Patience and perseverance were Basil’s closest allies these days. And, by the look of the situation in Manchuria, it appeared as if Basil would be rewarded by soon getting Katrina’s daughter back in the nest. Only then could he strike at his blood enemies.
This night he was more weary of his quest than usual. It had snowed the night before, and his feet were numb and frozen. But his vigilance had reaped a small reward. He didn’t know quite what to make of it, but if it had any significance at all, he’d find it.
Anna—her surname was Christinin now—had had a most peculiar visitor earlier. He was, in fact, still in the house, probably partaking of the evening meal. It had been years since Basil had seen the man, but he would recognize the aloof and distinguished countenance of Prince Viktor Fedorcenko anywhere.
What was the mighty prince doing visiting a poor Vassily Island home?
True, Anna had once served his household, but according to Basil’s sources, she never returned there after Katrina’s death. She had secretly raised Katrina’s daughter in the mean peasant village of Katyk. There she had married that Christinin fellow and had two sons of her own. So what would Fedorcenko be doing here? He had been there almost as long as Basil had been in the alley. Was it logical to assume that such a lengthy visit had to be something other than business?
Possibly it had to do with the granddaughter, Mariana. The old man might have a letter to share. Basil had assumed the same thing a few days ago when Count Remizov had visited Anna’s home.
Mariana must be the link.
But Basil was not one to accept obvious answers. Life was not simple, and you missed too much if you just studied it on the surface. Because his own designs and desires were complex and convoluted, he expected the same from others. And this Fedorcenko clan had proved more inscrutable than most.
In ten more minutes Sergei and Viktor exited the house. They were chatting amiably as a fancy coach came around from the back of the apartment building. Both men climbed in and the carriage drove away.
Basil knew that Sergei had a regular tutoring session at the Assembly “clubhouse” tonight. There was also to be a board meeting of the Assembly leadership, to which Basil had contrived an invitation. The old man was probably just giving Sergei a lift to the meeting.
This connection might turn into nothing. But Basil had some time before the meeting and determined to take advantage of it.
He went to the best place he knew to glean information—a neighborhood saloon.
A glass of kvass in hand, he sat at the bar and exchanged friendly words with the three or four other men around him. Basil could be friendly when it suited his purposes—so much so that people almost forgot about the alarming intensity of his appearance.
After a few minutes, he asked casually, “Did anyone see that fine coach drive up around the corner? I thought for a minute it might be royalty.”
“Isn’t the first time that rig has been round,” said one of the men.
“Is there a dispossessed grand duke living on Vassily Island?” chuckled Basil.
“Don’t know who exactly the fellow is, but I live a couple of doors away, and I’ve seen him there before over the years. Real friendly with Sergei Ivanovich and his family.”
Basil drained his drink and said no more. No sense being too inquisitive and raising suspicions. Besides, what more was there to know? Fedorcenko had been there more than once—not just recently either, but before the war had taken the granddaughter away. The only other question this raised was one these men could not answer.
What was the significance of Fedorcenko’s visits before the war, especially in view of the fact that Mariana had been living with her father for the last five years? Her grandfather would have no reason to visit Anna for the sake of maintaining contact with Mariana.
It was food for thought, but it shouldn’t affect Basil’s plans at all.
He rose, left the saloon, and headed to the Assembly clubhouse.
38
Father Gapon’s Assembly had a clubhouse, as they liked to call it, in the Vyborg district of St. Petersburg. The workers were quite proud of it, for they had remodeled the rented building themselves and brought in whatever odd pieces of furniture they could spare from their own homes. They built benches to accommodate large groups, and they even had a piano. Gapon saw to it that portraits of Russian tsars hung prominently on the walls, along with an icon-adorned “beautiful corner.”
The clubhouse had become a comfortable place where workers could gather in the evenings during the week, and for most of the day on weekends. No alcohol was permitted, but a samovar of tea was always available and baked goods were often brought in by the women. Along with the opportunity for casual socializing, there were regular, organized meetings, such as study groups in which the members could discuss current events, newspaper articles and, occasionally, even some government-censored literature.
Sergei was glad to have helped make possible the enriching of the workers’ minds by teaching them to read. Otherwise, many would have obtained nothing from the discussions. It made Sergei’s sacrifice well worth it when he watched his pupils accomplish even a relatively mundane task such as reading a newspaper.
Sergei was thrilled at Gapon’s progress with the Assembly, and he liked the tone of the group far better than that of the revolutionary groups he had seen. For one thing, Gapon was no revolutionary. Though quite intelligent and educated, he spoke and related to others, especially the workers, in a simple, unsophisticated way. He thought little of theoretical debates. And Sergei was quite certain Gapon had read next to nothing about politics, and knew even less about the revolutionary movement of the intelligentsia.
In fact, like the workers themselves, he was rather conservative and nursed some suspicion of such organizations as the Social Democrats and Social Revolutionaries.
Sergei glanced up from his work as Gapon entered the clubhouse. The priest tried to be in attendance at the meeting place whenever possible. That was getting more difficult, however, with nine branches of the Assembly now open in the city and two outside, and with nearly five thousand members.
“Ah, here comes the dictator,” said the worker Sergei was tutoring. “We’d better look smart.” The man spoke with affection, and Gapon liked the tongue-in-cheek appellation of dictator. He had even taken it one step further and given similar “titles” to others in the Assembly’s leadership, such as “Viceroy” and “Minister of the Interior.” He called Sergei his “Minister of Education.”
Gapon approached the table where Sergei and his student sat. “Preparing another future leader, I see,” Gapon said to Sergei. Then, patting the worker on the shoulder, he said, “When will you lead our next study group, Sandro?”
Sandro laughed. “I’m barely out of the first primer. Give me a year or two.”
“That’s much too long for a bright fellow like yourself. I wager it’ll be in six months.”
“If I had the money, I’d bet you,” said Sandro.
“If I were a betting man.” Gapon laughed heartily at his jest. He then added, “Our group will be meeting soon; we won’t be interrupting your studying, will we?”
“We’re almost done,” said Sergei.
“Good. We’ll need both of you.”
Several others entered the building just then, among them Oleg Chavkin and the two strangers he had introduced to Sergei several weeks ago. They could hardly be called strangers anymore, for they had both been frequent visitors to the clubhouse, and at the next members induction, Oleg was going to sponsor both as full Assembly members. Sergei had never really warmed up to the two men, though he could not specifically say why. Probably just personality differences. You couldn’t like everyone.
Jack Caine immediately busied himself taking photographs. He had one of those little hand-held cameras that took pictures called “snapshots.” Sergei had heard of them but had never seen one. It was quite extraordinary. However, he became uncomfortable when Caine turned the camera tow
ard him.
Sergei held up his hand. “Some other time, Jack.” He tried to sound casual. “You’ll distract my pupil.”
“Just one photo,” Caine said in inept Russian. Sergei had always kept quiet his knowledge of English and other languages. Caine turned to Basil and said in English, “Rolf, would you tell this good fellow that I’m doing an article for an American labor periodical, and a photograph of Russian workers hard at their studies would be perfect. Not to mention the positive public relations it would foster.”
Basil passed this along to Sergei, who shrugged, still lacking enthusiasm. He allowed the photographs, but he made Sandro keep his nose in his primer, and Sergei himself remained bent over the book with his student.
Gapon was better disposed to the photographing, especially when Caine informed him that there were Americans with money acutely interested in supporting a labor movement in Russia.
In about fifteen minutes the meeting began. About thirty men were participating. One of the members with ties to the Social Democrats wanted to discuss a Marxist pamphlet he had recently read. Gapon allowed this to continue for about five minutes, then steered the group into a discussion of an editorial in the workers’ newspaper, Russkaia Gazeta, which praised Interior Minister Svyatopolk-Mirsky’s administration.
The subtle change of subject wasn’t lost on Sergei. Gapon was having a difficult time keeping out radical ideas. More and more workers with ties to revolutionaries were joining the Assembly. It was bound to happen. In order for the Assembly to broaden its power base, it had to increase its membership. Five thousand members sounded like a lot for the fledgling organization, but not when compared to St. Petersburg’s two hundred thousand workers.
They spent some time discussing a disturbing rumor about factory owners in the city. The owners had never been wholeheartedly in favor of the labor union idea, police sanction or not, and now, nervous about the growth of the Assembly, it seemed they might be preparing to damage the organization.
“We must be constantly aware of our vulnerability,” said Gapon. “Our mission is too important to allow trivial matters to undermine it.” Then, to close on a lighter note, he added, “Now, we must begin to plan our Christmas activities. Oleg, would you tell us about the children’s parties you are planning?”
It seemed appropriate to end in this way. The future of the Assembly and the workers’ labor movement seemed much too bright to dwell for long on ominous notes.
39
Cyril Vlasenko had been careful in selecting the site of this particular rendezvous. He had needed a place where three men could meet in obscurity, while insuring that he could not be connected in any way to the meeting.
He chose a church—the St. Nicholas Cathedral, one of the oldest in the city, near the Kryukov Canal. No one would be looking for Cyril Vlasenko in a church, especially in the middle of the week! They timed their meeting to coincide with the end of a midday Mass. In addition, a funeral Mass was being conducted in another corner of the cathedral. Thus, there were enough people coming and going on that Wednesday afternoon—worshipers, mourners, and sightseers—so that the presence of three men having a discreet discussion inside would go unnoticed.
Cyril waited in the small park facing the cathedral. From his strategic bench he had a good view of the main doors of the church. He took no note of all of the stately elegance of the building with its three small cupolas and tall bell tower. Such things had no appeal to the practical-minded man.
Basil Anickin entered the church first. Then, in five minutes, Anickin was followed by Cerkover. Cyril let another few minutes elapse before he heaved his frame from the park bench and entered the church also.
Inside, about fifty people stood at the front altar listening to the priest chanting Mass. To the right, thirty or forty people gathered around a coffin draped in flowers while another priest murmured the funeral litany. Another dozen people strolled about the other open areas of the church, some lighting candles in the hanging braziers. Others were simply tourists having a look at the striking interior. Cyril found the place stifling with its cloying stench of incense, the insidious weeping of mourners, and the drone of the priests.
Cerkover had purchased a candle and was lighting it at one of the braziers. Whether this was part of his cover, or out of actual faith, Cyril didn’t know. It looked good, anyway, and when Cerkover walked quietly to the rear of the vast building, it seemed completely natural for him to stand with head bowed and hands folded together in front of him. The fact that he had come specifically to meet the tall, rather intense-looking man standing next to him was not apparent.
Cyril thought about following the same procedure, but he felt rather silly lighting a candle. He quickly genuflected at the altar, then strolled casually around one of the large carved pillars, one of three or four that divided up the main floor. Cerkover and Anickin were standing behind a pillar that bore an icon of St. Nicholas. The icon was as old as the church itself, but its beauty, accented by the flickering candlelight, was barely acknowledged by the pragmatic and agnostic Vlasenko.
Cyril said in a muted voice, “So, at last we meet Nagurski.” He and Cerkover had decided not to reveal to Anickin just how much they knew about his identity. Hints, of course, had been made in order to keep him in line, but other than that it was best to keep the man guessing.
Basil responded with a quick nod of the head.
“What have you to report?” asked Cerkover.
“A new branch of the Assembly has opened,” said Basil. “That makes ten—”
“I could learn that in the newspapers,” broke in Cyril sharply. “That’s not what you’re getting paid to report to me.”
Basil was unruffled by the rebuke, and Cyril saw that he was indeed dealing with a tough customer. He’d have to watch his step with this one.
“I am getting to that, Your Excellency.” Basil spoke in a curt manner, as if he had a right to be impatient with Cyril.
“Go on.”
“At the last meeting with an attendance of about thirty,” Basil continued, “there were no fewer than six known Marxists—Social Democrats and the like. They are becoming more prominent. I’ve heard there are even a couple within the leadership.”
“Good . . . very good!” said Cyril. “The tsar isn’t going to like that. But I’ll need substantial proof. Names of men we can definitely link with the S.D.’s. Have you got that?”
“Names mean nothing among the revolutionaries, as I’m sure you must know. They change their names as frequently as their underwear—and, from the smell of some of them, even more so.”
Cerkover chuckled at this, but Cyril silenced the mirth with another sharp statement. “So far, in my opinion, you’ve done little to earn the money we are giving you. Perhaps I can find someone else who is more willing to earn twenty rubles a week—twice as much, I might add, as I pay even my coachman. Do you have anything of subsequence, or not?”
Basil’s reaction was sphinxlike. In a tone devoid of all emotion, yet infused with a rather disturbing authority, Basil said, “For a price, Count Vlasenko, I have exactly what you wish.”
“As I said, I’m already paying you a pretty kopeck,” said Cyril.
“That is for the time I spend attending insipid meetings and socializing with those dull-witted, pathetic workers. Perhaps you would care to exchange places with me for an evening—oh, no, that wouldn’t be a good idea, would it? Considering no love is lost between you and the poor and wretched of the city, you might not leave with your life.”
“You are rather impudent for being one step up, if that, from the poor and wretched yourself.” Cyril only vented a portion of his contempt—part of him was a bit intimidated by this man, though he cringed to admit it.
“Do you want what I have?” Basil persisted calmly.
“At what price?”
“Two hundred rubles—”
Cyril snorted derisively. “That’s highway robbery.”
“You don’t know what I
have, yet.”
“For anything—”
“Photographs?”
Cyril hadn’t expected this. As the old proverb stated, one picture was worth a thousand words. But two hundred rubles? Perhaps if these pictures would convince the tsar to remove his benevolence from the workers’ union, it might be.
Cyril turned to his associate. “Cerkover, are we still within our budget?”
“Barely, sir.”
He looked at Basil. “I’ll give you a hundred rubles.”
“Sorry. I have my partner to consider, and we went to considerable trouble to obtain and develop these photographs.”
“Come now, Nagurski, this is Russia, not America—here everyone barters, if you recall.”
“Not this time. I am firm in my price.”
At that moment Cyril considered exposing his knowledge of Anickin’s true identity, threatening him with prison if he wasn’t more cooperative. But he quickly thought better of it. Something told Cyril that Anickin was a valuable asset, a secret weapon that would come in quite handy someday.
“Show me a sample of what you are selling first,” said Cyril reasonably.
Basil reached into his inside coat pocket and drew out a photograph of three or four workers taken at the last Assembly meeting. In the group was one known revolutionary, a Social Revolutionary who had just returned from two years exile in Siberia.
It was enough to tantalize Vlasenko. Cyril made arrangements to pay the two hundred rubles the next day.
40
Back in his office the following day, Cyril studied each of the photographs for the tenth time.
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