The Amber Rooms

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Within the hour, Saskia found herself in the perfect dark that occluded the west side of the Finland Station, not far from its Royal Pavilion. The motor boat had been a wise choice of vehicle. There were many soldiers on the roads. Their activity had disturbed the habits of nightwalkers such as footpads and prostitutes, as well as curious onlookers fresh from the theatres. The first architects of St Petersburg had intended the waterways to serve in lieu of roads, and Saskia had taken the motorboat east along the Karpovka to the Neva, and then to the mainland Vyborsky District with no great trouble beyond some shouts from the St Sampson Bridge. Along the way, she saw emergency lanterns hung outside government buildings.

Now, she heard the night train to Helsinki disgorge vapour with a monstrous sigh. If she turned, she would see the mist spill across the extreme of the platform, beyond a fence. The train would leave the station in four minutes. Saskia intended to catch it by vaulting the fence, running alongside, and snagging a handle using a bundle of three crooked walking sticks, which she had stolen for the purpose from the hospital to the west of the station.

It was a poor plan. She might be able to board the train as it left the station. She might even succeed in overcoming the guard in the baggage compartment. But the train and its passengers would receive the closest attention at the border. Her attack on the baggage guard, or whatever method of incapacitance came to mind when the moment presented itself, would be noticed.

She stamped her feet to warm them.

‘Ego,’ she whispered, ‘I need to get aboard that train and remain on it until Helsinki.’

‘That,’ said Ego, ‘will be exceptionally difficult.’

‘Any suggestions?’

‘No.’

‘And there was me thinking we’d made friends.’

Ego did not reply.

Saskia hugged herself against the cold. She still wore Pasha’s cape, but the air was damp and the warmth of her brisk walk from the hospital waiting room had left her.

Doors were slammed along the length of the train. Saskia swore. She prepared to release the cloak, which would encumber her dash. She held the three walking sticks in her left hand. One should be able to bear her weight, even if the train tugged her more violently than she anticipated. Three was for certainty. She looked at the fence. It was too high for a clean jump. She would need to vault it, putting her weight on a post. To be thorough, she should walk over and test the strength of the post, but she had no more time remaining. In less than twenty seconds, she would need to burst from the darkness and board the train.

She closed her eyes and rehearsed the plan once more. Her window was ten seconds plus or minus two. She had to run alongside the train until it was far enough from the station to be obscured by the dark; only then could she approach the rear, with its vestibule and other prominent holds, and climb aboard. The speed would be too great for her hand grip to bear. The walking sticks would serve in lieu.

Saskia heard the platform guard blow his whistle. She prepared herself. The train, snorting, began to pull out. She watched the locomotive and the first carriage slide past her. Eight carriages to go.

‘Ms Tucholsky!’ called a man.

Saskia recognised the voice. For a moment, she looked at the train, and decided to let it pass. The brute-force approach had never appealed much anyway. She moved to the edge of the pavilion and peered around the corner, dazzled by the smoke-scattered light of the platform. There was a dozen people. Two of them might have been Tsarist agents. Pasha was standing half way along. He wore a long coat and a workman’s cap. As she watched, wondering why he did not wear his uniform, the smoke obscured his despondent face, then his form entirely.

She dropped the walking sticks and hurried along the platform before the smoke dissipated. Her eyes were closed. She found Pasha by dead reckoning, took his hand, and led him to a quiet place on the platform near its southern extreme and beneath a basket of flowers.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said.

As Pasha’s mouth widened into a smile, Saskia felt an answering relief at her core. The loss of his trust had wounded her more deeply than she realised. Now, at the prospect of its return, she felt overwhelmed.

Pasha took an oilskin diary from his pocket.

‘Father once said that nothing is unknown to Plato,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I found this beneath Plato’s bust in the observatory. It tells me that our friend has not been at home for many months. People wanted to see him there, and you know he doesn’t like crowds.’

It took her several seconds to understand that Pasha was telling her Lenin had left Finland. She had almost caught the wrong train. She threw her arms around Pasha’s neck.

‘Follow my lead,’ she whispered. ‘Hug me back.’

They were both bundled against the cold, but she held him until their warmths met.

‘I haven’t fallen asleep,’ she said into his collar. ‘I’m thinking.’

‘What about?’

‘Where can our friend be?’

Saskia felt more than heard Pasha chuckle. ‘The same place every Russian goes for some peace, quiet and sedition.’

So Lenin was in Switzerland. Soso and Kamo would take the money there. Behind her cold reception of this information, she noted that her mistake resulted from rash analysis. Kamo had always claimed that the money was destined for Tampere, Finland, but what did Kamo know of Lenin’s whereabouts? He knew only what he was told, and he was given information by a person even more paranoid than himself: Soso. In future, she must be more thorough in her analysis.

‘How do you know this?’ she asked, releasing him. She checked the platform with a glance. It was empty. But she maintained a concern about the two gentlemen she had identified as potential agents. St Petersburg was being locked down following the Summer Palace burglary. It made sense that the train station would be surveilled. They continued to hold hands.

Pasha swallowed. His effort to avoid tears made his mouth thin. He leaned towards her and said, ‘I must say one thing about my father, Ms Tucholsky. I had no idea about his connection to the socialists. I knew he was a free thinker, but that was the extent of my knowledge. To think how well the Tsar treated him, and us, as a family. His Majesty sent me a personal note of congratulation on my appointment to the Imperial Guard. What can I make of all this?’

‘You read his diary already? We parted less than an hour ago.’

Pasha gave her a disappointed look. ‘Ms Tucholsky, you are talking to the only person to have turned down a mathematics fellowship at the Menshikov Lyceum. Father’s code is complex but systematic. After a few minutes, I had it. Should you like to know it?’

‘Later, perhaps. We need to leave.’

‘Of course.’

He offered his arm. She took it and they moved with particular slowness into the station building.

‘And as for your role,’ he continued, ‘in the … difficulties experienced between my father and my mother, I am afraid that I have misjudged you. I know now that your course is a true one by your own compass—though not mine.’

‘I’d like to see what your father wrote about me. It could be important.’

‘Perhaps that is something you should read for yourself,’ said Pasha, ‘as we travel to Geneva.’

‘We?’

Pasha’s reply faded from his face. He looked to the right of Saskia and smiled coldly at a group of three men who were moving to intercept them. Saskia kept her expression neutral. The middle of the three was an officer of the Protection Department’s Security Section. That was obvious from his demeanour and the practised relaxation in his approach. He was flanked by two monolithic creatures dressed in the blue frock-coats and parade helmets—complete with horse hair in a sultan spike—of the Special Corps of Gendarmes. Saskia understood that she and Pasha were trapped. The gendarmes were physically fit, armed, and experienced. She had already surveyed the hall. Its muted lighting illuminated thirty-five more men, arranged in successively larger groups. A dozen soldiers from the nearby barracks joined them as she watched. The competitive divisions between the groups of men were emphasised by indiscreet coughs, raised eyebrows, and long exhalations of smoke.

Saskia turned from them to the officer who now blocked the route to the arch of the exit, and the bustling square beyond. The man wore a charcoal suit beneath a skirted coat not unlike the Georgian chokha. He was middle-aged, and this gave his eyes a paternal cast. Saskia took this as a deception.

‘A good evening to you both,’ he said. ‘I am Inspector Berezovsky and these are my associates. As you can see, there has been some trouble tonight. You will not object to an inspection of your papers.’

Earlier, Saskia had been carrying a certificate of conduct for the German alien Frau Mirra Tucholsky. These were now in the Neva. She had not dared risk being caught with them, since the identity would be on the Protection Department watch list.

‘I understand entirely,’ said Pasha. Saskia wondered if he understood the proximity of exile or execution. In a conversational manner, he said, ‘This isn’t a repeat of the recent troubles, I hope.’

‘Nothing in that line,’ replied Berezovsky.

‘These are my papers,’ said Pasha, taking an expensive wallet from his jacket pocket, ‘as well as those of my sister, Ludmilla.’

With a gloveless hand, Berezovsky pinched the end of his tongue and opened the passport.

‘As a Nakhimov,’ said the Inspector, casually, ‘your family has a long history in the Hussars.’

Pasha accepted the compliment with a nod.

‘That is correct.’

In the same casual tone, Berezovsky continued, ‘And yet you are not on duty tonight, I find.’

‘I injured my back last month. I hope to resume active duty by Ascension Day.’

‘Ah.’

Berezovsky turned to the passport in the name of Ludmilla Nakhimov. He ran his thumb over the Imperial eagle on its cover. Saskia noticed that the larger of the two gendarmes had stopped blinking. His companion was relaxed but alert. It was clear that all three were veterans of these stop-checks. Something in the body language of Berezovsky had communicated unease to him. Saskia was not surprised at his next question.

‘You were born in 1884, Countess Nakhimov?’

In all likelihood, he was lying. The date was plain to him, but he had misread it deliberately. He smiled at her. It was an acknowledgement that the game, if this conversation were a game, had begun. Saskia smiled back. She did not know what to do. There was not enough light to see the date reflected in Berezovsky’s pupils.

‘I believe it is 1882, Inspector,’ said Pasha. He shared a man-to-man look with the Protection Department officer. ‘My sister has had a long day. We are travelling home directly.’

The Inspector had the grace to bow. ‘Thank you for that correction. But now I must ask the Countess for her middle name and place of birth.’ After a pause, he continued, ‘I will press you for that, Countess.’

He never asks, she thought. He only states.

‘I feel ill, Pasha,’ she said. ‘Let us go home.’

The Inspector feigned concern. ‘With a blessing, Countess. There is no sense extending these proceedings. Do you not agree, Count?’

‘Of course,’ said Pasha. There was a false note in his voice. Added to this, the conviviality of the Inspector’s approach had transformed from courtesy to play. The gendarmes were black doors poised to slam on them both. ‘Now, Lidka. Answer the gentleman and then I can take you home.’

‘What was the question?’ she asked quietly.

‘Come,’ said Berezovsky, as though to a reluctant child. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘It is the simplest thing.’

‘Inspector,’ said Pasha. ‘Allow me to explain. My sister had a fall earlier this evening. She is feeling unwell.’

‘Did she?’ The inspector looked from Pasha to Saskia. ‘Perhaps we can have one of our doctors examine her. They are the best, or so I am informed.’

Saskia looked at him. She did not blink.

‘I asked you to repeat the question, sir.’

Berezovsky turned to the taller of the gendarmes.

Just then, there was movement inside her blouse. Saskia thought of a trapped bird, then the sparrows of the absent i-Core. The flutter slowed to a series of taps not unlike the percussive palpations of a doctor, but ghostly.

‘Your middle name,’ said the Inspector, growing firm in his tone. ‘Your date of birth, and place.’

The invisible taps came like a second heart, fast-slow: lub-dub. Saskia smiled. Lub-dub. Dub-lub-dub-dub. Dub-lub-dub-dub. Lub-dub.

It was the simplest of codes: Russian Morse.

А.

л.

л.

а.

Ego, she thought. Thank you.

‘Aliya,’ she said. Before she drew her next breath, the taps accelerated through a new sequence. The movement was as fast as a card sharp ruffling a deck. But Saskia understood as though the words had been whispered in her ear. ‘1st August, 1882. Rakitnoe.’

The face of the Protection Department agent did not change. But the gendarmes seemed to feel that the tension had eased. One of them offered a bored look to the ceiling. Saskia followed his gaze to the vaulted darkness and heard the quiet but echoic conversation of the men around the terminal hallway. St Petersburg might have been a toy city, with Saskia and Pasha no more than miniatures trapped in its pretend streets, stalked by imaginary forces of a revolution that was itself the idle fiction of a spoiled child.

They bowed to the frustrated Protection Department officer, and his gendarmes, and Saskia let Pasha lead her from Finland Station into the night. They joined a crowd heading north. Saskia sagged against him. As they walked, she tied a kerchief around her head.

‘Lenin is in Geneva,’ he whispered. ‘That is as much as I know.’

‘When can we leave?’

‘Tomorrow morning. In the meantime, my family keeps rooms at the Grand. I’ll take you there and return for breakfast. Tonight, I have some business explaining my absence to my superiors at the Palace.’

‘What about your father?’

‘Lidka will make the arrangements and tell everyone that I have taken to my bed with auras. You recall that I was incapacitated often as a child. No-one will doubt the story.’ He sighed. ‘I only hope I can return in time for the service.’

‘What about the inquest?’

‘There we are lucky. Our foremost investigating magistrate was an unsuccessful suitor to my sister. During their courtship, we became fast friends. If he is assigned the case, which all but certain, I will ask him to give me leave to collect evidence. I will tell him that it would be better for the family, and for Lidka, if I were to make some initial investigations.’

‘You have done excellently, Pasha.’ Saskia watched her feet. Her plum-coloured skirt seemed to wash over the pink pavement. ‘For my part, I’m so tired I can’t think straight. Are you sure you wish to help me?’

‘It is not revenge,’ he said, and the boyish haste in his voice made Saskia smile inwardly. ‘My father and I agreed on little. Reading his diary, I see we agreed on even less than that. I do not hold with these Marxist or anarchist ideas, and I consider it my duty to prevent these monies being spent on revolutionary activities. The sum is mentioned by my father in his diary: 250,000 roubles hidden in the base of the Frederick the Great model in the Amber Room, which is now missing. They have stolen a sum greater than the annual salary of the Tsar.’

They continued in silence until someone in the dispersed crowd began a hearty recitation of Pushkin’s poem “Thoughts”. As though this was something he did not wish Saskia to hear, Pasha said, ‘How did you know my sister’s date of birth?’

‘A little bird told me.’

‘Well, thank goodness for little birds.’

‘Yes,’ said Saskia. ‘Thank goodness.’

Ego fluttered against her chest, Morsing: You are welcome.

The man reached the line in poem, “And where will fate send death to me? / In battle, in my travels, or on the seas?” before he faltered, and stopped with a laugh, accepting the backslaps of his companions with the modesty of the quietly victorious. Saskia nodded. As one of her last memories of St Petersburg, it would do well.

Some hours later, wrapped in the luxury of the Grand, Saskia twisted in her bed. She could feel the silk sheets but also a breeze. She knew her eyes were shut but she could see the growing brightness of a shore and, beyond, a forest of birch. She could not move but her feet took her on a line parallel to the wood. Its interior was impenetrable. In this dream, despite its lucid nature, she could not command her vision to improve.

Here I am again, she thought. Saskia Beta can communicate with Ute, too. Even the way the bark peels on the birch trees is the same. But no sparrows, this time.

Saskia came across a girl building a sand castle. The girl was no more than twelve years and dressed for the beach: a black swimsuit with baggy blue shorts on top. She had a yellow, plastic spade and ignored Saskia as she put the last touches to the sand castle. It was a moated hummock with crude crenellations around the peak. Saskia smiled as she watched. The girl was recognisable as herself—that is, the body she saw in mirrors—and this scene had the pleasing nostalgia of a memory. They might have been on one of the islands to the north of Germany.

‘I like your castle, little heart,’ said Saskia.

Ute looked up. The concentration on her face lingered for a moment. Then the inevitable fear swept across her. She jumped onto the castle and balanced on it, holding the spade like a sword.

‘You can’t get me here.’

‘I don’t want to get you,’ Saskia replied. She raised her palms.

‘No,’ said Ute. She screwed her eyes shut. ‘No spells.’

Saskia frowned and looked at her hands. From her own perspective, they were identical to the hands she saw while awake, if a trifle pale and with longer nails.

‘What do you see, little heart?’

Ute did not open her eyes. Wobbling, she said, ‘What I always see. A witch. Except …’

Saskia spoke with a quiet voice. ‘Except?’

‘Today, you don’t have your awful cat.’

‘Which cat?’

Ute opened one eye. ‘Ego, you call him. Sometimes he sits on top of your moving house and says unpleasant things to me.’ She opened both eyes. ‘Where is your house?’

‘Tell me about my house.’

Ute lowered the spade and cocked her head at Saskia. She was the picture of suspicion. ‘Why should I need to? It’s your house. And an ugly house to boot.’

‘Ute, I want you to listen to me,’ said Saskia. She tried to invest as much kindness and beauty in her voice as she could. ‘Today, I’m different. The person who sometimes visits you looking like me … that person is gone.’

The girl dropped to a crouch. She hugged her knees. ‘Is this a trick? Are you going to hurt me again?’

‘No, little heart.’

Ute seemed to consider this. ‘I understand that some things can look the same on top but be different underneath. I’m not stupid.’

Saskia smiled. ‘Of course not.’

‘Your house has chicken legs and walks behind you. Some nights I hear it walking through the forest of birch.’

Baba Yaga, Saskia thought. The witch of Slavic and German mythology.

‘How long have you been building that sand castle?’

Ute shrugged and looked away to the horizon. There was weariness beyond twelve years. ‘It seems like forever.’

‘I like to pass the time with stories,’ Saskia said, sitting down cross-legged. ‘Why don’t you tell me one?’

‘I can’t,’ Ute said in a despondent tone. ‘I don’t know anything. I couldn’t tell you what’s in the forest or in the sea. Sometimes, I feel like this is the first time I’ve been here. But, other times, it seems like—’

‘Forever.’

‘Yeah.’

Saskia let a moment pass by. They looked at the waves. She was certain they would never retreat or encroach. This shore was tideless. The castle was safe.

‘Why don’t you tell me about your dreams?’

‘They’re boring. They’re always the same.’

‘The same how?’

‘I always dream I’m the same person,’ said Ute, clenching and unclenching her toes in the sand. ‘In the dreams, I’m sad.’

Saskia felt a sparkle of grief in her throat. She tried to swallow it down but soon her breaths were juddering. Tears collected in her eyes. She looked at Ute and opened her arms. The girl hesitated, but curiosity seemed to beat fear. She stepped from her castle and sat in Saskia’s lap so that they both faced the sea. Saskia put her arms around her.

‘I need to look at the sea,’ said Ute. ‘It’s easier than looking at you.’

Saskia coughed. Then she said, ‘I understand.’

‘So you’re different on the inside but not on the outside?’

‘Yes. Tell me about Saskia.’

‘Who?’

‘Your dreams, little heart. Who do you play in your dreams?’

‘I’m a spy, I think, or something like that. I do dangerous things for them.’

‘Who?’

‘Meta.’

Saskia frowned at the word. ‘Meta?’

‘Meta,’ said Ute. ‘M. E. T. A. They want me to travel in time and I do. I have a helper who whispers in my ear.’ Ute laughed. ‘And I can speak to foreigners! And I climb things, jump over things, and …’

Saskia loosened her hug. When she turned to look at Ute’s face, she saw shock.

‘And what, little heart?’

‘Kill people,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not a nice person. Please, whoever you are, I don’t want to talk about my dreams any more. How long can you stay?’

Saskia dropped her chin to Ute’s shoulder and closed her eyes.

‘Until the tide washes us away, little heart.’