement.

'Do you not have your own contacts there?' wondered Nikodim Fomich. 'I seem to remember you were on amicable terms with one of the officers?'

Porfiry gave a startled look. 'You are referring to Major Verkhotsev?'

'That's the fellow.'

'He is hardly to be trusted.'

'My dear Porfiry, none of them is to be trusted.'

Porfiry's smile as he took his leave was guarded.

Porfiry sorted through an array of magazines and newspapers on his desk.

'It is hard to distinguish all these various publications, is it not, Pavel Pavlovich? We've had The Russian Voice, The Russian Word there is a Russian World too, I believe. Not to mention a Russian Messenger, Russian Soil, Russian Era . . . They all lay claim to speak for Russia, and yet they have such contrary things to say on her behalf! Pity the poor readers, who must find it awfully confusing.'

'I don't find it confusing.' Virginsky had pulled up a chair to the opposite side of Porfiry's desk, so that he could more easily browse the newspapers spread out there.

'No? I suppose the trick is to ignore the Russian part of the t.i.tle, which we may take for granted. So then it becomes a question of distinguishing between a Voice, a Word, a Messenger, the Soil and an Era.'

'Russian Soil and Russian Era are essentially the same paper they are published from one address and edited by the same Trudolyubov that Blagosvetlov mentioned. Era is a daily and Soil a monthly. Soil is little more than an omnibus, or digest, of Era. It often repeats editorials.'

'And so Kozodavlev was reviewing Swine for the novel's publisher? No wonder that version of his review was so favourable!' Porfiry smiled and shook his head. 'My, my, that's the lowest kind of hackwork, is it not?'

'One moment, Porfiry Petrovich. We cannot be certain that R. E. does in fact refer to Russian Era. And even if it does, we do not know that Kozodavlev truly intended to submit the article. He may have written it as an intellectual exercise. To amuse himself, or perhaps even as a piece of satire aimed against Russian Era.'

'A curious waste of his time.'

'But not impossible.'

'The easiest way to resolve this would be to talk to this Mr Trudolyubov. He should know whether he was expecting a review of Swine from Kozodavlev. He may even be able to shed some light on the ident.i.ty of the book's mysterious author. I see that Russian Soil is not at all reticent about its whereabouts. It prints its address for everyone to see. Liteiny Prospect.'

'Of course. It often serves as a mouthpiece for the Tsarevich. It is recognised as the means by which he airs his criticisms of his father's regime.'

'Ah.' Porfiry placed a hand wearily over his eyes. 'Please don't drag me back into those troubled waters.'

'I shall not drag you anywhere. But I cannot control where the case may take us.'

Porfiry nodded a distracted acknowledgement. He turned the pages of a copy of Russian Soil until he came to the first episode of the novel Swine. 'Have you read it, Pavel Pavlovich?'

It was a moment before Virginsky replied. 'Yes.'

'There is no need to be reticent. I will not think any the less of you for reading it. Indeed, I intended to read it myself. I cannot remember now why I did not. Certainly it is a work that must be of interest to an investigating magistrate. So . . . what did you think? That is to say, with which of Kozodavlev's judgements did you concur?'

'I judged it a poor piece of work.'

'You think it fails, as a warning to society?'

'I think it fails as a novel.'

'And the author? Do you have any opinions regarding his ident.i.ty?'

'I do not see that it is at all material to the case we are investigating.'

'The novel concerns the activities of a group of would-be revolutionaries, is that not so?'

'Yes.'

'It seems likely that Kozodavlev was involved in revolutionary politics. I mean actively, rather than just observing from the sidelines and occasionally cheering on in editorials. His letter to me hints at that. He was worried about spies in the department. It is not inconceivable that there may be individuals employed by the state whose true loyalties lie elsewhere, is it, Pavel Pavlovich?'

'You are accusing me?'

'Not at all. I know you are far too sensible to get involved with any of that.' There was an undoubted hint of irony in Porfiry's voice, that could only be infuriating to Virginsky. 'To return to Kozodavlev. He went to the bridge over the Winter Ca.n.a.l on Monday, the day the thaw began, because he had a terrible presentiment that the body was going to come to light. He knew this because he had been present when it had been cast in the ca.n.a.l. We can speculate that our man from the ca.n.a.l was a member of a closed cell murdered by his fellows, one of whom may well have been Kozodavlev. The resurfacing of this old crime stings Kozodavlev's conscience, which had never been easy about the murder, and he writes to me. A spy in the department sees his letter, notifies the Central Revolutionary Committee, and an a.s.sa.s.sin is sent round to torch his apartment building. In the process, killing five other innocent residents.'

'Kozodavlev was not innocent. Not if he was an informer.'

'You think he deserved to be killed?'

Virginsky dipped his gaze, abashed. 'I had not meant to say that.'

'And what of the body in the ca.n.a.l? If he too was an informer, he too deserved to die?'

'We don't know what he was, or who.'

'These men . . . these men of the shadows.' Porfiry's sudden rage rendered him inarticulate. He was forced to light a cigarette to calm himself. 'Who gave them the right to take another's life?'

'No one . . . gave it to them.'

The faltering emphasis of Virginsky's answer implied a world of meaning that Porfiry was reluctant to explore. He looked at his junior colleague for a moment warily before inhaling deeply on his cigarette. 'There are two things that I would like to know for certain. The first being whether Kozodavlev was the man on the bridge who watched the sailors bring up the body.'

'The Peter the Great has sailed, has she not?'

'Regrettably.'

'And so we have missed our chance to present the photograph of Kozodavlev to Apprentice Seaman Ordynov?'

'We shall have a photographic copy made and sent on to Helsingfors. The authorities there will question Ordynov when the ship docks, in a few days' time.'

'And the second thing?'

Porfiry's expression clouded suddenly, and he looked away from Virginsky. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the copy of Russian Soil. 'Whether this . . . novel . . . has any merit at all.'

Virginsky's frown made it clear he had detected the lie in Porfiry's voice.

Swine.

By D.

Preface.

Be in no doubt. The events set out in this narrative occurred. The personalities with which it is peopled exist. The crimes they commit are real and depicted without exaggeration or sensationalism. I say this with absolute authority. I was there. I am one of those personalities.

I share in the guilt of the crimes, even of the very worst.

Perhaps I did not pull the trigger, but I held down the man.

Why then have I chosen to write this account?

The simplest answer is to say that I have realised the error of my ways. I was in thrall of certain ideas, but am no longer. My intellectual captivation went hand in hand with personal fascination. There are men, and women, whom it is difficult to resist. Even when they utter the most flagrant and outrageous lies for example, when they a.s.sert that black is white one feels that they are telling the truth. Indeed, one is certain that they are capable only of truth-telling. It goes without saying that the truths they reveal are felt to be the most profound and devastating imaginable.

Their truths are the truths upon which one must act, and with a fierce urgency. When they call, whatever they may ask, one does not refuse.

You may find it hard to believe that any individual could exercise such power over another, that such scoundrels such swine are capable of commanding the loyalty of intelligent people. To which I can only say, believe.

They begin with seduction. The seduction of ideas, ideals, hope and goodness. They end with entrapment. The entrapment of fear and mutual suspicion. It is a web from which one cannot extricate one's self.

Every n.o.ble sentiment, every soaring aspiration, every burning desire to improve the lot of one's fellow man, is reduced to a simple formula of hate: kill or be killed.

One can accept this formula only for so long that is to say, only for so long as one has not been called upon to act on it. As an abstract formula it may seem as logical, and reasonable, as any other. But the moment one acts upon it is the moment one grasps its true horror. One's soul is thrown into upheaval. One's sanity is fractured.

Of the personalities who appear in this narrative, all have suffered for the part they played. All are isolated from their fellow creatures from G.o.d's creation, in fact by the sins that hang over them. One man has already committed suicide. I would not be greatly surprised if others follow his example. It is a course of action to which I give due consideration daily.

Perhaps I wrote this narrative to defer that terrible, final crime. Perhaps I hope that the writing will atone for the crimes written about, and render my suicide unnecessary, that by offering this as a warning, I will redeem myself in some small measure.

Or perhaps it is simply the note I will leave behind.

D.