The White Russian

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Thanks to Constantine Beloroutchev, for conducting key research in St. Petersburg, Moscow, and Yalta, for showing me around and advising me on all matters pertaining to the history of the period, Russian culture and language (all mistakes are mine not his); to my mother, Sally Bradby, for assistance with historical research in the UK; to my editorial team, Bill Scott-Kerr and Jason Kaufman, for their support, endless encouragement, and clever insights; to Mark Lucas, for being the greatest agent known to man; and to my inspirational wife, Claudia, for more reasons than there would be space to list.

The arctic wind sliced through Ruzsky’s thin woolen overcoat. His boots were damp and his toes numb with cold, but he was oblivious to everything except the frozen expanse before him.

All he could see was ice.

Ruzsky’s heart was beating fast. He tried to place a foot on the ice, before shifting his weight back to the step. He looked down at his boots, but his vision was blurred. He fought to control his breathing. “Christ,” he whispered. His first day back from exile and it would have to begin like this.

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