Rasputin's Revenge (19 page)

I stood up, walked to the window, and looked out across the courtyard that separated the two sides of the building. Across the way, only two or three windows showed any light. I shook my head, went to my valise, and drew out the photograph of Tania I had brought with me. Staring at it, my eyes burning with fatigue, I fancied I could hear her voice and her laugh.

Somehow reassured, I poured another small tot into my glass and prepared for bed. With the photograph propped on the lamp next to me, I chuckled at my imagination. But as soon as I had extinguished the light, it
began plaguing me again. I realized I hadn’t finished the letter, but couldn’t quite force myself to move. Sleep came and engulfed me.

I was already awake when the messenger knocked the next morning. Nicholas and Alexandra had arrived in the city for Minsky’s funeral. They planned to remain at the Winter Palace for at least several days to see to some diplomatic matters, among which I was included.

When the messenger had gone, I glanced at the unfinished note to Tania with its few scrawled lines. I bunched it up and threw it away. I would write a real letter when I had the time.

I stopped by Lupa’s rooms, thinking he would have a better breakfast than I had come to expect, but he had already gone out. So I had to forgo eating. It didn’t really bother me.

In spite of all my drinking the night before, I felt remarkably lucid. The freezing air as I walked across the half-dark courtyard further braced me for the morning, and by the time I arrived at Alyosha’s study, where a servant gave me a bit of pastry and a cup of tea, the dark thoughts and doubts, even the foolish imaginings of the day and night before had passed. Thinking of my audience this afternoon with the Czar had restored my motivation and my sense of perspective.

The smiling face of Alyosha as he marched into the study further lightened my mood. In his blue sailor suit, even with the frosty bulk of Derevenko shadowing him, he was a heartwarming sight. I stood when he came in, we exchanged salutes, and then he bowed to me, clicking his heels in military fashion. His eyes shone as we sat in wing chairs for the day’s chat. Without discussing it, we both knew we wouldn’t be going up on the roof—the imminent arrival of the Czar had charged the atmosphere.

“Dum vivo vivebo”
he said to me as soon as he’d dismissed his bodyguard. “And today I begin. I have an appointment with my father before the funeral.”

“And I see him this afternoon.”

He cocked his head questioningly. “What are you seeing him for?” he asked. “Something to do with me?”

I realized I hadn’t told the boy anything of my real purpose here, and I briefly outlined it. Instinctively, I felt he would be sympathetic to my cause.

He cocked his head sideways as he listened to my explanation, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I should have known you were not a mere tutor. Have you been poisoning me with republican ideas in these sessions? All without my knowledge.”

“No doubt yes to the first part. As to doing it without your knowledge, one would be hard pressed, I think, to accomplish that.”

He looked pleased yet embarrassed at the compliment. Then suddenly he grew serious again. “I did make it a point to find out who you were,” he confessed. “And I never sensed that you have tried to manipulate me.”

“I never have,” I answered truthfully.

“We said that if I could come to trust you, you could become my most valuable ally.”

“That’s true.”

“I think I have almost done that. Will you keep telling me the truth, even if it is hard?”

“Of course.”

He reached out his hand. “As gentlemen, let us shake hands on that.”

We did so.

It might have been easy in other circumstances to laugh at the boy, but this was no pose, and there was nothing funny or unseemly about it. Here was a young man struggling with the duties and forging the kinds of alliances that would consume his life as an adult.

“And now,” he said, “can I say anything to my father that will help you?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. It’s your first formal meeting with him, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

“Well, then, I think you’d do well to remember what we talked about yesterday, about his personal life interfering with his public one. Frankly, that will play into my hands, but I don’t want to push him.”

“Why not? Don’t you believe in your mission?”

“Yes. I believe in it, but pushing too hard might drive your father in the other direction. Better to let him come to the decision in his own time—then he’ll be more committed to it, and that, in this case, is essential.”

He sat still a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Well,” he announced, “I will say my piece, and we will see if it has an effect.”

He stood up and walked to the window, his small hands clasped behind his back. “Monsieur Giraud?” he said, without turning around.

“Oui?”

He turned and faced me. “I don’t think I understand war. I know my father hates it. He tells me that Uncle Willie—Kaiser Wilhelm—likes it. I don’t understand it. It’s not even really fighting for what you believe in. The fighting becomes an end in itself. Isn’t that true?”

“Sometimes it seems like that.”

“So who is right?”

I looked at the innocent and open young face, asking me the question of the ages. “Maybe that’s something you should ask your father,” I said. “It’s a question he ought to consider.”

Elena was praying in the alcove.

I walked down the aisle and knelt in the pew behind her, and finally touched her shoulder with an outstretched finger. She jumped at the pressure, twisted her head, and then smiled to see me. Half turned, she sat back on the bench.

“You’re still here, I see,” I said, then added, “I’m glad.”

The smile became shy, then faded altogether. “But Tati hasn’t seen me yet, and today the Czarina meets with her daughters.”

I patted her arm, which rested along the back of the bench. “Don’t worry. She’s not going to turn you out.”

“I wish I could be so sure.”

“You can be sure. I talked to Alexis this morning, and he said his sister was just sulking, that’s all.”

“He really did? He said that?”

“And if that’s not enough,” I continued, wanting to impress her, “I’ll mention it to the Czar when I meet with him this afternoon.”

Her eyes widened, flecks of pure gold in the green irises. “You’re seeing the Czar today?”

I told her about the summons and my worries over the outcome of the meeting. Immediately, she seemed to forget her own troubles, and directed all of her concern to me. “Oh, Jules, you must go then and prepare. Don’t waste any more time with my foolish worries.”

“Time with you is never wasted, your worries are not foolish, and there is nothing more to prepare.” Even in the dim light, I could see the slight flush to her cheeks. I realized I might scare her away with my tendency to excessive gallantry, so I continued speaking in a more neutral vein. “It is all a question of how he’s taken Minsky’s death.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, that was terrible. But how does that affect you?”

I told her, though it was clear to me that the nuances of politics were unimportant to her. Nevertheless, she listened politely, and questioned me when I’d finished. “If only these murders would stop, then, it would help you, wouldn’t it?”

“Theoretically it would help my mission, yes. Or at least we’re working on that assumption.”

“We?”

I saw no harm in mentioning my connection to Lupa and his investigation. Its goal was intimately connected to my diplomatic role.

“But Jules,” she said, her hand coming to rest over my own. “That means you are coming into contact with suspected killers. Oh, please be careful. I didn’t know …”

I patted her hand. “Now, now. It’s not all that dangerous.” I told her about my “free” lunch with Borstoi, about Lupa’s interview with Katrina in a negligee.

“But they may not be the guilty ones.”

I shrugged, making light of the whole thing. “I’m not doing much anyway,” I said. “It’s mostly my friend Auguste Lupa. There’s no danger.”

“I wish I believed you.”

I was touched by her concern, but there was really nothing to be done. The investigation with Lupa was part of my job, and if it became dangerous, then so be it. I stood up and asked her if she’d like to accompany me as far as the courtyard. Though I wouldn’t be attending Minsky’s funeral, I felt that I could serve both diplomacy and statecraft by paying a call on Paleologue before my audience with the Czar.

As we walked the length of the corridor, Elena and I talked of my hopes for my mission. If the Czar accepted our offer today, then it was finished.

“But will you stay on,” she asked, and I don’t flatter myself to have read the hope in her eyes, “at least to continue helping your friend Lupa?” she added.

I stopped and took her hand. “Elena,” I said softly. “I would probably go directly home to my wife and child. Lupa is committed to finding the killer, but I am only interested insofar as it concerns the Czar’s plans for continuing the War. If he commits to that, I will be going.”

She looked down, her eyes unable to meet mine. “I understand,” she said, and she squeezed my hand.

Then she pulled herself upright and forced a brave smile. “Then let me, if you will, give you a kiss for luck in your meeting today Whatever will make you happiest, that’s what I want for you.”

I told myself it was a harmless gesture, and I leaned over for
une petite béquetée
. Elena came up on her tiptoes, put her arm around my neck, and the peck turned into a true kiss. When we separated, I found myself trembling, holding the beautiful young woman still tightly in my arms.

Her eyes had opened wide. I could feel her heart pounding strongly through the thin fabric of her blouse. A flush had risen in her cheeks, and a startled but pleasurable smile flickered at her lips.

Quickly she hugged herself against me, then lightly brushed my cheek in another kiss—this one as the first should have been. “For luck,” she whispered breathlessly.

And then somehow I had let her go and she was half-running, half-skipping back down the corridor without a look back while I leaned against the wall, recovering my composure, the touch of her lips still fresh in my mind, aware that I was—I am—courting not just a woman, but disaster.

Paleologue’s words were not heartening, although in the state I found myself, nothing more than an armistice or Lupa revealing the murderer could have buoyed my spirits.

Grand Duke Nicholas, Anastasia’s husband and the Czar’s cousin, was experiencing setbacks in the campaign in Galacia, which heretofore had been the only bright spot in the Russian war effort. Maurice wasn’t sure if the Czar had received that intelligence yet—he himself had only found out from a “leak” in the British staff at the shared embassies. The Ambassador was of the opinion that more bad news of the war would only dispose the Emperor further toward a separate peace. Therefore, it was essential that I make as strong a case as I could today.

I countered with the argument we had earlier adopted, that if we pushed too hard we might lose the match, but Paleologue, after first saying it was of course my decision to make, strongly felt that the risk was worth taking.

I took a carriage from Embassy Row back to the Palace, my thoughts a tangled skein of motivations, impressions, and doubts both personal and professional. Why had Lupa ever picked me for this mission? And why would a brilliant man like Foch go along with that choice? I was old, ineffectual, seemingly unable to control either my emotions or my actions.

Paleologue had offered me lunch at the Embassy, but upon learning that it was “English” day, and remembering the quality of the food prepared in the embassy kitchen, I declined. Thus, by the time I came back to my room to dress formally for my audience, I was famished.

But fate decreed that I should miss lunch as well as breakfast. As a manservant and I struggled with cummerbund and cuffs, I reminded myself of the men at the front who were suffering, starving, dying of wounds, and I chided myself for my softness. Many men fasted before strenuous mental tests, and though Lupa might never approve, I resolved to use the unaccustomed discomfort to test my own mettle.

The antechamber to the courtroom in the Winter Palace was a small, book-lined study. I arrived a half-hour early for my appointment and the secretary—a tall, black American who introduced himself as John Tucker
Wilson—escorted me into the room and offered me tea, which I accepted. I must have stared overlong at him, for he volunteered the information that if he looked somewhat familiar to me it was because I had seen him before at Tsarkoye Selo, as one of the “Ethiopian guards.”

Here, dressed impeccably in a suit of British cut, he presented an entirely different figure, and I wondered if that formality would extend to the Czar in our interview. If so, it would be a far cry from our earlier, intimate meeting in the mauve bedchamber. The question bore forethought, and Wilson was sensitive enough to leave me alone with my tea to ponder it.

Some time passed. I heard raised voices from behind the closed door, and I wondered who could be in there that would have the effrontery to shout at the Czar of Russia?

Five minutes later I found out as Ivan Kapov, the royal cousin, came through the door to the Czar’s office in full military dress.

His handsome young face had high color. In fact, his entire bearing showed signs of excitement—eyes shining, steps light, chest puffed out.

I stood upon his entry and he stopped to look at me as I bowed.

“Ah, Monsieur … it’s Giraud,
n’est-ce pas?
How are you today? Seeing Nicky, are you?”

Before I could answer, John Tucker Wilson had joined us. “It will be a few more minutes, Monsieur. His Majesty prefers a hiatus between appointments.” He nodded to Kapov. “A successful meeting, your Highness?”

“Very, very, very.” A controlled yet strong smiled showed off a gleaming set of teeth. Kapov really was quite a handsome young fellow. The smooth brow furrowed slightly. “Though of course he wouldn’t give a definitive answer until he’d thought more about it. But that’s just Nicky’s way. I think this poor fellow’s death has just about done him in.”