Someone had to balance out the likes of Svyatopolk-Mirsky, and to insure that demigods like Gapon were given only enough rope to hang themselves.
For that reason, Cyril was now on his way to a secret meeting with one of his most trusted henchmen. This fellow had been keeping a vigilant eye on the labor movement in the capital, and had Gapon under close surveillance. In a few days there was to be a general meeting of the Workers’ Assembly, as the union was called. Under Svyatopolk-Mirsky’s patronage, the general meeting, among other things, would provide the forum by which expansion of the union to other cities would be sanctioned. Cyril needed to insure that there were no surprises for him at the meeting. If he couldn’t do anything about their activities, at least he’d be fully apprised of their seditious goings-on.
Cyril met his lackey, Cerkover, on the quay of Isaac’s bridge, not far from the statue of Peter the Great. He chose the busiest time of day, early afternoon, when the meeting would blend easily into the general hubbub of the streets. The sky overhead was gray and the air was just chilly enough to remind him that autumn was not far away. Cyril had left his carriage a couple of blocks away, instructing his driver to wait. He walked the rest of the way, and he was huffing and puffing like a steam locomotive when he arrived at the base of the bridge.
Someday he’d make the powers that be pay for all this inconvenience!
“Good afternoon, Count Vlasenko,” Cerkover said as Cyril sidled up next to him at the rail enclosing the quay.
“I’m glad you’re on time,” said Vlasenko, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his sweaty brow.
“I know your time is valuable,” the lackey fawned. Cerkover was a husky man in his own right, but far from matching the girth and height of his master. In his early forties, his hair was lightly dusted with gray, but his round face, showing an obvious Mongolian heritage, was smooth, beardless, and amazingly free of wrinkles. His gray eyes were sharp and alert—indeed, after years of training under Vlasenko in the Third Section and more currently his work in the Okhrana, he missed very little. Vlasenko valued him as a storehouse of information, and as a man who forgot nothing. He was intensely loyal to his friends, but never forgot a wrong that was done him . . . never.
“In that case, let’s get to it,” said Cyril. “Anything new to report?”
“The meeting of the Assembly is taking on a very high profile. They’ve rented a hall in a nice neighborhood, and I’ve heard that the governor of St. Petersburg will make an appearance.”
“How many attendees do they expect?”
“Two thousand or more.”
“Svyatopolk-Mirsky must be crazy to allow such a gathering.”
“They will be ripe for influence by radicals, perhaps even demonstrations—maybe riots, eh?” Cerkover raised an eyebrow with a coy wink.
“It would be too risky for us to incite a riot,” said Cyril, fully understanding Cerkover’s meaning. “It would never do for such a thing to be traced back to me. Besides, a riot at this point could only serve to raise the workers’ sympathy toward Gapon—and perhaps even that of such moderates as that Minister of the Interior. I want Gapon to cause his own downfall, and that’s only a matter of time. The man is no saint, no matter what the workers may think at the moment. He was never exonerated completely in that affair of the mismanagement of the funds in the orphanage he headed. And then running off with one of the female orphans . . . well, we could ruin him if we wanted to.”
“Then why don’t we?”
“Timing, Cerkover. Timing is everything.”
“And you are indeed the master of that, my good Count!”
“Thank you, my friend. I haven’t done too badly.” Vlasenko silently wished he’d had better timing with some of his investments, but there was no need to trouble his associate with that bit of enlightenment.
“I am ready to install my spies—” Cerkover began.
“Spies—what an indelicate word,” said Cyril fastidiously. “I much prefer to think of them as agents.”
“Of course, forgive my carelessness. So, as I was saying, my agents are ready; they wait only for your confirmation.”
“You are certain no connection can be made to me?”
“Not a chance. One of my men is an American.”
“That could prove tricky. He might stand out too much.”
“This man, Jack Caine is his name, comes with a certain reputation I believe these union people will find irresistible. He was involved extensively with the labor union movement in the United States.”
“Are you sure we can trust him?”
“Let me tell you about his partner, then you be the judge. Caine has recently arrived in Russia in the company of a Russian emigré—well, emigré is rather a loose description. Fugitive would be more precise. This man is an ex-revolutionary whose activities are probably well known to you. He was the son of a now-deceased doctor, and he fled the country over twenty years ago. He was supposedly involved in the assault on the daughter of a once prominent St. Petersburg resident with whom you are well acquainted—the Fedorcenko family. Nothing was ever proved conclusively against the man in this matter, though it is pretty certain he killed a prostitute on Grafsky Lane.”
“You can’t mean you have found Basil Anickin! This is absolutely incredible—and dangerous! The man was always a bit unstable. How did you catch the fellow?”
“He was picked up during a routine raid of one of the brothels, again in Grafsky Lane. One of the police officers who had dealt with Anickin a few times in the old days recognized him—not easily, mind you, because there have been many changes in twenty years, but the officer followed his nagging intuition until it led to the truth. Being an old friend of mine, he informed me of Anickin’s arrest.”
“Did he inform anyone else?”
“No, and I don’t believe anyone else made the connection.”
“That’s good. And you are blackmailing Anickin?”
“Not really necessary at the moment. Anickin needs money and is quite willing to work for us for a small stipend. The same with his friend, Caine. My impression of both men is that they will gladly work for the highest bidder. Political motivations come second to their greed.”
“Men after my own heart!” chuckled Vlasenko.
“Anickin’s police record is our insurance policy for keeping him in tow. The same with Caine, whose affiliation with the American socialist movement would make him an easy mark for deportation.”
“From what I know of Anickin, using him will be rather like holding a tiger by the tail.” Vlasenko paused and rubbed his ample chin. “Ah, but this could promise to be quite a coup, if handled properly. Cerkover, you must keep on top of this at all times. If there is even a hint of it going sour, you must haul in Anickin and the American.”
“I understand.”
“And whatever you do, don’t let the opposition outbid us for Anickin.”
Walking back to his carriage, Cyril thought of those turbulent days twenty-some-odd years ago. It had been a tragic time for the nation, with the assassination of Tsar Alexander II. And much tragedy had also fallen upon the Fedorcenko clan. Cyril’s grief in both matters had been superficial at best. He had rather enjoyed the toppling over of the mighty Prince Viktor Fedorcenko, though the death of his wife, daughter, and grandchild had been sad. Later—four or five years ago, in fact—it had come to light that the grandchild had lived after all. Because Cyril could find no way to use this information, he had let it drop, though he’d had a fleeting notion of forcing the girl to marry his son, Karl, in order to get his hands on the Fedorcenko holdings.
Well, Cyril got what he wanted without all that trouble, and thus forgot about the irregularities surrounding the Fedorcenko grandchild—her name was Remizov, daughter of that philandering Count Dmitri Remizov. Again he tucked this tidbit into the back of his mind, where he kept many seemingly trivial but potentially useful gems of information. Who knew when it might come in handy?
In th
e meantime another ghost from the past had resurfaced. Anickin would definitely merit watching, but there simply was no telling what a wealth of uses a man like that could present.
29
Sergei and Anna usually avoided such large crowds. But this first general meeting of the Workers’ Assembly was an event of such importance that they made an exception this night. That is, it was important to Sergei. He knew Anna had come just to please him.
At least Anna only had to sit through the evening’s entertainment—some fine musicians, a couple of jugglers, and a troupe of excellent traditional dancers. She had been spared the business part of the meeting that had occurred earlier in the day. The meeting had entailed four hours of speeches, reports, financial presentations, and much discussion. Sergei had been in attendance the entire day.
When he had agreed to tutor a group of workers, he had known that he would find himself drawn into the growing labor movement. He liked what they were trying to achieve, but more importantly he liked Father Gapon.
The thirty-two-year-old priest, the son of a Cossack father and peasant mother, had grown up in a strictly religious home in the Ukraine. But he had early been frustrated by his mother’s emphasis on the external religious form. Always sensitive, and a bit of a romantic idealist, he was more drawn to the deeper spiritual depths of faith. Above everything, Sergei appreciated this in the man. If at times Gapon might tend a bit toward wild-eyed asceticism, he was a most sincere man, and his devotion toward helping the poor workers was very real.
In appearance, Gapon was rather average, with thick ebony hair and beard, and dark eyes that were both soft and intense. He sang in an excellent baritone with a passion that brought tears to many a hardened worker’s eyes. He was physically strong for his size and, though usually gentle and soft-spoken, was known for his quick temper and iron will. Everything Gapon did was done with passion and zeal.
Gapon had recently won over the leaders of the Assembly, including Sergei, by showing them his “secret” agenda for the Assembly. In essence, he believed in reforms for the poor and for workers that would have pleased any revolutionary. He confided to this elite group that, as the government thought they were using him, he was also using the government until the worker’s movement grew into a force of its own. Those who had previously reserved their full trust in Gapon because of his connections to officialdom became believers and swore never to reveal Gapon’s agenda.
And that day at the general assembly, Gapon had fired the workers with his own zeal and vision.
“None of us present here,” the priest had exhorted, “can even begin to envision what the future holds for our Workers’ Union. Within three years, all two hundred thousand workers in St. Petersburg will be members. And our organization will spread far into the provinces of Russia. It will become a colossal organization such as the world has never before seen! And with this, the fine men and women who earn their living by the sweat of their brow will be given such power that all others will have to obey them.”
Even Sergei had been caught up in the spirit of the day. Father Gapon made such a miracle seem possible. Sergei believed this movement might be the answer to his nation’s desperate need for reform. Unlike the revolutionary movement, with which Sergei had serious problems, the Workers’ Union stressed reform in a very practical sense, without all the political and theoretical jargon so often espoused by revolutionaries. Gapon himself was not a revolutionary. He loved the tsar and was committed to encouraging change within the existing system. He also lent the movement a strong Christian emphasis which Sergei appreciated.
As the day wore into evening and the crowd swelled to about two thousand, the air of unity and good-will prevailed. The owner of the hall in which the assembly was held said that he had never seen such a well-mannered group.
Sergei was enjoying the musicians and was happy to see a smile on Anna’s face. They were gaily clapping their hands to the beat of the music when Oleg Chavkin came up next to Sergei.
“Sergei, I’d like you to meet some friends of mine,” he said.
Sergei excused himself and followed Oleg to the back of the hall where he encountered two very alarming characters. How on earth could the stolid, kindly Oleg have hooked up with these sinister men? The younger of the pair, by at least a dozen years, was a little shorter than Sergei, solidly built with long muscular arms that gave him an almost comical resemblance to a gorilla. This impression was furthered by his thick curly black hair and two days’ growth of dark beard. But there was nothing comical in his taut facial expression and deadly serious, probing eyes.
The taller of the two men was even more alarming. He had a gaunt and sinewy aspect, vulture-like, with his head jutting slightly forward on his long neck. His blond hair, dulled by gray, was close cropped and he wore a thin, pale moustache. Sergei felt an involuntary shiver go up his spine when he looked into the man’s eyes. Those cavernous dark eyes were framed in pale, almost nonexistent brows and lashes, and looked as if they had gazed often and hungrily upon death. There was something else in those eyes—something hauntingly familiar, like the flash of a nightmare that you can’t quite remember. But Sergei dismissed the thought. If he had met this sinister-looking man before he surely would have remembered.
Sergei glanced again at Oleg to insure that the simple peasant was indeed presenting these two as his “friends.” Oleg introduced the younger man as Jack Caine, an American; the older was called Rolf Nagurski.
“They have been active in the labor movement in America,” said Oleg with an innocent enthusiasm.
“Really?” Sergei tried to hide his wariness. “Have you met Father Gapon yet?” Sergei knew Gapon was against having foreigners in his Assembly.
“We haven’t had that pleasure,” said Nagurski curtly.
“How long have you been in Russia?”
“A few weeks.”
Oleg added, “They have been working with me at the mill. I think they have a lot to offer us from their experiences.”
“I would be interested in talking with you sometime about what is happening in America,” Sergei said to the strangers. “Rolf, you speak Russian quite well. Are you from Russia?”
“Yes, but I have been away many years.”
“What brings you back?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Sergei Ivanovich.”
“I am so sorry; curiosity has always been a fault of mine. Please forgive me.”
Nagurski gave a light, if incongruous, chuckle. “I am afraid that over the years, what with working so often at odds with the authorities, I have developed a natural aversion to probing questions.”
“You can trust us,” said Oleg.
But can we trust them? The question jumped unbidden into Sergei’s mind.
“I am sure we can,” Rolf said. “I have been especially impressed with the sense of brotherhood and solidarity I have sensed here today. Both are essential ingredients to the success of reform organizations.”
“I am glad to have met you,” said Sergei, “but I must return to my wife.”
“Oh, Sergei,” Oleg halted him. “I almost forgot why I called you over here. As you have probably noticed, Rolf’s friend, Mr. Caine, doesn’t speak Russian but would like to learn.”
Nagurski added, “I have tried to teach him, but I seem to lack the skills of a teacher. Oleg tells me you are quite accomplished in that area.”
“I suppose I make a living at it.”
“Would you be willing to help my friend?”
“Of course. Bring him by the Assembly clubhouse. It’s near the mill; Oleg can show you where. Come on Sunday afternoon when I work with a group of other factory workers.”
“That is very kind of you.”
When he returned to Anna’s side and she turned and smiled at him, Sergei felt an odd sense of relief. She lent him a kind of warmth and safety that had been missing while with the strangers. Perhaps he was overreacting. Those men could not help the way they looked. And Nagurski seemed congeni
al enough. Nevertheless, Sergei wasn’t looking forward to seeing them again.
30
Basil Anickin had no way of recognizing Sergei Ivanovich as the aristocratic son of the Fedorcenko clan; they had been adolescents when they last saw each other and both had since undergone dramatic changes. But when Sergei joined his wife, a bell from the past rang in Basil’s head.
When Anna turned, smiling at her husband, Basil immediately saw something familiar in that lovely, fine-featured face. At first Basil could not identify the source of that familiarity. But there was something about her face that continued to nag at him the remainder of the evening. Who was she? An acquaintance from the past? If merely that, why was it disturbing him so?
It nagged at him all evening until, in a flash of deadly recall, a glimpse of the past shot through his brain. A dark night in the bedroom of a princess . . .
“Do you know what they did to me, Princess? Can you imagine waking every day to the screams and pathetic groans of human beasts? Breathing fetid air, eating what was not even fit for the rats. Then having my mind insidiously robbed by numbing drugs. They took from me my very humanity! All so that the fair little princess could play the fickle socialite. . . .”
“Basil . . . I’m sorry. I never meant—”
“On your knees, Princess! You are a dead woman. Your filthy husband is a dead man. Your unborn brat will never live to draw a single breath of this world’s air!”
Oh, how close he had been that night twenty-three years ago while confronting Katrina Fedorcenko to the fulfillment of all his dreams of vengeance. His knife had been poised, ready to draw blood. Oh, sweet blood!
The Russians Collection Page 167