Sweet Love, Survive (15 page)

Karaim and Sahin respectfully looked the other way, allowing the Young Falcon some privacy in his sorrow. If sheer bravado could have produced the young lady, they would have gladly given their lives for their master, but as it was, they both resolved to attempt to track her at first light tomorrow, no matter the overwhelming odds. Neither contemplated failure. They would succeed for As-saqr As-saghir, however long it took.

Boris, too, noted the shiny gleam of moisture in the young officer’s eyes and quickly reconsidered his position. After all, the count was not returning. All the servants had been aware of the blond officer’s intimate visit with the countess. From the look of it, he cared very much.

Apollo was wheeling his horse when he heard Boris say, “She went to Stavropol.”

Apollo jerked Leda around. “What?”

“She went to Stavropol. I saw her off just as the first armored cars were coming up the driveway.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I didn’t know why you wanted to know.”

“I promised Peotr I’d see her to safety.”

“It may be too late. Stavropol is in Red hands now.”

“You actually saw her get away?” Apollo’s voice was sharp and excited.

Boris nodded. “She rode toward the river.”

“If she’s still in Stavropol, I’ll find her.” Apollo spoke softly, more to himself than to the others. His mouth widened into a broad smile. He looked at Karaim and Sahin.

Answering smiles appeared on their dark faces.

Apollo leaned down and put out his hand to Boris. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

•   •   •

They slept in the plundered house that night. Apollo curled up in his
burkha
on the floor in Kitty’s bedroom and felt more cheerful than he had in days—weeks, in fact. To Stavropol tomorrow. If Kitty were still alive, he’d find her!

    Before Apollo and the mountain warriors could enter Stavropol, it was necessary for them to acquire some identity papers and at least a partial Red Army uniform. By and large the Red Army suffered from a lack of uniforms, so hybrid attire was acceptable; a tunic or two would serve. Beginning early the next morning, all three men shrouded themselves in their black
burkhas
, packed their
papakhas
—which bore the green crescent and half-moon insignia of the Savage Division—and, looking as anonymous as possible, set to stalking some suitable victims of sizes and shapes to accommodate them. A certain finesse was essential in requisitioning the uniforms, since bulletholes and bloodstains should be kept to a minimum.

After midday they came on a small troop escorting an officer into Stavropol. The troop’s horses were tied outside a roadside cafe, and judging from the sounds of laughter coming from inside, the men had been drinking for some time. There were six mounts in all, one with an officer’s holster for pistols.

“If it looks as if the uniforms will fit, we’ll stay and drink with them,” Apollo stated. “If they’re insistent about our papers, shoot first. Six against three—the best odds we’ve had in two years. Ready?”

Karaim and Sahin nodded once, never requiring lengthy explanations when it came to killing. They performed extemporaneously with considerable expertise.

Dismounting, they tied their horses loosely to a rickety wooden fence and walked bareheaded into the dim interior. The soldiers were all grouped around one table, while several peasants sat on a bench against the wall. Apollo strolled over to the group at the table, Karaim and Sahin flanking him two steps back. “Mind if we join you?” he drawled ingenuously.

The officer looked them over suspiciously and asked who they were.

“On our way to Stavropol. Reassigned from the Eighth Army to the Sixth Division.” Apollo’s face was friendly and bland.

“Papers,” demanded the officer. At his harsh tone the others interrupted their card game long enough to cast another glance at the trio.

“Left behind when Mamontov surprised us at Manyich two weeks ago. Attacked us while we slept in the village. We retreated in our underwear that day. Had to scavenge some clothes after that.” Apollo gestured at their
burkhas
and mountain trousers.

The officer scrutinized them carefully, and then the one whom Apollo had already measured by eye as the owner of his new uniform snapped, “What did Comrade Lenin say about the right of self-government of the peoples?”

“Self-government until independence!” Apollo answered earnestly.

“What does communism lead to, economically speaking?”

“From the domain of temporary economical anarchy to that of systematic production,” Apollo continued fluently, thanks to the barrage of leaflets the Reds were constantly dropping from their few aircraft. The Bolshevist dogma had been perfect for starting fires.

Apparently Apollo passed the interrogation, for the officer beamed with satisfaction at his own cleverness and poured him a glass of vodka. “Have a drink, comrade.”

Apollo took the glass and sat down, motioning for Karaim and Sahin to do the same.

“Do
they
have papers?” the Red officer inquired, nodding toward the mountain men.

“No, theirs are gone, too. We’ll get new ones in Stavropol.”

“Are they Bolsheviks like you, comrade?” The officer knew the Caucasians were irregulars for both armies, fighting generally not for political principles but for plunder.

“They barely speak Russian, comrade,” Apollo replied. “Lenin’s ideology, even if they could understand it, would concern them little.” He smiled faintly. “They kill for the joy of killing; their allegiances are purely personal.”
¹¹

The Red officer was an ex-peasant from the Don region, one of the inogorodnie
¹²
who had lived under Cossack rule all of his life. He was familiar with blood-thirsty warriors and had a healthy respect for them. Leaning over, he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “Will they obey you?”

“Absolutely.” Apollo nodded solemnly. “We’re blood brothers.”

The Red officer’s eyes widened in alarm. He had heard of the ceremony in which warriors cut deeply into their forearms and then mingled their blood. For a simple peasant from the Don, such exotic barbarism was threatening. It wasn’t that he, as a peasant, was particularly benign, but he preferred beating someone to death or shooting them. The various forms of torture practiced by the mountain tribes had been conveyed in terrified whispers by the peasants of his region. With another apprehensive glance at the two hawk-visaged, dark-skinned warriors in black, their arsenals on their persons, he hastily decided it was time to leave.

“Going so soon?” Apollo affably inquired when the officer rose.

“We’re on our way to Stavropol, too—and behind schedule.” His eyes flicked nervously.

“Let me buy you a drink. Surely you can stay a bit longer?” Apollo pushed the vodka bottle toward him.

“No, no, we must be on our way.” The officer was moving away from the table. Two of his men came to their feet as well, but the other three eyed the vodka bottle longingly. Apollo refilled their glasses.

“One quick swallow, comrades.” He winked, his manner sympathetically friendly. The three men tossed the liquor down as the officer and two soldiers were leaving. “One for the road,” Apollo said, shoving the bottle toward them. He gave one swift glance to the door. The officer and soldiers had reached the outside. Looking at Karaim and Sahin, Apollo nodded once. Before the three Red soldiers could react, Apollo, Karaim, and Sahin were on their feet,
kinjals
slashing. The drunken soldiers died in their chairs.

“The others will be back in a second,” Apollo tersely said. “The door.”

Karaim had no more than run to the door and flattened himself beside it when one soldier reappeared. He walked one pace into the room, his eyes sweeping the interior. Recognition dawned. He opened his mouth to scream but the sound never came. Dark hands moved with flashing speed and the soldier’s head jerked before he slid to the floor. Four down, two to go. Apollo smiled grimly. Karaim flexed his long fingers.

By this time the two remaining outside had decided all was not right. The sound of horses galloping away indicated their flight.

“Damn,” Apollo swore. “Strip two of these for yourself. I want the officer.” While Karaim and Sahin turned to their task, Apollo strode toward the door. “Catch up with me,” he tossed over his shoulder. Passing the bar, he laid three gold roubles on the countertop. The proprietor and local customers had silently disappeared at the first sign of violence, but Apollo knew they’d be back soon to strip the remaining corpses.

Leaping onto Leda, Apollo coaxed her into a racing gallop through the dingy streets of the village. Bending low over her neck, he crooned gentle, cajoling words and Leda responded with more speed. Within a verst he caught a glimpse of his prey; he knew Leda could overtake them. Members of the Red Army were not known for their equestrian prowess.

The officer was slightly in the lead of the twosome, which suited Apollo perfectly. When he was within twenty yards of the soldier in the rear, he drew his
kinjal
from its sheath at his belt, stood in his stirrups, balanced the knife, judged, and threw. It was a difficult target with both horses going full out. The blade hurtled straight through the air, its Dagestani steel penetrating the back of the fleeing soldier clean on target. The man gave a brief cry and slumped over his horse’s mane. A mountain maxim passed briefly through Apollo’s mind: A rifle may miss, a pistol may jam, but the dagger is always true. His expression altered infinitesimally in agreement.

Apollo leaned over to retrieve his dagger. The soldier’s body fell to the ground as Apollo galloped after the officer. Casually he wiped the bloody blade on the black sweep of his
burkha
and sheathed it. No blood on this next one. He wanted the uniform.

As Leda closed the gap, the officer drew his pistol and fired at Apollo. Not wanting to return the fire, Apollo counted the shots and stayed out of range. A pistol wasn’t accurate unless steadied and fired at fairly close distance. If the Red officer hit him, it would be a miracle.

When the last chamber was empty, Apollo gave Leda her head and the margin narrowed. Leaning out on one stirrup for the required leverage, Apollo measured the span with one practice arc of his saber, and as the two horses drew close Apollo swung the blade with all the power of his strong right arm. With skill, grace, and flawless coordination of horse and rider, the blunt edge of Apollo’s gold-hilted saber caught the Red officer somewhere between the ear and the collarbone and cracked his neck. The man was dead before he lost his stirrups and fell to the snow-covered road.

Apollo pulled Leda up and jumped off immediately. Within seconds he had stripped off the officer’s tunic and slit his throat for good measure. Now there was one less Bolshevik left to kill and torture in the name of progress.

Short minutes later, Karaim and Sahin came pounding down the road, their saddlebags bulging with army uniforms and hardware and extra horses on long leads behind them. They helped pull the dead men off the road, covered them with snow (the wolves would get them soon enough), and then the three men set out for Stavropol.

“Picked up a few horses, I see,” Apollo remarked conversationally.

“A pity to leave them behind,” Sahin said in Dagestani.

“A pity,” Apollo agreed.

“We can sell them in Stavropol,” Karaim said. Karaim always was in need of money since he was one of the more eligible bachelors in the mountain aul. Gifts for the ladies were expensive.

“Let’s stop soon, then, and discard their army bridles and tack. We should get into our uniforms pretty damn soon, too, and check out our new identity papers. And I suppose I’d better take a knife to this hair, what with the Red Army regulations. No reason to take any risks.” It was the understatement of the week, since they were about to ride into Stavropol and into the midst of ten thousand Red Army troops.

    When the Red officer with newly trimmed hair and his accompanying mountain irregulars—all dressed in hybrid uniforms, part Red army, part Caucasian warrior—rode into Stavropol late that afternoon, they found themselves surrounded by the press and throng of General Beriozov’s Sixth Division. The city was bustling with activity, crowded with soldiers as Beriozov regrouped his division before making the last push to the Black Sea.

The three horsemen leading the string of extra mounts rode slowly through the muddy streets. On every side were Red soldiers: lounging against the buildings, walking the streets, riding by on wagons, horses, gun
tachankas
. Even an armored car with Cheka markings was loaded with extra troops clinging to the wide runningboards. None of the trio wondered, as perhaps more practical men might, how exactly they were going to extract themselves from this enemy stronghold.

As Leda picked her way daintily around the worst of the mud, Apollo did, however, speculate fleetingly on the unique impulses that had driven him into the center of the enemy camp. He could say he was simply performing a favor for a friend—honorbound, et cetera. It
could be
he was simply curious—in a slightly suicidal way, one might add—to discover the countess’s fate. While both explanations were reasonably credible in their own right, they accounted for but a minimum of the real truth. Apollo was, in fact, hoping—more than hoping; desiring desperately—to find Kitty for reasons of his own, reasons that centered around vividly palpable memories of lush Kitty, flushed from lovemaking, her laughing, sensuous, full-lipped mouth bending to caress his, or her soft
voluptuous body arched beneath him. The memories, like some sweet torture, had been recurrent since December.

Apollo’s search was in fact inexplicable in terms of success and logic, unorthodox in every sense of the word, but, like the quest for the Holy Grail, it was unshakable in its conviction, spiritually necessary, and sectarian only in the passion of its goal. Even that passion, powerful and unassailably determined, had antecedents in the knightly tradition.