Tsar Nicholas and his entire family are rounded up and shot in the head. Bismarck is garrotted. His family and supporters are executed.
Friedrich Nietzsche rises to power, receives life-prolongation treatments, and begins a near-century-long reign of terror that will earn him the sobriquet The Devil's Dictator.
Britain, from its deathbed, makes one final gesture of defiance. Two days before Rasputin is to be named president of Russia, three members of the palace staff surround him. They are British spies. They produce pistols and, at point-blank range, pull the triggers. All three guns jam. Rasputin has long feared assassination, and projects around himself a permanent mediumistic energy field that alters the structure of springs, robbing them of their power. No trigger mechanism will function anywhere near him.
He laughs in the faces of the would-be killers, and, with a careless gesture, causes their brains to boil in their skulls.
The following day, he is poisoned with cyanide. Realising that he's the subject of a second assassination attempt, he slows down his metabolism and begins to consciously secrete the poison out through his pores. Four men corner him and hack at him with an axe. They bludgeon him into submission, bind him hand and foot, and wrap him in a carpet. Rasputin is carried to the ice-bound Neva River and thrown in.
Despite his terrible wounds, it is-as he's known it would be all his life-the water that kills him.
He dies believing the British have had their revenge.
He is wrong.
The assassins are German.
The year is 1916, and Nietzsche, now the most powerful man in the world, considers himself well rid of the Mad Monk. Russia, without a visionary in control, will never pose a threat. It is left isolated, friendless, ungoverned, and poverty-stricken.
With millions of its sons killed in the war, the sprawling country's agricultural infrastructure collapses. Famine decimates the population. A harsh winter does the rest.
Russia's death is lonely, lingering, and catastrophic.
“There!”
The woman's voice hissed through Burton's skull.
He gulped in air and a tremor shook his body as consciousness returned.
“There!” she repeated. “That is why I do what I do! I have seen Mother Russia die, and I will not allow it! No! I shall change history! I shall ensure that Britain is in no condition to oppose Germany! I shall see to it that the World War is over in months rather than years! I shall cause your workers to bring this country to its knees! And when the terrible war comes-for there is no stopping it-Germany will wipe your weakened, filthy Empire from the Earth without need of Russia's aid. And while it is doing so, Rasputin will be making the homeland strong, and when the war is done and Germany is weakened, he will strike! There will be a new Empire-not Britain's, not Germany's, but Russia's! ”
You're insane.
“No. I am a prophet. I am the saviour of my country. I am the protector of Rasputin, the death of Britain, and the destroyer of Germany. I am Helena Petrovna Blavatsky, and Destiny is mine to manipulate!”
She pushed deeper into his mind. Burton opened his mouth to scream but could make no sound. It felt as if his cranium was filling with maggots.
“Dorogoi!” she exclaimed. “You killed Babbage! How gratifying! But what is this? Even more guilt? My, my, Gaspadin Burton, what a brilliant mind you have, but so filled with fears and insecurities-and so many regrets! I see now that killing you is not enough, for there is something you fear more, and that shall be your punishment: I will cause your own weaknesses to deprive you of your reason!”
Her mesmeric power intensified. It overwhelmed his crumbling resistance. His capacity for independent thought was summarily crushed and immobilised.
A fracture opened. Burton's subtle and corporeal bodies lost cohesion. His mind began to splinter. His viewpoint suddenly changed and he found himself hovering outside his own body. He watched the intelligence fade from his own eyes.
The odd disassociation gave him his one slender chance.
A lgernon Swinburne was in no fit state to conduct an interrogation. He'd been drinking with Charles Doyle, first in the Frog and Squirrel, then in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, and, in Herbert Spencer's opinion, he'd taken another step closer to becoming a chronic alcoholic. The philosopher hoped the pitiful state of Doyle would teach the young poet a lesson.
The Rake had not put up much resistance when they and Burton had shanghaied him. As a matter of fact, when informed that the seance had been postponed-which was a lie, of course-and invited for drinks at Montagu Place, he'd expressed relief, hooked his arms in theirs, and cried: “Lead on, Macduff!”
They had led on, after first indulging in a comedic charade of jacket and hat swapping which baffled the already befuddled Doyle and had Swinburne in fits of giggles.
Burton headed off toward Gallows Tree Lane, while Swinburne and Spencer ushered Doyle north along Gray's Inn Road, then west along the Euston and Marylebone Roads. Rioters were still on the rampage but they paid scant attention to the trio, who weaved through and around the wreckage and fights and fires, appearing to be nothing but an urchin, a vagabond, and a hopeless drunk.
They were twice stopped and questioned by the police. Fortunately, Swinburne was familiar with both the constables and, after he surreptitiously lifted his wig to reveal the carroty red hair beneath and whispered words of explanation, they allowed him and his companions to pass.
The next hurdle was rather more intimidating. Mrs. Iris Angell responded to their hammering on the front door by opening it and placing herself on the threshold, with hands on hips and a scowl on her face.
“If you think you're setting foot in this house while three sheets to the wind you must be even more intoxicated than you smell. How many times must I put up with it, Master Swinburne?”
Unable to reveal his mission while Doyle was beside him, Swinburne charmed, flattered, wheedled, demanded, apologised, and almost begged, all to no avail.
In the distance, Big Ben chimed ten. In his mind's eye, the poet pictured Richard Burton joining the seance, and he jumped up and down in frustration.
Then he remembered that the agent and his housekeeper had shared with him a password to use when on king's business.
“My hat, Mother Angell, it completely slipped my mind! Abdullah.”
“Now then, you'll not be using that word carelessly, I hope. Sir Richard will not stand for that, you know!”
“I promise you, dear lady, that I employ it fully cognisant of the consequences should your suspicions, which I insist are entirely unfounded, prove to be true. Abdullah, Mrs. A. Abdullah, Abdullah, and, once more, Abdullah! By George, I'll even throw in an extra one for a spot of blessed luck! Abdull-”
“Oh, stop your yammering and come in. But I'm warning you, gentlemen: any monkey business and I'll have Admiral Lord Nelson ejecting you from the premises with a metal boot to your posteriors!”
She allowed them to pass through.
“Master Swinburne, a message arrived by runner for Sir Richard. I left it on his mantelpiece.”
They climbed the stairs and entered the study.
“Buttock face! Strumpet breeders!”
POX JR5 fluttered across the room and landed on Herbert Spencer's shoulder.
“Gorgeous lover boy!” the parakeet cackled.
Doyle collapsed into an armchair.
Swinburne read the message mentioned by the housekeeper: Miss Nightingale communicated with me the moment you left Bedlam. Situation understood. Thank you, Sir Richard. I am in your debt. If you require assistance, my not inconsiderable resources are at your disposal. I can be contacted at Battersea Power Station.
Isambard Kingdom Brunel
The poet raised his brows and muttered: “An old enemy may have just become a new friend.”
He took a decanter of brandy from Burton's bureau and joined Doyle. They set about emptying it.
Spencer abstained from drinking. He felt obliged to remain sober enough to record any useful information Swinburne might extract from Doyle. By contrast, Burton's assistant felt it incumbent upon himself to make their guest-who was too far gone to realise that he was actually their prisoner-feel that he was among friends; that he could talk freely. He therefore matched the Rake drink for drink.