"Crimson Snow" by David Shone

[Crimson_Snow]

I wrote Crimson because I find this period so dark and captivating. Imperial Russia was on the verge of a deep abyss in December of 1916. It was Christmas time... Russia's third at war... Rasputin was making a mockery of His Majesty's cabinet and court... the tsar looked weak.... he was surrounded by ambitious men....there was much to lose... there was much to gain... all this, seen through the young eyes of a lost prince who believed he was already dead. This is Crimson Snow. A story of what ifs and what could have been.
"Worthy and Gentle Reader! I dedicate this book to thee with many fears and misgivings of heart. Being a stranger to thee, and having never administered to thy wants nor to thy pleasures, I can ask nothing at thy hands, saving the common courtesies of life. Perchance, too, what I have written will be little to thy taste..." Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

So here it is- Crimson Snow.

A ragged-looking fellow found himself in an odd predicament as he emerged from a dark doorway. Tall, coatless and wearing a tunic smeared in blood, a Siberian holy man stumbled out into the cold December night. He was drunk. But that was the least of his problems.
Moments ago in the palace behind him, Father Rasputin was left for dead. Now standing in a courtyard dusted with snow, he smiled as the harsh air burned his lungs. He was thankful to be alive.
“Bastards,” escaped from his wine-stained lips.
Prince Felix Yussupov was one of the bastards Rasputin was referring too. Strange yet beautiful, the young prince was thought to be under Rasputin’s spell. Apparently, the spell had been broken. The good prince was the one who was responsible for the blood dripping down his back.
How could he be so foolish to trust Felix? Worse turn his back to him. The priest was smarter than this. Wasn’t he? He knew the answer. All his life he had let his penis do a majority of his thinking. The priest came here in hopes to bed a princess.
Felix’s wife was well-chosen bait. Princess Irina was one of the most desirable women throughout the Russian empire. To add her to his list of accomplishments was to tempting of a feat. So, he went along with Felix’s plan. He could still hear the prince warn him that the princess was nervous. She was terrified of scandal. So Rasputin allowed Felix to orchestrate this secret gathering.
Three hours ago, the prince masquerading as a chauffeur picked him up from his apartment and drove him here. When Rasputin arrived he was escorted downstairs and told Princess Irina would be down in a moment. In the meantime, the prince played his guitar and sang sad gypsy songs while he drank.
Into his second bottle, the Siberian complained what was taking Irina so long as he moved across the room to fetch another bottle of wine. Just then, the music stopped. The last thing he remembered was a sharp pain followed by a loud noise echoing throughout his head. As Felix stood over him, the prince revealed his twisted plot.
It nearly worked too. Involving Irina was the masterstroke. Hell, he found out later that the princess was not even in the capital. Felix had even lied about that. The first of many lies spewed this evening. Rasputin’s friends had attempted to warn him about the prince but he foolishly had brushed them away. The young prince was getting bold.
Suddenly, what sounded like a woman’s high-pitched scream pierced the night as it tore him back to severity of the moment. The scream came from Prince Felix. He should have killed the prince when he had the chance. Too much was at risk.
Hopelessly, Father Rasputin traced his eyes back along his snowy tracks. A savage voice that sprung from within him screamed, “Noooo!” He needed to flee death just one last time. The priest had three days to save the Romanov regime from a bloody civil war. Members in the imperial family were preparing to strike at the current tsar. His prophecy could not come true.
Then, the door that he would use for his escape opened. With it, a tidal wave of bright, brilliant light bathed the courtyard.
“I am not yet ready to die,” he cried to the wind.
A barrel-shaped man waving a revolver emerged from the blinding light. He waddled into the open courtyard. As he stopped, he aimed his piece and fired two shots into the night, but they both missed. He could not see a thing through his steamed up glasses.
Father Rasputin finally reached his objective. The courtyard’s waist high gate. The cold metal felt wonderful within his grasp.
At that moment, a dark figure emerged from the doorway. Dmitri, a tall and dashing officer of His Majesty’s Horse Guards and member of the royal family, mechanically removed his Browning service revolver from its holster and smartly aimed the weapon.
“Felix, Felix,” shouted Rasputin with all his remaining strength, “I will tell it all to the empress!”
The fiery orange flash from Dmitri’s revolver answered his cry and quickly found its target.
The bullet’s sheer force turned him completely around. Now, facing the lighted palace, the soiled saint began to pray out loud. The blood-soaked snow became his altar. Kneeling before his God, he begged for forgiveness. The cold, soothing snow blanketed his brown, tangled beard. His famous stony eyes glared toward the illuminated doorway that once represented his artery of freedom. “Why now?”
The Siberian could not believe it had come to this. He had endured far too much to be struck down like a wild beast. The wicked force that spun him stole more than his freedom. Perfectly landed, the fourth shot of the night sealed his fate.
The courtyard grew quiet.
The pale palace radiated. There stood the beaming Prince Felix. He looked almost godly as he emerged from the darkness. Blond, bold, and beautiful, the decadent prince was dressed to kill. Wearing his cadet uniform of the Imperial Corps of Pages with high Pershing collar and white leather belt, his costume was complete—except that the friend he had betrayed had torn off one of his shoulder epaulettes.
Moments earlier, Rasputin had told Felix he was unworthy to wear a Russian uniform. Somehow, the prince knew it to be true. When Felix returned to the basement to check on Raputin and he found him slowly moving up the steps.
After a brief confrontation, the Siberian was chocking the life out of the prince when he felt a moment of mercy. He tore off one of Felix’s epaulettes as he pushed him down the stairs. All the while, telling the prince he was not worth it.
But that was ten minutes ago.
Strolling across the field, Felix’s took a deep breath. He was too pretty to be a man. It was time for his grand performance.
A senator, a duke, and a prince crossed the snow-covered courtyard. Their evening’s murderous business was nearly complete.
“Tell me, my clairvoyant friend,” Felix said to Rasputin, entertaining his conspirators, “how could you not foresee all this?”
The priest had no answer to their hate. He had been wise to mail his letter.
“Lord,” the holy man prayed, “I am in your hands now. Do with me what you wish.”
The three of them circled the fallen one like birds of prey.
“Patience good father,” Felix boasted. “You will see him soon enough.”
With fresh gypsy ballads sung earlier by Felix still ringing softly through his head, Rasputin looked toward the irongate. He was so close. “Why?” he asked.
Dmitri yelled, “Scum, you know perfectly well why!”
But the priest didn’t.
“Surely you must know?” said the third man, Senator Purishkevich. He was all out of breath.
“Did you think no one was watching?” Dmitri asked.
“Watching?”
“Yes—watching! Watching you taint Her Majesty with your filthiness. I despise everything you represent.”
“An affair?” Rasputin managed. “Me … and the empress?”
“Yes,” Duke Dmitri replied, “and you dare call yourself a man of God.”
Felix hissed, “I think not.”
“What?” Rasputin laughed, “Me and the empress?” Poor Dmitri, he thought as he looked into his sad dark eyes. You’re being tricked too. He began to grow faint.
“Our Siberian friend has been indulging himself too much in drink these days,” the senator laughed. “No use denying it. We already know what you have done.”
“Senator,” the priest said, gasping for breath, “who made you judge and jury?”
“Hush now,” Felix said with an actor’s flamboyant flair, “it is only I, Grigory Efimovich, I have come for you.” Felix raised Dmitri’s revolver. “Your influence over the House of Romanov has ended.”
“That’s what you think Felix,” the clairvoyant said with a bloody smile, looking at the duke. “Poor Russia. What has it ever done to deserve this?”
“What?” the duke asked.
“Now do what you must,” the believer said, closing his eyes.
With a pull of a trigger and a flash of orange light, Felix sealed his and Russia’s destinies. The shot rang throughout the frozen embankment’s grounds. It echoed throughout the tranquil banks of the Moika and nearby Neva rivers, bouncing off the high bastions of an ancient fortress.
Felix attempted to control his trembling hand. In his mind, he compared the incident to putting down one of his hounds. It was only a dog’s death, the prince told himself. Nothing more. Rasputin deserved it, didn’t he? He had threatened to tell Dmitri of their little secret. Now, he would reveal nothing.
“Well done, Felix,” spoke the senator as he spit on the peasant.
Dmitri just stood there. It was finally done, but it did not seem real. Not yet. As if it were some play, he was waiting for the actor to get up. Serenely, Felix handed him back his revolver.
“Now,” with a long pause, the politician looked down at the Siberian’s corpse. “We have some work to do.”
“Mission completed,” the prince said. “The only thing that remains is to take out the trash. Grab a leg.”
Many miles away in a peaceful village named Moghilev another man wandered through the frosty night.
Chapter two to follow.

[Crimson_Snow]

I am currently making corrections to this chapter to follow the customs of the Orthodox Church.




In the massive wake of ancient cathedral, blowing snow swept across the face of a Russian general as he gazed upon a sea of white. It was the village of Moghilev.
“Only in Russia,” the solider said, enjoying the last drag from his cigarette, “would we pick a town as lovely as this to house an army.”
It was his army he was referring too.
Nicholas Alexandrovich Romanov- the Emperor of All Russia never asked to be the tsar. In fact, he accepted the title of tsar with as much enthusiasm one reserves for an unwanted gift. Regardless, the tsar was who he was and for the last twenty years he was growing increasingly tired of it. God-like power is a heavy load to bear for any mere man.
As he exhaled an icy cloud of smoke, Nicholas deep blue eyes watched the shifting snow dance upon the nearby rooftops. The sight reminded him of home- Petersburg. At that moment, a shiver traveled down his back and he remembered where he was.
He needed to be forgiven.
Above him, a tall steeple hovered over him like a bad omen. It was Moghilev’s age-old cathedral and for the last twenty minutes Nicholas was mustering enough courage to enter it. In the past, he had visited the church frequently but tonight was different.
“Enough,” the tsar said, as he discarded his cigarette, “I have already wasted enough time.”
Swiftly, the tsar scaled the remaining stone steps.
Inside the church, the Russian wandered nervously through a dimly lit hall until he came across a hint of milky light.  Following it, he traced the dancing light to the church’s inner sanctum. The high-arched chamber was a glow in thick flickering light. Hundreds, perhaps, thousands of lit candles lined the altar wall. It was a beautiful sight.
Then, as he paused to stroke his beard, Nicholas noticed the faces staring back at him. Mixed within the candles were tiny portraits of young men in imperial uniforms. Hopefully, he thought they did not all represent the town’s honored dead, but he knew they did.
Removing his jacket, he asked himself how could there be so many? He knew his country was engaged in a bruising war with Germany but how could there be so many?
“What a terrible waste? A generation lost for what?” He had no answer. Just grief.
Approaching the altar, he tossed his hat and jacket over a vacant pew and knelled before his Maker. It was time. “Dear God, what have I done?” Dropping to his knees, “There is still time. Guide me, oh Lord. Allow me to save those souls not yet lost.” Tsar Nicholas removed a crumbled up letter from his pocket. It was what bore so heavily on his mind. It was from Father Rasputin- the Siberian that had saved his only son.


I feel I shall leave life before January 1. I want to make known to the Russian people, to Papa, to the Russian Mother and to the children, to the land of Russia, what they must understand. If I am killed by common assassins, and especially by my brothers the Russian peasants, you, Tsar of Russia, have nothing to fear, remain on your throne and govern, and you, Russian Tsar have nothing to fear for your children, they will reign for hundred of years in Russia. But if I am murdered by boyars, by nobles, if they shed my blood, their hands will remain soiled with blood, for twenty-five years they will not wash their hands from my blood. They will leave Russia. Brothers will kill their brothers, and they will kill each other and hate each other, and for twenty-five years there will be no nobles in the country. Tsar of the land of Russia, if you hear a sound of a bell which will tell you that Grigory has been killed, you must know this: if it was your relations who wrought my death then no one of your family, that is to say none of your children or relations, will remain alive for more than two years. They will be killed by the Russian people. I go and I feel in me the divine command to tell the Russian Tsar how he must live if I have disappeared. You must reflect and act prudently. Think of your safety and tell your relations that I have paid for them with my own blood. I shall be killed. I am no longer among the living. Pray, pray, be strong, think of your blessed family.
                                                                                   Grigory


Closing his eyes, he continued to pray for his family.
As he opened them, the tsar concentrated on the solid oak cross that centered the chamber.  The tsar became hypnotized by it as he recalled a past conversation with the prophet. Nicholas once asked the Siberian, “When will the war end?” Rasputin replied: “When you take Constantinople that will be the end of it.”
Grigory spoke the truth. Why was it that his sole purpose for this war was the liberation of that forgotten Christian city? Why? As his eyelids grew heavy, he knew that answer all too well. He was the one chosen to restore the cross to the altar of St. Sophia. Professor Pobyedonostzev his tutor as a child had foreseen it. Over and over, he would say, “Nicholas, my dear child, save Constantinople from the Turks. It is the founding city of the Russian Orthodox Church held captive by the Muslim faith. Restore the cross to the altar of St. Sophia. To do so, the Lord would bless thy.”
How many times had he heard that same message, in these past few years resound in his head? Far too many times but today his armies were no closer to its gates then before the war. Perhaps the professor was wrong? It was not his legacy to be known as ‘great.’ In Petersburg, the tsar was referred to as anything but great.
“Oh Lord? Through your abundant Grace, you sacrificed your only son to wash away the world’s sin- now what do you wish of me?”
At that moment, the heavy wooden doors of the church swung open. Nicholas continued to pray, “Whatever you choose, let thy will be done.”
Through the doors, a stranger appeared accompanied by a strong breeze that blew out a majority of the candles along with knocking down several of the pictures.  Closing the vast doors, the bald intruder bowed and quietly entered the darkened cathedral. It was the Cossack Chekov the tsar’s most trusted bodyguard. Wearing a bright green greatcoat that ran to the floor, the Cossack’s enormous frame nearly filled the aisleway as he quickly approached his sovereign. He was thankful His Majesty was okay.
Wearing a rare grin, he asked the figure of the Mother of God, “Duty calls.”
“Your Majesty,” the Cossack said, scanning the room for possible danger, “I have been looking for you for over an hour.”
“And now you found me.”
“Your Grace, it is not safe for you to walk the streets alone. Radicals wander the streets- even in Moghilev.”
Before Nicholas could respond, an old and disheveled priest emerged from a side entrance. Still wearing his bedclothes, he appeared half asleep. “What’s with this racket? It’s nearly morning for god sake.”
“Sorry Father,” the Russian tsar replied, “I could not sleep.”
Instantly recognizing him, “Your Majesty,” he said falling to the floor, “I am so honored.”  In Russia, the tsar was considered to be God’s gift to the people- just a notch below the Creator. His Majesty was the magical glue that held together the church and state. Without him, the entire empire would fall to pieces.
His Grace was tired of playing god.  “Father, please, stand up. I am not worthy of such praise.” Nicholas gathered his fur hat and overcoat as he heard the priest mumble that he was the chosen one.  
“Your Majesty, who is more worthy than you?” the obedient priest declared as he rose. “Is there anything I can do for you? Perhaps a prayer?”
“Yes, that would be nice.”
“Splendid! Let’s see, what should I prayer for?” the priest said as he scratched his head. “Oh, I know. How about a glorious victory this spring?”
“No,” he replied as he marched towards the door. Turning back, “Just pray for--”
At that moment, the steeple bell chimed in the hour. Four bells, it was late- too late for anyone to pray for peace. In three days the tsar would be dead.
      

[Crimson_Snow]

A heavy hand beating against the door stirred a dark room at the Hotel Europe. Mumbling a laundry list of profanities, the dazed youth arose from his short slumber. Though, the banging did not stop. Defying it, the young man with the bushy beard pulled the covers snugly over of his head. Now fully awakened, he screamed his warning, “Leave me alone!”
No matter. The constant banging continued as if the hammering fists were fed by his warning. All he wished for was to return to the all-healing depths of the dead. Finally, he tossed away his covers. This was no way for the great, grandson of a tsar to awaken.
“Come back later! I’m sleeping!” As the banging stopped, he gave a heavy sigh then buried his shaggy head underneath his pillow. His exposed skin was covered with goose bumps. Why was it so cold? Oh yes, he wanted to die.
Oddly, his thoughts of suicide kept him somewhat focused and sane.
Last night he opened all the windows. As he debated which one to leap out of he passed out. Now, with the banging starting again increased the throbbing in his aching head. Damn he needed a drink.
Then, as always, his mind drifted back to the front. Remembering the awful stench sickened him. Staring at his bedside clock, he gagged as he noticed his medal draggling around an empty bottle. It was given to him for an act of bravery. What foolishness. He slipped back between the covers. Looking at the revolver by his bed, he whispered, “Perhaps I should use that.”
At that moment, the banging became much louder.
“Damn it,” he cried, more annoyed with himself than the knocking, “I said, leave me alone!”
Peering toward the direction of the door, he waited.  “Leave me alone.”
Prince Sergei Platonovich Konstantin was a product of the House of Konstantin a house accustomed to greatness. In that noble household, the Russia’s most legendary soldiers were born. They were cast like soldiers of lead into hell’s inferno, purified, and molded, then sent away to be sharpened to a fine point at some far-off battlefield.
For countless generations, with their mighty military minds and razor-sharp swords, his ancestors transformed a backward nation into a vast mighty empire that stretched over one-sixth of the globe. But of late, the enemies had grown stronger. Two years earlier, Sergei had eagerly carried on the Konstantin tradition. He had marched toward glory and the empire’s western border in a vain effort to tame the imposing forces of Germany. But the old sword that he carried so proudly could not protect his friends from the German metal that rained down upon them.
Before battle the previous July, he learned of his wife Natyala’s death. She had died delivering their first child. That next day, he had done everything he could to join them and for that they awarded him a medal.
Suddenly, the banging stopped. Moments later, his bedroom door opened a crack more, and with it came a piecing beam of rare, golden light.
As it blinded him, he asked, “Who’s there?”
“Renko Serge.” Regaining his vision, he saw the stylish smirk of his father’s right-hand man, Inspector Renko of His Majesty’s Secret Police. Immaculately dressed in a fine cut suit, he tossed his coat on a nearby chair. Then, the inspector smiled as he placed a tool back into a small leather case.
“Locks are useless around you.”
“Afraid so, Your Excellency.” Renko replied. He was short bald and somewhat bull doggish man with an intense look about him. Nevertheless, his beefy frame fit perfectly in his dark suit.
The prince attempted to focus on the fussiness of the inspector’s face. He was still drunk. “Leave me alone, Stephan,” he said, attempting to place the covers over his head. “What the hell are you doing here at this ungodly hour?”
Stephan’s clean and polished exterior cloaked his true profession as the royal family’s trash man.  Foregoing the pleasantries, he barked, “Get up, Serge. We need to have a talk.”
“Later Inspector. It can wait.”
“Not this time.” The inspector noticed the piles of discarded bottles. “Serge, this is your last warning.” Subtle snores were the reply. The inspector grabbed a silver bucket filled with melted ice and dumped it over the young Russian prince.
As the wet covers screamed, Stephan allowed himself a brief chuckle—it had been a long time since he had laughed, and it felt wonderful.
Now sitting up, fully awake, the prince laughed. “Renko, you have my undivided attention.”
“Good,” replied Renko. It tore his heart to pieces to see Serge. Once, the prince had been a bright and strikingly handsome young man, an officer in His Majesty’s Chevalier Guards who had distinguished himself in battle. Currently, it appeared he was battling for his soul. Serge’s muscular frame was now pencil-thin with dull hollowed out eyes that oozed incertainty protruded from his dark unkempt beard. He looked more like some poor street beggar than a Russian prince.
“Sergei, you worry me.” Why in the world were all the windows wide open in the middle of December? He didn’t want to know. Renko swaggered swiftly across the room to close them.  “Young Konstantin it seems you’re still celebrating.”
“Celebrating? I drink simply to forget.” Looking at a tiny table of spirits, Serge asked, “Care for some breakfast?” He wanted to return to the comfort of the dense fog.
“Don’t. It’s not even ten yet.”
“Ten or two, it makes no difference,” Serge said as he slammed down his first drink of the day. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right Renko?”
“Why are you doing this to yourself? Help me understand.”
“What is there to understand. I should have died with them.”
“I am truly sorry about Natyala. She was an angel. But—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
The light caught three quarters of his face. “Fine my friend. Must I always be the one to remind you that good Russian air still fills those lungs of yours? With such a peaceful view,” Stephan said, looking out the window, “one might find it difficult to imagine that we are at war.”
“Nice observation,” Serge said, closing the curtains. “Why are you here? Is my father growing concerned about the dirt I’m placing on his noble name?”
“You know that he never in his life relied on his name. Poor old Sergei,” the inspector acidly replied. “It’s been, what, six months now since your glorious return from the front.”
“Please don’t Stephan. Tell my father that I’m sorry that I’m such a disappointment,” he said, refilling his glass.
“Yes, your father did send me. We are both concerned about you. And, looking at your present condition, we have good cause to worry.”
“I’m sorry I’m such a burden to you both,” Serge said, not daring to face the inspector’s eyes. “I would be better off dead.”
“Shame on you,” the inspector said, shaking his head and thinking of his son, lost in the same battle in which Sergei was wounded. “What do you know about death?”
“Too much,” he replied, covering his face.
“It’s normal to grieve. But life somehow goes on, my friend, whether you want it to or not.”
“I know. But I can’t accept what happened.”
“And you never will, so stop trying. But sadly, I must speak to you about another matter.”
“Another matter?”
“Yes, I am afraid so.” Renko paused, choosing his words carefully. “I would like to know more about your little gathering of last night.”
“Gathering? Why?”
“What were you celebrating?”
“Celebrating?” he said, trying to recall the events of the evening, “Ah … life!”
Renko looked around the trashed room, then at Serge. “You break my heart. Were you celebrating merely life, or was it a dark celebration for someone’s death?”
“What are you talking about, Stephan? I don’t think I’m drunk yet. Or am I?”

[Crimson_Snow]

“Her Majesty’s spiritual adviser is missing, and feared dead.”
“Father Rasputin is dead? Splendid. Now, may I return to bed?”
“Not quite yet, my sad friend.” Stephan’s icy eyes scanned the room. He found it hard to believe that he was in the penthouse suite of the Europe. The once-luxurious room, like the man lounging before him, was nearly ruined. “Just answer a few questions and you may return to the ranks of the honored dead.”
“Ask away,” Serge said, combing his fingertips through his unruly hair.
“Serge—” the use of the informal name told the prince the inspector was serious—“Where were you last night?”
“Stephan,” he said, laughing and shoving his hands deeper into his robe’s pockets, “please, do you really believe that I’m somehow involved in Father Rasputin’s disappearance?”
      The inspector hesitated, looking around the room. It was in shambles. “No, though it appears I missed quite a party.”
Serge chuckled. “It was fun, what I recall of it.”
“Who attended your small celebration of life?”
“No one of importance; the usual gang of poets, prostitutes, and other degenerates from the Caviar Bar. Now,” Serge said as he walked back to his bed, “I shall not waste anymore of your precious time.”
If he wanted this way, so be it. “Who was at your little party?” barked the inspector, a man accustomed to having his questions answered, “I need names!”
“Just a handful of people from the downstairs bar. Honestly Renko, must I go through this? Is it a matter of state secrecy?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, it is. Who was with you last night? Tell me now.”
“I told you, no one of importance. I can’t even recall everyone. A good friend of mine from my Oxford days arrived on the Moscow train yesterday. It was just he and I and a few regulars from the Caviar Bar.”
“Didn’t Felix Yusupov graduate from Oxford?” he asked in a tone that suggested that he already knew the response.
“Barely, but that was before me. He graduated the year I began.”
“So, your friend is a foreigner then? What is he doing in Petersburg? Is he a British correspondent?”
“No. Good God, Renko. You have been involved in too much intrigue in your life. You are starting to become paranoid.”
“Paranoia has keep me alive this long. I still need names. Start with your friend.”
“Very well. His name is Malachi Jones, and he works for the British Consulate in Moscow. He’s here preparing for the allied conference to be held in January.”
“Odd name,” Stephan said, recalling it from the list of possible British agents working for the consulate.
“He’s an odd man,” Serge replied.
“I see. Any of your cousins present? Prince Nikita, or Theodore, or Felix?” They were Grand Duke Alexander’s two sons and his son-in-law.
Serge laughed. “My cousins? I’m no longer everyone’s favorite.” Upon returning from the front, he severed all ties with anyone he ever loved or who would remind him of his old life.
“So Felix was not here?”
“Felix? I haven’t seen him in ages. Nor do I wish to. We don’t exactly travel in the same circles. What’s this all about?”
“Rasputin was murdered last night in the Yusupov Palace, Felix’s home.”
“Murdered? I thought you said he merely disappeared?”
“No. Rasputin was murdered.”
“Impossible! Felix is far too gentle a creature to be involved in such madness.”
“He told me he did it,” Stephan said flatly. Gentle was not a term that came to the inspector’s mind when he thought of Felix.
“How can you be certain? Felix could be lying. He always does. Rasputin is most likely passed out under some woman’s bed. The Siberian is known for two things: his drinking and his womanizing. Normally in that order.”
“No, he’s dead. We just finished searching his palace, and it’s a definite crime scene. There were bloodstains everywhere. Felix showed me and my men the rug they wrapped him up in.”
“What?”
“This morning, your cousin escorted me and my men to his basement. He showed me where the body laid. There was a huge bloodstain.”
“But why? He could have easily denied it.”
“That’s what we are trying to find out.”
“I don’t understand. You tell me that they go through all the trouble and secrecy of killing the Siberian and the first thing they do after disposing of the body is to tell the authorities exactly what they have done?”
“Exactly. That’s what troubles me. Your cousin Felix is an odd one, but this crime is even too bizarre for the likes of him.”
“Did he tell you where the body was?”
“Not exactly.”
“Without the priest’s corpse, how can you be certain? This could all be some childish game.”
“I wish it were. But when I asked him where it was, he only replied ‘where it belongs.’ Believe me, Rasputin is dead. The only question is why.”
“Why did you tell me he disappeared then?”
“I wanted to see if perhaps you too were involved.”
“I see. Damage control? And Nikita and Theodore.”
The inspector looked the other way. “They were there.”
“Great. They’re only teenagers.”
“I know.”
“And Felix,” the prince said as he already knew the answer but asked anyway, “Is he currently in custody?”
“He’s a prince. What do you think?”
“This is insane.”
“I agree. But what is true madness is to strike down the only man the empress thinks can save her only son.”
“What is she going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Stephan replied, shaking his head. “All I know is that Protopopov, our beloved new minister of interior, is currently en route to Tsarskoe to see the empress personally on this matter. Her Imperial Highness wants him to begin an immediate inquiry into the disappearance of Grigory Efimovich Rasputin. She wants revenge. I trust the minister will use this situation for his own advantage. According to her, Father Rasputin was not only Alexei’s savior but also Russia’s. And now, that savior appears to be dead.”
Serge sank deeper into his chair. “Hasn’t there been enough bloodshed?” His thoughts drifted back to the front. “Must there be more?”
“I’m afraid so. Remember, Protopopov was personally in charge of Rasputin’s own safety, and he failed. He will be looking to avoid her wrath and pin the guilt of Rasputin’s death on anyone but himself—most likely, your cousin Felix.”
“There are rumors floating around town that Protopopov is insane.”
“He most definitely is, I hear from the advanced stages of syphilis. But who else would Rasputin—I mean, Her Majesty—choose?”
“Indeed.”
“Don’t forget, Serge,” Stephan said, choosing his words carefully, “Protopopov is desperate, and desperate people are dangerous. He will have no trouble placing your cousin under arrest.”
“Not possible,” Serge said, lighting a cigarette. “Only the Tsar can order the arrest of a member of the imperial family. Stephan, what were they thinking?”
“I don’t know,” replied the inspector. “I suppose your cousin thought he could solve Russia’s problems with one single blow.”
“Then he is a fool,” Serge said with a cigarette clinging perfectly to his teeth. “Striking down a Siberian peasant will accomplish nothing. Russia’s problems lie deeper than that. These are dark days.” Serge stared out the window, his eyes drifting toward the leafless tress that lined the Nevsky Prospekt. As he inspected the icy backdrop below, the words of warning from the poet Gogol whispered into his ears:
            
Oh, do not trust this Nevsky Prospekt, I always wrap myself more tightly in my cloak whenever I walk along it, and I try not to take notice of things I encounter. Everything’s an illusion. Everything’s a dream. Everything’s not what it seems.

[Crimson_Snow]

After few moments of shared silence, the prince asked: “Who else was involved?”
“We believe Grand Duke Dmitri also played a part in his plot. His motorcar was seen in the area, shortly after a gendarme reported hearing gunshots coming from the Yusupov Palace.
“I hope you’re wrong.”
“So do I. For everyone’s sake.”
“Stephan, why are you telling me this?”
“Your father wants you away from the capital at once,” Renko said, taking a cigarette from his case. “At least, until after the New Year.”
“My proud father, the war hero? Why does he even care?”
“Fool, he has always cared, even though, you give him every opportunity not to.”
“You think I should forget about our past?”
The inspector exhaled a cloud of smoke. “The past is the past. Leave it buried. The future is all that truly matters. My only son, and too many of your friends, can no longer say that.”
“Nothing matters to me anymore.”
“I see that, son. Nonetheless, you’re still alive, Serge. And that matters,” he said softly, “at least for me.”
Serge felt awkward. “Thanks for your concern. But why—”
“Concern?” mocked the inspector, staring at his superior’s coddled son, “This isn’t a game, Serge. The empress believes the removal of her trusted aide was just the beginning. And, your father thinks she may be right. A mutinous step, by forces targeted against her husband’s teetering regime. Every day, I hear rumors of the efforts of the imperial family to replace the old regime. Some say Nicholas’ days are numbered.”
“Changing of the tsars? Isn’t that a little outdated? It has been over a century since that last occurred. Her Majesty is as mad as Protopopov if she believes that.”
“Open your eyes, boy,” Stephan said, exhaling smoke and looking around the grand room. “The imperial family isn’t going to allow Nicholas to hand the country to the radicals. They have far too much to lose.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“It’s worse. You wouldn’t believe the reports my department sends His Majesty. Most are filed away unread. Russia is in shambles. Over three million mothers are asking His Majesty why their sons won’t be coming home for the holidays, or ever. The empire is tired of this brutal war.”
“I agree, but what do you want of me?”
“Serge, I require only two things of you. First, warn Felix and Dmitri to flee the city at once. Try them at the yacht club. They often go there.”
“Okay.”
“”I don’t need them to cause any more trouble. And second, when they leave, go with them. Your father wants you to head south, out of harm’s way.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Go to your family estate in the south. There, you should be safe.”
“Safe from what?”
“No matter Serge. Just make sure you’re on this evening’s train. Until then, warn them and stay out of sight. Felix is at his father-in-law’s palace.”
“Sandro’s?’
“Yes. You should stay there until this evening. Now, promise me you will be on that nine o’clock train.”
“I promise.”
Stephan moved toward the door, truly smiling for the first time since his arrival. “Good. I need to begin my investigation. Your father wants a full report on his desk by this evening. I must somehow attempt to control this chaos before it consumes us all. Your father will personally see you off to the station. Expect him at eight. I recommend you take a bath, and shave that damn beard off.”
The mere mention of his father disturbed Serge greatly. To everyone else, his father was a national hero, but to him he was only a stranger.
“Shave? Why?”
“No matter,” Renko said, hugging Serge. Serge followed the inspector to the door. Attempting to find his way back to reality, he asked, “Stephan, what is today?”
“It’s Saturday Sergei. The seventeenth of December, a week before Christmas.”
“Ah, yes. Well then,” he said, adjusting the drawstrings of his robe, “Merry Christmas, Stephan.”
“Merry Christmas, Your Excellency,” the inspector replied, marching down the corridor. He had much to do today.









Comments? Opinions? I would appreciate any feedback- neg. or pos.

[Crimson_Snow]

Chapter Four




A cotton cloud of thick blue smoke choked the cabin as his train headed south, away from the capital. Rolling his fine cigar through his buttery fingers, the smoker had good reason to be pleased. Rasputin was finally dead.
Watching the milky fields pass by, Alexander Protopopov the new minister of interior sat quietly besides his fellow passenger- his black stovepipe hat. Alexander knew it would be a short ride to Tsarskoe Selo, the imperial village. Over an hour ago, Her Imperial Majesty the Empress Alexandra had summoned him to the Alexander Palace. His task was to inform Her Majesty the whereabouts of her missing spiritual adviser. That he could easily do, but she would have to wait a little while for the truth.
As the constant swaying of the carriage coach soothed and cradled him, he pondered his perfect plan. He gave a small satisfied chuckle to the empty car and to himself; so far, his scheme as gone accordingly. Felix had accomplished his end of the bargain. Now, it was his turn.
Watching the fields of unbroken snow chugged by, the sleazy politician moved closer to the cabin’s window. As he moved closer, it captured his own wicked reflection. To him, it was perfection.
His glassy eyes registered a man in his early sixties. How did he get so old, he asked himself as he began to play with the pointed tips of his trademark moustache?
“How easily it all slips away,” he whispered, “like the fleeting rays of a dying day. You wake up from your short slumber and that glorious day is now gone.” He laughed, thinking of all night parties that turned into orgies, “Time to pay for past sins.”
Alexander continued to play with waxy tips of his moustache. This simple action had always calmed him. His colleagues in the imperial senate claimed he played the game of politics as often as he toyed with its tip. And, they were right. Leaning closer to his frosty image, he reflected how far he had traveled within the government in the last six months.  Then, he was merely a puppet in His Majesty’s Duma.  Now, he was the one holding all the strings as he rose to minister.  It was astonishing how far an ambitious man could travel with the combined talents of a false tongue and unstable mind.
In his own mind, Protopopov was a great man, and a man who deserved respect from his peers that he never received. Recently, he was ordered to meet the German financier Warburg in Stockholm. It was scheduled during his return trip from an allied conference held in Paris. On Her Majesty’s orders, he discussed the topic of a possible separate peace with his German counterpart.
When he returned home to Petersburg, the imperial parliament, the Duma, somehow found out of his clandestine mission and labeled him as a traitor. The Empress denied the mission. His good name was ruined and with it any loyalty he once had to the current regime.
The times were changing. The real power in the government was in the Ministry. Therefore, when the minister of interior position came open, he sold his soul to the devil, Rasputin, for he had nothing left to lose. The advanced stages of syphilis nibbled daily on his once-brilliant mind. His muscle tremors and hallucinations increased at an alarming rate. Soon, he would not be able to hide it anymore. But his final days would be his best. His hands would help form a new regime and a new Russia. He thought of this as he exhaled prefect rings of smoke. What a wonderful legacy.
When the train stopped in Tsarskoe Selo, the carriage compartments doors all swung open. With them escaped all of the room’s warmth, gone to play along the frozen fields where the gods once clustered. By Monday, a new god would claim this town. He laughed, putting on his gloves. “Stain my legacy, and I shall stain yours … with blood.”
Shrouded in black, Protopopov stepped down upon the snow-swept platform and adjusted his tophat. He was here to right a wrong, regardless of the consequences. She shouldn’t have lied to the Duma. If she hadn’t, all of this would not be happening.
Cutting winds greeted his arrival to the Tsarskoe station. Out of habit more than necessity, he played again with his moustache as he gazed over these palatial grounds. He allowed the fresh air to fill his lungs. The minister could sense a change was in the air, as harsh as these prevailing winds.

[Crimson_Snow]

Chapter Five

The Imperial Yacht Club



A crescent sun weakly welcomed the arrival of the new weekend as it ascended over a rough cluster of buildings near the River Neva. The one in the middle looked the oldest and most menacing. It was exactly the image its inhabitants wanted.
The building housed Petersburg’s ultra exclusive club called the Imperial Yacht Club.
Though, its members preferred to just call it the ‘club.’ The club was a political playground for the haves- the regime’s upper echelon. It was a place where white gloved servants beckoned at every member’s call. To join this club took more than money- for anyone could possess that. No, in this private club it took power. In fact a great deal of it.
Its members bore from the most distinguished families in the empire. Their fathers and grandfathers were the ones that stretched and shaped Russia’s borders to cover over one sixth of the globe. But that was before the war. Now, the chosen few were worried and they had good reason to be. Their empire which was their inheritance was vanishing before their very eyes. And so was their power.
Power is a funny thing when it is only perceived.
The club’s more observant members noticed their white gloved servants weren’t as quick fetching a drink as they used to be. And that scared them nearly as bad as the coming year. So with that said, we pull back the curtain and venture in.
Well within this imposing residence sat a crowded drawing room decorated for the holidays. A strong scent of wood wax mixed with pine attempted to cover up the smell of rot that lingered in the air. Here, clustered in a corner a group of lumpy looking men chatted as they scanned this morning’s paper and smoked their cigars. These men were members. Through a cloud of wandering smoke, they discussed the topic that was on everyone’s lips- Rasputin’s disappearance.
Serge arrived in this place ten minutes ago but it seemed more like an hour. He hated this place. It was always filled with fat old men in freshly pressed uniforms. They passed their time stroking their facial hair as often as they stroked one another’s egos. Here, sitting in their cozy chairs, they complained about many things: the senate, the empress, and the tsar. Though mostly- it was the tsar.
Dmitri was nowhere in sight.
“I have heard this before,” said a general with a pudgy face. “And, the beast always reappears—stronger and closer to the throne.” The Russian general man sat directly across from young Konstantin. Serge could only wonder why Renko sent him here.
“But it is true,” retorted a man to Serge’s right replying to the general’s statement. He was a duke and wore his own regimental colors. His name was Boris Vladimir and he hated the tsar more than most in the room. So Rasputin’s apparent death pleased him. “The dark one is dead.”
Serge knew the simple logic behind Boris’ hate. Before the war, he was denied permission to court the tsar’s eldest daughter- the Grand Duchess Olga because the empress thought Boris was too old and too much of a playboy for her daughter. It was most like true. No, the royal family already had their eyes on the ideal match for their daughter’s hand. That was Grand Duke Dmitri.
Serge watched him slurped down some tea with a well satisfied smile he shared with his eldest brother Vlad that sat besides him. (Vlad is Grand Duke Vladimir’s- Alexander III’s brother- fictional son. Based him on the eldest son that died as a toddler).
“If it is so, I salute them.” Vlad said as he rose. The man was a mountain. A professional solider nearly fifty years of age, it was rumored he broke a man in half once during the Russia’s war with Japan. It was only a rumor but the sheer size of him made the prince wonder if it were true. Broad and tall, Vlad looked like a Russian tsar- big, bold, and extremely powerful.
Of course, this didn’t stop Serge from asking the obvious. “Salute who?” He said as he entered the discussion. Vlad’s massive frame turned slowly towards him.
“The assassins, Prince Sergei” he said gazing down at him, “of course.”
“The emperor may not see it that way, murdering the holy man who nursed the heir back to health,” Serge offered.
“Rasputin was an opportunist who played the tsar as a fool.”
“Dangerous talk,” Serge said without thinking.
Coming to his brother’s defense, “Dangerous times- young Konstantin. I see you no longer find it necessary to wear your uniform,” Boris stated as he sat down his cup. “Are you still recovering from your war wounds? You look perfectly healthy to me.”
“Boris what do you know of war?”
“Let’s not turn on one another. We are all royalty here,” the Grand Duke Vladimir Vladimirovich said. “Our proud fathers and grandfathers fought and spilled their own noble blood to create this mighty kingdom we all see crumbling before us. We must act as one.”
“Act as one?” the prince asked as he panned the room for Dmitri. “Against whom?”
“Now,” Boris replied, “who’s speaking dangerously.”
Serge countered. “I am not here to speak politics. I just need to speak to Dmitri. Has any of you seen him?”
They all looked at one another and slowly shook their heads.
“Try the Bear,” Vlad suggested. "He often has lunch there.”
“Thanks Vladimir. I appreciate your help.”
“Don’t mention it, son. Today is just talk. But we can’t be the only ones that see the writing on the wall.”
With that, Serge left the parlor feeling worse than when he entered. Renko was right. The imperial family was growing bold. In the past, a man- duke or not, would have been cut down for addressing a tsar in such a tone. What was happening to Russia? Nothing good.

[Crimson_Snow]

A great deal of Aron's words were sourced from Edvard Radzinsky's The Rasputin File & Salisbury's Black Night, White Snow. In my opinion, the best book on the era.

Chapter Six


The Fireman's Club

Inspector Renko’s motor car snaked its way down one of Petersburg’s busy side streets. Peering out his window, he observed the grim sight of refuges warming their hands over open bonfires. All were civilian causalities of the war. Petersburg was swarming with poor, powerless people.
Misery pranced like the fiery flames along their drawn faces. It was a depressing sight. These sad companions had already sacrificed all they could for the sake of the empire, and this war: their lands, their homes, their sons, and their pride. Everything that they once cared for was now gone. Burnt, beaten, and now left for dead.
Renko pulled his eyes from the window. He had seen enough.
A few minutes later, his car was in front of No.14 Fontanka, the house of Countess Ignateau. Within her fine home was the infamous Fireman’s Club, a small but profitable gambling establishment. Typical for a Saturday afternoon, the club was packed, filled with drugged and lifeless faces attempting to escape the atrocity of wartime Petersburg. As a variety of chemicals pulsed through their bodies, men all dressed in tuxedos gambled carelessly with their hearts and their souls. What else was there to do?
The inspector slowly walked through the club’s crowded hallways, looking for the proprietor, Aron Simanovich. Aron and Rasputin had known each other a long time. Aron’s good sense, knowledge, and foresight helped create the infamous Father Rasputin. He cleverly molded Rasputin, a Siberian peasant from the cold and dreary Arctic, into Russia’s most influential man. He had created the Rasputin mystique.
The inspector found Aron at the bar, surrounded by thick wreaths of smoke.
“Stephan, so it’s true?” Aron asked, combing back his thinning hair, “They have murdered my good friend, Grigory.”
The club’s owner poured the inspector a drink.
Renko paused as he grabbed it. “Yes, I believe our friend is dead.”
“He is in a better place than this,” Simanovich said, raising his glass. “Lucky to leave this city of the damned.”
Renko polished off his drink. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
Aron acted dead drunk. “Rasputin was not the evil monster they all said he was. No. Grigory’s eyes were magical. Dark orbs that can peer deeply into the far corners of one’s soul.”
Renko listened as he refilled his glass.
“Those dark ghostly eyes reflected the ugliness within each man’s soul. He could see it all, good or bad, and its constant battle for supremacy within us all. Being a holy man in this fallen city is a dangerous business.” Aron poured himself another drink. “We are all sinners here, Renko. Today, the capital will rejoice. The mirror that peered into their unclean souls has been shattered. But I ask you my friend, tomorrow, who will be blamed for all their ugliness?” Aron drained the remaining vodka in his glass with one powerful swig. “He could dance all night,” he continued. “One night, we went to see the gypsies at the Villa Rode, thanks to the money you and our government so generously provided.”
It was all true, thought Stephan. Father Rasputin stumbled into St. Petersburg penniless with only the clothes on his back and became fabulously rich. Besides the large sums of money the imperial family had provided, he made a real fortune selecting the ministers who provided him protection. Then there were the nice juicy government contracts that Aron and the shrewd priest would sell to the highest bidder.
Aron continued: “There were gypsy dancers and singers whom our friend loved so much as well as invited ‘woman of society,’ who fought for the starets’ attention. He loved to dance the traditional Russian dances. Before going to the Villa Rode, he would fill his pockets with candy, silk scarves, ribbons, powder puffs, and bottles of perfume. These were presents for his dancing partners to ‘steal.’ He would delightedly announce to his multitude of admirers, ‘The gypsies have robbed me!’” Aron burst out with laughter.
Attempting to salvage the discussion, the inspector asked, “When was the last time you spoke to him?”
“I was with him last night until almost midnight. He told me he was going to see ‘the youngster,’ but he wouldn’t tell me that ‘the youngster’ was Yussupov.”
“What else?”
Aron cleared his throat. “I guess, well, the starets was nervous all week. I thought he was going to pace a hole in the carpet, but last night he was perfectly calm. He almost seemed childish with joy. It could have been the Madeira; he drank a lot last night. I told him of the rumors. I told him to stay in last night. Just like Protopopov. All our warnings fell on deaf ears.” He chuckled. “Grigory was a stubborn man.”
“Yes, he was. You mustn’t forget that it took over half of my men to keep him out of trouble. And, at times, that wasn’t even enough. Who visited him last night besides Protopopov?”
“The usual admirers. Vyrubova and Glovin, and Protopopov.”
“What time did Protopopov arrive?” Renko already knew the answer.
Aron seemed to sober up. “I’m not certain. He stopped by to make sure Grigory was in for the evening. He said he promised the empress that our Friend would be protected this evening. The starets personally showed him to the door.”
Stephan wondered why Aron was acting more intoxicated than he actually was. “And what else?”
“Nothing, really. Grigory was laughing to himself when he returned. I asked him what he found so funny, and he simply replied: ‘The Lord giveth and can just as easily taketh away.’”
“Was he referring the home minister?”
“I don’t know. Grigory was growing tired of the minister, that’s no secret.”
“What was he getting so tired of?”
“The minister was distancing himself. Rasputin hinted to me that it maybe time to say goodbye to him. All it would take would be one brief conversation with the empress at the appropriate time,” Aron winked, “and Protopopov would join the long list of egoistical ministers dethroned by a simple-minded peasant.”
Was it that easy, Stephan wondered?

[Crimson_Snow]

6- continued

“It’s all bad luck for me.”
“How so?”
“Protopopov owes me a great deal of money.”
“How’s that?” the inspector asked. “He isn’t foolish enough to gamble.”
“True. But I am. Protopopov is bankrupt. When he asked me to settle his debts, I agreed. I thought it would be good to have the second most powerful man in the empire as a friend.”
“Let me guess. He promised to repay you from his department’s fat budget?”
“You’re good. Now, Grigory is dead, and I no longer hold any leverage over him.”
“You said Protopopov stopped at the apartment before you left. Do you remember what time?”
“Not really. But it was after eleven.”
“How are you so certain?”
“I looked at my watch at eleven, when one of Grigory’s daughters came in to say good night to us. Protopopov stopped by after that.”
“Good. And, do you recall, when you left last night, were any of my men outside the apartment?”
“No, but it was cold last night. On cold nights, they normally stayed in their cars or off the streets.”
“Thanks, Aron. I appreciate your time.”
“Don’t mention it. Just bring the bastards to justice.”
“There will be justice. I assure you,” Renko said as he rose from his stool. “Just one more thing. What was Father Rasputin worth?”
“The deceased left very good resources.”
“How good?” he asked. “I know the two of you made a fortune on the sugar scandal case.”
“You knew about that?”
“Yes, Aron. I know a great deal about a number of things.” The sugar scandal had involved a wealthy businessman who brokered a deal with Germans just before the war. At stake was a large shipment of sugar delivered to the Germany Army. Luckily for the sugar trader, Rasputin was able to use his influence over the empress to make sure the case was dropped.
“Must I ask you again? How good?”
“As much as three hundred thousand rubles,” Aron whispered, understating the amount significantly.
“I’m certain his daughters will receive their full inheritance,” the inspector said.
“But of course, Renko. What kind of man you take me for?” With a shallow laugh, Aron finished his drink. “By the way, Burmin is looking for you.”
“Where?”
“Guess,” Aron said, looking toward the back of the bar.
“The high-stakes table,” said Stephan as a smile ran across his face.
“The man just got out of prison this morning and now he’s robbing me blind. The man is no good.”
“Aron, did you go to Grigory’s apartment this morning?”
“No. Why?”
“All his personal letters are missing.”
“All the empress’ letters to him?”
“You wouldn’t know anything about them, would you?”
“No, but I am saddened that I didn’t think of it first,” Aron said. “Those letters would prove without a doubt that a Siberian peasant and the Empress of All Russia were more than just friends. They would prove that Rasputin personally selected the ministers of our current government. Whoever possesses those letters could be one wealthy man.”
“Don’t be so certain. Alexandra will not rest until those letters are found and destroyed. The person who holds those letters won’t enjoy them for long.”
Renko said his farewells and walked toward the high-stakes tables. Peter Burmin was the only son of a wealthy industrialist, and since his birth had been showered with every advantage possible. When his father died, he inherited a small fortune, and the small fortune had grown into sizable wealth during the war. But it was never enough. He increased the odds by entering into secret dealings with anarchists, German sympathizers, and the secret police, playing one against the other and adding to his fortune. Recently, Peter had been playing in the deep pockets of the German Kaiser. At the moment, they were the ones who paid the best.
Peter noticed Renko eyeing his mountain of blue chips. “Envious?”
“Of you?” the inspector laughed, embracing the man he had arrested two weeks ago, “Good to see you’re in one piece.”
“Just a misunderstanding between me and our beloved minister of justice,” he said, smiling. “Makarov finds me a traitor.”
“You?”
“Imagine, me a German spy?” Peter dryly replied, “It was so good of Grigory to convince the empress to drop these false changes against me.”
“Though, it still looks like you have a following.”
A man hiding behind his paper was watching both of them more than his paper. He was one of the intelligence agents he knew that was operating out of the British embassy. Peter paid no attention to him.
“What can they do? I’m a free man,” the gambler said.
“Yes, I understand that Makarov wasn’t too happy to release you until he was ordered to do so by the empress herself.”
He slapped Renko’s back. “It is good to have powerful friends.”
Renko knew that Burmin bought protection through Rasputin. “It seems last night’s activities freed up a great deal of your capital,” he said.
“I wouldn’t say a great deal,” he replied, laughing.
Burmin was the main channel of German subsidies flowing into Petersburg. His current objective was a speedy reconciliation between Russia and Germany, the sooner the better. The Germans wanted to sign a separate peace treaty by the first of the year. For the last two weeks, Peter was held in the fortress by Renko’s men for questioning.
“What happened? I thought we had a deal?” the gambler asked, not entirely believing him.
“We still do.”
“Then way did you allow Makarov’s men to arrest me?”
“To keep you safe.”
“From whom?” he asked as he moved towards a cashier.
“Sir George, of course. The British Ambassador wants you dead. And we can’t have that can we?”
“No, we can’t.” Peter looked over his shoulder.
With a sad look, the cashier counted out his Peter’s money.
“Not if you want me to deliver that letter,” he warned Stephan as he grabbed Aron’s money. “What should I do about the British?”
“Just keep away from your normal haunts this weekend, and with any luck, they will leave you alone.”
“Not good enough.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“Have a few of your men around for protection would help matters.”
“All right then. Two of my men will stop by later today.”
“Good. When do I get the letter?”
“Be prepared to travel on Monday night.”
“And the money?” Peter greedily asked.
“Your money will arrive with the letter.” Renko placed his arm around him, “Don’t worry. I have thought of everything. On Monday, a train will take you to Helsinki.  From there, you and the letter will be ferried to Germany.”
“A boat? The Baltic isn’t exactly the safest of spots.”
“Don’t worry, Peter. As long as you have the armistice, you will be safe. Just stay in your apartment this weekend. Okay?”
“Sure.” Peter agreed. The inspector was crazy if he thought he was going to waste his weekend there. Hell, he had been locked by for the last two weeks. He needed to see the shadier side of the city. His pre-party to peace. The two exited through the club’s back door. “Just think Renko, by Christmas the war for us will be over.”
Walking down a narrow alleyway, the inspector said, “That’s His Majesty’s wish. And it is my job to make his wishes our reality.”
With that, their voices drifted in the surrounding darkness.

[Ilana]

Hi, there... may I ask to know something about the author, what this book is about (synop) etc.  Just curiousity.

[Crimson_Snow]

Hi Ilana,

I wrote Crimson because I found this period so fascinating. Imperial Russia was on the verge of the abyss in December of 1916. Petersburg was overflowing with war refuges. The outcome of the war looked bleak. Pushing through Poland, the advancing Germans were eager for a separate peace with Russia so they could move their army to the west to end the stalemate with the British and the French. Ambassadors Buchanan and Palelogue had their hands full maintaining Russia's morale and keeping the Russian lines in the game.

It was Christmas time... the tsar looked weak.... he was surrounded by ambitious men....there was much to lose... there was much to gain... all this, seen through the young eyes of a young prince who believed he was already dead. This is Crimson Snow. A story of what ifs and what could have been.

D. Shone
Captured by the complexity of Russian history

Chapter Seven

Anna's words sourced from her 1923 memoirs.

Anna's Cottage


Leaning back, Protopopov watched his driver maneuver around the ruts in the road. It was time to enter the lion’s den. Though, so far, the day was breezy but beautiful, unusual weather for December.  Though last night’s snow, a thin veil hid the park’s beauty.
In the summertime, it was different story. Even at night, you could not hide from its radiance. Due to its northern exposure, Tsarskoe experienced the phenomenon of “white nights.” Even at midnight, the sun did not disappear completely, and cascading foundations glistened with images of pastel palaces. But in the winter, these rippling waters were all frozen. Like the dying year, its past splendor was held captive by time and the harsh climate.
As his car continued down the path, he wondered how long it had taken to create this world. His only answer was too long. Suddenly, he realized the driver had not slowed down and had passed the gate to the Alexander Palace.
“Driver,” he asked, his stomach dropping, “why didn’t we turn in?”
No response.
This only increased the minister’s fears. Did Her Majesty already know about his involvement with the plot to murder Father Rasputin? Was his driver going to shoot him and dispose of his body in the woods?
Then, the vehicle turned south and headed toward a small, secluded cottage on the outskirts of the palatial grounds. The driver stopped. A soldier opened the car door. Protopopov attempted to control his fear. As he got out of the car, he could not believe he was only thirty minutes away from the capital’s crowded boulevards. It may as well been a world away.
A round face filled a tiny cottage window. It was Anna Vyrubova, Alexandra’s closest friend. Anna did not fully trust Protopopov. She did not know precisely why, other than that he always appeared little nervous and that he had fallen from Father Rasputin’s grace.
For his part, the minister always found it difficult to comprehend that this unshapely woman had the empress’ ear. But she did, and therefore, the new minister could cope with her acts of stupidity. Now, with Rasputin’s disappearance, she was likely to be the only one to whom the empress would listen. For that reason alone, Protopopov knew that Madame Vyrubova could be a powerful ally or a formidable enemy. And, he had enough enemies.
As he entered the house, she was wiping away a tear. He thought if Anna knew the truth, she would have killed Protopopov herself. A rumor floating around town had Anna and Rasputin as lovers. He believed it. Rasputin would have sex with anything. The bureaucrat never knew a more accepting man than the Siberian priest.
“What a terrible morning,” she cried. “Yesterday, I was sent by the Empress on an errand, entirely non-political, to Rasputin’s lodgings.”
“Right,” Protopopov thought.
“ I went, as always, reluctantly, because I knew the evil construction that would be placed on my errand by any of the conspirators who happened to see me. While there, the Holy One said he expected to pay a late-evening visit to the Yussupov Palace to meet Grand Duchess Irene, wife of Prince Felix Yussupov. Although I knew that Felix had often visited Rasputin, it struck me as odd that he should go to their house for the first time at such an unseemly hour. But when I asked why, Rasputin replied that Felix did not wish his parents to know of his visit. As I was leaving, Rasputin said a strange thing to me: ‘What more do you want?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘Already you have received all,’” she sobbed, then whispered, “All that his prayers could give me? Did he mean that?”
“What else?”
“Last night in the empress’ boudoir, I mentioned this midnight visit, and the empress said in some surprise: ‘But there must be some mistake. Irene is in the Crimea, and neither of Felix’s parents is in town.’ Again she said, ‘There is surely a mistake,’ then we began to talk of other things. This morning, soon after breakfast, I was called by one of Rasputin’s daughters, who said her father had gone out the night before in the Yussupov motor car and had not returned.”
Protopopov bowed, removing his hat. “Madame Vyrubova, I am afraid I’m a bearer of more bad news. My men have failed to protect our dear friend. He has been misplaced for a moment. But I am certain the good Father will arrive soon.”
This news only made the woman cry a little harder.
“I assure you. We will find him.”
“I’m sure you will,” she said coldly.
It was a fine performance—so far. Anna was his the first act. His second act would be performed in front of a harsh critic, the Empress Alexandra. He reminded himself that he just needed to stay alive for seventy-two more hours. After that, the empress would be dead or locked up in some convent.
But now, a word from her lips could kill you. He needed to remember that, and stay in control. A few weeks ago, he had lost control of himself in front of her. While he was giving her a report, he had had a ghostly hallucination of a blood-covered Christ behind the Empress. As his words trailed off, she looked up to see his fear-stricken face.
“What is wrong, Minister?”
He had replied with the truth, which was a mistake as Her Imperial Majesty nearly fainted when he shouted, “The son of God is behind you.”
For the next twenty minutes, Protopopov needed to be sane, and that was a difficult assignment. With each advancing day, he lost more and more of his mind. His hallucinations grew darker and more vivid. There were days that he wasn’t quite sure if the person with whom he was having a conversation was real. After awhile, he no longer cared. He knew the disease was winning. One day he would never wake from the madness but until that final day, he still had time to restore his legacy.
He was committed to one idea: the removal of the regime, especially the woman who had tainted his good name. She had thanked him when he returned to give her the German agent’s terms. But the day the Duma found out, she and the tsar turned their backs to him. And for that, they would pay.
Anna brought him back to reality. “The empress would like to have a word with you,” she said, moving toward a tiny parlor.
The parlor was no warmer than the entryway. Actually, the temperature appeared to become colder further inside that one came. Odd. The empress was seated on a tiny sofa, staring out the window.
She turned, her steely blue eyes by turns sad, distant, and filled with rage. Protopopov for the first time had second thoughts about what he had done to his Siberian friend. He reached for his moustache. The empress was no stranger to melodrama.
“Minister Protopopov, so good to see you survived the trip.” Satisfied with his fright, she again turned her attention toward the window. “Why do they hate me so?” she whispered.
“Your Majesty, I am your most faithful subject,” Protopopov said, choosing his words carefully. “True Russians love you dearly. Daily, a mountain of mail arrives from across the empire in support of you and your family. There are telegrams every day filled with praise for the royal family. Our problem is not the Russian people. It’s the faithless subjects of Petersburg.”
“Petersburg,” she spoke, nearly snarling her words. “I know now that it is only Petersburg society that hates me, the corrupt and godless society that thinks of nothing but dancing and dining and takes no interest in anything but its pleasures and adulteries while everyone around us is flowing in streams! Blood! Blood! Blood!” She emphasized her last words by striking down her pale fist upon the sofa’s wooden arm.
“Your Grace, their spiteful behavior I find appalling. But remember, they are not Russia.”
“I know. Now, I have the great consolation that the whole of Russia, the real Russia—poor, humble, peasant Russia—is with me. If I showed you the telegrams and the letters I receive every day from all parts of the empire, you’d see for yourself.”
Protopopov inwardly smiled. His propaganda campaign was working. “You fool!” he thought. “I have an office full of secretaries working day and night to create your adoring mail.”
He remembered a recent letter:

Oh our beloved sovereign, mother and guardian of our adored Tsarevich … Guardian of our traditions… Oh our great and good Tsaritsa … Protect us against the wicked … Save us from our enemies … Save Russia!

[Crimson_Snow]

7 continued.

“Save us from our enemies” was his personal favorite. Then he realized the empress was continuing her tirade about Petersburg.
“How I hate that city, full of schemers who shall always hate me. I give them my love in exchange for ever-increasing hate.”
Still combing his moustache between his fingers, Protopopov wondered if he had provoked her too much.
“I am certain you are aware of how its citizens cruelly call me, their own empress, ‘Nemka,’ German woman; how dare they!”
Attempting to control the situation, “Your Grace, you mustn’t—”
“I mustn’t,” she barked back, “Have they seen what I have seen? No, they haven’t. They sit in their comfortable parlors. They would be shocked at what I see in our own hospitals. Unrecognizable men battling for the next breath, not to mention their lives.”
Every week, Her Majesty and her two oldest daughters tended to the wounded. She would attend only to wounded officers; her daughters, to the enlisted men. Even at death’s door, there was an order to things.
“Your Grace, I am afraid the war has infected everyone,” he said. “But His Majesty shall lead us all to victory.”
The Empress examined her minister. With this, the room grew deathly quiet. Alexandra wondered if she was wrong about this man’s loyalty. But Father Grigory had personally selected him. She would have to pray that this man before her was righteous.
As the awkward silence continued, Protopopov wished he could read her mind. As the moments grew, his hands began to twitch. Finally, the empress spoke.
“Your words are most kind, but I am not completely convinced,” she said as she tilted her head and smiled, showing a glimpse of the fading beauty of her youth.
Protopopov began to doubt himself. There was too much going on behind those clear eyes of blue.
Still smiling, “My dear Minister, before the French Revolution, the peasants who lined the Parisian streets shouted out to their queen, Marie Antoinette, ‘L’Autrichienne,’ the Austrian woman. I wonder. Do these conspirators have the same fate in mind for me?”
Only a few days ago, her own sister Ella had come to the palace and warned her about Rasputin.  Her words hurt her. But now, her words of warning ran through her head.  As Ella left, she told Alix, “Remember the fate of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.”
Protopopov began trembling. “Your Imperial Majesty, your loyal subjects shall crush any enemies of the state, foreign or domestic.” Pausing for effect: “Though, Your Grace, this event disturbs me deeply. I fear for your immediate safety. May I recommend that you remain on the palace grounds? Just for the next few days, until we catch those responsible for this travesty.” He knew she would never agree to be a captive of her own palace.
“I am thankful for your concern, Minister Protopopov, though I shall not allow this to affect my daily duties. Monday, I will be helping at the hospital. My visits are vital to the morale of our men. They have done their duty, as must I.”
“As you wish, Your Highness, though I may I assign an extra detail of my best men to assure your personal safety,” he said, knowing her next words would seal her fate.
“Do as you wish, but my plans shall not change.”
“Thankful, Your Grace,” he said, happy with his performance. “I will handle it personally.” He paused. “My agents are gathering information about the mysterious meeting held in Kiev. Several members of the imperial family, His Majesty’s own uncles and nephews, attended this meeting. At this time, we can only guess what took place there.”
“My husband’s uncles and nephews, I do not fear. Who scares me is the dowager empress. Find out where she is. She is like a coiled cobra, and she alone will decide when to strike.”
“Your Grace, she is currently in the capital.”
“Is she? Good. Keep your eyes on her.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Now, my dear Minister, where is our good friend Father Grigory? Don’t be a wrenched little fool and lie.”
“Never, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing. “The security detail in charge of protecting our good Father lost contact with him just before midnight.” The minister’s hands trembled and his body began to heat the tiny parlor. “That was roughly ten hours ago. Since then, no one has seen him.”
“I told you to watch him most carefully.”
“I did. At eleven o‘clock last night, I paid him a visit at his apartment, just to make sure he was secure for the evening. He said he had had a long day and was going directly to bed.” This morning, my office received a call from Mariya, his daughter. She informed me that her father had not returned last night.”
“Returned? From where?”
“She said that her father left with a man last night whom she is certain was Prince Felix Yussupov. Her father had been seeing him a great deal of late. We questioned Father Grigory’s doorman, and he concurred that Rasputin left with a man fitting Prince Felix’s description. The doorman said they drove off together, in the direction of the Yusupov Palace. The motorcar was painted army gray. We believe it was Grand Duke Dmitri’s staff car.”
At the mention of the duke’s name, her face dropped. “Why?” she snapped, “There are many army staff cars in Petersburg, and they all match the same description. “If there were any fewer, we would be in Berlin by now.” She could not believe her favorite nephew was involved in this madness. He couldn’t. She could not bear it.
“Your Grace, I agree. There are many gray staff cars in the capital, but we have good reason to believe that the vehicle belongs to your nephew. Last night, outside the Yussupov Palace, four shots were heard coming from the palace grounds.  Well he approached the palace to investigate the disturbance he was escorted by a butler to a man we believe is Vladimir Purishkevich, the senator ---”
“I am familiar with this treasonous man and his ‘Dark Forces’ speech. I wouldn’t worry about the Senate. Their days are few.” She had begged her husband for weeks to dissolve the Russian parliament. But, what does this madness have to do with Dmitri?”
“Everything, I am afraid. At four thirty this morning, a gray staff car that we strongly believe was the duke’s left Yusupov Palace. We believe there was three, perhaps four, people in that car. Our men attempted to pull over the fleeing motorcar, but its superior engine quickly outran the pursuing patrol car.”
“How are you certain that it was Dmitri’s staff car?”
“It was a Mercedes Landau painted gray. There are only a handful of them in the city. And, the only one I have ever seen painted army gray belongs to the grand duke.”

[Crimson_Snow]

end of 7

The Empress’ shoulders began to pull forward, “Yes. He does own such a vehicle.”
The minister gave a brief smile as he said, “At this point, my main concern is finding that vehicle.”
“Just yesterday, your main concern was Father Grigory’s protection.”
The minister began to quiver. “But Your Grace, I—”
“Father Grigory is Russia’s savior,” she snapped, thinking of her son. “We only have to obey him, have confidence in him, and ask him his advice. We should never think that he does not know.” She paused. “God has revealed everything to him. Now you walk in here with a slight smirk, and inform me that you have misplaced God’s messenger who is also responsible for your current high post.”
“Your Majesty, I assure you,” was all the minister, noticeably shaking, could get out.
“Spare me your weak denials. So, you believe that our good father was baited to the Yusupov Palace last night by Prince Felix where, according to the senator’s drunken statements, Father Grigory was killed.”
“That is correct, Your Majesty. I am truly sorry to convey this regrettable news to you.”
“You should be. You were personally responsible for his safety. Did you not promise me that our savior was safe in your hands? I am not satisfied with your report, Minister Protopopov. Far too many questions are unanswered. The entire evening reeks of high treason. I am uncertain where the stench will lead. Presently, that is your job.”
“Your Majesty, it appears Father Grigory dismissed the security detail I had in place.”
“Dismissed the men chosen to protect him?”
He lied. “Yes. He told them that he was in for the night, and they should enjoy an evening with their families.”
“An evening with their families,” she repeated, showing her disbelief. “Reward their incompetence. I want you to get to the bottom of this. Find out for whom they are working. It was supposed to be you.”
“I will, Your Grace.”
“Now, about my misguided nephew. I want to know everything about his level of involvement.”
“At this point, his involvement in the matter is unknown, other than that his motorcar was at the palace. His statement today should clarify things.”
“Very well, do your job. I trust in God’s mercy that they have only driven him off somewhere; I cannot and will not believe he was murdered. Without him, we are lost.” She stared at the minister. “For some reason, our friend trusted you. Therefore, I am forced to trust you.”
“Your Majesty, with the grace of God, I will find him. I shall bring him back to you. I believe Prince Felix drove him from the city.”
“Really?”
“All the evidence leads in that direction,” he lied.
“Then find him. Be firm, for I am the wall behind you. Use every resource, minister. Bring him back for Russia’s sake.”
“I shall, Your Grace!”
“Be careful. As you have already said, this could be the first step of a palace revolt. I have not realized how tired the rest of the imperial family has grown of my husband. But now I know. They are dangerous, careless people.”
The once frigid room now felt like a sauna to Protopopov. “As soon as there is sufficient evidence, I shall place those responsible under arrest. We shall get to the bottom of this.”
“I fear they know all,” Alix sighed. “Make certain they do not leave the city. If our good father has truly been slain, provide me with a list of names of those involved in this act of high treason against the emperor. Everyone, no matter what rank. That is all.” An aide appeared and handed Protopopov a sealed envelope.
“You have much to do. So, do it.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” he said as he exited the tiny parlor.
Looking down at the envelope, he smiled. With this imperial order, the empress had given him the authority he needed to realign a regime. Soon, you shall rest beside your savior for eternity, he thought as he walked toward his car. It was starting out to be a lovely day. Then he noticed that his right hand was shaking.



empress' words sourced by Black Night, White Snow

[Crimson_Snow]

Many of Prince Felix's words sourced through Lost Splendor.


Chapter Eight

The Bear Bistro

Lavishly decorated for the holidays, the Bear Bistro was no stranger to excess. Everyone, especially the lunch crowd, knew it. In this place, their egos were fed along with their appetites. The wealthy clientele would drift out the deliciously narrow doors, and back to the day’s bleakness. These once worriless ones passed each other with a fond sense of regret like two sorry lovers on the morning after. All wanted to grasp better days—the days before the war.
“We’re heading for revolution,” the ex-president of the Imperial Council declared, as he scooped his remaining peas.
“We’re heading for anarchy,” said his lunch companion, a financier named Putilov as he sat down his wine glass full of a fine dandelion-colored wine, “The Russian is not a revolutionary; he’s an anarchist. There’s a world of difference. The revolutionary means to reconstruct; the anarchist thinks only of destroying.”
At the other tables, discussion focused on Father Grigori’s disappearance and from course to course, the story grew.
Earlier, his disappearance was simple affair of the heart. Everyone just assumed that a jealous husband shot the adulterous father. But by noon, the tale that skipped across these white linen tables was that the gypsies killed him. By one, his death involved the royal family. Rasputin was found to be using the empress and the grand duchesses for his sexual pleasure. When the tsar found out, he killed the peasant with his own hands.
The most imaginative and therefore, the best received was that Alexandra and Rasputin had been having an affair. When Grand Duke Dmitri found out he was furious. So, he asked his good friend Prince Felix to arrange a dinner party in honor of Father Grigory at the Yusupov Palace. After dinner, Dmitri appeared. Entering the drawing room as everyone gathered for drinks. The duke shouted at the priest, “How dare you take advantage of the emperor’s trust!” At that moment, he pulled out his service revolver and emptied it into the stunned holy man who pleaded with Dmitri to spare his life.
As the bullets pierced his belly, the starets could not believe his own eyes. As he cried, “What have you done to me?”
As Alexandra’s lover sat in agony on the drawing room floor, the young duke, possessed by an uncontrollable, rage pulled out his dagger and castrated the good father on the spot. The lunch crowd savored the dark symbolism of this version. The truth was that no one knew anything except that Rasputin was still missing, and presumed dead.
At a small, exquisitely set table, two men with an informed perspective on the disappearance were saying their good-byes over a bottle of fine champagne.
“What happened?” asked the former Olympian.
“I slept until ten o’clock,” yawned the older one. “I had barely opened my eyes when I was told General Grigoriev, the police superintendent of our district, wanted to see me on very important business. I dressed quickly and went into the next room where the general was awaiting for me.”
“And?”
“I asked him if his visit was connected with the shots fired in the courtyard of our house last night,” Felix said, changing his voice to act out the general’s reply, “’Exactly. My objective is to ask you for a detailed account of what happened. Wasn’t Rasputin among the guests?’ I replied Rasputin never comes to my house. The general didn’t like my answer. He counters: ‘The reason I ask is that the revolver shots that were heard coincided with the disappearance; therefore, the chief commissioner of police has ordered me to send him a report as quickly as possible.’”
“Anything else?” asked Dmitri.
“I asked the general who told him that Rasputin had disappeared.”
“Let me guess. The very same police officer that Purishkevich entrusted with our deed.”
“The one and only.”
“So, what did you tell him?”
“The truth, of course,” he said, combing his fingers through his hair.
Dmitri almost choked on his champagne. “You did what?”
“Relax. I was bound by my oath,” he teased. “I told the general that one of the drunken members of my party shot one of my best hounds.”
“Did he believe you?”
“I told the general, ‘I’m very glad that you came to see me yourself. It would be most unfortunate if a report made by a policeman under a misapprehension were to have any disagreeable consequences.’”
“You didn’t?”
“I did.” He refilled his glass. “Then, I recited my story about the dog shot by a drunken guest. I added that when the policeman, on hearing the shots, had rushed in, Purishkevich, the last of my guests to leave, had gone up to the man and said a few hurried words in his ear. I told him I have no idea what they were, but from I presume that Purishkevich, who was drunk, must have spoken of the dog, comparing him perhaps to Rasputin and expressing his regret that it was the dog, and not the starets, who had been shot at.”
“Well done.”
“Thank you. My explanation seemed to satisfy the general, but he wished to know who my guests had been besides Purishkevich.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Dmitri, please. Your secret is safe with me. I told him I’d rather not give names as I don’t want them to be worried by a lot of unnecessary inquires about something of so little importance.”
“Bravo, my dear friend.”
“Your words are kind,” he replied as he rose his glass. “To Dmitri, a man that shall be missed. To fleeting moments.”
“Fleeting moments,” responded the duke.
Felix reached under the table. “I brought you a farewell gift. It’s not much. Though, I hope you like it.”
“Thank you. I wish I had brought something for you.”
“No matter. I already possess everything my heart desires. Rasputin’s head was enough.”
“The compete works of Oscar Wilde,” Dmitri said paging through its text. “All the words of your creator captured for eternity within this magnificent volume.”
“All I possess is now yours.”
Smiling, he said, “I am surprised you haven’t already memorized it,” knowing the author’s influence upon Felix’s life.
“Not all of it. At least, not yet,” Felix said, refilling his glass, “You know my little secret—I am the fictitious creation of a brilliant man. But, enough of my problems.”
Turning to the preface of the book, he noticed Felix’s handwriting:

For you,
I share a verse from The Ballad of Reading Goal.
I hope you like it as much as I.
     Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
     By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
     Some with a flattering word,
     The coward does it with a kiss,
     The brave man with the sword.
     Farewell, my dear friend & Merry Christmas

[Crimson_Snow]

Continuation of 8


“Thank you,” the duke said. “I shall cherish it, as I cherish our friend—forever. But before the senator arrives, I want to discuss what I must say tomorrow night to the Tsar. A civil war threatens to tear the empire in two, and we must make certain that he is aware of it.”
“We have been down this path before, my dear friends. And now, more than ever, we teeter on the edge of oblivion,” Felix said as he looked into his drink, knowing the meeting would never take place because he was involved with other family members in a plan to finish off the tsar. “At least Rasputin is no longer a concern.”
“Yes, but other dogs circle, especially Vlad.”
“There is no good in Vlad but he is no threat.” Felix said as his eyes moved down to his drink.
“Are you blind? Vlad is making it known throughout the imperial family that he wants to be the man to remove Nicholas’ crown. And, that I can not allow.”
It was at that point that the senator arrived. “Gentlemen, I apologize for my tardiness. I have had a hell of a morning.”
The duke spoke next. “What were you thinking?”
“Your Excellency,” the politician replied, “I was caught in the moment.”
“Caught in the moment, I would say,” Felix said. “You practically bathed in wine last night. Luckily for you, it wasn’t poisoned.”
The senator reddened. “Yes, I did have trouble seeing through its haze. You see, I normally don’t drink.”
“As was evident in your poor marksmanship,” the said as his face softened.
This brought a round of laughter to the table. Their dark task was done, and it was time to celebrate before they all went their separate ways.
The senator rose his glass, and looked at Dmitri as he said, “Splendid shot.”
“Vladimir, my poor fellow, where in the world did you learn to shoot so poorly?” the duke said, trying to control his laughter.
The senator laughed as well. “Your Highness, for as much as I drank, I feel fortunate that it was not I that was shot last night.” He paused, “Prince Felix, speaking of missed opportunities, how did you miss that broad beast? The devil himself had his back to you.”
“Gentlemen, my well-placed shot hit him squarely in the back, but Rasputin was a stubborn fool. It would take more than one allotment of Russian lead to quiet him, or bring him to the floor.” The prince continued. “Cheers, my fellow comrades-in-arms. The battle between good and evil has begun. I have full faith that we shall prevail over the powers of darkness!”
“Here, here,” the duke said, raising his glass, “For good always conquers evil, and the empress’ camarilla lacks its most persuasive member.”
Felix couldn’t resist: “The empress’ loss, the Neva’s gain.”
“Yes, and hopefully he shall stay in those frozen waters at least until spring,” the senator said, “Though I still can’t believe the poison did not work.”
Felix put down his glass. “Senator, you were not down in the basement with him. Every time he finished his drink and asked for more, I began to doubt if the ‘Dark One’ was truly immoral. The only possible explanation was that the poison was too diluted.”
They all agreed. In the daylight, it all didn’t seem real. But it was. Today, Father Rasputin was floating at the bottom of the Neva.
Felix made one more dig. “Senator Purishkevich, you are a credit to your profession. We go through all this secrecy to quietly slay the beast, and the first chance you get to take credit for our actions, you yell for all the world to hear that we just killed Rasputin.” No one at the table laughed. But the prince chose the senator for exactly this purpose.
“Yes, that was a mistake,” the old man declared. “I was caught in the great moment. With one blow, the affairs of state are returned to the emperor.”
“Let him make the most of it,” the duke offered.
“Now, gentlemen, speaking of last night, we must focus on our alibis. Are we all agreed?” They nodded yes. So what if the story was a little flimsy and it revolved around one of Felix’s guests shooting a dog as a practical joke? It somehow explained all the blood that covered the courtyard, and they were royalty, after all. And, Father Rasputin was only a peasant. At the end of the day, that was all that mattered.
“From now on,” Felix said, “we will leave to others the task of carrying on our work. Pray God that concerted action will be taken and the emperor’s eyes will be opened before it is too late. Such an opportunity will never occur again.”
“Lord, open the eyes of the tsar to the terrible reality,” prayed the duke.
“Amen.”
“What about Protopopov,” asked the senator?
“He has no support now. His creator is dead,” the duke said. “I won’t worry about him.”
Felix added, “Anyway, you will be safely away from the capital by midnight on your hospital train.”
“True, the front calls. I want to see the morale of our troops firsthand,” said Purishkevich.
“As do I,” the duke said. “That is why I am returning for army headquarters tomorrow. Someone needs to warn the emperor about Vlad.”
“And I leave tonight,” the prince offered. “My wife is not well and she has asked me to come down to our Crimean estate for the holidays. I don’t want it to look like I’m running away from something.”
Again, the table burst out with a round of laughter. As soon as it settled down, the prince continued: “One last toast—to dead dogs!”
“To dead dogs!” the killers cried as they downed their glasses.
“Godspeed, gentlemen,” the senator said, “Until we all meet again.”