KONSTANTIN RAN to the barn, where Paulina practiced, looked around to make sure no one else was inside, and said quickly, “Paulina, this afternoon, meet me at the falls. Tell no one you’re coming!” Then, before she could speak, he ran off, thinking that if they left in the night, no one would miss them until morning.
All might have gone well if Elena had not just returned from the latrine and overheard Konstantin’s words to the girl. She stopped, just out of sight as the young man ran off. Then she continued back to the cabin.
LATE THAT AFTERNOON, as Konstantin waited in the thicket of brambles near the top of the falls, he had time to think of many things. He wondered why Father Dmitri had never discovered this spot, then worried that perhaps he had.
Konstantin also thought about prayer. Some of the men had spoken of God and heaven and hell, but that was the extent of his religious education. He had never prayed before, although he had seen others do it. He prayed now, not quite sure whom he was addressing—but if there was some all-powerful being who might be listening, he asked for Paulina’s safety. He could not pray for her love, for that was only hers to give.
Dark clouds had blown in, turning a bright afternoon to dusk. Paulina would arrive within the hour—if she were coming at all. He whispered another fervent prayer. “Please let her go with me!”
A steady rain had begun to fall, which might help cover their tracks. He would be a rabbit that would evade Zakolyev the fox.
Two rabbits, he reminded himself. Two.
.48.
BY EARLY AFTERNOON OF THAT DAY, Sergei had dropped far behind to avoid being seen by the rider ahead. This meant that he could no longer see his quarry, but the trail was fresh and easy to follow, despite the rain showers. Eventually, the tracks led to the edge of a forest. Sergei quickened his pace; he could now draw closer without being seen.
An hour passed. Sometimes the hoofprints were mixed with others, until Sergei came to a rushing stream, where the tracks disappeared altogether. Tracks don’t just disappear, and horses don’t fly, thought Sergei; the man’s horse had walked upstream. So Sergei followed, checking the banks on either side as the water rushed past Paestka’s knees and then her strong thighs. It would be deeper ahead, and faster. Soon he heard white water surging over rocks. It was not a river for travel by boat—a good place for an isolated camp.
Sergei listened for any telltale sounds but heard only the steady pounding of a waterfall just ahead.
Part Seven
THE
SEARCH
FOR
PEACE
Everything that begins also ends. Make peace with that and all will be well.
THE BUDDHA
.49.
WHEN THE MEN RETURNED in the late afternoon, a few women and children ran to greet them, only to find grim expressions on dirty, tired, and sullen faces. Covered with blood and soot, they had brought back two more riderless horses. No bodies were draped across the horses because the dead were thrown into the flames.
“The Jews killed Chertosky and Larentev,” muttered one of the men to Oxana before he headed for his cabin. Oxana had lived with Oleg Chertosky, and she cried over his loss—but she could feel no hatred for people who were only trying to defend themselves against armed men.
The Ataman was in a bad state. He had killed a woman before Korolev was finished with her, and they’d had angry words. As soon as they arrived, Zakolyev turned his back on Korolev as if the man didn’t exist. Then he led his new horse into the corral, removed the saddle, and carried it to the barn, where he planned to check on Paulina’s practice.
She was finishing her routine when she saw her father standing in the doorway, staring at her but not really seeing her. He nodded absentmindedly before departing.
When he arrived at his cabin, tired and distracted, he hardly took notice of Elena, sitting by the fire, until she looked up at him and forced her usual smile.
THE ATAMAN had lost his mind and his men. Korolev was convinced of this after they had almost come to blows during the raid. Korolev decided he would never again take orders from any man. It was time to leave.
But before he rode away, he would have the girl, Paulina—as a parting gesture for the lunatic leader. He had waited far too long to pluck the ripe young woman. He would only have to wait a few moments more, just out of sight, until Zakolyev left the barn and headed to his cabin.
Paulina had just finished her final stretches, and her body still wet with perspiration. She was about to rush off and tidy up before meeting Kontin, eagerly anticipating what he might say or do, when Korolev entered the barn, his knife drawn.
“Get on your knees!” he commanded, shutting the door.
Paulina knew that the time had finally come—Korolev was going to force himself on her…and her father was not going to be able to protect her this time.
As he drew near, Korolev threw a surprise kick to her belly. The kick missed, as he had known it would. He followed up with a backhand strike to where he anticipated she would move. It stunned her, but Paulina rolled and recovered.
They both knew it would be over in a matter of seconds, one way or the other. Korolev had tremendous power, devoid of mercy or conscience. Paulina had speed, determination, and a few surprises of her own.
When he came at her again, she leaped past him and drove her heel up behind her, kicking him in the groin. The air escaped his lungs, and he went down. As she came in to finish him, Korolev swept her support leg and kicked the side of her knee.
Paulina gave way to absorb most of the force, but the kick had done its damage—her leg collapsed and she fell. Then he was on her, straddling her hips, pinning one of her arms with his knee, sweating, excited, victorious—
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the blade flashing down. In that fraction of a second, she realized he was going to kill her and then rape her—it made no difference to him—and a fury coursed through her body. Since his one arm held the knife, he was momentarily open. As the blade descended to pierce her chest, Paulina’s arm shot out. Filled with a primal hatred, she deflected the blade and in the same motion drove her knuckles deep into Korolev’s windpipe. She heard a crunch…
Korolev released the blade and instinctively clutched at his throat, trying to get air. Paulina kicked again into his groin, lifting the giant off the ground with a terrible sound. He lay there making sucking, gasping, choking noises. Then with a shudder, Korolev died as violently as he had lived.
A RAIN BEGAN TO FALL as Paulina hobbled in pain back to the cabin. Finding no one there, she collapsed upon the cold hearth and cried in convulsing sobs. She dreaded what her father might say or do when he learned that she had killed his second in command. Then she realized that she didn’t care. If any man ever deserved death…
Still, Paulina was badly shaken; she needed to talk to Konstantin—
All at once she remembered: He was waiting for her—she hoped he was still there! Paulina leaped to her feet and started to run but cried out in pain and fell. She pounded the stone hearth. Furious at her father, at her leg, at the world, she rose again and forced herself into a limping run toward the stream, to the falls, to her Kontin.
.50.
THE POUNDING RAIN, and a forest full of chirping insects, made Konstantin want to scream for silence. Another hour had passed as he sat here, hoping, praying, listening for her footsteps. If she came, all would be well; they would be together. If she did not come…He tried to imagine what he would do.
I can read and write and draw, he thought, and I know my numbers. I will find work in a city far away, perhaps even in America. I will learn a new language, and I will make my fortune. Then I will return one day and ride into the camp on a great horse with a sword and rifle and with a band of fighting men I’ve hired. And I will tell Dmitri Zakolyev, “I come from America; I have come for Paulina.” I will say the words in English, and if he does not understand, that will be too bad!
Just then, Konstantin thought he heard over the sound of rain and cricke
ts, and water pounding on the rocks below, approaching footsteps. Ecstatic that she had come, Konstantin emerged from the foliage, smiling in anticipation…
Instead of Paulina, he found Ataman Dmitri Zakolyev standing before him, not three meters away.
A MOMENT of cold panic washed through him, followed by an impulse to run. Such a gesture would have been futile. So he froze in place and waited as the raindrops fell.
Zakolyev made no attempt to approach. Instead, he stood relaxed. Konstantin glanced around as the Ataman spoke soft words that Konstantin never imagined he would hear. “I have known for some time that you care deeply for Paulina. I’ve also noticed that she cares for you. And why not? You have a bright mind and good character.
“It may seem strange, my coming to you now, here, but there are pressures building for everyone, and I have given it considerable thought. You know I have always liked you, Konstantin…” Father Dimitri sat on a large stone and gestured for Konstantin to join him. “I expect that Paulina will want to marry before long. And I will not have her marry any of the other men, nor will I have her passed around from man to man. So marrying you may be the best solution. But you and I must have an understanding…”
Konstantin could not believe his ears. He was suspicious, of course; yet what the Ataman said made sense and sounded sincere. In any case, Konstantin knew two things for certain: Either the Ataman was telling the truth, in which case he was safe for the moment and his life might work out far better than he had ever imagined, or the Ataman was lying, and he was in grave danger. But if he rejected this offer, sincere or not—if he turned and ran—he would not live out the next hour.
He approached warily, as Father Dmitri patted the wet stone next to him. This was Konstantin’s moment of truth. As he sat down, Father Dmitri smiled and placed a hand lightly on Konstantin’s shoulder and said with what seemed genuine affection, “You have grown, Konstantin. Yet you still look Paulina’s age.”
The rain had ceased and rays of late-afternoon light broke though the clouds. At that good omen, Konstantin risked a smile in return. He wanted so much to believe Father Dmitri that his wary mind did not consider three critical questions: First, if Father Dmitri truly wanted his daughter’s happiness, why had he trained her as an assassin—to kill or be killed? Second, and more pressing, how had the Ataman known he was waiting here? And third, where was Paulina?
SERGEI HAD LOST THE RIDER’S TRACKS, but he continued upward, following the turbulent river on faith, until he reached a small pond surrounded by boulders at the base of a high waterfall. There he found a winding path upward—a path made by men. He tethered Paestka to munch on the wet grass. Wiping his rain-soaked hair back from his eyes, Sergei climbed the steep and slippery trail…
When he reached the top of the falls, the rain stopped, and he heard, over the sound of the roiling water far below, someone speaking.
PAULINA LIMPED along as fast as she could, but her painful leg had given way and caused her to fall again. Konstantin, with his dark eyes and sad smile, would be waiting for her. Once she reached him all would be well. She struggled on through the slick mud, blinking in the rain, peering ahead into the cloud-shrouded light. Now twenty meters from the stream, as the rain gave way, she saw two figures sitting together on the far shore of the rushing stream, near the top of the falls.
She stopped and stared. It was Konstantin…and her father. They stood and turned as a third man stepped out of the forest.
WHEN SERGEI EMERGED from the trees, he thought for a moment that he had stepped into a dream. Zakolyev didn’t quite believe it either; he stared as if he were seeing a ghost. Then his face quickly returned to the familiar mask as he wiped back his wet hair.
Seeing this man for the first time since Anya’s death, Sergei felt his body tense—then he took a breath and let himself relax, his senses on full alert, scanning the immediate area above the falls.
They were alone, just the three of them: Sergei, Zakolyev, and a young man about the age…
Sergei turned his attention back to Zakolyev and wasted no words: “I’ve come for my son.”
Zakolyev sighed, as if resigned to some unpleasantness. He knew that the moment of reckoning had arrived. “Sergei Ivanov,” he said, forcing a mirthless smile, “we meet again. And now you say you’ve come by to pick up your son? Without even a word of greeting? Well, I’m willing to overlook your lack of courtesy. And as it happens, you’re in luck. As you see, he stands here before you. His name is Konstantin, and I give him to you.”
Elated by this wondrous turn of fortune, Konstantin started to speak as Dmitri Zakolyev reached around his shoulder.
Sergei saw the knife flash just as Zakolyev grabbed the young man’s head, put the knife to Konstantin’s throat, and cut—
In the next instant, as if by magic, Sergei had transported himself three meters forward—he slapped the knife hand down to the young man’s chest, pinning it, then broke Zakolyev’s arm and disarmed him. With his other hand, Sergei grabbed Zakolyev’s hair and jerked his head back so far it nearly broke the man’s neck; then, pushing Konstantin out of harm’s way, he stunned Zakolyev with an elbow strike, knocking him to the ground, where he lay stunned.
Paulina arrived in a state of total confusion. She had just seen—or thought she had seen—Father Dmitri try to cut the throat of her Kontin. And the white-haired man had saved him.
Zakolyev came to and saw Paulina. “Kill him! Kill the monster!” he screamed at Paulina, commanding her with all his authority.
“No!” yelled Konstantin. “Paulina, no! You can’t! He’s my father!”
The words made no sense. Nothing made any sense. But Paulina’s body responded to years of training and followed the will of the man who had raised her. Her painful leg forgotten, Paulina closed the distance and flew at the white-haired monster who had killed her mother and haunted her dreams, leaping in with a devastating kick—
She landed with a splash in the stream above the falls and whipped her head around—the white-haired man was no longer there. She rolled, twisted, spun, saw him behind her, and attempted a leg sweep, but somehow it missed. Without hesitation, she leaped up with a barrage of lightning blows, but Sergei Ivanov evaded her every strike.
Something felt wrong. Nothing in her years of combat training had prepared her for this. It made no sense; the monster had not struck a single offensive blow. Was he truly a wizard and merely playing with her?
Again she lashed out at him—and again the man deflected but did not return a single blow. Panting as they stood in the shallows above the falls, Paulina stopped for a moment to gather her wits.
JUST THEN THE CLOUDS PARTED, opening to the last rays of the setting sun. And as a beam of light illuminated her face, Sergei got his first clear look at this amazing assailant: It was the face of a girl—not any girl, but the face of Anya. In that moment of recognition, sunlight glinted off the locket around her neck. And he knew beyond any doubt.
His search was finally over.
Again Zakolyev screamed, “Kill him! Now is your chance!” But the authority was fading from his voice.
Konstantin cried out again, “Stop, Paulina, please! He’s my father!”
“No,” Sergei said to the boy without taking his eyes off the girl called Paulina. “I wish I were your father—but I don’t have a son. I have a daughter, and she is standing before me now.”
Paulina stood frozen, not knowing what to do.
Zakolyev lay still, his arm broken, his eyes waiting, watching. Then he commanded her one last time: “Kill him, Paulina!” he yelled, his voice shrill and desperate. “Complete your mission! He killed your mother!”
She crouched, circling the white-haired man. He just stood relaxed; his face was serene. And he was crying.
Confused, not knowing what to think, how to feel, she pointed to Zakolyev and said to the white-haired man, “But…he’s my father—”
“No!”
Paulina turned to see Konstantin walking toward
her, his shirt wet and bloody from a cut on his chest. “No, Paulina. I’m so sorry I never told you…I was only a little boy, but I remember when they brought you—”
Then Zakolyev was on his feet with another knife in his left hand, his mind gone, madness driving his legs forward through the river in a frenzy, leaping—
Sergei looked over Paulina’s shoulder to see Zakolyev flying toward them both—and he couldn’t tell who Zakolyev was aiming to kill. Moving faster than Paulina could see, Sergei pushed her out of the way—
She fell and rolled, thinking it was an attack. But when she came up she saw Father Dmitri Zakolyev, his knife raised in his left hand, flying at Sergei Ivanov.
Sergei watched Zakolyev careening toward him in slow motion. The world was silent. Not a sound intruded, as he waited, relaxed, breathing, his hands resting at his sides. This was the moment he had trained for.
As Zakolyev rushed in and the knife stabbed downward, Sergei moved at the last instant like a ghost—as the point of the blade was about to pierce coat and flesh, Sergei was no longer there. He had somehow moved off the line of attack, turned his body slightly, and with a subtle wave of his arms had thrown Zakolyev headlong through the air, into the river toward the edge of the falls.
But as the mystified assailant had flown past his enemy, he had reflexively reached out and clutched Sergei’s coat—
Zakolyev’s momentum, combined with the treacherous footing and powerful current, jerked Sergei off his feet.
Horrified, Paulina and Konstantin watched Dmitri Zakolyev and Sergei Ivanov as both men slid over the precipice and disappeared.
.51.
TWILIGHT. A clearing sky at dusk. An anguished Paulina, supported by Konstantin, limped along the shore to the top of the falls and peered down to the rocks far below, where they saw the twisted, broken, lifeless body of Dmitri Zakolyev.