Cerkover padded up the steps that led to Cyril Vlasenko’s spacious office in the Ministry of the Interior building. He was in the habit of using the back way to the count’s office rather than the front elevator. Though Cerkover was Vlasenko’s official aide, it always paid to be cautious. The cunning and devious Count Vlasenko, who was continually spinning numberless plots and intrigues, would want it that way, at any rate.
Cerkover puffed heavily. At forty, he was no longer a young man and the years had not been kind to him. He reached the count’s door and paused, not only to catch his breath, but to admire his surroundings—the wide corridor, carpeted with a Persian runner, the massive door with its brass hardware, and the gold-embossed plaque that announced “Count Cyril Vlasenko, Under Secretary of the Interior.” The count’s henchman envied all this and aspired to possess it one day. That he was this close was a small miracle in itself, for less than ten years ago he had been nothing but a minor constable in a dirty Ukrainian village. He had made himself known to Vlasenko, then governor-general of the province, by being an informant and all-around bootlicker. He had been instrumental in turning the blame for some civil unrest upon the Jewish populous. This coup had brought Vlasenko to the attention of the Imperial government, and when Cyril had been promoted, he didn’t forget the constable who had helped make it all possible. For this, Cerkover was ever indebted to the count and would do anything for the man. He hoped Vlasenko’s gratitude would be evident in promotions closer and closer to the seat of power. So far, he hadn’t been disappointed.
Cerkover knew his mentor well enough to realize what he now carried to the man was one of the best coups of his career. He knew everything about Vlasenko’s bitter vendetta against the Fedorcenko family. He didn’t quite understand it—that is, he didn’t understand why it continued, considering the fact that the count had squeezed nearly all possible life from the family. But, for whatever reason, Vlasenko seemed to glory in any misfortune that fell upon that hapless family, and all the better if the count himself was the cause of the calamity.
That being the case, what Cerkover now possessed ought to make Count Vlasenko ecstatic, and, as a result, give Cerkover quite a boost in the esteem of his mentor.
He entered the outer office. Vlasenko’s secretary was busy shuffling through an open file drawer. She glanced up, gave him a pinched smile, and continued with her work.
“Is he in?” asked Cerkover.
“Approach at your own risk,” she said dourly.
“Something wrong?”
“He just came from a meeting with the Interior Minister; that never makes him happy.”
“Let him know I’m here.”
“You brave man.” The woman left her cabinet, returned to her desk, punched a button on the intercom, and informed the count he had a visitor.
In another minute, Cerkover was standing before Vlasenko in his plush office. The count was sipping a glass of brandy and puffing on an expensive cigar. He offered neither to Cerkover.
“This had better be good,” growled Vlasenko. “After an hour with that blathering idiot Svyatopolk-Mirsky, I can’t take more bad news.”
“This should brighten your day considerably.”
“Well, get on with it.” Vlasenko finished his brandy in one swallow and then poured a second glass.
“You recall the task you sent me on several days ago?” Cerkover breathed the pleasant odor of cigar smoke, vowing to buy himself one downstairs when he finished with Vlasenko. He deserved to celebrate.
“Of course I remember. What do you take me for? Now quit twaddling and tell me—what happened?”
“My first telegram to the Kara Prison was not promising,” Cerkover said, trying to moderate his usually colorful and self-serving manner of reporting in order to placate his boss’s present impatience. “They claimed that the prisoner Sergei Fedorcenko had been on the official rolls from 1881 to 1896, whereupon he died in a flu epidemic.”
“You, of course, didn’t accept that answer?” The brandy was warming Vlasenko, and the anticipation of some positive news seemed to be improving his disposition.
“You yourself, my dear count, taught me never to accept surface evidence. I got to thinking that for anyone to survive fifteen years in the Kara mines was a small miracle in and of itself. I also know it’s common practice for those wardens to carry dead or escaped prisoners on their rolls for many years in order to extort extra money from the government, by pocketing the allowances for absent prisoners. I suppose that extra income is the only thing that makes their jobs bearable. Well, I have a friend who is an official in the region, and who also happens to owe his job to me—you may recall the fellow who helped us in another matter—”
“Enough!” exploded Vlasenko; even the brandy could not still his impatience. “Tell me, was it him, or not?”
“My friend was able to go in person to the mines and have a look at the books. That’s why this has taken a few extra days.” Cerkover knew he was pushing it, but he had to impress his boss with his investigative talents. “In 1896, a new warden took over the mines. Before the old warden retired, he purged his books—in essence, ‘killing off’ many already-departed prisoners he had been carrying for years. Fedorcenko was one of about a dozen who succumbed to the supposed flu outbreak.”
“But what proof have you that he didn’t die then, or at some other time during that fifteen-year period?”
“There was no flu epidemic. My friend confirmed this by questioning a couple guards who had been there in ’96.”
“Yes, but he could have died at any time before then.”
“The only way to confirm that was to locate the retired warden.”
“Yes . . . ?” Vlasenko took several anxious puffs off his cigar, not even bothering to inhale.
“He’s very old now, still residing in Siberia, in the Lake Baikal region, living very nicely off his extortion. He was quite willing to talk when he realized he’d been found out—”
“Your friend traveled there to interview him?”
“Impossible this time of year because of the weather. But my Kara contact got in touch with a friend of his—you know how it works.”
“Yes, and I suppose this is going to cost me a pretty kopeck.”
“Knowing your financial limitations, Your Excellency, I promised promotions instead of cash. Believe me, they were quite happy for a promise of anything that would deliver them from the Far East.”
“Very good. I’ve got government posts in abundance that ought to make them happy. Now, what did this retired warden say?” Vlasenko drained off the last of his brandy.
“His memory is not the sharpest—he’s at least seventy years old. But he remembered well certain events in the summer of 1881. After all, it’s not every day one has a prince and ex-Imperial Guard for a prisoner—not to mention a prisoner who made a rather flamboyant escape—”
“An escape! I knew it!” Vlasenko’s flabby jowls shook as he pounded his fist triumphantly on his desk. “But that means he’s been at large for twenty-three years.”
“That is not all. I made inquiries about the fellow in the photograph. He is known among the workers as Sergei Ivanovich Christinin. He is married to Anna Burenin—”
“No!”
“You know the name, I gather. Peasants near your estate in Katyk. Christinin—or, rather Fedorcenko—and the girl were married in 1882.”
“All those years!” exclaimed Vlasenko. “Right under my nose!” Cyril leaned back heavily in his chair.
“The man has cheek, I must say.” Cerkover was pleased by his employer’s shocked reaction.
“It all makes sense, though. The Burenin girl was a Fedorcenko servant for years—the young prince must have been carrying on with her all along. And, once he was a fugitive, he probably felt he couldn’t do much better than the peasant girl, so he married her. Still, it took nerve, I’ll give him that. And then to risk it all by helping his father four years ago.”
“So, Count Vlasenko, what now?”
“What do you think, Cerkover? How can I, with a clear conscience, allow a fugitive from justice, a murderer no less, to remain free?”