Something was wrong. Beside the normal rush of porters and attendants of the wealthier travelers, she saw several police guards on horseback and others on foot, all headed in one direction. Some soldiers clustered together with guns, pointing and shouting with stern faces.
Soldiers! Her heart began to pound. Are they looking toward us?
“Imperial guards,” Karena whispered hoarsely to her mother. “They are searching for someone. Look, over there—in the concourse—there’s a crowd. Something has happened—oh!—that coach, and a horse is down. Oh, how horrible! There is blood in the snow!” The explosion!
“Keep walking,” Yeva said weakly. “They have no reason to suspect us.”
The cold wind prodded them along. Karena’s long, black skirt over leather boots rustled beneath the fur coat with its hood pulled down over her forehead to conceal her bruised face.
They could hear soldiers asking an older man questions. The man shouted as though deaf. “I was standing right over here when a young man runs into me and knocks me aside. Next, that coach comes around the corner, and when it pulls aside, he opens the door and tosses in fireworks. The explosion took me off my feet. There was a woman, too. Don’t know where she went. They both ran. Who was blown up?”
An assassination. Karena wondered which official had been murdered. She watched soldiers approach the damaged coach. One of them shot the injured horse in the head. The sight brought home the deadly consequences of a sin-tainted world. A newborn’s first conscious response at birth was a wail, and innocent creatures suffered. It seemed an apt picture of the groaning creation still held in the grip of Satan’s rebellion against God.
An armed Imperial officer ran toward the coach from the direction of the departing trains. He came nearer. Her breath caught in her throat.
It cannot be him. Not here, not now.
His hair was dark, and she remembered those grayish green eyes studying her when he had questioned her in Uncle Matvey’s little office. It was Alex.
What if he learns about Leonovich? Could he already know? And now, this man murdered in the coach!
She watched as Alex turned his head, seeming to take in the area with a sweeping glance until his gaze connected firmly with hers. Her stomach flipped. Despite the danger, she experienced the same heated emotional assault she felt each time they met.
Colonel Kronstadt’s alert gaze flashed to Madame Yeva, looked for someone else who might be with them, then swerved back to Karena again.
“It’s Colonel Kronstadt,” Karena hissed to her mother. “He’s seen us.”
Madame Yeva turned her head to look back.
“Come quickly, but don’t run.”
Karena tightened her hold on her mother’s arm, moving her toward the milling crowd. Fear darted through her and must have brought strength to Madame Yeva, for her steps quickened.
Flee! Escape!
TWENTY-TWO
Lost in the Crowd
Surely it could not be her, but it was. Alex had recognized her when their eyes met. Her face seemed bruised. He frowned. What had happened? He intended to find out.
Shouldering his way through the crowd, Alex moved steadily in the direction of Miss Karena Peshkova and her mother, who were ahead in the throng. Was their presence a coincidence after the terrorist bombing of a czarist autocrat?
He could easily overtake them if he ran, but he held himself back. If he bolted after them now, the police would notice and blow their whistles. Anything could happen if the girl and her mother took off running and the police drew their weapons.
Alex made the cool decision to slow his steps. After all, he knew where to find her in St. Petersburg when he was ready. He was to make a call on Professor Menkin to ask further questions on Grinevich and return his manuscript. Alex was certain she and her mother were making their way to Professor Menkin’s apartment now.
He continued following, but they were not in sight. He went to a raised platform farther ahead and peered into the throngs of people, many in the same kinds of fur coats and hats. Toward the square where droshkies waited, he saw two women boarding, the younger helping the older inside as though she were weak. He was certain it was the Peshkova women.
He hastened down the steps just as the droshky left the train station. He could have ordered the soldiers and police to stop its escape. As it rounded a corner, he saw a passenger turn and look back. It was Karena.
Alex stood, hands on hips, looking after her. In another minute they were out of sight.
It was reported that a woman was seen with the terrorist who hurled the dynamite that murdered Count Kalinsky.
Alex frowned as he stared after the droshky. It could not have been Karena Peshkova. So far, he had not reported the information he had on her to the Okhrana. If he reported seeing her at the Bolshevik meeting the night Grinevich was killed and that she had denied it, his own eyewitness account would bring her arrest. The czarist blade, however, was double edged, for if it was discovered that he had held back all he knew from his superior.
He walked back to the scene of the bombing. Why was he being lenient with her?
After spotting her here at the very moment of another attack on a czarist official, he rethought his silence. Was it possible she was a dedicated Bolshevik working with Lenski? After all, who was to say that a lovely charmer with blue eyes and fair, thick tresses could not feel hatred enough for the autocratic system of abuse to join radical terrorists like her brother’s friend Lenski? The pogroms against Jews gave ample reason for such hatred. And Ilya—her fiancé, if indeed he was her future husband—had barely survived a pogrom in Warsaw that had taken his parents’ lives. Karena knew all this. There were also, no doubt, tales from Grandmother Jilinsky’s memories of persecution to influence her.
Alex was convinced her brother had been edging toward fanaticism against the czar and that it had only been his father’s willingness to take his guilt in the Grinevich affair that returned Sergei to his senses and his university studies. Alex could see how Karena might have been influenced.
Also, Madame Yeva Peshkova had come from Finland from a revolutionary Jewish family. So why shouldn’t her daughter, as well as her stepson, Sergei, nourish antigovernment ideas? Finland, a mere twenty miles from St. Petersburg, regularly sheltered men like Lenin. It was easy to slip across the border, engage in planning, and even secure bomb-making equipment. The border with Finland might be a wise place to look for Lenski, and he would need to look into how Sergei was doing at the university.
Even so, he could not see Karena Peshkova waylaying autocrats with dynamite in train stations. Before he cast the possibility aside as absurd, however, his sworn allegiance to the czar demanded that he find out.
He was still frowning when he walked back to the station.
He looked across the concourse. The destroyed black coach sat alone amid a scene of white, reminding him of the carcass of a dead crow. Beside it stood the newly arrived Major-General Durnov, his wide shoulders hunched forward beneath his oversized greatcoat. He appeared to be listening to an officer’s report. Alex recognized the officer, his rival, Captain Yevgenyev.
So far, Durnov hadn’t seen him. He preferred to keep it so, as he was off duty. He did not want to see the old bear yet and was just ready to turn away when Durnov lifted his head, surveyed the area like a sharp-eyed hawk, and saw him. As luck would have it. Alex gritted his teeth in frustration and walked to meet his superior.
“Good morning, Major-General Durnov,” he said, coming up. They exchanged brisk salutes. “The revolutionaries are at work again, I see.” Alex glanced across at the other soldiers out of earshot, and his gaze caught Captain Yevgenyev, whose square jaw set like a brick in mortar as he saluted.
Alex turned to Durnov, whose tufted brows and mustache were grayer than ever with stiff, white frost. His hard, wide face gave nothing away as he gestured a gloved hand at the burned-out coach now being hauled away.
“Most unfortunate, Colonel Kronstadt. Capta
in Yevgenyev says you were here. What do you make of it?”
Leave it to Yevgenyev to open his mouth and entangle him. “Yes, I heard the explosion, General. When I arrived, the police were already here with Captain Yevgenyev’s squad and Count Kalinsky was dead.”
“Yevgenyev reports there was a woman.”
Alex kept an immobile face. “Can he identify her, sir?”
Durnov reached into his military jacket and pulled out a cigarette. He held it between his fingers while searching through his pockets for a match. Alex removed matches from inside his coat and struck one, protecting the flame from the snowy wind. Durnov leaned forward to accept the light for his cigarette. Alex studied his hard features.
“Captain Yevgenyev says you went after this woman,” Durnov said.
Alex flipped the match into the snow. “Captain Yevgenyev is mistaken.”
Alex dropped the matches back into his pocket. He looked over at Yevgenyev standing with Durnov’s horsemen.
Durnov sucked on his cigarette. “You did not trail the woman?”
If Alex mentioned that he’d recognized Karena and her mother, Durnov would issue an order to locate, detain, and interrogate them with ruthless measures that were not used at Kiev. Karena’s presence at the count’s assassination would all but convict her in the minds of the Okhrana, especially if they laid the murder of the count at Lenski’s feet. Durnov had gone easy on Sergei Peshkov only because he was a nephew to General Roskov’s wife, Zofia, but Karena was not blood related.
Alex struggled with his emotions. He was a fool to risk his plans for a young woman he hardly knew. One slip would give Captain Yevgenyev ammunition to use against him. Even so, this was not a time for anyone with Jewish connections to be arrested and questioned by the ruthless secret police about terrorist assassinations; the czar had just recently agreed to strengthen existing laws against Russia’s Jews.
There appeared no end to the anti-Semitism. In the past, Alex had thought little about it. Now, he found himself intrigued by the deep roots of its cause. Why so much hatred for the offspring of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob?
Though Alex had expected and been mentally prepared for his superior’s questioning, his next words took him by surprise.
“Captain Yevgenyev is jealous of you,” Durnov said with a blunt voice. “There are too many officers with an eye for General Roskov’s daughter. You are young. You do not realize the plots one man plans for another, even in the military.”
Alex knew Durnov was wrong about the general’s daughter, but he remained silent.
“I knew your father. We were friends, and that is why I warn you. If you do not watch your step, you will find yourself in much trouble. Not from me, you understand, but from others like Captain Yevgenyev. His father wants his son promoted and asks me often how his son is doing. Yevgenyev is under pressure to meet his father’s expectations. Wanting to preserve my own standing, I will be inclined to please my superior where his son is concerned. Yevgenyev wants your position on my staff. He would like to see you sent to the front. So you see my problem.”
Alex affected solemnity. If he could hand over his position in the Okhrana to rich and spoiled Karl Yevgenyev in exchange for his elite cavalry regiment, he would do so at the snap of a finger. But if he told that to Durnov, it would insult him. Alex was beginning to marvel at how much human pride complicated life.
“Thank you, Major-General Durnov. I will be on my guard,” Alex said gravely, and added, “Before the explosion, my thoughts were on relaxing at a number of parties on my leave. When I heard the explosion and ran up, people were fleeing in every direction in confusion. I didn’t see anyone—man or woman—whose actions inclined me to think they’d just thrown dynamite.”
Durnov smoked his cigarette in silence, looking over to the place where the attack had occurred. The coach was gone now. They were removing the carcass of the dead horse. Fresh snow soon covered over the splotches of death, and the last remnants of the crowd dispersed, preoccupied with the war and lack of bread.
Alex was aware he’d just stepped over a line and put himself at risk to protect a young woman he should forget about.
“What are your thoughts about who is behind this, Colonel?” Durnov asked.
“A Bolshie.”
“Not the Bund?” Durnov pressed, referring to an organization of Jewish revolutionaries considered extremists because they fought back for their rights to exist.
“Count Kalinsky was considered friendly toward the Jews. He didn’t favor the new anti-Jewish laws. The Bund would have no cause to plan his death.”
“Conspiracy works in strange ways.”
“Exactly so, but they would need to be most strange, sir, if the Bund approved blowing up those who wish them no ill.”
Durnov hunched his shoulders. After a silent moment he changed the subject. “Major Sokolov was ordered to see to the security of Count Kalinsky’s departure by train, was he not?”
Now the storm cloud was coming.
“Exactly so, General.”
“Captain Yevgenyev was also in that guard, and he insists Sokolov did not show this morning. If this is so, Colonel, it is a serious breach of duty.”
Yevgenyev, again. He was a true “shadow man,” the name given by the opposition to the czar’s despised secret police.
“Major Sokolov was aware of his duty and was on his way to lead the guard to escort Count Kalinsky when I left the barracks,” Alex said. “It appears to me that Count Kalinsky was impatient to depart and left the Winter Palace early. He chose on his own to not wait for the full guard to assemble.”
Speaking his mind so bluntly and laying the responsibility on Count Kalinsky was risky. Even suggesting that Alex disagreed with his superior’s judgment was dangerous, but he knew Gennady could be arrested for dereliction of duty and even put before a firing squad.
Durnov turned his head. His callous gray eyes studied Alex. This measuring was not new. Durnov had hinted he was suspicious of Alex’s motives on more than one occasion. No harsh steps had been taken against him thus far. Alex believed it was because of Durnov’s friendship with his father.
Durnov was silent, smoking his cigarette. After a final drag, he tossed it into the muddy slush. “I may agree with you, Colonel, but Major Sokolov will have to answer for this matter. The outcome will not be left to me. It will depend on the czar and his conclusions. I can do nothing but my duty in the matter.”
Alex gave a short nod of his head as in a salute. “Just so, Major-General Durnov.”
The train sounded its final whistle to board for Tsarskoe Selo. Alex turned and glanced back toward the station, then at Durnov. The general’s hard mouth turned into a granite smile.
“You may go, Colonel Kronstadt. Enjoy your leave. If anything comes up of particular interest, I’ll need to contact you there and ruin things.”
He caught the slight emphasis in Durnov’s words “of particular interest” and took this to infer there would be news.
Alex pretended he didn’t notice, they exchanged casual salutes, then he turned and walked back to the boarding station to collect the bag he’d left with one of the young porters. He scowled, pondering.
The porter was craning his neck, looking in both directions. When he saw Alex, he rushed up with his bags.
“Your train for Tsarskoe Selo is departing, sir. This way, if you please, sir.”
Alex boarded the train, thinking of the scene of needless bloodshed. It’s just the beginning. Russia stands on a precipice. Perhaps I am walking too close to the edge as well.
TWENTY-THREE
Secrets
When Alex arrived at the mansion, he greeted his stepmother, Countess Olga Shashenka, with a perfunctory kiss on the hand and then on her pale cheek. Tall and thin, her smooth white hair was drawn away from her thin sculptured face into a chignon covered with a white netting of crocheted silk sprinkled with small pearls. She wore a smooth fringe of white hair cut across her forehead. There were diamonds a
t her ears, and a flower cluster made of pink pearls and diamonds set in gold was pinned at the shoulder of her draping, ivory satin dress with a long skirt.
“My dear Alex, how good to see you, and how dashing you are looking as a colonel.”
She led him across the polished wood entryway toward the parlor. The ballroom to the right was busy with servants decorating for the ball to be held that night, and there was an anticipatory atmosphere and scurrying about with boxes of ribbon and tinsel.
He followed the countess into an opulent parlor decorated in plush ivory and magenta rugs and drapes. A massive divan along one wall and two chairs were done in satiny ivory brocade with rose and gold tassels.
An aromatic pinewood fire burned cleanly in the massive hearth while the snow twirled outside the windows. The draperies were drawn back, and the view was inspiring as always. He’d spent many long holidays here while growing to manhood. Large crystal lamps on polished wood tables sparkled like the jewels on the countess’s wrist and throat.
The countess sat in a large upholstered chair of red with gold fringe. “I’m pleased you’ve been promoted. You grow more in appearance like your father each time I see you. No wonder you’ve got a name among the young women here. I shall need to fend them away, I see. Tatiana simply does not deserve you.”
He lifted a brow. “A horse and saber and some excellent Cossacks to command would please me far better than prowling through police records at the Okhrana building. A very musty place.” He placed an affectionate hand on her shoulder. “Come now, Mother, you know you could appeal to the czar, or even to your good friend Viktor, to deliver me from this fate worse than death!”
She placed her frail hand flashing elegantly with South African diamonds over his and patted with motherly concern. “Now, now … patience, Alex. Perhaps something can be done after all.”
The Midwife of St. Petersburg Page 23
