Memories of Kitty absorbed him. He thought of her often—too often for his own peace of mind. It wasn’t just her beauty. She was more than beautiful. Beautiful women he could find anywhere. She carried about her a purity … there was no other word for it. Like some jeune fille, she had an enduring innocence, the fresh bloom of early summer roses. Perhaps it was her enormous misty green eyes, heavily lashed, framed by downy eyebrows, ragged like an urchin’s. No one else had soft, drowsy eyes like that. Her straight nose, that opulent lower lip, the small, fragile curve of jaw and throat—all youth, all tender, sinless delicacy. The long golden hair falling in sinuous arabesques, even that was uncommonly chaste, like honey from hybrid white lilacs, pale, only lightly kissed by the glitter of the sun.
Each time he looked at her he had wanted her, a virginal child-woman—and she had been his. He knew the innocence had been only a physical illusion; her mind was that of a very competent young woman, and her tongue occasionally indistinguishable from that of a hardened shrew, but he wanted that physical presence, the virginal innocence, because it fired his blood like no woman before or since.
When he found her again, maybe he wouldn’t kill her. In the back of his mind he knew very well he wouldn’t. But this time he’d bind her tighter. Make the cage stronger. This time his pale golden nymph would stay.
That evening followed a pattern that had become routine at the Black Sea villa. Several women were brought in after dinner and the general selected one or two, always mentally measuring them against Kitty—always disappointed in the results, but always making a selection nonetheless. His physical needs required attention on a daily basis, and even the countess’s absence didn’t transform a carnal man into a monk.
Tonight he felt like two. The rest were dismissed and the general and his companions retired to the large bedroom occupying the west wing of the seaside mansion.
To ride cross-country from Dargo to Sochi was a life-threatening feat now that the Reds were in control; to make it less risky, Apollo and his small party traveled by night, intent on avoiding large bodies of cavalry or troops. The hand-picked men rode with silence and speed, pounding northwest almost too fast for caution in their race against discovery. Twice they were spotted by patrols. The first they prudently outdistanced, since they were badly outnumbered, but they slaughtered the second. The odds were only two to one—by mountain standards, easily manageable. The fewer reports of a troop of mountain men traveling north, the better.
They entered Sochi late one night in a thick fog. By twos and threes they found accommodations for themselves, after agreeing to meet west of town the following day. The information needed was that of the location of the general’s home and, if possible, some idea of the number of soldiers guarding it.
Karaim, Sahin, and Apollo arrived early at the arranged rendezvous in order to reconnoiter potential access to the beach fronting the villa requisitioned by the general. His life-style made his whereabouts common gossip in Sochi; even in an era of unprecedented license, General Beriozov’s proclivities for amusement tended toward excess.
The three men were six versts northwest of the general’s retreat and had scoured the surrounding shoreline thoroughly. The land abutting the sea near Sochi was picturesque and delightful to the eye. High, jagged limestone bluffs rose majestically from the crashing sea, bordering pale beaches narrowing almost out of existence in some areas, then broadening to smooth silky ribbons rimming an ultramarine expanse of water. The general’s villa was situated above a superb length of chalk-white beach extending over a mile in both directions.
Unfortunately—and the reason reconnoitering was necessary—entry to the beach was restricted to narrow stairways cut into the white limestone cliffs. The possibility of descending to the beach on horseback was, to the ordinary way of thinking, out of the question. Since it was considered impossible, the beach offered the only unguarded approach to the general’s home. In selecting his vacation hideaway, General Beriozov had given its limited accessibility high marks.
Under a measureless sky, blue upon blue, Apollo and Karaim were standing knee deep in wild anemones on the crest of a sunlit seaside bluff, its limestone shag dipping away precipitously to a narrow strip of sand sixty feet down, the sea sparkling like tissue below them. Sahin had been sent to the rendezvous point to guide the men back to this bluff.
Apollo’s tanned face was creased into a pleased smile, his tawny eyes were narrowed against the afternoon glare. A light sea breeze lifted wisps of his pale hair, streaked already by the vivid sun. “The impossible only takes a little longer, eh, Karaim?” he murmured complacently, his gaze falling on a meager ravine which flood torrents had littered with debris over the years. It was hardly more than a crevasse, but its broken path led down to the beach below and, dangerous though its vertical descent was, the surefooted mountain-bred horses—accustomed to sliding down rocky, washed-out trails on their haunches—could navigate it if led down carefully one by one. Familiar with sharply pitched inclines, lack of footing, and the general treachery of mountain terrain, none of the mounts would panic.
“And riders from the sea, As-saqr As-saghir,” Karaim ironically replied. “Another impossibility, it would seem.”
“Let’s hope so, since we’re outnumbered by his guards. It’s the only thing we’ve got going for us.” He turned to Karaim and his smile widened. “But it’s enough,” he said softly, meeting the pleasure in Karaim’s black eyes. He swung around toward the sun. “We’ll go in just before nightfall. Enough light to see by, but darkness for our way out.”
Karaim nodded his agreement. “What about the servants?”
“Spare them if you can. I don’t have any argument with anyone but the general … well, him and the Red Army … and the Cheka. Hell, you know what I mean. The servants aren’t Bolshis; they’re only trying to make a living.”
“And the females … trying to make a living?” Karaim’s voice was soft with suggestion. Karaim always had an eye for women, and the general’s predilection for new women every night was a curiosity rumored widely in the streets of Sochi.
Apollo laughed lightly. “I don’t think there’ll be time, Karaim.” One eyebrow rose. “Even for you. We’ll be riding hard to stay ahead of the telegraph wires.”
Simultaneously both thought, If we get out. But neither cared to wager money on it. The conversation turned by mutual consent to lighter things.
An hour later Sahin and the men arrived. The number of soldiers guarding the entrance to the villa was discussed; each man had something to add, their various investigations producing a profusion of detail. It was decided the bulk of the troop would swing around the front of the estate to attack the majority of posted guards once the villa was breached. Although General Beriozov was well protected by a full platoon of the Sixth Division, discipline was lax. After two weeks of leisure, any sense of alarm that may have existed had been lulled into complacency. According to Sahin, several of the guards had been boasting in the local taverns of drinking while on duty.
“Let’s hope tonight is no exception,” Apollo declared. “Drunken guards will be much easier to handle.” It was agreed, in the usual unlicensed discussion customary to the mountain men, that they’d start down to the beach in two hours.
The troop rested in the lee of a small rise, obscured to all views except from the sea. The horses browsed, some men lounged in the sweet-smelling grass, others smoked, played dice, gossiped, ground razor edges on their sabers. Apollo napped, falling asleep almost instantly, a skill acquired during the long years of war. His dreams were of Kitty, of a pine-paneled bedroom, and of the heady fragrance of sweet peas.
When the sun was dipping low in the western sky, Karaim shook him awake. “It’s time,” he said.
Apollo’s golden eyes flashed. “At last,” he murmured, uncoiling his tall body and standing up. He shook his head once to clear away the cobwebs. Automatically, he pulled out both Mausers and checked the chambers. The pistols slid back into their well
-oiled holsters. “Let’s go,” he said, the gleam of a zealot shining chrome bright from his eyes.
Each man carefully and quietly led his horse down the treacherous descent, and when all were assembled on the coarse, damp sand below, the order to mount up was quietly given. Weapons were checked one last time. Apollo called, “Allah direct our sabers!” And after an answering murmur, reins were laced lightly through dark-fingered hands. Every man was relaxed, ready to do his job. No frenzied excitement, no nerves. In the mountains they had been taught to be afraid of no one.
Before the signal to advance was given, standing in his stirrups, Apollo made a final statement in the soft Dagestani dialect. His voice was low, scarcely raised above a conversational tone.
“The general’s mine,” he said.
And each man understood what was in his heart.
14
They came out of the setting sun in the classic battle maneuver, precious as a jewel, and at first General Beriozov, following custom with a predinner drink on the terrace, thought his eyes were deluded by the radiant iridescence of a gilded, flame-colored sunset.
He blinked once and took another sip from his glass. A bird, no doubt, flying across his line of vision, accented against the glow of the setting sun.
But when he rose from his seat and looked again short seconds later, the dark speck moving along the base of the limestone cliffs miles away was much too low to be a bird.
Then suddenly it disappeared. Apollo and his men vanished behind a curve in the coastline, and the sky’s colors, muting gently as they do at sunset, shifted from brilliant saffron flame to a graded intensity shaded with fingers of peony mauve and wisps of carnelian. A trick of the transient light, the general decided, sitting back down.
He lifted the glass to his lips twice more before a wary conscience, with the devil’s own record of sins, urged him to rise from his comfortable ease.
Riders! The shock waves started in the toes of his finely booted feet.
By this time they were close enough to recognize. No bird or illusion of eyesight, but a score or more of men, riding hard down the ribbon of beach not more than a verst away now, sun glinting off their inlaid weapons, each dressed in black with embossed sword mounts and rifle stocks ornamented with gold niello, twinkling and catching the long rays of the dying sun. No one else affected the brio of gold scabbard and stock except—mountain men!
In the lead was a golden-haired, wide-shouldered, competent-looking warrior who had an easy, adroit way with a horse. Another streak of sunlight glittered off his yellow head. Unusual hair, the general speculated briefly. Most Circassians were black as spades.
What the hell were they doing riding at a charge on the beach west of Sochi? And even as he asked the question he knew the answer. For a fleeting instant he wondered how they had gotten down to the beach on horseback—an unthinkable feat—but the passing concern was quickly inundated by more pressing matters of survival; for he knew, as he watched for one second more, that the beauty of men and beasts galloping along the wet sands concealed in its grace a savage and imminent death.
Dropping his glass, the general ran for the house. Bellowing orders, he sped along the terrace to the bedroom where his side arms had been left carelessly on the desk. Two weeks of idleness had softened his reflexes; the end of the war had lulled him into a false sense of security.
Apollo had glimpsed the figure on the terrace, had seen it disappear. He dug his heels into Leda and she surged forward.
They took the steep grassy incline at a full charge, urging their horses up the sheer slope toward the villa at its crest, sabers unsheathed, guns at the ready, screaming war cries to Allah. The horses dug in, scrambling furiously upward, mounts and riders intent on reaching the top with all speed. Apollo and Karaim, neck and neck, were first over the terrace balustrade, surging into three soldiers attempting to carry a machine gun to the parapet. Four Mausers belched fire and the three-man crew lay dead on the marble pavement.
In seconds the terrace was a melee, Apollo’s riders soaring over the terrace railing and descending like moths. A squad of running soldiers was dispatched at the turn of the first corner, and several riders careened around the east side of the mansion, intent on silencing the guards protecting the entrance to the estate.
Their work was neat and unspectacular, involving close-quarter saber and kinjal work and rapidly fired pistols. Their mounts were trained to an inch, curvetting, wheeling, lunging forward at the merest touch of the knees, precision appendages to the killing, slashing blades of their riders. There were fewer and fewer live Red soldiers and finally, in a startlingly short time, none at all.
At a word from Apollo, Sahin went off to cut the telephone wires to the estate. Apollo and Karaim dismounted and with several men cautiously began to search the interior of the quiet villa. The general wasn’t among the dead. He must be inside.
Swiftly the rooms were explored. Guns were carefully poised at trigger action, eyes and ears were attuned and alert. The upper floors were empty. They found him eventually, barricaded in the wine cellar cut deep into the limestone cliff: General Beriozov, four soldiers, and a machine gun.
If this was his day to die, General Beriozov reflected in the security of his basement stronghold, he intended to take a good share of his enemies with him—although he had no idea who these particular enemies were.
By the time the general’s lair was discovered, time was becoming a factor. Someone could drive up at any moment and give alarm; or possibly a telephone call had gone through to Sochi before the wires had been cut. Any number of unknown problems could arise before the general could be dislodged from the wine cellar.
This wasn’t the moment for finesse. Time wouldn’t allow for subtlety. “Shoot the bloody door down,” Apollo commanded.
A machine-gun fusillade answered their rifle shots and they all dove for the floor, bullets splintering through the wine cellar door, screaming and ricocheting off the stone walls.
“Sonofabitch,” Apollo swore softly, breathing in the musty smell of the stone floor. That was too damn close for comfort. This was not the place he cared to die, not after surviving four years of war, and particularly not now, when a woman he loved waited for him. “Get some grenades,” he grunted, and one of the men scrambled up the stairs.
Upon his return, Apollo shouted into the stillness of the basement, “I only want Beriozov. If anyone wants to leave before I toss in this grenade, come out with your hands up.” Dust from the spraying bullets settled lightly in the dimly lit room, dancing mutely from the vibrations of sound.
A rapid exchange of undecipherable conversation was followed by a scuffle of footsteps. A single shot rang out and a shriek of pain filled the air. Then silence for the count of ten before General Beriozov called out, “Who are you?”
“A friend of Countess Radachek.”
The general immediately recognized Apollo’s voice. “Ah,” he exclaimed across the quiet, “the erstwhile Colonel Zveguintzev.”
“Kuzan’s the name.”
“Katherine, it seems”—the intimate use of Kitty’s name drove a stab of jealousy through Apollo—“has found a richer protector.” The Kuzan name had been a byword for fabulous wealth and profligate luxury over a thousand years. “Even though the mines and munitions plants are gone now, I understand the family’s fortune is quite safe in Europe. Send her my congratulations.”
The general’s remarks bitingly lashed into Apollo’s mind, for self-torment of that exact nature had tortured him since Stavropol and all Kitty’s remonstrances hadn’t completely obliterated his corrosive unease concerning her choice. Had she only left the general because Apollo had offered a better future? A future for the child she knew she was carrying?
While the general deliberately provoked Apollo with his cold logic, underlying his premeditated nettling was a wrenching, gut-felt hatred that had been nourished and sustained for a lifetime, a hatred of the old imperial aristocracy so strong and deep and rooted in
his early life that he had never escaped it, no matter how far he had traveled from the poverty of his childhood. “So then, Prince Kuzan, how is the countess?”
“None of your business,” Apollo growled, his voice gray and flat.
There wasn’t a chance in hell of getting out of here alive, the general thought, unless the telephone call to Sochi he’d ordered had gotten through. If it had, any delay would be helpful, and if it hadn’t, he wanted to take the countess’s protector with him. With these alternatives in mind he gently goaded Apollo. “What of the countess’s pregnancy?” he inquired, silkily sarcastic. “Is that none of my business, as well?”
Apollo stiffened, the words lacerating his fragile weakness. “Damn right,” he snarled, but a chill ran through him at the query, and the fractional pause before he answered told the general his barb had struck home. Beriozov went on to savage the wound.
“On the contrary, Kuzan, I’m a very interested party.” The general had discovered shortly after capturing Kitty that she was enceinte. Her monthly cycle had never disrupted his amorous activities, and while he had taken mental note of the circumstance he had never questioned Kitty on the matter. It was none of his concern whose brat she was having as long as it didn’t interfere with his pleasure. The fact that he knew of the pregnancy, however, would perhaps be of great concern to the prince. A prospective father, as well as a lover? If so, another weapon at his command, Beriozov speculated briefly. Lovers and expectant fathers were notoriously possessive and … defensive.
“You lying bastard!” Apollo roared, jumping to his feet, pistols in both hands, hate fuming from all the poisoned corridors of his mind.
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