Czar of England (SOKOLOV Book 6)

by Ian Kharitonov

  28

  Lana was fuming.

  Things were going from bad to worse for her.

  First, the Albanians had shown up at her flat. Her ex-pimp Taulant had told her to pack her bag. He’d said they needed to hide her for a while. But he’d answered nothing about where they were going. He’d taken her to that awful high-rise whorehouse, to be guarded by a couple of goons. She’d demanded to see Berisha or else she was going home, but instead Taulant had snatched her apartment key and disappeared.

  Then Andy and that Russian guy had arrived, getting her out, and the Albanians were dead …

  Sokolov. Who the hell was he? Lana didn’t like him at all. Okay, physically he attracted her, but she had a bad feeling about him. The way he looked at her, his eyes as cold as glaciers, she could feel that he saw right through her. He wasn’t someone she could fool easily, and it petrified her.

  This new place was nice enough, but she was virtually being held prisoner here. Andy wouldn’t let her go outside. He’d also confiscated her phone, so she couldn’t communicate with anyone.

  She’d been smart enough to erase all the messages and photos from her device that could incriminate her.

  Her handler could ring her up at any minute, though.

  Andy was too thick to figure anything out, and she’d probably lie her way out of trouble.

  But as soon as Sokolov returned, she knew she’d be finished.

  She needed to break out from that flat and get in touch with her handler.

  There was a single obstacle to both objectives.

  Andy.

  Her growing desperation spurred her into action.

  She still possessed her best weapon—seduction—and she was going to use it against him.

  In the bathroom, she was applying the finishing touches to her usual makeup ritual—a matte foundation, thick mascara, and a shining highlighter—completing it with a puff of Dior.

  Then she dressed into a skimpy cropped tee which accentuated her breasts snugly, and a pair of tight-fitting bum shorts.

  Entering the kitchen, she moved in a tantalizing stride, swaying her peachy buttocks.

  The bodyguard wasn’t ready for this as he sat munching on a Nutella sandwich, elbows propped on the table, a knife sticking out of an open jar in front of him.

  Seeing her, he stopped chewing and swallowed the mouthful. He’d always used to steal glances of her, back when she’d been with Misha. Now he just ogled. His neck flushed red.

  Good.

  “Hey,” she said, “why are you eating this crap? You could’ve asked me to fix you something nice, you know.”

  “Really? I had no idea you could cook, Lana. You always asked Mikhail to take you out to all those pricey restaurants. You should’of told him about your culinary skills while he was still alive.”

  “You’re so mean, Andy. No wonder your wife left you. You need someone to care after you, is all. I could do that if you’d let me. Ukrainian comfort food is the best. But you’re right, I wouldn’t know how to break eggs for an omelet. I just need my phone to look up some recipes, okay?”

  “Forget it, Lana.”

  “Oh come on, you meanie.” She pouted her pink glossy lips. “What am I supposed to do, sit alone in the bedroom? I’m bored. Give me my phone back. I wanna play some games.”

  “Stop acting like a petulant child. You’re not allowed to have it until I get the word from Eugene.”

  “Who?”

  “Sokolov. The man who rescued you. He and his brother Constantine should be back soon. Now go back to your room and stay there, lass.”

  She walked up behind him and slid her fingers over his shoulders, wrapping her arms around him.

  “Andy, dear,” she said in a sultry voice. “Aren’t you bored as well? If you won’t let me play with my phone, maybe we could try another game together? It’ll be fun, I promise.”

  Her right hand reached down, groping for his crotch, distracting him as she slipped her left hand into his pocket, trying to pull out her phone stealthily.

  “Don’t be daft!” Andy growled, swatting her hand away and getting off his chair.

  As he pushed her away, the contents of his pocket spilled out and dropped to the floor.

  Her phone and a set of keys.

  It was her chance, she realized.

  She lunged for it but Andy stuck out an arm like a turnpike and she bounced back off it.

  She spun around, finding the greasy knife, and grabbed it.

  She stabbed with it at Andy.

  The fight proved to be short-lived.

  His hand locked around her wrist like a vise, squeezing hard, forcing her to drop the knife.

  She yelled in pain as Andy twisted her arm and then smacked her across the face with a backhanded slap.

  29

  Eugene and Constantine left Hofmann’s chalet behind as the Macan hit the road.

  Approaching Lausanne, they had to make a decision.

  Either turn off to Geneva Airport, or head north, directly to the U.K.

  They chose the latter and Sokolov plotted the course to London. The car trip would take an extra eight hours, but it was less of a gamble than going back to the airport, which would be teeming with the police, so it was a fair trade-off. The trickiest part was following the narrow, serpentine A9 road. They hoped to avoid any roadblocks while getting out of Switzerland and crossing the French border. Once they reached France, a straightforward route across the country, past Dijon and Troyes, would bring them to Calais and the Eurotunnel.

  Reflecting on what they’d learned from Hofmann, Sokolov said, “So, now we’ve got the name. Prince Harry for Czar! Ridiculous.”

  “It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” Constantine said. “Come to think of it, it’s actually a wise choice.”

  “How?”

  “For starters, he needs no introduction. You’ve got to have a big name for a country like Russia, and he’s an international celebrity. Imagine the headlines and the media attention. If he became the ruler of Russia, it would be the biggest story of the decade, if not the century. And it would represent a massive PR coup for the new Russian government.”

  “Fair enough. He’s famous in Russia as well. Everyone from teenage girls to babushkas knows Prince Harry, even if they’ve only read about him and Meghan Markle in the gossip column. But does he have any Russian connection that would make him acceptable to the public?”

  “Certainly. The Windsor link to Russia is strong enough. You could put a spin on it that would make Harry appear less of an outsider. Don’t forget that King George V and Czar Nicholas II were cousins, their physical similarity so striking that they were practically lookalikes. And Queen Victoria was grandmother to Czarina Alexandra.”

  “What about the matter of religion? I don’t mean his beliefs. He could be an atheist for all I care, but if he formally belongs to the Church of England, how can he be possibly anointed as Russian Czar?”

  “Harry’s grandfather, the Queen’s husband, was born Prince Philip of Greece and Denmark. His mother became a Greek Orthodox nun. So converting would not pose a problem. Trust me, throughout history, no ruler has ever allowed theological trifles to stand in the way of power.”

  “All right, I get your reasoning,” Sokolov conceded. “Harry might fit the bill. But would he accept the crown?”

  “I sure as hell would if I were him. His chances of succession to the British throne were always extremely slim at best, and became nonexistent after he fell out with the Queen and the other Royals. The tabloids dragged his name through mud. They slammed him as a selfish brat who eschewed responsibility. Disgraced, his popularity in the U.K. has plummeted and he’s seen as a liability.”

  “Didn’t he step down from his duties for a reason? The way I see it, he was influenced by his wife to privatize his image and exploit the royal brand. That’s exactly what they did, hustling to make millions. Why would he go back from this profitable grift of his to actual work?”

  “Beca
use he’s never actually wanted to lose his title. He wished to keep it and monetize it. And Czar of Russia is a huge step up from Duke of Sussex. Imagine the possibilities of turning it into a global brand. If he and Meghan managed to get a few hundred thousand quid per appearance, whoring themselves at events in front of crowds of bankers, tycoons, politicians, and celebrities, then surely Harry wouldn’t turn down what Russia had to offer him. Money, power, and glory. He would no longer have to challenge the authority of the British monarchy. He would stand as a monarch in his own right, on a par with the Windsors—if not above them. He has nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

  “A bit like Rurik, then?”

  “Quite. It’s always about the money, isn’t it?”

  Sokolov sighed. Finally, the outline of Project Jutland was beginning to take shape, but there was something about it that bothered him.

  “First it was Rurik to end the unrest among the Slavs. Then came Peter the Great to restore order after the Mongol yoke. Both their dynasties perished in violence and bloodshed. Now, is it going to be third time lucky with Prince Harry leading Russia on a road to recovery? A transitional figure after the chaos of the Kremlin Khan? I’m still not sure he’s the right choice. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “You’re right, there’s a problem with the analogy. Dubrovsky didn’t strike me as someone who looked like Russia’s savior. Neither does Prince Harry. Perhaps that’s not the role he’s meant to play, anyway. The plan is fundamentally flawed, but considering what Hofmann told us, we should look at it from a different perspective,” Constantine said. “That of the true conspirators.”

  “You mean the mysterious group behind Dubrovsky?”

  “Yes, and it worries me. Who are they? What motives are they pursuing? Something tells me they don’t have Russia’s best interests at heart. And indeed, if they’re going to follow Czar Peter’s footsteps in reshaping Russia, then it’s a recipe for disaster.”

  “Why? You know that I have no love lost for Peter. He was a controversial character, a despotic firebrand, and I certainly disagree with his ruthless methods, but at least he got the job done, didn’t he? He must’ve done something right.”

  “Peter’s genius is one of the biggest lies of Russian history,” Constantine said. “Actually, he was insane. It would be more appropriate to call him Peter the Mad. And, above all else, he failed. He might have had the ambition to turn Russia into a major European power, but he lacked the talent to implement it. His boundless energy wasn’t backed up by skill or strategy. Ultimately, he was a destroyer, not a creator.”

  “Sounds like the Bolsheviks,” Sokolov said.

  “In a way, he was one. A precursor to Lenin and Stalin. Like them, he was a deranged maniac whose only legacy was a tyranny which outlasted him for a century. The myth of his greatness paints him as a progressive visionary who dragged a backward Russia kicking and screaming into modernity. In reality, he was a radical revolutionary who crippled the country, breaking her backbone. The reforms he introduced were catastrophic. He completely demolished the Russian statehood he’d inherited, and in its place he could only manage to build a corrupt and murderous regime of oppression, plunder, and war.”

  “What about his trips to Europe?”

  “Not all that comes out of there is all that great. Remember, Marxism was also an import of German philosophy to Russian soil. Besides the fashion for fancy dresses and wigs, Peter didn’t adopt the best from the West. On the contrary, he took the worst it had to offer. Peter created a monstrous bureaucracy, and the bulk of foreigners that filled it didn’t consist of top experts in civil service. Peter’s Russia attracted all sorts of swindlers, scoundrels, and crooks. Up to two thirds was being stolen from the treasury’s coffers, condemning the well-off population to impoverishment. That, together with the unbelievable expenditure required by Peter’s untamed military campaigns, led to the foundation of serfdom. It had changed Russian aristocracy from being the Czar’s servants to becoming slave owners and oligarchs. And again, those who rose from this newly formed class to the Czar’s court, his inner circle, were a bunch of thieves and murderers.”

  “You could be describing the political system of Russia as we know it today, under President Saveliy Frolov.”

  “The roots of the kleptocratic system go back to Peter. He was the one who devised it in the first place when he built his empire.”

  “And who was the worst among this lot?”

  “Alexander Menshikov. He started off as a pastry cook’s apprentice, selling meat pies in the streets of Moscow, where was spotted by Peter’s associate, François Le Fort—incidentally, a Genevan. Young Alexander went on to work in the Czar’s stables, and from there his career had a meteoric rise, with titles and riches heaped upon him lavishly as he became Peter’s closest favorite and his lover.”

  “As in, sexual partner?” Sokolov asked.

  Constantine nodded. “Peter was bisexual. And a syphilitic, like Lenin, rotting from the inside out both in the physical and figurative sense. By the time he died, his court had descended into wild, drunken debauchery. Peter himself was hardly functional, degenerating into a blood-crazed beast who waged wars, torched villages, buried people alive, attacked religion, filled city streets with corpses hanging from the gallows, and personally lopped off heads on the chopping block. And effectively, he established a pornocracy that governed the Russian Empire. It was the nadir for the Romanovs, not their zenith, because Czar Peter had also killed his only son in cold blood, spelling doom for the dynasty. Menshikov was the de facto ruler of Russia as he installed a slut on the Russian throne.”

  “A slut?”

  "Literally, a whore who screwed her way to the top. Catherine I, born Marta Skowronska, a peasant girl serving in the household of a Lutheran pastor in Marienburg, modern Latvia. At seventeen, she got married to a Swedish dragoon, but during the Great Northern War, the town fell to the Russians, so she bedded the victors. Soon, thanks to her prowess, she was picked out by Field Marshal Sheremetev as his concubine. Then, during a visit, Menshikov took notice of her and she jumped into his bed, until he introduced her to Peter, and she became mistress to them both, simultaneously.’

  “Ugh …”

  “After Peter’s death, Menshikov made her the Russian Empress, so he himself could rule by proxy. It set a template for the next hundred years. Real power was consolidated in the hands of the new Russian oligarchy, while a puppet wore the crown. The Russian court got bogged down in an incessant horror of orgies and murders, bloody coups, and conspiracies, as corrupt aristocrats and praetorians fought each other behind the throne. Between 1725 and 1825, a string of marionette monarchs followed, from the slutty Catherine I to the nymphomaniac Catherine II, also dubbed the Great, killer of her husband, then to the feeble-minded Paul I, who was murdered by his son, Alexander I. During that time, the misery of the Russian people was compounded as they were driven deeper into poverty and slavery while the kleptocrats plundered the country and siphoned the money offshore.”

  “Unbelievable. And where did the looted capital go to?”

  “To English banks. In addition to owning 90,000 slaves and six towns back home, Alexander Menshikov stashed away gold in his London accounts, amounting to an equivalent of more than one billion U.S. dollars in today’s money.”

  Sokolov whistled. “Russian oligarchs in the U.K. is not a recent trend, then.”

  “Russia used to be a source of hemp and fur exports, replaced today by oil and natural gas. Nothing new under the Sun. The British have profited from it for a long time. And not just them. Waves of European chancers kept invading Russia to seek favor with the court. The newly minted counts and dukes ruled Russia like colonizers conquering a foreign land. Starting from Peter’s daughter, Anna, only the Romanov name remained, as the dynasty became the House of Holstein-Gottorp instead, after she married the Swedish Prince Charles Frederick. Their only child, Charles Peter Ulrich, crowned Peter III, didn’t even speak Russian. He enjoye
d a six-month stint as Emperor before his assassination at the hands of his wife, obscure German princess Sophia Augusta Frederica of Anhalt-Zerbst.”

  “The same Princess Sophie who would later become Catherine the Great,” Sokolov guessed.

  “Exactly. And who conceived her son Paul from one of her lovers instead of the idiot husband.”

  “If that lunatic Paul was a bastard, completely unrelated to Peter, it raises questions over the legitimacy of his successors. And the Romanovs’ reign was already finished back then,” Sokolov said. “What happened in 1825? The Decembrist revolt?”

  “Correct. The revolt was yet another coup attempt, crushed by Nicholas I. He put an end to the pornocracy and restored the authority of the Czardom. It was in the nineteenth century that the monarchy was practically reinstated, and Russia entered its golden age. Alexander II freed the peasants from serfdom, but it was too little, too late. The damage had been done and slavery ran too deep within the society. Before he could continue with his reforms, he was assassinated by terrorists. His grandson, Nicholas II, was overthrow by oligarchs in the putsch of February 1917, before the Bolsheviks took over. The rest is history.”

  “And its habit of repeating itself is frightening.”

  “It scares the hell out of me,” Constantine said. “Project Jutland could bring catastrophic results if it follows the same pattern. Russia would end up going from a third-rate Danish koning in Rurik to a third-rate Swedish duke, finally turning to a third-rate English prince married to a third-rate American actress.”

  “A full circle.”

  “Not the kind of continuity you might wish for. If the Harry and Meghan circus is any indication, the poor lad is easily manipulated. Under Project Jutland, he’d become a toy in the hands of the true beneficiaries seizing power in the Kremlin. Russia would again be ravaged by oligarchs who would use Czar Harry as their puppet as they stripped the country’s resources. It sounds almost inconceivable, but once Frolov and his cronies have been brought down, an even more sinister cabal might take their place.”