The chief of police watched the back of the man’s uniform with a placid expression as the guard exited his office. But when the door closed, slowly a thin smile of satisfaction spread across his face.
He looked down at the report he had just hastily filled out at the man’s request, then leaned back in his chair. Gradually the smile turned to a chuckle, which led in turn to outright laughter.
Cyril Vlasenko could not have scripted a more perfect scenario had he tried! The demise of the House of Fedorcenko was nearly complete!
He had followed the case of the young prince with quiet glee—his banishment to the Asian campaign, his trouble with his superiors, his trial, and his exile. He had sent all the perfunctory condolences at Natalia’s death. His own wife had truly grieved, but his attentions had been on Viktor’s pain and suffering.
And now this—to learn that an attempt had been made on the daughter’s life! How could it be that tragedy would strike so perfectly all in the same place!
He would do just as he told the fellow—initiate a search for Anickin, keep a close watch on the estate, everything his official position demanded. He would not search with too much diligence. It wouldn’t do to find Anickin before he had finished with his business. But to round up one more revolutionary, and a murderer besides, would be a fine addition to his dossier in the eyes of the new tsar.
Of course he understood the gravity of the danger, he had nodded seriously as Grigorov explained Viktor’s “unstable” condition. The prince was not well just now, and every precaution must be exercised. Yes . . . yes . . . he grasped the situation perfectly. He would do everything possible to use discretion in the protection of the former tsar’s trusted minister.
Ha, ha! laughed Vlasenko. So it was true, after all! Viktor had at last slipped over the edge! It was too delicious! Ha, ha, ha!
He had heard rumors, but he had never allowed himself to believe they could actually be based on fact.
What the Cossack’s position was in the whole thing remained unclear. A friend of the family, he had said. Cyril thought he knew everyone who was connected with the Fedorcenko estate, and he had never seen or heard of this fellow. But he wore the uniform of the tsar’s personal retinue at the Winter Palace, so it would hardly be wise to question him too scrupulously. Probably some friend of the girl’s ne’er-do-well count of a husband.
“Where is the count?” Vlasenko had asked the Cossack, eying his reaction with sly circumspection.
“Away on matters pertaining to his position,” the guard had answered without hesitation.
It was vague, Cyril thought, but the man’s unflinching expression gave him no reason to doubt its veracity.
“And the young princess?”
“No harm from the attack, though shaken. She is well along with child,” Grigorov had answered. “Were you aware of that fact?”
Cyril had nodded gravely, even though he wasn’t sure whether he had heard it or not.
“She had been at her father’s only for the evening when the attack occurred,” the Cossack said, “and has now been removed back to her own house, where she will remain in isolation for the remainder of her time. The child is due any day, and the princess is well attended to. We should take precautions to have gendarmes positioned to watch both the Fedorcenko and the Remizov estates.”
“Yes, yes,” Vlasenko agreed. “I shall put the full might of my position behind their protection.”
Cyril chuckled again as he remembered the brief conversation, then tossed the report on top of a stack of other papers on one corner of his desk. He would inform a few of his men of the situation . . . but not until next week.
That should give Anickin time to see to his business.