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“Why is it good that I shan’t be there? Is something going to happen?”
“No one has tried to recruit you in London?”
God. Questions and questions from these people, with never an answer.
“I have already told you. The cause in England lags far behind your work here.” Inspiration
suddenly struck Davy and he sipped the vodka slowly to stall for time. I am hardly a match for Vlad
in a war of wits, Davy thought, but Mrs. Kirby was right enough in her description. He is obsessed
with his own self importance. “I cannot tell you what my time in St. Petersburg has meant to me,”
Davy said. “When I return to London I will begin the work myself, modeled on what I have seen
within the Volya. So anything you can tell me is worth…is worth a handful of Romanov rubies.”
Vlad seemed amused. “What do you mean, begin the work yourself? There’s no need to
reinvent the wheel. I’m sure a city the size of London has any number of existing groups and that they
would all be delighted to take you on. Ask Cooper for a letter of introduction if you need one,
although you most likely would not. Your position within the palace makes you an asset. It can take
an organization years of painstaking work to get a man on the inside and you come to them with the
matter already in hand.”
Davy rolled his eyes. “Please. I’m merely a messenger boy.”
“And Yulian was merely a ballet dancer. The point is that any revolutionary group needs within
its ranks a spy. Someone on the inside, who can move around the palace without attracting comment.”
The rim of his glass had a chip and Davy started to warn him of the fact, but something stopped him.
Vlad was most likely the sort of man to prefer a glass with a chipped rim. “Do you know what I
would be doing right now if Yulian had not existed?”
“Asking me to tell you everything I’ve observed about the interior of the Palace?”
Vlad gave a bark of laughter. “Precisely.”
“So I can only conclude that before his death Yulian had already provided the Volya with the
layout of the building.”
“The parts that matter. Like the theater.”
“Exactly what were you planning to do on the night of the Tchaikovsky ball?”
Vlad took an inelegant slurp of his vodka, his thin lip resting on the chipped part of the rim.
“What does it matter? Yulian is gone and with him, our chances.”