The guard was motioning her into a small compartment at the far end of the car, the third in a row of rooms in a once plush sleeping car. She followed him in and he shut the door. The click of the lock left her in no doubt of his intentions.
“Women without papers, or at least the pretty ones, spread their legs for me in payment.” He uttered the blunt statement matter-of-factly, as one might mention the price of the morning newspaper. Evidently familiar with the procedure, he was already reaching for Kitty.
Backing away until her legs met the cushions of the padded seat, Kitty nervously said, “The baby. Let me lay him down on the floor.”
“Get rid of the brat anywhere. Just hurry—we’ll be into the station at Tiflis in minutes.”
Turning away from him, Kitty bent to set the Cub in the corner of the compartment and slid the kinjal into her hand during the apparent adjustment of his blanket.
She came up from the floor in one smooth crouching lunge, up and under the guard’s arms, by now half raised in astonishment. Even before the surprise fully registered on the crude, unshaven face, her gold-hiked kinjal neatly slid between the ribs Apollo had pointed out to her time and time again. One short, sharp cry, and the guard’s ruptured heart failed to beat again. Kitty jumped back from his towering bulk crashing downward.
Filled with horror, Kitty looked for a frozen moment at the still twitching body. Realizing suddenly that the train would be pulling into Tiflis at any moment, she started to roll the guard’s body behind the door. He was very heavy, but—pushing, shoving, and heaving—she made progress. She had to keep the murder from being discovered until she was safely away. Losing precious seconds, she gave the body a final pull, then turned and seized the Cub.
Moments later the train was pulling into the station, and the commotion was sufficient to hide anyone wanting to melt into the crowd. The Cub chose that time to wake up and complain noisily, but in the turmoil of chattering passengers intent on leaving the train no one noticed a young blond woman and a lustily squalling baby.
Praying that Professor Pashkov still lived at the address Kitty remembered, she set off on foot to find him. An hour later, Kitty was able to relax for the first time since stealing out of Dargo. The Cub had been fed and bathed, she had washed away the dust of the journey, and Professor Pashkov’s quietly efficient wife, Grunia, had put together a wholesome, if modest, tea.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Kitty was saying for the tenth time since her sudden arrival.
“Stay as long as you wish.”
“I don’t have much time,” she confessed, and went on to relate the story of Apollo’s capture and her precipitous journey south to attempt … something. “I brought my jewels with me, hoping maybe to bribe someone. I thought I’d try to petition the prison commander.”
“It’s extremely uncertain of success, Countess.” The professor went on to explain that he had become a musical commodity much in demand by the high-ranking army officers for their entertaining. His reputation as a violinist was well known, and at least he was able to keep from starving. He was too old to emigrate, he explained to Kitty when she asked the obvious question; his whole life had been spent in Russia, and with so few years left he didn’t care to spend them in a foreign land. Soon it was decided that Kitty would go as his accompanist that evening to Colonel Ismailovich’s; the commander of the Metekhi was often in attendance. He would be easier to approach informally this way than within the confines of the prison.
A gown and shoes were purchased with a small sapphire ring, the Cub was left in the tender care of Madame Pashkov, and Kitty and the professor entered the colonel’s home shortly before ten.
“I should discourage you in this madness.” Professor Pashkov sighed, carefully arranging his music on the stand of cherrywood. “Won’t you reconsider, Countess?” His bushy white eyebrows came together in a worried frown.
Kitty looked up from the music she was vigorously pushing around above the ivory keys of the grand piano and met the professor’s eyes. “Just point out the commander to me when he walks in,” she replied in a tight, quiet voice. Then a small smile touched her lush lips, and her tone changed, permeated by a delicate sadness. “I have to try. If I didn’t, I could never live with myself.”
The professor sighed again. “Very well. He’s short, dark, and affects a cavalry mustache. I’ll let you know the minute he enters the room.”
“And then, God willing, we’ll see what half a million roubles’ worth of jewelry buys,” Kitty uttered with a nervous exhalation.
As it turned out, there was no need for the professor to point out the commander of the Metekhi when he entered. The moment Commander General Tergukasov came to the drawing room, his eyes were drawn to the vision in blue playing the piano. The woman with blond curls and bare shoulders was the most stunning female he had ever seen. For a count of ten he stood arrested in the archway and then, bold by nature—an asset in a military man—he strode in a straight line across the room to the slightly elevated dais. He took the two shallow steps in one light leap and his graceful hand came down on Kitty’s fingers. The small, dark-haired man smiled winningly and said, “Mademoiselle … no one as lovely as you should have to work for a living.” His hand dropped away from Kitty’s, his heels clicked together in the old imperial manner, and he bowed slightly, the smile lighting up his black eyes. “Please, golden angel, be my guest tonight.”
Kitty’s wide green eyes, surprised and faintly alarmed, lifted to his, and the impact of those splendid eyes stopped the words in his throat. Her eyes were delicious, vulnerable, luminously green, framed in heavy lacy lashes. It was unheard of for General Tergukasov to be at a loss for words; an apt turn of phrase was his forte. Wrenching his glance from the lure and spell of those enormous eyes that seemed to offer unknown promises even while they retreated in fear, he turned his head briskly to Professor Pashkov and said curtly, “The mademoiselle is through at the piano.”
“But sir,” Kitty interjected nervously before the professor could speak, “Colonel Ismailovich has engaged us for the entire evening.” She didn’t want to give up her opportunity to meet the commander of Metekhi prison, and if this stranger insisted on monopolizing her all night, what chance would she have to make his acquaintance?
Violin tucked under his arm, Professor Pashkov said in carefully enunciated tones, “I’m sure, Katherine, Colonel Ismailovich will understand. After all, General Tergukasov is the guest of honor.”
The general missed the involuntary clenching of Kitty’s small hands. Smoothing the crushed peau de soie, Kitty replied in a breathy, slightly brittle voice, “General Tergukasov, how nice of you to interrupt a working girl’s tedium.”
“From this moment, mademoiselle, consider your working career over.”
“Oh, really, sir, you’re too kind … and it’s madame.”
Dark brows moved up a fraction. “Is your husband here tonight?”
“No. My husband was lost in the war.”
Sharp black eyes looked at her in a straightforward way. “I should say I’m sorry, but I’m not. Children?”
“One. A son.” Kitty had never encountered such directness, and while blunt, it wasn’t unkind.
“Hmmmm” was all he said for a long moment and then, apparently tabulating all the answers in some form satisfactory to his whims, he took Kitty’s hand in his and pulled her up from the piano bench. “Come, madame …” He paused and looked at her inquiringly.
Kitty gave her maiden name. Radachek could be notorious after Stavropol.
“Come then, Madame Kurminen. I hope you like champagne—and I trust before the evening is over we’ll be on a first-name basis.”
He was solicitous and eager. Charming and eager. Gallant and eager. He was offering the sun, moon, and stars to her as partial payment for sharing his apartment with him. With a sinking feeling Kitty wondered if he had sufficient money to find her offer of jewelry a bagatelle. She sidestepped, evaded, demurred, all politely and all
coquettishly, promising him she would give some answer tomorrow.
“Marvelous. I’ll take you to the Botanical Gardens for a picnic. I’m sure we can reach some agreement amenable to us both.”
When the general and Kitty left Colonel Ismailovich’s late that night, a Dagestani warrior watching from the shadows across the street nudged his elbow into his companion and pointed. Within the hour Karaim had news of Kitty’s presence in Tiflis. After he finished swearing, he asked for details. No, she wasn’t with General Tergukasov; he had only given her a ride home. Where was home? She was staying with a Professor Pashkov near the inner city. Good Lord, that female had nerve, Karaim mused, and if they hadn’t had watchers on General Tergukasov twenty-four hours a day, he never would have known that she had come down from Dargo—at least, not in time.
“She’s at the professor’s now?”
“Yes.”
“And the general went back to his apartment?”
Another affirmative.
Karaim sighed. “Good. She’ll be safe ‘til morning then. Send two men for her before noon. Even the general, however ardent a suitor, shouldn’t be back before then.”
And there, you see, is where varying degrees of ardor can punch a hole in the most logical assumptions.
The two men Karaim dispatched shortly before ten the next morning arrived at Professor Pashkov’s just in time to see the general’s Benz touring car disappear down the narrow street. Fortunately the old part of the city consisted of narrow, convoluted streets barely wide enough for the splendid Benz to inch through. Two men on foot were capable of keeping the car in sight. And, doubly fortunate, General Tergukasov was of a romantic bent. Exiting on one of the main thoroughfares, he had his driver stop at the first florist shop they passed. Politely excusing himself, he went inside to purchase some exotic flower for the marvelous woman he had dreamed about all night.
Kitty sat in the car’s luxurious leather interior, uneasily wondering exactly how she was going to broach the discussion of the most important prisoner Metekhi Prison currently held, and what bribe would release him. A score of opening sentences came to mind and were promptly discarded as unsuitable, illogical, inane. She knew what the general wanted, and her turmoil of indecision centered not so much around whether or not she would make the sacrifice—Apollo’s life was worth any sacrifice. It was more a question of whether the general could be trusted to keep his word, if she was the only bribe he would consider. Too many stories had circulated in the last few years of wives willing to buy their husbands’ lives at any price, only to find they had given themselves for nothing. Their husbands had been executed by their ravagers.14 What to do? She had so little time to weigh all the ramifications.
Then, before her startled eyes, the driver’s door was wrenched open, the passenger door opened, the driver was pulled out and thrown to the pavement, two men slid into the front seat, and the car roared away from the curb. The man on her right turned back, smiled briefly, and said, “Keep your head down, Countess.”
Kitty stared, aghast. “Sahin! No! You have to take me back—I’m going to talk to the general about Apollo!” She clutched at his shoulder, frantic, seeing all hope dashed in a few short seconds. “Turn around—drop me off. I’ve got to get back there!”
“We’re taking As-saqr As-saghir out in two days.”
Kitty sank back into the soft upholstery as the news registered in her mind. “Thank God,” she whispered over and over again, tears streaming down her face.
Short minutes later Kitty was facing Karaim, and when she heard the plans, she felt for the first time in weeks a blazing hope.
With time at a premium, the Cub was fetched and the professor and his wife were relocated. The general was bound to backtrack eventually if he was intent on finding the enchanting blond female kidnapped along with his car. Apologizing for the danger she had brought upon them, Kitty was assured by both the professor and his wife that their last apartment had been only one in a long line of domiciles they’d inhabited since the Revolution had disrupted their lives—and the gold Karaim gave them ensured their comfort even if the professor’s musical income was curtailed until General Tergukasov moved on to another post.
19
One day later, just before evening turned into night, while pale gray shadows hid much from sight, Prince Alexander Kuzan’s yacht dropped anchor in a secluded cove twelve miles north of Poti. The four waiting men wrapped in burkhas, squatting around a small fire on the sandy shore, rose to greet their old friend. Apollo’s father had arrived with men and supplies to collect his only son from Metekhi Prison.
A second telegram from Sahin, received in Constantinople, had relayed the critical news that Apollo still lived. Several containers of dynamite and four land mines were unloaded from the yacht to assist in the deliverance of Prince Alexander’s son. For a fortnight Alex had launched himself and all his substantial possessions, brains, power, money, and charm in a singleminded assault on authority. Everyone who could possibly aid in the escape had felt the impact of the prince’s determination and it was only a matter of hours now before it would be known whether all the effort would be successful or not.
Prince Alex waded ashore from the small boat. He was dressed in mountain garb—black tunic, trousers, soft boots—and his tall, broad-shouldered frame still possessed a youthful vigor. Although nearing fifty, he was still lean and fit, his dark hair only faintly touched with gray, his handsome, chiseled face tanned dark from hours spent on the polo fields. In bearing, appearance, form, in all aspects he belied his age.
Reaching out, he grasped Karaim’s hand firmly. “How are you, Karaim, after these long years of war?”
“Fine, Sasha.”
“You look fit. And Apollo? Any more news?”
“Still alive, as of this afternoon.”
Alex’s golden eyes softened in relief. “Pray God keeps him through one more night. That’s all we need. And how are Kitty and my new grandson?” he inquired on a more cheerful note. News of the Cub’s birth had been received by Zena and Alex with pride and joy.
“See for yourself,” Karaim replied, grimacing ruefully.
Golden eyes registered surprise briefly, but as quickly concealed it when Kitty, carrying the Cub, came forward from the darkening shadows. She was greeted warmly and graciously by Apollo’s father; the Cub was given a kiss on one chubby cheek. Gazing at the sturdy baby in Kitty’s arms took Alex back two decades or more, and he saw his son in the child before him. The same pale hair and golden eyes, the same strong, robust baby form and dimpled smile. “He’s quite like Apollo at that age,” Alex said softly, and his mind raced back to the fair-haired baby born in Nice when the century and old traditions were moving into a new millennium. “You must be as proud of him as Zena and I were of our firstborn.”
“Very proud, Prince Kuzan,” Kitty replied quietly. “He’s his father’s son in every way.”
Alex looked up at the baby’s pretty mother and said with a grin, “He has a bit of his mother, too, I think.”
“Perhaps … but in temperament, definitely Apollo.” She smiled. “He likes to have his own way.”
Alex laughed. “A Kuzan trait. Quite incorrigible, I’m afraid. But please, since you’re one of the family, call me Sasha. I’m sorry there’s so little time to visit, but later … Right now, we must be off immediately for Tiflis.” Taking Kitty gently by the shoulder, he began leading her to the small boat pulled up on the shore. “My men will see you to the yacht.” Alex’s voice, though pleasant, was dismissive, allowing no argument. “Be assured, Kitty, we’ll be back with Apollo before midnight two days hence.” Or we’ll all be dead, he thought but refrained from saying. “The men have orders to make for Ilori and wait for us there. Au revoir,” he said, bending to kiss his grandson.
“Godspeed,” Kitty whispered, knowing that the fate of Apollo depended upon the smooth operation of each step of the plan.
Alex and his companions reached Tiflis by morning and were disconce
rted to discover the execution had been rescheduled for one day earlier. Perhaps fear of reprisals had prompted the decision, or perhaps the hanging had been advanced to discourage rescue attempts. Whatever the reason, it meant no one slept that night. Everyone worked frantically through the all-too-short hours of darkness. Charges and land mines were set and concealed at both exits of the narrow street servicing the prison gate Apollo would pass through when he was transferred to the vehicle that would carry him to the execution.
A Turkish merchant and childhood friend of Alex’s—who had found it as profitable to trade with the Red commissars as with the old nobility—was enlisted to aid in the rescue. He resided in an elegant townhouse near the scene of the hanging: the city square.
In the last hour before the sun rose, all was in readiness. While the men rested for the brief time before the plan was set in motion, Alex and Krym Seid Bey sprawled on opposite divans in the elegant drawing room facing the square and sipped cognac.
Alex let out a breath. “Good Lord, Krym, that was close.” He lifted the glass to his lips and after swallowing a fortifying two inches of dark liquor continued. “One less hour last night and we wouldn’t have made it. Whatever possessed them to advance the execution by a day?”
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