by Judith Gould
He asked her for directions, and she pulled back away from the smells emanating from his filthy clothes. She pointed in the opposite direction and shuffled off.
Thanking her, Schmarya made his way on foot. It was when he had nearly reached the street he was looking for that he felt the hairs at the nape of his neck stirring. For an instant he froze. This instinctive reaction had served him well in the past, and he had learned to rely on it.
So he was being shadowed after all.
Or . . . was he simply imagining it?
Sneaking a glance over his shoulder, he saw that he was not alone on the sidewalk. Half a block behind, two men, one burly and one slightly built, were pale shadows in the sleet coming towards him. As he turned, they seemed to . . . slow down? Engage in conversation? Or was he imagining that too? They did seem to be hurrying in his footsteps. But their strides . . .
Although they seemed to be walking casually, their strides were long. Very long. If he didn't hurry, they would gain on him.
He walked on, his footsteps faster, and turned left suddenly at an intersection. He found himself on a smaller, more deserted street. He chanced a backward glance again and saw that the two men had turned at the same intersection and were gaining on him.
His immediate reaction was to run, but he knew he must conserve his energies for later. Besides, he didn't want them to know he was onto them. His heart racing, he broke into a graceful ballet of a speedwalk. Behind him, he could hear the staccato echo of footsteps speeding up. So they were pursuing him, and no longer disguised the fact. He smiled grimly, his lips twisting savagely under his scarf. All pretense was abandoned. They were the wolves, and he their quarry.
Fear and instinct were a potent mixture: fists clenched, he began racing as fast as he could now, his eyes glued straight ahead on a well-lit intersection which seemed dismayingly distant. Still the footsteps sounded ever closer behind him. Gaining rapidly on him. Panic-stricken, he wondered if he could take both men on should the need arise. He heard a sudden yelp of surprise followed by a dull thud and a bellowed curse. Obviously one of the men had slipped and fallen on the ice. Schmarya's heart leapt and he felt a new surge of determination.
The well-lit street grew in size as he summoned up all his reserves and hurtled forward with a final burst of speed. Another twenty metres, he estimated ... just fifteen more . . . ten . . . nine . . .
The distance melted to two metres, then one, and suddenly he burst out of the shadowy street and was caught in a throng milling about on the sidewalk. There was more of a crowd than he had dared hope. He guessed that a theatre must have just let out or a restaurant had closed for the night.
Ruthlessly he shoved his way through couples and groups of well-bundled, happily chattering friends, elbowing them aside as he stumbled on. A man grabbed at his arm, but he shoved him off. A woman screeched after him, 'Watch it, you idiot!'
Finally Schmarya stopped, slipped into a dark alleyway, and flattened himself against a door. Swiftly he faced left and craned his neck.
His hopes sagged. Whichever man had fallen had not suffered a broken bone. Both emerged from the smaller street and glanced up and down the congested sidewalk, their eyes searching for him. The burly one spotted him, pointed, and they started after him again. Schmarya observed, with more than a hint of grim satisfaction, that the slight one had developed a pronounced limp, which slowed both of them down.
Then a miracle happened. The crowd through which he had savagely elbowed his way had no intention of being shoved again. Tempers intensified, and as he watched, the men's path was blocked. People began to yell, and the shouting match swiftly turned into a fight. Arms flailed and fists flew. More and more people pressed around in a circle, attracted by the spectacle.
Schmarya slipped unnoticed from the doorway and disappeared. Now his pursuers were stranded in the centre of the mélée. No matter how hard they tried, they would be unable to catch up with him. He could hear the spectators excitedly egging the fighters on, and he grinned to himself. There was nothing like a fight to bring out the worst in people.
Schmarya reached his destination half an hour later, cautiously backtracking along a different route. It was a small, bleak old house squeezed between a block of others identical to it. Only the peeling numbers on the doors differed.
He cautiously slipped inside and shut the door softly behind him. The hall was narrow and cold, with weak bare bulbs spilling sickly pools of light down the rickety, narrow wooden stairs. As he climbed up toward the top floor, the steps sagged and creaked under his weight. Warning anyone of his approach, he thought dismally, at the same time feeling a respectful gratitude for someone's extreme caution in having chosen this place. God forbid, he did not want to deal with fools. He had a feeling he wasn't, but he had to be sure.
On the second-floor landing the lightbulb was burned out. No light shone down from the third floor either. He had to let his vision adjust in order to see where he was going. Dark shadows merged into Stygian darkness, and he cursed the dangerous steps.
When he took his first step up to the third floor, a shadow detached itself from the wall behind him, and he felt the cold muzzle of a pistol against the back of his head at the same instant that he heard an unmistakably loud click.
'Take one more step,' a whispery voice warned, 'and I'll blow your head off.'
Mordka Kokovtsov lay awake in the well-heated second-floor bedroom of his lavish apartment in the easternmost end of the Danilov Palace. Mordka had been staring up from his down-filled pillows with closed eyes for so long that he could imagine ghostly shapes and ephemeral apparitions hovering in front of his shut eyelids. The dreamy, shadowy boy-angels fluttered tantalizingly toward him, nimbus bodies with giant erect penises. Not like that damned Mikhail.
Mikhail!
With that thought, Mordka quit stroking his penis, and his eyes snapped open in anger as he shot up to a sitting position.
Where the hell was that boy? He'd kept him waiting for . . . how long?
Mordka furiously snapped on the black-shaded bedside lamp. He squinted at the tiny ormolu clock. It was nearly midnight.
Midnight! Why, he'd been waiting for hours! Was that possible? he asked himself, his eyes glaring as his lips curled downward in fury. Had the hashish he'd smoked earlier so dulled his perception of time?
He flung aside the down-filled comforter and lunged out of bed. He prowled the room with naked restlessness. His penis shrivelled, and he breathed deeply and evenly to try to control his burning fury. He uncorked a crystal decanter, poured himself a brandy with shaking hands and threw back his head as he quaffed the liquid in one gulp. He banged his glass down on a marble-topped bureau, threw himself onto a tufted green velvet armchair, and waited for Mikhail, all the while his long fingers drumming impatiently on the arms of the chair.
'Where the hell is that infernal Mikhail?' he thundered.
As if on cue, he heard the parlour door opening and shutting softly, then the muffled sibilance of harsh whispers, interspersed with moans. As soon as the sounds reached his ears, he knew that something had gone wrong.
Damn. He jumped up from his chair and hurried naked into the parlour to investigate. He drew in a sharp breath and froze in the doorway. His jaw hung open.
The sight which greeted him was not a pretty one. Ivan was carrying Mikhail, as if he weighed nothing, to the sofa, where he deposited him lengthwise. Mikhail let out a sharp yell as he was put down. His head lolled on a cushion. His clothes were torn and filthy, there was a deep gash on his forehead, and the left side of his face was brownish-red and puffy, caked thickly with drying blood. His eyes were closed, whether from shock or fear, Mordka had no way of telling. But in one sweep of his hooded eyes he could see that Ivan's wounds were far less drastic. Ivan, Mordka's faithful retainer, was a Cossack, burly and tough, unlike the frail blond fourteen-year-old.
Mordka swallowed his irritation and approached Ivan. 'Well?' he snapped. 'Are you going to stand there like the
village idiot all night? Get some hot water, towels, and bandages! And whatever you do, don't let anyone in!'
Ivan felt the sweat break out on his forehead and almost ran from the room. His head hung low after Mordka's verbal onslaught.
Tightening his lips in annoyance, Mordka drew closer to the sofa.
Sensing his presence, Mikhail tried to raise his head. Slowly he opened his eyes. His gaze was glazed and distant, somehow unearthly. He tried to smile. 'I'm sorry,' he whispered, his voice a thick mumble as the words squeezed past his cut, swollen lips. 'I . . . failed you.' Then his eyes drooped shut, whether from fatigue or shame it was difficult to tell.
Mordka's love had turned to stone the moment he had set eyes on his damaged lover, but he felt compelled to comfort him. 'There, there,' he said softly, although his eyes glittered with a peculiar icy hardness. 'All is well now. You're safe.' Mordka dropped to his knees beside the sofa, stroking the boy absently with his cool hand before undressing him. He flinched when he caught sight of the ugly amoeba-shaped bruises already welling up on the otherwise flawless young skin.
A draft breathed into the room as Ivan returned carrying a pitcher of steaming hot water in an enamel bowl, cloths, and bandages. Mordka gestured for him to set them down on the floor beside him. Carefully he dabbed the boy clean with a wet cloth and dressed his wounds. The child flinched constantly and sucked in his breath in pain. The hissing sounds gave Mordka a modicum of satisfaction. Finally finished, he rinsed his hands. Heaving a sigh, he rose to his feet and stared expressionlessly at Mikhail. The boy deserved no sympathy. He had failed. At long last Mordka motioned Ivan to follow him into the bedroom.
Mordka closed the door quietly behind them and faced his servant. 'Who did this?' Mordka demanded quietly. 'Was it someone from the theatre troupe?' He was still quietly composed, and only the nervous tic at his right temple warned Ivan of his master's scarcely contained fury.
Ivan averted his gaze and hung his head, studiously concentrating on the swirling pattern of the green carpet. He was not about to meet his master's penetrating gaze. Slowly he shook his head. 'We followed one of them,' he said sulkily, 'but he gave us the slip. We were trying to get to him when this angry crowd—'
Mordka lifted a hand, palm facing outward. 'Spare me excuses,' he snapped wearily. He turned his back on Ivan, tucked one hand in the small of his spine, and paced the room with elegant, measured steps, unconcerned with the fact that he cut a ridiculous figure wearing nothing but a giant ruby ring on one finger. 'You had but two tasks to perform,' he said grimly. 'Two.' He paused dramatically. 'The first, an act of simple surveillance with Mikhail to help you if need be. The second, to see that no harm befell Mikhail. You have failed magnificently at both.' Mordka whirled about with the speed of a striking cobra and froze just as suddenly in the pose, still as a statue as he regarded the Cossack through narrowed eyes.
Ivan lifted his immobile bronze face and looked at his master with direct dignity. Enough was enough. In his veins flowed the proud, fearless blood of his warring ancestors. Cossacks were not ones to plead for mercy.
Mordka locked eyes with him and smiled coldly. His high forehead flushed with excitement and his prominent cheekbones quivered. 'Sometimes I wonder why I keep you on, Ivan,' he said chidingly, as if lecturing a disobedient child. 'It has occurred to me that lately you've become more of a disappointing liability than I would like to admit.'
Mordka's words were simple, but all the more lethal because of the quiet conviction of their delivery. Ivan was familiar with the workings of Mordka's mind; therefore he knew the voice with which his master rebuked him was the very same usually reserved for ordering someone's death. In addition, his demeanour bespoke the same frigid detachment with which he confronted his hapless victims.
There was unspoken death in the air.
Ivan's mind was a flurry of conflicting hopes and fears. He wondered: Which am I to be today? The executioner? Or the victim? There was no doubt in his mind that Mordka could easily get rid of him, his trusted killing machine. Ivan took a deep breath. He had to divert his master's raging anger to other channels. 'I swear that what happened tonight will not happen again,' he said shakily. 'I underestimated the man we were following. He was no fool.' Ivan paused momentarily. 'But all is not necessarily lost,' he said softly, tempting Mordka's curiosity.
Mordka's lizard eyes blinked, and he looked at Ivan sharply, with renewed interest. 'Then you know where the man went?' he asked.
Ivan hesitated, buying time to think.
'Yes? Yes?' Mordka could barely contain his impatience.
'A house on Potyomkin Street,' Ivan said slowly. 'I know the block, but I'm not quite certain which house. After he gave us the slip once, I thought it best not to follow too closely when I caught up with him again.'
'When you caught up with him again? In other words, you were alone. You left Mikhail to fend for himself. Which doubtless accounts for the fact that he is seriously wounded.'
Ivan bit down on his lip. What he was about to say now would either vindicate him or seal his doom. He took a deep breath and nodded. 'Yes.' He waited, his heart pounding, then continued. 'Then, once satisfied of the general location of our quarry's destination, I backtracked to aid the boy, then brought him here. I figured I could narrow down the house another time.'
Mordka considered this in silence. From his expression, Ivan was unable to guess his thoughts. 'So you admit that you deserted Mikhail.'
Ivan bowed. 'I hope that does not disgrace me in your eyes,' he murmured obsequiously.
Mordka appeared not to have heard. He stepped up to the mantle, one arm draped across it, and stood staring unseeingly at his reflection in the gilded mirror above it. He had to come to a quick decision. He had never caught Ivan in a lie. On the other hand, the Cossack was clever enough to know that a boy—even one he could trust to sleuth for him as he had Mikhail—was easily replaced. Far easier than finding another devoted Cossack who followed any and all orders with no questions asked. Was he telling the truth?
Mordka drew himself up, turned from the mantle, and again paced the room in silence. His eyes seemed to have changed colour. They were bleak, and the skin was stretched tautly across his protruding cheekbones.
Seeing his expression, Ivan was barely able to keep the terror from showing on his face. 'The boy will heal quickly,' he said hastily in a quivering voice. 'In no time at all he will be as good as new. I shall take him to the Georgian masseur on Orlov Street. They say he has the power to heal in his hands.'
Mordka shook his head. His voice was calm. 'No, no, no. Mikhail is inept and stupid, but that is beside the point. I will not tolerate damaged goods.' He poised his little finger on his lips, the ruby a giant drop of blood on the bony finger.
Mordka nodded to himself. Like it or not, it was time to get rid of the boy. While washing him, he had noticed with horror that the peachlike fuzz on the boy's face was developing into a beard. It was not very obvious yet; indeed, he'd never noticed it before. But close up . . .
Yes, it was high time for a transfusion of youth and new adventure. The boy had begun to bore him. New, young blood was in order. As if to acknowledge that fact, the vision of a new child brought a stirring to his loins. 'Do not bother with the masseur,' he said offhandedly. 'That boy is a disgrace. I want no part of him.'
Ivan felt the tight knot in his gut slowly unravel. So the axe would not descend upon him but upon the boy. Quickly he looked away so that Mordka could not see the relief in his face. He had bought enough time, he was certain, to discover where the man had disappeared. With a lot of footwork and a little luck, he would surely find out soon. Mordka would be pleased with the results. Perhaps even reward him.
Mordka's thin voice cut into Ivan's reverie like a knife slicing through butter. 'You may go now. And take the boy with you.'
'Yes.' Ivan hurried toward the door and opened it.
'And, Ivan?'
His hand on the door handle, Ivan turned to face his maste
r. 'Yes?'
'See that he doesn't suffer too much pain, will you?'
'As you wish.'
Mordka sighed deeply. 'On the other hand, he should suffer somewhat. After all . . .' He allowed himself a tight, humourless smile. 'He was really a rather dreary disappointment.'
Chapter 6
Princess Irina's birthday did not start auspiciously, at least not for Senda.
At seven-thirty in the morning she was awakened by a series of sharp, businesslike raps on the door. The knocks continued, sharper, louder, more insistent. Then they awakened Tamara, who began wailing angrily.
Damn.
Senda flung the covers aside, jumped out of bed, and grabbed a flannel robe, quickly slipping it on. She rubbed her arms briskly with her hands. The room was icy cold; the floorboards felt like frozen wood beneath her bare feet. The fire in the grate had long since burned out. As she breathed, wisps of vapour trailed from her nose and mouth. She caught sight of herself in the mottled mirror on the wall. She stopped, peered into it, and gasped. She was startled by the ravaged visage staring back at her. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. She did not look at all well-rested.
The knocks on the door continued without letting up. Angrily she turned from the mirror, stalked to the door, and flung it open. A woman in a grey uniform and starched white apron quickly jumped back, one hand poised over her heart. Obviously the suddenness with which the door had burst open, coupled with Senda's fierce scowl, gave the woman quite a scare. Senda blinked and gazed at her blearily.
Frizzy flaxen hair fought the confines of the braids coiled on top of her head in the Germanic fashion and was winning the battle, but the face was far from unkempt, young and glowing with health as it was. She had a button of a nose, apple-red cheeks, and naturally pink lips, all highlighted and brought to sparkling life by a pair of lively inquisitive cornflower-blue eyes. Senda guessed her age to be twenty, twenty-one at most. Only a year or two older than she herself, she mused.
