Suddenly footsteps thudded behind them. A shout rang out—the last voice Katrina had expected . . . but the one she most wanted to hear!
48
Dmitri took in the whole ugly scene in an instant.
“What in the—!” he exclaimed as he rushed forward. The words barely left his lips as he closed the gap between himself and the interloper, seized him by the shoulders, and threw him off Katrina, who stood paralyzed in terror against the tree.
Basil recovered with uncanny resiliency and leaped upon his unwelcome assailant with the fury of a wild beast. He threw himself against Dmitri, knocking him to the ground on his back.
Basil pursued the assault, and before Dmitri could struggle back to his knees he found himself stung by a rapid series of punishing kicks to his legs and midsection. His hands and forearms flew over his head to ward off blows from Anickin’s boots that might otherwise have left him unconscious or crushed in his face.
Seeing Dmitri helplessly writhing on the ground trying to protect himself brought Katrina back to her senses. How could she have been so blind to Basil’s insanity all this time? Suddenly a maniac was before her, a man she didn’t even know, kicking Dmitri with deliberate cruelty.
She screamed in terror and flew forward, hurling herself against Basil. In vain she tried to grab at his arms and pull him away. But the man’s strength was given added potency by the vehemence of his hatred; Katrina might as well have been an ant trying to stop the attack of an enraged she-bear. But the distraction of a second or two was enough to allow Dmitri to recover himself and spring to his feet.
Basil gave a wicked thrust to get her off him, and Katrina toppled sideways to the ground, screaming. Dmitri’s clenched fist smashed into Basil’s mouth and nose. The blood began immediately to flow. A quick side step by Basil sent Dmitri’s second blow wide into the air, and suddenly the two men squared off facing one another.
“You will pay dearly for this,” said Basil spitefully from between clenched teeth. “You do not realize what you have done!”
“I realize all too clearly what you have done, Anickin,” rejoined Dmitri, moving slowly to one side, keeping his eyes warily fixed on his opponent. “You are no gentleman to treat a lady so shamefully. You are nothing but a—”
If he thought to help matters with such words, Dmitri could not have been more mistaken. Whatever word was about to leave his lips was lost as Basil lunged forward. And despite all his words of warning to Katrina about the man, even Dmitri was not prepared for the ferocity of Basil’s attack. Before he knew it, he found himself stumbling backward, his head ringing and his vision blurred from a lightning-quick fist to his cheekbone. Before he could gather his wits, another blow landed on his neck, followed by still another to his chin. The taste of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth finally cleared his reeling brain. He jumped aside and raised his hands in front of his face, warding off Basil’s next two punches.
Katrina was back on her feet, screaming wildly now for them to stop. She rushed at Basil again. This time he raised his arm against her, and sent the back of his hand against her head, knocking her down again, the side of her upper cheek red and her eyes filling with tears of pain.
“How dare you strike a woman?” cried Dmitri, filled with renewed passion.
He rushed forward, perhaps unwisely, yet two or three of his furious punches found their mark, one squarely across Basil’s left eye. Despite the fact that he was a seasoned war veteran, the young count was no match for the lawyer’s hand-to-hand experience. Incensed all the more by the pain inflicted by Dmitri’s blows, Basil attacked with half a dozen rapid jabs into Dmitri’s ribs and stomach. He was used to having his own way in a fight; the taste of his own blood oozing from his nose and the stars that swam in front of his eyes were new sensations that sent the merciless rebel’s rage to new levels of madness. Even in the midst of her own pain, Katrina saw the murder in his eyes. She struggled to her feet, terrified for Dmitri’s life, and ran from the garden.
As Dmitri doubled over, gasping for breath, Basil came after him in a paroxysm of frenzied hatred, clubbing him viciously on the head. With one last punch Basil sent Dmitri staggering backward and toppling to the ground.
The next instant Basil leaped on top of him. Dmitri, virtually defenseless, struggled to get his hands in front of his face and eyes. He kicked about to try to throw the lawyer from him, but to no avail.
Dmitri swung wildly with his own fists, but none found their mark. His swollen eyes could make out only blurry forms, his ears unable to distinguish between distant cries and yells and Basil’s venomous curses raining down upon him along with the punishing blows. All was a confusion of dust and yells, stinging pain, and the warm taste of blood.
Then Dmitri felt the viselike grip of Basil’s sinewy fingers on his throat. He reached up, groping in vain to free himself from the stranglehold. But the fingers of mad passion steadily tightened, choking off his air. Dmitri gasped frantically, unaware of the sound of voices approaching through the garden.
To Katrina’s horrified cries were now added men’s voices.
“You there!” shouted Peter, the head footman, rushing up along with Moskalev and three or four others. Dmitri felt the fingers being torn from his throat. Loud curses from Basil’s voice filled the air. He felt himself being pulled to his feet by Moskalev’s huge hand. One eye was swollen shut; with the other he saw Anickin a few feet away, restrained by three of the Fedorcenko servants but trembling with murderous wrath.
“Do not think you have been spared, Count Remizov!” he spat with venom. “A man who must be rescued by women and servants is no man at all!”
“It is you who have been spared,” Dmitri answered. “There is no coward so low as he who would strike a defenseless woman.”
“You dare to call me a coward,” Basil jeered, “after the thrashing I just gave you?”
“You could take my life, Anickin, and you would still be the lowest form of coward alive. Yes, I say it to your face—you are a despicable coward!”
“You are a spineless swine! You have courage to speak so to me when I am restrained in this manner. But tell these men to let me go, and then see if you are so brave as to repeat those words to my face!”
“You could whip me lifeless, and it would change nothing in your coward’s heart. I know what manner of man you are, and it is no man at all!”
“You have said it, Remizov,” said Basil, now with sudden icy calm that belied his previous passion. “Let your own words condemn you. The time will come when I will take your life.”
“Take him away,” Dmitri said to the servants, ignoring the threat.
“Shall we call a gendarme, Your Excellency?” asked Peter.
“Do you hear him, Anickin?” said Dmitri. “I could have you arrested. And considering your past record, it would not go well with you. This young lady’s father is a man of importance in this city. More than that, she happens to be the lady I love. Show your face around here again, and I will do exactly what Peter suggests.”
“And you think I am frightened by your paltry threats?”
“I frankly do not care. I merely feel it is my duty to inform you what I will do if you bother this young lady with your presence again. She is mine now, and I will protect her, especially against the likes of you.”
“I will kill you, Remizov. Do you hear me?”
Dmitri gave Peter a wave of his hand, then turned toward Katrina, offering the lawyer no further reply.
Peter and the footmen led Anickin away, while Dmitri went to Katrina. Weak from shock, exhaustion, and pain from the blows she had taken, she sat on a nearby bench, weeping.
Before he could speak, she was on her feet rushing toward him.
“Oh, Dmitri, your face is scraped and bleeding!” she cried. “And one eye is so puffy I can hardly see it!”
“I will recover,” said Dmitri, trying to smile lightheartedly.
“But he has hurt you so!”
“I am a
soldier. Pain is my profession, remember?”
“Oh, Dmitri!” She reached out and touched his bruised face with a tender hand.
One of the house maids had come to the garden on the heels of the footmen. Dmitri saw her at the same time that he noted Katrina’s deathly pale complexion.
“Take her to her room,” he said to the maid, who stood in silent bewilderment over the events she had just witnessed.
Dmitri walked toward her, Katrina’s hand in his. He handed her over to the maid. “See to it that she rests for an hour, and has some hot tea,” he added to the girl. Then he bent over and kissed Katrina’s forehead. “Now be off with you both. I will call again in the morning.”
49
Peter and his fellows deposited Basil outside the gates. The man slunk ingloriously away from the Fedorcenko estate. Remorse and regret, however, were the two emotions furthest from his agitated thoughts.
A meeting of The People’s Will was scheduled for later that afternoon. After changing clothes and attending to his blood-splotched face, he went directly there. When he arrived they were already in the midst of a rousing discussion of a planned attempt on the Third Section chief’s life. Zhelyabov’s young protege, whom Basil had seen a time or two but did not know personally, was describing the usual route Vlasenko took for his morning constitutional.
“He never varies?” asked one of the listeners.
“Hardly ever. I’ve watched closely for several days.”
“Doesn’t he realize his danger? How can he be so confident as to go about his business as if no one cares?”
“Vlasenko’s a fool!”
“And it shall be the death of him,” added Zhelyabov. “Go on, Paul. What do you have in mind?”
Basil had entered quietly, unnoticed by all but the guard at the door, and had listened for a time in silence. At length he stepped forward. As a respected leader in the movement, all eyes turned toward him, and Paul hesitated. Noting Basil looked more sinister than usual with his bruised and puffy face, Paul wondered what trouble the lawyer had been in.
“Why are you wasting energies on Vlasenko?” Basil said. “The tsar will probably get rid of him long before we do. He is little more than an incompetent fool.”
“Well, Anickin, we wondered if you were going to show,” said Zhelyabov. “I was afraid the incompetent police had finally gotten to you, and it looks like perhaps they have tried.”
“I haven’t the time for banalities,” rejoined Basil sharply. “And we as an organization haven’t time or resources to spare for a small, inconsequential cog in the governmental apparatus.”
“The Secret Police chief is hardly an insignificant cog, as you put it.”
“There are bigger fish.”
“A few months ago you applauded the attempt on his life.”
“That was then. Priorities have altered.”
“Don’t worry, the tsar remains our prime target, but I have some materials I want to test beforehand. I intend on full success the next time our ruler encounters one of my explosives.”
“Fine,” said Basil. “But the chief of Secret Police is still a distraction to our larger purposes.”
“In killing him, we deliver the clear message that brutes such as he will not be tolerated,” broke in Paul, surprising even himself with his boldness in disagreeing with Basil Anickin. “The tsar will think twice about whom he appoints to replace him.”
“Don’t be naive. If past experience serves, he will appoint an even more savage animal.”
“And I suppose you have a more worthy victim in mind, Basil?” asked Zhelyabov, with more curiosity than rebuke.
“I propose we strike someone whose death will make a broader, more profound statement,” answered Basil. “I submit that our cause will be furthered by a subtle shift in our tactic. Instead of the message, ‘Don’t put bad men in office or we will kill them,’ I suggest we say, ‘All who support the evil dictatorship of the Romanov tsar will be subject, as accessories, to the same death sentence as the tsar himself.’”
He paused to allow his words to sink in.
“We all know the government has gone far beyond the point where fair appointees, or even fairer laws, will heal the breach,” he went on. “The entire Romanov dynasty and every mechanism by which it rules must go. Everything! Nothing else will suffice to take our message to the people.”
“High words, Anickin,” said Zhelyabov.
“It is a high cause we are about.”
“So then, whom do you propose we mark for death?”
“Prince Viktor Fedorcenko,” said Basil flatly. He would have liked to have included the name of Count Dmitri Remizov as well, but he would take care of him personally. The Fedorcenkos would not be so easy; he would need the assistance of his comrades for them.
Paul concealed his shock at hearing the familiar name. His mind spun with the implications.
“Andrei,” said Sophia Perovskaya, “there is a certain poetic justice to Basil’s proposal.”
“How so?”
“Fedorcenko is close to the tsar, not only politically, but socially as well. This would strike a ‘double-headed’ blow to His Majesty.”
She grinned mordantly at her clever wit.
As Paul sat listening, his only immediate conclusion was that these people must never know of his association, however distant, to the clan whose elimination they were now plotting. He would kill for this cause, even die for it. But he was not ready to sacrifice his dear sister for it. So he remained silent, glad he had revealed the name of his sister’s employer only to Kazan.
“I don’t know,” Zhelyabov was saying. “I assured Paul that we would—”
“And since when are we in this for the purpose of fulfilling our personal goals?” asked Basil quickly.
His words were poorly chosen. His social activities with the daughter of the prince in question were not entirely unknown to his comrades.
“I might ask the same of you, Basil?”
“If personal pleasure happens to coincide with political expedience, it is no fault of mine.”
“Then it is a question of expedience?” challenged the revolutionary leader.
“As I see it,” answered Basil.
“I still think it would serve us best to keep the police in a state of turmoil,” Zhelyabov said. “A ‘poetic statement’ such as you propose will probably pass right over the head of our dull-witted tsar.”
“Let’s put it to a vote,” suggested Basil. He was confident. He knew Sophia Perovskaya was on his side, and she carried almost as much weight in the group as Zhelyabov. And Zhelyabov’s arguments were lame at best, clearly aimed as much against Basil, with whom he had never been on the best of terms, as they were for any particular principle or objective of the group.
The vote was taken, and the target for their next attack was changed from Vlasenko to Fedorcenko. The outcome of the vote only partially made up for Basil’s humiliation. Only the thought of revenge against Katrina and Remizov could soothe the aching mortification of being rejected by the one and bloodied by the other. And then to be manhandled and tossed off the estate by the prince’s lackeys completed the bitterness of the abasement. Even as Basil walked out into the night after the meeting, a plan had begun to take root in his mind in which a strategically placed bomb would destroy the whole family at once.
50
When Dmitri had left the Fedorcenko estate, in spite of the pain all over his body, his first thoughts were for Katrina’s safety. He trusted Basil Anickin no more than he would a bloodthirsty Turk.
To insure that the madman was not lurking somewhere in the shadows about the estate, he embarked upon a lengthy and, in his condition, rigorous walk about the entire outer perimeter of the grounds. He made his way to the point where the river bordered the property. Not even Basil would have the fortitude to brave the chilly water to gain entry.
When he was at last satisfied, he returned to his barracks. There he changed out of his soiled uniform,
washed his bruised body, soaked his swollen eye with a cold cloth, and lay down. But he found he could not rest. The quiet building was too deserted. He finally got back up, concluding he needed to find some friendly activity to unwind.
A light rain had begun to fall. Dmitri walked outside, looked up into the sky, quickly darkening in the descending dusk, and breathed in deeply. The cool mist felt good on his hot, puffy face. He walked to the mews and there proceeded to hitch up his small covered carriage to his horse. He drove to Lomonosov Prospect and pulled up in front of Dauphin’s.
Inside, he made a valiant attempt to distract himself. But in the end the music and smoke and laughter and raucous conversation proved more oppressive than relaxing. He could not concentrate on the faro game, and ended up losing more than he could well afford. In the end, the losing streak and vodka and noise combined with his lingering concern over Katrina and the welts on his cheek, jaw, and eye to give him a raging headache.
He left Dauphin’s in far worse shape, and even less prepared for sleep, than when he had entered. For a fleeting moment he considered returning to Katrina. But it was quite late, and her parents had likely returned home. Prince Fedorcenko was the last person he wanted to face just now.
He wondered what Basil was up to at that moment, and if it had been a mistake to let him go free. But even if the man was crazy, he surely was not stupid enough to commit murder. That would be one entanglement his father’s respected reputation could not possibly help him out of. Yet try as he might, Dmitri could not shake from his mind the memory of the murderous look Basil had worn earlier that day.
“Ah, the vodka is making a woman of me,” he said to himself. “Anickin is home licking his wounds and wishing he’d never returned to St. Petersburg!” Trying thus to reassure himself, he headed toward his carriage.
He lifted his foot to the board and climbed inside. But as soon as he had taken up the reins in his hands, he felt a sudden movement behind him. In less time than it took to gasp in surprise, a strong arm snaked around his throat, while the barrel of a revolver instantly pressed against his neck.
The Russians Collection Page 68