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.
There were guards and fighters to be met, but they would be slaughtered. No pity governed Senov. He was content, firm in belief that no one other than his trusted henchmen could know of the scheme which so soon would reach its terrible climax.
In that, Michael Senov was wrong. Miles from Moscow a powerful monoplane was winging eastward toward the Russian capital. That plane had taken off from a German city. Its pilot, hidden in the cockpit, was driving onward toward his goal.