"Crimson Snow" by David Shone

[Crimson_Snow]

Lobby of the Hotel Europe


As the elevator doors opened leading to the lobby, Konstantin was momentarily blinded by a beam of light. The first floor was layered in an amber afterglow. It was Sunday morning.
As he entered it, he felt alive for the first time that he could remember. It was as if for the last six months he had been forced to hold his breath until this very minute. It felt good to finally inhale. Dressed in his gray officer’s uniform of Her Majesty’s Chevalier Guards, Serge felt like a warrior in a strange new land.
It had been nearly six months since he had worn his uniform. And, for some reason it seemed the stiff fabric and texture was now holding him together. For the first time in months, he was grounded. The only thing that bothered him was the decoration draped around his neck. It was a heavy burden to bear. But for the moment, it anchored him.
Marching through the familiar corridor, he disregarded the ugly thoughts that entered his head. No more, he thought. Today was a new day. Shaking off those thoughts, he passed the reading room, where the early risers were reading their newspapers and sipping their coffees. It was their daily ritual. He was surprised at the banner headline: RASPUTIN MISSING AND FEARED DEAD. He was shocked the state censors allowed the story to run. The regime was losing its grip on the situation. Then, he thought about his conversation with Jones.
A soldier wearing a tunic of amazing blue atop of ocean of fiery red britches approached the prince. The battle badges that lined his chest were impressive. The man had quite a swagger to him. Serge had seen that walk before, usually from men who had looked death in the eye and somehow survived.
“Good morning, young Konstantin,” Colonel Zurin once his father’s aide said.
“Good morning, Colonel.”
Zurin stood momentarily silent; his eyes appeared to leave reality for a moment.
“Is there anything wrong, Colonel?”
“No,” the soldier said with a weary smile. “You look so much like your father. That is all.”
“Really? Most people tell me I look like my mother.”
“No, you’re a dead ringer of your father.”
The colonel turned and smartly marched through the stylish doors of the Europe. The fashionable restaurant was deserted. The already set tables gave one an eerie feeling. Still, the place seemed seem magical. Sun poured through the stained-glass windows. The only hint of the passage of time was the slightly wilted flowers in the table centerpieces.
The colonel and Serge climbed the stairs to the Europe’s famed private dining rooms and alcoves.
As the colonel reached a secluded alcove, he waved Serge over. Looking up, Serge was surprised to discover two of Renko’s men on either side of him guarding the dining room’s entrance.
“Lieutenant, your father is waiting.”
He walked into the dining room, and found his own eyes looking at him. “Good morning…Father?” Serge asked. He could not believe what he saw. His dad looked ill.
“Son,” Platon said happy to see him in his Guards uniform. The two embraced. “It’s so good to see you wearing that uniform.”
“Are you okay?”
“May I have a moment with my son?”
Renko nodded. Then, he and the Colonel quietly left the room. As the door closed, the hidden dining room grew silent.
“Are you okay?”
Platon lit a cigarette. “I have cancer. I have known for some time now.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now. Plus, I didn’t want to add to your headaches.”
“But.”
“Son, I’m fine with it. I have had a wonderful life,” Platon said as he exhaled, “Better than I probably deserved.”
“Can’t the doctors do anything?”
“Besides to provide me with a comfortable bed- nothing. Looking at his Serge, “Renko told me you looked like the devil. He could not be more wrong. You look to me as a survivor.”
“It’s surprising what a shave a clean uniform can do for your confidence.”
“My uniform,” Platon said as he turned to look out the room’s window, “at times, was the only thing that held me together. Wear it with pride son. In the end, all that remains are the people you have shared a life with.”
Serge sat back and watched his father talk. It was more than he has said to him his entire life.
“One by one, your circle of friends pass away until one day, they are all gone and you are left standing alone, the only one who remembers what it was once like.” Platon paused. “Ah. The time when I was young and hurt and looked very much like you.”
“When you fought at Plevna?”
“Yes. There I had my first taste of war with the Turks. This in reality is loss- human loss. Each battlefield still possesses a piece of me.”
Serge recalled what he learned from these battles from books. Now, he knew the soldier’s view was always closer to reality that the commander in the rear. Blood has a certain consistency and taste especially when it belonged to a friend.
“I was always less of a man when the fighting was over. I see that same look in you. Perhaps, that’s why I was always away. I never wanted your mother or you to see what I had become- a survivor. There is nothing wrong with being a survivor. But we owe it to the ones that were lost- to live son. Not to ask why? But to live.” With that he embraced his son one more time.
“It’s hard dad.”
“Yes it is. But there within lays courage.” For the first time, he noticed his son’s medal. “Courage is doing what your body and mind tell you not to do.”
“You wear our country’s greatest honor. It is not a piece of medal that drapes around your neck. No, it’s in your heart and actions. If you remember anything of me- remember this. Never order others to do what you yourself would not do. With that, I must ask you a favor.”
“Anything.”
“No. It must be your choice.”
“What do you wish of me?”
“I need your help. In two days, the tsar will sign an armistice to end the war with Germany.”
“What?”
“It’s true. I have helped arrange it. In a week, all the guns on our western front will grow silent.”
Serge was amazed. “The war will be over?”
“On Christmas Day.”
“What were the terms?”
“We regain all the territories that we lost.”
“What? Impossible?”
“It’s true. Or at least that’s what the Kaiser’s messenger has informed us.”
“The Kaiser’s messenger?”
“The Grand Duke of Hesse.”
“Ernie?”
“Yes- Ernie. The empress’ older brother.”
“Is he here in Petersburg?”
“No. He’s outside the city. Safe at our hunting dacha in the woods.”
Serge could not believe that Ernie a German duke was staying less than thirty minutes from the capital. He all seemed too unbelievable.
     “What’s the favor?”
     “Tomorrow, I need you drive out there and pick him up at dawn.”
     “That’s it?”
     “That’s it. Tomorrow morning, Colonel Zurin will be waiting for you at the blue bridge at five o’clock. Pick ‘em up and escort him to our dacha.”
     “I am happy to do this errand father but why me? One, Ernie knows and trusts you. And two, you are one of the few that know exactly where the old service road that leads to the palace is at.”
     He traveled that track enough as a child when he used to have sled races with other boys his age. Serge knew the path well.
     “Use our sleigh. And deliver Ernie and the colonel to the palace. I have my men expecting you to arrive no later than nine. They will be waiting for you at the ruins. As soon as you deliver them, I want you on the next train to the Crimean.”
     “The Crimean? Why?”
     “Just listen to me. I am not certain how the rest of the imperial family is going to react to this armistice. Son, I will sleep better if I know you’re safe at our summer home.”
“But…”

[Crimson_Snow]

con't

“I will see you again on Christmas. As soon as this treaty is signed, I am done doing my duty. The doctors gave me some time and I am spending it with my son in the sun.”
“Okay then. You promise me you will be with me in a week- I will do it.”
“Serge, I promise you that I will be with you in a week.”
“Shake?”
“Shake.”
“Good.”
“I missed you dad.”
“No more than I missed you. Renko!”
“All is arranged,” the inspector asked as he entered the room.
Platon looked to his son, “Is it?”
“Yes. I am to pick up Colonel Zurin in the morning. Five a.m. On the Blue Bridge.”
“I will be on the south end,” the colonel said as he stood behind the others, “Tomorrow’s suppose to be cold Serge.” Zurin laughed, “So, don’t be too late.”
“I won’t.”
“Good,” Platon said with a smile, "then it is all settled.”
“No quite,” the prince said as he stared at the others, “The British are already aware of the separate peace.”
Zurin stopped laughing. “What?”  
“How do you know this?” His father asked?
“Malachi approached me last night in an effort to speak to you.”
“Malachi?” Zurin asked unfamiliar with the name.
“Malachi Jones,” Renko said, “a known British agent.”
“Jones is no spy. Sir George used him because we are old friends from Oxford.”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong,” Renko said, handing Serge a dossier. “In this world, things aren’t always what they appear to be. Not even friendships. Your friend Jones is a British spy.”
“What did he ask you Serge?” the general interrupted.
“Jones asked me to arrange a meeting with you as soon as possible.”
“Who else was to attend this meeting?”
“The British ambassador.”
The general and the Renko exchanged a look. “Your plan is working, general.” Renko said. “The British are scared.”

“They have every right to be.” Said Platon. “They have much too lose.”
“I don’t believe Jones is a spy,” he said looking at his father. “He can barely tie his own shoes.”
Remember his report, Renko offered, “Jones’ fluent in five languages- and his family is worth millions- who cares about his shoes.”
“It’s true Serge.” Platon said as he placed an arm over his son’s shoulder, “He like Sir George is only doing what they believe is in the best interest of their country. Just like us.”
Renko added, “The British will stop at nothing to make certain a separate peace never happens. That’s why what you are doing is so vital to Russia’s future.”
“But if the British are interested in me, is it so wise to use me?” Serge asked the obvious.
“We will make certain tomorrow that they are chasing someone us?” the general laughed as the others soon followed.
“Yeah.” Zurin cried, “Tomorrow they will be chasing a Russian rabbit. Renko, see to it that they catch him.”
“What?” The prince was clueless.
“Nothing son.” The general still had his arm around Serge. “All you need to do is to be at the bridge tomorrow morning. Zurin will handle the rest. Right?”
“Yes, general.” Zurin barked. He and Serge’s father went way back. “I will be there.”
“Good. Now, Serge you must not mention this to anyone. Including your Uncle Sandro.”
Stunned. “Sandro doesn’t know of this?”
“The only ones that know of this are Their Majesties, the Kaiser’s and his messenger the Grand Duke of Hesse, and us three in this very room. That’s it. I have been told personally by the empress that His Majesty wants to inform the imperial family himself.”
“But Sandro could…”
“No. Their Majesties were quite firm with my orders.”
Finally, the effects of the separate peace filtered through the young prince. “A treaty with Germany would free up a million of Wilhelm’s men. By spring, a million new battle-tested troops would stare down our allies in Belgium and France.”
Colonel Zurin and Renko looked at one another. Serge voiced what they could not.
“With his forces finally joined on one front,” Serge shared, “good old Willy would easily crush through their defenses, and end the stalemate. By Summer, the Germans would win the war.”
Nearly shouting, “The tsar wants us out! We are out!”
Renko and Zurin left the private dining room to let the two continue their discussion.
“The sole purpose for the imperial army is to obey His Majesty’s orders. And I have been ordered to orchestrate a peace settlement with Germany. Serge, as a soldier, I have been ordered to do much worse.”
“You're right father,” Serge said as he gazed out the window capturing a snow-covered square. “Russia needs peace. But it comes with quite a price.”
“Yes. It does.”

[Crimson_Snow]

Dmitri's Palace



Dmitri’s palace stood at No. 41 Nevsky Prospekt, a magnificent home built of red brick. Its bloody facade seemed somewhat appropriate since the previous owner was Tsar Nicolas’ uncle the Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich. He had been dead for nearly a decade, but some thought his wickedness remained in the halls, seeking forgiveness and speaking with the near dead. Sergei was the man many blamed for the 1896 massacre in Moscow. One of the days, the imperial family wishes to forget.
In 1896, the Grand Duke Sergei was Moscow’s governor-general. It was the year of Nicholas’ coronation. The entire month of May was to be filled with pageantry and parades. Russia was using the spectacle to show the world its greatness as dignitaries from the four covers of the globe arrived in Moscow to pay their respect to the newly crowned tsar. A million Russians came to be apart of the coronation festivities. Too many.
The timing was perfect. A new century was dawning and the young tsar represented a ray of hope. To celebrate, they gathered in the hundred of thousands in a field across from the Petrovsky Palace to glimpse a piece of history. On this tiny strip of land, a carnival atmosphere surrounded the crowning. Free food and beverage stands were set up earlier in the week. Performers performed their acts of magic, and the crowds enjoyed the spectacle of the day. And as lines of imperial carriages passed, the onlookers cheered and drank in the idea of change and perhaps a little hope. Later that afternoon, the masses were to receive their traditional coronation gift, a souvenir. This souvenir was to be a cup of pure porcelain ablaze in color and featuring the imperial symbol, the double eagle.
But the Grand Duke Sergei did not have sufficient policemen present. Rumors were passed that there were not enough souvenirs for everyone, and that there was no more beer. A human stampede began. In sight of the palace, thousands upon thousands died. Truckloads of men arrived to retrieve the bodies. They had been released from their prior duties of protecting the parade route.
Later in the day, when the tsar heard of this tragedy, he wanted to cancel the festivities at least for a week, but his uncle convinced him to go on with the scheduled events. That evening at a ball sponsored by the French government, the tsar appeared ill. But the only members of the royal family to show their public protest were the Mikhailovichs; after the official ceremony, they all rose and left.
This tragedy increased animosity against Grand Duke Serge. Years later, a lone radical waited outside his palace in Moscow. When the duke’s motorcar slowed to enter the gate, the assassin tossed his bomb through the car’s open window. Dmitri and his sister had been playing in the palace. A decade later, he could still hearing the explosion. His Aunt Ella, Grand Duke Sergei’s wife and the empress’ sister, never recovered. She became a recluse, spending more and more time in a convent. She gave her palace to the young duke.
In his private apartment, Dmitri enjoyed his Sunday paper and thought about his plans for the days. Late in the afternoon, he planned to speak with the tsar at army headquarters. He looked at the portrait of his beautiful mother, the Grand Duchess Alexandra that hung above the marble fireplace. She was beautiful, a goddess from Greece. Her dark eyes radiated kindness and love. He had never known her. She had died while giving birth to him.
His father, the Grand Duke Paul Alexandrovich, was Nicholas’ uncle. He never recovered from the loss of his wife, and could not stand himself or Petersburg. He left the rearing of Dmitri and his sister to their relatives. He traveled to Europe’s fashionable capitals and, eventually, fell in love again. However, not only was his new love not of royal blood, she also was divorced.
The grand duke did not care what society thought of him. All he knew was his heart did not hurt as much as it did before he met the woman who would become his second wife. But his brother, Alexander III, banished him from Russia for marrying a commoner, and Sergei and Ella raised his two children in Moscow.
At times, the young duke could still hear the explosion from that distant day echo throughout his head. This disturbing thought brought him back to the moment.
The newspaper was still warm from ironing, and the heat felt good. He read one of the articles on Father Rasputin’s mysterious disappearance. It was no mystery to him, of course. “Let us pray the Neva holds dearly all that succumb to her,” he thought as he turned the pages.
Satisfied, the duke rose and walked towards a large bay window over looking the Fontanka Embankment. Bright beams of light bounced off its frozen shores. He was now completely relaxed. He had survived the dark thoughts of yesterday.
He was certain that today would bring change in the empire. Today, he will travel to headquarters to have a word with His Majesty. After the tsar granted his subjects a constitution, Russia’s fighting spirit would return.
He closed his eyes and began thinking of Felix. He should be nearly halfway to the Crimea by now. Dmitri missed him already; no one knew him better than Felix. A draft of cold, refreshing air entered the drawing room as both doors were flung wide open.
“Felix! Did you miss your train?”
“It seems the empress wants me to stay in Petersburg for a little while longer,” he said as he began to circle the room. “My poor friend, you are a sad creature of habit. I leave for one day and you return to your daily ritual of silence.” Before the duke could respond, Felix put an arm around him. “And you know how much I hate rituals. So rise, up my friend, I am hungry for adventure. Allow me to share with you last night’s stimulating events over some brunch.”
Two friends walked down the corridor lined with oddities. For the time being, they were content with one other’s company. However, their brilliant plan was beginning to unravel.

[Crimson_Snow]

Sandro's Palace


Lounging comfortably in his brother’s study, Grand Duke Nikolai Mikhailovich paged through the biography he had written of Tsar Alexander I, who defeated Napoleon over a hundred years ago.
Bonaparte and his Grand Army all believed their war with Russia was over when they seized the nearly deserted city of Moscow. Enjoying the creature comforts of one of the tsar’s abandoned palaces, Napoleon and his advisors waited for Alexander’s terms of surrender. They arrived of course but nothing like the French expected.
Instead of giving in, Alexander knew the wisdom of sacrificing a city to save an entire land.  Without hesitation he ordered his subjects to burn the capital to the ground. Everything was put to the torch.
In the dead of winter as the capital ignited into a fiery inferno, the over-confident Napoleon was forced to flee his captured city. With his army in full retreat, legions of Cossacks charged his lines. Their attacks were no more than a nuance- a cattle prong to keep the French herd moving. Bonaparte’s true enemy was the Russian winter. Day by day, more and more of his men froze to death. Each possible haven from the cold was put to the torch by Alexander’s men.  
The same seasoned army that had defeated all that Europe had no place left to go. Like a plump cherry, the harsh winter weather consumed them. Fleeing Russia, the Grand Army was decimated. Their bodies cloaked in Bonaparte’s folly were littered across Russia’s frozen tundra along were their dreams of conquering the unconquerable.
Amazingly, Alexander turned defeat into victory with one bold stroke.
This thought as well as his book dropped from his hands with a thud. As he bent over to pick it up, he wondered if it would not be kinder to the book to toss it into the fire, fine leather finish and all. He chuckled; he was like his book, a showy relic of a bygone age made brittle by the passage of time.
“My,” he whispered to himself, “I am getting dramatic in my old age.”
Nikolai was passionate about Russia’s rich history. It was his only remaining love. A very long time ago, his heart belonged to a young princess. But because they were first cousins, they could not marry. She became the queen of Sweden, and he never married. He often wondered how their lives would have been had they listened to their hearts rather than to reason. But what was life without tears?
For most of his life, he lived alone with his cats. His words became his children. The duke would slowly breathe life into them, nurture them and after many trails and tribulations he would set them permanently free into the world. It was as he mulled the future of that world that his younger brother Sandro entered the study accompanied by a young guardsman.
“It’s good to see you, brother,” Nikolai said. “So, who is this young officer of Her Majesty’s Chevalier Guards?”
“Nikolai, it’s me, Serge,” the soldier said with a slightly stunned expression.
“Young Konstantin, is it truly you? It seems like only yesterday that I had to drag you and a certain young duchess out of my library.”
“Yes,” the prince replied, “but that was over six years ago.”
“Oh, that’s right. T’was but a blink of an eye. So, how was Oxford? It was Oxford, wasn’t it?”
“It was everything and more that you told me it was.”
“I wonder if I still could convince you to attend the Sorbonne,” said the Russian scholar. He had many friends there, and he could recall some heated discussions on the genius of Napoleon Bonaparte versus that of Nicholas I. By the small hours of the morning, after consuming several bottles of fine wine, his French counterparts usually accepted the tsar’s greatness, at least for the time being. The short man gave a small smile. He missed those days.
“While I was abroad, I was able to spend several weeks in Paris,” Serge said. “The city and its nightlife were as magnificent as you described.”
“Europe! Europe! It is our eternal fatal desire to mingle with Europe,” Sandro barked, “that has put us back God knows how many years.”
“Sandro,” his brother retorted, “don’t even start about your notion about the Americanization of Russia. America is just a European byproduct.”
“All right, all right,” Sandro said, smiling. The scene between the brothers had been played out for decades. “Anyway, we have some more pressing matters. Perhaps in two months there will be nothing left in this country of ours to remind us our ancestors were autocrats. Tell us, Bimbo”—the family name for Nikolai—“ what have you learned?”
“Rasputin is dead.”
“That we already know.”
“Young Dmitri is definitely involved. Toward the end of dinner at the club, Dmitri Pavlovich came in, pale as death, and sat down at another table. Trepov, our beloved minister, was arguing for everyone to hear that it was all nonsense. But Dmitri loudly declared to the others that, in his opinion, Rasputin had either gone off somewhere or been killed.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, I enjoyed a game of cards,” declared the duke, smiling at his brother. “It was a game of wolf. Speaking of which, we need prepare ourselves for the Vladimirs. They were busy as bees in the drawing room after Dmitri left for the theatre. From what I could overhear, they plan to make a regime change. Not doubt, placing Vlad on the throne. An interesting change, a revival of ruthless days.”
“Vlad is a brute,” Sandro said. “He does not have the support of the imperial family.”
“Brother, I love you, but I am afraid you have been away from the capital for too long. Vlad has grown more and more powerful thanks to the inactions of the tsar. Russia is ripe for change. Like it or not, the old regime is through.”
Sandro nodded, then looked at Serge. “What do you think?”
“Yesterday, Inspector Renko woke me to see if I was involved in Rasputin’s disappearance. No doubt my father sent him. Once he was satisfied I was not involved, he asked me about Felix.”
They were all silent for a moment.
“Where is my beloved son-in-law?” Sandro asked Bimbo.
“He’s gone.”
“Where?”
“Dmitri’s.”
“I should have guessed,” he said, not even attempting to hide the contempt in his voice.
“I spoke to him last night after his return from the station,” Bimbo said. “He spoke of some fairy tale about shooting one of his hounds.”
“Rise up, my dear brother. You need to pay them a visit,” Sandro said, smiling. “Did you call him yesterday?”
“Yes. Grand Duke Paul should be arriving tomorrow.”
“Splendid news,” Sandro said with a sly grin. “I am certain the young Pavlovich would love to know that his father is finally coming home.”
“Sandro, sharing this information with the duke will worth the trip alone. I will leave this very moment.”
“Good,” declared the duke as he purposely kicked a three-inch-thick book on the floor. He wanted his brother’s full attention.
“That’s my novel!” the author cried.
“Tell Felix,” one brother said to the other, “I want a word with him. He has started use down a path of destruction. We must figure out a way to save him and Russia.”
Nikolai knew what needed to be done. Though, he could not dare share it with his brother. It was time for a new order to things. The tsar was too weak for his liking. There was better choices out there. As he left, "Good day brother- duty calls."
"Let's meet back here tonight," Sandro said but Nikolai was already out the door.

[Crimson_Snow]

Bath House


As the stream rose from the hot coals, Protopopov gave a heavy sigh. How could so much change in a period of a day? The only ray of hope was that Vlad and his loyal legions would succeed tomorrow night. If that happened, he would personally finish the death of the evil one.
From the mist, “Good morning, Minister, I see you’re in good spirits.”
“Can’t I have a moment’s peace from you?”
“Not until it is done.”
“Until what is done?” he asked.
Rasputin laughed. “The good deed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Protopopov,” he said, emerging from the steam with a white towel draped over his head, “must you know everything?”
“Grisha, how can I accomplish what you wish when I have no idea of your plans?”
“I will let you know when the time is right. Until then, have your men ready.”
“They already are. Last night, Felix was placed under house arrest.”
“Good. And Dmitri?”
“That is a more difficult task,” the minister said, rising to add more coals. “He is a duke.”
“Nonetheless, today the empress shall order his arrest.”
“Why have I not heard of this?”
“Her Majesty is wise. She is having one of her generals inform the duke that he is under house arrest.”
“She doesn’t have the authority.”
“No matter. She is doing it.”
“That’s a bold move. The imperial family wouldn’t like that.”
“I am sure they won’t. But that is what's going to happen.”
“How do you know all of this?”
The prophet removed the towel that covered his face. “I see things, and not all of them good.” He paused. “In three weeks, it will be my birthday. I will be forty-eight years old.”
You will never live to see it, Protopopov thought.
“You’re right. I won’t.”
“You won’t what?”
“See it,” he replied with a toothy grin.
Leaning closer, he saw Father Rasputin’s face was swollen and bruised worse than before. It was almost to the point that he could see only out of his right eye.
“Grisha, what have they done to you?”
“All they possibly could. Be careful what you sow.”
“Are you reaping your revenge today?”
“Yes,” he said as he placed his towel back over his head. “The empress will be my iron sickle. This afternoon, I want you and your men to be prepared for a call. She will want your men to guard the royals. Give them the same second-rate protection you gave me.”
“What? I did my best.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have nothing to fear.”
“Fear?”
“You heard me. Tonight, choose one of your men, one who is loyal. Have him assassinate the duke in his own home.”
“What? How?”
“You know how.”
“Everyone will blame me.”
“Must I do everything? Make it look as if he was trying to escape.”
“Escape? But why?”
Rasputin’s voice rose. “Who cares why? Just do it.”
“What about Felix?”
The prophet smiled evilly. “I will handle the good prince personally. I want to be the one administering his pain.”
“As you wish.”
“Just be in your office this afternoon around three,” he said as the bath’s vapor absorbed him. “I will handle the rest.”
“Father? Father?” he whispered to the hazy room. He needed to speak to Vlad and tell him of the change in plans. The minister had a strange feeling that his own name was at the bottom of the Siberian’s little death pool. Perhaps the good general could save him from the beast.

[Crimson_Snow]

The British Embassy


Harry Williams, a man who knew the Russian people almost as well as they knew themselves, glanced over a copy of a Swahili Bible he just received from a dear friend. Harry’s faith and reading the Good Word grounded him. And today, the good doctor needed to be comforted.
Dr. Williams, a specialist in foreign languages, enjoyed reading scripture in as many different texts as possible. He was fluent in more than fifty languages. Today in the British Embassy, he was reading a favorite passage, Paul’s journey to Athens: “Men of Athens! I see that in every way you are very religious. For as I walked around and looked carefully at your objects of worship, I even found an altar with this inscription: TO AN UNKNOWN GOD.”
Harry could easily relate to this verse. For years, he had lived in a foreign world and watched the devoted masses worshiped the leader of their church, the tsar.
A native New Zealander and son of a Methodist minister, Williams had come to Russia at the war’s outbreak as a correspondent for The Daily Chronicle.
In 1914 in the first days of the war, he accompanied sword-wielding Don Cossacks in a patrol of the empire’s southern border. He witnessed these brave, but dated warriors invade a Hungarian border town.
He set down his Bible and pulled a binder out of his bag. It was his Russian memoir. He came to a page that recorded that day, and reread it.
“I thought last night of a little deserted chapel on the hillside in Hungary, and I thought of a little chapel on the hill under the shadow of a mountain in New Zealand. The heart of its devotion had gone out it. It stood limp before God. That chapel in New Zealand is happy, I thought, to be spared this, happy because dairy farmers still gather there on Sunday afternoons and sing slow hymns to accompaniment of a wheezy harmonium.” He closed his journal, reflecting that the war had now reached even that barren hillside: “The New Zealanders’ deaths at the Dardanelles were just the beginning. A link is being forged between the Uniate Church and the New Zealand Chapel.”
Williams heard stories of the bloody banks and bluffs of the Dardanelles. Too many Australian and New Zealand troops, known as the Anzacs, had perished on those stony beachheads of the Gallipolis peninsula in a vain attempt to establish a second front near the underbelly of Constantinople, a plan conceived in the mind of a man named Winston Churchill, a member of the British War Cabinet.
Unfortunately, his bold plan failed and so did the expedition. The Admiralty and its fourteen-inch guns did not clear the Turkish strongholds that lined the bluffs. The Turks were able to maintain the heights overlooking the beaches. As the Anzacs came ashore, they were completely exposed to the enemy’s guns. Wave by wave the soldiers came, but all the new arrivals found was death. The casualty rate was appalling.
As the ambassador’s study’s door opened, the linguist was meet by a redheaded giant, wearing a heavy grin.
“Doctor Williams,” said Malachi Jones, “Sir George can see you now.”
“Thh-hhh-hank you,” he stuttered. “I notice a Celtic undertone, Mr. Jones. Is your family from Southern Wales—around Cardiff … no, the Rhondda valley area. Perhaps, Ponty… Ponty?”
“Pontypridd.”
“Yes, thank you. Am I right?”
“My father was born in Pontypridd, but we now live in the city of Cardiff. Now, if you would follow me,” said Jones as he thought how ironic that the Russia specialist had a slight stutter. It was God’s own perverted sense of humor, thought the Welshman: a brilliant mind gated by a flawed tongue.
“Jones- the Welsh flag bears the image of a red dragon.”
Moving down the corridor, “Why, yes it does.”
“What’s ironic about the Russians is that their word for ‘red’ and ‘beauty’ are interchangeable. So therefore, what is red is beautiful.” The same could be said for crimson.
“Fascinating.”
“Yes, I shall never grow tried of it.”
The rest of their journey passed in silence until they reached Sir George’s study.
The ambassador greeted Williams as he entered the room. “Harry, it’s so good to see you again. Now, tell me what’s out there.”
“A certain revolution. And it doesn’t matter if it comes from the top or for the bottom. The masses are ready for change.”
“Indeed.”
“Her Majesty the Empress isn’t helping matters. The common man does not trust her.”
“Why should they? She encouraged the emperor to choose his ministers more out of regard for their political opinions than for their qualifications.”
“Pro, Pro, Pro-topopov?” he asked, stuttering.
Used to Harry’s troubled tongue, the diplomat moved quickly on.  “Yes.  Never altogether normal, his unbalanced mind has been turned by his sudden rise to power. No government of which Protopopov was a member can hope to work in harmony with the Duma.”
“Perhaps Rodzianko can warn His Majesty about Protopopov?”
“Rumor has it that Rodzianko has already thrown his support toward a new regime, one originating from the House of Vladimir.”
“How will the tsar react?”
“He will not listen,” said Sir George said, removing a letter from his drawer, “He doesn’t even listen to his own family. A month ago, the Grand Duke Nikolai Mikhailovich sent this letter to His Majesty: ‘So long as your method of selecting ministers [with the aid of Rasputin] was known to a limited circle, affairs went on somehow. But from the moment that this method became generally known, it was impossible to govern Russia in that way. Repeatedly you have told me that you could trust no one, that you were being deceived.’” With those words, Sir George paused and looked at Williams.
The ambassador continued: “‘If that is true, then the same must be true of your wife who loves you dearly, but is led astray by the evil circle that surrounds her. You trust Alexandra Feodorovna, which is easy to understand, but that which comes out of her mouth is the result of clever fabrication and is not the truth. If you are not strong enough to remove these influences from her, at least guard yourself against this steady and systematic interference by those who act through your beloved wife. If you should succeed in removing this continuous invasion of the dark forces, the rebirth of Russia would take place at once, and the confidence of the great majority of your subjects would return to you. All other matters would soon settle themselves. You could find people who under different conditions would be willing to work under your personal leadership.’”
“That would be an end to the monarchy, at least the present version of it.”
“Indeed,” he said as he drew the paper closer. “It closes with: ‘You are at the beginning of a new era of disturbances; I will go further and say at the beginning of an era of attempts at assassination. Believe me that in trying to loosen you from the chains that bind you, I do it from no motives of personal interest, and of this you and Her Majesty are convinced, but in the hope and in the expectation of saving you, your throne, and our dear country from the most serious and irreparable consequences.’” He placed the paper on his desk. “Why does he not listen?”
“They never do.”
“His stubbornness may be the end of him. His subjects are losing their faith in their sovereign. Even his loyal followers are second-guessing him.”
“That’s not good. In their mind, the tsar is a immortal being,” Harry shared, “incapable of making m-m-mi-mistakes. What happens when you lose faith in your God, Sir George?”
“You simply find another.”
“Indeed. Choose your gods wisely.”

[Crimson_Snow]

Dmitri's Palace


Once, there was a path of narrow earth named the Great Perspective. This old roadway sliced northward through what became Petersburg. But before it bore that name, wolves inhabited the densely wooded area. Ravenous and roaming, these wolves preyed on rogue travelers who made the deadly mistake of straying too far from the path.
Now, magnificent palaces of polished stone lined that old bloody trail. The wolves were still there—just older and wiser and hidden behind polished glass.
At No. 41 Nevsky Prospect stood a particularly dark, forbidding lair. It was as bold and beautiful as its possessor, the Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich, the grandson of a tsar. One of the young wolves of the pack, the duke had just had his first taste of sacrificial blood.
Standing at the front door, a wise, old wolf rang the buzzer. Nikolai was escorted through the makeshift hospital to the duke’s formal dining room. It was a mammoth room covered in magnificently framed portraits of dead faces. These frozen faces on dusty canvases stared from every direction. They were determined men with confident features. They were all Romanovs.
“Good morning, gentlemen assassins,” Nikolai said as he stared at the two royals enjoying their breakfast.
“Nikolai, not you, too,” replied Dmitri as he set down his fork. “Would you care for something to eat?”
“No, thank you,” he said as he sat at the other end of the table. “I have no appetite for blood.”
“Too bad,” Felix said. “It’s delicious.”
Dmitri tried to defuse the situation. “Nikolai, the soufflés are delicious. Felix made them himself.”
“I must admit I am talented,” Felix said as he picked up his juice glass.
“Modesty was never your strong point, was it, son?”
“Confidence is a noble gift,” the prince said, smiling. “You should know. Nikolai, you surprise me, a man of your age being caught up in all of this trivial gossip. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I am a man of facts. And sadly, it’s a reality that both of you are involved in this madness,” Bimbo said. “The only question I have is to what degree?”
“How can you be so certain?” asked Dmitri. “Rasputin is most likely recovering from one of his drunken orgies at the Villa Rode.”
“No. I am no fool. Too many people have been looking for him. After all this time, he is most certainly dead.”
“This whole business is a series of misunderstandings,” Dmitri said. “We are completely innocent.”
“Completely? I know every detail, even the names of the ladies who were at your party.”
With this, the two young men glanced at one another.
“Then you know everything,” Felix said mockingly. “Then you know we are innocent. You can save us both from a great embarrassment and tell the empress to look elsewhere.”
“Embarrassment?” the old one barked, “Ask my brother about what an embarrassment you are to our family. Or, for that matter, your own!”
Luckily for Felix and Dmitri, a servant emerged from the shadows. As he whispered into his master’s ear, the duke’s eyes lit up. Then, he said, “let him in.” Felix took another bite of his soufflé.
Dmitri rose from his chair and turned toward the door. At that moment, Nikolai whispered in the prince’s ear: “Does Dmitri know about your arrangement with Vlad?”
Felix began to choke, his blue eyes radiating fear mixed with hate.
The servant returned to the dining room accompanied by General Maximovich, the emperor’s aide-de-camp. He stood at attention.
“Her Majesty the Empress requests that Grand Duke Dmitri not to leave his palace,” sounded the general.
“Are you saying that I am under arrest by the order of the empress?” asked the duke in disbelief. “You realize that she has no right to issue such an order? Only the emperor holds the authority to arrest a grand duke.”
“No,” the general replied defiantly, “you are not under arrest. Her Majesty insists that you do not leave your palace for your own safety.”
“I consider this to be tantamount to an arrest. Tell Her Majesty the Empress that I will obey her wish,” he said as he soberly saluted the general.
With a click of his heels, the general returned the salute and turned for the door.
“Interesting morning,” Nikolai offered as he licked his lips. “Young Pavlovich, don’t fret. I bring wonderful news.”
“Good. I need to hear some.”
“Yesterday, I contacted your father. He extremely concerned,” he announced as he watched Dmitri’s eyes fill with dread. “He should be arriving on Tuesday.”
“Wonderful,” the duke muttered.
Nikolai looked at the deflated prince. “Felix, I changed my mind. If your soufflés are to die for, I must try some.”
“Nikolai, you’re getting too much pleasure out of all of this,” Felix whined.
With satisfied snarl, the gray wolf showed his old fangs as he devoured his soufflé. It was delicious. Almost as good as watching the young wolves suffer. He put down his fork.
Felix noticed this, “Not to your liking?”
“A little overcooked for my taste.”
Rising, Felix threw his napkin on the table and left the room.
Looking up from the table, the quiet one asked, “Is my father really arriving on Tuesday?”
“I am afraid so son. I am certain he is only coming to help.”
Leaning in his chair, “Certainly. Why else would he come?”

[Crimson_Snow]

Alexander Palace


Awaiting the arrival of Her Majesty the Empress, Alexander Protopopov paced upon the worn pistachio colored carpeting of the Mauve Room in the Alexander Palace’s northwest corner. This was the empress’ favorite place. Here, she conducted her business of ruling Russia. With its worn-out furnishings and outdated fabric encircled by lavender colored walls, the room seemed a shrine to an unfashionable dynasty clinging to the past.
Staring out towards the vast palatial grounds layered with a retreating fog, the minister thought about this morning’s conversation with Father Rasputin. Protopopov could tell the Siberian was in great pain, but how could Felix and Dmitri have failed? The minister had practically handed the good father over to them on a silver platter. No matter. The opportunity shall arise again. But in the meantime, he needed to sever his ties with the Felix and Dmitri, permanently. That would be arranged soon. He couldn’t imagine what the empress would do to him if she found out about his involvement in this assassination attempt.
He stared at the road that led to the palace. An old Latin adage popped into his head: “Mille vie ducunt per secula ad Roman—a thousand roads lead men forever to Rome. In Russia,” he thought, “all roads lead here, to a dated room of lavender and lime green.” Turning from the window, the minister was greeted by the empress.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, smiling.
“Yes, it is Your Grace,” he said. “I see why this room is your favorite.”
“It’s hopelessly outdated I know, but it is my home. I cherish this room.”
Still standing at attention, Protopopov thought to himself, “She doesn’t realize that she is already dead.”
Settling in her chair, Alexandra was done with the small talk. “Is he truly dead?” She could not bear to know.
Warned by the Siberian not to inform the empress yet of his survival, he said, “We don’t yet know. But I have not yet lost hope.”
“It’s been over twenty-four hours since we have last spoke. My hope is fleeting. What have you learned?”
“Purishkevich has fled the city aboard his hospital train. My men shall have him in custody by the end of the day.”
“Forget about him. I shall settle that matter myself. What about Dmitri’s involvement?”
“I have not had an opportunity to question him personally. But as you know, he and Felix are under house arrest. It is just a matter of time until we get to the bottom of this.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to report? I want to know everything about this matter—now! What of the imperial family?”
“My agents have reported of mysterious meetings held at the Grand Duchess Maria Pavlovna’s palace. Yesterday, the French Ambassador Paléologue and later Michael Rodianko were seen leaving her palace. And, there have been sightings of Grand Duke Alexander in the capital.” All this he lied.
“Sandro? What is he doing in the capital? He should be at the front with his troops.”
“This morning I contacted his regiment to confirm his whereabouts," another lie, "and I was informed that he was still in Kiev but could not be reached at the moment.”
“I don’t like this,” she said as she rose from her chair. “Are they coiling for the strike?”
“It looks that way, Your Majesty. Would you like my men to place them all under house arrest until the emperor returns?”
"No. I don't warn to alarm the entire world."
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Better yet, have your men ready for me tomorrow afternoon,” she said, smiling. “I must pay a visit to Peterburg. Arrange it. If they are preparing to strike at my husband, make certain that there is sufficient security force to counter it. Understand? Loyalist Minister Protopopov.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
With that, the meeting was done. The empress gathered herself and strolled out of the room.
So Protopopov left for his car, where he was greeted by madness. “How’s Mama?”
“Not well, I’m afraid,” the minister said. “Your apparent demise has shaken her. She wants me to turn the world upside down to find you.”
Laughing, “Shaken her? No, she is as firm as Russia is vast. For her safety alone, I must remain dead. At least until her enemies have been dealt with.”
"Why don't you just share what you already know with her?"
"No yet. I will tell you of my plans on our drive back to Petersburg.”
“Very well,” the minister irritably replied.
“Anything else wrong, Minister?”
“No. I am just like the rest,” he said playing with his moustache, “taking the news of your disappearance extremely hard.” He almst laughed.
Rasputin smiled, showing his crooked teeth. “Minister Protopopov, at times I think you would have preferred that I died.” With that, the Siberian went into a deep laugh—until his ribs began to hurt, “My good friend, are you trying to kill me?” He began laughing again. “Or are you done playing games my insufficient friend?”
“Grisha,” he said, not sure if Rasputin was joking. “I—”
“It is rare to find a politician lost for words, no?” replied the bearded one, smacking the minister on the back. “At least the empress still cares, bless her heart. Her grief shall not last. Anyway, she is a strong woman. What we are doing is for her own good.”
The minister gave him a look.
“You don’t believe me? Then you are like the rest. For they have always thought her to be weak, and me to be corrupt. But now you know better.”
“Trust me, I know she is strong. She nearly tore my head off yesterday as I was giving my report.”
“Really?”
“Yes, she was quite upset.”
“I can imagine. You were personally responsible for my protection.”
“Father Rasputin, I told you to stay in. And you assured me that you would. You lied to me.”
Rasputin considered the fact that the security detail didn’t follow him to the palace: “Perhaps I am not the only one here who lied?”
“What do you mean by that? Am I not doing all that you ask?”
“You should, for you know who holds your leash.”
The minister reddened with anger. “What tricks would you like to see performed next by your obedient dog?”
“That’s the spirit, Protopopov. I like hearing your wounded pride thick with sarcasm. It’s time to play fetch. I want your men who are currently guarding Dmitri to bring him to me.”
“And if the duke resists?”
“I’m planning on it. Have it look like a failed escape.”
Protopopov wished the duke had been more thorough with Rasputin. He wanted Felix and Dmitri dead as much as the good father did. They were the only ones who could tie him to the assassination attempt.
“Should my men handle Felix too?”
“No,” Rasputin said, his voice full of hatred. “I alreday told you not to touch him. As much as I’m sure you would like to quiet them both, I shall handle the matter myself.”
“As you wish.” Protopopov leaned back to catch a nap. But he would not be so lucky.
“Now,” Rasputin said, “tell me all you know about your buddy Vlad.”

[Crimson_Snow]

A Windsor in the Woods


The sound from the hounds lessened as an old sailor laid down his shotgun against the stump of a fallen tree. He was a world from the crowded streets of London but still needed a moment’s rest to catch his breath. Perhaps he needed to return the York Cottage.
     “Your Majesty, are you all right?” asked his friend Stevens from the War Cabinet.
     “Yes, of course. It’s just this damn hip of mine.”
     Early in the war, the king and queen traveled to the front to inspire the troops. The visit was a great success. But during it, King George’s horse stumbled on a rock, and the beast rolled over him in front of his men. His pelvis was broken, and still ached constantly.
“Would you prefer to return to car?”
      “Damn waste, but I can barely keep up.” The two began their journey back.
“Stevens, what do you think of this American note?”
A little over a week ago, the British government received a letter from the American president, Woodrow Wilson regarding a possible conference to broker out peace between the warring nations. He sent the same letter to all the countries. It received a lukewarm welcome in England.
“He’s living up to his campaign promises of keeping them out of the war.”
“German submarines are sinking our ships fill of American goods, and he does nothing.”
“He’s no fool. He will wait until a time of his own choosing to enter this war.”
“Yes. When the outcome is already decided,” Stevens said. Nearly one hundred and fifty years after their revolution, and the Americans were still harassing a king named George.
The king nodded his agreement. “Stevens, we have invested too much in this war to allow the Americans to waltz and save the day. We can’t stand another summer like the last one. It was far too bloody.”
The king didn’t want to even imagine what would happen if Germany signed a separate peace with his Russian allies. By spring, his troops would be facing nearly a million more men, and an additional three thousand heavy guns. He could not allow that to happen, at least not until the Americans entered the war.
As they reached their sedan, another staff car was parked near them. In it was General Wilcox of the War Ministry.
     Stepping from his car, “Your Majesty.”
     “General Wilcox,” he laughed, “What the hell are you doing here?” he could thank the Royal Navy for this colorful language. When he was young, he was a British sailor. That was before his older brother’s death, which made him the heir apparent. “You’re late if you were planning on the hunt.”
     “Perhaps not,” the white-haired man replied. “Your Majesty, may I have a moment of your time?”
     “Of course,” he said, handing Stevens his shotgun
“What is it? My leg is killing me, Wilcox, and this bloody bog is not helping matters.”
     He handed the king a note. “This might mend your leg for a bit. My men intercepted this from Berlin this morning. It’s a telegram to Enro Savro in Turkey.”

Berlin, December 31, 1916

Before the first of January, Russian style, we intend to sign a separate peace agreement with Russia. In spite of this, it is our intention to stay loyal to our promise of protecting Istanbul.

We propose an alliance on the following basis with the Sultan of Turkey and the Ottoman Empire: That we make war together and together we shall make peace. Due to the proposed agreement, official we must turn our back to the Eastern Front. Unofficially, we shall give general financial support, and it is understood that Turkey is to re-conquer the lost territory it lost to Russia and Romania. The details are left to you for settlement ...

You are instructed to inform the Turkish Minister of War Enver Pasha of the above information in the greatest confidence as soon as it is certain that there will be a separate peace with the Russian Empire. Afterwards, expect the Russias to push southwards. Tsar Nicholas sole objective is the liberation of Istanbul. Publicly, we will be unable to offer our aid.

Please call to the attention to the Sultan Mohammed V of Turkey that the employment of an additional million men to our west lines will counter our current stalemate. With Russia out of the war, America’s involvement in the war is now irrelevant. In spring, the war will be over.

After that successful conclusion, the German Empire plans to return to the Eastern Theatre in full force. The Sultan need only to hold on until the Germany Army, as a whole routes marches on to Moscow. With the tsar’s regiments engaged in the south, the His Imperial Majesty the Kaiser will negotiate a new peace treaty with his the Russians, a treaty more favorable in the eyes of the Sultan of Turkey and his Ottoman Empire.

Zimmerman


     “‘Compel England to make peace,’” the king said. “Over my dead body.”
     “Poor Russia. Such a pity.”
     “That’s what happens when you make a deal with the devil. So, Niki could not wait for Constantinople, even though we assured him that the city would be his at the conclusion of the war.”
“Well, I am certain the failure of the Admiralty and the Dardanelles expedition didn’t help matters.” Wilcox left it at that. He knew the His Majesty’s battleships never had a chance to clear those bluffs. But what did it matter? The allies would never have granted Russia Constantinople and the straits anyway. The British and the French had already decided how the world would look after the war, and Russian interests were not included in that arrangement. The British would never give Russia a foothold so close to India. The general surmised the tsar realized that.
     He handed the note back to the general. “Make certain my German cousin’s greed is known to my Russian brethren.”
“I shall make certain Sir George has this in his hands as soon as possible. They walked back to their vehicles with smiles on their faces. “The new year is looking better already,” the king said. “Come spring, Germany will still be fighting a two-front war.”

[Crimson_Snow]

A Monday Ago
Vlad's Palace


“Will it work?” the prince asked.
“It better,” the grand duke warned Felix, “Or both of us are not long for this earth.”
They were in the duke’s study overlooking the Neva.
“True,” he agreed as he took another sip of his drink.
“Don’t worry Felix, my plan is perfect.  His home is surrounded by regiments loyal to me, and our cause.”
“The Cossacks?”
“I will handy them.”
“You better.”
At that point, two of the duke’s dogs entered the room.
“Come here, my boys.”  As he petted them, “Good boys.”
Not understanding why Vlad was so calm, he shared the obvious. “I am risking a great deal.”
“Who isn’t?”
Joining him at the window, “I know.  But how certain are you that your officers are completely loyal,” he asked, “all it would take is one traitor to stop us. The emperor finds out.”
“Relax, I hand picked these men for this exact assignment. They are loyal.”
“Okay.  Then, you trap is sprung.  So all you need now is our beloved leader’s return.”
“That’s your part.”
“Yes, I am in charge of preparing the cheese?”
Still playing with the dogs, “Precisely.”
“How are you certain that Rasputin’s demise will force the tsar return to Petersburg?”
“The empress will demand it,” Vlad said as he tossed one of the dog’s toys across the room. Both of them chased after it. Within seconds the larger dog dropped the toy back at Vladimir’s feet. The other dog was no longer in sight. “Good doggy. You see Felix, Nicholas is like a simple puppy dog to her demands.”
“We shall see.”
“Felix, you worry too much.  Soon, Russia will have a leader worthy to the task.  And he will be extremely kind to those who helped establish the new regime. Extremely kind.” As he played roughly with his dogs, “Sasha, it’s time to find you two a new home.”
“You have on already in mind.”
“Felix, you know I do.”
“Alright then,” he said as he went to pour himself another drink. “The Siberian will be dead by the end of the week.”
“And his security?”
“The new minister of interior has been most generous.”
“I suppose he would be,” replied the duke, as he eyed his knew kingdom. “Protopopov wants Rasputin out of picture more than anyone else. He’s afraid the starlet is turning on him.”
“So, poor Grisha is losing all his friends. Playing politics can be lethal.”
“Yes, indeed,” the prince declared as he filled two glasses, “Then, let’s toast to the evil one’s apparent death.” Heading the glass over, he said, “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” With the sound of crystal still humming throughout the room, “Just make certain his death is known to the empress.  My plan depends on it.”
“Do you expect me to escort the authorities to his corpse?” he laughed.
“Exactly. What ever it takes.  The sooner the empress knows, the sooner she will call for the tsar’s return.”
“But Vlad, what good is it to drag my name into all of this?”
“Soon, in the new regime, your name will ring with that of a true patriot. Prince Felix, your destiny awaits you but before that you must dispose of a mere peasant.”
Knowing he was meant to accomplish great things. “Consider it done.”
“Good. Let’s have another drink and you can share with me your plans.”
The two of them wandering into an adjoining room, all that remained was the passage of time. This morning, the tsar released his new Manifesto. Today was Monday. By Friday, Rasputin would be dead. His death would force His Majesty to return to the capital. The empress would make certain of it. After that, Nicholas would be doomed.

[Crimson_Snow]

Outside Peter's Apartment


As Burmin emerged from his building, two towering men wearing heavy greatcoats flanked him and they were not the guards Renko gave him.
One of the men pointed a gun in the German spy's back. “Good day, Mr. Burmin. Would you please follow my friend to his car?”
That was when Peter noticed his bodyguards laying unconscious on the ground. “What is this?” he asked as he stared down at their lifeless bodies.
     “Don’t worry.” Jones said, “Your boys aren’t dead. Just sleeping.”
They eased him into a waiting car. Sir George was inside.
“Mr. Ambassador, what is this?”
“Greetings, Mr. Burmin,” the British ambassador said as the car began to move. “It is such a pleasure to finally meet with you.”
“I am a Russian, living in Petersburg. And you, a foreigner, dare to do this to me?”
“Relax, Peter,” Sir George said jovially. “It will only be a moment of your valuable time.”
“I have powerful friends,” Burmin said.
“As do I.”
“Good.” He loosened his collar. “Then we have come to an agreement.”
“And what is that?”
“That you are going to let me out, now and all of this will be forgotten.”
“Herr Burmin,” Sir George said, banging his cane squarely on the floor. It was a sign to his driver that he wanted to stop, “This is just a warning. Treat it as such. We know that you are the German conduit the tsar and General Konstantin are using to deliver their demands to the kaiser.”
“What? Perhaps, you haven’t heard that I was cleared of all those charges?”
“How convenient,” the ambassador said dryly as the vehicle came to a stop along the boulevard.
Quickly, Jones leapt out to allow Burmin his freedom.
“Thanks for the ride, Sir George. Be thankful that I’m not going to report this to the authorities.”
“Be thankful you can,” Buchanan said as Jones stood over him.
“Please,” his confidence restored, he smiled as wide as he could. “A separate peace? What would be the odds?”
Looking harshly at the gambler, the diplomat coldly returned his own confidence and arrogant glare. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”
Jones dipped his hat, and walked toward the passenger’s seat.
Peter awkwardly lit a cigarette. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“And why is that?” he asked, blowing the smoke toward Sir George’s face.
Sir George was still smiling. “Bad bet,” he said as the car pulled out into traffic.
Peter did not like it at all, as he watched the ambassador’s car travel down the Nevsky. He needed to give Renko a call. The Brits were on to their scheme.

[Crimson_Snow]

Tracks to Petersburg



Chaos engulfed the usually sleepy station as the tsar’s train prepared to depart. Walking along the narrow platform dusted with snow was His Imperial Majesty, lost in thought. He had just sent his wife a telegram informing her of his plans. Rasputin’s apparent death was the last thing he needed. What disturbed him the most was his favorite nephew’s involvement in the plot. Dmitri was like a son. He couldn’t understand why the little boy with whom he had played billiards would do this to him and the family who loved him dearly.
     As the tsar step onto the train, the conductor gave out a shout. Within moments, the train jolted and began to pick up speed. His Majesty wanted to be in Petersburg by morning, and he would be.
     Reaching the salon car, Nicholas’ mood brightened when he witnessed his son playing in the corner with his toy soldiers.
     “Bang! Take that you greedy Germans,” he cried as he acted his fists were tommy-guns, “and take that you dirty Turks!” He stopped when he noticed his father had entered the room. He looked at his father. “Papa, are you all right?”
     “Yes, for the time being,” the tsar replied, wanting to change the subject. “Are we winning or losing?” he asked, patting the boy’s head.
     Alexei laughed. “Father, we always win. It is our duty.”
     Nicholas fell into a nearby chair, exhausted, “Oh yes,” he said looking at his son. Then whispered to himself: “I forgot. We Russians always win, for duty knows no pain.”

[Crimson_Snow]

Ministry of Interior



     Minister Protopopov was growing tired of Rasputin’s constant presence. As he settled behind his desk, his phone rang. It was his secretary in the next room.
“Send him in,” he replied to the caller.
Father Rasputin quickly moved to a chair located at the back of the room. As he sat, the door opened. Captain Zubov walked toward the minister and saluted.
     Protopopov barely looked up from a report. “Is everything in place?”
     “Yes, sir. Tonight, the Grand Duke Dmitri will be shot attempting to escape from his palace.”
      “Most excellent work, Captain.”
     “Thank you, sir.”
     “During the ‘attempt,’ make sure one of your men is killed.”
     “Sir?”
      “It will make it a more believable story if one of your men is killed with him—someone of your choosing, of course.”
     “Yes sir!”
     “One more thing, Captain—make certain no harm comes to Prince Felix.”
     “Yes, sir! No harm shall come to him.”
     “Not yet,” thought Rasputin.
     After the captain left, Rasputin spoke from the darkened corner. “Can you trust him?”
     “Never underestimate an ambitious man.”
     The Siberian burst into uncontrollable laughter. “Protopopov, that may be the first honest thing that has slipped from your lying lips.”
     With that, the two discussed their plans for Felix.

[Crimson_Snow]

Large chunks come from Felix' LS

The Hospital within Dmitri's Palace

     
     To Mathilde, the boy looked too much like Serge. The only difference was that he was missing a leg. Discarded, in some distant field. As his medication took hold, he was thankful. He had made it. Not in one piece. But who was he to complain? The majority of his friends from his village were gone. As he thought this, guilt crept over his handsome face. Realizing this, she gave him a small hug.
     “It’s okay to hurt,” she said. “We all hurt. But the important thing to start living again.”
Rising to her feet, she softly tucked the blanket around him.
     “How touching, Mademoiselle Kschessinska,” Felix said. “You are truly a sister of mercy.”
     “We all need mercy, Felix,” she said with a sly grin, “some more than others.”
     “Touché,” he replied. He had to admit, even in her forties, she was dazzling. It was hard for him to keep his eyes off of her. It wasn’t that he was attracted to her. Rather, he envied her and her self-confidence. In a strange way, the ballerina reminded him of his mother.
     “Mademoiselle Kschessinska, do you know my mother?”
     “Of course.” The prince’s mother, Zenaide, was a great believer in the arts. “We’ve talked many times after my performances and at other social soirées. She’s a rare woman—both beautiful and kind.”
      “Yes she is. A man once told me I was much like her. Do you believe that?”
     “Yes, I do.”
     “Of course, he meant it as an insult. But that was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. You see, my mother, who had already had three sons, two of whom had died in infancy, was so certain I would be a girl that she had ordered a pink layette for me. To make up for her disappointment, she dressed me as a girl until I was five years old. Far from making me feel ashamed, made me very vain. I used to call out to passers-by in the street: ‘Look, isn’t Baby pretty?’”
The two of them sat down on a vacant bed. He needed to be heard.
     “Is there something you would like to tell me, Felix? It could be our secret.”
Felix grimaced. “Our secret.” The prince was growing tired of secrets. “You think I am a horrible beast, don’t you?”
     “I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion.”
     He smiled. “Thank you. You are most kind. I am not a horrible beast, just a prankster.”
     “Hell of a prank you played other night.”
     “Friday night was harmless,” he said. “Let me tell you about a night that had become ugly. It was when I was very young and my brother Nicholas was still alive.” Felix’s brother had been killed by a jealous husband in a duel nine earlier.
“At that time, fancy dress balls were the rage in St. Petersburg. I owned a collection of very beautiful costumes, both men’s and women’s. For a fancy dress ball given at the Opera, I had faithfully copied the portrait of Cardinal de Richelieu by Philippe de Champaigne. On such occasions Nicholas, who distrusted my fertile imagination, always came with me or had me watched by reliable friends.
“That evening, an officer in the Guards who was a famous Don Juan courted me assiduously. The officer and three of his friends offered to take me to supper at The Bear. I accepted in spite of the risk, or rather because of the risk. Seeing that my brother was flirting with a masked lady, I seized the opportunity to slip away.
“I arrived at The Bear escorted by my four officers, who engaged a private room. Gypsies were sent for to create the right atmosphere; and under the influence of the music and the champagne, my companions became very enterprising. I was holding them off as best I could, when the boldest of them crept up behind me and tore off my mask. Realizing that disaster was imminent, I seized a bottle of champagne and hurled it at a mirror, which was smashed to pieces. Taking advantage of the general shock caused by what I had done, I leapt to the door, switched off the lights, and fled.”
Like a worried mother, Mathilde just listened.
“My pranks could not be concealed indefinitely from my parents. My father sent for me one day. He was livid with rage and his voice shook. He called me a guttersnipe and a scoundrel, adding that people like me were not fit to breathe the same air as honest folk. He declared that I was a disgrace to the family and that my place was not in his house but in a Siberian convict settlement. Finally he sent me out of his room. The door banged so violently that a picture on the wall crashed to the ground.”
“Then what happened?”
“I stood still for a moment, aghast at this outburst. Then I went to my brother.
“Seeing me so depressed, Nicholas tried to cheer me up. I took advantage of this to unburden my heart, and reminded him how vainly I had several times sought his support and advice. I also reminded him that it was he who had first thought of disguising me as a woman for his own amusement, and that this had been the beginning of my ‘double life.’ Nicholas had to admit that I was right.”
“It sounds as if he cared deeply for you.”
“In his own strange way, I suppose he did. Later on, when I was old enough to take an interest in women, life became even more complicated. Although I felt much attracted to them, my affairs never lasted long because, being accustomed to adulation, I quickly tired of doing the courting and cared for no one but myself. The truth is I was a horrible little beast. I liked to be a star surrounded by admirers. It was all great fun, but I did enjoy being the center of attention and doing whatever I liked. I thought it quite natural to take my pleasure wherever I found it, without worrying about what others might think.”
“I have often been accused of disliking women. Nothing is further from the truth. I like them when they are nice. A few among them have played an important part in my life, and especially the one to whom I owe my happiness. But I must admit that I have met very few who answered to my ideal of womanhood. Generally speaking, I have found among men the loyalty and disinterestedness which I think most women lack.”
     What about Irina?”
“My wife,” he said, fearing to pull back too much of his curtain, “is the best thing that ever happened to me. Like, I just mentioned- she is my happiness. In all things, she’s good and innocent. I do not know what she sees in me.”
“Perhaps someone who needed to be loved?”
He gave her a strange look. “Perhaps.”
“And what about Dmitri?”
“Dmitri,” he replied with a mixed tone, “Dmitri is extremely attractive.”
“Is that it?”
“No, he is my friend. Above all else.”
“Good.”
The prince massaged his templates. ”Sometimes, the terrible things that I have done keep replaying themselves out in my head.”
“You should try to forget such things. Trust me, I know.”
Then another nurse approached. “Duty calls. Take care of yourself, Felix—and your friends,” she said, walking away from him. “Perhaps later.”
“Until we meet again, my good nurse Kschessinska. You are too good for this world.”
“You can be too.”
“No, it’s too late …”
“No it’s not. It’s never too late.” With that, Mathilde smiled, then hurried to join the other nurse.

[Crimson_Snow]

Chunks from Sandro's Once a Grand Duke

Platon's Office


The general was listening to Renko, but he did not like what he was hearing.
“Right now,” the inspector warned, “Protopopov’s men are guarding the duke.”
“The hell they are,” the old man barked. “I want you to correct this situation. Immediately. Tomorrow will be too late. For every one of the minister’s men I want a shadow. We don’t see any reason for this matter to escalate.”
“Consider it done, General.”
“Good,” he replied as he began tapping his desk with the palm of his hand, “Any word from Colonel Zurin?”
“None. Most likely he returned to Tsarskoe. But if you wish, I will contact Tsarskoe to confirm.”
“Don’t bother. I will check myself.”
“Of course, General.”
“I need you to keep a close eye on Vlad and his men,” he said as he rose from his seat. “I don’t like the fact that we are allowing him to get this close.”
“General, currently we have no proof.”
“Proof!”
“Yes, proof. He is a grand duke. A Romanov like yourself, and like it or not the rest of the imperial family would love to use anything they can against His Majesty, especially now.”
     Platon smiled like a proud teacher at his prized pupil, “Let us find that prove before it is too late.”
     “We will.”
“Now, regarding Dmitri’s and Felix’s protection,” he said, opening his safe. “On second thought, I don’t want Protopopov’s men anywhere near the royals. In fact, I don’t want him involved in any way.” Konstantin handed him a small card with some scribbling. Renko had heard of the document but had never before seen one: an imperial license.
“Now, you have the authority to get them the hell out of there.”
     “Yes, General.”
      “Anything else of interest?”
“The French Ambassador Paléologue and his aide, Chumbrun, paid a visit to Vladimir Palace today. Yes. They’re acting like a court in waiting.”
“Well, let us make certain that it is a long wait.”
“And the French?”
“We will deal with them later. Stephan, if there is one certainty in international affairs, it is that one can always count on the French to preserve their own interests.” He thought of Sir George. “That goes for the British too.”
“The ambassadors are getting bold. Perhaps too bold.”
“They are desperate.”
“Yes, is it wise to leave Burmin out there? I only have two men guarding him and he knows about Monday.”
“Pay him a visit.” Platon said as Renko gathered his things, “I believe the British have chased Burmin long enough.”
“Very well general,” the inspector said as he turned before he reached the door, “I will handy the matter myself.”
“Good.”
Platon rested his head in his hands. There was so much going on that he was afraid he was losing control. He picked up his phone and tried to get a hold of Zurin to no avail. Frustarted, he grabbed the receiver again and was greeted by his secretary’s voice.
“Sir?”
“No interruptions for the next half hour.”
“Yes, general. No interruptions.”
     According to the German spy Burmin, all was now in order for Nicholas to sign the treaty. At least Rasputin’s death had saved him from making a trip to army headquarters, a place that would no longer exist in two weeks. It was all coming to an end, and not the way in which he had imagined it at the very beginning.
     As he heard his door open slowly, he did not have to wait to know who had arrived. “Sandro,” he cried, “It can only be you.”
     “Yes, Platon. It is me.”
     “I am tired. What do you want of me?”
     “An answer. How long have you been in negotiations with the Germans?”
     “Since the fall,” he said as he reached for his cigarettes.
     “Platon, you should know better.”
      “About dealing with the Germans or smoking?” he laughed as he coughed.
     “Both.”
     “I know, my friend. I know. But I am just a simple soldier following orders.”
     “I know you are,” the duke declared as he reached for one of Konstantin’s cigarettes. “But you’re making a mistake following Nicholas’ orders.”
     “A Russian duke wants me to counter an imperial order? Where is the honor in that, Sandro?”
     “Honor? Where’s the honor in a separate peace?”
     “Peace,” he said as he started to gag once again, “is honorable, no matter the price.”
     “This price just happens to be Russia’s future. Platon, finally my squadrons of planes are ready for the fight. We have two factories producing them more quickly than we have men trained to fly them. Trust me. They will make the difference come spring.”
     “What you have done with the limited resources the War Ministry have given you is astounding. You have every right to be proud of the Imperial Air Force that you have created. But the decision has already been made.”
     Sandro fell back in his chair. “So it is done.”
     “All that is required is his signature, and that shall come tomorrow night. In less than two weeks, it will all be over. My recommendation to you is to speak to him tomorrow before my meeting. But I must warn you, I already have tried.”
     “So it’s pointless?”
     “Who knows? Things change. But from my visit with Rodzianko yesterday, it may be for the best. ”
     “What do you mean by that?”
     “He all but said the Senate would support change, any change, even if that change originated from Vlad. Vlad’s camp is gaining momentum. I wouldn’t be surprised he if he attempted his coup before the peace terms are signed.”
     “So, we have only two weeks?”
“Perhaps less.”
“We must inform the tsar and his security detail.”
“They are already on a heightened status.
“Good. But the peace terms? I still can’t believe it.”
     “Believe me, I did not want to end my career like this. But peace is peace.”
     At that moment, Sandro realized what General Konstantin was willing to offer his commander—his legacy as a soldier. In two weeks, Platon would take full responsibility for the treaty. According his doctors, by early spring he would be dead.
In some circles the general would remain a hero, but in the circles from where the power really existed, he would be despised as the coward the tsar forced to broker a peace with the Germans.
“Platon, I never thought of how much you will lose,” the duke said. “That is one more reason not to do this.”
     “No, it is not my decision to make. Alexander—no more. I don’t have the energy for this.”
     He tried to think of better days. “Do you remember what it feels like to be innocent?”
     Laughing, “No.”
      “I remember one time, right after Serge was born. It was late and Connie was already asleep. He and I were alone in the darkness, and I was his sole protector. It felt of utter peace.”
      “I do recall a time in my youth of pure innocence,” the duke said. “It was in Brazil.”
     “Share it with me? Your story.”
     The duke smiled. “Platon, of course I will. So, clean out the dullness from your ears, my friend, and brace yourself. Thirty years ago and thousands of miles from St. Petersburg there was a heavenly place called Rio de Janeiro. On Christmas Eve 1886, nearly thirty years ago to this day. His Royal Majesty’s Ship Rynda under combined power of steam and sails, enters the territorial waters of Brazil.
     “Standing on the bridge— the Southern Cross blinking between the disjointed clouds—I am breathing deeply the fragrance of the tropical woods.”
Platon adjusted his collar. The room had somehow grown warmer, and it felt wonderful to his old aching bones.
     Lifting up one finger for each remark, Sandro said as he began to count, “A harbor challenging the haughty claims of Sydney, San Francisco, and Vancouver. A white-bearded emperor discussing the imminent triumph of democracy. A jungle preserving the atmosphere of the first week of creation. A narrow-waisted girl dancing to the strains of ‘La Paloma.’ These four images,” he said, waving his four fingers, “will forever be associated in my mind with the word,” pausing, “Brazil.”
     “’He who has tasted the water of Beykos shall return to Istanbul,’ maintained the Turks,” Platon said.
The mention of Constantinople pulled Sandro from his dream.
     “I doubt it. I have had my fill of that glorified water, and yet I feel no desire whatsoever to revisit the city of European vices and Asiatic comforts. But I would pay almost any price to live once more through the thrill of being overcome by the spectacle of the beautiful Rio.”
     Platon had had few opportunities to enjoy a friendly port. But that was the life he had chosen. He longed to be young again, and know what he knew now.
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