Tempting Fate (3 page)

“Gone where?” Yuri asked, but without any genuine interest.

“Into Konstantinovka. He’ll be back in the morning, with food.” Privately he doubted this, but it was not his place to say more. Fifteen years of army life had taught him a degree of prudence. He added more water to the vegetables in the pot and reached for a wooden spoon to stir the mess with.

“Damn,” the youth said listlessly. He dropped down, cross-legged, near the warm stove. “What have you there?”

“Vegetables. That and the vodka are all that’s left.” He went on with the very simple cooking, paying little heed to Yuri. In half an hour the young man was asleep, and Nikolai went in search of the wooden bowls in which the prisoners were given their meals. When he had found them and the large tin spoons the monks had used, he put five of them on the largest tray and ladled out small portions of the steaming, tasteless stew.

The first round of serving went uneventfully. Acting Major Rozoh asked the questions he was required to ask, and received, as always, stony silence from the men in the little, cold cells. The next ten were much the same as the first five. Count Piotyr Pavlovich, in the twenty-third cell, threw the bowl at Nikolai and cursed him roundly. Former Major Viktor Sergeivich, in cell thirty-five, was shaking with ague, his white mustaches wet and drooping, his face gray but for the two hectic fever spots in his sunken cheeks. Seeing him, Nikolai suppressed the urge to pray for the old man.

Acting Major Rozoh always saved the thirty-sixth cell for last. That was where the foreigner was, the only man among the prisoners at the monastery who had the ability to disturb him. Nikolai hesitated before turning the massive key in the old lock and lifting the heavy iron bar.

Predictably, the foreigner rose; he was commanding but without hauteur, and though less than middle height, he had a presence about him that had little to do with his lack of inches. Only he, of all the men in the cells, had contrived to stay neat: only he did not complain of rats.

“Foreigner,” Nikolai said uneasily, holding out the bowl of now-cold vegetable stew.

“Tovarich.” The foreigner inclined his head slightly and favored his jailer with a fleeting, ironic smile.

“You did not eat the food I brought this morning.” It was more than an accusation, for the foreigner had steadfastly refused all the meals he had been provided.

“Nyet, Tovarich.”

“Will you want this?” Nikolai asked, proffering the bowl again.

“Nyet, Tovarich.”

Nikolai sighed. “There is vodka. Do you want some?”

“Nyet, Tovarich.”

He made one last effort. “There may be one or two bottles of sacramental wine still left in the cellar, if that would do as—”

“I do not drink wine.”

“It’s going to be very cold tonight,” Nikolai persisted, uncertain of how to deal with this prisoner who did not behave as the others, who did not seem to realize how desperate his circumstances were.

“That is, of course, unfortunate.” There was one rickety chair in the cell, and the foreigner sat on it. His suit of fine black wool was a little rumpled, and he had removed his wilted collar and in its place had tied a stock of black silk, fixing the knot with a ruby stickpin.

“If you do not take, care, you will freeze to death.” Nikolai wished that this announcement would cause some alteration in the foreigner’s implacable demeanor.

“And cheat the firing squad?” the foreigner suggested gently.

Nikolai could not meet those dark, penetrating eyes. “Yes; you are condemned. It’s decided … But—”

“I trust,” the foreigner interrupted pleasantly, urbanely, “that your marksmen will take careful aim. I should hate to have them make”—he turned his head away—“a mess of it.”

“That isn’t likely,” Nikolai said, beginning to feel foolish as the simple flour thickening began to congeal around the cold bits of vegetable in the bowl he still held.

“It isn’t?” He looked at Nikolai. “Tell me, Corporal Rozoh, why should it matter whether I starve or freeze or fall to an executioner’s bullet?”

“There is the question of justice,” Nikolai said rather obliquely, not knowing himself what he meant.

“But if it is merely my death that is required, why not leave me to whatever winter brings? Why not simply lock the door to the cell and walk away?” His mouth turned at the corner; a wry smile.

It was a moment before Nikolai could answer, and when he did, the words came out with stiff formality. “We are not like the old order was. We are not willing to practice such inhumanity. We care for those in our custody. It is not our intention to be cruel, only just.”

“Naturally,” the foreigner agreed. “Which is why you keep us here in unheated cells with a column of soldiers to guard us night and day. Surely the walls are thick enough that half a dozen men might tend to the forty of us.”

“That is not the issue,” Nikolai said, thinking of Yuri Yureivich lying in a stupor in the kitchen, of Dmitri Mihialovich riding toward Konstantinovka. “Every man imprisoned here has demonstrated himself to be an enemy of the people, and for that reason, it is necessary that measures be taken.”

“And what particular crimes have you attributed to me? It is true that I own three houses and a palace in Russia, but when have you ever heard that I abused my servants? Perhaps it is the factories I started, Corporal. I did provide schooling for my workers. Is that my crime?” His voice dropped. “I won’t press you for an answer.”

“Your way of life…” Nikolai burst out.

“Ah. I am accused of being rich. There I must admit I am guilty.” He shook his head. “Soldiers are hardly necessary to protect the world from my wealth. And, as I understand it, my monies and lands have been taken from me. Why then the troops, and the firing squad?”

“The troops are not here tonight,” Nikolai snapped, eager to silence the disturbing questions the foreigner asked. As soon as he had spoken, he regretted it.

“Indeed? On orders or simple desertion?” He waved his own question away with one small, beautiful hand. “You needn’t answer that.”

In spite of his doubts about this prisoner, Nikolai was driven to defend his men. “We do not desert. Our loyalty has never been in question.”

“Not even by the Czar? How providential.”

Nikolai’s face reddened. “That was not a question of loyalty.”

Quite affably the prisoner said, “Certainly not. Yet if your men are not here, they must be busy elsewhere. There is a paper mill at Krasnoye Selo, isn’t there? It would be quite a prize for the counterrevolutionary forces.”

“There are more than two hundred men posted there. My troops are much nearer than that,” Nikolai assured him, feeling smug.

“Konstantinovka.” He read assent in Nikolai’s rugged features. “I see.”

“They are gathering provisions, so that none of you here will be forced to starve as so many of us have starved.” He almost flung the contents of the bowl across the cell, but controlled the impulse.

“That does not particularly impress me,” the foreigner said, giving a pointed look to the untouched gruel left over from the morning.

In a surge of baffled rage, Nikolai demanded, “Why don’t you eat? Aren’t you hungry?”

The foreigner regarded him evenly. “If it is any consolation to you, I am famished.”

“But why…?” Nikolai began, then stopped, not knowing why he felt so abashed by this prisoner.

“Nevertheless, the others will doubtless be gratified to hear that more provisions are being fetched.”

“By tomorrow morning,” Nikolai declared with shaky confidence, “there will be ample rations in the kitchen.”

“I should hope so, if that”—he indicated the bowl Nikolai still held—“is any indication of your current supplies.”

“Unlike the decadent and corrupt nobility, we do not neglect…” He stopped this pompous speech as abruptly as he had begun it.

“Yes?” the foreigner said when Nikolai had been silent for more than a minute.

“There will be supplies in the morning. Not that such information would seem to matter to you.” He was about to leave the cell when the foreigner said, “Do you know, it does matter to me.”

Behind Nikolai half a dozen light, powerful steps sounded, and before he could turn to see the prisoner, he felt two small, strong hands seize his shoulders, and heard the well-bred, gentle voice speak in his ear.

“You must forgive me, Nikolai Ivanevich: this opportunity will not come again.”

Nikolai struggled against the foreigner and was astonished to find that he could not break free of the smaller man. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for the force that dragged him back into the cell and with a deceptively gentle blow drove consciousness from his mind.

The foreigner stood over Acting Major Rozoh. He knew that Nikolai would not recover for more than an hour, and he hoped that would buy him sufficient time to make his escape. He bent and took the pistol from the Acting Major’s belt, and was not entirely surprised to discover that it was not loaded. After a moment’s hesitation he put the weapon into his pocket; he might still find a use for it. He had a small valise tucked under the straw of the pallet that served him for a bed, and this he pulled out before dragging Nikolai onto the straw. Carefully he arranged Nikolai’s limbs in a posture suggesting sleep, and then dragged the two thin blankets allotted to him over the recumbent man. Such a minor deception would not survive even the most trivial scrutiny—Acting Major Rozoh was at least eight inches taller than the prisoner and his hair was fulvous brown—but it might delay pursuit a few crucial minutes more than if he had left the Acting Major in a heap. He had learned over the years that just such little advantages as this could make an essential difference in survival.

Marginally satisfied with his efforts, the foreigner stepped back. He had a black coachman’s cloak with a sable collar hung on the peg that had previously held a crucifix. He and the other prisoners had been allowed to keep their coats because of the unrelieved cold of the monastery, and now he was grateful for it. Deciding not to hamper himself with wearing the heavy garment at the moment, he dropped it over his arm and lifted the valise as he left the cell.

In the door he paused long enough to glance first toward the Pilgrims’ Hall and then toward the kitchen. Both rooms were nearly dark, but a low, fitful light in the kitchen warned him that however many men were left to guard the monastery, they were more likely to be found near the cooking stoves than in the drafty Hall. He pulled the cell door closed behind him, dropped the iron bar into place, and turned the key in the lock, hearing the old wards fall. He was about to place the key in his pocket with the pistol when he noticed the unmistakable sound of pacing from the thirty-first cell. He hesitated, knowing that every second he lingered increased his risk of discovery. In an instant he had made up his mind: walking lightly, he went to the door of the thirty-first cell and tried the key in the lock, wincing at the scrape of metal on rusty metal, fearing that it was loud as cannon fire and knowing that the pacing within was louder.

The footfalls stopped. “I have not changed my mind, Rozoh,” warned the voice inside.

“Be quiet,” the foreigner whispered, stopping his work.

On the other side of the door the footsteps faltered, then came nearer. “Rozoh, if this is a new ploy…”

“It’s not Rozoh,” the foreigner said quietly. “Keep walking.” He was secretly grateful to hear the footsteps resume. With a final tug, he turned the key, and the lock grated open. Slowly he lifted the lock and bent to set it on the floor, then rose to lift the bar from its braces.

“What’s happening out there?” the voice from within demanded with some urgency.

“Your door is open. You’ll be able to swing it back. The key is in the lock. Wait three minutes and let yourself out, and open one of the other doors.” It was all he could do.

“Who…?” The prisoner’s voice had sunk to a murmur, he was obviously standing pressed against the thick planking.

But the foreigner moved away, silent and agile in spite of the burden of valise and cloak. He went swiftly toward the Pilgrims’ Hall, unhampered by the darkness. There was a small door that led to the neglected monastery garden, he remembered, and now he hoped that it, like the rest of the building, would be carelessly guarded, if guarded at all. His quiet steps echoed softly in the Hall, and reminded him unpleasantly of the scuttle of rats. He thought of the hours he had spent trapping the rodents in his cell, disgust surging through him as intense as nausea.

The garden door gasped on its hinges, then balked. The foreigner slipped through the narrow opening out into the frost-spangled night. Now he stopped to pull on the black, tiered cloak, fastening the frogs from knee to neck. At his back he heard the distant groaning of a cell door opening, and knew it was time to be gone. He took up his valise again and ran toward the stables.

Franchot Ragoczy was free. His hunger was terrible.

Text of a broadsheet tacked up throughout the city of Riga in Latvia.

TO ALL TRUE AND LOYAL LATVIANS:

Long enough have we listened to the lies and promises of those who tell us that we must destroy in order to build. Each of you has struggled in his heart to find the justice that is truly desired by all Latvians. The chaos in Petrograd should convince you all that this new order which has been promised us is more disastrous than the most oppressive Czar we have ever known. These men who claim to have taken control of the government have declared themselves to be the champions of the workers and the toilers in the factories, mills, and fields. Yet who has seen his children go hungry to bed, but those same workers in the fields and mills and factories?

DO NOT BE DECEIVED!

Those of us who remain loyal to our country, our Czar, and our church know that the bulletins coming from the usurpers of the Winter Palace are lies and dastardly calumnies sent to trick you into betraying your honor. The despair that fills you is the product of the mendacious enemy, intended to confuse and isolate us each from the other, so that in the ensuing disruption, the agents of the regicidal tyrants may install themselves in places of power so that their conquest of all the Russias, their Dukedoms and Protectorates, may be facilitated by the very disheartened morale they themselves inspire.