A Negotiable Instrument

Chapter Ten - Tuesday

Tursunov sat at the breakfast table and stared at the letter. He had found it lying on the table when he had returned the previous night. He had read it, checked every room in the apartment to confirm its contents, and then gone to bed. He had been too tired and emotionally drained by his encounter with Ovcharenko to do anything else. In the unforgiving gloom of another cold and bleak morning, he re-read the letter and sat considering its implications. Galina informed him, in polite and formal terms, that she thought it best to take Maxim to stay with her parents for a short period. How short she didn't specify. How it served any of their interests was also left for him to decipher.

He had walked out of the apartment the previous evening intent on his family's safety, but in leaving he had only served to hasten their estrangement. When Galina had sent Olga away to continue preparations he hadn't wanted to see that they were preparations for his wife and son's departure, not for his dinner. He had been too stupid to understand. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to understand. His desire to act had been driven, at least in part he now realised, by an unconscious recognition of the inevitable.

He looked up and noticed for the first time that the table had been set for breakfast. He glanced over at the kitchen door as if he expected Olga to glide out on castors with his tea on a tray, ready to give him a disapproving look if he insisted on sugar, filipovka or not. He got up and wandered into the kitchen to fetch his own tea but the samovar was as cold as the frost on the windows. He cut himself a slice of stale bread, hacked off a wedge of cheese, and retreated to the table to eat his meagre rations. He wanted to run to the house on Bolshoi Prospect where Galina's parents lived, but he knew it would only make matters worse.

His thoughts returned unbidden to the previous evening, and he wondered again whether Ovcharenko had told him the truth when he had denied arranging the warning that Galina had received. It was possible, he thought. But unlikely. His mind went back to the conversation in his office when Ovcharenko had accused him of sounding like his brother. Had that been another threat? Alexei had mentioned that one of the rumours he was investigating involved counterfeit money. Had he also got too close to the truth for the Okhrana's comfort? He swallowed the last of his bread as he got to his feet and began to pull his overcoat on while he gathered up the rest of his winter wear. He needed to warn Alexei, and he needed to do it now.

He was assailed by driving sleet as he emerged into the murk of the early morning half-light. He leant into the wind and pulled his hat down tighter on his head as he set off, heading towards the Nikolaevsky Bridge. Alexei lived in the south western reaches of the city, a stone's throw from the Baltiysky Railway Station. It was a dank and dismal district, one of Piter's poorer immigrant quarters and, as such, one of the least expensive. When he arrived at Alexei's building he climbed the stairs, knocked on the door, and waited. At such an early hour he knew Alexei would still be in bed unless his habits had undergone a radical transformation. After a minute without response he knocked again, louder and more insistent. He stopped when he heard a muffled voice from within, propped himself against the door jamb, and lit a Zefir. He heard footsteps approach the door and the sound of a bolt thrown back before the door edged open.

'Did I wake you, Alyosha?'

'It's you, Vaska. I wasn't expecting you.' Alexei poked his tousled head around the door to look up at his brother with bleary eyes as he pulled his dressing gown tighter.

'Who were you expecting?'

'What? Nobody. What do you want?'

'That's a nice welcome. Don't I get invited in?'

'Of course you can come in.' Alexei thrust the door open and moved out of his brother's way.

'Cigarette?' Tursunov asked as he looked around the cluttered room. Piles of old newspapers were stacked at random against the walls, outdoor clothes lay where they had been discarded, and books, some open, some closed, all well thumbed, covered every available surface.