Intermittent bursts of warm breath hung suspended in the icy air, then slowly dispersed into the frigid night.
This was as cold as it would get in St. Petersburg. February was no month to be standing idly about on the street corners of the city. Paul Burenin fidgeted nervously; he and Andrei Zhelyabov would attract attention if they did not do something soon. They were milling about Senate Square trying to appear interested in the statue of Peter the Great and the grandeur of St. Isaac’s Cathedral. But the two young men hardly looked the part of tourists, especially given the hour and the temperature.
Zhelyabov dug a gloved hand beneath the layers of his winter clothing and withdrew a pocket watch. He flipped the lid open, shook his head, and clicked his tongue. He snapped the watch closed, then buried it once more in its warm hiding place.
“We’ve time,” he said, a steamy vapor rising on his words. “I’m afraid in my eagerness I got us here early. It is only 6:15.”
“How early are we?”
“Dinner will not be served, according to our sources, until 6:30.”
“Perhaps we should walk about,” suggested Paul, hoping his words did not betray his growing faintheartedness. In the last few months he had been involved in an increasing number of incidents, but they had all been minor and inconsequential compared with tonight’s mission.
“Good idea.” Zhelyabov turned and they continued talking as they struck out across the Square, heading toward Marskaya Prospect, passing St. Isaac’s on their right. “Have courage, Paul,” the leader said. “In another fifteen minutes all your fears and anxieties and months of faithfulness will be well rewarded. You shall even be able to forgive me for depriving you of Vlasenko. Why, even Anickin might find it in his heart—if he has one!—to render absolution for his loss of vengeance.”
“I doubt such things trouble him now from his prison cell.”
“On the contrary, Paul. If I know anything about the workings of Basil Anickin’s mind—and who could claim to understand such a twisted brain as his?—I have the feeling it will eat away at him still. I pity his enemies if he is ever released. A man like Anickin never forgets, and stops at nothing for the sake of revenge.”
“How long will he be in?”
“Technically speaking, he is no longer in the Fortress.”
“They released him?”
“Hardly. From what I heard he suffered a complete breakdown in prison and was taken to a mental ward. I’ll warrant he’s still in chains, but some of our comrades have been talking about aiding an escape.”
“Do you think it’s possible?”
“To tell you the truth, I have been dragging my feet in giving it my sanction. I don’t know what to think of Anickin. He will never submit to anyone but himself. To have someone like that running loose can only hinder our cause, especially now that his own thirst for revenge is driving him to the edge of lunacy.”
Paul made no response. He agreed completely with his mentor, though for his own personal reasons. As long as Anickin was locked up, the Fedorcenkos would be safe. And if they were safe, Anna was safe. And fortunately, without the force of Anickin’s presence, the planned attack on the Fedorcenkos had been stalled.
They continued walking in silence, and Paul turned his thoughts to matters closer at hand. It still seemed incredible to him, but in less than fifteen minutes, The People’s Will would make its most audacious strike yet against the hated Romanov dynasty. A bomb was about to be detonated in the very lair of Russia’s emperor—in the Winter Palace itself.
A few weeks ago, some repairs had been commissioned inside the palace. One of their number, a man named Khalturin, who as yet had no official reputation or record to hide, had been hired on as a carpenter. He also received permission to sleep in the basement with a handful of the others while the work was in progress.
Over the last several weeks, Zhelyabov supplied explosives for Khalturin to smuggle into the Winter Palace. After accumulating over fifty kilograms of TNT, he laid a mine in the basement directly under the imperial dining room, using enough dynamite to blast the room to splinters—and most importantly, to end once and for all the life of Tsar Alexander II, last Tsar of Russia.
Yes, thought Paul, it was worth laying aside his desired vengeance against the Third Section chief to see the hopes of their movement at last fulfilled.
Slowly they made their way back to the rendezvous point. Zhelyabov carried a small bag containing coat, cap, and forged identity papers for their comrade—just in case anything went wrong with his escape from the Palace.
They both scanned the darkness for any sign of movement. He should appear at any minute.