tissue the gendarmes would scrape from the corners of the room.
He let Kletochnikov help him to his feet. His knees were shaking. The gendarmes had crowded into the room to gaze at the body of the student.
‘Go on, get out until I call you,’ he shouted. Surely they had seen a dead man before? ‘Not you, Kletochnikov. I want you to see if he’s got anything on him.’
The agent began pulling gingerly at the dead man’s jacket, while Barclay shuffled about the room in search of anything that might be a clue. The student must have been preparing to leave his flat that day, his personal belongings were packed into a small suitcase he had left at the door. In spite of the earliness of the hour, Popov was dressed and had eaten – the remains of a stale loaf and a glass of tea were on a table close to the window. The bed was stripped, the blankets neatly folded at the bottom of it. Barclay picked up the case – it was surprisingly heavy – and threw it on to the bed. Books. The usual texts; Marx, Chernyshevsky, Bakunin, a novel by Dickens and some threadbare and rather dirty clothes.
‘Anything?’ he asked, turning to Kletochnikov.
‘Only this ticket,’ he replied, rising stiffly to his feet. ‘Today’s train to Moscow, and another for Voronezh. Some money. A photograph.’
‘Let me see?’
It was of a woman in her late forties or early fifties, elegant, conservatively dressed, her figure a little matronly, perhaps Popov’s mother, but in any case not a terrorist. But then who could be sure these days?
‘Have you checked his boots and hat?’
Kletochnikov turned back to the body and began pulling clumsily at the dead man’s boots. The student’s navy blue cap had been thrown to the floor by the force of the bullet bursting from the side of his head and was sticky with blood and flecks of tissue. Barclay ripped at the cotton lining and it came away with ease. Nothing. No prisoner, no papers. It was a fiasco. For a few unpleasant seconds his thoughts turned to the interview with Dobrshinsky that would follow later in the day. Picking one of Popov’s shirts from the bed, he wiped the blood from his hands. Kletochnikov was still grunting over the student’s legs, making very heavy weather of a simple task.
In his effort to prise boot from foot, the agent had draggedthe body from the window, leaving a crimson trail across the boards. Barclay’s eyes were drawn to a slash of sunlight flickering across the floor close to the student’s shattered head. The wood was scorched black.
‘Leave it, will you.’
There was a brutal thump as Kletochnikov dropped a booted foot.
‘Help me roll him over.’
Beneath the student’s body was a crushed heap of damp ashes and fragments of charred paper. Crouching beside it, Barclay took a pencil from his coat and stirred the pile for something worth salvaging. Popov had done a good job. There were only five pieces with anything he could decipher. Handwritten on the largest strip were a number of dates and the names of cities in the south – Kiev, Kharkov, Voronezh. The student was about to set out on his travels. There were two small fragments from an internal passport, almost certainly Popov’s own. A wanted man, he would have travelled on forged documents, although Kletochnikov had found none on his body. But it was the last two fragments that proved the most intriguing. They were from the same distinctive light blue letter paper and written, Barclay noted, in a cultured hand. Mikhailov’s? He would be able to establish that beyond doubt because a handwriting specimen collected from the revolutionary’s family was sitting in the top drawer of his desk at Fontanka 16.
Kovalenko will meet you at the station at precisely
. . . The time was lost . . .
money and instructions for you. Destroy all your papers then leave at once, and under no circumstances return to your apartment. It is being watched. We will deal with
. . .
‘. . . with the informer,’ Barclay
He let Kletochnikov help him to his feet. His knees were shaking. The gendarmes had crowded into the room to gaze at the body of the student.
‘Go on, get out until I call you,’ he shouted. Surely they had seen a dead man before? ‘Not you, Kletochnikov. I want you to see if he’s got anything on him.’
The agent began pulling gingerly at the dead man’s jacket, while Barclay shuffled about the room in search of anything that might be a clue. The student must have been preparing to leave his flat that day, his personal belongings were packed into a small suitcase he had left at the door. In spite of the earliness of the hour, Popov was dressed and had eaten – the remains of a stale loaf and a glass of tea were on a table close to the window. The bed was stripped, the blankets neatly folded at the bottom of it. Barclay picked up the case – it was surprisingly heavy – and threw it on to the bed. Books. The usual texts; Marx, Chernyshevsky, Bakunin, a novel by Dickens and some threadbare and rather dirty clothes.
‘Anything?’ he asked, turning to Kletochnikov.
‘Only this ticket,’ he replied, rising stiffly to his feet. ‘Today’s train to Moscow, and another for Voronezh. Some money. A photograph.’
‘Let me see?’
It was of a woman in her late forties or early fifties, elegant, conservatively dressed, her figure a little matronly, perhaps Popov’s mother, but in any case not a terrorist. But then who could be sure these days?
‘Have you checked his boots and hat?’
Kletochnikov turned back to the body and began pulling clumsily at the dead man’s boots. The student’s navy blue cap had been thrown to the floor by the force of the bullet bursting from the side of his head and was sticky with blood and flecks of tissue. Barclay ripped at the cotton lining and it came away with ease. Nothing. No prisoner, no papers. It was a fiasco. For a few unpleasant seconds his thoughts turned to the interview with Dobrshinsky that would follow later in the day. Picking one of Popov’s shirts from the bed, he wiped the blood from his hands. Kletochnikov was still grunting over the student’s legs, making very heavy weather of a simple task.
In his effort to prise boot from foot, the agent had draggedthe body from the window, leaving a crimson trail across the boards. Barclay’s eyes were drawn to a slash of sunlight flickering across the floor close to the student’s shattered head. The wood was scorched black.
‘Leave it, will you.’
There was a brutal thump as Kletochnikov dropped a booted foot.
‘Help me roll him over.’
Beneath the student’s body was a crushed heap of damp ashes and fragments of charred paper. Crouching beside it, Barclay took a pencil from his coat and stirred the pile for something worth salvaging. Popov had done a good job. There were only five pieces with anything he could decipher. Handwritten on the largest strip were a number of dates and the names of cities in the south – Kiev, Kharkov, Voronezh. The student was about to set out on his travels. There were two small fragments from an internal passport, almost certainly Popov’s own. A wanted man, he would have travelled on forged documents, although Kletochnikov had found none on his body. But it was the last two fragments that proved the most intriguing. They were from the same distinctive light blue letter paper and written, Barclay noted, in a cultured hand. Mikhailov’s? He would be able to establish that beyond doubt because a handwriting specimen collected from the revolutionary’s family was sitting in the top drawer of his desk at Fontanka 16.
Kovalenko will meet you at the station at precisely
. . . The time was lost . . .
money and instructions for you. Destroy all your papers then leave at once, and under no circumstances return to your apartment. It is being watched. We will deal with
. . .
‘. . . with the informer,’ Barclay
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