Sweet Love, Survive (16 page)

    Over several glasses of liquor in one of the local cafes the question was where the devil to begin searching for the countess in a city this size. In the event that Kitty had managed to reach Stavropol, and in the event she had money, and in the event she wasn’t murdered for it, they decided she may have stayed at one of the hotels. When Aladino had been overrun almost four weeks ago, Stavropol had still been under White control. It was natural for Kitty to first seek refuge here. Unfortunately, it appeared that the city had fallen along with the districts near Aladino, and Beriozov and his Sixth Division had been ensconced here ever since.

Apollo left to survey the hotels, leaving the Dagestanis at the Georgian Cafe drinking the
aracq
they favored. It was the strongest liquor in the world, especially when heated, and they were quite content. While nominally Moslem, the mountain men subscribed to a religious expediency; they understood the Prophet frowned on liquor, but they believed in his mercy, and man is weak. … In any case, they might as well relax and enjoy themselves. Neither would have been much help with Apollo’s inquiries anyway, since both spoke only limited Russian, and that with such cavalier inflections as to be practically unintelligible.

Selecting the Hotel Russia—the most exclusive establishment—as a starting point, Apollo inadvertently saved himself considerable time. Approaching a small, freckle-faced youth who apparently helped with guests’ luggage, Apollo slipped a gold rouble into his grimy hand, saying, “I’m looking for a young lady with long blond hair, about this tall.” He drew his hand to one shoulder. “She has green eyes and may or may
not call herself Radachek. Have you seen her in this hotel anytime in the last few weeks?”

For the extravagant gesture of a gold rouble the boy would have scoured the town for a woman of that description, but as it turned out, Apollo’s question was quite commonplace. The young boy had inquiries concerning the lady several times a day. All the officers were interested in the pretty countess who shared General Beriozov’s suite. When did she go out for her carriage rides? Had she returned yet from either the morning or afternoon excursion? Was the general in or out at the moment? Answers regarding the lady’s whereabouts augmented his pittance of a salary enough to feed his mother and younger brothers and sisters.

So the boy affably answered Apollo’s query. Had the lady been in the hotel recently? Certainly. She was upstairs in suite 17 right now. General Beriozov’s suite. “And comrade”—the boy was careful to use the correct form of address since a new clientele had taken over the hotel—“for a gold rouble, I’ll find out anything else you want to know.” He winked conspiratorially.

Apollo nodded in an abstract way, comprehension scorching his brain, like a branding iron on tender flesh. “Perhaps later,” he said quietly, retracing his steps to the entrance, trying to deal with the shock.
Upstairs? General Beriozov’s suite?

The stunning news affected Apollo in a sudden, strange, and sharply antithetical way. He wanted to murder Kitty … and he wanted to rescue her. Pushing through the crowd of officers near the door, he discourteously shouldered his way outside, not caring whom he buffeted. Heads turned and mouths were about to offer complaint, but the sight of the tall, tawny-haired man, powerfully built and definitely angry, deterred the impulse.

Adrenaline was pumping through Apollo’s nervous system. His first impulse was to kill both the lady and her lover. Don’t ask for reason. He had never been a reasonable man.

All his former anxieties turned to acid in his mind. He had been a fool, he thought grimly, risking his life—and those of
Karaim and Sahin as well—for some elusive dream, for some sensual memories of a golden-haired beauty, memories he had half-convinced himself were some kind of love.

He walked the streets, not taking the news at all well, oblivious to everything but the tormented chaos in his mind. How
could
she? How the
hell
could she? He wasn’t thinking very clearly, at first, but time and the chill March winds eventually calmed his initial fury over unreliable women, and common sense ultimately prevailed over baser masculine concerns such as territorial rights, outrage, and something very close to covetousness.

There was no reason to immediately think the worst. There was a possibility, a good possibility, Kitty was no more than a captive. The young boy seemed to know her well enough, though. She must be seen outside the suite. Not too much of a captive, apparently.

“
Merde
,” Apollo swore darkly. Capricious bitch, changing allegiances as swiftly as dressing for dinner. Still, he realized he could never rest until he knew for certain. Well … only one way to find out. A plan was set in motion. Not much of a plan, actually—more like barging into the lion’s den and then winging it.

That evening as General Beriozov and the countess were entertaining several guests at dinner, a servant announced a caller. “Colonel Zveguintzev to see General Beriozov,” he said.

The general, his hostess, and guests all turned; eighteen pairs of eyes slewed round to the open door.

Lean and striking, the visitor entered with the lithe, supple stride of a mountain cat. He stopped abruptly just within the room, his tall form and sensationally cropped silky head framed by the delicately gilded doorjamb, an image of raw masculine power limned within borders of cavorting putti. The intruder’s pale eyes surveyed the group quite at random and he spoke first in a quiet, deep voice, “Good evening, General; ladies and gentlemen.”

One could not mistake Apollo, the figure or the face. From the first moment, Kitty had been struck dumb, immobilized and incredulous, but at the sound of the so-familiar voice, the stillness in the room was broken as the fork she had been holding clattered noisily onto the Sèvres porcelain. The general, exceedingly jealous, darted a dangerous glance at her while a murmur and rustle of shock flowed around the table.

Apollo, who had excellent control of his facial muscles, stepped in quickly to cover the gaffe, saying in an indolent drawl, “How awkward. Countess Radachek, no doubt, has heard the greatly exaggerated accounts of my death on the western front. I assure you, madame,” he said, bowing slightly toward Kitty, his tawny eyes expressionless and smooth, “no apparition here. The reports were highly inaccurate.”

Kitty wore cream moiré silk accenting the pallor of her
skin, but the brilliant, blood red rubies on her white throat and at her ears drew Apollo’s gaze for a fleeting moment. (He knew it was one of those vignettes frozen in time, destined to be etched permanently in his mind, the sensation of large drops of blood on pure white flesh.)

The startling pallor of Kitty’s face was duly noted by the general as well, and he viewed with instant displeasure the naked longing in her wide emerald eyes. The expression was gone in a moment, for Kitty, quickly collecting her wits, composed her features and attempted to hide the violent beating of her heart, the ecstatic joy flooding through her.

The general’s pale gray eyes directed another searching look at both Kitty and the newcomer. “You know the countess?” Beriozov’s angry glance flicked over Apollo’s lean figure.

Apollo received the harsh challenge tranquilly. “Years ago, we had mutual friends in Petrograd, sir,” he murmured politely. “Her husband, actually.” He leered slightly, hoping to convey just the right tone of derision.

A kindred smirk appeared on the general’s face. “So … that accounts for the reaction.”

“I believe so, sir. Fortunes change, so rapidly,” he said pleasantly. “And some, ah, adjust better than others,” he finished with a disarming smile.

“Oh, Countess Radachek has adapted quite well, haven’t you, my dear?” The general patted her hand and Kitty controlled the impulse to snatch it away. Her face stiffened into a mask, behind which her eyes gave away nothing.

“Why not be sensible?” she said in a light, dispassionate voice. Smiling thinly, she took a sip from her champagne glass.

Apollo had purposely abstained from contemplating Kitty too much, uncertain of his reaction. If his vague plan hoped to work at all, it was going to be a long night. Avoiding the general’s remark, Apollo drew himself up and said, “The past is dead. The corrupt tsarist regime has been smashed and the glory of the Revolution is the future.” Then, snapping a smart salute—catching himself just in time before his spurs clicked together in the tradition of the Guard regiment—Apollo declared,
“Colonel Zveguintzev reporting from the Kiev front, sir. Sent by General Bogdan to instruct the pilots with the captured Camels, sir.”

“Ah, yes.” General Beriozov relaxed, his favorite topic having been broached. And apparently the colonel was merely an acquaintance of the countess—no lover. It never hurt to be suspicious, though. One never knew with those damn aristos and the scandalous ways they had lived their lives. Fortunately the Revolution had changed all that, and finally the proletariat had a chance to revel in some of the decadence. About time, too, the general reflected, casting an appreciative eye over the sumptuous elegance at his disposal. Leaning back, he waved his hand expansively. “Sit down, Colonel. Have you eaten?” At Apollo’s affirmative nod, he snapped his fingers. “Champagne for the colonel! Now then,” Beriozov said, lighting a Cuban cigar, confiscated from the humidor of a Russian noble who had hastily departed the country, “the Camels, eh? You can handle them, Colonel?”

“Yes, sir,” Apollo replied with a broad smile. Raising his eyebrows for leave, he settled into a red plush chair for a long night of drinking. “A little hard to handle, but worth it in maneuverability. And on the turn, the Camel can beat anything in the air.” He seemed at leisure from gilded head to polished boots. “Don’t you think?” he asked comfortably.

From that point on, all the other guests died of boredom. Flying was a passion of General Beriozov’s. Luckily it was equally so for Apollo. The rest of the guests politely hid their yawns and excused themselves early. Every plane that had been flown in the Great War was discussed: Nieuports, DH-9 bombers, Spads, Fokkers, Camels, Albatrosses, Sopwiths. A glow of triumph and success enveloped the general that night as the liquor warmed his blood, the reminiscing of his early days flying aerial reconnaissance in North Manchuria satisfying in retrospective. The Civil War was now gearing down; the Whites were about to be driven into the sea: the advance was scheduled to begin in a fortnight. A luxurious apartment to live in, good food, bountiful liquor, and a beautiful Russian countess to pleasure him. A smug contentment warmed the
general. “What do you think of her, Colonel? The rewards of the victors, eh?” He chuckled.

Only the three of them were left seated in the drawing room, the general and Kitty side by side on the gold brocade sofa, Apollo lounging in an imitation-bamboo armchair nearby. The general was quite drunk, his tunic partially loosened, his arm flung around Kitty’s shoulder, his leathery fingers idly fondling the pure white flesh of her upper arm.

Apollo looked away, fury overwhelming him momentarily. He fought the impulse to shoot the general on the spot. “A very pretty reward, I’ll agree,” he said, the timbre of his voice slightly hoarse from his effort at control.

Kitty lowered her eyes in shame that Apollo should witness her degradation, but she dared not antagonize the general; his temper was unpredictable and savage.

Just how unwilling a captive was Kitty, Apollo wondered, vicious resentment clouding his mind, his eyes drawn to the blunt fingers carelessly roving. She appeared passive enough. Had he wasted his time and taken unnecessary risks to appear here tonight? Did the lady even wish to be rescued? Apollo recognized Poiret’s touch in Kitty’s gown. Just how accommodating did one have to be for that, or for the rubies around her neck? Nothing seemed to make much sense right now, and the vodka he and the general were consuming further served to undermine any objective detachment he may have possessed.

Then the general casually slipped down the narrow shoulder strap of Kitty’s evening gown, and her breast sprang out from the confining silk. Beriozov’s dark hand ran slowly over the curving mound of exposed satiny flesh, then cupped its sumptuous heaviness briefly. Moving upward, one finger slid into the blue shadow between her breasts.

Sweat broke out on Apollo’s brow; an unwanted swelling began to rise inside his trousers, and his hand, pouring more vodka into the general’s glass, shook. Maybe he
should
kill the bastard here and now. Damn dog dared to touch Kitty’s naked skin, dared to stroke his Kitty’s breast. He noted in passing that Kitty’s breasts were fuller, softly engorged, but there was
no time to speculate on this subtle change. Stronger, fiercer emotions very close to sheer primitive sensation were at the forefront of Apollo’s brain.

The atavistic impulse for possession took over in a blaze. No longer wondering whether the lady was willing or unwilling, Apollo vowed to take her out of here whatever her inclination. He wanted her, dammit, and—having seldom denied himself anything in his young, indulged life—it was now simply a matter of abducting the lady, with or without her consent.

Any doubt in Apollo’s mind had been wiped away by a primordial impulse stronger than civilization’s niceties. His plan—formed by his temper and helped along by the quantity of liquor he’d consumed—now seemed perfectly clear.

Apollo glanced at his watch, refilled the general’s glass, and proposed another toast. The bastard would have to pass out eventually, he thought grimly. “To the lady’s, er, obvious charms,” Apollo said suavely, raising his glass and smiling wolfishly.

Giving the breast he was fondling a squeeze, Beriozov looked squarely at Apollo as if to say, Remember, this is mine; I own it. Then the general laughed aloud and tossed down his vodka. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said in a softly slurred voice, “A fancy lady, eh, Colonel? Care to touch her and see what real aristocratic flesh feels like? Until the Revolution I never touched any. Now we can feel all we want.” He winked heavily, “And do anything else we want.”