CHAPTER 4
1890-1891 ONLY YOU
Under the tutelage of both his father and other members of staff, Max learned the art of espionage and disguise, slowly building up a network of contacts he could rely upon for accurate information. Traditionally, Ochrana assassins murdered by garotting their victims. However, after trying this technique, Max reverted to using his knife. Concerned by this breach of etiquette, his father summoned him.
"I gather from outside reports that you have ceased to employ the garotte. What is your explanation, sir?" opened the Count angrily.
"Sir, with respect, I have found the use of the garotte - inconvenient."
"Why?" the Count rose from behind his desk, stood facing his unrepentent son.
"Despite the fact that we were informed that garotting was fast and clean, I have found it otherwise. The victims - struggle too much, causing considerable disruption if the - ah - project - is carried out indoors. One must also employ considerable strength to hold them down long enough for strangulation to take place. Very tiring, if a quick getaway is needed afterwards. No, sir, I find a knife in the heart is quick and efficient. They die far faster, less mess."
"Hmph." the Count pondered, rubbing his chin. "You always did like using your knife, Leonid - ah - Max. Very well. I am prepared to give you special dispensation to use your knife in the line of duty. You may go."
Max saluted and left, a thin smile of satisfaction on his lips.
In the hungry time of freezing winter, any observation by a starving peasant was richly rewarded. Max learned every back street, and back door, in St Petersburg, becoming a dark figure lurking in the shadows of night; he was a starets, or holy man, with long, straggly hair and beard; or maybe he too was a peasant, dressed in baggy trousers and blouse held together with a belt round his waist and a cap covering his eyes, his knife easily concealed in ample folds; sometimes he was an old, blind beggar, seeing everything through unblind eyes. He revelled in the job, which gave him a freedom he had never known before. Every Ochrana operative took a codename to maintain his anonymity amongst his team of observers. Because of his chosen instrument of death, Max chose 'Nozh', the Russian word for 'knife'.
During his visits to the Palaces to report to the Tsar, on a number of occasions Tsarevich Nicholas was obliged to be present at the meetings, as his father wished him to become acquainted with the running of the country. The Tsarevich was at that time twenty years old, virtually the same age as Max, and still too young to fully realise the importance of his position. His father, then in his mid-forties, appeared to have many years of rule ahead of him, and the Tsarevich was intent on enjoying his youth, more interested in going to parties, ice skating or socialising than in affairs of state.
Max's surveillance duties also gave him an opportunity to observe from afar Lisa Mippipopolous. Protected by her father's household from his polite advances at furthering their acquaintance, his frustration was compounded when he killed her father and was compelled to disappear from the social scene entirely, leading society to believe that he had, in fact, been shot for a traitor. His desire for her was undiminished, however, and, disguised, he took as many opportunities as was afforded him to watch her from afar. Her mother appeared to be unwell - probably a reaction to her husband's death, Max thought. He saw people entering and exiting the small house the widow and her daughter were forced to purchase after the death of the breadwinner. He saw young men gaining admission to the house, and Max's jealousy burned bright within him, but still he did nothing, choosing to remain a shadow amongst the darkest shadows. His time would come... And then, on one dark evening in the autumn of 1890, he witnessed a man, whom he had long suspected of being a revolutionary, entering the Mippipopulous house. Alerted, he informed his father, who granted him permission for a round-the-clock surveillance to be mounted. The widow never came out of the house, but Lisa established a routine of shopping in the marketplace then, with a full pannier, returned via certain houses, only staying for a few minutes in each. Max suspected the passing of information. He watched and waited. Then, late one night, all the people who had individually visited Lisa's house came to her door in ones, twos and small groups and gained access. It was clear an unusually large meeting was taking place. Max had two men on watch with him. One of them recognised a man of his acquaintance who was about to go in, so Max ordered him to join the group and observe the proceedings. The man gained access without difficulty. When the meeting was over they left as they had come. Max's contact returned. He reported that an assassination attempt was being plotted against the Tsar, of which Lisa was an integral part. During a parade that would take place the following Saturday, Lisa would be at the roadside, throwing bunches of flowers towards the Royal carriage. One of the bunches would contain a bomb.
Max felt as though his world had ended, that an enormous hole had been shot through his soul. Lisa, a traitor! There could be only one fate for traitors, thought Max numbly. He would have to kill her. He reported back to his father.
"There is no possible doubt that Lisa is the leader of this terrorist cell?" asked the Count.
"No, sir, no doubt at all. One of my men infiltrated the meeting."
"Max, I know you have an attachment towards this girl."
"I will not let that interfere with my duties to the Tsar, sir." Max's face was devoid of expression, hiding the tumult of passions raging within him.
"Very well - do what you must."
---oo0oo---
The small house in which the Mippipopolous ladies lived was a two-storey, ornately decorated in the Italian style. On the moonless night after Max had observed the meeting at Lisa's house, an old man, blindly tapping his walking stick, slowly made his way down the Nevsky Prospekt. The night was cold, and he had layers of clothing on under an ancient Army-style greatcoat. As he approached, Lisa left her home and headed towards one of her fellow-conspirators' houses, brushing past the old soldier without giving him a second look, intent on her mission. He tapped on, stopping seemingly randomly outside her house, and sat down tiredly on the bottom step. Under his broad-brimmed hat he looked quickly up and down the boulevard. The streets were empty. Moving with surprising speed for one so old, he stood, turned towards the door and, using a skeleton key, entered quickly and quietly.
The house was in darkness - good. His spy had informed him that the old lady was upstairs, in the bedroom at the top of the landing. Quickly and silently, the killer stalked his prey.
"Lisa? Is that you?" came a tremulous voice.
Max stopped in his tracks, half-way up the stairs, then took the rest of the steps two at a time to gain the first landing before the old lady came out of her bedroom.
"Lisa?" The bedroom door opened and a chink of light spread along the landing. As she came out the door, Max slipped behind her, grabbed her from behind and struck once with the knife. She sank back onto him with a sigh. He lifted her and quickly arranged her on the bed as though she were sleeping. He then entered Lisa's bedroom, and waited.
It was after midnight when Lisa returned, locking the outside door behind her. She walked up the stairs, looked into her mother's darkened room and saw her sleeping form, so softly closed the door again. Max was standing behind the door as she entered her bedroom and, before she walked over to the paraffin lamp, he slammed it behind her. She spun round and screamed at the tall form standing in the shadows. "Mama! Mama!" she called. He strolled towards her, arms crossed. "Mama can't hear you Lisa, my Lisa." She backed away from him, terrified. "Wh-who are you? Go away, please don't hurt me!"
"Don't you recognise me, Lisa? Remember, we danced together at the Restaurant Cuba - and I fell in love with you." He reached down and turned up the lamp, the light casting an eerie, satanic shadow across his face.
"You! You - killed my father!" she backed away, frantically looking for an escape route. "B-but you're dead!"
"No Lisa, not dead - but you soon will be. And do you know why? You want to kill the Tsar, don't you? Well, I have news for you - your whole terrorist unit has just been wiped out by Cossacks. Quite quick and painless, really, which is more than they - and you - deserve. But first, lovely Lisa, I want some information. Names, Lisa, of other terrorist units -" as if by magic, his knife was in his hand. "You will tell me - now!" and he jabbed the blade to prick the skin of her neck. She screamed again, and he threw her on the bed, covering her mouth with his big hand, pinning her down. Suddenly he grunted, his whole body aflame with desire. "Ah, Lisa," he gasped "how long I have wanted you - only you - and now, at last ..."
She wriggled and twisted to free herself when she saw the look of lust contorting his face. "No No, not that, please - please!" But it was too late. He was a demon, taking her repeatedly, violently. When it was over, she lay, sobbing. He lifted himself off her and stood by the bed, arranging his clothing.
Still breathing heavily, he spoke. "I would have given you everything, my Lisa. Jewels, horses, all that I will inherit - all would have been yours, Lisa. But now, you will tell me NAMES!" he shouted in rage, slapping her violently on the face.
"A b-book, over there." she said, trying to cover herself up whilst indicating drawers on her French dressing table. "I'll get it ..."
"No! Don't move. I'll get it." The moment his back was turned she reached for the small pistol secreted under her pillow. At the last moment he heard the click of the cocking gun and threw himself to the side. As she hastily fired the gun he felt a tug and a sharp pain in his left shoulder as he fell, and then, before she could fire the gun again, he was on her. Wrenching the weapon from her hand, he straddled her, his knife flashing as he stabbed her, again and again, in a frenzy of wrath and vengeance, until she moved no more.
Passion and anger spent, he groaned with pain as he stood up unsteadily and looked at his injury. Blood was staining his white undershirt, but the bullet had merely caused a flesh wound. Holding his injured shoulder, he looked down at the still form on the bed, her dead eyes staring glassily at him. "Ah, Lisa, my Lisa - " he whispered, "I would have given you - anything. I will always love - only you - forever." and he bent down and tenderly kissed her still-warm lips.
---oo0oo---