Internal investigators were considered little more than thugs and informants by the more genteel External agents. They operated out of safe-houses and flats, often used multiple identities and routinely dealt in conspiracies, blackmail, bribery, and assassination. They were on call twenty-four hours a day, filled in when the External needed them, snatched sleep and meals when and where they could.
There was no such thing as a normal day for an Internal investigator. Within the branch, marriages were doomed to failure; Ryzhkov’s was on its last legs. Children were neglected. He thought himself lucky that he had none. To relieve the futility, Internal investigators often fell prey to drink or the kind of low level corruption that came with nearly unlimited police power. It was more than a job, it was a way of life, a way of behaving. A way of thinking and existing to which Ryzhkov had grown accustomed. And gradually he’d come to accept that the purgatory of being in the despised Internal branch, like the pain in his tooth, was something for which he was uniquely suited. Something he deserved.
A man content to give his life for the Tsar.
‘…and the next thing is that the Hapsburgs are going to use the excuse and step in to protect their empire, and then it’s everyone rushing to be manly, eh? To protect the home and the hearth, eh?’ Dudenko was lecturing as the two of them paced by Ryzhkov, who had been propping up the wall.
‘Be quiet. Be quiet, for Godsakes,’ Ryzhkov said weakly. Neither of them could hear him. ‘Just, please…be quiet,’ he mumbled. Even moving his tongue hurt. Inside the theatre he could hear an alto singing desperately:
Oh, I wish I were a knight!
Oh, I wish I were a hero!
I would break down the gates be they of cast iron!
I would rush to the chamber where our Tsar reposes,
I would call ‘Servants of the Tsar!
Wake up!’
There was a commotion down the hallway and reflexively all three Internal inspectors straightened as the Chevalier Guards Officer-in-Charge came striding along the carpet. He was resplendent in his shining silver breastplate, skin-tight breeches and gleaming helmet. Beside him Hokhodiev looked like a small-town magistrate in a borrowed tailcoat.
The guardsman’s eye settled on Ryzhkov and he frowned. ‘Has this one been drinking?’ he asked.
‘Toothache,’ Ryzhkov muttered. The officer nodded sympathetically. Everyone had been pressed into service today. Normally a section of Internal men would be nowhere near the Marinsky, but extreme times called for extreme measures.
‘Bloody hell,’ the officer said. Ultimately he was in charge of the security precautions at the theatre. ‘Well, stay here. I’ll get you something.’ He headed back down the carpet toward the Imperial boxes.
Ryzhkov relaxed, took up his place against the wall and let his eyes shut. His dentist had a surgery on Vasilevsky Island, but after hours he had no idea how to find the man. And now he’d lose the tooth. Yes, it was his fault for ignoring it, but before the pain had never really been unbearable. A little twitch every now and then, but nothing like this.
‘Why don’t you sit down? If you hear me whistle, they’re coming,’ said Hokhodiev.
He began to pull Ryzhkov across the carpet to one of the satin-covered benches that ringed the corridor. No one sat on the benches. They were strictly ordered never to sit on the benches while on duty. ‘Sit, for Christ’s sake, Pyotr Mikhalovich.’ Dudenko had slipped an arm around him, and he suddenly felt his knees collapse as they heaved him on to the settee.
Immediately he heard the guards officer’s voice. ‘Has he collapsed? Here, make him take this.’ He pressed a round silver container into Ryzhkov’s palm.
‘Put it right on the tooth.’ The man grimaced. Beneath the moustache Ryzhkov could see that the officer had very few teeth beyond his incisors. Evidently he knew what he was talking about.
The officer stood back and appraised the three of them for a moment, then went back to his station. Ryzhkov screwed open the salter and found it full to the brim with cocaine.
‘Well, well, well,’ Dudenko sighed.
‘I expect that should do you for a bit, eh?’ said Hokhodiev with satisfaction, and he and Dudenko moved along the corridor so they could cover for him.
When he began dabbing cocaine on his tooth the relief was instantaneous, a wave of cool water that spread through his swollen gums. He made a mental note to repay the officer for his courtesy, and sat there sighing with gratitude. Maybe the cocaine would provide him with enough relief to get up and do his job before the end of the act. It wouldn’t do to get a citation on the Chevalier Guard nightly report, no matter what branch he was in. Ryzhkov’s career as an Internal agent might not be glamorous but it was, nevertheless, all the career he had.
A smart young man with no connections or noble blood, Ryzhkov had come into the Police Department in 1897, at what seemed to him to be the absurdly distant age of twenty-one. His first job had been to shadow the great Tolstoy while he visited St Petersburg. It was a bizarre introduction to policing, following an ageing writer as he browsed through the bookshops and markets of the city. But Ryzhkov conscientiously recorded Tolstoy’s every movement, the time and content of his meals, his conversations, and the numbers of the cabs he took across the city.
Now Ryzhkov caught sight of himself in a mirror. For a split second he thought it was someone else. One side of his face was swollen. He looked like a hamster or a man with a wad of tobacco in his cheek. His hair had come awry, his eyes were droopy and dull as if he had not slept in several days; perspiration had soaked his shirt front and the collar was stained and limp. Still, he had managed to restrain himself from pulling loose his cravat, and his suit was reasonably immaculate.
With a graceful flick of his fingertips he straightened up and shook his arms so the suit would settle across his shoulders. He tried to smile, tried to be debonair for a moment. The effort sent little spikes of pain across his jaw. He shook his head waggishly, as if he had just heard a naughty joke, made a smooth pivot, and with astounding grace began ambling down the corridor towards his men.
‘We should get into our places. Isn’t this the aria?’ Ryzhkov strolled towards the centre of the house.
‘Are you sure you’re feeling well enough, Pyotr Mikhalovich?’
‘Everything’s under control.’ He tried his debonair new smile out on Dudenko, who was obviously upset. Well, it was a very involving opera, a very emotional story, especially for a Slavophile.
He led them nearly halfway along the long curving corridor. At each entrance to the theatre two shining Chevalier Guards were posted, their gleaming helmets pulled severely down over their eyes. The golden chin straps, originally meant to keep the helmet on during the fury of a cavalry charge, had atrophied so that they fell ineffectually below each young guardsman’s lower lip. Now they couldn’t even bend over without losing their hats. Something about the young, blank, obedient faces of the guardsmen suddenly caused Ryzhkov to feel weary. A fresh wave of depression flooded over him and his step faltered on the carpet.
Suddenly there were footsteps behind them. ‘Shit,’ hissed Dudenko. Ryzhkov felt Hokhodiev tighten his grip, trying to hold him up straighter.
‘All right, that’s enough! Enough!’ It was the guards officer’s voice, angrily taking charge. ‘You people are disgraceful! Get him out of here…’ His diatribe got lost in a wave of applause. Suddenly there were young men in tailcoats rushing past them.
‘God Almighty!’ the officer spat. The young men in tailcoats flung open the doors to the boxes and instantly came a screamed command. The guards snapped to attention.
And