The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

“Curiosity is one of my biggest faults, I’m afraid,” Daniel said noncommittally. What was going on?

  “We have been amiss in not keeping you informed, but . . . ah . . .” Shiamura cleared his throat. “Your presence in our prisoner of war camp was not made known to the proper authorities until only a few days ago. And since then we have . . . ah . . . been at something of a loss as to what exactly to do with you.”

  “I don’t believe I understand.”

  “According to Commander Otami’s report, you were caught—shall we say?—in the act of espionage.”

  “I’ve already admitted that. I agreed to transport some information in order to get a story for my newspaper. In retrospect, a foolish thing to do. I suppose I deserve to be shot as a spy.”

  “Under normal circumstances, we would be within our rights . . .”

  “But . . . ?” Daniel prompted.

  “Your capture, Mr. Trent, has placed us in a diplomatically untenable position.”

  “Really?”

  “You have no idea the stir you have caused. Otami thought he was arresting a mere American correspondent—imagine his chagrin when he discovered he had imprisoned the owner of one of the largest steel companies in America. In fact, the Japanese navy owes a great part of its strength to Union Steel. Well, you can see the position that places the Japanese government in.”

  Daniel restrained a grin. He could see their dilemma, although this was the first time it had occurred to him. The Japanese couldn’t very well execute the person responsible for keeping their war effort afloat. Daniel was a bit chagrined to discover that his company was doing business with Mariana’s enemy. He, of course, was supposed to be neutral, but as he had told Mariana, that was not easy considering his deep ties with Russia. Nevertheless, he thought it unwise to mention these things to Shiamura.

  Daniel responded as simply as possible. “Yes, I do.”

  “At the request of your President Roosevelt, the American ambassador has spoken to our Prime Minister.”

  Daniel cocked an eyebrow. He had spent so much of his life spurning the family position that he had forgotten—or never really realized—just how much power the Trent name held. In an instant, all sorts of practical uses of this power spun through his mind, but he shook them away as one would an annoying cobweb. Let his brother have all that. Daniel was content to be on his own, calling upon company profits only for his basic needs.

  But President Roosevelt? The Japanese Prime Minister? Hmmm . . .

  Not now, fellow, he told himself firmly.

  He was not too proud to use the family name to get out of this present jam, however—especially when the alternatives were either a firing squad or rotting away in a Japanese POW camp.

  “So, now what?” Daniel said.

  “I am instructed to give you a severe reprimand, then release you into the custody of the ambassador’s assistant. I have been told that I do not need to apologize for my government.”

  “I don’t expect you to. What I did was wrong.”

  “You are an honorable man, Mr. Trent.”

  “I’m simply sorry for what I did. I lost sight of my proper place in this mixed-up war.”

  “I understand that the young Russian woman who was wounded on the ship was rather close to you.”

  “Very close.”

  “Love does tend to cloud political issues.” Shiamura gave Daniel an understanding smile. Then he continued more formally, “I believe this brings to a conclusion our interview. Consider yourself reprimanded, Mr. Trent. Now a guard will see you downstairs, where you will be met by an escort from the embassy.”

  Daniel rose. He shook hands with the colonel, then bowed Oriental-style. “Thank you very much.”

  The colonel walked him to the door, and Daniel paused. “I don’t suppose it would be possible to see the Prime Minister?” He simply couldn’t help himself; the newspaperman in him had to be appeased.

  And he was shocked when Shiamura said, “I believe that can be arranged.”

  57

  Nicholas looked again at Svyatopolk-Mirsky’s proposal. Matters of state must progress despite a disastrous war and a sick child. Life goes on.

  He wished now he had never given his blessing to the Minister of the Interior for the Zemstrov Congress held last month. He had been under the impression that its agenda would involve nothing more than the usual inconsequential matters. Instead, they had come up with a proposal that included an appeal for a representative body in the government. At first Nicholas had agreed—perhaps in a moment of weakness, out of despondency over the war.

  Then he’d had second thoughts. He called his Uncle Sergei up from Moscow for advice, and even consulted with Witte. Both were opposed to the proposal. Of course, Sergei’s reactionary tendencies were well known, but who could guess Witte’s reasoning when he had always been hounding the tsar about a constitution? Probably the arrogant Witte simply couldn’t abide any reform that he wasn’t author of. Nevertheless, with checks by these men whom the tsar respected, Nicholas reconsidered his stance.

  Stabbing a pen in an ink well, Nicholas scratched some notes in the margin of the proposal, then, on a clean sheet, wrote a brief letter informing Svyatopolk-Mirsky of his final decision. This done, he called in Prince Orlov, chief of the tsar’s Private Secretariat.

  “Could you see that the Minister of the Interior gets this?” He handed him the pages. “Tomorrow is soon enough.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.” Orlov waddled forward and took the papers. Prince Orlov was so fat he could not see the tips of his shoes past his belly. It was hard to believe that one of Orlov’s ancestors had been Catherine the Great’s lover.

  “Now, I must prepare myself for the reception tonight,” said Nicholas, pushing back his chair. The French president, Loubet, was visiting St. Petersburg, and as much as he and Alix were shying away from social gatherings these days, it did not pay to offend the French. The alliance with that nation was still a very important part of Nicholas’s foreign policy.

  “As you wish, Your Majesty. This other matter can wait.”

  “What other matter?”

  “Nothing important, I assure you. A petition from a group of workers.”

  “Well, all things considered, I should probably take time to at least look at the workers’ petition.”

  Orlov handed over the petition and Nicholas read it with interest. It contained nearly two hundred signatures—in some cases only marks or illegible scrawls—and requested the tsar to review the case of Sergei Viktorovich Fedorcenko, and then to grant a pardon to the man. The tsar, of course, was familiar with the Fedorcenko name, though for the last twenty years it had not frequently been mentioned in society. The petition left no doubt that the Sergei Viktorovich mentioned therein was a scion of that famous family. It outlined the man’s offenses, then went on to sing his praises.

  This man risked his own anonymity by stepping out of his private existence to meet a vital need among this community’s deprived citizens. He gave of himself without the prospect of financial gain, spending countless hours tutoring working men. He could have melted into the city’s thousands, a safe existence for himself and his family, and then gone to the end of his days undiscovered by the authorities. Perhaps we cannot condone his flaunting of the law, yet we all bear witness to the fact that Sergei Viktorovich has always been a good and upright man. We believe that a reevaluation of his case will show that twenty-three years ago he was little more than a victim of circumstance. Even the crime of which he was convicted was an act inspired by the best of motives. And it shows he was an aristocrat who cared for others, placing their welfare above his own.

  We, the undersigned, ask of our most august Imperial Highness only that you review his case, confident that upon doing so Your Majesty will conclude with us that Sergei Viktorovich Fedorcenko has paid sufficiently for the indiscretions of his youth.

  Orlov smiled sardonically as Nicholas looked up from reading the document. “Next, they will want the
man canonized,” he said.

  “They did go a bit overboard, didn’t they?” Nicholas fingered his moustache thoughtfully. He had never met Prince Sergei Viktorovich, who was more than ten years older than the tsar. Though they had moved in the same social circle twenty-three years ago, their ages had distanced them. But Nicholas knew that Viktor Fedorcenko had once been a favorite of his grandfather’s. Nicholas had been at the impressionable age of thirteen when Alexander II had been murdered, and he still vividly recalled that horrible time. Only a few years ago, he had built an ornate cathedral on the spot where Alexander had been killed. He remembered Viktor Fedorcenko’s genuine grief at the funeral. Not long after Alexander’s death, the elder prince had gone into seclusion.

  He wondered why Viktor himself had not appealed to the tsar. There had been rumors that Fedorcenko’s tragic circumstances at the time, including the death of his wife and daughter, had unhinged the man. So, now were there only peasants and the like to speak up for Viktor’s son?

  “Do you know anything of all this, Orlov?”

  “I took the liberty of procuring the file on Prince Fedorcenko and perused it briefly.”

  “It’s curious, isn’t it, that the young Fedorcenko returned to Russia after his escape from Siberia when he could have struck out for foreign parts? Well, I’d like to read the file myself. It should prove a fascinating diversion if nothing else.”

  “There are many more pressing matters—”

  “I always liked Viktor Fedorcenko.”

  “Showing aristocratic favoritism at this time might be inadvisable, Your Highness.”

  “Then you propose I ignore these workers? It appears to be a sizable representation.”

  “It does put you in a sticky position.”

  “This Prince Sergei has some cagey proponents.” Nicholas fingered the petition thoughtfully. “Tell me what you think, Orlov.”

  “The Fedorcenkos were never close friends of mine, Your Highness.”

  Nicholas managed a thin smile. This was probably a sublime understatement. The Fedorcenkos, especially Viktor, had always been political moderates; the Orlovs represented the more reactionary end of the spectrum.

  “Do you think they are revolutionaries?”

  “There is no evidence that would lead me to draw that conclusion. I have never agreed politically with Fedorcenko, but he was always a staunch monarchist. I made a few inquiries; Viktor Fedorcenko has returned to St. Petersburg and seems quite recovered from the . . . ah . . . mental affliction that forced him into seclusion. I spoke with Witte this very morning, and he also believes Fedorcenko is loyal to the Crown. In fact, Witte wanted to give the man a government post.”

  “But what of the son?” Nicholas wasn’t surprised that Orlov had looked into this matter so thoroughly. It was his job to be well informed and to keep the tsar informed also.

  “For most of the time after his escape, he lived a simple life of a farmer in a peasant village. No political affiliations whatsoever. He moved to St. Petersburg to be near his niece, whom he had raised in the village, but who at that time left to live with her real father.”

  “And what of his association with the Workers’ Assembly?”

  “It appears to be exactly what the letter indicates—philanthropic, as it were. I’m sure he has liberal views or he wouldn’t have written the book in the first place that got him in trouble with your grandfather. But a revolutionary? I doubt it. For one thing, Gapon, who heads this Assembly, is most careful not to associate with rebels. I’ve been told that Gapon himself is a loyal monarchist. I doubt he would give such lavish support to a revolutionary. You may not have noticed, but his signature was also affixed to the petition.”

  “I’m going to give this matter careful consideration, Orlov.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “But tomorrow. Now I must face the French. Alix is waiting for me.”

  58

  Alexandra Fedorovna wore a pasted smile across her face as she received the hundredth fawning subject. She knew none of them liked her, and their flattery was as phoney as her smile. But she had her duty, as she supposed they did also. At least the French didn’t hate her as much as the Russians, and there were a couple dozen of them to divert her.

  However, she was glad when dinner was finally over and the group retired to the ballroom for dancing. There she could sit on her dais overseeing the festivities, while isolated from them as well. The music was lovely, and Nicky was at her side. Everyone else was occupied with dancing and didn’t bother her much. She was somewhat miffed, then, when Princess Barsukov approached the royal couple. Still, she smiled. Yalena Barsukov was one of the more genuine of the nobility.

  “Your Majesties!” Yalena bowed deeply. “Might I impose upon you for a moment to have a word with you?”

  “Of course, Princess.” Nicholas signaled for one of the footmen to bring a chair near them.

  “Do sit down,” said Alexandra.

  “You are most kind.” Yalena sat in the red velvet chair. Even for a woman like herself, who moved in the best circles, it was an honor to sit in the presence of the emperor and empress.

  “What is on your mind, Princess?”

  “I have a story I would like to share with you, Your Majesties. I would hesitate in bothering you at all except that I believe in time of war such stories as this are as vital to the war effort as guns and ammunition.”

  “Do go on,” Alexandra encouraged.

  “I wish to tell you about a young woman who deserves recognition, a woman who has selflessly sacrificed almost all for her beloved country. She was first brought to my attention when I learned how she saved the life of my brother, who had been wounded at the front.”

  “We know of your brother also,” said Nicholas. “A courageous man. I was proud to award him with the Order of St. Andrew. But what of this young woman?”

  “My brother, Philip, has informed me of some of the deeds of the young nurse, Your Majesty. She has worked within range of enemy fire, tending the wounded, and she served in a hospital in Port Arthur, suffering the privations and bombings of the siege. Sometimes she worked eighteen and twenty hours without rest. I realize many others are sacrificing too, but this woman did not have to go to war. She could have remained in her comfortable home, attending parties, and doing all the other things young noblewomen are apt to do.

  “Then, not long ago,” Yalena continued, “she was seriously wounded while undertaking the dangerous mission of transporting wounded through the enemy-infested sea. This young woman expects no laurels for her deeds—in fact, I have been told she would be discomfited by such attention. However, I believe in this difficult time you, Your Majesties, would want to know of the heroic deeds of your countrymen and women. I hope, too, that hearing might encourage you and brighten a dark hour.”

  “Indeed it does.” Alexandra’s smile, this time, was genuine. “Who is this girl?”

  “Her name is Countess Mariana Dmitrievna Remizov.”

  “I don’t know the name,” said the empress. “I’m sure it would be uplifting, as you say, to meet such a young woman.”

  “You said she was wounded?” asked Nicholas.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. But she is home now, in St. Petersburg.”

  “Nicky,” said Alexandra, “I would like to bring her to the palace.”

  As soon as Yalena left the emperor and empress, another woman appeared. She was the grand duchess Militsa, one of the Montenegrin princesses who was also married to one of Nicholas’s cousins. She, along with her sister Anastasia, were among the few people whom Alexandra could truly call friends.

  “Your Highness,” Militsa said, “I have brought with me tonight a guest I thought you might like to meet.”

  “Really?” Alexandra was curious; after all, Militsa had introduced her to the French doctor Philippe, and other itinerant monks and healers and miracle-workers. Even Alexandra had to admit that some of these had been charlatans, but she was so enthralled by the mystical t
hat she continued to hope one day a true holy personage would find his way to the palace.

  “He is a starets, a holy man, from Siberia. His religious mentor is none other than Father John Kronstadt.” That was a high recommendation indeed, for Kronstadt had been Alexander III’s private confessor. “Shall I get him for you?”

  “By all means, Millie, especially since he’s come this far.”

  The grand duchess scurried away, and in a moment she returned with a rather striking man at her side.

  He was a tall, lean, large-boned man in his early thirties. Dressed as a peasant, he would no doubt have come quickly to the attention of the royal couple in that aristocratic gathering even if Militsa had not introduced him. But it was more than the man’s attire that was notable.

  “Your Majesties,” said Militsa, her tone containing an air of anticipation as if she were privy to a fantastic secret, “I would like to present Father Grigory Rasputin.”

  The priest bowed low. “Your Majesties, this is a singular honor.”

  “Father Rasputin,” said Alexandra. For a brief instant, their eyes met, and she forgot what she had been about to say—in fact, she was momentarily speechless. Rasputin’s eyes were black like obsidian, like a moonless night, like the depths of a cave of many secrets. Alexandra nearly lost herself in those depths.

  Nicky, beside her, stirred and spoke. “Father Rasputin, we are honored likewise to meet a man of God. What brings you to St. Petersburg from Siberia?”

  “Ah, Your Highness, the answer to that question is so long and involved it would no doubt bore you. Suffice it to say, I am a wanderer, ever seeking spiritual enrichment.”

  “As are we,” said Alexandra, finding her voice at last, though it was breathless with wonder at what was happening inside her.

  “That doesn’t surprise me, Your Highness.”

  “I should like to speak further with you.”

  “I am at your service.”

  The remainder of the evening passed far more pleasantly for Alexandra. She spoke for several minutes with the priest and felt as if she had discovered a truly remarkable individual. After the priest left for the evening, she continued to think about him and wonder what such a man could do for her and her husband. He was a simple priest, not a politician, but deep down Alexandra thought the government would be better off with fewer politicians in charge. She didn’t entertain great hopes of this Rasputin having such importance, of course, yet Nicky could do a lot worse. But there surely was a better calling for such a starets as this Rasputin. Little Alexis flickered through the empress’s mind. But the child had been doing better lately. It was possible she had worried for nothing. The malady had probably played itself out. Thanks be to God, he would have no need of healers and miracle-workers.