The Okhrana The tall man turned, nodding, then paled as he identified the figure in the
tattered pea-green overcoat. "You're under arrest."
As he was hustled into a car and driven away, a young, dark-haired man emerged
from the house from which Derenshkin had exited. He held a bundle of cheaply
printed leaflets. The Cyrillic letters were vivid red and black. 'Revolution!'
It was a Menshevik publication; they intended to overthrow the Tsar. The young
man sighed. Life was becoming boring. Green eyes glittered against his pale skin.
Stamping out these pockets of resistance was a fine enough task; these anarchists
could not be allowed to thrive, but sometimes he wished that there were more in
his life.
He pulled on his gloves and turned up his collar. Descending the stone steps he
passed the gaudy leaflets to lanky boy of eighteen or nineteen, who was waiting
for him.
"Andriushka, I am going home. I shall see you tomorrow."
He had good cause to use the affectionate version of Andrei's name. He had known
Andrei for seven years, and when the boy's father was killed on the Eastern Front
a year ago, he had looked after him, and found him work in the offices of the
Russian secret police. He tended to think of the sandy-haired young man has a
brother rather than just a friend.
The young man looked up at him with barely concealed adoration. "Goodnight,
Alexei Mikailovich."
He favoured Andrei with a rare smile, and walked away into the evening fog,
pulling his coat tightly around him.
The mistake was swirling across the River Neva per as Alexei Krycek walked along
its bank. The Nevsky Prospekt, the longest street in St Petersburg, runs three
miles along the city's famous river, and a little more than one mile along the
Prospekt he stopped. Crossing the street at risk of being run down by the
hurrying droshkys, he entered a tall narrow house, cramped between its bulky
neighbours.
Upon shutting the door behind him he was greeted by a short, plump woman who
bustled around him with the concern of the mother hen. "You are freezing!" She
seized his coat, then snatched his scarf from around his throat. "Upstairs,
upstairs! There is tea in the study. Ivan has lit the fires, and supper will be
ready in an hour."
She frowned as he coughed, gasping for breath. He smiled at her concern. "I will
be fine, Natascha. You must not worry."
She shook her head at him and clucked her way downstairs. Holding his breath and
swallowing hard, he managed to get himself into the study and close the door, out
of Natascha's hearing, before he gave way to the painful spasms of coughing that
wracked his frame.
Winter in St Petersburg had never been a pleasant time for him. Illness followed
its course—a sneezing chill became a cold that manifested itself in these
choking coughs. In a week or so it would become a fever lasting a few days. After
that, he would be well again. Medicines, opiates, did nothing to alleviate the
symptoms. Alexei sank into his chair. He had long since discovered that such
things must merely be endured.
He poured tea from the samovar that sat on his desk. No sugar. Again. The war hit
hard, for one who had been used to luxury. Alexei picked up a book and began to
leaf through the pages. He stopped at a familiar story and began to read, sipping
tea and savouring the dark, smoky flavour as it misted its way down his throat.
He turned a page.
Nikolai Gogol's 'Diary of a Madman.' Alexei considered the subject that always
occupied his attention when he read the strange diary entries. Why was it that
Russian authors were so obsessed with madness? Dostoyevsky's Raskolnikoff had
periods of madness, Chekov's Sophia Semenovna was driven mad with love, Tolstoy's
Anna Karenina went mad with grief and shame and Gogol's madman thought himself
the King of Spain, and heard dogs speaking.
Alexei stood up and walked to the window, deep in thought. "Are we closer to
madness, here in this huge, lonely country? On the edge of civilisation, left
behind by marching progress; does intellect save these men? Free them? Or does it
destroy them and recreate them as the madmen of their stories?"
His thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of hurrying hooves on the emptying
street outside. He pulled his attention back to the present, and watched the
horse-drawn droshky that was carrying a gentleman, obviously in a hurry, towards
the American embassy.
He set his cup down and watched as the carriage disappeared from sight. This
perhaps merited a little investigation. After supper he would see what could be
found out about the hurrying man. An hour and a half later, Alexei Mikailovich Krycek was carefully picking the
lock of a small storeroom in the basement of the embassy. If was ridiculously
easy; five minutes work with the narrow blade was all that was needed.
He walked through the embassy, a thin veneer of sophistication hiding the young
Russian. He smiled to himself. Walk with confidence and purpose, and no one would
imagine you are capable of the audacity that let such a member of the Okhrana
walk these rooms. In a carefully chosen American suit, hair greased away from his
bone white forehead, he seemed nothing more than a clerk, working late with
youthful zeal.
Following the sound of an argument, Alexei Krycek worked his silent way up the
stairs.
"Sort it out tomorrow, Mulder. It's too late to do anything now."
"I cannot understand, Sir, why..."
"Leave it, Mulder." "But I need my luggage!"
"Tomorrow! Get some sleep, for God's sake."
A well-built, bulky man stormed from the room, a mercifully ignoring the clerk
coming up the stairs.
Krycek walked carefully past the door from which the man he recognised as
American ambassador had emerged. A tall, brown haired, lanky man was pacing a
hole in the red plush carpet. The same man who had been in such a hurry less than
two hours ago. He was chewing his lower lip.
Krycek ran a hand through his grease slicked hair and tried to slow his
breathing. This one would be quite a conquest, if he would be conquered.
He slipped quietly into the room, muffling the other man's gasp of surprise with
a hand over his mouth. The rasp of accented words reached the wide-eyed man's
hearing.
"Quiet, quiet. I will not hurt you."
He took his hand from the American's mouth. "I heard you shouting. You have lost
your luggage, yes?"
A slightly bemused Mulder nodded. "It's at the customs shed on the other side of
the river."
"I can get it back for you. Tell no one, and meet me at the back door in five
minutes."
"Who are you? How can I trust you?"
"I am Alexei. And you cannot trust me."
Five minutes later the two men were walking along the river.
"I must collect a few things from my house." He disappeared through a front door,
leaving a shivering Mulder on the step, cold in his expensive suit. Krycek
returned in a matter of moments, dressed warmly in coarse wool trousers tucked in
high boots, layers of shirts and a long leather coat. The gel was gone from his
hair, which fell loosely around his face, accentuating high cheekbones and dark
eyes.
He passed Mulder a thick coat. "I hope the luggage we are liberating contains
some more sensible clothing."
Mulder bristled and almost spoke, but quickly reminded himself that this
mysterious stranger was the only person who had so far provided any assurance of
the return of his cases. He shrugged the heavy coat on.
Krycek surveyed him with appreciation.
"Come." He smiled. "Before Natascha notices that I have gone out without my hat."
They walked along the silent river. "Is Natascha your wife?"
Krycek laughed uproariously, laughter that became the familiar wracking cough.
"No. She cooks and cleans and worries about me."
The American frowned. "Sounds like she might have good reason."
"Every year. Winter in Peters does not suit me, I think. But I would not live
elsewhere."
"Peters?"
"St Petersburg. Peters is what everybody living here calls it. By rights it is
now Petrograd, but only the politicians ever call it by that name."
They crossed the ornate bridge spanning the Neva, nearing the customs house. It
was a long walk and Mulder stopped halfway across to lean over the parapet,
staring into the black, eddying water. "I think I'll like it here. It's so
beautiful. The language is incomprehensible, though."
"I'll teach you, if you like."
Chewing his lower lip, the American looked doubtful. "Really?"
"Of course. But we really must get your luggage."
They reached the customs building quickly. Krycek rapped sharply on the door
and waited. No answer. He knocked again. The wind was sharper now, biting at his
neck and face.
"I am becoming impatient."
The younger man withdrew a fine, narrow blade from his boot. Inserting it in the
broad lock he jiggled it with practised ease until the lock clicked reluctantly
and the door swung open.
A corpulent man was snoring loudly in a chair by the door. Grasping the chair
back, Krycek yanked it from beneath the customs officer. The fat little man
landed in an indignant keep on the floor, spluttering with shock. He stared up
into the mildly amused face of a young Russian and the near hysterical face of
the American whose luggage he had impounded.
Mulder listened to the growling Russian conversation. Krycek's tone was slow and
measured. "I have been standing outside for some time. I am cold, I am wet, and I
am becoming annoyed. I was like you to return this gentleman's luggage."
"But he is American! I have orders about Americans! I can't..."
He was interrupted by his own amazement at the fact that the dark young man had
managed to thrust a knife through five layers of clothing and stop with it just
pricking the skin.
"You now have new orders. Fetch his luggage."
"Who are you?" Krycek smiled lazily. "I am of the Okhrana. You need to know no
more."
Mulder had never seen a man move so fast. Within five minutes they were walking
back across the bridge. Krycek walked behind Mulder, but his appreciative study
of the man's ass was interrupted by Andrei's silent and unexpected arrival.
Krycek stopped Mulder and, smiling apologetically, spoke to the boy. "Shto
novava?" Andrei shook his head and gave Alexei a piece of paper. He left
hurriedly, leaving Krycek to read the address carefully written on the scrap of
paper. "I am sorry, my friend. I must leave you." He gestured to the suitcases.
"Can you manage?"
The older man nodded, losing himself a little in green eyes that sparkled with
all the beauty and brilliance of Fabergé eggs.
"I meant what I said; I will teach you to speak this country's language, if you
wish." A smile of assent was all he needed. "Come to my house one morning. I must
go. Goodbye, Fox Mulder."
It wasn't until Alexei had vanished into the evening gloom that Mulder realised
that he had never told they stranger his full name.
Ten minutes later, the tall, handsome Russian had arrived at the address Andrei
had been sent to give him. It was divided into apartments, all equally drab. He
ascended the bare wooden staircase to the third floor where he entered one of the
apartments.
A tall, bearded man was hunched over a battered writing desk. He looked up as
Alexei walked towards him, panicked by the silent presence. His voice sounded
shrill in the pleading silence. "Shto novava?"
Krycek almost smiled, remembering his earlier question to Andrei. But he would
not say anything, would not disobey his orders.
The neighbours shuddered and crossed themselves as a single gunshot fractured the
silence of the night.
END (for now).
The White Nights of St Petersburg I
by Isayeva
"Nikolai Derenshkin?"
