1636 The Kremlin Games (5 page)

“That explains what he wants to do, Boris Ivanovich Petrov. It does not explain why the contract with this Bernard Zeppi is with Vladimir Petrovich Gorchakov, not Mikhail Fedorivich Romanov, Czar of all Russia.”

“Vladimir is willing to commit the Gorchakov family to the primary funding of the project.”

“And he wants what in exchange?”

“The exclusive rights to produce and sell the products of the dacha.” This was common. One family might have exclusive rights to mine iron ore in a certain area, rights they had purchased from the government. Another might have exclusive rights to sell the furs of another area. Filaret was hardly a novice when it came to that type of negotiation.

“No, that won’t work,” Filaret said. “The Gorchakov family is rich but not that rich.”

“He plans to sell the rights to produce individual products,” Boris explained. “The research center will make a working model of, say, a reaping machine, and designs for the parts to it, then sell the rights to make the reaping machines to another clan or to a set of villages.”

The patriarch nodded and considered. “Exclusive except for the government. I’ll not have the government giving the Gorchakov family the rights, then paying for the research as well.” That too was standard. The government of Russia maintained first call on everything. If a family gained exclusive control of a mine, what that family got was what came out of the mine beyond the government’s share.

“Of course, Patriarch.” Boris nodded. As each new device was made both the government and the Gorchakov family would have the right to produce it if they chose. In the case of the reaping machine, the government would be able to either make reaping machines itself or have them made; so would the Gorchakov family. The Gorchakov family might want to sell its rights to make the product but that would not affect the government’s rights. “Of course, the research center will need experts from some of the bureaus.”

Filaret nodded thoughtfully. “That can be arranged. And the church?”

“Vladimir would prefer not to make an open grant to the church.” Boris’ answer was delicate. “There have been abuses of such grants in the past. I am very much afraid the bureaus would not like such a blanket grant either.” The Russian Orthodox Church was neither monolithic nor free from corruption. Monasteries vied for power and wealth with the great families and each other.

The patriarch grinned rather sardonically and nodded. “The patriarch’s office, then.” He laughed at Boris’ expression. “Not even that?”

Boris steeled himself. “Who will be the next patriarch?”

Filaret nodded, but lost his smile.

“Vladimir did wish me to convey his warmest personal regards to you, Patriarch Filaret. His concern, and frankly mine, is that the next patriarch may not share your concern for the czar or for Holy Rus. Do you remember mention of Patriarch Nikon from the histories we sent?” Boris really wished he could avoid this part of the conversation. He was used to bureaucratic infighting but not at this level.

Filaret grimaced but nodded. “However, I am patriarch now.”

“As long as that happy situation remains, the patriarch’s office will receive anything the dacha can provide.”

Filaret’s fingers made a drum roll on the desk as he thought about it. “It is a great risk for young Vladimir. He could ruin his family if it doesn’t work.” Then he stared at Boris. “What about you, Boris? What do you gain in this? What do you risk?”

“It has been suggested that I would make an excellent candidate for the head of the Grantville section of the embassy bureau.” He shrugged. “That is both the reward and the risk. If it doesn’t work, well, my position in the bureau would become untenable.”

“Yes, it would.” Another pause while the patriarch’s fingers continued to tap out a strange beat on the desk. “Very well. I will talk to Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev, then. I’ll even do what I can to get the appropriate people assigned to your section and loaned to the Gorchakov dacha.”

He gave Boris a hard look, his eyes seeming to glitter for a moment. “You understand what you’re risking?”

“I think so, Patriarch.”

Chapter 8

Bernie had a private letter from Vladimir to his sister Natasha, whose legal name was Natalia. Vladimir hadn’t made a big deal of it, but Bernie had the impression that Vladimir would prefer that Boris didn’t know about the private letter. So Bernie waited while Boris sent a message to warn the great lady that Boris was bringing a barbarian to be examined and to put mats down on the floor in case the strange creature should decide to take a dump on it. At least that was Bernie’s impression of Boris’ attitude. It was hard to tell what the little guy thought.

As promised, Boris delivered Bernie the next day. They were ushered in by an armed retainer who looked a warning at Bernie and left them in a warm, well lit room with a great big stonework heater. In the room was a tall, willow-thin woman with long, black hair and snow-white makeup and red-painted lips. Boris went ahead and kissed her on the cheek as was the custom. She had to lean down to accept the kiss and suddenly they looked to Bernie like nothing so much as Boris and Natasha from the Bullwinkle cartoons.

Boris and Natasha looked like Boris and Natasha. Bernie cracked up. He couldn’t help it. He had been nervous all morning after the lecture Mrs. Petrov had given him on how important the Gorchakov family was. And suddenly it was like he was in a Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon. He cracked up. He almost had himself under control when “Where’s Bullwinkle?” slipped out. He lost it again.

Things were getting tense by the time Bernie really got himself under control. “I’m sorry. I’m away from home and nervous about the new job. It was just that you two right then happened to look like Boris and Natasha.”

Now the princess was looking confused again. “But we are,” she said with a distinctly Slavic accent. “He’s Boris and I’m called Natasha.”

“I know.” Bernie shook his head. “I think that’s what really did it. Not like you, Boris and Natasha; like the cartoon Boris and Natasha. Natasha was tall and slinky, ah, beautiful with a very pale face and red lips, Boris was short and stocky. They were spies.” Another giggle. “Spies who were constantly trying to blow up Rocky the Flying Squirrel and Bullwinkle J. Moose. I used to watch it on Nickelodeon when I was a kid.”

“What is a cartoon?” Princess Natasha was apparently much mollified by the notion that this other Natasha was beautiful. Bernie was less confident of her reaction to slinky, though you never knew.

“It’s a simple drawing,” Bernie tried to explain.

“Something like an icon but without the religious significance,” Boris clarified.

“Except the ones with Boris and Natasha moved.”

“Moved how?” Natasha’s forehead creased under the makeup. “Did they shake the paper?”

Which led to a discussion of moving pictures in general and how they were made. By the end of this discussion, Natasha was too interested to be offended.

*     *     *

“Now I see how it works.” Natasha saw something else too. This was why they needed Bernie Zeppi and why they should turn the dacha into a research center. He had not come here to introduce moving icons on a screen. It had just popped out like a chicken laying an egg. He cackled a bit and there it was. How many other eggs were buried in this stranger from the future and how valuable would they be to the family? Natasha had seen mimes and clowns perform. In spite of his comments, she knew that the movies and cartoons didn’t need sound to attract an audience. She was pleased again when, while Boris was talking to her Aunt Sofia, Bernie managed to pass her a letter “from your brother.” Then he had gone on about Rocky and Bullwinkle blundering along and thwarting Boris and Natasha while Bullwinkle at least didn’t have a clue what was going on.

Over all, Natasha was quite impressed with Vladimir’s up-timer, as were some of the other people Boris introduced him to over the next week.

Chapter 9

“I think we can use him,” General Kabanov said. He was in charge of guns and weapons for the
Streltzi,
the musketeers who served Russian cities as guardsmen as well as providing much of the army’s infantry. “He does seem to know a great deal about guns and their use.”

Bernie had just finished disassembling and reassembling his up-time rifle and then loading it and emptying it into a set of targets. Boris nodded in response to the general’s assessment. He saw no need to point out that Bernie’s familiarity with the rifle was not particularly unusual among up-timers. Grantville was a town of hunters.

“Why can’t we make these repeating rifles?” General Kabanov asked Bernie. But he didn’t speak English, much less up-timer English, so questions were funneled through Boris. Which was probably for the best, as it allowed him to edit at need.

“Primers,” Bernie said. “You can’t make the primers. We went over all this in Grantville.”

“In the brass cartridges,” Boris translated, “are compounds of a chemical that is difficult and expensive to make in quantity—”

So it went. It was the third interview that day and there were three more to go and still more tomorrow.

*     *     *

“Why did you have to bring us an idiot?” Filip Pavlovich Tupikov was pacing back and forth, scratching furiously at a rather weak beard. “They know how to fly. They can make materials we never dreamed of. And you bring us this? Not a doctor, not a . . . what is the word? Engineer. Not an engineer. Instead you bring us this . . . this . . . barely a craftsman. Why, Boris Ivanovich?”

Boris Ivanovich looked at Filip Pavlovich. The man was a brilliant artisan and a skilled natural philosopher, but had no understanding of how the world worked. Besides, Boris had been getting some version of this from about half the interviewers for the last two weeks. “Ah, how foolish of me.” Boris snorted. “I should, no doubt, have asked their president, Mike Stearns, to give up all he had in Grantville and come be a servant in Russia. Or perhaps the master of machining, Ollie Reardon, would have given up his factory with its machines and the electric to run them. Better yet, I could have tried to persuade Melissa Mailey, a qualified teacher in their high school. Of course, she has been heard to say—more than once, I should point out—that they should start by executing nine out of ten of the nobility of Europe. She then suggests that they go up from there. I’m sure she would have been happy to serve the czar.”

Filip Pavlovich flinched a bit. Boris felt he’d gotten his point across. “I brought Bernie Zeppi because he was who I could get. He has graduated their high school. He is a qualified auto mechanic with tools. I should know. I had to arrange for their transport. He speaks, reads and writes their up-timer English. English which is not so similar to the English we know as Polish is to Russian. You can get by with practice but the words have changed their meaning and pronunciation as often as not. Believe me, Filip Pavlovich, there are people I could have recruited that you would have liked much less.”

*     *     *

Bernie sighed. “When is this sh . . . ah . . . stuff going to be done with? Let me get to work, will you?” Bernie wasn’t all that anxious to get to work, just to get out of Moscow and away from the interviews.

“Soon, Bernie, soon,” Boris said. “We have the audience today. Princess Natalia will be down soon and we will leave.”

“The makeup again?” Bernie chuckled.

Boris glared at Bernie, remembering the silly business about Boris and Natasha. “I trust you will be able to control your sense of humor.”

“Wish she’d hurry up.” Bernie’s complaint brought Boris back to the present. Then Natasha arrived, walked to Boris and said in a deep sultry voice—not her own—but which Bernie claimed was a fairly good imitation of the cartoon Natasha: “Welcome, my little Borisky. This time we will capture that naughty moose, yes?”

Bernie grinned and Boris turned red.

*     *     *

Bernie tried to suppress his grin as Boris and Natasha coached him very carefully for his meeting with Mr. Big. Mr. Big, otherwise known as the Czar of All the Russias. Armed with Vladimir’s gifts, as well as his own, Bernie followed their instructions carefully.

Boris whispered names and positions while they stood in the line of people waiting to be presented. “Patriarch Filaret, the czar’s father, there to the left of Czar Mikhail. On the right, Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev, the czar’s cousin; he is in charge of the bureau of records. It is an especially powerful post, because he can cause so much trouble for the other bureaus.” The list of names went on and on. Bernie quit paying that much attention, except for the fact that they all seemed to be related to the czar. Natasha had left them, and gone off to see the czar’s wife. When they got a bit closer, Bernie started looking around a bit. Fortunately, he had good eyesight. The room was huge, at least eighty feet long and broad in proportion.

Mr. Big—no, that really didn’t seem to fit—was a pretty ordinary guy when you got a look at him. The czar looked to be in his mid-thirties. He also looked like he didn’t want to be here. Sort of bored and sad. He seemed like the kind of guy who got stuffed in his locker in gym class. The patriarch guy, his father, was really old, but looked to be a tough old bird. And all these . . .
boyars
, they were called. There was some serious money tied up in their clothes. At the same time there was something a bit tawdry about the whole thing. The cleaning staff hadn’t done that good a job on the great hall and most of the fancy outfits needed cleaning—but not as much as the people wearing them.

“Dmitri Mamstriukovich Cherakasky.” Boris nodded toward another man. “Not a man to cross, that one.” Well, Bernie wasn’t going to cross anyone if he could help it. This place was to the period movies Bernie had seen as
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
was to
Roy Rogers
.

Finally, they got up to the front of the line. Boris did all the talking, which was just as well. Bernie hadn’t had much luck figuring out the lingo yet. Boris gave the agreed upon signal and Bernie bowed. “Your Majesty.”