Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  Hour of the Wolf

  A novel by Andrius B. Tapinas

  Table of Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Chapter XXXVII

  Chapter XXXVIII

  Chapter XXXIX

  Chapter XL

  Chapter XLI

  Glossary

  About the author

  Chapter I

  Saint Petersburg

  March, 1870

  Chairman of the State Council of the Russian Empire Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolayevich gave a deep sigh, removed his pince-nez and rubbed the spot where it had been pressing against his nose, then turned away from the window and glanced over at the men sitting in soft armchairs.

  “Will there be anything else, Dmitriy Martynovich?” he asked the long-bearded State Secretary Solskiy. “I have to hurry to the Council meeting, they are getting impatient.”

  “The last question, your Imperial Highness,” Solskiy replied quickly. “The last but the most...” The experienced diplomat stopped himself in time before he blurted out something he was not supposed to. His eyes flicked to Mikhail Kristoforovich Reitern, Imperial Minister of Finance, who was casually playing with a silver letter opener. Better to let him to speak.

  Minister Reitern raised his chin, put his silver plaything aside and adjusted the white bow tie that matched his snow white shirt.

  “We still haven’t discussed the issue of city transfer, your Imperial Highness.” he replied in a calm voice. “It is important and can’t be put off any longer.”

  “Is that right?” replied the Grand Duke in a rumbling growl, placing himself down in the armchair heavily. “Is there anything that we, as an Empire, are not capable of? Someone is holding us, the Empire, back? Holding back our hand? And who would that villain be?”

  Konstantin Nikolayevich’s manner conveyed his utter dissatisfaction. As if in support of his owner, the Duke’s beloved spaniel, who had been stretched out on a Persian rug, lifted his head and barked.

  The men in the armchairs shifted uneasily. Only Minister Reitern remained calm. He had been one of the closest men to the Grand Duke for almost twenty years, and he knew when best to keep quiet and when to speak.

  “Roubles, your Imperial Highness. Roubles,” he said. “And if you allow me to be more precise, it’s their deficit that interferes with our actions. Everyone here is well aware that the economic reforms of his Imperial Majesty Tsar Alexander, God bless him, have cost the country a small fortune. Our trade is in decline and unless we urgently demonstrate our support for the rouble, there will soon be nothing left. The State debt is unbearable. We are still borrowing from foreign banks but only half of the money finds its way into our hands, while interest is charged on the full amount. Manufacturing...”

  “Ahem...” Minister of the Interior Alexander Yegorovich Timashev, also present in the room, cleared his throat, displaying his discontent. Unlike Reitern, this man was not known for his finesse or modesty. And now, in an attempt to copy the Grand Duke, he had had his chest decorated with glinting medals of honour. “May I ask, your Imperial Highness, who is responsible for this?” sneered Timashev. “Isn’t it the Minister of Finance? Isn’t it his responsibility to ensure that the Treasury does not fall short of money?”

  Minister of Finance Reitern ignored his remark.

  “Levels of output are going down,” he replied calmly. “And the railways that we are so proud of are wolfing down money like a starving peasant whose last meal was three days ago.”

  “How could they not, how could they not.” Timashev interrupted him again, jumping off his seat and starting to pace around the room with long steps.

  Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolayevich followed the marching man with his eyes, State Secretary Solskiy hid himself behind a sheaf of papers, and only Reitern expelled a delicate cough, pressing a napkin to his lips as if demonstrating that his discourse had been interrupted by a tickle in his throat, rather than a hotspur Minister of the Interior.

  “How could they not, when every pencil pusher is a company shareholder and is sucking on the teat of the state coffers!” bellowed Timashev. “And not only pencil pushers!” He briefly stopped in front of Reitern. “Have you forgotten the Lamanskiy scam, Minister? The chairman of the state bank becomes a founder of several railway companies and starts allocating state bank credits to them. These are the actions of the head of the state bank! How is this possible? How many companies was he associated with? Five? Seven?”

  Reitern stole a glance at Chairman of the State Economics Department Alexander Abaza, another participant in the discussion, who had not yet said a word. Both men, like many other officials, were wading deep in the glittering river of money. Thus hundreds of millions of roubles were leaving the State Treasury: to construct new railways, to buy grain from the plenteously fertile Krasnodar[1] and God knows what else. Reitern and Abaza had set up a group which was swiftly handing out state concessions and looking after the construction of 18 new rail tracks. However, they were smart enough to act via henchmen. Lamanskiy had not felt like sharing the money, had decided to be greedy and keep everything to himself, and so had been caught.

  “There is no question that thieves belong in prison.” Reitern waited for the right moment to state this in a dignified voice. “But whose responsibility is that? Isn’t it yours, Minister of the Interior? But let’s not get distracted ... As I have already mentioned, the Treasury is empty.”

  “And what about the Alaskan money?” snarled Timashev. “You ripped off Mother Russia’s lands and sold them to the Yankees. What did you do with the dollars? All seven million of them!”

  Reitern clenched his teeth and gave a half-smile. He had taken an active part in the Alaska deal, but what was the sense of dragging it up now?

  “The dollars came in and they are now gone.” His reply was cold. “We shouldn’t forget the state projects. The new residence for the Imperial family that is currently under construction, in this year alone cost the Treasury...”

  The Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolayevich finally stirred in his armchair.

  “Enough, enough, everything is clear as it is,” he muttered. He wasn’t averse to a little luxury himself and had been taking a personal interest in the construction of the residence. “So what should I tell the Council?”

  Minister of Finance Reitern got up. He was a second away from the greatest success of his life. Everything has already been discussed, decided and coordinated, but if the Grand Duke wished for some clarity...

  Reitern again coughed delicately and started talking.

  “A few years ago, during discussions regarding new credit allocation to the Russian Empire, the Rothschild Corporation came up with an unusual method of financing. They considered our experience with... with...” He eyed Minister of
the Interior Timashev, then turned back to face the Grand Duke. “...with Alaska. The Rothschilds are promoting a peculiar idea: they want to unite several cities and form an Alliance, in which they could carry out scientific research, practise Alchemy and other mumbo-jumbo. In other words – busy themselves with madness. So they are asking for Reval[2] and Vilnius. In return they promise to write off each and every debt of the Empire and guarantee zero per cent interest on all credits for the following 30 years. The Rothschilds’ intention is for Kraków, which is already considered to be a free city, to annex Reval and Vilnius. They have already reached agreement with the Austrians regarding Prague and with the Ottoman Empire regarding the possibility of partial governance of Constantinople.”

  Minister of the Interior Timashev’s face tightened with anger.

  “I have said it before, I am saying it now, and I will keep saying it: THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE!” he yelled across the room. “Letting these cities go will be the same as opening the gates to the imminent revolution.”

  “A few more years with no money and the revolution will start by itself,” objected Reitern, and Abaza nodded in agreement. “And what are the cities that you are trying to defend, Your Highness? Who needs Reval when we have St Petersburg by the sea? Why do we need Kraków when we have Warsaw? Who needs the shabby Vilnius with its moribund university and gentry in ramshackle cottages? We have sold Alaska to the Yankees and nothing untoward happened. It was Alaska, gentlemen! And what do we have here? Two miserable cities.” He turned his head to Minister of the Interior. “Or maybe you feel intimidated by the Jewish opus – the Alliance? Indeed, they have promised to ward off any riots in Vilnius and Kraków. It hasn’t been long since the last Polish rebellion. Have you forgotten that all the land surrounding the cities belongs to us? I shouldn’t be preaching to you, Alexander Yegorovich, but if need be, you will gather the army and form an iron ring around the Alliance that will not let through so much as a squeak. You will cut off all the roads and railroads. Let me ask you, how will they then travel to other cities and countries? Maybe by air?” Reitern laughed in a demonstrative way.

  Abaza indicated his support and the Grand Duke’s moustache twitched slightly. All things considered, this idea did not seem so bad. Indeed, Russia desperately needed the money (as did the Grand Duke). Desperately indeed!

  Timashev gasped but then quickly closed his mouth, threw himself into the armchair and became preoccupied with polishing his medals with a handkerchief. He knew what decision to expect but had wanted to cause distress to his hated rival, Minister of Finance Reitern, and once again clearly demonstrate that he, Timashev, would always be against this creature and the deals that he was constantly trying to push through. “If only Reitern would stumble,” thought Timashev to himself. “Then I would certainly make sure that he lost his stupid head.”

  “Let it be,” pronounced the Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolayevich. “We will first get it approved by the Council, then I will pass it over for the Tsar to sign. He has other things on his mind now anyway.”

  State Secretary Solskiy, who had been quietly sitting behind his papers, perked up immediately.

  “All the documents are ready, Your Imperial Highness,” he sang in a thin voice. “Rothschild’s representative Chaim Rivkind is waiting downstairs. As soon as the Council approves Your Highness’ proposition, we can call the representative to collect it...”

  “And this will not be happening!” roared the Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolayevich and banged his fist on the table so hard that it made a massive granite ink pot move from its place. “Maybe Rothschild’s toadies think they have managed to drive Russia into a corner but Russia will never abase itself!” He stood up and contemplated the portraits of the founding fathers of the state that were hanging on the walls framed in gold. “No lowlife Jew will ever walk into the hall of the great Hermitage. The vestibule is all that he will ever see. He belongs in the stables!” The Grand Duke turned toward the State Secretary. “We shall approve the proposition but then ask someone to throw the papers straight in the Jew’s face!”

  The normally serene Reitern felt exasperated – he had not expected such an outburst from the Grand Duke, who was known for his diplomatic skills . For a moment the ministers forgot their disagreements and looked at one another, baffled. Quite unexpectedly, State Secretary Dmitriy Martynovich stepped in.

  “If your Imperial Highness would allow, I know a perfect place where my clerks could hand the documents over to the Rothschilds’ messenger.” Solskiy emphasised the word clerks and made a deliberate pause. “I think Alexandrov Palace would be very suitable for this.”

  For a few moments the Grand Duke scrutinised the State Secretary in an attempt to figure out what he had in mind, before bursting into thunderous laughter.

  “Although you are only a scribe, Dmitriy Martynovich, you have a good head on your shoulders.” As he praised the man, he gradually regained his cheerful disposition. “Our beloved Tsar Alexander will find this thought very amusing,” he giggled. “Let the Rothschilds’ altar-boy taste the scent of money. Fine, tell him to get out and trudge off to Alexandrov Palace. Make sure some scrag gives him the documents.”

  Secretary Solskiy bowed, indicating his clear understanding of the matter.

  The Grand Duke got up and straightened the medals on his chest.

  “Well, gentlemen, it’s all for the good of Russia and his Imperial Majesty,” he said. “You are free to go, and I am expected at the Council.” He looked at the Secretary. “Solskiy, get the papers and let’s be on our way!”

  All the men quickly got to their feet and bowed, while the Grand Duke left for the White Hall, where the State Council members had been waiting for him impatiently. Secretary Dmitriy Martynovich followed the Duke with a pile of papers in his hands.

  When they were gone, Minister of the Interior Timashev continued to stare at Minister of Finance Reitern, who was admiring the portraits of the Grand Duke’s forefathers with barely contained jubilation.

  Timashev broke the silence by clearing his throat: “Well, Mikhail Kristoforovich, you have won the battle.”

  “It’s not quite a victory, Alexander Yegorovich,” replied Reitern. “The situation forces us to choose the lesser of two evils. Like the Grand Duke said, it’s for the good of Russia and his Imperial Majesty”. But to himself he thought, “Oh how much you wanted to grease your own palms, dear fellow, it’s a shame you are such a scatterbrain. Shaking anarchists by their collars is about the limit of your abilities, not much else.”

  The ministers glanced sideways at each other and exchanged the slightest of nods, then simultaneously stepped towards the door, which was flung open, most obligingly, by Alexander Abaza, acting like a footman, but really a Moldovan landowner and Chairman of the State Economics Department, who had not uttered a single word throughout the discussion. A minute later only the Grand Duke’s spaniel still remained in the room. He gave a lazy yawn, as if to demonstrate how totally oblivious he was to the great importance of this matter of state that he had just witnessed. Then he jumped on to an armchair, curled into a ball and fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

  Outside the door, both ministers were eagerly met by their footmen, who had been waiting patiently in the spacious marble-floored hall of St Petersburg’s Great Hermitage.

  Flanked by his two footmen, Minister of the Interior Alexander Timashev strode in the direction of the back door that lead into the courtyard, where he had left his carriage. On his journey through the corridors of the palace, the Minister was deep in thought. When he came out into the courtyard, he waved to one of his footmen and whispered something in his ear. The footman straightened his back and tapped his heels together.

  “Yes, Your Lordship, I will do my best!”

  “St Petersburg is not very safe for travellers,” added Timashev flatly. “The agreement cannot be revoked but the world can be rid of one lowlife Jew. Make sure it looks like an accident.”

  “Yes, Your Lordship!”


  Minister of the Interior nodded and clambered up into his carriage.

  Reitern and Abaza chose a different route and went down another flight of stairs on the side of the State Council.

  “Congratulations, Mikhail Kristoforovich,” murmured Abaza striding along.

  “Thank you, dear,” said Reitern and cast a sideways glance at Chairman of the State Economics Department. “You could have offered a word or two yourself instead of acting out a character from the silent theatre.” Noticing Abaza’s remorseful glance down at his shoes, which almost caused him to trip on the rug, he added more amiably, “Let bygones be bygones. Hurry with the message to the Rothschilds. Tell them: everything is fine, the train has set off. Also, remind them that we want our share with no delay. And make sure you warn that poor creature, what was his name... Chaim. Tell him that Alexandrov Palace is...” Suddenly Minister of Finance went quiet and waved him away. “Never mind, don’t burden yourself.”

  The two most powerful pillars of the Russian economy went down the staircase, which was decorated with marble and flanked by columns, and left the Great Hermitage without even a glance at a lonely figure, lingering at the foot of the stairs.

  Messenger Chaim Rivkind was used to waiting. When the business of the Rothschild Corporation was being discussed and the mosaic of the Alliance was being assembled, he always had to wait: in Constantinople’s Beylerbeyi Palace, in Vienna’s Ballhaus Palace, the residence of the Habsburgs, as well as in the reception rooms of the State Secretary Earl Granville in London. He was a quiet little man resembling a weary blackbird, dressed in an inconspicuous black surtout. He would sit there hunched and subdued, submissively waiting for a reply; on occasions it took hours, at other times, days. As was his habit, he had made himself comfortable in a corner of the Hermitage vestibule, with his black top hat placed next to him on a chair. With quiet content he admired the expansive white marble double staircase, flanked by mighty red porphyry columns, and drank in the sight of the bright red rugs and banisters – the work of some outstanding craftsmen – and antique sculptures, adorning the head and sides of the stairs.