The more I learned of all this, the more I decided not to get involved. It wasn’t my world and its battles weren’t my battles. All I wanted to do was hang on long enough to be transported out of it. But before that could happen, despite myself, I was plopped down right in the middle of all the plots and counterplots and intrigues. I was discovered in my hiding place by a Captain of the Palace Guard.
This Captain was a coconspirator in the other plot against the Tsar. Of all places that he had to pick to meet a fellow assassin, he selected the cellar bin in which I was hiding. There was much hushed murmuring in Russian before the second man left. The Captain was about to follow suit when he dropped his snuffbox and while bending to retrieve it spotted my leg sticking out of the straw.
I can only guess what went through his mind. He knew that I must have overheard him and he couldn’t have guessed that I didn’t understand Russian. From the sword point at my throat, I know it must have crossed his mind to kill me immediately. Probably the only reason that he didn’t is that it occurred to him that I might be part of a counterplot and therefore have some information that might be useful to his group, I’m only guessing at all this. Still, it seems logical, because what he did was escort me at sword’s point to the quarters of Grigori Orlov, from whom he evidently took his orders.
Orlov was no more disposed to spare my life than his underling. This was obvious from his attitude, although again I couldn’t understand their conversational exchange. What saved me was my own quick thinking—- that and the appearance on the scene of the Tsarina.
Catherine slipped into Orlov’s quarters while he and the Captain were conferring. There was an awkward moment when she appeared in a negligee that was sheer to the point of being scandalous. Orlov recovered enough to order the Captain to leave immediately. But in the confusion he momentarily forgot about me, I was left behind, Orlov casually holding a sword at my throat. When the Captain was gone he remembered me and explained to Catherine what I was doing there. She glanced at me curiously and it was then that I had an inspiration.
“My beloved fellow countrywon1an—-” I addressed her in German as I fell to my knees in front of her. She and Orlov both looked surprised to hear me speak in her native tongue. “Word has reached your homeland of your predicament in having been inadvertently married to a Russian madman,” I improvised.
“He must come from Frederick of Prussia!” Catherine exclaimed.
“Indeed I do!” I latched onto her supposition desperately. “My master bids me convey his sympathy and willingness to cooperate-—albeit, for reasons of state, which I’m sure Your Highness understands, his sympathy must be kept secret. And he asks how his humble servant—myself -—can be of help to you.” I was babbling, not clear myself on what I was saying, feeling my way, sure only that the way to stay alive was to keep talking.
“Frederick has sent us an assassin!” Catherine leaped to the conclusion and clapped her hands.
“Are you an assassin?” Orlov demanded, his tone surly.
“Well, not exactly—”
“He’s a spy!” Orlov concluded. “The safest thing would be to kill him!” '
“What I meant was that I’m not an assassin by profession,” I told him quickly. “But these are special circumstances and so I am an assassin for the time being——if you see what I mean.”
“I don’t!” Orlov growled. He peered at me closely. “I have the feeling I’ve seen you before,” he remarked.
“I have one of those faces that’s very common, I told him. “People are always mistaking me for someone else.” I held my breath for fear he’d remember finding me eavesdropping behind the draperies at the masquerade.
Catherine nudged him off the track. “How can you have seen him before if he just came from Prussia?” she asked logically.
“I guess not.” Orlov’s suspicions were not entirely assuaged. “If he did indeed come from Germany,” he said. “How do we know?”
“There’s one way of making sure,” Catherine suggested. “If he kills my husband the Tsar, then we’ll know he is what he claims to be.”
“And if he fails, we can always kill him anyway,” Orlov agreed.
Very sporting! There was some more conversation and the upshot of it was that I was supplied a sharp knife by Orlov and conducted to the Tsar’s apartment. The sentry on guard duty was obviously in collusion with Orlov. He admitted us without question. Orlov assured me that the other sentries guarding the Tsar were likewise part of the plot. If the Tsar was still alive when I decided to leave, they would see to it that my egress was feet first. The beautiful thing about it from the point of view of Orlov and Catherine was that even if I was caught, there would be nothing to tie me in with them. Indeed, I guessed that I would probably be killed no matter which way it went since a dead scapegoat was better than a live conspirator who might be made to talk. My prospects didn’t look good since all the entrances and exits to the Tsar’s apartment were guarded by men loyal to Catherine.
I mulled this over while Orlov took his leave of me. He’d led me into the Tsar’s boudoir and suggested I hide myself behind the draperies. The Tsar was still downstairs lapping up vodka and the idea was for me to wait until he came up and went to bed and then to plunge my dagger into his sleeping form. It was one hell of a situation, I reflected as I waited, nervously paring my nails with the point of the dagger. What the blazes was I going to do?
As it happened, the decision was taken out of my hands. The Tsar finally entered the bedroom flanked by half-a-dozen servants. He was very drunk. He kicked out at them and threw a couple of vases by way of dismissing them. When he was alone he reeled over to a large wardrobe closet and flung open its doors.
Mumbling incoherently to himself, he tore off his clothes, stepped out of them and flung them aside. He stood naked, surveying the contents of the closet. Finally he made a selection.
He was a long time redressing. When, at last, he was through, he sat down at a dressing table and began to apply cosmetics. When he was finished, he stood up and surveyed himself in the mirror.
A not unpretty Russian belle in an evening gown stared back at him. The gown was cut low, stuffed at the bosom, pushed-up flesh presenting an acceptable décolletage. The chest hairs had been powdered over and rendered invisible. The Tsar raised his skirts and studied his legs encased in white stockings. He nodded in appreciation, his artificially darkened lashes crinkling, his rouged lips smiling daintily, the curls of the dark wig he’d donned bobbing as he nodded to himself with satisfaction.
He sat on the edge of the bed, posturing himself coquettishly as he faced the mirror. Slowly, he raised his skirts over his knees. His hand slid under them and soon a more genuine flush darkened his already rouged cheeks. He rocked back and forth on the bed, his eyes far back in their sockets.
Suddenly a voice murmuring in Russian broke the silence. The Tsar broke his rhythm and his head turned, eyes refocusing to determine its source. From my hiding place, my gaze followed his.
It fastened on Olga emerging from the recesses of the wardrobe closet. She had dressed herself in one of the sheer women’s nightgowns the Tsar kept there. In her hands, held out prettily like a box of candy or some other present, was a gift-wrapped package. A short length of hemp protruded from the wrapping.
The Tsar spoke, evidently asking her what the hell she was doing there. His voice was imperious, but not altogether angry. It revealed a certain amount of interest in this delectable creature who had so unexpectedly popped into his presence. Nor did he seem embarrassed at her finding him in female garb. I guess when one is a Tsar, all circumstances are a matter of noblesse oblige.