“I Leonid Sheremetev.” Leonid’s boom knocked the white hairs back in their chairs. “This proof Mac no guilty. He true surgeon. He fix me after Reds shot in back alley.” Fishing inside his somewhat wrinkled shirt, he pulled out a piece of metal on a chain looped around his neck. “This here bullet.”
The extracted slug winked a dull silver as it spun delicately on its expensive gold chain above the thick turf of Leonid’s chest hair.
“Congratulations on your recovery, Mr. Sheremetev,” Dr. Stan said, “but I don’t believe a bullet will drop the charges leveled against His Grace.”
“Bullet no proof. I only show Mac fine handiwork.” Leonid’s lips flattened with derision as he tucked away the bullet and took the envelopes from Svetlana. He passed them to Wynn across the rail divider. “This proof like she say. Late or no, you take and read.”
Wynn scanned the letters. Hope trembled inside him. “It’s an updated autopsy report for Harkin. It claims he died from an undetected shell fragment lodged behind his right lung that became infected after my surgery. After he was cleared for release from hospital.” He passed the papers to Dr. Stan. “It wasn’t heart surgery complications that killed him.”
Dr. Stan stared at the letters in his hands, uncertainty flitting across his face. If he took the letters as evidence, it would go against the law of the board, but if he refused he would be sentencing a potentially innocent man.
“I . . . How ever did you obtain this?”
Svetlana smiled coolly as if she’d been waiting for him to inquire all along. “I had the very great pleasure of meeting Mrs. Roscoe while en route from Paris to England on board a troop ship shortly after I was married. She had been visiting her husband in France, a Colonel Richard Roscoe, whom you may know better as the new head of administration at St. Matthew’s Hospital, the very place where Lt. Harkin was recovering.
“We’ve kept in touch and she was quite distressed to hear of my husband’s current circumstances. After she discussed the matter with her own husband, Dr. Roscoe was instrumental in ordering a more thorough autopsy that fully clears Dr. MacCallan of malignant surgery due to an unrelated and unseen fragment of shell.” She pointed a gloved finger to the papers in his hands. “You may read the redacted and new report for yourself along with a personal note from Dr. Roscoe.”
“But how did . . . ”
“Women like to talk.” Svetlana shrugged a dainty shoulder. “Shall I wait outside in a more appropriate area while you come to the obvious conclusion?”
Dr. Stan waved a distracted hand as he frowned at the papers in his hands. “Best if you did, Your Royal, er, Princess, er, Madame.”
Wynn reached for her hand. “Svetlana, wait. What you’ve done . . . How can I ever tell you—”
“Say you love like she love you, Mac.” Leonid apparently thought it wise to insert himself into the narrative once more.
Wynn’s eyes didn’t leave his wife’s face. “Is that true?”
Beneath the veil, Svetlana’s eyes swept to Wynn’s. Pink stained her cheeks. Not in a restrained anger sort of way, but in a no forthcoming denial sort of way. Was that why she had come? Because she loved him? His heart soared. Lana . . .
“Love make later. Now I tell about Papochka and Bolshevik chums. You like I say chums? I pick up English words now. Fish chip. Blimey. Spot o’ tea.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “It make no matter. You know my papochka never concern politics, only money. Whoever have money, they come to bar. So Bolsheviks come. Plot and plan and hunt for noblemen émigrés. Kidnap back to Russia for execution. Papochka mad when Angel left. She make much money for him. Now gone, he want revenge, so make deal with Bolsheviks take her to Russia and execute. Papochka get revenge while hands clean of dirty work. I there. I hear whole deal, so rush to warn Mac and Angel. They save my life. I return favor.”
“Are the Bolsheviks on their way now?”
Dr. Stan frowned as he looked up from reading the new letters. “Who are these Bolsheviks and what is a popka?”
“Bolsheviks, Reds, communists. Murder imperial Russian family. Govern Russia now. My papa do business with if lucrative.”
“If you have nothing further to add to this case, I must insist you, sir, and the princess remove yourselves out of these doors.” Dr. Stan flipped open the folder in front of him and squinted between the filed papers and the new report in his hand. “In the meantime this board will suspend its vote. My apologies for extending your purgatory, Your Grace, but rather we should discover all of the truth than condemn a man for his duties as a physician. If you could but give us a few minutes more for discussion.”
“Certainly.” Wynn turned back to his wife, wanting with all his heart to leap across the low wall and kiss her senseless between words of love, but the impending danger outweighed all else. “Go to Savoy Hotel and wait for me in my room. You’ll be safe there until we can decide what to do next.”
The faintest hint of a smile curved her lips. “We’ll decide?”
What was it she had said once? Russians were never ruled by their hearts because they were too fond of misery? Perhaps when they returned to Thornhill they could let go of the misery and put more effort into matters of the heart. Their hearts.
“Yes, because that’s what we do. Together.”
“No worries, Mac. I protect Angel with life until you arrive. After you arrive too.” Furrows wrinkled Leonid’s brow. “Never much like Papochka as criminal. I always want family go straight, own proper bar and restaurant. Money more interesting for him. I make new family with you.”
With that inarguable proclamation, he offered Svetlana his arm and escorted her from the room. She glimpsed over her shoulder and smiled at Wynn, making his heart soar as the door swung shut.
Bam!
The gunshot echoed outside the door.
Wynn leaped over the divider and barreled down the aisle. Bursting into the corridor, he stumbled over Leonid sprawled on the floor in a thin puddle of blood.
Clutching the bleeding wound in his arm, Leonid fired off in rapid Russian, curse words if Wynn’s ear picked them out correctly, before switching to English. “That way, Mac! Go!”
Wynn sprinted after the distant echo of feminine heels clicking down the tiled hall. He knocked past men in white coats and orderlies pushing trollies until the heel clicks vanished behind a slamming door leading to the back alley of the building. Ripping open the door, he raced out.
“Wynn!” Svetlana screamed as she was shoved into a waiting carriage.
Dressed in Hugh’s stolen clothing, Sergey was wild-eyed as the devil himself as he leaped into the carriage after her and slammed the door. His accomplice, a man wearing all black and sporting a red armband, cracked the reins over the horses and the carriage shot off like a bullet.
Chapter 32
Svetlana stared at the man seated across from her in the carriage. A face familiar to her yet the man within utterly unknown.
“How could you do this? How could you turn traitor and become a Bolshevik? I thought I knew you better.”
“I am not one of them. Whatever foul thoughts you may have for me at present, at least know that truth.” Sweat dotted Sergey’s pale brow. Gripping a gun in one hand until his knuckles whitened, he withdrew a soiled handkerchief from his pocket with his other equally strained hand and swiped his face. Never in her life had she seen him without a clean linen or with frayed cuffs. He had been living rough since he’d fled Thornhill, and the loss did not agree with him.
Quaking inside, she refused to let him see her fear. “Then it is well you cannot read my mind, for it is black enough to blot out all manner of niceties. How dare you turn a gun on me? Stop this carriage at once.”
“There will be no stopping, at least not until we reach our destination. And do not think to take your leave early. The doors are locked.”
The secured shades closed off all recognition of the passing landmarks Svetlana could use to determine their route. Any clue along the way for a
means of escape. Without visual aid, she tried following the map of Glasgow in her mind, but as the carriage veered around corner after corner the map tangled into confusion. “Where might our destination be?”
“You are going home. To Russia.”
“To be executed.”
A sob escaped from Svetlana’s mother who cowered against her daughter’s side. Dressed in a fine traveling ensemble of black and gray, she clearly had not been kidnapped. Her face had registered absolute shock when Svetlana was unceremoniously stuffed inside the waiting carriage.
Svetlana put her arm around her shaking mother. Whatever tension existed between them no longer mattered. “What did he tell you, Mama?”
“He told me you were in grave danger. That the Bolsheviks had found us and were lying in wait for you as you chased after Wynn. Little did I know it was he who was the Bolshevik.”
“Do not call me one of them again!” The gun shook in Sergey’s hand.
Mama bawled into her handkerchief before looking back to Svetlana. “I thought we were waiting in the carriage to whisk you safely back to Scotland.”
“Where is Marina?” Svetlana demanded. “And how did you get to Thornhill? Wynn banished you.”
“Your sister was in the village with that peasant woman you keep on a leash. I did not have time to wait for her to return, so you two will have to suffice. As far as that so-called husband of yours, he may be lord of the manor, but I’m cunning enough to slip past any arrogant roadblocks he set up. Particularly that watchdog butler.”
Mama clutched at Svetlana’s sleeve. Great fat tears rolled off her cheeks and plopped onto the material. “He told me Bolsheviks were watching the house and we had to slip off quietly. I didn’t know, Svetka. I swear I didn’t. I never would have gone with him if I’d known.”
“It’s all right, Mama. He might have tied you up and carried you out if he’d been forced to. Much easier to have a willing yet clueless victim.” Svetlana leveled a cold stare at him. “Why? What have we done for you to turn on us, your dearest friends? Why go through the lies of trying to reunite with us in Paris?”
He shifted restlessly on the seat, squeezing the gun’s handle again and again. The white of his knuckles pulsed like a heartbeat. “Because I was trying to reunite with you after fleeing Russia. When I arrived in Paris I had nothing. I was desperate, searching for you everywhere. One day I learned of the name Sheremetev and how he knew every Russian in the city, so I went to him begging for information about you. Your name sparked no delight for him, only cold-blooded hatred. He informed me that you had recently been married and no longer patronized his club with your dancing. I always adored your dancing, you know that, right?” His tone softened at the end. The tip of his gun wavered.
If he hoped to kindle good memories within her, he’d failed. “Sheremetev wants revenge for when I would no longer dance for him. He wants to murder me, Sergey, and all you care to do is spin compliments. How did you become tangled in his web?”
“He sold me to the Bolsheviks because of my connection to you. The Bolsheviks wanted to use my connection to seize you.”
“So you have become the worker for their dirty deeds. But why? If we are indeed such friends, how could you turn on us?”
The carriage picked up speed as the scent of brine and seaweed dampened the air. They must be near the River Clyde that flowed through the city center. A good ten blocks from Glasgow’s Medical Hall. And Wynn.
“Because if I do not bring you back to Russia they will kill my sister and mother.” A knot bobbed in his throat. “They have already killed my father. I cannot allow the rest of my family to die. I am sorry, Svetka.”
“Do not call me that. You do not have the right anymore. A true friend would never make a deal with the devil at the expense of those he claims to care for.”
The panic of desperation cried in his eyes. “I tried to find other ways to save you! To run away together. To bribe Sheremetev to save my family and get them to Paris. Handing you over was never what I wanted.”
Rage hissed in Svetlana’s blood. Violent and hot, it screamed for release. The gun beckoned from Sergey’s hand, taunting her to give in to the viciousness, but she remained still. Not from fear for herself but for her mother. She would wait until the opportune moment.
“You’re nothing more than a pathetic rat. The honorable Sergey Kravchenko I know would never betray us.”
“One does what one must for their family. Doing things they never dreamed possible for the sake of survival. You should know that yourself. Such as marrying a stranger.” The desolation in his eyes receded to ice, a blackness set to swallow her whole. “But then I saw you with him. You had given your heart to him, and I knew it could never be mine again, that you would never run away with me to save yourself. I knew then that you were not the price for my family’s lives.”
In all his dealings, had Sergey not considered the most likely outcome? “How can you be certain the Bolsheviks will not kill you and your family anyway?”
The blackness in his eyes courted death. “Because if I do not turn you over, we are as good as dead. I have no option but to trust the devil.”
“You low-lying snake! Fork-tongued, weasel, pathetic excuse for a man!” Claws out, Mama lunged across the carriage and raked her nails down Sergey’s face. Ribbons of scarlet tore his cheeks.
Cursing, Sergey smacked her hard, knocking her back against the seat. Blood welled from her split lip. “Sit there and don’t move or you’ll get much worse.” He pointed the gun at her leg. “The firing squad won’t care if you stand or not.”
Mama spit at him. Bloody spittle sprayed his white necktie.
Sergey flashed the gun to Svetlana’s knee. “Last warning.”
Grabbing her mother’s hand, Svetlana fought against the rising tide of panic. Calm resourcefulness was their best chance for survival. As they’d had when escaping the threat of Russia once before.
The carriage wheels clattered over cobblestones, jostling the occupants like marbles in a box until they rumbled to a stop. Train horns whistled in the distance.
The door jerked open and there stood the rat man, his nose and mouth jutted out to a near direct point. His round eyes settled over Svetlana and Ana, but he said nothing as he blocked their escape to the busy sidewalk.
“Do not think to try anything. You will immediately regret it.” Flashing his gun as a cautionary reminder, Sergey handed Ana out first to his accomplice, then Svetlana, keeping a tight hold on her arm. Blotting the blood from his face with a handkerchief, he placed a homburg hat atop his head. Made for a slightly larger crown, the hat slipped over his ears, shadowing the scratches on his cheeks. “Now, come along, ladies. We’ve a train to catch.”
Glasgow Central Train Station. With its skeletal ironworks arching over the platforms, dark wood information desks, flashing indicator boards, and large hanging clocks overseeing the bustling schedule, the station chugged a chaotically precise rhythm familiar to anyone whirling from one place to another. A mere two hours before Svetlana had stepped off platform six with nothing more than Mrs. Roscoe’s letter in her pocket and a winged prayer. By the end of the day she and Wynn should have started a new chapter in their life. A chapter full of promise that would begin with her confession of love.
With a cruel twist of fate, that chapter was ripped from her hands, its pages stained with the forthcoming blood spilled on Russian soil. Her blood.
She had to do something before that awful fate became her own.
People dressed in somber tones of black and gray that matched the outside dreariness bustled by with their eyes fixed on a destination far beyond the walls and steel tracks that had brought them here. Svetlana tried to catch the eye of more than one of the station’s uniformed workers in hopes they would recognize her, but none seemed to take much interest in a lady on the arm of a well-dressed gentleman. They might have cared more if they’d seen the gun hidden inside his coat.
“Don’t think of signalin
g to one of them,” Sergey whispered in her ear. The tip of his gun pressed into her side.
“Or you’ll shoot me? That would cause a scene I’m certain you’re wishing to avoid.”
They descended to a lower level where the crowds thinned and the air thickened with grease and coal smoke. Belching steel trains screeched along tracks and ground to a stop at the platforms where passengers crawled out like ants to scurry up the stairs or onto another platform. Shoulders and briefcases knocked against her, propelling her farther and farther into the belly of no escape. There, among the sea of unflinching black, a flash of red. Svetlana swallowed a cry of panic as she waited for the hands to grab her and yank her into the thrashing chaos of revolution. Mama cried behind her, Sergey’s hand tight on her arm as they raced for the last train.
The red floated by. A man’s scarf. Time snapped forward and out of the past.
“Brings back that last night in Petrograd.” Sergey remembered too.
“It was the last night I thought you had a heart.”
“Only to have wasted it on you, but unlike that night, I’ll be going with you this time. A touch of sentiment in that, I think.” He stopped to face her, and nothing existed in his expression to remind her of that awful night. Gone was the man who had kissed her cheek and thrown her onto the train to save her. In his place stood an unrecognizable man who chilled her to the core. “When I handed you onto that train in Petrograd, I knew it was the end of our beginning. A romance withered before it could bloom. This, however, truly will be the beginning of our end.”
Her life had come to revolve around train stations as significant markers in time. Traveling on holiday to the Black Sea beaches with her family. Saying goodbye to Father as the army went to battle once more. That night of revolution. Sitting next to Wynn as they discussed his soon-to-be position at the hospital. Sitting next to Wynn in silence after the position had been snatched from his hands. That very morning’s ride when the wheels could not roll fast enough to bring her to him. Now her last ride was to take her away from him. Perhaps there was poignancy to these bookending markers. A tragedy fit for Tolstoy.
The Ice Swan Page 35