The Hunters

42

The sight of their leader never failed to affect Dvorkin. There was a palpable thrill, knowing how clever and commanding he was, the power he wielded over the Black Robes and beyond. But that same knowledge also conjured a feeling of unease. Even today, it stopped him in his tracks.

The hawk-faced man didn’t seem to notice. He motioned for Dvorkin to sit opposite him. Dvorkin nodded gratefully, then paused in mid-step as he noticed another high-heeled boot out of the corner of his left eye. This one, however, was filled with a dainty female foot. It led to a long, shapely leg attached to the torso of another seemingly comatose young woman in white, draped across a sofa along the wall. She, like the others, seemed unconcerned or unaware of his presence.

Dvorkin looked back to his leader with a silent question. Sidorov stared back, expressionless, then looked over as if seeing the woman for the first time. He seemed to think for a moment, then rolled his eyes, stood, stepped over to the sofa, and perched beside her. He pulled a napkin off a nearby table, folded it carefully, and used it to blindfold the girl. Dvorkin was not overly surprised that she did not react.

Sidorov was about to get up, but he thought better of it. He leaned over her to open the drawer of a table, removed an iPod and headphones, inserted the earbuds deep into the woman’s ears, turned up the machine, and placed it in the crook of her corseted waist. Then he returned to his seat at the table. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Better?’

‘Yes, strannik. Thank you,’ Dvorkin said with appreciation. The term ‘strannik‘ meant ‘religious pilgrim’. It was a nickname their master was often called in his early years.

Sidorov waved the gratitude away as if it were a pesky fly. ‘You have served me well and our cause even better. You deserve every possible consideration.’

‘Thank you, strannik. Thank you.’

Although Dvorkin was still aware of the young woman in the room, she was only a dim presence now — especially in the shadow of an important man like Sidorov. Even when he was being complimentary, it was probably wise to pay strict attention.

‘Would you like a drink?’ Sidorov asked.

Dvorkin shook his head no.

‘Would you mind if I had one?’

‘Of course not, strannik.’ For Dvorkin, it was much more comfortable to call him ‘strannik‘ rather than ‘sir’, or ‘leader’, or ‘Grigori’. One was too formal, the next too venerated, and the last too familiar.

Sidorov rose from his chair and walked over to a rolling cart at the foot of the sofa where the woman lay. Dvorkin was once again hyper-aware of her shapely leg and the swath of soft naked flesh between the top of her stocking and the top of the long skirt’s slit, as his superior poured some amber liquid into a cut-glass snifter.

‘That is why I have brought you here,’ Sidorov said. His icy tone sent a disproportionately large chill through Dvorkin.

‘I don’t understand,’ he replied.

‘Even though your dedication to our cause cannot be faulted, even by your critics, some have said that your understanding of it has left something to be desired.’

‘Critics?’ Dvorkin was taken aback. ‘Who has said this, strannik?’

Sidorov waved that away as well. ‘I am here to heal, not accuse.’ He took a sip of brandy. ‘Just tell me what you feel. Tell me what you know, so I can put your mind at rest.’

‘About what, strannik?’

The man shrugged lightly. ‘Anything. Anything at all that pertains to us.’

Dvorkin leaned back, blinking. ‘Where to start? There is so much.’

Sidorov dismissed that statement. ‘Not really. Start here, in this very room.’ Then he looked slowly at the lounging female and smiled.

‘Ah,’ Dvorkin exclaimed. ‘Our master traveled to the Verkhoturye Monastery at the age of eighteen or so. There he learned of the Khlysty, or “Christ-believers”.’

Sidorov made a look of distaste. ‘I prefer, “They that purge”.’

‘Of course, of course. I was getting to that,’ Dvorkin hastily added. ‘The Khlysty did away with saints, and priests, and books. They — I mean we — practiced divine attainment through the repentance of sin.’

‘And to repent sin…?’

‘We have to experience it.’

‘Go on,’ Sidorov said as he took another sip of his drink.

‘The greater the sin, the greater the repentance.’

‘Yes?’

‘Our master found great power within himself with this practice. He was able to heal the sick and see the future.’

‘And?’

Dvorkin was confused. He was unsure as to what his leader wanted, so he was only able to parrot back the same question. ‘And?’

Sidorov lowered his glass and pointed it at Dvorkin. ‘There, you see? This is what I’m sure your accusers are talking about. You know the story, yes, but you do not appear to understand it. Do you bring insight to it?’

Dvorkin desperately wanted to respond in the affirmative, but Sidorov’s next words were already rolling over him.

‘The more the master sinned and repented, the greater the power he had. He healed the tsar’s son of his bleeding ailment. He brought the tsar’s lady-in-waiting back from the dead. He cried for them, he worked for them, he loved for them, and he lived for them — no matter how great the jealousy, hatred, and misunderstanding that he faced.’

‘I understand his greatness,’ Dvorkin said feebly.

But Sidorov’s words were more than an education. He used his oratory to stir himself to an emotional frenzy. This was how Sidorov had become the leader of the Black Robes, by stoking flames within himself, flames he passed on to others.

‘The priests sought to banish him,’ Sidorov preached, ‘and they were banished themselves for their sins. Their agents tried to kill him with a knife, but they were humbled by his survival. And the tsarina loved him in return, as did all the princesses. Why else was he allowed in their bed-chambers? The ladies of court loved him, and that was truly why he was most hated by men of power. They all wished they were loved as greatly. Yes?’

‘Yes,’ Dvorkin replied.

‘Yes?’

‘Yes!’ Dvorkin exclaimed, catching fire. ‘That’s why Prince Yusupov, the Grand Duke Pavlovich, and Duma representative Purishkevich plotted to kill him.’

Sidorov put the snifter down so hard Dvorkin thought it might break. His leader’s smile was wide but his eyes were cold. ‘Yet they could not kill him, could they?’

‘No, strannik.’

‘What else did they call him?’

‘I–I must think—’

‘What else did they call our master besides strannik?’

Dvorkin’s mind raced. They had called him the mad monk, but he dared not say that.

‘Later in life, Pavel! What did they call him?’

‘Starets!‘ he suddenly remembered. ‘Venerated teacher. Elder monk confessor.’

Sidorov calmed. ‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘Starets.’ He looked at the ceiling as if searching for a sign or message, then looked upon his associate with pitying intensity. ‘And our master starets sinned so much, and repented so much, that he could heal the sick and see the future, yes?’

‘Yes… Yes, starets…’

Now that a different title had been indicated, he had better use it.

Sidorov stared at him. ‘But there’s more. You know there’s more.’

‘… I do, yes,’ Dvorkin said while he racked his brain for answers. What more does he mean? What other feats in the palace? What other liaisons did he have?

Sidorov was standing over Dvorkin now, looking down at him as if from a great height. ‘Our master could transcend death.’

Dvorkin felt his face flush with humiliation. ‘Of course! How stupid of me! How utterly shameful!’

Much to Dvorkin’s amazement, Sidorov laughed in delight. ‘Good, good,’ he approved. ‘Remember, part of the Khlysty sect is self-flagellation. “I whip myself, I seek Christ” is what they chanted, yes?’

‘Yes, starets,’ Dvorkin said with relief. ‘If you have a whip, I will gladly use it.’

Sidorov smiled at the offer. ‘Oh no, there will be no whips for us. We don’t have time for self-flagellation any more. Our task is too great.’

‘Yes, starets,’ Dvorkin agreed, suitably humbled.

‘Tell me, Pavel, what is our task?’

‘Our task?’ he echoed.

Sidorov furrowed his brow. ‘Surely you remember our master’s story. Surely you remember the task of his followers.’

‘It is… it is to find him.’

‘Yes,’ Sidorov breathed. ‘They slit his stomach open. He did not die. They poisoned him. He did not die. They shot him three times. He did not die. They beat him. He did not die. They drowned him. He did not die. They burned him. He… did… not… die. Our master still lives!’

Sidorov turned from his associate. ‘I have spent my life following his example. I have sinned. I have repented. I have gained influence.’ He started to move around the room, as if gaining power from the trappings of royalty. ‘I have followed every lead, I have explored every clue. And finally — finally — I discovered a way to locate him.’

He was back by Dvorkin, just behind his chair. He put his left hand on Dvorkin’s right shoulder and sneered. ‘All you had to do was wait, and watch, and let the Americans find him for us, but you were too weak to do your part!’

Fueled by rage and disgust, Sidorov plunged a silver fruit knife into the left side of Dvorkin’s stomach, then dragged it across to the right. The part of Dvorkin’s brain that wasn’t in paralyzed shock, that wasn’t shrieking in high, inaudible agony, was impressed at the strength it took to pierce flesh, cut across organs, and slit muscle with a fruit knife, even one from Imperial Russia.

Dvorkin opened his mouth to scream, but only a small ‘uh’ emerged. His hands came up, but they stopped when his mind couldn’t decide whether to claw at the knife, the hand that held it, or Sidorov’s face. Ultimately, his reflexes decided for him, and he reached down to try to keep his intestines from spilling onto his knees.

Sidorov cut as far as he wanted, then shoved Dvorkin to the floor. The man fell mostly on his side, his hands clutching at the jagged, blood-wet wound. He looked up at his leader, his eyes bulging and his mouth opening and closing like a beached fish.

Sidorov stood there, the bloodied fruit knife now in his left hand. ‘Our master is waiting for my arrival — waiting to give me his power. All you had to do was wait. But no, you wanted to cut corners. You wanted to follow the Americans from inside a nice warm room. So you tried to plant a bug on their train. And one of them saw you. She came to investigate. You panicked and seized her. And now they know we are tracking them.’

Sidorov grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and turned him onto his back. ‘But don’t worry: you will get the same chance that the prince, the duke, and the Duma delegate gave our master.’

Sidorov wrapped his hands around Dvorkin’s throat and squeezed.

A soft gurgle escaped his mouth as the life was choked out of him.

Satisfied with the punishment, Sidorov rose and walked over to the sofa. With a bemused smile, he sat next to the still, young woman, and tenderly removed the heavy blindfold — heavy because he had soaked the cloth in a transdermal anesthetic that had seeped through her skin and into her bloodstream within moments of its application.

He watched her sleeping for a few moments.

She had never looked better, he thought.

Like an innocent angel.

He realized this is what she must have looked like before family abuse, self-loathing, and desperation had brought her here.

Sidorov lay beside her and took the unconscious beauty in his arms. She would help him repent, he decided. Long into the night.