Read Online The White Russian by Tom Bradby - Free Book Online Page B

frighten.”
    “I won’t be their lapdog,” Ruzsky said.
    “No, well…” Pavel shrugged.
    “What do you want to do?”
    “I don’t know. You’re the boss.”
    Ruzsky sighed. “It’s still our investigation to run.”
     
    Back at his desk while Pavel went to the bathroom, Ruzsky thought of the fear he’d seen in Pavel’s face, and even Anton’s.
    He glanced at the clock, then took out his wallet and removed the photograph of Irina and Michael that he still kept there. He put it on his desk, switched on the lamp, and bent over it. He told himself Prokopiev was dangerous only if he made another mistake. He would just have to be careful. Tackling the thugs of the Black Bands this morning would have been unwise.
    Ruzsky stared at the face of his son.
    Michael was a handsome boy, with straight dark hair and a solemn face. He was shy, just as his father had been, stubborn and affectionate. When he was difficult-which he had become more frequently as his parents’ arguments increased-he would cling to his rebellion tenaciously, only to cry his heart out once it was over.
    Irina smiled with an easy, lopsided grin that now completely failed to touch anything within him.
    Ruzsky thought of their departure from Tobolsk six months ago. He recalled Michael’s desperate affection and Irina’s impatience.
    He thought of her standing in the tiny kitchen of that house, screaming, “I wasn’t made for this!”
    Michael would think his father had abandoned him. At only six years of age, it was a terrible conclusion to reach.
    Ruzsky stood and, just as he had done at home, rested his head against the damp cold glass of the window.
    It was not possible, surely, that a boy could be better off denied a father’s love. Wasn’t he himself testimony to that?
    Ruzsky put his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out an old printed program from the Mariinskiy Theatre. He opened it to the relevant page and then turned around and placed that over Irina on the desktop, so that Maria and Michael both looked up at him.
    He gazed at their faces, allowing his fantasy free rein for a few moments. To have a happy family; was it so much to ask?
    Ruzsky noticed the pile of newspapers next to Pavel’s desk and he walked over and pulled off the top copy, which turned out to be Friday’s Petrogradskie Vedomosti. He ignored the war news and flicked through to the theater section. Romeo and Juliet in the Mariinskiy, it announced, but there was no reference to her.
    Pavel came back into the room and Ruzsky pushed aside the newspaper, scooping up the photograph and the program into his pocket.
    Pavel had recovered and his manner was businesslike, but he still had an uncanny knack of perceiving his partner’s mood. “You’ve been dreaming?”
    Ruzsky leaned back against the window. “No. But it’s not a crime.”
    “Depends who you are. In my case, no. I dream only of the possible. More vodka, more money, more sex. But with you, I’m not so sure.”
    “Sex with you? I’m not so sure either-”
    “You’re a dreamer by nature. You dream of the impossible, I think, and that is a kind of prison.”
    “Tobolsk was a prison. Without dreams, I’d have been dead from the neck up.”
    Pavel stared at the floor. “So, where do we go?”
    Ruzsky leaned back against the edge of his desk. “The thing is, political murders don’t involve someone being stabbed seventeen times.”
    Pavel didn’t answer.
    “Do they?”
    “It depends on the motive.”
     
    Ruzsky left the building five minutes later, and he nearly collided with a man who barely reached his chest. “Sandro!” the man exclaimed. “They let you back!”
    Ruzsky recognized Stanislav instantly. The wind had dropped and snow was falling in big, fat flakes, some of which perched on top of the journalist’s head.
    “They let you stay!” Ruzsky countered. “I can hardly believe it.”
    “Well, you know…” Stanislav shrugged. “Even a sinking ship needs its rats…”
    Stanislav