‘This is an outrage,’ cried the Tsarina. ‘Who is spreading these lies?’
The Tsar was visibly shaken and angry.
‘The Jews, that’s who,’ he snapped.
When Nicky said that, a flash of rage shot through Dimitri’s body. But he’d become accustomed to suppressing his anger whenever such things were said by the Tsar.
Dimitri took the book from Alexandra and fanned through it, with Anna looking beside him.
‘No one lives like that,’ the Tsarina cried. ‘It’s obviously a fabrication, Nicky.’
‘Lies, all lies. Of course these photos are staged to embarrass the government,’ he replied.
‘It is a pack of lies,’ Anna added.
A footman appeared at the door. ‘Minister of the Interior, His Highness Prince Mirskii, Your Majesty,’ he announced.
‘Thank you, Leonid, send him in,’ the Tsar said. Dimitri knew that Nicky would be in no mood to go over the detailing of the lobby of the Tchaikovsky Memorial today.
Mirskii bowed to the Tsar and Tsarina.
‘Look at this obscenity.’ The Tsar handed the Minister the booklet.
‘I made inquiries immediately after you summoned me. There are thousands of them spread through St Petersburg, Moscow, and many other cities, Your Majesty.’
‘What!?’ The Tsar was furious.
‘It seems to be a very well-planned propaganda campaign. A most professionally printed book, too. Not at all like the usual crude pamphlets strewn about.’
At that moment, Baron General Moncransky was announced.
‘Moncransky, the Okhrana knew nothing about the printing of such a huge number of things? I can’t believe it,’ Nicky said.
The Minister handed the General the booklet. It was apparent from his expression that this was the first time he’d seen it.
‘No, Your Majesty, we knew nothing of this,’ the General said in a whiny voice.
‘This is an outrage,’ the Tsarina chimed in.
Moncransky’s broad face reddened, and Dimitri almost broke out into a smile.
‘General, you must find the printing press that is producing these,’ the Minister said. ‘Make the printer tell you who is responsible, then round them up – and destroy the printing plates.’
Dimitri envisioned the Okhrana beating the printer’s head with a lead pipe until he talked.
‘Do you understand, Moncransky?’ shouted the Tsar. ‘You’d better not fail. I’m very disappointed with you, sir.’ It was rare to see the Tsar lose his temper and address a general in such a way.
If Moncransky could have shrunk down to the size of an ant and crawled under the floorboards, he would have done it.
Moncransky bowed to take his leave, then caught sight of Dimitri, and his eyes widened slightly.
FORTY-THREE
Unlike the arts circle, the cell meetings were no longer discussions about the polemics of revolution. No arguments, manifestoes, or preaching. Short and to the point, they now centered on the concrete workings of carrying out revolution. Evigenia ran a taut ship, issuing instructions with no backtalk. Members were expected to do as they were told. Occasionally, Dimitri would be given messages to conceal in the eggs, but the cell with Evigenia and Ilya concentrated on printing and distribution the book of photos. A brand new one with all new photos would be coming out soon, double the number of pages. So far, they had been very lucky that their underground printing press hadn’t been discovered by the Okhrana. Informers were everywhere. Last month, Grigory had vanished. Dimitri had been certain that Grigory had informed on him about the Mikhailovsky Theater flyers. He thought he would be arrested at any second but nothing had happened.
‘Two parcels to our international agents in Brussels and Prague were intercepted by the Okhrana,’ Evigenia said sadly. ‘It’s become impossible to relay coded information to the outside.’
Besides revolutionary agents in Russia, there was a network of them in Europe and in America. Their main responsibilities were to secure funds from sympathetic sources and get newspaper coverage of the misery in Russia. The more bad press the Tsar and the government got, the more support for the rebellion. Jews in America were especially generous. American and British newspapers loved stories about Tsarist oppression since the Kishinev pogrom.
‘The messages we planted in those soup cans seemed foolproof,’ Evigenia said. ‘The codes are crucial to tell people what’s happening. I don’t know what to do now.’
The cell meeting, which was held in one of many secret apartments, went on for another twenty minutes. When it adjourned, Dimitri approached Evigenia.
‘Do you have the next set of codes to go out?’ he asked.
Dimitri dipped his crow-quill pen in the ink well. He now was ready to add the facade ornamentation to the drawing of his new bank building. His switch to the Style Moderne had become complete, and he loved his new creative path. He began to draw in the minute organic detailing carved into the stones on the front elevation. Long, swirling lines spread across the front of the building like vines. He loved doing this dynamic undulating, flowing linework. Working from a rough pencil sketch, he would improvise as he went. He would also add ink washes to give openings shadows for depth. Unlike classicism, there were no strict rules to follow, only what the imagination allowed. Drawing was the best part of architecture for him; getting the building constructed was the absolute worst.
After an hour, he had all the detailing down. On the side of his drawing table was the sheet of codes Evigenia had given him. They were all series of numbers. He began to incorporate the first four characters into the sinuous, curving linework. He made them a part of the design so that they were invisible to anyone looking at the elevation – except agents who knew what to see. He added another four characters to a section, then another until all the code was imbedded, in left to right order throughout the drawing.
After the triumphal exhibit of the Tchaikovsky Memorial drawings, he had taken up IARA’s offer to submit one drawing a week to their professional publication – which happened to be distributed internationally. Just like architectural weeklies from other countries such as America and Germany, Russia’s publications could be purchased in any bookshop abroad. The drawing would be reduced in size for the magazine, which was a good thing for concealing the information. Dimitri accounted for that, and made sure the agents could easily read the code with a magnifying glass.
When he had completed the finishing touches, he gave the drawing a final look and labeled it with the name of the bank and the date. He was quite pleased with the result; the numbers actually added to the richness of the linework. He couldn’t wait until he got the new set of codes to hide in the Petrov Cable Company’s new headquarters next week.
FORTY-FOUR
As she traveled on the train back to the Alexander Palace, Miss O’Brian felt very chipper, despite the cold rainy fall day. That morning, she’d met Azref and delivered intelligence on Port Arthur’s new gun emplacements. Because the city was on a hill, the Japanese infantry had charged it time and again without success. The Russian Army was putting up a brave fight. The pounding of the city by the guns of Japanese battleships had destroyed Russian cannon, but the base did not fall. Her new information could finally turn the tide of battle against the Russians. As the mounting dead and wounded traveled back to the Russian cities, there had been angry public protests about the war and the government’s mishandling of it. Last week, thousands held a peaceful rally. Azref had been right; the war would be a catalyst for revolution. Russia was a giant powder keg with a long fuse ready to be lit. He had also told her that there probably was an Okhrana agent planted in the Imperial household, and to be on her guard.
Miss O’Brian had been born a child of the revolution and indoctrinated from childhood by her father. She had accepted this assignment because she thought she could truly change things for the workers. It was also exciting, especially for a fifty-year-old spinster who’d spent her life raising other people’s chi
ldren. She had led a passive existence, agitating for revolution only by spreading handbills and attending secret meetings. Now she was in a unique position to actually make a difference. And according to Azref, she was doing an excellent job.
The train passed long stretches of muddy fields, interrupted by little villages populated by pitiful-looking peasants dressed in gray. They were still basically slaves. Millions of them had been cheated out of their land by the government at the Emancipation. The land, Miss O’Brian fervently believed, belonged to the people free of charge. These villages all resembled one another: a church with a bulbous steeple, a scattering of log cabins with chicken and geese scratching in the dirt roads. The Tsar and the Tsarina had this ridiculous romanticized image of a simple but happy peasant. They had no idea of the miserable reality. She was thrilled when she saw the book with the photos the Tsar was so angry about. Whoever thought of that was brilliant; one photo did more than a thousand pamphlets. Miss O’Brian realized she must find out whether the Okhrana had discovered the printing press. They were sure to tell the Tsar before they made the raid, and she could warn Azref.
Because she had time before she was expected back, Miss O’Brian decided to walk from the station to the palace. She was so conflicted; she was doing the right thing by helping the revolutionaries, but no harm could come to the Imperial Family. There had been four attempts on their lives, including the plague-infected cloth. An agent from the terrorist faction had certainly set up the assassination attempts, and she had to find out who he was before the next one. Miss O’Brian’s mood brightened when she realized she would be playing with the Tsarevich soon. The news about Alexis’s hemophilia had shocked her, but it didn’t make her lose sight of her mission. Personal feeling wasn’t allowed in a revolutionary. But Miss O’Brian knew the Imperial Couple was in torment over the child, and she would do anything she could to ease their pain – she hadn’t ceased to be a human being.
The great mansions of the courtiers lined the tree-lined boulevard from the station to the palace. About fifty yards ahead, she saw Prince Dimitri getting out of his carriage and walking up to his front door. The prince was very close to the Imperial Family, the children adored him and that silly wife of his. The other day, Miss O’Brian had noticed Dimitri was watching her in a most curious manner as she walked down the corridor past the display room. One day, he had come into the Tsar’s private study just as she was coming out – almost as if he wished to catch her snooping around the Tsar’s desk. Miss O’Brian stopped walking. Prince Dimitri would be the perfect Okhrana agent, she realized. He knew everything about the Imperial Family and with whom they were in contact. Maybe the Okhrana was already suspicious of her and wanted him to keep an eye on her. Prince Dimitri would be a trusted and valued agent for the Okhrana. Yes, he has to be the one, thought Miss O’Brian.
FORTY-FIVE
The crisp fall breeze coming off the Gulf of Finland through the open windows felt so refreshing. It dried the perspiration on Dimitri’s and Katya’s bodies from two non-stop hours of lovemaking. They cooled off as they lay naked on top of the white silk sheets. Their breathing returned to normal as well. They looked up at the ornamental plaster ceiling above them and smoked cigarettes.
‘The photo book was an idea of genius, my love,’ Katya said while stroking Dimitri’s chest. ‘You have the mind of a revolutionary.’
Dimitri smiled. ‘Please don’t tell the Tsar that.’ Then he added with a touch of pride, ‘There’s going to be a brand-new edition soon and another one after that.’
‘It’s really opened the entire world’s eyes, Dimitri.’ She leaned over and kissed his chest.
‘All the credit goes to Ilya. I just distribute the book.’
‘Printing and distributing the book is the dangerous part.’
‘Yes, we have to vary the means of transporting it out of the city to avoid the Okhrana. And I still personally distribute some myself when the opportunity arises.’
‘The revolution is about to erupt. Peasants and workers are stirred up. The educated classes are agitating for a constitution,’ Katya said enthusiastically.
‘And the war in the Far East is going very badly,’ Dimitri chimed in. ‘The waste of life has made a lot of people angry with the Tsar and the government.’
‘That’s the sad irony. The death and maiming of those poor boys will bring about the revolution and a better life for Russians.’
Dimitri stared out the window. ‘I honestly didn’t know that people live like that,’ he muttered in a sad tone.
‘But now you do, and you’re doing something about it,’ Katya said, raising both of her legs toward the ceiling.
‘You have such great little legs,’ Dimitri observed.
‘That’s a compliment, coming from someone who’s seen a lot of female legs,’ Katya said with a sly smile.
‘I bet you’ve seen quite a few male legs at the hospital.’
‘I look at them in a strictly clinical manner, not in an erotic context like you do.’
‘Did,’ Dimitri added. ‘Past tense, please.’
Kaya threw herself on his chest and gave him a long, passionate kiss.
‘Katya,’ Dimitri asked in an uncertain tone, ‘do you ever come across any hemophiliacs at the hospital?’
‘Bleeders? It’s such a rare disease, one hardly ever does. It’s a terrible affliction, though.’
‘Is there any research to cure it?’
‘Well, a few years back, they discovered that blood can be divided into types or groups. Each person has one of those blood types, so you can give the bleeder the correct blood type in a transfusion,’ Katya said in a doctor’s voice.
‘Is there anything to make the blood clot? That’s the problem, right? The blood won’t clot.’
‘Exactly. No, the Americans have recommended treatments like hydrogen peroxide or lime, but nothing’s been effective.’
‘What about research at Johns Hopkins, the hospital you’re always talking about?’
‘It’s the most innovative hospital in America, but, no, I don’t think they’re searching for a cure there,’ Katya replied as she took a sip of white wine.
‘Americans seem so technologically advanced in all things. Where else in America could they be working on it?’
‘There’s a hospital in Boston, and then one called the Mayo Clinic out in the middle of America. I’ll search through my journals for anything on it.’
‘Yes, that would be nice of you,’ Dimitri replied, lighting up another cigarette.
Katya propped herself on an elbow and looked at him with a puzzled expression.
‘Why the interest in hemophilia?’
‘It’s just an odd disease.’
Katya snuffed out her cigarette. ‘Medical school is officially over,’ she announced as she straddled him.
Although Katya hated to leave the apartment, she enjoyed thinking about their lovemaking as she walked home. Her mind could replay every second like those new cinema projectors. The thoughts always put a smile on her face, and she glowed from within. She could have floated over the sidewalks and streets to her house. It was like walking in a dream but knowing she wasn’t dreaming. Being with Dimitri, whether making love or talking about Tchaikovsky, was bliss. She hated to be away from him, and made sure she spent as much of her day with him as possible. She knew she was over the moon in love with him, because it became harder and harder for her to focus at the hospital. That had never been a problem before. She would catch herself thinking of him. Dr Orlinsky would notice and say, ‘Doctor, where’s your mind at today?’
Katya was going home before she worked the evening shift at St Igor’s. Dimitri was having dinner with the Imperial Family tonight. He always looked forward to playing with the Tsar’s daughters and getting to hold baby Alexis. She was happy it gave him so much pleasure, but she knew he was troubled by his double life. She could sense that the conflict within him had intensified. She tried to imagine how he felt; realizing that his
closest friend was destroying Russia and had to be overthrown. He admired the Imperial Couple. He had told her many times that the Tsar and Tsarina’s love for each other had increased every day since their wedding. That was what true love was all about, he insisted.
Katya stopped walking and thought for a moment about the odd question Dimitri had asked her this afternoon.
‘Queen Victoria,’ she said aloud. ‘Hemophilia?’
She was thinking back to her medical school days and remembered that females transferred the trait to males, but never suffered from the disease themselves. A British royal family tree was forming in her mind.
Queen Victoria’s daughters could inherit the disease from her, Katya realized, then pass it on it to their daughters, who would transfer it to their sons. Alexandra was a granddaughter … who’d just had a son, the Tsarevich, Alexis. The puzzle pieces all fell into place. She gasped and held her hand to her mouth.
‘Oh, Dimitri.’ Her first thought was that Dimitri would change his mind about the revolution.
FORTY-SIX
‘I think the pink color would suit you better, Larissa,’ Baron General Moncransky said in a confident tone of voice.
Lara turned to find Moncransky standing next to her in Madame Fournier’s hat shop on the Nevsky. He was wearing his deep blue, gold-braided uniform and smoking a fat cigar.
‘Yes, the pink hat will do quite well,’ Moncransky declared. He summoned a sales lady to wrap it up for Lara.
‘My present to you, my dear,’ the General said with a bow.
The Fabergé Secret Page 22