Sweet Love, Survive (40 page)

Kitty gave her maiden name. Radachek could be notorious after Stavropol.

“Come then, Madame Kurminen. I hope you like champagne—and I trust before the evening is over we’ll be on a first-name basis.”

He was solicitous and eager. Charming and eager. Gallant and eager. He was offering the sun, moon, and stars to her as partial payment for sharing his apartment with him. With a sinking feeling Kitty wondered if he had sufficient money to find her offer of jewelry a bagatelle. She sidestepped, evaded, demurred, all politely and all coquettishly, promising him she would give some answer tomorrow.

“Marvelous. I’ll take you to the Botanical Gardens for a picnic. I’m sure we can reach some agreement amenable to us both.”

    When the general and Kitty left Colonel Ismailovich’s late that night, a Dagestani warrior watching from the shadows across the street nudged his elbow into his companion and pointed. Within the hour Karaim had news of Kitty’s presence in Tiflis. After he finished swearing, he asked for details. No, she wasn’t with General Tergukasov; he had only given her a ride home. Where was home? She was staying with a Professor Pashkov near the inner city. Good Lord, that female had nerve, Karaim mused, and if they hadn’t had watchers on General Tergukasov twenty-four hours a day, he never would have known that she had come down from Dargo—at least, not in time.

“She’s at the professor’s now?”

“Yes.”

“And the general went back to his apartment?”

Another affirmative.

Karaim sighed. “Good. She’ll be safe ‘til morning then. Send two men for her before noon. Even the general, however ardent a suitor, shouldn’t be back before then.”

And there, you see, is where varying degrees of ardor can punch a hole in the most logical assumptions.

    The two men Karaim dispatched shortly before ten the next morning arrived at Professor Pashkov’s just in time to see the general’s Benz touring car disappear down the narrow street. Fortunately the old part of the city consisted of narrow, convoluted streets barely wide enough for the splendid Benz to inch through. Two men on foot were capable of keeping the car in sight. And, doubly fortunate, General Tergukasov was of a romantic bent. Exiting on one of the main thoroughfares, he had his driver stop at the first florist shop they passed. Politely excusing himself, he went inside to purchase some exotic flower for the marvelous woman he had dreamed about all night.

Kitty sat in the car’s luxurious leather interior, uneasily wondering exactly how she was going to broach the discussion of the most important prisoner Metekhi Prison currently held, and what bribe would release him. A score of opening sentences came to mind and were promptly discarded as unsuitable, illogical, inane. She knew what the general wanted, and her turmoil of indecision centered not so much around whether or not she would make the sacrifice—Apollo’s life was worth any sacrifice. It was more a question of whether the general could be trusted to keep his word, if she was the only bribe he would consider. Too many stories had circulated in the last few years of wives willing to buy their husbands’ lives at any price, only to find they had given themselves for nothing. Their husbands had been executed by their ravagers.
¹⁴
What to do? She had so little time to weigh all the ramifications.

Then, before her startled eyes, the driver’s door was wrenched open, the passenger door opened, the driver was
pulled out and thrown to the pavement, two men slid into the front seat, and the car roared away from the curb. The man on her right turned back, smiled briefly, and said, “Keep your head down, Countess.”

Kitty stared, aghast. “Sahin! No! You have to take me back—I’m going to talk to the general about Apollo!” She clutched at his shoulder, frantic, seeing all hope dashed in a few short seconds. “Turn around—drop me off. I’ve got to get back there!”

“We’re taking As-saqr As-saghir out in two days.”

Kitty sank back into the soft upholstery as the news registered in her mind. “Thank God,” she whispered over and over again, tears streaming down her face.

Short minutes later Kitty was facing Karaim, and when she heard the plans, she felt for the first time in weeks a blazing hope.

With time at a premium, the Cub was fetched and the professor and his wife were relocated. The general was bound to backtrack eventually if he was intent on finding the enchanting blond female kidnapped along with his car. Apologizing for the danger she had brought upon them, Kitty was assured by both the professor and his wife that their last apartment had been only one in a long line of domiciles they’d inhabited since the Revolution had disrupted their lives—and the gold Karaim gave them ensured their comfort even if the professor’s musical income was curtailed until General Tergukasov moved on to another post.

One day later, just before evening turned into night, while pale gray shadows hid much from sight, Prince Alexander Kuzan’s yacht dropped anchor in a secluded cove twelve miles north of Poti. The four waiting men wrapped in
burkhas
, squatting around a small fire on the sandy shore, rose to greet their old friend. Apollo’s father had arrived with men and supplies to collect his only son from Metekhi Prison.

A second telegram from Sahin, received in Constantinople, had relayed the critical news that Apollo still lived. Several containers of dynamite and four land mines were unloaded from the yacht to assist in the deliverance of Prince Alexander’s son. For a fortnight Alex had launched himself and all his substantial possessions, brains, power, money, and charm in a singleminded assault on authority. Everyone who could possibly aid in the escape had felt the impact of the prince’s determination and it was only a matter of hours now before it would be known whether all the effort would be successful or not.

Prince Alex waded ashore from the small boat. He was dressed in mountain garb—black tunic, trousers, soft boots—and his tall, broad-shouldered frame still possessed a youthful vigor. Although nearing fifty, he was still lean and fit, his dark hair only faintly touched with gray, his handsome, chiseled face tanned dark from hours spent on the polo fields. In bearing, appearance, form, in all aspects he belied his age.

Reaching out, he grasped Karaim’s hand firmly. “How are you, Karaim, after these long years of war?”

“Fine, Sasha.”

“You look fit. And Apollo? Any more news?”

“Still alive, as of this afternoon.”

Alex’s golden eyes softened in relief. “Pray God keeps him through one more night. That’s all we need. And how are Kitty and my new grandson?” he inquired on a more cheerful note. News of the Cub’s birth had been received by Zena and Alex with pride and joy.

“See for yourself,” Karaim replied, grimacing ruefully.

Golden eyes registered surprise briefly, but as quickly concealed it when Kitty, carrying the Cub, came forward from the darkening shadows. She was greeted warmly and graciously by Apollo’s father; the Cub was given a kiss on one chubby cheek. Gazing at the sturdy baby in Kitty’s arms took Alex back two decades or more, and he saw his son in the child before him. The same pale hair and golden eyes, the same strong, robust baby form and dimpled smile. “He’s quite like Apollo at that age,” Alex said softly, and his mind raced back to the fair-haired baby born in Nice when the century and old traditions were moving into a new millennium. “You must be as proud of him as Zena and I were of our firstborn.”

“Very proud, Prince Kuzan,” Kitty replied quietly. “He’s his father’s son in every way.”

Alex looked up at the baby’s pretty mother and said with a grin, “He has a bit of his mother, too, I think.”

“Perhaps … but in temperament, definitely Apollo.” She smiled. “He likes to have his own way.”

Alex laughed. “A Kuzan trait. Quite incorrigible, I’m afraid. But please, since you’re one of the family, call me Sasha. I’m sorry there’s so little time to visit, but later … Right now, we must be off immediately for Tiflis.” Taking Kitty gently by the shoulder, he began leading her to the small boat pulled up on the shore. “My men will see you to the yacht.” Alex’s voice, though pleasant, was dismissive, allowing no argument. “Be assured, Kitty, we’ll be back with Apollo before midnight two days hence.” Or we’ll all be dead, he thought but refrained from saying. “The men have orders to make for Ilori and wait for us there. Au
revoir
,” he said, bending to kiss his grandson.

“Godspeed,” Kitty whispered, knowing that the fate of Apollo depended upon the smooth operation of each step of the plan.

    Alex and his companions reached Tiflis by morning and were disconcerted to discover the execution had been rescheduled for one day earlier. Perhaps fear of reprisals had prompted the decision, or perhaps the hanging had been advanced to discourage rescue attempts. Whatever the reason, it meant no one slept that night. Everyone worked frantically through the all-too-short hours of darkness. Charges and land mines were set and concealed at both exits of the narrow street servicing the prison gate Apollo would pass through when he was transferred to the vehicle that would carry him to the execution.

A Turkish merchant and childhood friend of Alex’s—who had found it as profitable to trade with the Red commissars as with the old nobility—was enlisted to aid in the rescue. He resided in an elegant townhouse near the scene of the hanging: the city square.

In the last hour before the sun rose, all was in readiness. While the men rested for the brief time before the plan was set in motion, Alex and Krym Seid Bey sprawled on opposite divans in the elegant drawing room facing the square and sipped cognac.

Alex let out a breath. “Good Lord, Krym, that was close.” He lifted the glass to his lips and after swallowing a fortifying two inches of dark liquor continued. “One less hour last night and we wouldn’t have made it. Whatever possessed them to advance the execution by a day?”

Krym moved his bulk—evidence of too many self-indulgent years—and sighed softly. “According to high-placed rumor, lust is the reason … one of the cardinal vices, after all. It seems”—and his brow lifted sardonically—“the commissar misses Lola and must be off to Yalta again.”

“Christ!” Alex exploded quietly. “I asked her to do a good job for me, but apparently she has exceeded requirements.”

Seid Bey eyed his old friend, now slouched low on the down-cushioned sofa. Alex was long, lean, handsome, no dissipation
evident in face or form, no evidence of too much hedonistic living, and Krym ruefully resolved to give up a few of his vices starting tomorrow. “Now, Sasha,” Seid Bey reminded him wryly, “you know damn well Lola would do anything for you. She’s always been hungry for you, even though she knew you had eyes only for your wife and wouldn’t give her a tumble. Of course she’d do a good job. Don’t go coy on me.”

Alex looked up over the rim of the glass and didn’t insult either of their intelligences by pretending not to understand. Alex’s experience with the gentle sex had been wide and varied, and he knew very well when a woman wanted him. The “wanting” had never diminished over the years—his dark good looks still attracted constant attention. But shortly after his marriage many years ago, the wide and varied part of his experience had abruptly ceased. When Alex found the love of his life, females like Lola had been forced to repine without his attentions. “Lola’s intentions, despite the unexpected results, were of the best, I’m sure—”

“Indeed,” Seid Bey interrupted with a smirk.

Alex grinned in acknowledgment and continued conversationally, “but her unquestionable allure—”

“You’ve noticed, then.” Another interruption, accompanied by another smirk.

“I happen to be in love with my wife, Krym. However, I’m not blind. Now, if you’re through being lascivious,” he said calmly, “I’ll finish.” Alex looked squarely at Krym and after a five-second pause went on. “Her unquestionable allure for Tiflis’s little commissar made us all work our tails off tonight. Fortunately, all was accomplished in time, and we only await the rising sun. Lola meant well, despite the abrupt change in plans, and she’ll be abundantly rewarded for her efforts. She kept my son alive for ten extra days, and for
that
she can name her price.”

“A
personal
gift, Sasha?” Seid Bey asked with a decided leer.

The solemn look vanished and Alex chuckled softly. “Jesus, Krym, you’re in a mood tonight. Is your harem on your mind after a solid night of unaccustomed physical labor with dynamite
and land mines?” He grinned, then, setting his glass down, said, “And no, not a
personal
gift. You know me better than that.”

The finality of Alex’s tone reminded Seid Bey of all the times before the war when he and Alex had spent entire nights at Lola’s in Yalta, gambling and drinking. While everyone else would invariably retire upstairs with some accommodating female guest, Alex had always politely declined. Just like tonight, that same softly spoken yet ineffably firm “no.” “Still, Sasha?” Seid Bey asked wistfully, feeling in that somber hour before dawn a sense of deprivation, an obscure bereavement that his life, perhaps, had been misspent and frittered away. “Still only Zena after all these years?”

“She’s all I’ve ever wanted, Krym,” Alex quietly replied.

    Within the half hour, activity was in full swing once again. Red Army uniforms had been obtained—Seid Bey had more connections than a younger son of a sultan—and those uniforms allowed a very smooth and relatively undisputed requisitioning of the truck appointed to convey Apollo to his hanging. The original guards in the truck, of course, were replaced by substitute Bolsheviks bearing a very distinctive Dagestani countenance and physique. The newly requisitioned truck and its imitation guards sped through the streets of Tiflis, then climbed slowly up the narrow streets of the old quarter toward Metekhi Prison.

Apollo was sleeping, his head buried in his bare arms, when they came to wake him before daybreak, leaving him a change of clothes and the dismal fare they called breakfast. “So you look respectable for your execution,” he was told with a light note of hilarity. The derisive words filtered past the throbbing ache in his brain. And suddenly the thought of dying made Apollo more angry than sad.