The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  But as satisfying as it would be to kill them both with his bare hands, he would rather sacrifice a bit of the satisfaction in order to be assured of success. The logistics of the plan were going to require care. A bomb was the safest and surest way. He needed someone adept with explosives to assist him.

  The first candidate that came to Basil’s warped mind was Zhelyabov’s young protege, the fellow named Pavlikov. As far as Basil knew, the man had survived the post-assassination purge. But whether he would be willing to take the risk under the current conditions, Basil didn’t know. What Basil did know of the young Pavlikov was only that he was something of an idealist. There would thus have to be some ulterior motivation to lure the young man into the web of Basil’s scheme.

  Fedorcenko might prove useful in that regard. It would be but a small matter to imply that the death of an imperial minister would benefit their cause. He would merely have to strike at a time when Katrina was known to be visiting her father’s house.

  Notwithstanding its simplicity, there were many inherent difficulties with the plan. But he would surmount them. Basil had come too far to fail now. He had only to approach the shining objective of his eventual triumph step by step. He must not allow emotion to cloud his logic.

  His first task, therefore, was to locate Pavlikov, if he was still in the capital.

  40

  Several days after the hanging, Anickin found Paul in one of the dark and disreputable taverns on Maly Prospect on Vassily Island.

  The young protege had not been easy to locate. He had changed his name again and was living—if such it could be called—in alleyways mostly, or almshouses when he had been fortunate enough to find such accommodations.

  Anickin’s own lodgings were hardly better now since there were fewer citizens sympathetic enough to assist fugitive radicals. But he had lately found a woman of low repute who agreed to keep him in her tenement apartment. He was certainly faring much better than Pavlikov.

  The younger man had a drawn, hungry look about his features. Anickin wondered when the man had last eaten. A starving revolutionary would be a definite asset to his purpose, but he could not have the man fainting on him in the midst of their important task. Therefore, as Anickin slipped onto the rough bench opposite Paul at a table in a dark corner, he called a drab-looking servant girl over and ordered a copper’s worth of brown bread to accompany their kvass.

  “I have no money,” said Paul flatly.

  “We are brothers, Pavlikov,” said Anickin. “You need no money when you are with me.”

  “You don’t look much better off.”

  “What I have I share.”

  “Why?” It was the first time Basil had shown the slightest interest in, much less friendship for, Paul. His suspicion was natural.

  Basil smiled—not a handsome smile, for it suffered greatly from disuse and evil intent.

  “Caution is our greatest ally in these dangerous times,” he said cryptically, then paused as the girl brought their bread and drink to the table. He shoved the plate of bread toward Paul, who hesitated only a moment before grabbing up a chunk. He would worry about his suspicions later. It had been days since he had eaten something not pilfered from a garbage bin.

  “Of course you must wonder if I have some purpose in seeking you out,” Basil went on after a moment’s silence.

  “I do.”

  Basil glanced furtively around, then lowered his voice. “You must know that our task is not finished,” he said. “We may have killed the tsar, but it is clear that we failed to elicit the public response we desired. There was a reason for that, Pavlikov—because a new tsar was at the ready to step in.”

  He looked at Paul with deep furrows etched into the lines of his forehead. Paul said nothing.

  “Surely you see what I mean—the reins of government only slackened. We will never succeed until we interrupt the entire process of the governmental system.”

  “Are you saying we must kill the new tsar?”

  “That, of course, should be our long-range goal. But we are far from ready for that now. It will take months, perhaps years, to build our strength back enough to undertake another attack on the emperor. In the meantime, we must strike where we can. Wasn’t it Zhelyabov who said we must do whatever we have the strength to do?”

  Paul nodded, thinking to himself how clever it was of Anickin to bring Zhelyabov’s name into the conversation. It lent, if nothing else, a certain nobility to whatever point he was about to make.

  “What are you proposing?” asked Paul, not even bothering to mask his innate suspicion.

  “We must continue to mount terrorist attacks upon government officials. The death of the tsar only garnered public sympathy for the Crown. But the loss of a few aristocrats and government officials will not. That’s where The People’s Will made its mistake, Pavlikov. We rushed the assassination. The masses are not yet sufficiently educated to accept the necessity of doing away with the Crown altogether.”

  “Then perhaps we should concentrate our efforts on education—printing the pamphlets necessary to continue getting this message out,” suggested Paul.

  “No, we must forget the people altogether—for now. Terror is the only effective commodity of revolution. It was that and that alone that finally brought Alexander to the point of approving a constitution.”

  “But we don’t want a constitutional monarchy.”

  “True. But the point is, terror is the only effective tool by which to achieve change, to achieve our ends—whatever they may be. And it is a tool we must continue to wield.”

  “I take it you want to enlist my services?”

  Anickin nodded.

  “And others?”

  “Of course. But I believe you are the key. You learned all Zhelyabov’s techniques, and that is what we need just now. I know nothing about explosives, wires, fuses, charges, detonators. You do.”

  “What you are saying rings with a certain clarity,” mused Paul. Even to himself he had to admit that it did, despite the fact that it came from a man who had proven himself a lunatic. For that very reason, it was extremely unlikely that he would ever see his way clear to join forces with Anickin. But it couldn’t hurt to hear him out.

  “Then you will join me?”

  “I don’t mind taking a few risks,” answered Paul. “But I doubt we would get very far in the present atmosphere in St. Petersburg.”

  “That’s the genius of it! Now is the perfect time. Everyone’s guard is down. The last thing they will suspect is more violence with the police vigilance at such a high peak just now.”

  “With good reason!”

  “We will strike first on a low-risk subject.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Prince Viktor Fedorcenko.”

  Of course! Suddenly everything came clear to Paul in an instant. He had suspected some devious motive behind Anickin’s sermonizing, and here it was as plain as day—his old vendetta against the Fedorcenkos. It was pure chance that he had been drawn into his scheme. But now that he had, he must consider carefully his response. It was sure to affect lives, and could even touch his sister.

  For now, he would appear to go along with the man, if for no other reason than to keep fully apprised of his movements and thus keep Anna out of danger. But he’d have to watch himself. If Anickin suspected him of mixed motives, no doubt he’d end up floating in the Neva.

  “Yes . . . that does seem a logical choice,” said Paul after a pause, during which he had covered his deliberations with renewed interest in the food. He finished off the last of the bread, not even thinking to offer the last morsel to Basil. “I’ll help out as long as we don’t hurry the job,” he added. “I want to come out of it alive, if possible.”

  “Good. That is a reasonable request.”

  “When do we start?”

  “Soon.”

  “I’ll have to get supplies, and that won’t be easy. Also, we may need one or two others to help. Explosives are a complicated
business.”

  “I’ll take care of that.”

  “How shall I contact you?”

  “We will meet in two days at that tavern we used to use on Grafsky Lane.”

  The two conspirators rose from their seats. As they did so, Paul caught a troubling glint in Anickin’s eye.

  He was treading dangerous ground associating with this man. He’d heard stories. Some said he was still crazy. If Paul was smart, he’d quit him as quickly as possible.

  In any event, he must warn Anna immediately, even if it endangered his own life.

  And he had no delusions as to his own safety if he foiled Anickin’s plans. Only a miracle, if he still believed in such things, would be able to save him from the madman’s wrath then.

  41

  The boy could not have been more than ten. He was filthy, lean, and ragged, with an expression not altogether innocent.

  He would have been an object of pity anywhere. But in the fashionable South Side, his raggedness stood out all the more against the clean and spotless backdrop of wealthy homes and estates. He received more than one piteous glance from passersby, although one man soundly boxed his ears when he tried to stop him to ask directions.

  He found the Remizov home regardless.

  The cook received him with the kind of welcome one might reserve for a common thief. On the street she might have given him a copper if she had one to spare. But it was unseemly for such a ragamuffin to approach her master’s door, even if it was the back door.

  Visibly perturbed, she told him to wait while she fetched Anna. For on top of everything else, the boy’s message had to be delivered verbally and directly to Anna and no one else.

  The message was puzzling, if simple.

  The boy told Anna he had been instructed to tell her to come to St. Andrew’s on Vassily Island at four o’clock that afternoon. He could not tell her who it was from because he did not know.

  Anna told Katrina about the odd messenger and his mysterious message when she asked the princess permission to leave later in the afternoon.

  “I think it must be from my brother,” Anna said none too enthusiastically.

  “Aren’t you glad? Isn’t it well over a year since you last saw him?”

  “Yes, Princess, and that is why I am worried. The note is secretive. He doesn’t leave his name, though I am certain it is from him. What can it mean but that he is in trouble?”

  “Where is your faith, Anna?” Katrina spoke gently, in a tone of entreaty. “Even if he is in trouble, isn’t it a hopeful sign that he chose to meet you at a church?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that, Princess.”

  Anna attempted a smile, although these days they did not come as easily as they once did. It faded just as quickly, however. “I don’t think I can bear any more troubling news just now about young men I happen to love.”

  Katrina took Anna’s hand in hers and gave it a firm squeeze. She needed to say no more to express her sympathy. The last weeks had been difficult for both of them. A few more details had filtered in regarding Sergei’s sentence.

  He had been sentenced to twenty years of hard labor, followed by life in exile—that is, if he was fortunate enough to survive the labor camp, which many did not. Gradually, over the dreary days and weeks, both young women had reluctantly been forced to accept the inevitable. Neither of them would ever see Sergei again.

  The thought that now there might be some tragedy involving her brother was a burden that Anna doubted she had strength to endure.

  “Would you like me to go with you, Anna?” asked Katrina at length.

  “Thank you, Princess, but I think I had better go alone. I do not think he would want any undue attention drawn to him. If someone were with me, he might leave without ever talking to me.”

  Katrina nodded. “I understand. I will be praying for you while you are gone.”

  Anna smiled. More than ever she was thankful for her mistress. She had matured with the prospect of becoming a mother. And the faith of the princess, the inner calm that had gradually become part of her bearing, was a marvel all its own. She hardly knew it, but by her newfound inner strength, the princess helped to sustain Anna through this dark time.

  “If nothing else,” Anna said, “I will be able to light a candle for him while I am at the church.”

  42

  The days grew longer as April spring progressed.

  It was still light when Anna made her way through the market near Maly Prospect. Dusk would soon descend upon the city, however, and she clutched her cloth-wrapped parcel tightly to her. She hoped her errand did not take her past dark. She had a few kopecks with her for a droshky, but in this part of the city they were not always readily available.

  She began to feel some comfort when she caught sight of the drab old walls of the cathedral on the other side of the market. The church was busy that afternoon. Many were still offering prayers for both the dead tsar and his successor. She found herself hoping, for her brother’s sake, that there were some benevolent voices interceding for the revolutionaries as well.

  The light from many burning candles helped her eyes adjust quickly to the dimness as she walked inside. Thirty or forty worshipers knelt at the altar, their subdued voices filling the vacuous building with a low chanting hum. A score of others milled about the great high-vaulted room, some conversing quietly with one of the priests, others standing with their own thoughts and prayers. Some seemed to have wandered in merely to seek a few moment’s respite from the chilly winds outside. One shabbily garbed man lay in a corner, propped against the stone wall, sound asleep, his snores blending almost harmoniously with the prayerful intonations coming from the front of the church.

  Anna glanced about, hoping to see a familiar face. The church bells had tolled the hour about ten minutes ago as she made her way across the street. She knew the time was right. But she saw no one who reminded her of her brother.

  Slowly she began to wander through the church, looking about inconspicuously every now and then.

  The sound that jarred her from her inward thoughts was no more than a whisper.

  “Anna . . . please—do not be startled.”

  She turned toward the voice.

  “Oh, Paul! I so hoped it would be you!”

  She threw her one free arm around him. He did not retreat from her, nor rebuke her affection. Rather, he seemed for a moment to want nothing more than to melt into her—desperate, hungry for the sisterly love she had to offer, for any kind of love.

  The tender mood between them lasted but a moment. He appeared to catch himself and then withdrew abruptly from her.

  As he stepped away, Anna focused more fully on her brother. His appearance had deteriorated noticeably since the last time she had seen him. His clothes were threadbare; the long wool overcoat could barely warm a man even in the milder spring weather that would soon be on the way. Paul was thin and gaunt, and the dark circles under his eyes hinted at too many nights spent on the hard cobbles of dirty alleyways.

  Anna’s initial joy at seeing him was replaced with a terrible ache. Tears welled up in her eyes. Even if she had wanted to show restraint for his sake, her emotions these days were too close to the surface to command much control. She could not keep from crying.

  “Paul . . . how have you been?” She wiped her eyes hastily, thankful for the darkness of the church. Paul would not appreciate being pitied! “I have thought so much about you and prayed you’d come to see me. Are you well? Can I do anything for you?”

  Her words poured out in a rush, as if it would be possible to make up for a year’s absence in a few moments. Paul detected her nervousness and knew she was uncomfortable with how he looked.

  “Anna,” he said, “there is no time for pleasantries.” His voice was strained and hard around the edges, as if he were battling with his own ambivalence at the reunion.

  “Please, Paul, don’t do this to me! You are my brother, and I love you. You can’t expect to ask to see me and the
n think I will not care about you.” Frustration and hurt were more evident in her tone than irritation.

  “I can tell you nothing about myself,” replied Paul, still distantly. “You wouldn’t want to hear it even if I were at liberty to tell you. As far as how I am—I couldn’t lie if I wanted to. You can see for yourself, can’t you?”

  “Let me help you, Paul.”

  “It is too late for that,” he replied bitterly. “I didn’t send for you to beg for help—”

  “You never have to beg, Paul. I am your sister.”

  He shrugged but said nothing, obviously unwilling to open himself further to the risk of her generosity. He took her arm lightly in hand and directed her to a more private corner.

  They came to a little alcove no larger than a small stall in a barn. Paul stopped, then led her inside. It was open on the side that faced the interior of the church, but there was no one nearby, so they could talk in relative seclusion, though they still kept their voices in whispers.

  “Anna,” he began, “I asked to see you for one reason only . . .”

  He hesitated, as if he regretted saying the word. But he did not correct himself.

  “I have certain connections in this city, Anna,” he went on. “People from whom I hear things and obtain information—things that are unknown to most people.”

  Again he paused. Anna stared deeply into his face, waiting.

  “Recently I heard something I felt I ought to pass on to you. It regards your employers—I believe your mistress is now Princess Remizov.”

  Anna nodded, a perplexed look on her face.

  “Do you know the name Basil Anickin?”

  Anna’s shocked gasp was answer enough.

  “I see you do, and undoubtedly understand the danger this man represents.”

  “But how do you know all about this, Paul?”

  “I cannot answer your questions, Anna. I do know, and that is enough. Suffice it to say that I know of this man, and I know of his cause against Princess Remizov and her husband. But what you may not be aware of, Anna, is that Anickin recently escaped from prison—”