For this man whom they termed comrade was no friend of Bolshevism. Behind his stern, immobile face lay a shrewd brain that remembered the days of the old regime. There was no Czarist in all Russia more determined than Michael Senov.
Once a member of the secret police in the former capital of Petrograd, Senov had joined the Bolshevist uprising to act as a spy. His true identity unknown, Senov had risen with the Red regime.
Now he was Comrade Senov, a man who never sought favors, and who held no dangerous ambitions.
Well known and well liked, he was a familiar figure in this district of Moscow. Even under the drastic government of the new city, Senov was above suspicion.
That was why Senov smiled, very warily, as he pursued his way. Tonight he was going to a secret meeting of Czarists, held in a special hiding place which he himself had arranged. The others would be there, awaiting him. They were expecting good tidings, and he was bringing them.
Threading his way along other streets, Senov stopped before a quaint building, and walked through a stone arch that led to an inner court. This old residence had been changed into an apartment, inhabited by workers.
Senov entered a door at the side of the court, and ascending a flight of rickety stairs, made his way to a poorly furnished suite of rooms. He unlocked the door of an obscure closet, raised a trap, and descended a ladder to the floor beneath.
This brought him to a portion of the old house that had once been used as a storeroom. Unsuitable for an improvised apartment, it had not been converted with the rest of the building. It was filled with broken furniture and other junk. The door that led to it had long been nailed shut. Senov had arranged the secret entrance from the floor above.
A dim light was burning in the cluttered room which Senov reached. Before revealing himself, the false Bolshevist adjusted a masklike cloth over his face.
The leader of the secret group that assembled here on rare occasions, Senov kept his identity a careful secret. His position as a Red supporter was too valuable to risk betrayal, even though he was sure that every one of his underlings was a royalist to the core.
SIX grim, determined men were gathered in the center of the room, seated upon broken chairs and boxes. None of them was masked. Only Senov held that privilege.
These men were a remnant of the thousands of Czarist supporters who had died since the installation of the new regime. Senov, eyeing them approvingly, told himself that they were worth six hundred.
As Red workers, each of these subordinates had attained a minor position which made him of use when needed. There were others at the call of these. Senov was the master spider of the center of a counter-revolutionary web. Wise and shrewd, he had bided his time until tonight.
An overthrow of the Bolshevist regime would be impossible. Rabid royalist though he was, Senov had never dreamed of such an attainment. He was playing a secretive game, in conjunction with former Czarists in other countries.
Patiently he had been waiting, in hope of this very night — waiting to strike a telling blow against the government which he pretended to support, but actually detested.
All eyes were upon Senov. Eager listeners were waiting for him to speak. Like a general before a battle, Senov stood before this group and delivered a slow, emphatic message.
“Tonight,” he declared, “we shall strike. Our plans have been in readiness. Originally, we were told to wait twelve days. That order was changed. I was told to strike at once. I have waited six days to make sure that all would be well.
“The way was open to Riga. Those arrangements were altered by our second command. Our new objective is Paris. The road is clear, but our great work lies here. Are all prepared?”
Affirmative responses came from the entire group. The men seemed impatient. Two were rising. Senov restrained them.
“Ten o’clock is the hour,” he declared. “Then we shall strike, faithful ones. Until now, you have obeyed me blindly, wondering, perhaps, how I have learned the important facts which we have sought so long in vain. I shall tell you how the discovery was made. It was through Ivan Motkin.”
A buzz of surprise swept around the circle. Senov laughed harshly, and held up his hand. All became silent, waiting further explanation.
“Long have we known that Motkin had the facts,” he said. “But to make Motkin betray those facts would have been impossible. Then came good and unexpected fortune. Motkin, becoming indiscreet, told all and showed all to an American whom he trusted. I suspected that he had made that error.”
Senov paused for effect, and smiled beneath his improvised mask as he noted the sober, tense faces before him.
“The American went to New York,” he continued. “There, he stepped into the perfect trap, into the hands of the unknown genius who planned this great coup that would restore vast wealth to its rightful owners.
“Under torture, the American told all that he knew. His confession was sent by code to Berlin. It was forwarded into my hands by secret messenger.
“With it came the word to work by way of Riga; then came the new order to go by Paris. You have made observations by my order. We have learned that our information is absolutely correct.
“Although the lair of our enemies lies less than a mile from this very spot, here in the Kitai Gorod, we had never once suspected it.
“Two blocks from the broad Prospekt, on the byway called Gostinny Ulitza, stands a house very much like this. Plain, obscure, it is actually the most vital spot in Moscow.
“While we have cast hungry glances toward the empty vaults of the Kremlin; while our agents in Petrograd have been seeking hopelessly, our objective has been close at hand.
“The reports that we had gained of the interior arrangements were remarkably exact when checked by the statement that has come from New York.
“Persons have been to this concealed treasure house. They have told what they have seen. But all were taken under guard and blindfolded. They could give no clew to the location — until Ivan Motkin made his great mistake.”
As Senov finished speaking, his accomplices murmured excitedly. All were discussing what they had just learned. Anxious to set forth on their great adventure, men approached Senov and spoke in low voices, giving him details of the preparations they had made toward the culmination of the contemplated plot.
TIME passed rapidly in that little room. When the hour of nine arrived, Senov gave a command for silence.
“We must depart,” he said. “Each man must go to his place of duty. Our zero hour will be ten o’clock. Strike as planned.”
The masked man drew himself to his full height. He towered like a colossus above the others, inspiring them to the task that lay ahead.
“In our hands” — Senov’s voice was impressive — “lies the destiny of the greatest master stroke ever designed by man. Our goal is wealth that would have awed the greatest conquerors. Like the thrust of a knife, our cause will drive a blow to the heart of the regime we detest. Strike — in memory of the Czar!”
“Strike for the Czar!”
The response came in unison.
“We will show no mercy. Our enemies shall die!”
Senov’s words were cold and harsh. They were echoed by repeated voices. One by one the conspirators arose and left the meeting place. Senov alone remained.
The leader drew away his mask. His iron face gleamed hideous in the pallid light of the little room. A brutal smile affixed itself to the merciless lips of this man.
Tonight, Michael Senov was to deliver the stroke which he had for years longed to give. With that stroke, he intended to kill with ruthlessness. Before him lay success.