Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [429]
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Very well.’ They ran over all the details together. Young Suvorin had money. He quickly made a plan. Indeed, faced with a crisis, Popov noticed with interest that the young idealist was surprisingly practical. ‘How will you leave?’ he asked.
Peter considered. ‘My grandfather has a boat he uses for fishing. I’ll take that.’
‘Excellent. Go at dusk.’ Popov embraced the young man. ‘We shall meet again,’ he promised.
The light was just fading as Yevgeny Popov made his way back along the path from the springs towards Russka. When he found a good vantage point, he sat down in the warm shadows and watched the river. The pale stars had begun to shine in the turquoise sky. He waited as the turquoise deepened to indigo. There was no one about.
Then he saw the little boat. It was scudding along, hugging the bank. He watched as it slipped away, southwards, with the gentle flow of the stream. It would be at the River Oka in the morning. And as he watched, he smiled to himself. He had judged young Peter Suvorin well. He had fallen completely for the story that the police were coming to arrest them all the next day. He had genuinely supposed that the invented Central Committee wanted at all costs to preserve him. And he had at once volunteered to go into hiding for a few months. But underneath all this was another motive, of which perhaps young Peter himself was not fully aware. I just gave him his excuse to escape from his grandfather, Popov thought. He was seldom wrong about people.
And now that Peter was safely gone, it was time to begin.
Popov moved carefully. Pulling his hat well down on his head, he did not enter the town by the main gate, but skirted it and came in by the open lane on the side away from the river. There were a few people about, but no one paid any attention as he walked quietly by in the darkness.
As he expected, the narrow street by the warehouse was deserted. When he reached it, he first unlocked the little storeroom where he had hidden the printing press and then entered the main warehouse. After moving about for a while, lighting a match now and then, he found exactly what he wanted: against one wall, bales of straw were piled high; in a corner were some empty sacks; and on some shelves were a dozen lamps in which, heaven be praised, there was still some oil. Carefully, without hurry, he took bales of straw from the pile and arranged them round the walls. Then he twisted the sacks into several large torches and collected the oil into two containers. Finally, just for good measure, he carried half a dozen bales of straw round and placed them against the walls in the storeroom. Even taking his time, he was done in under half an hour.
Now, however, came the daring part of his plan. Inside the little storeroom, he carefully unearthed the parts of the printing press and the packet of leaflets. Then, checking to make sure the street was empty, he went outside.
The streets were silent. Keeping to the shadows, he made his way past the church by the market place and into the broad avenue that led to the little park and the esplanade. Three houses lay on the right-hand side, behind fences. The first of these was Savva Suvorin’s.
There were no lights at the window. The Suvorins did not retire late. Gingerly, looking about him, Popov opened the gate in the fence and went into the yard. Though the house was made of stone and masonry, the entrance, on one of the end walls, consisted of a stout wooden staircase, covered over, which rose some six feet up to the main floor. It was to the space underneath these stairs that Popov went, and deposited his things.
It was necessary to make this journey twice. The second time, as well as the leaflets and part of the hand-press, Popov brought with him a trowel from the storeroom.
Then, on his hands and knees beneath Suvorin’s staircase, he set to work.
So far, all was going to plan. Indeed, he had only made one mistake that evening, of which he was not aware.