“I am to deliver this to Anna Fedorcenko,” said the boy.
“And what might it be?”
“A gift.”
“Who from?”
The boy shrugged. “I was just told to deliver it. The fellow wanted to offer his condolences, but he didn’t want to intrude on a family gathering.”
“That was thoughtful of him. Perhaps there’s a note inside.”
“Are you the master of the house?”
“No, but I’ll see that Anna Fedorcenko gets it.”
“I suppose that’ll do.”
Misha smiled. “I assure you I am fully trustworthy.”
“All right. Good-night, then.”
Misha carried the heavy basket to the parlor. At first he thought the peculiar sound he heard was his imagination.
Anna came up to him as he set the basket on the table with the other food. “So many people care. I didn’t think we knew this many folks in the neighborhood.”
“I suppose we shouldn’t let all this good food go to waste.”
“You’re right.” Anna turned to the group. “Please, everyone, let’s enjoy this fine food our friends have provided.”
Anna reached toward the basket to lift the linen cloth.
Tick . . . tick . . .
“Anna!” Misha called sharply. “Stop!”
“What?”
“Stand back! Everyone stand back!”
Everyone obeyed the command of the Cossack—he was, after all, captain of the Imperial Guard.
Slowly, Misha lifted the cloth cover.
Basil could have disappeared the moment the bomb was delivered. It was foolhardy to stick around. Yet what did he have to fear? When the explosion went off, he would simply blend in with others who would gather at the scene. It was worth the risk, anyway. He had waited twenty-three years for this moment. Nothing in earth or heaven could prevent him from seeing its wonderful, terrible climax. His limbs were frozen with cold as he stood transfixed, his gaze fastened on the building across the street.
No, he couldn’t miss this. At last, Katrina, you will pay for the way you so heartlessly spurned me. Everyone will pay for all the suffering they caused me.
Amazingly, general panic did not set in when they learned the awful truth. They all seemed to instinctively know that panic was the surest way to get them killed. Some of the women had tears in their eyes, and some of the men had weak knees, but they kept their heads regardless. And the best thing they did was look to Misha who was by far the most experienced in these matters.
“What’ll we do?” asked Anna.
“This is a timed device. No way of telling for certain when it’s set to blow. But we must assume it will be soon.”
“Throw it outside,” said Dmitri.
“That might endanger innocent passersby.” Misha looked at the bomb. “I want you all to hurry and evacuate this building. Try to clear all the other residents out, especially those in close proximity to this flat. I’m going to try to disarm it.”
“Misha—”
“Hurry!” Not even his most experienced recruits would have argued with the tone of Misha’s voice.
Within seconds the flat was cleared out. Misha told Anna to see that the women got outside, while the men raced through the building pounding on doors and rousing the residents. There were only three floors to the building, with about a hundred residents. Thankfully, it was still early in the evening and most people had not yet gone to bed.
Dmitri pounded on only a few doors. He tried to look surprised when he reached the main entryway of the building within a few moments, in fact only seconds before Anna and the women. At this point, he told himself, it was best to try to save what they could. Who knew if that Cossack really had any idea what he was doing?
But Dmitri did have some pride, and seeing only the women about to exit made him feel truly the fool. A coward.
Before his death, when they were talking to Daniel, Sergei had reminded Dmitri of the past, of when he had been a daring young man who had defied society and made an art of taking daredevil risks. What had happened to him? Had he fallen so low that he would succumb to his fear and number himself with women and children? He was still a man, wasn’t he? He was not so old that he had lost that, had he? He was about to marry a beautiful young woman. Could he face her knowing just what kind of poltroon he was?
Somehow his inner debate forced some of his courage to return. He would go back inside—he had to if he were ever to live with himself again.
Anna had thrown open the door, and before Dmitri turned back, he took one wistful look over the heads of the women to the outside and safety. He saw a man standing in the alley across from the building. In itself, this was hardly unusual—but this man’s gaze was focused directly on the Sorokin flat.
It was no coincidence.
No one could know what was happening in there. Only a man who had planted a bomb would skulk in an alley taking such interest in his potential target.
Dmitri hurried in front of the women, blocking their way to the outside.
“Anna,” Dmitri said urgently, “stay inside a few moments longer.”
“Why?”
“I think the man who left the bomb is in the alley. Let me try to get to him before he suspects we’ve discovered anything. Don’t let anyone out of the building for thirty seconds.”
He prayed they had that long.
“All right. Be careful, Dmitri.”
Basil looked at his pocket watch. It should be nearly time. That was always the tricky part of this kind of operation. You had to set the timer, allowing for enough time for the bomb to get to the right place at the right time, but you didn’t want too much of a leeway for fear of discovery. In case of discovery, Basil had taken some precautions. He had built the bomb in such a way that it would be almost impossible to disarm. Perhaps an expert might have a chance, though even that was doubtful. And there were no experts in that flat tonight.
Nervously he glanced at his watch once more. There should only be a few minutes left, but he couldn’t tell exactly. The cold seemed to be making his watch run slowly. He hoped it hadn’t affected the clock on the detonator!
Three more minutes—
Suddenly he saw people exiting the building. Just residents who happened to be going out for the evening? No! There were too many.
He had been discovered.
But that wouldn’t matter. They could not do anything about it. If anyone tried, the bomb would just blow up—and take half the building with it.
He tried to calm himself. He ought to make his escape, but he could not leave without knowing if he had been successful.
Perspiration beaded on Misha’s forehead. He prayed he could figure this thing out. After the Palace bombing twenty-four years ago, and the assassination of Alexander II, Misha had made it a point to learn all he could about bombs and explosives. He might not be an expert, but he knew enough to build a bomb—and, he hoped, to take one apart. With his pocketknife he had unscrewed and gently lifted the outer casing to reveal the inner workings of the device.
A drop of sweat trickled into his eye. He tried to blink it away, but it only burned and blurred his vision. Wiping a sleeve across his brow, he focused once more on the bomb. With each tick of the timer, he felt his own time slipping away.
He had to lift the casing to get at the timer. His hands were uncommonly steady. Thank God!
There was the clock! Whoever had built this thing knew what he was doing—and meant business. The clock had been shielded so that it could not be seen without the risk of moving the device—a delicate procedure without knowing how sensitive the explosives were. So far, God was with him. But the clock revealed that if he didn’t disarm this thing in one minute, it would indeed take a heavenly miracle to prevent scores of lives from being lost.
The wires were so twisted, and in a jumble—a very calculated jumble! Misha studied the thing for a moment. It was hard to focus, knowing that his minute was quickly dwindli
ng to seconds. But rash judgment would only get him blown to bits. He took a steadying breath.
Following the many wires with a trained eye, Misha discovered what had to be the two main leads. Experience told him that pulling the wrong one would be disastrous, prematurely triggering the detonating device.
Wiping his brow once more, he took a deep breath and pulled one of the wires.
75
Basil slapped his watch against his hand. Cursed thing!
More people were pouring out of the building now. There were fifty in the street, and more coming.
He ground his teeth in anger. It was all over. There she was! Katrina’s daughter. Safe, as were the rest of her miserable family.
Basil knew he had to get away. He had to be free so he could strike again. He wouldn’t give up. He had invested too much of his hatred to abandon the quest now. He had to move.
But his cold legs did not respond as quickly as his frantic mind was urging them. He did not turn fast enough.
Dmitri crossed the street and crept along the side of a building until he was within inches of the man in the alley. He flew at the killer with all the force his two hundred pounds of muscle and flesh could muster. He was hardly as fit as he had been as a twenty-four-year-old Imperial Guard, but for the moment surprise gave Dmitri the upper hand.
And he knew to take full advantage of the moment. On the offensive, he launched another attack at his fallen adversary just as the man was attempting to gain his feet. Dmitri aimed blow after blow at the bomber’s face and torso.
But dealing cards and wooing ladies had left Dmitri’s hands soft. After half a dozen blows, they were raw and bleeding. Dmitri’s arms couldn’t keep up the momentum.
The instant he let up out of sheer exhaustion, the man leaped to his feet. He sent a fist into Dmitri’s face, clipping him on the chin and sending him back against the wall. His eyes widened when he saw who his attacker was.
“Dmitri Remizov!” he exclaimed.
Dmitri still hadn’t had a good look at the man in the alley, but he wasted no time in trying to figure how this man knew him and what it could mean. He leaped forward, aimed a hard blow at his stomach, and while the man was doubled over, Dmitri kicked him in the face.
The culprit stumbled into the street.
Dmitri’s adrenaline was rushing now. He felt almost twenty again, and able to take on a horde of villains. He lunged again, ready, and fully believing, he was about to deliver the finishing blow.
The bomber twisted to the side, but Dmitri was quick and delivered a relentless barrage of facial blows. The man fell back against the foot of a streetlight. Suddenly, as Dmitri paused to catch his breath, he saw—through the blood and the imprint of the years—that he had faced off with an old adversary. Basil Anickin had come back from the dead! The bomb was his doing. He was still bent upon his old vendetta.
Dmitri struck again, but his shock at seeing Basil after all these years took some of the edge off his momentum. Basil got in a fierce right upper-cut that rattled Dmitri’s jaw and clouded his vision. As Basil rained blows down on him, Dmitri retreated, his arms shielding his face. He didn’t see the fist smash into his stomach. Doubled over, Dmitri only heard the sound of retreating footsteps.
For a moment all Dmitri felt was relief. He tried to tell himself he’d done his best. He had tried and failed—again. But he was an old man. What could he do?
He watched the culprit run. That battle years ago with Basil still haunted his mind. He knew it had been the turning point of his life—the moment in time when he had abdicated his manhood. He had tried to hide it, even from himself, in his frivolous, superficial lifestyle. But it had never been far from the surface, and now, as he faced an almost identical repeat of that day, the horrible realization of his failure assailed him again.
What could he do?
He knew now, if he had not realized it before, that Basil Anickin’s thirst for vengeance would never be quenched. He had come back after twenty-three years, and he would keep coming back until they were all dead—everyone related to Katrina, everyone she had loved and would have loved.
Dmitri had only two choices: Let that happen, or die trying to prevent it. He thought of Sergei’s heroic death. They had been best friends, equal in prowess if not in character. The thought of his friend infused him with courage. Dmitri had once been a man; it was not too late to become one again.
With the greatest effort of will he had ever expended, Dmitri forced his legs into motion. Basil was halfway down the street, and Dmitri’s lungs were not in much better condition than his soft, weak hands. But he poured every bit of strength he had into his legs. Basil must have thought he was safe, for his steps slowed, and Dmitri closed the distance between them.
Anickin obviously heard the footsteps pounding behind him. He turned.
“Give it up, Remizov!” Basil taunted. “I need little excuse to kill you tonight. But I’d rather get you all together.”
“I won’t let you do that, Anickin.” Dmitri’s voice came in gasps. Blast! How he hated being old!
He lunged toward Basil, who had started to move again. Dmitri caught hold of Anickin’s greatcoat; just a handful of the heavy wool, which he wouldn’t be able to keep for long. He yanked hard before the fabric was wrenched from his hand by Basil’s resistance. But it was enough to slow him down.
Dmitri threw his hands around Basil’s neck and pulled him down. For a minute or two they tussled on the frozen street until Basil managed to get his knee up. The forceful thrust dislodged Dmitri.
As Dmitri poised himself for another attack, a knife appeared in Basil’s hand. It happened so quickly, Dmitri hadn’t even seen movement. The knife slashed violently at him, slicing at his jacket—the expensive new one he’d bought to see the tsar in! As Basil pulled back for another strike, Dmitri reached forward, trying to grab the hand that held the knife.
Dmitri missed.
Basil thrust with the knife again. This time it found flesh and blood. Dmitri’s left arm was sliced below the elbow. In pain, Dmitri fell back, grasping his bloody arm.
Basil took off again. Dmitri shook off the pain that coursed through his wounded arm and sprinted in pursuit. For several minutes they ran through the streets, Dmitri just barely managing to keep Basil in sight. They were nearing the river. Ahead, Dmitri saw the expanse of the Nicholas Bridge. How would he ever catch Anickin? And why hadn’t a policeman interceded in their mad chase? Where were they when you wanted them? His age was definitely telling now. His chest ached, and the muscles in his legs screamed. How did Basil keep going? They were the same age, for heaven’s sake!
Just as Dmitri thought he could not continue, Basil slipped on the ice. Dmitri watched in disbelief as Anickin went down, sprawling on his face in the snow. Then he saw a metallic flash as Basil’s knife fell from his hand, landing a couple of feet away from his fallen body.
Dmitri leaped for the knife, palming it and turning toward Basil in one swift motion.
The fall had knocked the wind out of Basil, but he was too full of hate to allow himself to be defeated so easily. As Dmitri grasped the knife, Basil rolled over and had nearly gained his feet when Dmitri, knife in hand, swung toward him.
Basil stopped, eyeing his assailant. He had been stalking Dmitri for months now and had a good idea of what the man had become over the years. Basil did not fear him.
“Go ahead, Remizov. Use that knife, if you can.”
“It’s the only way to stop you.”
“Then use it!” Basil sneered with derision at Dmitri.
Dmitri hesitated. He knew the only way to be truly free of Anickin was to kill him. But he had lost the killer instinct, the soldier’s instinct of his youth. His shoulders sank with the awful realization, and the hand holding the knife relaxed slightly.
Basil laughed.
“I knew it, you sniveling coward! You couldn’t save your wife, and you won’t be able to save your daughter. She is dead, Remizov! Do you hear me? Dead!”
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Basil’s words seemed to clear Dmitri’s head. Mariana’s life depended on him. Her life, her future, depended on the hollow shell of a man he had become—the whining, primping dolt he knew he was.
But there was no time for self-recrimination. Anickin was already turning; soon he’d be running again and Dmitri knew he had little stamina left for another chase.
Like a madman himself, Dmitri charged, and the knife in his hand met flesh and bone—he heard it grind at Basil’s body. It was an instant before Dmitri realized he had only impaled Anickin’s shoulder. But it drew a scream from Anickin, and he turned savagely on Dmitri.
Dmitri lost hold of the knife and it fell to the ground, but he had no time to worry about that. All he could do was fend off Basil’s blows.
He neither saw nor heard the wagon approach. Police were clamoring toward them before Dmitri realized that help had finally arrived.
“What’s going on here?” yelled a policeman.
Twenty-three years ago it had been Dmitri, not Basil, who had landed in jail. That couldn’t happen again.
“This man is responsible for a bombing,” said Dmitri.
“At the Vlasenko place?”
“What?” said Dmitri confused. “No, a bombing a few blocks from here.”
“There has been no—”
Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Basil dashed away.
“He’s getting away again!” Dmitri shouted. And to his own surprise, he ignored the police and shot off after Basil.
Basil had reached the bridge, but it was slow going, for the bridge was thick with ice. They both skidded and slipped several times.
Dmitri was the first to see the droshky approach. Basil was glancing over his shoulder to assess Dmitri’s proximity. When he turned back, it was too late.
The driver gave a sharp jerk on his reins. Basil tried to stop, but he slipped again on the ice. He went down inches from the oncoming horses. The animals, frightened by both the painful lurch of the reins and the sudden commotion before their eyes, reared wildly.
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