I already knew that my old friend Vladimir would be by my side. Vladimir had called Rasputin out in the Duma, saying in a passionate speech that the monk had taken the tsar’s ministers firmly in hand, saying brilliantly that the ministers “have been turned into marionettes.”
What a fine figure of speech! I hardly knew he had it in him. A good man with a pistol, though. I counted on that pistol.
But was one pistol enough? The peasants believed Rasputin unkillable. And no one doubted the story of that slattern who tried to gut him with a filleting knife, calling him the antichrist. She had missed her opportunity, alas for Russia. Yes, her knife slid through his soft belly, and he stood before her with his entrails spilling out. But some local doctor pushed the tangled mess back in the empty cavity and sewed him up again.
“Or so they say. So they say.” I was muttering to myself now. With the mad monk, it’s difficult to know how much is true and how much is story.
Oh yes, he might be the very devil to kill.
And realizing that I’d made a joke—I entered the apartment, giggling.
Ninotchka was working on her sewing in the alcove. Two women friends, the delightful Masha and the despicable tart-tongued Dasha, plus the maid who cleaned up the place, were walking around her, gabbling like geese. Ninotchka looked up, her blond hair framing that perfect, heart-shaped face.
“A joke, my darling?” she asked.
“A joke,” I agreed, “but not one a man can share with his adorable wife.” I cupped her chin with my right hand.
She wrinkled her nose. “You stink, my love. What is that smell?”
I’d forgotten to wash the stench of dragon off my hands.
“It is nothing. I was talking to the horses that pull our carriage, reminding them of what sweet cargo they will have aboard tonight.”
“Tonight?” The look in her eyes forgave me the stench. It was not yet the start of the Season, and she had been growing feverish for some fun.
I planned to take her to the Mariinsky Theatre and dinner afterwards. And she would reward me later, of that I was certain.
“I have planned a special treat out for us. It will be a surprise,” I said. It was amazing how easily the lie came out. “But now I have business,” I added. “I beg you to go to your rooms. You and your women.”
“Government business?” she asked sweetly, but I knew better than to hint now. She was simply trying to discover some bit of gossip she could sell to the highest bidder. After all, I alone could not keep her in jewels.
Later in bed, I will sleepily let out a minor secret. Not this one, of course. I am a patriot, after all. I serve the tsar. Even though the tsar has not lately served me and mine at all.
I smiled back. “Very definitely government business.”
As soon as Ninotchka and the women went into her room, and the maid went on to the next apartments to clean them, I locked her door from the outside.
Let them make of that what they will, I thought, though knowing it was government business would keep them from complaining.
Then I sat at my desk and wrote the letters, taking a great deal of time on the initial one until I was satisfied with the way I had suggested but never actually said what the reason for the meeting was.
Then I sent for Nikita to deliver the letters and to make a reservation at the Mariinsky and Chez Galouise, the finest French restaurant in the city, for their last sitting. I knew I could trust Semyon completely, thinking, He, at least, would never shop me to my enemies. After all, I have saved his life upon three separate occasions. That kind of loyalty is what distinguishes a man from a woman.
Chapter 12
The mad monk lay in a pile of flesh and blankets and was nearly content. He’d been unable to find the swan-necked lady-in-waiting but had made do with a fleshy and mostly willing tradesman’s daughter who had a head of brilliant red curls and, alas, nothing inside it. A quick tumble had nearly knocked the unworthy thoughts of the tsarina out of his head, and when they returned a few minutes later, he merely ploughed the young woman again. She hadn’t the energy to protest by then. He was naked except for a silver cross on a braided chain that he never removed, for it was charmed. While he wore it, he could not be killed by the hand of man. God had charmed it, and God had told him of it.
And God is good. He has raised me up from nothing. He has fulfilled my every dream. He has put me next to the tsar so I can whisper His wisdom into the ears of power.
But he knew that great care was needed now. Though God was known to reward His faithful, He was also known to punish those who begin to expect those rewards. Who think they deserve them.
Pride and Hubris. Rasputin named the twin devils that he knew he was especially susceptible to. They have brought down many a devoted man. I must ensure I am not another.
He swore that he would do only God’s work. Sing only His praises. That the women, the power, they meant nothing to him. Merely trifles compared to power and glory of a great and generous God.
He felt so enflamed with God’s love that he nearly rode the girl a third time. But he recognized it as a trap. The first two dalliances had served a purpose; a third would have been for his own indulgence.
And I exist only to serve God.
He stood and stretched, enjoying the play of the many cold drafts in the tradesman’s house across his naked body, then slipped back into his robe. The rough cloth scraped him in places so recently overused, but the discomfort only reminded him of his duty.
Pain, discomfort, hardship. I will suffer them all and gladly for the greater glory of God.
He aimed a beatific smile at the girl, but she had slipped into a twitchy slumber. She would not see him leave.
And she will not see me ever again. She has served her purpose. God’s purpose, he reminded himself. He left a gold coin on the pillow. She would know what that meant. It was surely more than she expected, though perhaps less than she had hoped.
As he left the tradesman’s house, a cold wind sliced off the Neva and hit him full in the face. He didn’t feel it. He felt only the golden warmth of God’s glorious love.
Chapter 13
Spring would surely break in Russia like the smiles of women Bronstein had known: cautious, cold, and a long time coming.
Now, however, they were in the deepest part of the winter. Snow lay indifferently on the ground as if it knew it still had months of discomfort to visit on the people, rich and poor alike. But, Bronstein told himself, on the poor even more. The peasants, at the bottom of the heap, might even have to tear the thatch from their roofs to feed the livestock if things got much worse.
He’d visited the eggs a dozen more times, each visit going by a different route, from every conceivable compass point. Always checking for followers. Always looking for footprints not his own. And always carefully brushing away his back-trail. He spent hours with the eggs, squatting in the cold, snowy field, and talking out his plans as if the dragons could hear him through the tough elastic shells. He had no one else to tell. Borutsch had fled to Berlin, and Bronstein feared the old man had spilled his secret before leaving. But as he—so far at least—had not spotted anyone close by, and the eggs had not been disturbed, he was reasonably certain that even if Borutsch had spoken of what he’d seen, people would have thought him deranged. An old man at the end of his life muttering about dragons.