Part 18

“We have talked it over with Slipitsky—the Jew. But my father is averse to having any hand in putting you into danger.”

Peter smiled. “Your father need not worry about that,” he said lightly. “Did we not arrange last night?”

“True, but——” She hesitated to go on, and turned her face from him.

“Has your father changed his mind since last night?” asked Peter, alert at once.

“Oh, no,” she said, looking at the floor. “We—we thought you might change yours. You have not been sleeping—and perhaps you gave thought to——”

“I have not changed my mind about Kirsakoff,” he said when it was plain that she was not going to finish her sentence. “I am still determined to—find him.”

“We thought you might have changed your mind about helping us.” She lifted her head, and smiled at him.

He saw at once that her reluctance to avail herself of his help was only feigned. She was too subtle to be over-eager in a matter which concerned her own safety and the safety of her father. She intended that Peter should be the insistent one, so that any suspicions he might have that they sought their own safety rather than Kirsakoff, would be allayed. She wished the trip to Harbin to be made on his wishes instead of out of their own selfish, if natural, desire to escape the Ataman.

Peter laughed without mirth.

“We might not be able to find Kirsakoff in Harbin,” he suggested.

“True,” she admitted at once. “He spends his time between Harbin and Chita. By the time we got there, he might be on his way back here.”

“Would you advise waiting?” he asked.

“That is for you to decide.”

“Then we shall go to Harbin,” he announced. “This is a serious thing to me. As I told you last night, I have waited twenty years to find Kirsakoff.”

“It should not be difficult,” she said casually.

“Not with your help,” he said, with a play at enthusiasm. “If I find him, it will be because——” He stopped short. What he was about to say was that if he found Kirsakoff, it would be due to her. But that was not true—she was concealing Kirsakoff. Peter felt he owed her nothing there.

“Perhaps you would prefer to wait till you feel better,” suggested Katerin. She was still worried about his constrained manner, and not quite sure that the change which she detected in him was due to his feeling badly, as he claimed. She sensed an undercurrent of agitation, and though the reason of it was far beyond her intuitions, she knew he had undergone some change during the night—there was something hostile in his eye, something in the slow turning of his head which revealed to her the brooding rage which burned in his brain.

“I feel well enough,” he said, putting his hand to his ruffled brow. “The pain has gone, but I feel dull and stupid. I hope you will forgive my—stolidity.” He forced a smile, and threw back his head and shook it as if to dispel a heaviness.

“When should we attempt to get away?” she asked.

“We should not delay, I think. Is it not likely that the Ataman will be down upon the hotel at any time?”

She shivered slightly. “Every minute is precious.”

“The sooner away, the sooner we shall come up to Kirsakoff,” he said, and rose to take a turn about the room. Then he came and stood over her, looking down into her face.

“Take some more tea,” she said. “If we are to go away, you must feel as well as possible.”

“True, I must. Suppose you bring your father here—and the three of us talk over the plan of going—to Harbin.”

Katerin gave him a quick glance. Once more she had caught in Peter’s manner a glimmer of the fact that he was holding himself in leash against an impulse to action which he found it painfully difficult to restrain. He frightened her a little, for there was that about his mouth, about his eyes, and in his voice which told her that this man was ready to slay.

“My father is still asleep, I am afraid,” she said. “But I know all the plans that have been made. We are to leave by droshky—and Slipitsky will forge passports for us. The old Jew is very shrewd about such things. He helped many a man escape from—the old prison.”

Peter wondered if her reluctance to let him see her father could be due to a suspicion that Peter already knew that her father was Kirsakoff.

“Droshky to Harbin! It sounds impossible! By droshky more than a thousand versts in this time of the year?”

She laughed lightly. “Not all the way, of course,” she said. “Just far enough to get away from the city—down the railway far enough to get a train beyond where Zorogoff’s men are on guard.”

“But how are we to get through the cordons of Cossacks?”

“An American officer should be able to pass—if my father and myself have forged passports. They would not stop you—an American.”

He saw the cleverness of her plan. It was a bold move. And the Kirsakoffs would not have to risk having their identity revealed to Peter during any quizzing at the railway station in Chita. Zorogoff’s passport officers would undoubtedly hold Katerin and her father if they attempted to board a train at the station with Peter—and the worst of it would be, the old general would most likely be addressed by his name in the hearing of Peter. But the sentries of the cordon around the city would be more easily fooled. In the first place, they might not recognize Kirsakoff at all if he were well wrapped in furs, and had his bandage about his face. Besides, they might be deceived by the false passports.

“Is it intended that we should go by night?” asked Peter.

“No, by day. The soldiers will not be so careful by day. By night, they might fire upon us, or hold us till morning in some guardroom while our papers were sent back to the city for examination. That is the advice Slipitsky gives. He says the best escapes are made by daylight, and the proper plan carefully worked out.”

Katerin waited till Peter thought it over. He considered the plan, looking thoughtfully at the window.

“You, as an American, can be liberal with the soldiers. Give them enough rubles to make them feel they want to please you, but not enough to rouse their suspicions. We will give you the money.”

Peter found it hard to choke down the bitterness which rose anew within him as he listened to her elaborating her plan for his deception. He was tempted for an instant to laugh at her, and tell her now that he knew all he needed to know. Yet there was a queer comfort for him in listening to Katerin go on with her intricate scheme to save herself and her father by means of the enemy of her father. And Peter realized also that they probably did not contemplate going on to Harbin with him at all—they would slip away from him on the train, at some station—anywhere once they were clear of the district in which Zorogoff’s army held any power.

“Does Wassili go with us?” he asked, thinking that perhaps the servant would be taken for the purpose of killing Peter once they had used him to get them free through the cordons.

“No, Wassili will remain here.”

“What is the first thing to be done?” he asked, as if anxious to get about the business.

“Send Wassili for the droshky and the driver who is in the plan—a man who can be trusted. That can be done as soon as Slipitsky has the passports ready. He was drying the ink this morning, over a smoky lamp to make the signatures fast and soften the wax of the seals so that the counterfeit seal could be pressed in. Then we drive straight toward Zorogoff’s headquarters, to make it appear first that we are going there. But we go around the building, so that it will appear to the first line of sentries on the other side that we have just left headquarters. That will make the first cordon willing to let us pass with scarcely any questioning. The next cordon will take it for granted that we are all right because we have passed the first—and if there is any trouble, the passports will let us through. The earlier we start, the better.”

She rose, flushed with hope, which was engendered by the very telling of how they were to escape.

“I am ready when you are,” said Peter. “Let us not lose any time.”

Tears came into her eyes. “We put our lives in your hands,” she said. “God will bless you if you aid us in our escape.”

“The road to Harbin is before us yet,” he said with a smile. “You and your father are not yet out of danger.”

“True,” she said, moving toward the door of her room. “I shall have him get ready at once, and see Slipitsky about the passports.”

Peter opened the door for her, and bowed as she passed out. He closed the door after her, and stood looking at the windows of his room, the same queer twisted smile of the morning at the corner of his mouth.

XXII

THE OFFICER FROM THE ATAMAN

PETER paced the floor of his room, his head bent in thought, after Katerin left him. He considered the possibilities of the proposed trip to Harbin in relation to himself and Michael. An escape from Chita, he saw now, would be most desirable for his own purpose, providing he was not being walked into a trap in Harbin. It was quite possible that Katerin and Michael would try to elude him in Harbin. It was inconceivable that they were not quite as anxious to escape from Peter as they were from the Ataman, for they were in full possession of his secret. And once clear of the cordon of Cossack guards surrounding Chita, they might be able to give him the slip.

He had a desire to play out the intricate game in which he found himself enmeshed. He knew he would find it amusing to watch Katerin and Michael play at being fugitives from the Ataman with him, and then play at stalking Michael himself in Harbin—to see a man pretend to seek himself. And at any time, Peter could turn to Michael, and say, “Thou art the man I seek.”

The sheer chicanery of it had an irresistible appeal to Peter. Like all Slavs, he loved the dramatic for the sake of itself, and he enjoyed proceeding by devious ways. Besides, the fact that Katerin and Michael were deliberately deceiving him, justified his own deception. Peter had actually been sorry, as he sat thinking through the night, that the identity of Michael had been made known so abruptly. It had all come with such amazing clarity and finality that he had found himself rather helpless when he realized that the whole business could be settled by the simple expedient of killing Michael without any more delay. He shrank from so hasty a conclusion to an affair which he had been dreaming about for twenty years. He thought that perhaps the Russian people had been caught in just such a staggering position by the easy success of their revolution. A whole nation thrown back upon its haunches, so to speak, and asking itself what it was to do now! Their minds had been so occupied for years in planning and plotting to overthrow the Czar and his government that they had neglected entirely to think of what might face them once they were successful. Their plans had not gone beyond the destruction of the Czar, and when he was destroyed, they needed more years to give thought to what was necessary for the good of the country and the people. It did not seem quite fair to them that the Czar had allowed himself to be overthrown so easily—he had destroyed their game, their one interest in life. So they began to sulk, and intrigue against each other.

In the same way, Peter rather resented Lutoff’s directness in revealing the fact that the “old exile” was Michael Kirsakoff. It made the matter of killing Michael so absurdly easy! And the Slav insists upon making all things difficult—life, war, government—before he can enjoy them. He demands that Life shall be a puzzle, and examines its hidden purposes to discover why the Creator has tricked him into being a living being. He seeks a sinister motive behind his birth, and not being able to find one or to construct one out of his fancy, he kills himself because life is not worth living unless it can be proved to be a sort of divine persecution. The Slav needs a lot of trouble to keep himself happy. Convince him that the purpose of Life is to make him miserable and he is content.

But Peter had become almost wholly Russian again, so he could not fully consider himself in the proper light. He had no intention of letting Michael escape. But he had the bothersome idea that he had to begin all over again to run Michael into a snare—a snare of Peter’s own devising, and built so leisurely that the joy of vengeance would have a satisfactory accretion of mental torture for Michael.

The old general knew that Peter lusted for his life, and this knowledge must in itself fill Kirsakoff with terror. Did not Kirsakoff live in dread of a look, a word, an intonation of the voice, which would betray him to Peter? And Peter knew that he had the power to precipitate the dreaded catastrophe for Michael at any instant. All Peter waited for now was the moment which would intensify the terror for Michael—that moment, perhaps, when Michael would consider himself safest. It might come at the instant when Michael would be ready to slip away from Peter in Harbin, exulting in the thought that he was about to escape from the man who sought to slay him. Safe at last! And then Peter could smile, and instead of saying, “Good-by, my friend,” could say instead, “Now, Michael Alexandrovitch, you die!”

And so utterly Russian such a moment would be! And how fitting, thought Peter. Was not Michael Kirsakoff living in a fool’s paradise and thinking that he could use his enemy to save his life from the Ataman? When he saw it from this angle, Peter was glad that he knew the old man was Michael. Now he could build Michael’s hopes, only to shatter them at the end.

Once again Peter was master of himself and of the situation. He would play the covert game with the Kirsakoffs—and Michael could not escape. Harbin would be better than Chita after all, for it offered a better chance for Peter to cover his tracks.

He had come to this decision when he heard the rattle of boots on the other side of the door which led into Michael’s room. Then the door opened slowly, cautiously, and presently Michael, the blanket over his shoulders and clutching the loose ends of the covering to his breast, looked in. The old man was crouched forward and he was visibly trembling.

Peter thought at first that Michael had come sneaking in during the absence of Katerin below, to attack him. But he saw at once that Michael was alarmed—he stood hesitating in the door, looking back over his shoulder, listening. He had a blanket over his shoulders, and his hair stood up stiffly on the back of his head behind the bandages about his face, like the crest of an angry cockatoo.

Peter stood still. He half expected that Michael had come to the attack—that beneath the blanket Michael had a weapon. And there was no longer any doubt that the old man was Kirsakoff. Peter recognized him for the Governor at once, though the years had changed so much and the bandages which covered his cheeks hid his predominant features. The nose was still strong and arrogant, the black eyes now deeply set with age, the white mustaches which had once been black, though sparse, changed his appearance but little.

This was the moment for which Peter had waited so long—but he knew at once that it was not the moment to strike. He wanted more time to deal with Michael, and the old man was worried about something which seemed to threaten from the hall.

“What is wrong?” asked Peter.

Michael threw up his hand in a gesture for silence, and did not turn his head, but continued to look back over his shoulder into the two rooms behind him.

“Some one outside my door,” he whispered.

Peter listened but heard nothing.

“Wassili has gone for a droshky, and my daughter has gone down to Slipitsky—I did not want to lock the door against her. But—the Cossacks have come—I heard them talking outside.”

“Come in here, sir,” said Peter. “And we will leave this door open, so that we may watch if anybody enters and see who they are before they discover that you have come to me.”

The old man obeyed, and Peter stood in the doorway looking into the Kirsakoffs’ rooms. The curtain between them was caught aside by a cord, so that both rooms were visible to Peter, the farther one by the width of the passage between them which was enough to reveal to Peter any one who might enter and pass it.

There were a few minutes of silence except for the quick breathing of Michael crouched beside Peter and standing to one side of him so that he was hidden from the other rooms. And during this time Peter began to suspect that it was all a ruse of Michael. The old general was probably trying to catch Peter off his guard, and attack him. It was quite likely, so Peter thought, that Michael in some way had come to knowledge of the fact that Lutoff had apprised Peter of the identity of the Kirsakoffs.

But Peter abandoned his suspicion when he heard a rattling of the door in the far room. Some one was rattling the knob in place of knocking, a practice customary when one wanted to enter without attracting the attention of those in other rooms opening into the hall. The rattling ceased. The next instant Peter saw in the gloom of the far room a high white cap of wool, and a gray sheepskin coat, and a Cossack stood looking in the direction of Peter, head bent forward against the sharper light from Peter’s windows.

The Cossack hesitated but a moment, then he advanced toward Peter, one hand behind him as if he held a weapon in concealment.

“What do you want?” asked Peter.

The Cossack did not reply, but came on till he was close to Peter.

“Who are you?” asked the Cossack. He moved slightly to the right and looked past Peter, his eyes upon Michael.

“I am an American officer,” said Peter coldly. “These are my rooms.”

“An American officer! You speak Russian well, for an American.”

“You are intruding,” said Peter. “Or have you come on a mission?”

“I am Captain Shimilin of the Ataman’s staff,” said the Cossack, and put his hand on the hilt of his saber as he clicked his heels and bowed, formally polite.

“And I am Lieutenant Gordon of the American army,” said Peter. “This is my room. Please! Come in!” There was no other thing for Peter to do, unless he wished to bring on hostilities with Shimilin. It was very likely that the Cossack captain had soldiers within call. And now it looked very much as if an escape to Harbin would be out of the question.

Shimilin entered as Peter stepped aside. The Cossack looked at Michael, who had retreated to the low writing table under the window, clutching the blanket about him.

“Have you business of the Ataman with me?” asked Peter.

“No, not with you,” said Shimilin. “I did not call upon you, but I thank you for your politeness.”

Peter considered what he should do next. He had no wish to see Michael wrested from his control in this fashion, and he had no doubt but that Shimilin had come for Michael. It was quite likely that Katerin had been seized when she went down to arrange matters with Slipitsky. Peter frowned at the thought that Michael would escape him, even though the old general met death at the hands of the Ataman’s soldiers. It came to him that the limit of his vengeance now would be but to surrender Michael and taunt him with the fact that the Cossacks—his own Cossacks—could now deal with a Kirsakoff as they had dealt in the old days with a Gorekin. But Peter hoped to delay with Shimilin. It might be possible to get the Cossack away for a time, when Peter would have things in his own hands again, if only for a brief space. He began to see that his hand was being forced—if he was to kill Michael he would have to do it in Chita—probably on the spot, and that in the next few minutes.

“Could you tell me why you have come to my room?” asked Peter.

“Oh, yes,” said Shimilin easily, as he faced Michael. “I have come to arrest this old man.”

“Arrest him? For what?” asked Peter, feigning a mild surprise. Shimilin seemed so casual, so light-hearted, so jaunty that he appeared to regard the whole matter as in the nature of a joke. He smiled good-naturedly at Michael.

Shimilin lifted his shoulders inside the sheepskin coat, put out both hands with the palms upward, and jerked his head. “It is a business of the Ataman. You speak Russian well. Are you a Russian?”

“Yes,” said Peter.

“Of course,” said Shimilin. “Only a Russian could speak so. Have you called upon the Ataman Zorogoff? What do you think of—our Ataman?” He regarded Peter with questioning eyes.

“I have not yet called,” replied Peter. “I know little about the Ataman.”

“You have heard about him here in Chita. Surely, you must have formed some opinion.”

“No,” said Peter dryly. “If I had, I doubt if I would discuss it.”

“Now, now,” said Shimilin, not in the least offended by Peter’s reluctance to discuss the Ataman, “I know all that. But what do the Americans—the American army in Vladivostok—think of Zorogoff?”

Shimilin’s curiosity on that score seemed without limit.

“I doubt if they have given him much thought,” said Peter. “But about this gentleman here—I am sorry that you want to arrest him. And in my room.”

“What does that matter?” asked the Cossack.

“But little,” agreed Peter, who felt that he could have his way with Shimilin if the Cossack believed that Peter was not seriously opposed to having Michael taken. For Peter knew that a Cossack can be cajoled when open antagonism only strengthens his resistance.

“True,” said Shimilin, with a smile. “We need have no quarrel. And being a soldier, you know what duty means—I must obey my orders at all cost. I am glad that you have sensible ideas.”

Captain Shimilin evidently took it for granted that Peter had decided not to interfere, but would allow Michael to go with the Cossack. Still, Shimilin took no action. It appeared that he wished to prolong his conversation with Peter, and his eyes when he looked at Peter were frankly curious.

Michael leaned back against the table, his back to the window, watching Peter closely. The old general’s head nodded gently with the palsy, suggestive of being moved by the beating of his heart. He divined in Peter some sudden change of manner, and suspected that Peter was not going to protect him against the Cossack. But he said nothing.

“I would advise you to call later,” suggested Peter suddenly, affecting a serious mien with Shimilin.

The Cossack was visibly surprised at this.

“What! Come later? What difference can it make?”

“It might make some difference to your Ataman,” said Peter, purposely putting a dash of mystery into the sentence. “I do not demand, captain, that you come later. I merely advise it—for your own benefit. I can’t explain now—but if you will come back in an hour——”

“Oh, no,” said Shimilin, though not quite sure of himself. “I am not to be prevented from carrying out my orders.”

“I also have my orders,” said Peter significantly.

“Oh,” said Shimilin. “It would be unfortunate if your orders conflicted with mine.” He drew his lips tightly across his teeth, and his eyes looked squarely into Peter’s.

“True!” retorted Peter. “It would be unfortunate. But I have been talking with this old gentleman here—and we have not finished our conversation.”

“What have you been talking about?”

“That is a private matter between ourselves.”

“Ah! Something about the Ataman, I presume,” said Shimilin, giving Michael a suspicious look. Then to Peter, “You would hardly believe a man who is sought by the Ataman to have anything good to say about him—if you could trust such a report by such a man.”

“What this old gentleman has to say about the Ataman—good or bad—is likely to be borne out by the actions of the Ataman. You can see, Captain Shimilin, that if your Ataman did something which did not meet my approval—such as an arrest without sufficient warrant—I might be able to form my own opinion of the Ataman.”