and from one passing glance in the Summer Gardens the previous day.
‘Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin, I presume,’ said Luka, opening the door wider to allow Mihail in.
There was no one else in the apartment. Mihail had half expected to see Dusya there, or one of the two men he had observed leaving the previous day, but he was alone with his half-brother.
‘How do you know my name?’ asked Mihail. The answer was obvious enough. He had told Dusya his name; somehow she had seen him.
‘How do you know my address?’ countered Luka.
‘We have a mutual friend.’
This much appeared to pique Luka’s interest. He gestured towards a chair, which Mihail took.
‘Tea?’ Luka asked.
‘Thank you.’
Luka went over to the samovar, which was already hot, and drew two glasses. Mihail glanced around the apartment. The sitting room, on to which the front door opened, was quite large, with two further doors opening off. Three or four cheap watercolours provided the only real decoration. The room was well furnished with seating for over a dozen people, either on the divan or on a number of padded chairs or even more hard ones, none of them matching. Mihail knew that one thing these revolutionaries did like to do was meet and talk, and this place seemed quite suited.
What the room lacked was any hint of written materials. The shelves on the walls were empty. There was a desk but apart from the samovar its surface was bare. He could not see in the drawers, but guessed that they would be the same. There would be no clues if the place was raided by the Ohrana.
‘And who is that?’ asked Luka, sitting on the divan and leaning back. He seemed calm – almost amused.
There Mihail was at something of a loss. The identity of the mutual friend – mutual acquaintance – was simple enough: Iuda. But Iuda was a creature of so many aliases that it would be a challenge to hit upon the right one. ‘Iuda’ itself seemed unlikely and though Tamara had told Mihail of others – Richard Cain, Vasiliy Denisovich Makarov, Vasiliy Innokyentievich Yudin – there could be many more besides, by any one of which he might be known to Luka.
There was, of course, another connection between Mihail and Luka – another who was closer than any friend: they shared a mother. But Mihail had decided not to reveal that – not until he knew just where his brother stood with regard to Iuda. He thought back to what he had heard Dmitry and Iuda say, back in Geok Tepe. There was very little, just Dmitry’s words: ‘We know you’ve befriended him … much as you befriended me.’ Iuda had befriended Dmitry when he was just five years old, and had been his hidden guardian as the boy had grown into a man. How close was the similarity with Luka?
‘I take it you know you’re adopted,’ said Mihail, approaching the issue obliquely.
‘Of course.’ If Luka was surprised at Mihail’s knowledge he hid it well. ‘My parents never lied to me about that.’
‘What happened to your real parents?’
‘My father died in the cholera epidemic in ’48. My mother went mad. They had to take me away from her.’
It was brutally close to the truth; perhaps it would have been kinder for them to invent a lie.
‘Any brothers or sisters?’ asked Mihail.
Luka shook his head. ‘My parents couldn’t have children of their own.’
‘It must have been lonely.’
Luka allowed a little of his irritation to seep through. ‘Look, what’s all this about? You said we had a mutual friend.’
Mihail continued with his line of attack, a plan forming in his mind.
‘I’m an only child too – and brought up just by my mother. But I was lucky enough to have a benefactor.’
‘And who was that?’ Was that a little flicker of acknowledgement in Luka’s eyes? Had Iuda played that same role for him?
‘He was shy about using his full name – he liked his good deeds to remain anonymous.’ It was wild guesswork – a parallel of the way Iuda had worked on Dmitry. ‘I usually just call him “Uncle Vasya”.’ Of the pseudonyms that Mihail knew, Vasiliy was the only repeating factor.
Now Luka showed an even greater reaction. He leaned forward in his seat. ‘Vasya? Vasiliy?’
‘That’s right. I can tell the name means something to you.’
‘Perhaps. Tell me more about him.’
‘Well, he was a friend of my mother’s,’ explained Mihail. It was all extemporization now, but it did not matter – Luka was hooked. This