The White Russian by Tom Bradby Read Free Book Online Page A

or maybe America. Somewhere like New York.”
    “A foreigner, then?”
    “His shirts have no markings, and the labels from his jacket and overcoat have been removed. His underpants were Russian, his boots made to measure, probably somewhere in the Empire, I couldn’t tell you where.”
    “The man was the real target,” Ruzsky said.
    “Perhaps.”
    “Why else would he have been stabbed seventeen times?”
    “He was certainly no Rasputin. I should think he was dead after the first blow.”
    “Anything else?”
    “No. Oh, yes. I almost missed this. Look here, on his shoulder.”
    Ruzsky and Pavel examined the man’s skin. He had a small, branded black star there.
    “What does that mean?” Pavel asked.
    “I have no idea,” Sarlov said.
    “Have you seen anything like it before?”
    “No.”
    Ruzsky noticed the pile of clothes on the far end of the shelf. The man’s clothes were stiff with dried blood. His overcoat was thick and, Ruzsky thought, expensive. There was nothing in the inside pocket and the outline where the label had been was clearly visible. He pulled the pocket out, but there was nothing there, except a little dirt.
    The jacket was made of thick, dark wool, probably of cheap Russian manufacture, since the stitching appeared primitive. He turned all the pockets inside out, but again found nothing. He examined the boots for a moment. They were old and worn down and if the maker’s name had ever been visible in the sole, it had long since faded.
    Ruzsky pushed the pile to one side and turned to the girl’s clothes. He was struck immediately by their quality. The seams were immaculately stitched. He started with her corset, but then picked up the dress and saw the tiny label sewn into the hem.
    “Pavel,” he said. “Tell one of the constables to go down to the Nevsky and bring Madame Renaud here, whatever her objections.”
    “Why?”
    “Because my wife’s expensive taste in dresses has finally served a purpose.”
     
    Ruzsky made his way upstairs to the first floor. He saw that Anton’s office door was ajar. Anton had always come to work on Saturday mornings. It was a ritual. He was bent over a drawer, searching for something. The desk itself was covered, as always, in loose papers. On the wall, below a white clock, was a picture of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. The bookcase was full of leather-bound volumes, some Anton’s own work.
    Anton straightened. He had his glasses in his hand and spun them slowly.
    “You’re in early,” Ruzsky said.
    Anton looked at him for a moment more and then came toward him. “My boy,” he said, gripping his shoulders and looking into his eyes. “How wonderful to have you back. Come, let’s celebrate.”
    Anton reached down to the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of vodka. As he filled two glasses, a large mop of dark hair hung over his forehead, the gray now visible at his temples. His face exuded the warmth of a loving father, his manner the absentmindedness and eccentricity of the college professor he had once been.
    Anton pushed one glass across the desk and raised the other. He looked carefully at his protégé. “Fantastic to have you back.”
    They drank. Ruzsky almost choked. “Christ.”
    “I know, it is dreadful.”
    “It’s worse than dreadful.”
    “The city is an island, cut off from decent vodka.”
    “I should have brought you some from Tobolsk.”
    Anton raised his eyebrows. “Better keep your voice down. It’s still illegal, you know.”
    Ruzsky smiled. “I’m sure prohibition has been observed to the letter, especially inside this building.”
    Anton took another slug. “It’s been an excellent idea which, as the chief of the city police, I have, of course, fully supported. It has made a huge contribution to improving the general level of sobriety.” Anton refilled his glass.
    Ruzsky took a pace closer to look at the photograph on Anton’s desk. It was of the five of them-Ruzsky, Pavel, Anton, Vladimir,