A Game of Soldiers. Stephen Miller

his pretend cock on her, he was strangling her – that’s the kind of shit they dream up.’ She shook herself, trying to lose her anger. It didn’t work. ‘It wasn’t a suicide! Christ…’

      He looked down. She had been squeezing his hand, so hard he could feel the nails biting into the flesh of his thumb.

      ‘His friend knew it was going to happen. He was laughing the whole time. He knew the old one’s dream – some men have that fantasy, you see? That the spasms of death are…are…’ Her face twisted up and she began to cry, for real this time.

      Finally she stalked off to his bathroom; he could hear the water running, Vera blowing her nose once, twice. When she returned she was red-faced, cleareyed. Done now with all that, the whole thing put away somewhere safe.

      He took a deep breath, not wanting to ask, then did it quickly. ‘If we looked at photographs, do you think you could identify any of them?’ Nothing for a long moment, just her hard look.

      ‘If you make me I suppose I have no choice, do I?’ So many questions, she was thinking. Names she was supposed to come up with, just a few questions he wanted her to answer. ‘And it’s dangerous, too, I suppose? Yes? It’s dangerous and if I go along and you let my name slip out, what do you think will happen to me? Nothing good, that’s the real situation, yes?’

      ‘I’ll try and keep you out of it, if I can.’

      ‘If…’

      ‘If I can.’

      She made a little sound, partly a laugh, partly a sob. One tear escaped from her eye and she wiped it away, her mouth got hard. She’d made up her mind not to cry any more. ‘I’ve got a rehearsal to go to. Can I go? Do you think you’re finished now?’

      ‘For now, yes…What time is your rehearsal over?’

      ‘Four,’ she said quietly, without looking at him.

      ‘I’ll come by for you later, then.’ She looked up, angrily. ‘You and I have a date,’ he said.

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘We’re going to your friend’s place, have a look around.’

      ‘Wait a minute, you’re serious?’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘All those places are members only, you can’t just walk in off the street.’

      ‘But you can,’ he said levelly.

      ‘Christ.’ She turned away. ‘Irini, she hates me now. She stole all my clothing. She’s not going to let me back there. You’re insane,’ she said, her voice alternately hissing and spitting her words.

      ‘She’ll let us in. I have the money, and you need to get back in her good graces. That’s the way we’ll play it.’

      ‘Go to hell, I’m not looking to die for some lunatic proposal. I don’t associate with…liars, with spies.’ She still had traces of her theatre make-up ringing her eyes, an angry slash of lipstick barely wiped from her mouth.

      ‘Just tell her you’re sorry, you were drunk, you’ll never do it again…’

      ‘I don’t care who you are – Get away…’ she hissed, and slapped him hard across the cheek. It stung his face but must have hurt her too, she’d hit him so hard. ‘You’re a vulture…you’re worse than that. You’re a rodent –’

      ‘Get all dressed up for a good time,’ he said coldly. ‘I’ll wait for you out front. If anybody asks you can tell them I’m a commercial traveller.’

      ‘Oh, that’s plausible. And what exactly do you sell on your travels that brings you to the Komet?’

      ‘Paintbrushes. I’m interested in art. The way they paint those big curtains.’

      ‘You mean the scenery?’

      ‘That’s it. The scenery. It’ll do for now,’ he said.

      She slipped on her shoes and headed for the door. ‘Big policeman. Big ideas. Do you really think you can do anything about any of this?’ she asked without turning around.

      ‘I don’t know, I doubt it. Probably not. But I’ll try.’

      ‘Yes, well…’ and then she gave a little nod and walked out of his door.

       TEN

      Evdaev smiled as he gazed at little Pippa, only nineteen, and as a bride she had never been more beautiful. Blessed with porcelain skin, meaning that you could see the blue blood beneath the glaze; blessed, too, with masses of chestnut hair that in the summer was suffused with red, a strong brow and clear amber-coloured eyes that gave her a dreamy, seductive look. She was a little taller than Miki, her betrothed – Michael Pavlovich Evdaev, his late brother’s youngest. Only his boots raised him to her height. Nestor, as guardian, had watched over the boy’s youth, eased his rise through the ranks with some satisfaction.

      Standing a pace behind the nervous pair were four young officer friends of Miki’s, also members of the venerable Preobrazhensky Guards. Each pair took turns holding the heavy crowns above the heads of the couple while the priest droned on. No young man wanted to show how much effort it took to hold the crowns, but it was equally gauche to display your strength until your arm began to tremble. Evdaev was pleased to see that, if only as a mark of respect for him, the young officers did not hesitate to trade the crowns smoothly, seamlessly.

      They were gathered, of course, in the great Transfiguration Cathedral, a mass of candle-lit scarlet and gold, a little chilly owing to the sudden cold spell that had descended upon the city. The building had been suitably designed in the Russian style, and was the dedicated cathedral of the guards, of which Prince Evdaev was an honorary member. He had celebrated his betrothal in this same chamber, and out of respect he was dressed in the regimental colours, scarlet with all the gold trimmings.

      Little Pippa had been one of those girls on the horizon, a lovely creature that any man would like to snap up. And had it not been for the strict and morally severe education that her mother, Countess Gorchakova, had forced on the girl it would be all too easy to imagine her being betrothed to a much less worthy mate than Michael, but the arrangements had been made, dowry agreed upon, and now two great houses had come together again – for both could trace their lineage to the ancient Rurik dynasty, two great families intertwined like vines as they flourished in the sunlight of history.

      The blessed ones drank from the cup three times, their wrists were bound together by a silken handkerchief, they followed the priest around the altar three times to illustrate that they would be bound together for the long journey through life. Behind Pippa the pages scurried along untangling her train, causing the couple to proceed along the journey of life in fits and starts. Everyone knew what a trial it was, there were little sighs, titters of understanding. Even the priest could forgive, pausing with a benign smile while the boys crawled about.

      And then, finally the union was solemnized and there was the disorganized rush to the great doors of the cathedral, a buzz of congratulations, the wiping away of tears of joy, a hundred different conversations, greetings exchanged between relations, friends, and strangers, the push, shove, and relinquishing of places by the stairs. Among the various guests who leaned through the crowd to congratulate him was the stunning figure of Anya Serepova, a relation of the Gorchakovs. The delightful Anya brushed her lips against his cheek, murmured in his ear that they were ‘cousins’ now and shouldn’t they take the opportunity to become closer friends? He squeezed her hand as she backed away. One little look, a promise? A fine-looking woman, not yet forty.

      He realized that when…the Plan…was finally complete he would have to reign with Liliana, his wife. It was an absurd picture. Lily as Tsarina?

      Of course, he had confided nothing to her. They rarely talked. Lily was a dutiful,