The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  Paul knew the factory man, whose name was Stepniak, and had worked with him at the mill. The ex-medical student was new to the organization. Paul had seen his face but he had never spoken to him. Stepniak made the introductions.

  “This is Ivan Remiga,” he said to Paul.

  Paul nodded. “I’m Pavlikov,” he said. He had long since taken on an alias, but since many in the organization knew his real name, he took one close to his own, to avoid confusion.

  “I am happy to meet you,” said Remiga, in an eager, almost innocent tone that made Paul feel strangely like an old veteran of the movement.

  “Why does it take two of you to make the delivery?” asked Paul.

  “There is another matter I thought might be of interest to you,” said Stepniak. “But first things first.”

  He surreptitiously slipped a folded paper from his pocket and handed it under the table to Paul. “We will need several hundred copies.”

  “That should be no problem,” said Paul, placing the handbill in the pocket of his own coat.

  “We must have them as soon as possible.”

  “Why?”

  “Melikov is pushing the government closer and closer toward a constitution—”

  “Which would be disastrous,” put in the enthusiastic Remiga. “A constitutional monarchy would pacify the masses just enough to nullify all our efforts.”

  Paul eyed the two cynically. Did they really think he needed to be told all this?

  “Melikov knew what he was doing when he turned the government effort from harassing radicals to pacifying the people,” Remiga added.

  “A constitutional monarchy would never work in Russia,” said Paul disinterestedly, hoping to put an end to this discussion and get on with the immediate business of what had brought them together.

  “It wouldn’t have to work as long as it looked good on paper,” said Stepniak. “They are running scared. They will do anything to sway public opinion over to their side.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Paul. “But the three of us do not need to hold a referendum on it. It’s been debated already many times, and we all know where we stand. Now get on with it. What’s on your mind?”

  “The urgency of the situation is why these handbills must be distributed immediately. The truth must be told to the people. The tsar does not intend to fulfill his meatless promises.”

  “Lower your voice,” said Paul quietly, in a tone that lacked the urgency of his comrade. “Even a noisy tavern is not the place for such a discussion.”

  Remiga, the most inexperienced of the trio, glanced about, his eyes darting hurriedly around the room in sudden panic.

  “All right,” said Stepniak in a strained whisper. “But will you see to the handbills?”

  “I’ll talk to Zhelyabov,” replied Paul. “It should be no problem.”

  “But I have something else to discuss,” Stepniak said. “This place will have to do.”

  “Then just keep your enthusiasm quiet,” cautioned Paul again.

  “You knew Basil Anickin, I believe?”

  Paul nodded his head skeptically. “Only vaguely.”

  “He was a vital part of the university organization,” said Stepniak. “It is a travesty that nothing has been done for him all this time.”

  “What could be done? He has been sealed away, heaven only knows where.”

  “Don’t fool yourself, Pavlikov. Zhelyabov hates him and has refused to give sanction to any efforts on his behalf.”

  “Those are strong words against our leader.”

  “They are true. You know it yourself.”

  “There have been other priorities.”

  “Bah! What are we if we do not take care of our own?”

  Stepniak paused, rubbed his beard thoughtfully, and sipped his kvass. Finally he spoke again, measuring each word.

  “I had the impression, Pavlikov, that you and Anickin were close.”

  “Not at all,” replied Paul.

  “Did he not defend your friend, Kazan?”

  “He did, and Kazan was hanged.”

  “So, you hold that against him?”

  “No. But neither did it make us bosom friends. To tell you the truth, I was always a little afraid of him.”

  “Weren’t we all—a little!”

  “What you say is probably true. However, I know that Andrei’s fear has nothing to do with being afraid of him, rather for the damage one such as he can do to the cause.”

  “The cause needs more like him!”

  Paul did not know how to respond to such a statement, especially from someone he had reason to respect till now. Was this the beginning of a rift between Zhelyabov and Stepniak? The latter could never match either wits or might with his mentor, thought Paul. According to Zhelyabov, the best thing that ever happened to the movement was the arrest of Basil Anickin. Paul sat reflecting on the words, and said nothing.

  “Then,” Stepniak went on, “you would not be interested in joining a plan to aid his escape?”

  “Escape?”

  “We have recently developed a connection inside the place they are keeping him—a menial employee who is a sympathizer with our purpose. He has sent word that Anickin will be transferred back to the fortress soon. A transfer would give us the ideal opportunity for a break.”

  “I don’t know . . .” said Paul hesitantly. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he deemed it unwise to voice a strong protest now. In this game a man had to watch himself constantly, making sure his alliances were strong. If Stepniak carried enough support, he could one day take over leadership of The People’s Will, and then where would that leave Paul? He didn’t want to say anything just now that Stepniak might take wrongly and thus suspect Paul of betrayal. “There has been talk of another attempt on Melikov,” said Paul evasively. “I wouldn’t want anything to—”

  “All talk! Zhelyabov has gotten cold feet since the bombing failed and Melikov took power. There are those of us who think it is time we stopped waiting for him to take action. Believe me, things will change once we get Anickin back. They do not scare him.”

  Paul shrugged. “Nevertheless, to mount such an escape plot would be very time consuming.”

  “You sound like Zhelyabov! Are you going soft like him? I thought better of you. That’s why I asked you to meet me.”

  “We have more pressing commitments. The organization has already set the agenda for the next—”

  “Then you won’t go along with us?” interrupted Stepniak.

  “I shall talk to Andrei and see what he has to say.”

  “You leave Zhelyabov out of it! I’m asking you to make your choice. Your future in the movement could be at stake, Pavlikov.”

  It was a moment or two before Paul answered. “I will consider your words,” he said. “Give me a few days.”

  “As you wish. But nothing will wait for your decision.”

  “We must all make the choices we think are best—best for the cause,” said Paul.

  The factory man shrugged. “Of course, I understand.” In spite of his words, his tone had turned cold. “It seems perhaps I was unwise to take up your time with a matter that interests you so little.” He leaned across the table. “You will keep this talk to yourself, Pavlikov?” It was more command than question.

  Paul nodded. “All I can say is that I wish you success. If I can help, I will.” He hoped his words would keep from alienating Stepniak.

  “I believe you. I always thought you were a bright young man.”

  Stepniak rose and drained off the last of his drink. “I hope you come out on the right side when all the dust settles. Things are bound to change with Anickin back in the thick of it. Come on, Remiga,” he added to his young protege.

  The ex-medical student rose and followed his comrade out of the tavern. Paul watched them exit, an unsettled feeling growing within him.

  Basil Anickin was a name he had wanted to forget. And short of that, at least he had hoped he’d never see the man’s f
ace again. But apparently that was not to be the case if Stepniak had his way.

  There remained the possibility that the escape could fail. Anickin was locked up tight, with high security, and even his location had been kept a closely guarded secret these many months. Surely success in getting him out was a slim possibility at best.

  But Paul could not help wondering what it would mean if he did escape. For The People’s Will, it meant another lunatic to keep in tow. Granted, his very lunacy made him fearless and thus a valuable weapon in the right circumstances—if one did not mind carrying around a lighted stick of dynamite in his pocket!

  Paul’s chief concern, however, had little to do with the cause. Anickin had vowed to destroy the Fedorcenkos, and Paul still remembered the wild look in the lawyer’s eyes when he had done so. It had been no idle threat. Paul did not doubt that the moment he was free, Anna would immediately be in danger—and that concerned him no less now than it had months ago when he had tried unsuccessfully to warn his sister.

  Yet Paul found himself faced with a dilemma. If he spoke to Zhelyabov, or otherwise warned anyone, and Stepniak’s plan was thwarted, Paul would be known as the traitor at once. Then, when and if Anickin ever did get out, he himself would become a target for the madman’s revenge!

  He must try to find some means to solve the problem without foiling the plan. He’d have to keep himself apprised of Stepniak’s progress. Maybe there was still a chance he could talk him out of it.

  But he’d have to be careful. Whatever he did, he must see to it that Basil Anickin stayed right where he was—behind bars where he belonged!

  15

  It seemed that every unpleasant odor in the world had been collected and injected into the stifling atmosphere of the Novgorov Asylum. The stench made the senses reel and the stomach lurch; but when the initial nausea passed, the ears were assailed by something far worse.

  The sounds of insanity.

  Cries, groans, chants of sing-song lunacy, laughter, and mumbled conversations all mingling together into an incomprehensible sound of Babel—many tongues ignorant and unconcerned with one another, speaking of secret agonies and hidden ecstacies that no one even wanted to understand. The sounds droned on, and no soul asked for explanations, for there were no listeners. A handful of beings, scarcely human, cloistered together in the drab, dark, filthy, windowless room . . . but no one to hear their voices.

  Occasionally one of the residents would stop and glance around at his fellows as if just noticing them for the first time, triggered by some unseen apparition of a diseased mind to venture forth out of his closed little world. If lucidity did not exactly come at such moments, something in the eyes hinted that he caught a brief glimpse of the reality of his surroundings. Then the laughter and nonsensical chanting turned to cries and groans of horror. For the reality was too awful to face, and the retreat into madness which followed was welcomed as a peaceful sleep.

  Basil Anickin had spent his share of moments within the netherworld of reality, oblivious even to the presence of his fellow wanderers. His whole being had been so absorbed in hatred and a thirst for vengeance that the prison physicians had deemed him mentally deranged. But even after removing him to the asylum and applying appropriate “curative measures,” his visions continued to be stained with the blood of his enemies. Nothing existed, in reality or lunacy, but hate and blood and violence.

  They gave him drugs and treatments until his skin paled, his eyes glazed over, and his body sagged with despair. Finally they concluded that their efforts had succeeded in curing him. His teeth no longer ground out curses. His clenched fists relaxed. His eyes lost their lethal intensity. He became a docile lump of a man. Such was the goal of their methods, and it appeared they had worked.

  The confident physicians gradually lessened the treatments until they were discontinued. Slowly, by degrees, Basil remembered why he was there. Gradually came the sense that he was different from the others, that they were crazy but he had only come unhinged. Once, in another world—he could not say if it had been real or not—he had been driven by something. He had felt passion and life. He remembered a purpose, a reason to live.

  How had he come to land in this pit of human filth . . . ?

  As the effects of the drugs dissipated, from deep inside his bosom came a new feeling to the surface. New, but not new. He began to discover something that felt old and very familiar . . . and slowly the hatred grew.

  Somewhere, out there where the air was not filled with stench or the haunting sounds of agony, was one to whom justice was due—his justice! Someone had wronged him, someone had used him, someone had made a fool of him.

  Someone . . . but who could it be . . . ?

  Basil struggled to form answers to his half-seen questions. But his numbed mind was still too foggy, too slow. Summoning every effort of the will, he tried to speak clearly and behave with sanity so they would give him no more medicine or—God help him!—take him into that tiny room again. There was something he must remember! But he could not think right when they deadened his mind.

  The other inmates in Basil’s cubicle were too absorbed in their own shadowy worlds to take notice of the lawyer. They lived and breathed in parallel universes, none ever touching another. But one fellow, an old man who had been in the asylum for years, occasionally included Basil in his unreality. He fancied himself royalty, no less than a grand duke, whose days were taken up with bemoaning the fact that he, rightful heir to the throne, had been banished in exile to this miserable hellhole. How Basil, of all people, fit into his imaginary court was uncertain, except that the fellow commented now and then how much the doctor’s son resembled a certain Polish prince he had once known.

  One day the “grand duke” sidled up to Basil. “I had a visit from my sister . . . the Grand Duchess Alexandra, you know.”

  Basil squinted dully at the old man. “What do I care?” he said.

  “I think she has taken a fancy to you.”

  “Me?”

  “You may be too modest to admit it, but you are a handsome lad—for a Pole, at any rate.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “You could do worse than win the hand of a grand duchess.”

  Basil turned away. He didn’t have to listen to this fool. But before he could make good his retreat, the old man spoke again.

  “She gave me a message for you,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Basil, annoyed now.

  “Don’t be proud, lad,” he said, thrusting a crumpled piece of paper into Basil’s face. “Such an alliance between our houses is imperative.”

  Basil did nothing, said nothing.

  Thwarted, the would-be tsar stuffed the paper into Basil’s hand and shuffled off for an important audience, in his words, with the foreign minister.

  Mechanically Basil lifted his hand and opened the paper with his fingers. The words were as crazy as the deliverer of the note:

  The Coronation is set at last, this twenty-ninth day of October in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and eighty. The Crown shall make you free.

  He shook his head and began to wad the paper up in his hand when suddenly he stopped. A memory from some former time flashed into his mind.

  He too had secrets! Secrets from those he hated. He and his comrades had communicated in code to one another. Codes like . . .

  This note sounded like some of those back then . . . messages he himself had sent! Gradually images of words, communications, floated back into his consciousness.

  “The Coronation . . .” It could mean anything—but almost certainly some major event!

  What event? When?

  Ah, when? That was the interesting part of the code. It was in the numbers—he remembered that much! But not so simply as what it said. No, not October 29, that was the decoy. When the numbers were written out like this, it meant something else. Something about . . .

  Yes, within the numbers. Twenty-nine . . . two and nine . . . Two-nine . . .
>
  That was it! The second day of the ninth month! Now he remembered how the code worked. He had thought it up himself! September 2, 1880.

  A big event to occur on September 2. When could that be? He hadn’t an idea of the date now. He had given little thought to the passage of time. How long had he been here? He didn’t even know what season of the year it was!

  And what was the event?

  Could it truly be a coronation? Was the tsar dead? Could the impossible have happened without his hearing about it?

  No, that was too obvious. If this code was really a code, then it meant something else.

  What does it matter, anyway? Basil fumed. The note is from a crazy old man who imagines himself to be the rightful heir to the Russian throne.

  Or was it?

  He studied the piece of paper more closely. The writing was firm and clear. It was obvious the old man’s trembling hand could never have produced such script. Someone must be sending him a message.

  Someone from the outside!

  Basil shook his head several times, trying to get the jumbled pieces of his memory to jog themselves into some order that made sense.

  Yes, he had friends out there. He remembered that much. There weren’t only enemies. He had comrades with the same purpose he had. Comrades and purpose which would not rejoice in a coronation but rather would grieve. What could a coronation mean except that they had failed.

  He sighed and reread the note. Struggling to make sense of it, he read the whole thing again, moving past the word coronation and on through the words . . .

  Suddenly it jumped out at him—the single word that held the substance of the entire message:

  . . . shall make you FREE.

  Perhaps this message had nothing to do with the tsar at all—but with him. Could it be possible?

  Did the message concern his freedom rather than the tsar’s coronation? Perhaps . . . it could not hurt to think about it . . . to wonder . . . to wait. It might be that if he waited long enough, that day would come—September 2—and somehow he would be free.