Then she had come, that interfering maid. That veritable spitfire of wild passion. She got hold of a sword that weighed nearly as much as she and wielded it with such mad—insane!—accuracy, Basil had been forced to flee for his life.
Yes, the interceding years were now etched upon her face, but there could be no mistaking her. The woman was the same person who had deterred him from his satisfaction—the maid of Katrina Viktorovna Remizov.
Basil was nearly beside himself with excitement over this discovery. He had never forgotten Katrina’s rejection. He had returned to Russia less than a month ago with the express purpose of finding all the descendants of Princess Katrina . . . and killing them. It had been three years since he had seen the newspaper article that had first revealed that Katrina’s husband and child were alive. He would have returned to Russia immediately had his finances been adequate. Toward that end, he had taken on the job of agitating among American coal miners and was arrested for assault. He had no way of knowing the kid he picked a fight with in a bar was the mine operator’s son; that mistake had cost him a two-year prison sentence. Upon release, he hooked up with his old American friend, Jack Caine, who had wanted to go to Russia for his own reasons. They raised travel money and made the journey on a freighter, a grueling trip that took three months.
But Basil Anickin had proved long ago that he was a patient man. And he further demonstrated that fact after arriving in Russia. It had been an easy matter to locate Dmitri Remizov. But Basil restrained his blood lust for the promise of a more dramatic scenario. A straightforward kill simply would not be satisfactory. Had that been the case, Katrina’s death would have finished the matter of his desire for vengeance. But that hadn’t been enough. Her death should have come by his own hand, as he had planned that night in her bedroom. And he had dreamed of watching Dmitri’s grief at the loss, just as Basil had grieved over the loss of Katrina’s love.
Now Basil had a second chance. This Mariana was only the daughter, but her loss would still evoke pain and grief in the father—especially since she reportedly resembled her mother. That fact would surely make murdering her all the more pleasant.
Basil had learned from one of the Remizov servants that Mariana was in Manchuria working as a war nurse. She could be gone for months, or even years. And it would be impossible for Basil to go to the Far East. He’d have to wait and hope she wasn’t killed in the war. His patience was being stretched mightily, but not yet to its limit.
Finding the meddling servant girl was a bonus. He would kill her, too, just for getting in his way before. But he must wait for Mariana. He didn’t dare show his hand until all his pawns were together in one place. In the meantime, he would learn all he could about their lives and habits, and this time he would put together a plan that could not fail. If he was very lucky, perhaps Mariana would come home on leave and everything could happen much sooner. If not . . . well, he could wait.
Getting hired by the police would serve him well. As long as he was useful to them, he could roam about freely and with relative impunity. They would hold his past crimes over his head, but while they needed him, the threat of arrest was reduced. How long he could maintain this precarious cat and mouse game was uncertain—at least until he had Mariana in his clutches, he hoped. If not, he would go underground again. It was not an existence he relished, but he had done it before and could do it again.
So, that night, when the meeting ended, Basil began his odyssey of hatred, revenge, and death . . . especially death.
Keeping to the shadows, he followed Sergei and Anna home, to a flat in a quiet neighborhood on Vassily Island. A couple of days later he paid a street urchin to watch the house again. Basil could not risk being caught in the vicinity too often. Not only had he recently met Sergei, but he had to assume Anna would also recognize him. His informant apprised him of the movements of the entire family—including the three children, two of whom were Anna’s sons. The presence of the children was significant. Basil didn’t yet know how they might be of use to him, but they represented many possibilities.
31
Sergei had spent so little time with his sons lately. Over the summer he had retained five or six of his most difficult students to tutor, and to make up for the loss of income when the regular school session ended, he had taken on odd jobs as well. He devoted Sundays, after Mass, to teaching his group of factory workers—that was the only day they had off from work. If these men were committed enough to give up their only free time in order to learn, he could make a few sacrifices to help them.
Saturday was usually his family day, but for the last three weeks he had been working on the galleys for his new book of poetry. The proofs had finally been turned over to Mr. Cranston to send to Duke Publishing, and Sergei was determined to make up for lost time.
Today he was taking Yuri and Andrei to the St. Vladimir Gymnasium for their admission interview. Anna had packed them a lunch; afterward, they would go to the Summer Gardens, or to the river where they could watch the boats.
Sergei had to admit he was a little nervous about the interview. Years ago his father had made generous donations to this particular school when it had been threatened with closure due to bankruptcy. Perhaps that was why Sergei had selected it, because his father had felt it was worthy of his support. Despite his financial support, however, Viktor would never have dreamed of sending his own son to St. Vladimir. Such a middle and working-class school was well below their station.
Now Sergei feared his present station might not be good enough for the gymnasium. Both boys had done well on their entrance examinations, but Yuri had done exceptionally, scoring in the top ten. The interview should have been a mere formality, but Sergei had worried all night. Dressed in his best clothes, Sergei surprised the whole family, including Anna, by appearing at breakfast with his beard neatly trimmed close to his face. Anna declared he looked just like a university professor. No one seemed to think any less of him for succumbing to this moment of vanity. He simply did not want to risk spoiling his sons’ chances of attending this fine school because of his appearance.
He paid for a carriage to take them to the school so they wouldn’t arrive all sweaty. And the entire way, Sergei coached the boys on proper etiquette for such occasions.
In the end, the interview turned out quite well. The headmaster was a soft-spoken, sincere man who had a way of making Yuri and Andrei feel important even if their clothes were a bit too snug and worn around the cuffs. Yuri was accepted into the second year of the four-year program, and Andrei into the first.
“I think we need to celebrate,” Sergei declared as they left the school. He unbuttoned his stiff collar and slipped off his wool suit coat.
“What’ll we do?” asked Andrei.
“I had in mind a pastry and tea from a shop we passed on the way here. Then we can go watch boats.”
He received no argument from his enthusiastic sons. Purchasing something from a tea shop was indeed a momentous event; attending the gymnasium must be very important, if acceptance was celebrated with tea and pastries.
Each of them ordered a different sweet pastry, and Sergei cut them in thirds so they could have a taste of each. Sergei and Yuri ordered tea to drink, and Andrei ordered lemonade. Sergei could barely remember the last time he’d been out alone with his sons, and he felt a deep urging within to make the most of it. With the boys going off to boarding school, who could tell when such a time would come again—and even if it did, none of them would be quite the same next time. The school experience would no doubt mature Yuri and Andrei. They were already losing their boyish qualities. Yuri had ordered tea like his papa; no children’s drink for him. Andrei didn’t seem to be squirming as much as usual.
Sergei thought he should feel some melancholy over this, but oddly, what he felt most was anticipation. The future was wide open for them, and Sergei was eager to see just what they would do with it. He firmly believed they would do well, make him proud.
His only regret was that they would neve
r be able to embrace their full inheritance. There was precious little left to the Fedorcenko wealth, but he wished they could share in the history and pride that went with a name they could not claim. Their ancestors, their own grandfather, had walked with tsars. They had been heroes in war and counselors in peace. The Fedorcenkos had been involved in making Russia what it was, for good or ill.
Sergei was surprised when Yuri broached this very subject.
“Papa, when we were at the school, did you see the picture of our grandfather?”
“No, I didn’t. Where was it?”
“Hanging in the corridor with about half a dozen others.”
“Why would our grandfather’s picture be hanging in the school?” asked Andrei, obviously skeptical.
“I’m sure I saw it,” defended Yuri. “I’ll prove it next time we go there.”
Sergei hesitated. He had never considered such a situation arising with the school, and he wasn’t sure what to tell his sons. He had always kept information about his side of the family vague. When Viktor had appeared on the scene, Sergei felt compelled to reveal his relationship with his father to the children. Viktor needed his grandchildren, and Sergei thought the risk was worth the benefits—both to Viktor and to the boys. Explanations, however, remained vague, and neither boy saw fit to question deeply. Perhaps they had an innate sense that this was an area to be treated delicately. The fact that their social circle was small and they were seldom off on their own simplified matters.
Things would surely change now as their world expanded. The Fedorcenko heritage was still present in this city, and Yuri bore a strong resemblance to his grandfather. No matter how careful they were, someday the two might be together, and a perceptive observer might draw an obvious conclusion. He and Anna had once thought they could guard the truth of Mariana’s heritage from her. Maybe it was time to learn from that experience. Maybe it was not only impossible, but also irresponsible to hide the truth from his sons.
But were they old enough to handle the truth—and to deal with the reality of a double identity? Would Andrei ever be able to keep the family secret? He, far more than Yuri, was apt to act first and think later. But it wouldn’t be fair to tell one and not the other; they were too close for that.
Sergei sighed and studied his sons for a moment. They appeared uncomfortable with this scrutiny and the silence accompanying it, but neither spoke. They were fine young men—yes, they were no longer children. He wondered what they would have become had they grown up in the Fedorcenko palace with a hundred servants to command, the finest education in the country, a place with the elite Guards, invitations to the best parties . . .
Sergei reminded himself that he had despised the aristocratic life and had rebelled at every chance against the things his father had extolled. Why, then, would he fantasize about his sons stepping into such a life? Did age tend to paint the past in rosy colors? He must not forget how he had suffered, how his father had suffered as a result.
He should be thankful his sons had grown up in a simple home, free of the constricting prison of the nobility. It was pure craziness to even think about placing such a burden upon them. They were free—let them remain so.
Then a completely new notion struck Sergei. Was the problem really one of wealth versus poverty, nobility versus peasant? How many unhappy peasants had he known over the years, drowning their misery in a bottle of vodka?
He wanted to laugh at himself for his narrow vision. A smile did manage to bend lips, and Andrei noticed.
“You looked so serious a minute ago,” Andrei said. “Now you’re smiling. What’s the joke?”
“No joke,” said Sergei. “I was thinking of Grandpapa Yevno. I don’t know how many times he told me that a man’s contentment in life had nothing to do with how many kopecks were clanging around in his pockets.”
“I remember, too,” said Yuri. “He said something like: ‘Faith is a man’s roof, and God is his bread.’”
“Excellent, Yuri!” said Sergei. “But, let me see, I think you have it turned around. ‘Faith is a man’s bread, and God is the roof over his head.’ When I heard that, I always liked to imagine looking up and seeing a huge, cloaked figure with a beaming, loving face floating over me. Yevno may not have meant it exactly that way, but it always gave me a sense of security to see it like that. It didn’t matter whether the real roof I was under was that of a leaky izba, or of a grand St. Petersburg palace. When God was what I saw first, it just did not matter.”
“Did the fine buildings of the school make you think of that, Papa?” asked Yuri.
“No, not really. It was what you said about the picture of your grandfather. It made me think of the past and . . . well, of many things I’d like to talk to you both about. Are we ready to go? I’d like to take you to a special place on the river.”
They took the steamer upriver a couple of miles, then Sergei rented a little rowboat and they continued their trek up a small tributary to a place Sergei had not been to in many years. This stream was too shallow for large boats; only a few fishermen traveled these waters. The shores were lined with marshy reeds and a few trees, and this time of year many species of birds passed overhead on their way south for the winter. There was a peaceful quiet to the place, yet a huge city buzzed and throbbed a mere two miles away.
When he was a boy, he used to row out here and try his hand at fishing. He once caught a sixteen-inch trout, and because he knew the cook would scoff at him for bringing it home, he built a fire on the shore, cooked the fish and ate it all. He thought it tasted better than any of the fancy food served at home.
After rowing for a while Sergei was exhausted, and before a coughing spell completely disabled him, he handed the oars over to Yuri. The boys took turns rowing, both thoroughly enjoying the task.
“Why haven’t we done this before?” Andrei demanded. His face was red and sweat trickled down his brow, but his eyes danced merrily.
“I never thought of it until now,” answered Sergei. “I wish we had a fishing rod. Maybe next time.”
“Papa,” said Yuri, “I’ve been thinking about something.”
Sergei smiled affectionately at his son. Yuri, the thinker, hardly ever said a word without first giving it great thought. “Go on, son.”
“I have decided that when I grow up, I want to be a doctor.”
“Really? I haven’t heard this before.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, but I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t think the schooling would be possible.”
“Ah, I see. Did something specific bring on this desire? Mariana’s experiences, perhaps?”
“I first thought about it several years ago. Do you remember when Andrei and I found an injured bird back in Katyk?”
“That long ago?” A brief pang of guilt assailed Sergei at the thought that their financial position had caused Yuri to repress this dream.
“It felt so good making that bird fly again. I thought that doing the same for people would be even better. Hearing about what Mariana is doing at the front line only makes me more excited about it. I felt a little bad when she had so much trouble with the schooling. Some of the things I read in her books . . . well, I kind of understood them.” He blushed at the immodesty of this admission.
“You have no need to be ashamed of that, Yuri.”
“You don’t think Mariana will be angry with me if I go on to achieve something she couldn’t?”
Sergei chuckled. “Not our Mariana! She’ll be thrilled. From her letters, I gather that she is quite happy as a nurse, and glad she discovered she could work in that profession without all the schoolwork.”
Yuri shook his head. Sergei knew without asking that the boy would revel in the challenges of academics, especially the sciences.
“How about you, Andrei?” inquired Sergei. “Have you thought about what you want to be when you grow up? And I want you both to remember that we will do whatever we can to see that you get the education you need.
”
“I don’t want to do anything that requires an education,” huffed Andrei as he rowed with all his strength.
“The beauty of an education, Andrei, is that it allows you to have more choices.”
“You didn’t have an education, did you?”
“Yes, I did, a very good one, in fact—the best Russia has to offer.”
Andrei stopped rowing, and both boys stared at their father with puzzled expressions.
“I want to tell you all about it, but I want us to get to a certain place on the stream first.”
Yuri took over the rowing, and they continued to travel at an easy pace. The boys were curious and Sergei was growing anxious with what lay ahead, but he didn’t want to spoil the afternoon with haste. He pointed out some unusual species of birds, and they fed some crusts of bread saved from their lunch to a family of ducks that waddled past their boat.
After fifteen minutes, the stream made a bend and there Sergei motioned for Yuri to lay down the oars.
Pointing with outstretched arm, Sergei directed their attention toward the right shore and some distance inland. “Do you see that hill?”
“The one with the mansion on it?” asked Andrei.
“Yes, take a good look at it.” He paused. He had always wondered just how these words would come out, or if they ever would. For the most part they flowed naturally; Sergei had no doubt the time was right. “That’s where I grew up.”
“You, Papa?” both young voices said in unison.
“It’s even hard for me to believe now,” said Sergei, amused. He continued with more solemnity. “What I have to tell you is a very delicate matter. I have said nothing until now because I was never sure when you’d be ready to hear it. I think now you are. It will require some discretion on your part—that is, keeping a very important secret.”
“Will we have to keep it from Talia?” asked Yuri.
“I know she is your best friend, and keeping a secret from an important friend is hard. My best friend, Misha, knows about it, and he has been faithful with my trust. Why don’t we wait and see? But certainly you could tell no one else. Can you do that?”
The Russians Collection Page 168