THE red dragons were restless, snapping at their keepers and tugging at their leads. Bronstein tried to keep them in line—he was the only one they really listened to—but even he was having trouble with them tonight.
“Why do they act this way?”
“And why do you not stop them?”
The speakers were Koba and Kamo, two middlemen sent by Lenin to oversee the training of the beasts. Or the “Red Terror,” as Lenin had dubbed them. That was so like Lenin, trusting no one. Not even his own handpicked men. He’d told them nothing beside the fact that they would be underground. They’d assumed they were to be spies. And so they were, of a sort.
Bronstein couldn’t tell Koba and Kamo apart. And he didn’t like their manner: arrogance compounded by … by … He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
“The dragons are bred to the sky,” he said archly, “and this stay underground irks them.” He fixed one of them—the one with the slightly thicker moustache, Koba, maybe—with a glare. “And you may try to stop them if you wish.”
Maybe-Koba looked at the dragons for a moment as if considering it. He didn’t look hopeful. But he didn’t look frightened either.
Bronstein snapped his fingers. That was it! Arrogance compounded by blind stupidity. They didn’t know enough to be afraid of the dragons. Or of Lenin. Or—he thought carefully—of me.
“My apologies, Comrade Bronstein.”
He didn’t sound sorry. The man is an entire library of negatives, Bronstein thought.
Maybe-Koba went on. “We shall let you return to your work. Comrade Lenin will be here within days. Then we shall release the Red Terror to cleanse this land. Lenin has said it, and now I understand what he means. Come, Kamo.”
Koba it is, then, Bronstein thought, adding aloud, “Cleanse it of what? Of Russians?”
Bronstein knew that Koba—or maybe Kamo. Did it matter?—had been a Georgian Social Democrat and nationalist, and, some whispered, a separatist before joining Lenin to free the entire working class. Some said that Koba—or maybe Kamo—still was. The fractures in the revolution made Bronstein’s head hurt. Without realizing it, he rubbed his cigarette-stained fingers against his temples.
Koba stared at Bronstein with no trace of emotion on his face. “Of the Tsar. And his followers. Are you feeling ill?” As if a headache dropped Bronstein even further in his estimation.
There was something hard about Koba, Bronstein decided, like his innards were made of stone or steel rather then flesh and blood. But the men followed him. Followed him without question. Not that the men who followed Koba asked a lot of questions. They might fight for the workers, but they looked like idlers and ne’er-do-wells to Bronstein. Actually, they looked like thieves and murderers, and most likely anti-Semites, but sometimes those were the kind of men you needed.
Revolution was a dirty business.
He grunted. So was tyranny.
“I will provide the dragons, Koba, and you provide the men. And together we will free this land.”
“Comrade Lenin will be here soon. He will say if there will be freedom or not. Make sure his dragons are ready.”
With that, Koba turned and left, Kamo right behind.
Lenin’s dragons? Bronstein’s hand twitched. Who stayed up nights with the beasts? Who imprinted them? Who fed them by hand? How he would have loved to wring the necks of these interlopers. But that was not his way. Besides, one of the dragons chose that moment to bite the finger of a young man who was grooming him, and Bronstein had to run and help wrench the digit out of the dragon’s mouth before it was swallowed.
Lenin will be here soon, he thought, smacking the dragon on the top of its stone-hard head until it opened its mouth. The finger was still on the creature’s tongue, and Bronstein snatched it out before the jaws snapped shut. He tossed it to its bleeding and howling former owner before wiping his hands on his shirt. Perhaps the doctor could sew it back on. Perhaps not.
Fingers, dragons, revolutionaries, his thoughts cascaded. There’s no way we’ll be ready in time.
I had to admit, it was a masterful plan. Especially since my presence was necessary at its execution. I giggled at my play on words, and Ninotchka glanced at me coldly. Her face was as powdered as her hair, which made her look surprisingly old. And haggard.
“Did I say something to amuse you, my husband?”
She’d grown distant over the last weeks, probably due to my spending long hours pulling the threads of my plot together into a web that Father Grigori could not hope to escape. He could neither refuse the invitation nor survive the meal I had planned for him.
And I would be there. Nothing on earth could keep me from seeing the look on his arrogant face as he realized who the architect of his destruction was. Did he think he could cuckold me without a response? I had destroyed better men than he in the service of the Tsar. Occasionally I had even killed them on the Tsar’s orders. Not with my own hands, of course. But with a word in the right ear, with a bit of money passed carefully. Knowing the right men for such tasks is my job. And it seems that I am very good at what I do. If the monk’s mad eyes seemed to look through me whenever we met in the palace halls—well, I would soon see them close forever.
“No,” I said to Ninotchka. Having planned to dispose of Rasputin on her behalf, I now grew tired of her sniping. A man does what he must to protect his spouse, and if she is especially unappreciative of his efforts, he may very well find himself a new wife who is. “No, you say nothing that amuses me these days.”
Taking pleasure in the wide-eyed look of surprise she gave me, I spun smartly on my heel and quick-marched from the sitting room, my boots tip-tapping a message to her with every step.
After all, I had a group of high-level men to shore up. Just in case … just in case the borscht-cum-poison didn’t kill Rasputin on the first go-round.
A week later, in his apartment, Rasputin looked in the great mirror. He grimaced at his reflection, his teeth so white compared to the smiles of the peasants he had known. Brushing his fingers through his beard, he loosened a few scattered bits of bread stuck in the hairs. Always go to a dinner full, his mother had warned. The hungry man looks like a greedy man. He had no desire to look greedy to these men. Hard, yes. Powerful, definitely. But not greedy. A greedy man is considered prey.
“Prince Yusupov’s house in Petrograd at 9,” the invitation had read. He knew that Yusupov’s palace was a magnificent building on the Nevska, though he’d never before been invited to dine there. He and the prince had parted company some time ago. He’d heard it had a great hall with six equal sides, each guarded by a large wooden door. This morning, after receiving the invitation, he’d played the cards and saw that six would be a number of change for him. He was ready. But then, he was always ready. Didn’t he always carry a charm around his neck against death by a man’s hand? He never took it off, not in the bathhouse, not in bed. A man with so many enemies had to be prepared.
And really, Yusupov is but a boy in man’s clothing, Rasputin thought. He got his place at court through marriage. He needs me more than I need him. Still, going to the palace would give him the opportunity to meet the prince’s wife, the Tsar’s lovely niece, Irina of the piercing eyes. He had heard many things about her and all of them wonderful. Rasputin had not yet had the pleasure. Well, it would be her pleasure, too.
That dog, Vladimir Purishkevich, was picking him up in a state automobile. He supposed that he could abide the man for the time it took to drive to the prince’s palace. Then he would turn his back and mesmerize the princess right there, in front of her husband and his friends. They’d make a game of it. But it would not be a game. Not entirely.
Really, he felt, no one can stop me. He began to laugh. It began softly but soon rose to almost maniacal heights.
A knock on the door recalled him to himself.
“Father Grigori,” his man asked. “Are you choking?”
“I am laughing, imbecile,” he answered, but gently, because the man
had been with him since the days of the flagellants, and a man of such fervid loyalty could not be found elsewhere.
The door opened and Father Grigori’s man shuffled in, hunched and slow. “My … apologies, Father,” he stuttered. “But I have news.” He hauled one of the dragon boys in with him. The boy had a nose clotted with snot, and he sniveled.
Rasputin waited, but the man said nothing more. He really is an imbecile, the mad monk thought. The boy said nothing, either. Waiting, Rasputin assumed, for a sign from his elders. And betters.
Raising an eyebrow, Rasputin finally cued the man. “And this news is …?”
It was the boy who spoke, trembling, the clot loosened, snot running down towards his mouth. “Your Holiness, I … I have found the red terror.”
Rasputin stood and waved them fully inside his chambers. “Quickly, quickly,” he said. “Come in where we will not be overheard. And tell me everything.”
“It is about dragons, Father, and there is a man called Lenin who will free them, but he will not be here until the month’s end. Three days from now. When the moon is full. Only when he comes …”
“Dragons …” Rasputin’s voice was calm, but underneath his heart seemed to skip a beat. Soon he would be able to tell the Tsar.
SHORING up my coconspirators had been tougher work than I’d imagined it would be. Really, they have no stomach for this stuff. Aristocrats are ever prepared to pronounce sentence but rarely willing to carry that same sentence out themselves. Not that I liked to get my hands dirty, either—but if you really want something done, occasionally you have to be the one to do it. And these men wanted Father Grigori dead almost as much as I did. And now, a week later, they had knives in their boots and revolvers in their waistbands so they that could finish the job properly if needed. But I could not presume that they would actually use their weapons. Better to be prepared myself.
In just a few hours, the mad monk will be dead, I thought.
I practically skipped down the halls of the palace thinking about it. Though first I had a few administrative duties to deal with, afterwards I’d be there to watch Rasputin die.
Except instead of sitting down to drink a beet stew full of poison, that son of a Siberian peasant was marching quickly down the same hall as me, dressed in his best embroidered blouse, black velvet trousers, and shiny new boots.
“Good evening, Father Grigori,” I said as calmly as I could. What is he doing here? He dare not insult the men I set him up with openly. Is he that arrogant? Or is he really that powerful? My hands began to tremble, and I willed them to stop, to freeze.
Subtly, I put myself into his path, so that he would have to either pull up or plow me down. For a moment, I thought he was going to march right over me, but, at the last second, he stopped, looming above me, uncomfortably close. He smelled of cheap soap. I barely kept myself from wrinkling my nose.
“Out of my way, lackey,” he said, eyes as cold as his mother’s breast milk must have been. “I have important news for the Tsar.”
I was close to panic. What news could he have to cause him to miss his dinner and insult me openly but that of my plans for him? I reached inside my jacket surreptitiously. Got my fingers on the hilt of a dagger I kept hidden there.
I may have to cut him down here in the hall, I thought. I wasn’t sure I could. He was far bigger than I and certainly stronger, and if I missed with my first stroke, he could probably snap me in two with his huge peasant’s hands.
“Why not give it to me to pass along then, Father,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound as querulous and weak to him as it did to me. “I assume by your outfit that you have somewhere else you must be?”
I was really just trying to buy some time. I needed to be just a few steps back, so that I would have room to draw steel, but not so far away as to be unable to close and strike. I had no idea what I might tell His Majesty to explain my murder of his wife’s closest advisor in the halls outside his chambers. But tales could be fabricated, evidence planted. I was not terribly good with a knife, but I had skills in that other department.
But the knife will have to come out first.
With that in mind, I took a small step back and prepared to pull my blade.
But, surprisingly, the mad monk stood just a single moment in thought, then turned and spoke to me.
“You are right, my son. I have somewhere to be. Somewhere important. The Tsar, bless him, is probably already closeted with his beautiful wife. No man should be disturbed at such a time. I will speak to him in the morning, after our prayers.” He managed to pack information and insult in five short sentences before turning on his heel and marching away from me.
I stood and watched him disappear around a corner, sweat from my knife hand drip-dripping into my jacket.
MY car followed Rasputin’s, but not that closely. I did not want to frighten him off. As we were both going to Prince Yusupov’s palace, and I knew where it was—well, didn’t everybody?—I could take a slightly longer route.
I’d never actually been to the palace before. The prince was sole heir to the largest fortune in Russia, and I was certainly not in his set. But if I could help pull off this coup, perhaps he would reward me greatly. After all, he had tired of his old friend in carousal, Rasputin, who had gone with him to all the dubious nightclubs long before his marriage.
The prince had said quite plainly a year ago, “Will no one kill this starets for me?”
I hadn’t known it then, but when I spoke of my own plan to Pavlovich, he brought me in on this one. Because of Pavlovich’s extensive social calendar, the first time he was free was this evening, December 31. We didn’t want him canceling any of his other engagements and thus arousing suspicion.
I felt marvelous to have been able to move the monk along and could not wait to hear their applause. It warmed me on such a cold night. I leaned forward and told my driver, “Faster! Faster now.”
It was pitch-black outside, lit only by the car’s lights illuminating the swirling snow. The driver had a heavy foot, and soon we approached the palace.
I went in the back way, as if a servant, as planned. One of the stewards took me down to the cellar room where the dinner was to be. I peeked out from behind the curtain. No one was there yet.
The cellar room was of gray stone with a granite floor. It had a low, vaulted ceiling. Ah, I thought, it already feels like a mausoleum. Only the carved wooden chairs, the small tables covered with embroidered cloths, and the cabinet of inlaid ebony indicated that it was a place of habitation by the living. A white bearskin rug and a brilliant fire in the hearth further softened the room’s cemeterial aspect.
In the center of the room, a table was laid for six: the prince, the monk, Pavolovich, two other conspirators, and the prince’s wife, who had been the bait to lure Rasputin to the place. Though he was not to know it, Princess Irina was off in the Crimea with her parents, not here.
I smiled. What a plot we have hatched! What a coil!
A samovar in the middle of the table was already smoking away, surrounded by plates of cakes and dainties. On the sideboard were the drinks, filled with poison, and the glasses, their rims soaked in poison as well. Dr. Lazovert had told me himself that each cake was filled with enough cyanide potassium to kill several men in an instant.
Several! We only wanted to dispatch one.
My smile grew larger. All was at the ready. As soon as Rasputin dropped, it would be my job to get the body out of there. But just in case he was slow to die, I had a pistol as well. And my knife.
From upstairs came the sound of music. I think it was “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” that damned American song. The music was supposed to be part of a party that Princess Irina was throwing for some women friends before joining the men. I would have to hide again. They would soon be bringing Rasputin down.
I feared being found behind a curtain and situated myself on the other side of the wooden serving door. It had a small window. I could see but not be seen. Perfect.
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br /> And then the door opened, and in walked the mad monk himself, followed by a nervous-looking Prince Yusupov. I wanted to shout at him, “Stop sweating! You will give the game away.” But we were already well into it. It would play as it would play. I shrank back for a moment, away from the window in the door, took a deep breath, and waited.
RASPUTIN sauntered into the room, smiling. He could feel his body tingling, starting at his feet. That always meant something huge would happen soon. Perhaps Princess Irina would declare her love openly. Perhaps the prince would simply offer her to him.
But no—he preferred the chase, the slow seduction, the whimpering of the whipped dog that would be the prince. He must not jump the fence before it was close enough. His mother always said that. The old folk wisdom was true.
He touched the charm around his neck. The prince would hate him but could not harm him.
“Have some cakes,” Prince Yusupov said, gesturing with a hand toward the table. There were beads of sweat on his forehead.
Rasputin wondered at that. It was, indeed, too warm down in the cellar, but he himself was not sweating.
“The cakes were made especially. Especially for you,” Yusupov said.
And indeed, they were the very kind of he loved best. Honey cakes topped with crushed almonds, skorospelki covered with branches of fresh dill, caviar blinis, and so much more. But Rasputin did not want to appear greedy.
“Please,” Yusupov said. “Irina had them made especially. We would not want her to be disappointed.”
“No, we would not,” Rasputin said, managing to make the four words sound both engaging and insulting at the same time. He picked up a honey cake and a blini and ate them, savoring the taste. Surprisingly, they were too sweet and dry. “Some Madeira, if you please,” he told the prince.
Yusupov himself went to the sideboard and poured the wine with exquisite care into a glass.
The first glass went down quickly but barely moved the dry taste out of Rasputin’s mouth. Forgetting that he didn’t want to appear greedy, he held out the glass for refill.
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