PETER spent the afternoon walking the floor of his room, his whole being in a glow from the fever of revenge which had flamed up brightly within him while he listened to “Vashka”—the name by which he knew Katerin.
And Peter’s inner fury was directed against his own mental image of Kirsakoff—a picture revivified and given new clarity in Peter’s brain by Katerin’s description of her father as he had been in the old days. Peter killed that man over and over again in imagination. He knew that it might take weeks before he could so shuffle the combination of circumstances that Kirsakoff might be slain with the greatest margin of safety for himself.
Through the years, Peter’s hope for vengeance had become to him a holy mission. There had been times during his life in the United States when he realized that he might never return to Siberia in time to carry out his dream of vengeance. But the old hatred had smoldered. Now it was burning at white heat.
What had been his own selfish desire was now transformed into a patriotic fervor to help his own people. The old tribal spirit of the Slav had come to life again within him when he encountered the mad ecstasy of liberty among the people in Vladivostok. He longed to have some hand in the great emancipation which had been brought about by those of his race. He was determined to join the orgy of destruction. And now he saw his own personal revenge coupled with the troubles of the old exile and his daughter. Not only would Peter become the savior of the beautiful Vashka and strike a blow to thwart the new tyranny of Zorogoff, but his own father would be avenged. Katerin personified for him the Russia which must be saved, just as Kirsakoff personified the Russia which must be destroyed. For Kirsakoff, a survivor of the old autocracy, was plotting with the Mongol, Zorogoff, to defeat the purposes of the revolution and once more bind the people to the wheel of slavery. The old system was evil, and no vestige of it must remain. That was the aim of the people, and Peter believed in it. His mind had never grasped the thought that in the background of events there might be a new autocracy throwing sand in the eyes of the people to enslave them with new fetters which were not yet visible. “Destroy! Destroy all who do not work!” was the cry. And as work was defined for the mass of the people, it meant common labor—and the laborer lacked the ability to think about the consequences of killing all who might be able to divine the purpose behind the cry for destruction. And Peter was trapped into thinking only of the past and its evils, without looking into the future of a race which allowed only its serfs to live.
He thought only of the fact that he had been rescued from Siberia and sent back with the power of avenging his own wrongs. And as he prayed for success, he crossed himself with both hands, in the way of the people of old. The deep well of mysticism and emotionalism which so often had swept the Slav into action without the cooler previsions of those races which had gained the beginning of their freedom in the Dark Ages, now shook Peter’s soul. He was living again in the stark horrors of his boyhood—living over again the bitter morning when his father had been struck down in the street. These memories he hoped to blot out by slaying with his own hand one dragon of the old autocracy—Michael Alexandrovitch Kirsakoff.
Michael would be well guarded, and wary. But his vigilance might be relaxed by artifice. Peter had not yet formulated his plan, but there would be many pretexts for getting closely in touch with Kirsakoff. Peter might even represent that he had come to enter into secret negotiations with Kirsakoff on behalf of the American government. That was one of the many possible plans which flitted through Peter’s brain. But the business would require care in preparation and good judgment in its execution. All impulses toward prompt decision must be put aside—it would be a patient waiting for the minute which promised success without attaching the slightest suspicion to Lieutenant Peter Gordon of the American army.
That could be done only after a period of slowly acquiring the confidence of Michael. Peter would have to build up a pretended sympathy with the old régime and its adherents, and show a willingness to aid Zorogoff and Kirsakoff in gaining the friendship of the American forces—even plan to aid in betraying the people of Russia in their aspirations for freedom.
Peter saw himself dining with Kirsakoff as a guest of the general; he built in his imagination a succession of secret conferences with Kirsakoff, and then, perhaps during an evening over wine and cigarettes, a whisper to Michael, “Do you know who I am in truth? Peter Petrovitch, son of Gorekin the bootmaker——!” and then the bullet and the escape.
Peter could see Michael turn his horrified eyes upon the smiling American officer who was really the son of an exile. Gorekin the bootmaker! Michael might not remember at first. How could a Governor be expected to carry in his memory a poor unfortunate, and a boy of twenty years before? But Peter would make Michael remember. There must be time for that so that Michael should know by whose hand he died. That would be necessary if Peter was to have his complete joy in his vengeance.
When the sun had dropped over the crest of the hills, and the frost was gradually creeping upward on the panes, etching a thick tropical foliage upon the glass, Peter went to the window and looked out over the Valley of Despair. The little hut of his boyhood was merging slowly into the shadows of the taller buildings about it. Tiny sparks appeared in the white smoke rising from the hut’s stone chimney—Rimsky was evidently feeding the fire-pit for the night.
Peter stood by the window musing on the bitter days and nights of the exiles long dead and forgotten—on the staggering columns coming in afoot over the Czar’s road to a living death, on the clanking of chains and fetters, on the screams in the nights as some cabal of exiles “roofed” one who had betrayed some breaking of the rules to the guards, on the barking of rifles as fugitives were hunted out of the hills.
Chita had become a city. It was built of the tears and anguish, of bodies destroyed and minds wrecked, of hates and cruelties, all mixed with the bricks and logs of its walls. And limitless legions of human beings had been poured into the wilderness and their bodies used as fertilizer to build up a new empire for the rulers of Russia.
“Oh, you cry for justice!” he said to the spirits of those who had suffered. “The time has come for justice—you have waited long, but to-morrow will not be as yesterday!”
He turned from the window and took his belt and pistol from the writing table and strapped them about him. Then he turned on the shaded droplight. It threw down upon the cloth of the writing table a yellow cone of radiance. It was now five by his watch. He rang the bell thrice—the signal for Vashka, as Katerin called herself.
He sat down by the table and waited. The sound of people walking about in the hall furtively, came to his ears, with the careful opening and closing of doors and snatches of conversation. He heard the strains of an old Russian air played on a violin by some one on the floor above, and the regular pounding of feet as if the steps of a Cossack dance were being tried intermittently.
It was the hour of the evening when the people in the hotel began to bestir themselves for the gay times of the night. They kept hidden during the day, and went abroad under cover of darkness to the restaurants of the city, to return to their rooms in the early morning.
The men who lived in the hotel were mostly officers who were attached to the Ataman’s army, judging from those Peter had seen about the halls. The women were a flashy lot—women who had drifted up the railroad from Vladivostok or Harbin, and women of the sort that has the best of everything in times of famine and disorder. They were the parasites who seem to thrive best in times of disaster, and who get the most out of life when there are no laws of restraint. When they have acquired some amount of treasure, they are robbed and abandoned.
Katerin was at the door in response to the signal by bell with amazing promptitude. She entered without knocking, and closed the door behind her softly. She stood for a minute, a vague shadow in the gloom outside the zone of the shaded lamp.
Peter rose and moved toward her. “Thank you for coming,” he said in a low voice in keeping with her secretive entrance. “Have you persuaded your father to tell me what I wish to know? Will he help me in my quest?”
“If you still wish it,” she replied. “Please! Take the shade from the lamp—the darkness is not pleasant.”
Peter caught a note of melancholy in her voice. She seemed to be discouraged, and his own hopeful attitude was somewhat chilled.
“Has anything gone wrong?” he asked.
“No, not unless it is wrong for us to involve you in the same dangers which face us. My father appears reluctant to put you into a situation the full danger of which may not be apparent to you, a stranger.”
Peter laughed merrily to cover the sudden fear which he had felt that she might recede from her promise to help him find Michael Kirsakoff.
“I have no fear,” he said. “There may be danger, but I am glad to help you. I shall attempt to find Kirsakoff in any event—and may well run into more danger than if your father should tell me how to go about the job. So when it comes to that, my danger is only increased if you do not help.”
“Perhaps you are right,” she said.
He went and lifted the shade off the lamp, and stood revealed in his uniform in the flood of light. The silver bars on his shoulders glittered as he leaned over the lamp, but Katerin’s eyes rested upon the brown boxlike holster at his hip.
He swung round upon her, smiling. Now he saw that her gay mood of her former visit had vanished—her eyes seemed sadder and the light revealed the pinched pallor of her face. She was suffering from strain long endured, he saw, and a twinge of pity tugged at his heart.
He went and pulled down the decrepit window shades, and then slapped his pistol. “Here we have the power of America!” he said. “Behind me is an army. Come! It is not a time to be sad! America is here, and that means justice to the oppressed!”
She sat down in a chair, and smiled at him, in a brave attempt to be merry with him.
“America must be a wonderful land,” she said. “I have heard much about it, and read much about it. But there are many who say it is no better than our own Russia.”
“What!” cried Peter. “You must not be misled. America is a land of magic! Look at me, a poor Russian boy who was the son of an unfortunate here in the Valley of Despair, and in a few years it transformed me into an officer, and sent me back to help my own people—and to help you, Vashka.”
“And in time you will go back to America,” she said. “Like all Russians who have been there and return to their own land, you will once more go to America.”
“Oh, yes. I shall go back when Russia has her freedom. But what did your father say? Have you persuaded him to help me about Kirsakoff? You have not told me that.”
“My father is discouraged. You must not be annoyed if he is slow and cautious with you, who are a stranger. He has said that he doubts if one American officer can fight the army of Zorogoff.”
“But he must remember also that I am a Russian. Does he think I will hide behind my American coat, and allow Kirsakoff and Zorogoff to destroy you? I may be only one, but behind me is the American army, and Zorogoff must give heed to that.”
“But if Zorogoff’s men should kill you? We have seen terrible things here—men are shot down crossing the street if they are opposed to Zorogoff. And who is to know who fired the shot if you should meet such a fate? Then, if it were known to Zorogoff that we had helped you, it would be the worse for us, with no one to protect us.”
“True,” said Peter, “but it is one thing for Zorogoff to terrorize a girl and a helpless old man, and quite another for him to frighten or kill an American officer—or defy the American army. He is aware of that, and he will be careful with me.”
“But your soldiers are in Vladivostok.”
“That is near enough to make Zorogoff think twice. In time he would have to pay the shot. And once we have found Kirsakoff and I have attended to my business, we shall leave the city.”
“You are brave,” she said simply, with a look of admiration.
He shrugged his shoulders. “It is you have been brave. It is easy for me to talk, with an army at my back. Please—tell me one thing—are you expecting an American officer to come here and meet you and your father?”
She looked at him in surprise, as if trying to understand what meaning might be behind his question. She locked her fingers together, and took her time before replying.
“No, we are not expecting an American officer. Our friends may send help to us. That is why I came to you—any newcomer in the city might bring word from friends—might be seeking to get news to us from friends.”
She laughed suddenly in comprehension of his meaning, and went on hastily. “We who are beset clutch at any straw—and you were a straw. Yet was I not wise? For you have said you will save us—you would even take us away, or——”
Katerin stopped abruptly, and looked into the light of the lamp. Her eyes showed more animation now, and Peter found himself admiring the patrician poise of her head. She turned away from his gaze, and shivered slightly.
“Or what?” he prompted.
“Or you would even kill Kirsakoff for us—rid us of one of our enemies.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed, and he smiled.
“What makes you think I would kill Kirsakoff?” he asked. “Have I said anything to make you believe that?”
“No,” she admitted, returning his gaze for an instant. “You have not said that. But if my father is to help you find Kirsakoff, you must first convince us that you are an enemy of Kirsakoff. It will be a secret for a secret, in the old way of bargaining among the exiles. We have trusted you much, but how do we know what your purpose is in finding Kirsakoff?”
Peter frowned at the floor and considered what she had said. He had not counted on having to take any one into his confidence. He did not doubt that he would be able to find Kirsakoff on his own account, if he had plenty of time. But his time in Chita was not at his own disposal. An American officer might come through the city and report that he had seen Peter; before very long, Peter would be compelled to go on to Irkutsk and report himself from there, or go down the line of the railroad. And once in touch with Vladivostok, he knew that orders might come from headquarters which would compel him to appear in some other city without delay.
And what damage could be done by telling this girl and her father his reasons for wanting Kirsakoff? They, themselves, feared and hated the Governor, who was again in power. They could be trusted not to betray him.
“What you say is fair enough,” he said finally. “I think I can convince your father that I am the friend of anybody who was an exile, and that——” He was about to add, “I am an enemy of Michael Kirsakoff.” But he refrained. There would be time enough for that when he talked with her father, and he was determined that before he told his story, he should meet and judge for himself the measure of confidence to be given to the old man who had been an exile.
“I should like to know your full reasons—for wanting to find Kirsakoff,” suggested Katerin. She, too, was wary.
“You shall hear,” he said, “when I talk with your father.” And he spoke with finality, as if there were no use in going further with the subject.
She went to the wardrobe against the wall, and turning to Peter, said, “Move this away from the door which leads to our rooms—I got the Jew to bring us near to you. Now we can pass from our rooms to yours without going into the hall. It will be safer, for we cannot tell who will see us if we have to use the hall.”
“That was wise,” he said, and going to the wardrobe, he put his shoulder against it, and steadying it with his hand, shoved it aside far enough to clear the door which it concealed. When he had finished, she picked up the shade of the lamp and slipped it back over the globe.
“We are not known to the servants,” she said. “You must be careful with our names—which are—Natsavaloff.”
“Perhaps it will be well to avoid using any names,” said Peter. “It might increase your danger.”
“It would, indeed,” she agreed. “Now, I shall go round and free the bolt on our side—and take you to my father.”
Katerin slipped into the hall, and Peter snapped out the light on the table and waited in darkness. In a minute he heard the rattle of the bolt on the far side of the door, and then it swung open slowly.
Katerin stood before him, outlined against the dim light seeping in from a farther room through curtains hanging in a doorway.
“Come!” she directed in a whisper. “My father is eager to talk with you. But remember—he is very old, and he is still in some pain from his wounds. And if he is querulous, I trust that you will be patient with him.”