Cyril Vlasenko gazed out his window at the Secret Police Headquarters onto the wide St. Petersburg avenue.
Ah, St. Petersburg! He could still hardly believe his good fortune. He would not rejoice over another man’s death. But if the tsar needed a new chief for the Third Section, the growing secret police force, then it might as well be he. He was as good as any other who could have been selected for the prominent post.
Better! he thought to himself.
He would dedicate himself ruthlessly to rooting out the radical swine who were behind all the unrest. He would also watch himself more closely so that danger could not get close, as it had three weeks ago. He was not about to be such a fool as Mezentsev and get himself killed in the middle of a crowd! Cyril chuckled to himself. Perhaps he did owe something to the rascal who had stabbed the old chief. Otherwise he would not be seated behind Mezentsev’s desk at this moment. Yes, he would show his favor all right, by unearthing the miscreant and slipping a tight noose around his neck—and all his filthy compatriots with him!
Cyril Vlasenko, new Third Section chief, was not one to be cowed before those villainous tactics of violence and intimidation. The very might of the tsar’s fist was behind him, and no handful of student rabble-rousers was capable of toppling so vast an empire.
Vlasenko breathed deeply, as if he could feel the morning air drift into his lungs through the glass of the window. But his heady exhilaration was clouded slightly, as always, when a nagging thought of his haughty cousin intruded into his ponderings. Vlasenko’s spy in the Fedorcenko house had definitely paid off! It had been a chance in a million that he’d uncover such a choice tidbit. Ha! Far more than a mere “tidbit”! He’d had a vague suspicion of it previously, and so had been able to set the servant girl in a specific direction. But obtaining proof positive of the little skeleton in Viktor’s closet was a coup indeed.
And what had made this particular item an even more potent weapon was that it did not strike directly at Viktor himself. The high-and-mighty prince might not have bent his so-called honor to save himself. But to save a loved one, no less than his frail and pampered wife? That Viktor could not ignore.
But Vlasenko could not erase from his mind’s eye that look of utter disdain Viktor had worn when he had capitulated to Cyril’s demand for Viktor to get him a substantial governmental position in exchange for his silence. “High up, Viktor,” Cyril had said, “and in the Capital. You get me right into the center of power, or your name will become hateful in the tsar’s ear!”
“You are a swine, Cyril,” Viktor had seethed, “lower than the scum of this earth. You will have your high office, and I dearly hope you rot in it! But if we are lucky, some rebel’s bullet will cut you down and save everyone the annoyance of your presence.”
Oh, he was proud and arrogant, this aristocrat with the lily-white hands of a woman!
Cyril would prove to him and everyone else what they all should have known long ago—that Count Cyril Vlasenko was a man of skill and cunning, not to be taken lightly.
And Cyril could not keep from wondering how much further he might be able to go in government. Maybe he had blackmailed his way this far, but there was no reason why he could not go even further on his own merits. Perhaps to the Winter Palace itself . . . perhaps as a minister one day! If not . . . well, he might yet be able to get more distance out of his information on Natalia.
At that thought, however, Cyril slowly and reluctantly shook his head. Viktor was not a man you could push too far. If Cyril became greedy—and he had to admit this weakness as a primary element of his character—he could well find himself back at the beginning, shuffling papers in some provincial outpost even more isolated than Akulin or Katyk.
No, it was best he remain content for now, and work hard to prove himself worthy of promotion on his own abilities.
As if to punctuate his silent resolve, Cyril returned his attention to the papers on his desk. Several dossiers of insurgents and rebels lay before him. He perused them carefully, for in them lay his ticket to prestige and advancement.
He paid special note to one in particular. It was the file on a young man he had encountered a time or two before in the Akulin district. It would be a sweet irony that a criminal from his old district might catapult him forward now. And the capture of this fellow would indeed be a feather in his cap, for, though he was by no means one of the most notorious rebel leaders, he was apparently close enough to the top to have a ream of information that could bring down the leadership.
The man went by many aliases—Adrianov, Jarnev, Kazan—who knew what his real name was? What did it even matter? Kazan had been his name in Katyk.
Cyril ran a stubby finger across the scraggly beard that barely covered the ample folds of his two chins. The jewels of the rings on his hand caught the morning light, glinting and sparkling in an impressive manner. Only the cunning glint in his eyes matched the display on his fingers. Cyril recalled that Kazan, an obvious outsider and agitator in Katyk, had befriended a few of the local youth, one in particular named Paul Burenin. He himself had questioned the Burenin boy when he was arrested with Kazan. Back then Cyril was interested in Paul’s sister’s position in the Fedorcenko household, thinking he might use her as his behind-the-scenes plant. But it was too late, for the girl had already been incorporated into the household staff. Fortunately, Cyril was able to install someone fresh and new.
So even if the brash young son of that insolent peasant Yevno Burenin had not proved helpful then, he might still be of some use. At least it would be worth the effort to send one of his lackeys to Katyk in order to grill the boy regarding his association with this insurrectionist named Kazan. Paul might well know something about the fellow’s background, perhaps even his family.
If only I could get my hands on the family of this Kazan, or whoever he really is, I would have him in no time, thought Vlasenko confidently. And once he had him, he’d send the whole lot of them, the Burenins included, to Siberia! That was the only place for troublemakers and sympathizers and those associated with them.
Cyril pushed back his chair, rose, and strode to his office door. Opening it, he addressed one of a handful of men who were working in the anteroom.
“Surkov, come into my office. I have an assignment for you.”
Surkov scurried quickly to his feet, and in three strides was in the office of the chief of Russia’s secret police. Vlasenko shut the door and, eagerly rubbing his hands together, returned to his desk and picked up the dossier.