I may have to cut him down here in the hall.
Suddenly I was unsure if I could manage such a thing. He is far bigger than I am. And if older, certainly stronger.
I felt sweat pooling under my arms, thought wildly, If I miss with my first stroke, he could probably snap me in two with his huge peasant’s hands.
“Why not give it to me then, Father,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound as querulous and weak to the monk as it did to me. “I assume by your outfit that you have somewhere else you must be?”
I was really just trying to buy some time. I’d need to be just a few steps back so to have room to draw steel, but not so far away as to be unable to close and strike. But if I did so, I’d no idea what I might tell His Majesty to explain the murder of the tsarina’s closest advisor in the halls outside my chambers.
But tales can be fabricated, evidence planted. And though I was not terribly adept with a knife, a man’s heart was not a walnut, no matter how shrunken it may be.
Those other skills I had in abundance: manipulation, storytelling, obfuscation.
But the knife would have to come out first.
Before I could pull out the blade, the mad monk spoke in that damnable convincing voice.
“You are right, my son. I have somewhere to be. Somewhere important. The tsar, bless him, is probably already closeted with his beautiful wife. No man should be so disturbed. I will speak to him in the morning after our prayers.” He managed to pack information and insult in six short sentences before turning on his heel and marching away.
I watched him disappear around a corner, sweat from my knife hand drip-dripping onto the hilt.
My car followed Rasputin’s, but not that closely. I did not want to frighten him off. It soon became clear we were both going to Prince Felix Yusupov’s palace.
The prince was sole heir to the largest fortune in Russia, and I was certainly not in his set, so I’d never been inside his house, though I knew where it was. But if I could help pull off this coup, I was certain the prince would reward me greatly.
The prince had once been good friends with the mad monk, pals in carousal, so they say. That was years before he was married. He and Rasputin had gone together to all the dubious night spots. The women they kept company with were dubious as well. But in this marriage, the princess now held the upper hand—her royalty trumped his money. So, Rasputin had been ruled out of the prince’s life. An old story but a true one.
But the monk had not taken the hint, so a year ago, Prince Yusupov was heard to complain, “Will no one kill this starets for me?”
I hadn’t known about it then, but when I spoke of my plan to Pavlovich, he told it to the prince. “A great favor,” he was told.
And so things began to boil. But because of Pavlovich’s extensive social calendar, the first time he was free was this evening, December 30th. He and I decided that Pavlovich didn’t dare cancel any of his previous engagements and thus arouse suspicion.
Suddenly aflame with excitement, I leaned forward. “Faster!” I told the driver. “Faster now.”
It was pitch black outside, the true dark of a Russian winter, lit only by the car’s lights illuminating swirling snow. The driver had a heavy foot, and soon we approached the prince’s palace.
If anything, my mood was even higher than before. I felt that if I got out of the car now, I could dance all the rest of the way there. “Drive around to the servants’ entrance,” I instructed the driver. “I am a surprise guest.”
“Good one, sir!” he answered, making the turn around the back of the palace.
One of the stewards took me down to the cellar room where the dinner was to be held. No one else was there yet.
The cellar room was of gray stone with a granite floor. It had a low, vaulted ceiling and heavy curtains to keep out the cold. I tried peeking out from behind the curtains to get a sense of the room, but I realized immediately that my shoes protruded from underneath. I could not hide there.
The place already felt like a mausoleum. All it needed was a plain coffin. Only the carved wooden chairs, the small tables covered with embroidered cloths, and the cabinet of inlaid ebony indicated that it was a place of habitation. A white bearskin rug and a brilliant fire in the hearth hardly softened the room’s cemeterial aspect. Though perhaps knowing the plan for the evening, I exaggerated the sense of finality.
In the very center of the room stood a table that was laid for six: the prince, the monk, Pavlovich, two other conspirators, and the prince’s wife, who had been the bait to lure Rasputin to the place. Though the monk was not to know it, Princess Irina was off in the Crimea with her parents, not here.
I smiled, a full, almost boyish grin. What a plot we have hatched! What a coil.
A door opened, and I startled, too late to return to the safety of the curtain, but soon realized it was Dr. Lazovert, the purveyor of poisons. He put a finger to his lips, summoning me over.
A samovar in the middle of the table was already smoking away, surrounded by plates of cakes and dainties. When I got close enough, the doctor pointed to the sideboard where drinks sat.
“Each one filled with poison and the rims of the glasses soaked in poison as well,” Dr. Lazovert whispered, adding, “and each cake filled with enough cyanide potassium to kill several men in an instant. It won’t matter which he takes up. Just be sure you and the others—and the servants—do not take a taste of anything down here.”
I thought, almost gleefully: Several men! We only want to dispatch one.
The plan was in motion. I knew what came next. As soon as Rasputin dropped, it was my job to get the body out of there. But just in case the monk was slow to die, I had my knife. And someone else a pistol. Then we’d wrap the body in an old rug the prince had procured and drop it in the Neva, which flowed nearby. The spring floods would take care of the rest.
From upstairs came the sound of music. “Is that ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’?” I asked the doctor. “That damned American song?”
The music was supposed to be part of a party that Princess Irina was throwing for some women friends before joining the men.
The doctor nodded. “Now hide. They will soon be bringing Rasputin down.”
Knowing now that the curtain was not a plausible hiding place, I situated myself on the other side of the wooden serving door. It had a small window. I could see, and hear, but not be seen. The main servants were off, having been given a free night and warned not to return ’til morning, with just a few of the most trusted left behind.
“Perfect,” I said to the doctor, but he was already heading upstairs.
And then the door from the stairs opened, and down walked the mad monk himself, followed by a nervous-looking Yusupov.
I wanted to shout at the prince, “Stop sweating! You’ll give the game away.” But we were already well into it. It would play out as it would. I shrank back for a moment, away from the window in the door, took a deep breath, and waited.
Chapter 23
Rasputin sauntered into the room, smiling. He could feel his body tingling, starting at his feet. That always meant something huge would happen soon. Perhaps Princess Irina would declare her love openly. Perhaps the prince would simply offer her to him. He had done so before with his other women, when they were both younger and the prince not so caught up in convention. Rasputin made little distinction between a princess and a prostitute in bed. They even liked it better that way.