Paul drank his tea. It was not the best he had ever had, for no one could make it like his mother, but it certainly surpassed any he had tasted in the last month.
“What happened to the others who were in jail with us in Akulin?” Paul asked after he had swallowed the last of another piece of bread.
“All administrative exiles,” replied Kazan bitterly.
“What does that mean?” asked Paul, embarrassed that he did not know even the rudiments of this system he so deplored.
“In my case,” Kazan began, “since they had me pegged for a leader and wanted to make an example of me, I was given the benefit of a trial—if you can call that travesty of justice a trial. I was sentenced to ten years hard labor, to be followed by exile for life.”
The look on Paul’s face stopped Kazan in his tracks.
“Of course, I escaped,” he added, and at his listener’s gaping expression of shock at the words, he let out a jovial laugh.
“Yes, Paul,” he went on, after recovering himself, “you are in the presence of an escaped prisoner of the Russian state! I did not even make it as far as my assigned labor camp. I got the slip on the guards while we were still on the road. I am living here under a false name with forged papers.”
“I can hardly believe it.”
“But back to the others you asked about. As administratives, they were exiled without trial. It’s the government’s handy way of disposing of someone who is obnoxious in the eyes of the state but who has broken no laws, even by petty imperial standards. They have no right to demand a trial and certainly cannot call friends or family to vouch for their good character, for fear of bringing the same fate upon them. They are usually trundled off to Siberia with no right of redress. They may not end up in the labor camps, although some do. Usually they are just forced to stay put in some village there, and are watched to make sure they do. If they have a bit of money, some are able to make a life for themselves there, but that is rare. And even that does not lessen the injustice of the system. It is vile . . . evil . . . unjust, that a man’s whole life can be disrupted and brought to an end at the mere whim of some irritated official, whether the charges be valid or not!”
“That’s terrible!” exclaimed Paul.
“Just one of many reasons why we must act without delay! And I’ll tell you something else, Paul. Our present dear ‘Little Father,’ our so-called Tsar Liberator”—Kazan spit the word out of his mouth with mocking disdain—“has taken advantage of this despicable allowance of the law more than any other tsar. In the last five years he has sent droves of ‘politicals’ out of his sight in this manner.”
He brought his fist down on the table, which shook precariously on its decrepit legs.
“Is it any wonder I have set upon the path of violence?” he asked, his eyes flaming. “Don’t tell me there is any justice apart from it! I have seen too much. I will never believe it!”
“Nevertheless, Kazan,” said Paul, speaking softly but with a little more boldness to question than he had yet shown, “it seems to be a sorry end to the high hopes and dreams of better—”
“It is not an end. It is the true beginning!”
Paul thought better of saying more and shrugged noncommittally.
Kazan noticed his hesitation, and then went on in a milder tone, his passion spent for the moment. “Tell me, Pavushka,” he said, “did you not once mention that you had a sister in St. Petersburg?”
“She lives as a servant in the house of Prince Viktor Fedorcenko.”
“Hmm . . . Fedorcenko, you say?”
Paul nodded.
Kazan rubbed his chin, clearly in deep thought. “Does she share your mind in matters of politics?”
“She has no interest in politics whatsoever,” replied Paul.
“I thought she was going to get you a position with the prince.”
“We spoke of it. But that was well over a year ago. Then I began at the Gymnasium, and the subject never came up again.”
“Have you seen her since arriving in the city?”
“No. I . . . I’m not even certain how to find her.” His voice was hesitant.
“It would be an easy matter to locate—”
Paul interrupted, speaking his mind at last. “I will not see her. I will ask for no position. I am dead to my family!” His voice seemed to ring with the timbre of Kazan’s own anger, yet underlying the words was the confused pain of a lost young man, crying out in the anguish of loneliness.
Kazan eyed him carefully, weighing his young friend’s emotional outburst. “You can see how such a position could be most advantageous,” he said after a moment. “Fedorcenko is close to the tsar.”
“Is he also targeted . . . ,” Paul hesitated, “for . . . justice?”
“Fedorcenko is known for his liberality,” replied Kazan. “That does not make him one of us by any means, but at least he is sympathetic with some of our views. On the other hand, he is a minister and an adviser to the tsar. And sometimes it is the liberals, the so-called moderates, I despise the most. They straddle the fence. They could do so much if they would exert their influence, but their only concern is to protect their own backside.”
Paul was silent a minute. “I will not involve my sister in any of this,” he said finally. An invisible shudder went through Paul’s body at the mere thought of gentle Anna being drawn into the violent world that was Kazan’s life.
“Give it some thought.”
“I will do nothing to endanger my sister,” said Paul firmly.
Kazan laughed, slapping Paul congenially on the back. “I understand perfectly. I will say no more.”
Paul seemed satisfied with his promise.
“In the meantime,” Kazan added, “you will need work. I will see what I can do for you. Now . . . finish the last of this bread before it goes stale.”
Paul had eaten of his friend’s provision because he was too hungry to refuse. He did not know, however, if he would be able to swallow Kazan’s new politics of violence. Had the noble movement to which he had idealistically thought to sacrifice his future truly gone so far as to embrace murder as the cornerstone of its policy? Was there really no other way?
With his own eyes he had already witnessed much injustice and misery from the direct hand of the corrupt, evil, self-sustaining government. He could not deny it. He hated the system as did Kazan.
Yet he wondered if he could bring himself to say, The government must be destroyed, and those who were its tools must perish—from the tsar down to the lowest magistrate!
What would his father say to such twisted and ugly logic? Or his sister? Dear, sweet Anna . . . she could never conceive of such depravity, and he would never make her an unwitting party to it.
As for himself . . . he must think on it. If Kazan was right, perhaps it was for this very reason his life had been uprooted and he had been forced from home and family. Perhaps this was his future—being part of a new order that was swiftly coming to the great land of Russia.
6
Cyril Vlasenko gazed out his window at the Secret Police Headquarters onto the wide St. Petersburg avenue.
Ah, St. Petersburg! He could still hardly believe his good fortune. He would not rejoice over another man’s death. But if the tsar needed a new chief for the Third Section, the growing secret police force, then it might as well be he. He was as good as any other who could have been selected for the prominent post.
Better! he thought to himself.
He would dedicate himself ruthlessly to rooting out the radical swine who were behind all the unrest. He would also watch himself more closely so that danger could not get close, as it had three weeks ago. He was not about to be such a fool as Mezentsev and get himself killed in the middle of a crowd! Cyril chuckled to himself. Perhaps he did owe something to the rascal who had stabbed the old chief. Otherwise he would not be seated behind Mezentsev’s desk at this moment. Yes, he would show his favor all right, by unearthing the miscreant and slipping a tight noose aro
und his neck—and all his filthy compatriots with him!
Cyril Vlasenko, new Third Section chief, was not one to be cowed before those villainous tactics of violence and intimidation. The very might of the tsar’s fist was behind him, and no handful of student rabble-rousers was capable of toppling so vast an empire.
Vlasenko breathed deeply, as if he could feel the morning air drift into his lungs through the glass of the window. But his heady exhilaration was clouded slightly, as always, when a nagging thought of his haughty cousin intruded into his ponderings. Vlasenko’s spy in the Fedorcenko house had definitely paid off! It had been a chance in a million that he’d uncover such a choice tidbit. Ha! Far more than a mere “tidbit”! He’d had a vague suspicion of it previously, and so had been able to set the servant girl in a specific direction. But obtaining proof positive of the little skeleton in Viktor’s closet was a coup indeed.
And what had made this particular item an even more potent weapon was that it did not strike directly at Viktor himself. The high-and-mighty prince might not have bent his so-called honor to save himself. But to save a loved one, no less than his frail and pampered wife? That Viktor could not ignore.
But Vlasenko could not erase from his mind’s eye that look of utter disdain Viktor had worn when he had capitulated to Cyril’s demand for Viktor to get him a substantial governmental position in exchange for his silence. “High up, Viktor,” Cyril had said, “and in the Capital. You get me right into the center of power, or your name will become hateful in the tsar’s ear!”
“You are a swine, Cyril,” Viktor had seethed, “lower than the scum of this earth. You will have your high office, and I dearly hope you rot in it! But if we are lucky, some rebel’s bullet will cut you down and save everyone the annoyance of your presence.”
Oh, he was proud and arrogant, this aristocrat with the lily-white hands of a woman!
Cyril would prove to him and everyone else what they all should have known long ago—that Count Cyril Vlasenko was a man of skill and cunning, not to be taken lightly.
And Cyril could not keep from wondering how much further he might be able to go in government. Maybe he had blackmailed his way this far, but there was no reason why he could not go even further on his own merits. Perhaps to the Winter Palace itself . . . perhaps as a minister one day! If not . . . well, he might yet be able to get more distance out of his information on Natalia.
At that thought, however, Cyril slowly and reluctantly shook his head. Viktor was not a man you could push too far. If Cyril became greedy—and he had to admit this weakness as a primary element of his character—he could well find himself back at the beginning, shuffling papers in some provincial outpost even more isolated than Akulin or Katyk.
No, it was best he remain content for now, and work hard to prove himself worthy of promotion on his own abilities.
As if to punctuate his silent resolve, Cyril returned his attention to the papers on his desk. Several dossiers of insurgents and rebels lay before him. He perused them carefully, for in them lay his ticket to prestige and advancement.
He paid special note to one in particular. It was the file on a young man he had encountered a time or two before in the Akulin district. It would be a sweet irony that a criminal from his old district might catapult him forward now. And the capture of this fellow would indeed be a feather in his cap, for, though he was by no means one of the most notorious rebel leaders, he was apparently close enough to the top to have a ream of information that could bring down the leadership.
The man went by many aliases—Adrianov, Jarnev, Kazan—who knew what his real name was? What did it even matter? Kazan had been his name in Katyk.
Cyril ran a stubby finger across the scraggly beard that barely covered the ample folds of his two chins. The jewels of the rings on his hand caught the morning light, glinting and sparkling in an impressive manner. Only the cunning glint in his eyes matched the display on his fingers. Cyril recalled that Kazan, an obvious outsider and agitator in Katyk, had befriended a few of the local youth, one in particular named Paul Burenin. He himself had questioned the Burenin boy when he was arrested with Kazan. Back then Cyril was interested in Paul’s sister’s position in the Fedorcenko household, thinking he might use her as his behind-the-scenes plant. But it was too late, for the girl had already been incorporated into the household staff. Fortunately, Cyril was able to install someone fresh and new.
So even if the brash young son of that insolent peasant Yevno Burenin had not proved helpful then, he might still be of some use. At least it would be worth the effort to send one of his lackeys to Katyk in order to grill the boy regarding his association with this insurrectionist named Kazan. Paul might well know something about the fellow’s background, perhaps even his family.
If only I could get my hands on the family of this Kazan, or whoever he really is, I would have him in no time, thought Vlasenko confidently. And once he had him, he’d send the whole lot of them, the Burenins included, to Siberia! That was the only place for troublemakers and sympathizers and those associated with them.
Cyril pushed back his chair, rose, and strode to his office door. Opening it, he addressed one of a handful of men who were working in the anteroom.
“Surkov, come into my office. I have an assignment for you.”
Surkov scurried quickly to his feet, and in three strides was in the office of the chief of Russia’s secret police. Vlasenko shut the door and, eagerly rubbing his hands together, returned to his desk and picked up the dossier.
7
An eighteenth birthday symbolized an important turning point for any girl, but especially for a young princess of Russia!
Accordingly, the parents of Katrina Viktorovna Fedorcenko planned a gala party to mark the day of her coming out—the moment of her arrival on the threshold of womanhood. The day coincided with the close of Lent, and after the pious emphasis of the holy season, the whole of St. Petersburg society was quite ready for a festive celebration.
Katrina made still one more appraisal of herself in the dressing table mirror. She had already examined every inch of her face and body a dozen times, but she still couldn’t quite satisfy herself.
She wore a dress of fine pale green tarlatan gauze. Its scalloped hemline was trimmed with clusters of diamonds, as was the neckline. A silk ribbon circled her waist, falling at the back in several whimsical streamers. The dress had cost her father two thousand rubles, and were he to lay eyes upon his daughter at this moment, he would be pleased to see his money had been well spent. It was fortunate she was the guest of honor tonight, otherwise she would have stolen the attention from some other unfortunate girl of less lavish means.
“Anna, are you sure the hem is straight?” Katrina asked, twisting around to get a better view.
“It’s perfect, Princess,” replied Anna, smiling. She was as proud of her mistress’s beauty as if she had fashioned it by her own hand. In fact, she had actually done so with Katrina’s hair. While the princess wiggled restlessly like a child, Anna had spent hours twisting the ringlets and weaving the colorful ribbon and delicate sprigs of baby’s breath through the curls to get the best effect. “You are lovelier than any grand duchess!” Anna added.
What neither young lady voiced was the truth that would be all too apparent before the night was over—that the two young grand dukes who vied for the favor of the young Fedorcenko princess would be most proud to make her a real grand duchess.
Katrina’s mind was not on such trifles, however. She harbored not the slightest interest in impressing a single member of the royal family. After more than two years, her heart could not be swayed even by the tsar’s own sons; it still belonged to a mere count. And if no one else realized it, at least Anna knew that all her efforts on this most special evening had but one purpose in the mind of her mistress: to once and for all win the heart of the only true love she had ever known—her brother’s best friend, Count Dmitri Remizov.
True to Sergei’s prediction, Dmitr
i had somehow managed to inveigle his way out of Siberia and back to civilization. A rumor was circulating around Moscow that he had won back his freedom in a card game, wagering his return to his old regiment against another five years in the Siberian outpost. It sent shudders up and down Katrina’s spine just to think of the awful possibility! Soon after hearing of his return to St. Petersburg, Katrina was halfway out the door on her way to his home, throwing propriety to the wind, when a simple suggestion by her maid caught her fancy instead.
“Why not invite him to your birthday celebration?” Anna had suggested. “If you really want to please him, Princess, why not let him first lay eyes on you as you make a grand entrance like a princess in a fairy story?”
Katrina stopped, thought a moment, then smiled. The idea appealed to her flamboyant nature.
“Why, Anna,” she said. “I do believe I am rubbing off on you! That is a very clever idea!”
“I was only trying to help, Princess,” replied Anna. “It’s just that I was thinking how anyone who had not seen you for two years would be sure to—”
She hesitated.
“Would be sure to what, Anna?”
“To see how you have changed, Princess. You are so much older . . . as beautiful as any woman in Moscow. At least I believe so.”
“Oh, Anna, how can you always be so kind to me? I don’t know whether to believe you half the time—except that you’re the most trustworthy person I know.”
It had strained every fiber of her tempestuous and impatient nature, but Katrina had managed to wait. At last the moment had come, and her long years of anticipation would be rewarded. Dmitri could not possibly fail to notice her tonight—and see her fully as the enchanting woman she had become.
Only moments before, Anna had returned from the ballroom. Katrina had contrived an errand for her to be about, although the only thing she really wanted was a report back whether Count Remizov had yet arrived.
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