by Lee Jackson
Aleksey had glanced sharply at Francine at mention of the fish soup, but his expression softened with Sofia’s last compliment. “The fish soup,” he said to Sofia. “I hope you didn’t eat any of it.”
“No,” she laughed. “I started to, but the smell of it was overpowering.”
“It’s odious stuff,” he said, “obnoxious! But Rasputin loved it. I had to cook it and bring it to him.”
“It was your recipe?”
“Guilty. He ordered me to make fish soup one time, and I didn’t know how to do it, so I just threw a bunch of spices and vegetables in. He liked it and told me to do it again. I hadn’t kept track of what ingredients I put in, so I concocted something again, and again he liked it, but he wanted the fish taste to be stronger and stronger. I started a record of what I put into it until I had a recipe that he liked.”
“But what was the thing about feeding it to the wives of aristocrats?”
Aleksey looked at her piercingly. “I see that you do know a little about Rasputin.”
Sofia mentally chided herself for slipping up. “I’ve heard rumors over the years, but I’m hardly what anyone would think of as an authority on Russian history, and particularly not about Rasputin. I just thought he was some wild-eyed monk who had a thing for the Tsarevna.”
Aleksey settled back in his seat again, apparently placated. “Well,” he said, “he certainly was tight with the Tsarevna. She was the conduit of his power to the Tsar.”
“How did that work?”
“Obviously, neither he nor the Tsarevna could exercise direct authority. Only the Tsar could do that. But he was dominated by his wife, and she all but worshipped Rasputin. He had saved her son, after all, and seemed to have an ability to keep him alive. The Tsar would hardly take an action without consulting the Tsarevna, and she did exactly as Rasputin told her to do. Together, they controlled the government by controlling appointments to office made by the Tsar. Anyone with ambition to or holding high office had Rasputin to thank, and anyone who crossed him was banished from office—or worse. They feared him.”
“But the common citizen loved him?”
“More than loved him,” Aleksey said. “They almost worshipped him. He seemed to have almost magical powers. He was very patient with common people. He would listen to them, help them with money, and help find jobs for them. But he detested the aristocracy, and acted on every chance to humiliate them. For that reason, he was a folk hero.”
Sofia sat back in contemplation. She was in awe of this simple old man sitting in front of her sipping his French roast coffee. He seemed to relish telling the story as much as she was enjoying the chance to listen to it.
“What did he look like?”
“He was tall. He had chopped wood a lot in the forest, and done a lot of manual labor, so he was very muscular. He wore his hair in straight locks down his face, and had a long curly beard that he did not trim.” He paused to reflect. “He had a large, protruding nose and thin lips. But his eyes—his eyes were large and dark, and they held people almost in a trance. When he looked at you, you didn’t dare look away.”
Sofia tried to imagine the person just described. He seemed dark and brooding, hardly someone to be held up for worship. She sat a moment longer, summoning the chutzpah to ask her next question. “You said you saw Rasputin’s murder?”
He nodded quietly and suddenly seemed introspective, as though mentally having carried himself to a faraway place. “That was a horrible night. We knew it was coming. The aristocracy hated Rasputin. They hated the Tsarevna, they hated her control of the Tsar, and they hated Rasputin’s influence over her. Whispers among servants were that they feared Rasputin’s power would bring down the royal family and destroy Russia. His assassination was an attempt to prevent that, but they were too late. Events were spinning out of control and Lenin was already on his way.”
“So Rasputin set the stage for the creation of the Soviet Union?”
Aleksey contemplated a moment. “Essentially, yes.”
“Can you please tell me about that night.”
Aleksey scrutinized her face, and once again settled back into storytelling mode. “That was a strange day,” he said. “The morning was fairly normal. Around noon, Rasputin called for me and ordered me to make his fish soup. ‘I have to go out this evening,’ Rasputin said to me. ‘Be sure you have plenty of it ready for later. I might be bringing back guests.’ He grinned when he said, that, and he had malice in his eyes. He always did.
“His fish soup was famous, and he knew the aristocracy who came to his house hated it. He loved to humiliate them by making their wives eat it right out of his hand. When he ordered me to make a lot of it, I knew to expect large numbers of the nobility.” Aleksey paused. Sofia sat transfixed. Rasputin seemed to have leaped from the pages of historical myth into the memory of a living, breathing person, complete with a deep, raspy voice and wicked eyes.
Aleksey indicated to Francine that he wished for more coffee. She brought it, and he stirred cream into it slowly, staring into its depths.
“Rasputin had been invited to the palace of Prince Yusupov that evening, and he was in high spirits. He expected that he would go there and bring back a batch of aristocrats. As it turned out, they already had other plans. The evening dragged on though, and no one showed up. Then, shortly after midnight, Colonel Lazovert arrived with a car. He was a Russian Army officer with tremendous influence among the aristocracy, and in particular with Prince Yusupov.
“I was still up and ready, expecting that the engagement would be cancelled, but I had not been dismissed for the night. The colonel told Rasputin that Prince Yusupov was still looking for him to come to his house. I went along as I normally would, as just a servant attending his master. When we arrived, the colonel and Rasputin went into the library where they were to meet other guests. I went around to the garden behind the library.
“The night was dark, and cold, so cold.” He shivered as though still present in that dark, icy place. “I looked for a place to warm up. There was a huge fireplace in the library, and the chimney protruded on the outside wall. I found a place there by the chimney where I could shelter from the wind and stay warm. I was there for hours.
“It was so cold out there,” he said again. “I remember thinking how I would rather be back in Rasputin’s apartment eating that awful fish soup.
“No one knows for sure exactly what took place inside the library, but various accounts are similar. Colonel Lazovert wrote that he and four other conspirators including him and the prince took Rasputin down into the library. There, in front of the big fireplace, they had spread out a table with wine and meats and breads. Three of the four bottles of wine had been poisoned.
“The colonel wrote that for hours, Rasputin sat there drinking the poisoned wine, but it only seemed to improve his mood. What they didn’t know was that alcohol was the antidote for the poison. Anyway, Rasputin stood and started to go through a door at the back of the library that led out into the garden where I was. I saw the door open and light shine out, and then heard a shot. I froze in place, not daring to move. I heard someone say, ‘Leave him there. He can die in pain.’ Then the door closed, and more time passed. Lazovert wrote that he and the others left the library. When they were sure that Rasputin must be dead, they came back into the library, but he was alive, and crawling on all fours. When he saw them, he got to his feet and charged out the back door. I was still huddled by the chimney. I heard the door swing open again; the light shined out, and then I saw Rasputin run into the night. Several men ran out after them, and when he was almost into the shadows and the trees, someone shot him twice. He went down and was still.”
Sofia stared at Aleksey. He was almost in a reverie. “I stayed quiet in the shadows by the chimney, and no one saw me. One of the men went back into the palace to get some kind of blanket to wrap the body in, and they took him off into the dark. The colonel reported that they cut a hole in the ice in the river, and forced his body throu
gh. I don’t know from firsthand knowledge. When Rasputin was nowhere to be found over the next several days, the Tsarevna ordered the river dragged, and his body was found a few days later.”
The three of them, Aleksey, Francine, and Sofia, sat quietly for a while. Sofia broke the silence. “What did you do then?”
“Oh, I made my way carefully back to Rasputin’s apartment, making sure no one saw me. Colonel Lazovert and three others of the conspirators fled the country, and Prince Yusupov was placed under house arrest. He was let go later, though, because Rasputin was so hated by the aristocracy.”
“But not the common people.”
“No, because he was such a legend. But,” and he leaned toward Sofia as if sharing a long-held secret, “truth be told, he was an evil man.”
Startled, Sofia leaned back. “But I thought you said he was good to you, and to common citizens.”
“Yes, that’s true, but he was good to us because that was the pragmatic thing to do, not because he particularly cared for us. He cared for no one.” He held up a hand. “Look, I was closer to him than anyone. He drank heavily, whored around, and forced himself on the wives of noblemen. He conspired to deliver Russia into German hands, and caused the order of thousands of troops into battle with no provisions. They were slaughtered. No, he was a terrible man, some say the worst devil in Russian history.”
“Then why did you stay?”
“Do you think I had a choice?”
ANOTHER BOOK BY THE AUTHOR
The Cold War. A backdrop to betrayal. A playground to power. When his daughter is kidnapped, Cuban-born, West Point Graduate Atcho must be a sleeper agent to men he'd rather kill. Atcho's rise opens doors into US National Defense even as a seemingly omniscient KGB officer holds unflinching sway over his actions. His public life clashes with secrets that only he and his tormentor share, isolating him in a world of intrigue among people whom he is determined not to betray. His choice: save his daughter, or save he world from nuclear holocaust.
When the darkness of night is your only camouflage, you learn to Curse the Moon. Get your copy here now: My Book. (See Excerpt On Next Page.)
Curse The Moon is the first book in Lee Jackson’s Cold War Series. If you have not already read it, find out here the details of how Atcho came to be.
In the tradition of Robert Ludlum’s page-turner, The Bourne Identity, Atcho fights against overwhelming odds, bleeds when hurt, and won’t back down. Think: Jason Bourne meets Dr. Zhivago.
To experience the violent intrigue of Cold War Cuba and Russia vs. the United States, get Curse The Moon today.
CURSE THE MOON (Excerpt)
PROLOGUE
On New Year’s Eve in 1959, Cuban President Fulgencio Batista fled the country in the face of an armed insurrection. Five days later, Fidel Castro entered Havana with Ché Guevara, and seized power. Initially greeted with an outpouring of popular support, Cubans soon learned that they had traded one dictator for another. Hailed as a liberator, Castro demonstrated cruelty and tyranny that eclipsed any known before on this island. Within a year, resistance groups sprang up around Cuba. They were led by patriots who were largely inexperienced but fearless in the cause of restoring freedom to Cuba.
One was a man of unusual qualifications. The few who knew him called him Atcho.
PART I
1
Cuba, December 1960
Atcho slouched against a wall, alone in a small plaza illuminated by the dim yellow light of a single streetlamp. His eyes probed the surrounding darkness. His fine, aristocratic features were hidden behind a week’s growth of unkempt beard, while his normally well-groomed hair fell in shaggy brown locks below his ears.
Since state Security Police, commonly referred to as milicianos, or G-2, had never seen Atcho, at least not as himself, they knew him only by reputation. Tonight, they would be looking for his messenger. Atcho’s ears strained for the sounds of approach. His powerful frame ached to be released from its tense stance.
“For Isabel,” he muttered. In the light of the streetlamp, his silhouette stood out, an easy target. From behind a nearby wall, the first glimmer of the moon tinged the edge of the sky as it began its ascent. Soon, it would cast its ghostly glow about the square.
Screeching tires around a nearby corner broke the silence. Atcho shrank even further into his loose-fitting clothes. He checked the inside of his left calf once more for the razor-sharp hunting knife strapped there. His face melted into dull callowness and his eyes became vacuous. He looked like a crude country peasant, nothing more.
His mind raced as two Jeeps drove into view and stopped several yards away, spotting him in their headlights. Muscles tensed. Control! I must maintain control! His heart pounded and his temples pulsed. He felt adrenaline surge, but his face showed no expression.
The driver of the first Jeep opened his door and stepped out. “Are you José?” he asked roughly.
Atcho shuffled away from the wall, and moved forward, shoulders drooping. “Sí, Señor. I am José.”
“Do you have something to tell me?”
“Sí, Señor. Do you have a package for me?” Atcho smiled amiably.
“Just tell me!” the driver retorted.
“But my boss says I have to get a package first.”
The driver delivered a brutal punch directly into Atcho’s belly. Atcho rolled with the blow and sank to the ground in pain. “Why did you do that?” he gasped. “I will be happy tell you. But my boss will kill me if I don’t get the package.”
The driver’s boot connected with Atcho’s chin, sprawling him across the ground between the Jeeps. He squatted beside Atcho’s head. “José, you are going to tell us …” Leaving the threat unspoken, he grabbed Atcho by the hair and jerked his face close.
“I want to tell you. But my boss will kill me if I don’t bring him what I came for!”
“What’s in the package?”
“I don’t know. My boss says I’ll know it when I see it.”
“The driver studied him a moment then motioned with his hand. Two men immediately stepped from the first Jeep. The driver conferred with one, a lieutenant, while the other stood guard over Atcho. When they parted, the driver squatted next to Atcho’s head while the lieutenant moved back toward the second Jeep. “Soften him up a bit,” the lieutenant called, “while I speak to the captain.”
Atcho’s guards seemed to relish their task. They pistol-whipped him, then threw him to the ground, and pounded his head and body with kicks. Again, they stood him up, and while one held him in a bear hug from the rear, the other punched his face over and over into a bloody pulp. Pain seared through him, and still the blows fell. First to his face, then to his stomach. When he dropped to the ground, they continued kicking. But, despite feeling life ebb from his body, Atcho offered only token resistance.
The passenger door opened. The man from the first Jeep leaned inside, talking to the captain. Through bruised and squinted eyes, Atcho saw the glow of a cigarette from deep within the dark interior. He was unable to make out anything else.
The driver and the other soldier finally stopped beating him. Atcho lay spread-eagle in the dust, eyes swollen and nearly shut, and lips split and bleeding. From beyond the square, dogs, hearing the sounds of violence, started barking madly. Atcho heard nearby apartment doors creaking on their hinges, and then soft thumps as they closed. Nobody wants to be part of this. His arms and legs felt limp, incapable of motion.
The moon had moved high into the night sky and bathed the area in cold, white light, sharply contrasting buildings against their own shadows. Atcho slowly maneuvered his pain-racked head to watch the second vehicle. The G-2 milicianos spoke quietly by the Jeep.
As he lay in the dust with warm drops of blood dripping out of multiple wounds from his head and arms, visions of previous tragedies floated before Atcho’s eyes. Columns of cadets in gray uniforms marched by. His late wife appeared, arms outstretched, eyes longing for the child she would never see. Then, dancing flames i
n a cold circle of moonlight consumed the pale figures of his parents. He felt himself waning, and shook his head. I’ve gotta be alert!
Cruel visions continued, immersing him in waves of grief, but pain reminded him of his mission. He shook his head to clear it, and concentrated his attention on the second Jeep. The glow from inside was again visible. Occasionally, a ghost of a face peered through the windshield, then faded into the black interior.
The murmur of voices was low and undulating. The shorter, sharper responses of the man next to the Jeep indicated the authority of the man inside. Believing Atcho incapacitated, the guards ignored him. With utmost stealth, he reached down alongside his leg. The knife was there, cold and hard, the leather sheath pressing against his leg. Atcho felt a surge of energy. He edged the knife from its sheath with his fingertips and inched it up under his body.
A noise halted his movement. The Jeep door swung open and the dark figure of the captain emerged. He was tall, and wore a dark civilian overcoat and slouch hat. He strode toward Atcho. With a single motion, he grabbed a lock of hair and yanked Atcho’s head into the light. He stared into Atcho’s blurred eyes. Then, as if discarding a head of lettuce, he dropped Atcho’s face into the dirt.
Hovering on the edge of consciousness, Atcho could not discern the captain’s features. He saw the officer stride back to the vehicle and swing into the passenger’s seat. The captain spoke a few words to the lieutenant, but hissed them too softly to make out. Then the Jeep door closed and the engine cranked to life.
Atcho’s heart stopped. Still hiding the knife, he fought desperately to sit up.
The lieutenant moved towards him. “You are fortunate tonight, José.” He spoke in menacing, mocking tones. “The Russian, Captain Govorov, has let you live for a while. We’ll take you to a nice hotel to rest and enjoy our company – until you tell us what we want to know.”