Rasputin's Revenge (27 page)

The snow was falling hard, and I marveled yet again at the severity of this early Russian winter. It was no wonder it had proven stronger than any number of invading armies. If only it could prevail once more against the Prussians!

I dined at a small but rather elegant restaurant called, simply, Ernest, and treated myself to a full bottle of Bordeaux to go with a dish of chicken, paprika and sour cream. As I lingered over a brandy and cigar, my thoughts turned, finally, to my wife.

And strangely, suddenly, I felt a great outpouring of love for her. I foresaw the successful end of Lupa’s investigation and of my mission. With a full stomach and good brandy to hand, I did not feel the emotional strain of the past few days, and I began to view the world in a clearer light.

It was not unnatural that I should be attracted to such a lovely creature as Elena, but my first and true allegiance was to Tania. Perhaps I had been unfaithful—I truly did not remember—but I would not let that temptation befuddle me again.

Elena—young, vital, impressionable and passionate—would soon recover from her infatuation with me. For what else could it be? I was to her, as she was to me, a sympathetic ear, a warm and comforting body during a most difficult time. I still felt nothing but affection for her, and I
hoped I hadn’t compromised her honor. Upon more reflection, I was sure I hadn’t. How would I not have remembered?

In any case, tonight would mark a return to the platonic nature of our (the word applied) love. It would be better. We didn’t belong together. I belonged with my wife and child. And the realization of that gave me more contentment than any I’d known since I’d left Tania’s side.

I looked at my watch. Lunch had taken me nearly two hours! Suddenly I was anxious to get back to Lupa, to see this thing ended. I looked forward to my interview with Nicholas, smiling to myself as I imagined convincing him that the time was now ripe for a new commitment to France. It was a heady vision.

I paid my bill, got into my greatcoat, and pushed open the restaurant’s door into the blizzard. But even the weather couldn’t chill my ardor. As I kicked my way through the curb-deep snow, I kept my head up, like a horse running to water. My deepest thirst—that my mission succeed—was about to be slaked!

I hastened to Lupa’s office. The Palace had a strangely muted midafternoon lethargy hanging over it. The storm must have driven many people to their rooms.

At first glance, Lupa too had been affected by it. He sat—without beer!—his hands clasped before him on his desk. Neither were there any flowers. That situation should have filled me with foreboding, but it did not. Though I couldn’t see his face from the door when I entered, I somehow knew that his eyes were closed and his lips pursing in and out in that distinctive way of his when his mind was deeply engaged.

I approached quietly, and when I’d come to my chair, I whispered his name: “Auguste.”

Immediately he looked up, and in his eyes I could see that Pohl’s information must have shaken him. There was no sign of arrogance or bluster, only a grim determination and sadness, almost one of personal loss.

“What happened?” I asked.

He sighed from the bottom of his soul. “Max outdid himself with lunch for the Czar,” he began. Then he sighed again. “No. I won’t be flip.” He stopped.

“What is it?” I repeated.

“After he’d served lunch to the Czar, Max went back to the kitchen and put a bullet into his head. He’s dead.”

“
Mem dieu!
It can’t be!”

Lupa glared at me. “I assure you, it is.”

“But why? Was he …?”

“It would appear so. If he and Kapov had been in it together …” He stopped. “Borstoi might not have told you everything either. Perhaps someone else knew about Pohl. I don’t know. What else makes sense?”

In my shock, I immediately thought of Sukhomlinov, the last of our suspects. Pohl had been in love with his wife. He had supplied the grenades to Kapov. Strongly pro-German, he’d only escaped conviction as a traitor months ago. And he was still bitter at the Czar for removing him from his post as War Minister.

“There is another possibility,” I began, “and it does make sense.”

“What is that?”

“That someone killed Pohl, hoping to make it look enough like suicide that it would be assumed he was somehow involved in the plot and, like Kapov, did not want to face a trial and certain execution.”

Lupa’s eyes shone with a new high anger. “That is plausible,” he said. “And who would that be?”

I began to tick off my points against Sukhomlinov. “On reflection,” I concluded, “he had more motive than anyone. He must have been the prime mover.”

Lupa heard me out, then stared for a moment into the space behind me. Shaking his head, he spoke softly. “It is my fault. I involved him.”

“Do you mean Pohl?”

He nodded glumly.

“Don’t be absurd, Auguste. It was Pohl who chose to get in touch with you.”

The big man stared dolefully at me for a long second, then hung his head. “It wasn’t worth it.”

“But it does leave only one person,” I said.

“Yes, it does.”

We sat, unmoving, for another few moments. As though remembering something of no importance, he mumbled something about the preliminary findings of Kapov’s autopsy, but then let that topic drop, as he did his head. We would come back to it. For the moment, I would leave him to his grief, but soon we would have to take action. Even now, Sukhomlinov might be plotting against us.

And as though in answer to my thoughts, there was a knock on the door, followed immediately by the entrance of several Imperial Guards led by old, shrill Inspector Dubniev, and by the ex-Minister of War, the Palace Killer, Vladimir Sukhomlinov.

“Auguste Lupa, Jules Giraud.” The inspector’s voice cut shrill as a whistle through the room as he formally pronounced his charge. “I’m placing you under arrest for conspiracy, subversion, and espionage.”

Lupa nodded calmly, as if he’d been expecting it.

Then we were clapped in chains and led away.

18

[
KREMLIN FILE NO. JG
0665–4712–4790;
PSS ACCESS, CLASSIFIED
]

H
ow long have I been in this tiny cell overlooking the frozen Neva with the Winter Palace across the way, beckoning and taunting me? Since the arrest, the beatings, the trial—perhaps six weeks. A lifetime. An eternity of cold and hunger.

When I first arrived in St. Petersburg, I remember being amused by the impregnability of Petropavlovskaya Krepost—the government prison. No longer is there anything remotely funny about it. Each day begins with the same terrible litany carrying up to my windows from the inner yard.

“Prigotov’tes’, gotovy? Ogon!”
And then the volley. It is a horrible way to be awakened. I don’t know why it is taking them so long to get around to me and Lupa.

It hardly matters now. One day soon they will come for us. It is almost comforting to realize it.

[
KREMLIN FILE NO. JG
0665–4800;
PSS ACCESS, CLASSIFIED
]

Dear Tania,

I am assured that this letter will be posted to you.
^*
I know you are a strong and brave woman, and I pray our child will take after you, rather than her weak and ineffectual father.

My mission here is a shambles, although Nicholas struggles on blindly, without any commitment to France, but as yet still
unwilling to give up. As a military man, he is brave but strategically incompetent—in short, he is the perfect Russian! After the murders stopped … but you don’t know about them, and there’s no point in going into it.

My darling, I love you. I love our child, our life and our country. Please remember that.

I don’t know an easy way to say this—I will not be coming home. There has been intrigue here and I’ve been in the thick of it. Our old friend Auguste Lupa was here when I arrived, and many things have happened. A few were disastrous. I want you to know that everything I did was in the line of duty and for the glory of France. I was not a coward, and have brought no disgrace on our name. When called upon, I had no choice but to be a good soldier. Now, it seems, a soldier’s death awaits me.

Perhaps we always knew, somewhere in the back of our minds, that the firing squad is the ordained end for aging or careless spies. I am afraid I have been both.

Kiss Michelle one last time for me. I love you.

Your husband,
Jules              

[
KREMLIN FILE NO. JG
0665–4712–4790,
CONT.; PSS ACCESS, CLASSIFIED
]

(I don’t know the date. The guard will not tell me. He laughs at the question.)

I don’t really understand this impetus to write, as if anything I put down might matter now. Still, it seems important to capture it, to make some sense of it, or reorder the reality and find forgiveness for myself so that I might die in peace. Was it all my bungling, my weakness, my misguided refusal to give Lupa all the facts? I can’t be sure. Perhaps other, greater forces were at work that I understand only imperfectly, or perhaps, as I tried to tell Foch when all this began, I was simply the wrong man for the job.

[
KREMLIN FILE NO. JG
0665–5111–5350;
PSS ACCESS—CLASSIFIED; EXCERPTED TRANSCRIPT OF TRIAL OF GIRAUD, JULES (CROSS REF.
—
LUPA, AUGUSTE, NO.
0671
FF
.).
PRESIDING MAGISTRATE GRAND DUKE SERGEI ZOSTOV. PROSECUTOR ANAXAGORAS BERIA. FORTRESS SS. PETER
&
PAUL, NOVEMBER
8-9, 1916,
O
.
S
.]

(Witness Boris Sukhomlinov)

Beria: And Giraud’s purpose here in St. Petersburg?

Sukhomlinov: As I said, he was to proffer an offer to his Majesty, Czar Nicholas II, regarding a renewed commitment to France.

Beria: And he mentioned nothing to you about investigating any murders?

S: Nothing.

Beria: When did you first become aware of that connection?

S: On the morning of his arrest. I had been speaking to Inspector Dubniev, and he mentioned the meddling Lupa and his French companion at Kapov’s apartment. When I realized he was referring to Giraud, several suspicions formed in my mind.

Beria: And what where they, General?

S: Primarily that two foreign nationals from different countries working together constituted a security threat. Espionage seemed indicated.

Beria: Anything else?

S: Yes. Giraud, in one of my discussions with him, seemed especially interested in my access to weapons.

Giraud: [from the dock That’s a lie!

Beria: [to G. D. Zostov] Your Excellency. Another outburst from the prisoner and I will request that he be gagged.

Zostov: Monsieur Giraud, you will keep quiet. Continue, please.

Beria: And what use would Giraud have for weapons? Did he give you an explanation?

S: No. It was all couched as a matter of interest. I only mention it because I found it provocative.

Beria: So do I, General. So do I.

(Witness Karel Borstoi)

Beria: Your Excellency, this witness is in chains because he has been convicted of murder, attempted regicide, subversion, and conspiracy. His father was executed according to the Holy Czar’s wishes for similar crimes. His own execution has been postponed until he could testify in this trial. Borstoi, can you hear me?

Borstoi: (Unintelligible.)

Beria: Borstoi? Guard, give this man some water and revive him. (A pause while this is done.) Now, are you better?

Borstoi: (Nods.)

Beria: Speak up, animal! Answer my questions! Are you able to respond?

Borstoi: Yes.

Beria: Do you recognize the accused, Jules Giraud, in this courtroom, and if you do, please point him out.

Borstoi: Yes. There, in the dock.

Beria: Louder, please.

Borstoi: Yes, in the dock.

Beria: How do you know him?

Borstoi: Communist. Comrade.

Zostov: Quiet in this room! I won’t tolerate these displays. Continue, prosecutor.

Beria: You met him as a Communist?

Borstoi: Can’t talk. Teeth.

Beria: All right. I’m familiar with your proposed testimony. I will ask and you will answer. Isn’t it true that you met Giraud for the first time with Auguste Lupa in the Czar’s kitchen, after you’d had a fight with Max Pohl, the Czar’s chef?