Suddenly, when he arrived in the kitchen and saw the Romanovs under the yellow light, Vasenkov knew exactly what he had to do, the only way he could make up to the revolution the disservice he had done it. Arc of vision narrowing, he raised his machine pistol to his shoulder and took aim at Nicholas, the former tsar. He fired a short burst, two rounds of which entered Nickolas’ torso and one of which basically exploded his head. The former ruler of Russia fell in a heap.
Vasenkov didn’t even have to adjust his aim; as Nicholas fell Alexandra, now unsupported, fell on top of him. Another burst ended her medical complaints forever.
Sweeping left, he fired a long continuous burst at the two youngest Romanov girls, both of whom fell over at the force of the blows. Next he took aim at the older one. A large man in uniform tried to interpose himself between them, but he was too late. Olga fell over.
Exultantly, Vasenkov took aim at where the last of the Romanovs stood…
Chekov saw the white-clad, machine pistol-bearing soldier open fire. It was preternatural, how quickly he fired and then took up a new aim. He couldn’t stop the shooting; all he could do was grab Tatiana and spin them both around, so that he stood between her and the shooter. He was also able to push her down a bit—she was a tall girl—so that her head was below the level of his shoulders.
A half dozen submachine guns fired just as Vanakov squeezed the trigger on the last of the royal enemies of the people. Though he felt bullets tearing into him, none of that mattered. He kept the trigger depressed and his point of aim on the back of the traitor shielding the Romanov girl. Finally, though, with half his organs ruptured or simply gone, he fell backwards. Even as he did, the last few bullets in his magazine sprayed the high ceiling of the kitchen, knocking out chunks of wood and plaster to rain down on the scene of slaughter.
It was only sheer force of will that had kept Chekov on his feet as long as he’d managed to stay on them. The hits had come close together, but not so close that he couldn’t feel them as individual blows. He continued to stand, for just a few seconds after the murderer had been taken out. It was actually the absence of more penetrating body blows that told him he could let go now, and fall.
Letting go of Tatiana, he did fall, like a sack of wet noodles, sinking to the floor and then flowing outward in the direction of Alexei. For a moment, Tatiana tried to hold him up. Failing that, she did her best to ease him to the floor.
“The bells,” he said. “Mother, I can hear the bells. Mother! No! Don’t leave me again!”
“I won’t leave you,” Tatiana answered. “I’m here, Sergei.”
“You waited for me, Mother, all these years. I doubted… but the bells… the ang…”
Chekov’s breath rattled in his throat. His body spasmed, twice. And then he was no more.
Tatiana sat back on her haunches. It was just too much. Her parents were dead. All her sisters had been gunned down. Even her little brother was a bloody ruin. And now, Chekov had died for her. Chekov, who owed her nothing, but had defended her and avenged Olga. Chekov, whose family had been treated like vermin under her father’s rule, but treated her with kindness. Chekov, whose loyalty she had done nothing to earn and whose forgiveness she would never be sure of now.
She couldn’t scream anymore. What she could do, and did, was let her head fall onto her chest and the tears to flow freely.
“I am so alone now,” she whispered, but not so lowly as she couldn’t be heard by her surprisingly still living sister, Maria, who knelt down beside her.
“No, you’re not, Tatiana. Ana and I are still here.”
“Was I hit then, too?” she asked. “Am I dead and talking to spirits?”
“No,” said Anastasia, kneeling on her other side. The youngest of the Romanovs had something shiny in her hand. “It was this… or these,” she said. “The jewelry Mama had us sew into our clothes. That stopped the bullets that hit me. This sapphire, in particular; it was over my heart and stopped the bullet cold. And, yes, I’m sore, but I’ll live.”
“Same with me,” added Maria. “Olga’s didn’t save her because she was too busy getting us into ours to put on her own.”
None of the girls wanted to look at their dear dead. Maria, on one side, Anastasia, on the other, they closed in from the flanks, creating a troika, of sorts. And then all three, their arms about each other, buried their heads in each others’ shoulders, and then broke down into sobs and howls of pure grief.
The sun was rising as Dratvin deposited the more than one hundred and fifty hale and wounded prisoners he’d taken in the open area south of the Governor’s House. He put his men in a ring around them, sending a runner to inform the guards on the prisoners taken by his third platoon to bring their charges to join the larger group.
While this was going on, Cherimisov, just north of there, in the Governor’s House, shouted down the stairwell leading to the basement, “My orders are to kill you all, but I’m willing to take a chance on saving your lives. Come up with your hands in the air, your mittens or gloves, hats, coats and bedding, your mess kits and canteens, and nothing else. You will be searched. If we find a weapon on you, you will be shot on the spot. You have two minutes to get your gear and start coming up. After that, we burn you alive.”
With the example of the Kornilov House, across the intersection, plainly visible from the east side basement windows, none of the men in the basement of the Governor’s House doubted but that these men could and would do as they threatened.
Led by Ensign Matveev, they began filing up. On the main floor, Molchalin’s platoon took charge of searching them. The fourth man up was found with a sap in his pocket.
“You were told ‘no weapons,’” said Molchalin.
“Yes, but…” the former guard on the Romanovs began. He never got the chance to finish as Molchalin’s runner shot him through the midsection.
“‘No weapons,’” I told you,” shouted Cherimisov. “That one didn’t listen. He’s dead now.”
From the main floor, the company commander could hear the sound of what he guessed were between twenty and thirty metal implements, hitting the stone floor of the basement.
“What the hell are we going to do with all of these?” Cherimisov wondered aloud.
“The other warehouse,” said Malinsky, “since the former prisoners are being housed in the one we used as an assembly area until we’re done securing the town. It doesn’t have any heat, mind, but at least it’s out of the wind. There aren’t any windows and only the two doors, so it won’t be hard to watch from the outside. And the ground is way too frozen for them to dig out.”
“Makes sense,” Cherimisov agreed. “See to it, would you, Top?”
“Yes, sir.”
Molchalin’s platoon sergeant reported to him that the prisoners and bodies had been searched. He also passed over a sheaf of papers, saying, “And sir, you need to read the one on top. Why don’t you do that while I take over here?”
Molchalin read by the rising sun. His face remained cold and expressionless until he got to a particular passage. At that, his eyes widened and his lips curled into a rictus grin. He walked immediately to Cherimisov and pointed to that particular passage.
“Bring them to Kostyshakov,” Cherimisov said. “He’s at the warehouse to the west.”
The bodies of the Romanov dead, plus Chekov, cooled rapidly in the freezing siberian air inside the warehouse. It was the warehouse previously used as an assembly area cum assault position for the rescue. Fully conscious of the great weight of guilt now resting on his shoulders, Kostyshakov sought out Tatiana. He began to say, “I’m sorry…” but then she cut him off brutally.