feet. Iuda’s eyes darted around, looking for a chance to escape. Once he was away from Dmitry, he might not find it so difficult. Dmitry reached into his pocket and drew out the manacles that he had taken from Iuda back in the cathedral, scarcely half an hour before.
‘Use these,’ he said.
The captain complied.
‘And be careful with him. You don’t know how dangerous he can be. Put him in the deepest cell they’ve got. Don’t take the cuffs off him. Don’t let him even see a window.’ Dmitry hoped he sounded casual.
‘Absolutely, sir.’ The captain knew his place better now that he had got his way.
‘Don’t let him out for exercise and don’t let anyone question him without my authority, you understand? Colonel Otrepyev.’
‘Sir. Do you require an escort, sir?’
‘No. I’ll be fine. Carry on.’
The captain saluted and turned. He and his five men led Iuda away to the Neva Gate, the gate from which Dmitry’s father had departed on his journey into exile, half a century before. It would take them only a couple of minutes to cross the ice to the fortress. When they thought they were out of earshot, one of the men said something that raised a laugh. The captain snapped at them and order was re-established. With discipline like that they might just survive the short journey. If they did, then perhaps it would all prove to be for the good. Keeping Iuda captive was a burden to Zmyeevich and Dmitry – if His Majesty was happy to take on the responsibility, then who were they to complain? If they could get him as far as the cell, then even Iuda would not be able to escape.
All the same, Dmitry did not relish having to relate what had happened to Zmyeevich. He turned and headed back. On the quay, just beside the Winter Palace, the dark figure stood silhouetted, waiting for him.
It hadn’t taken Mihail long to work out where he was. His mother had told him of the place – she used to work here. This was Fontanka 16; the building beside the chain bridge; the headquarters of the secret police. In her day it had been the Third Section; now it was the Ohrana, but it all meant much the same.
He’d tried to rest, lying on the thin mattress and letting the hours pass. The food they’d brought him had been unrecognizable as such, but he’d forced it down, not knowing when he might get more. The army had been good training for that. He wondered what would become of him. He tried to think of the best outcome – tried to believe in it, not because believing would make it true, but because expecting the worst would drive him to despair. Tamara had told him how they worked here – the first task was to break a man’s will.
He’d not had a weapon; that was in his favour. He’d had a sword at his side, but so did any officer in uniform. And he was a hero of Geok Tepe – he still had the wound to show it. His hand was almost healed now, but it was still bandaged, and beneath the linen the scar looked worse than it felt. He’d still need a story to tell them. He could say that he’d been so overcome with joy at being close to the grand duke that he’d felt the urge to rush to him and thank him for his family’s support of the army. Perhaps that was taking it too far; he would be more convincing if he was petitioning for better rations for the men. Neither made absolute sense – Konstantin’s power lay in the navy, not the army – but it was the best he had. He spent the day inventing further details for his story, but no one came to question him.
He still had the note, and the sapphire. He could do nothing with the gemstone, but he wondered whether he should try to get rid of the letter from his mother. It undermined his story, but if they found it, they might take it to the grand duke and Mihail’s ends would be achieved after all. But more than that, he couldn’t bring himself to destroy the last communication from his mother to his father, however brief it might be.
He heard the rattle of keys in the door, and then it opened. A sentry looked in, then withdrew. He heard a voice outside.