Rasputin's Revenge (17 page)

He poured two more cups of tea and we spent the next half hour discussing my official role here. His understanding of the international
situation was severely limited by his blind hatred of the Czar, and I came to the conclusion that his Communist beliefs would easily give way to any other political view so long as one of its main tenets was overthrow of the Romanovs. In essence, he is simply an anarchist, and a dangerous one.

But the long discussion did accomplish one purpose—a superficial friendliness developed between us. At least, on my side it was superficial. From Borstoi, I sensed the almost frantic reaching out for friendship and approval that one often encounters in insecure, haunted men. In the end, he asked me if he could take me to lunch at Cubat.

“Isn’t that rather extravagant?” I asked. Last night, Lupa had mentioned it as one of the most exclusive dining places in the city, one he wanted to try himself before our investigation was completed.

But Borstoi grinned conspiratorially. “I’ll take care of it.” He went to a closet against the back wall of the press room and took out a white linen shirt, cravat, coat, and greatcoat. When he saw me looking at him with surprise, he quickly spoke up. “From my days at court. It’s a helpful uniform in certain circumstances.”

As we walked to the restaurant, I used his reference to the court as an introduction to expressing my thoughts on the murders, though I omitted any mention of Lupa, or my connection to him. I said that I understood Pohl was one of those suspected of murdering Minsky. As I was about to go into the reasons—access to arsenic and so on—Borstoi interrupted me.

“I never doubted Max did it.”

In some shock, I asked him to repeat what he’d just said.

“I said of course Max killed Minsky. He all but told me as much the other night.”

“But Max is a Czarist, isn’t he?” I remembered Lupa’s opinions regarding the chef, his loyalty to Nicholas, his belief in orderly progress through the monarchy.

Borstoi stopped and looked at me as if I were a madman. “What do politics have to do with Minsky’s killing?”

I briefly outlined it—expressed as my own original idea—that the murders seemed to be directed somehow at the Czar, to weaken him, to make him lose his taste for continuing the War.

“Yes, yes, of course that,” he said impatiently, “in the case of at least one of the first three. But Minsky had nothing to do with the Czar.” Then he added, “But it is wonderful if it adds to the man’s miseries.”

I choked down my natural response. “But you think Minsky wasn’t part of that?”

He laughed. “I know, or all but know it.”

“But then …?”

“Giraud, there are other issues in the world besides politics.”

“Did Pohl admit killing him?”

“No, no. Not even to me. He’s not that stupid. But I suppose Sukhomlinov could have done it, too. They both had the motive.”

I was greatly confused, but we had just arrived at the restaurant. The Cubat was so elegant it made the Villa Rhode seem like a bohemian boîte. We had our greatcoats taken by the maitre d’ and were seated, at Borstoi’s request, in the back of the establishment. His manner to the captain was appropriate, and he appeared perfectly at ease in the midst of this society. I also noticed a vast improvement in his Russian as he spoke to the waiter—no doubt his unfinished accent up to this time was some attempt at consistency with his proletarian stance. But I was too curious to press any side issues. As soon as we were seated and our waiter had left us, I grabbed Borstoi by the arm. “What do you mean, Pohl and Sukhomlinov had the same motive?”

He looked down at my fingers and I loosened my grip. “Why is your interest so great, Giraud?”

Afraid that I had betrayed myself, and rather than go on the defensive, I attacked. “Because, you fool, I’m operating on certain assumptions in trying to play my government against the Czar. It’s a very subtle game. I have to read Nicholas exactly, and if Minsky’s murder hasn’t shaken him, then now might not be the right time to pressure him, and I was under the impression that it was.”

The arrival of our wine provided a moment’s respite, and it was enough for Borstoi to digest my words. “It’s wonderful,” he said, convinced by my anger if not my argument. “It probably has had that effect.”

He took a sip of the wine, smacked his lips appreciatively, and whispered to me, “But Giraud, Minsky was having an affair with Katrina Sukhomlinov. Her husband is beyond himself with jealousy, and, to make it more interesting, Pohl is also in love with her. If that’s not why he died, I’m a royalist.”

The room almost whirled before me. As soon as he said it, it was so obvious that I wondered how it had never occurred to me or to Lupa. It explained so much, not the least of which was Katrina’s behavior at, and tearful exit from, Anastasia’s party. Just to be saying something, I protested, “But surely Max would know it would have such a powerful effect on the Czar?”

“So what? What’s that to him?”

“I understood he was, I mean politically he was …”

“Max?” Borstoi laughed coarsely. “Max is the least political man I’ve ever known. He doesn’t care about anything but himself. If you wanted a job at court, what would be your politics? Of course he says he pro-Romanov. Anything else would put him on the street.”

The waiter came again and Borstoi ordered for us both as I tried to assimilate what he’d been telling me. He might have earlier appeared unwashed, bitter, insecure, even foolish, but his analysis of how things worked in St. Petersburg made more sense at the moment than all of my own imaginings and all of Lupa’s finely-deduced theories.

“And the other killings?” I asked when the waiter had gone. “Were they jealousy, too?”

Again that mirthless laugh. “Katrina Sukhomlinov is a very passionate women, and her husband is old. She is not the only one of her type at court.” He paused, considering something, then went on. “But at least one killing was aimed at weakening the Czar. I’m certain of that.”

“How is that?”

It was as though a warning sounded somewhere. He looked away across the room, then back at me. Clapping me on the back with forced gaiety, he switched back to his gutteral accent. “You bring your proof to me and I may tell you.”

During the rest of the meal, I tried to make conversation though my mind was reeling with the possibilities uncovered by Borstoi’s news about Katrina Sukhomlinov. What if Lupa had been summoned here and there was no plot? What if the entire city and court ran on tracks of personality, greed, jealousy, mysticism, and there was in fact no coherent political thought directing anyone’s actions? Certainly, the Romanovs themselves were singularly domestic and parochial for a royal couple. It wasn’t too far-fetched to assume that their style had imprinted itself on the fabric of Russian life from top to bottom. After all, Nicholas had been Czar for nearly two decades.

These thoughts made me feel completely useless here, and yet I saw no other course of action but to press on. It was even possible that Nicholas would be relieved to learn that the murders had no relation to the War or to himself. Of course, the deaths of his friends would still be difficult to bear, but he could escape feeling that he was somehow to blame, that ending the War would put a stop to these personal tragedies.

Karel Borstoi became more and more animated as he ate and drank. I sipped one glass of wine during the lunch and let him down the rest of the bottle, after which he ordered another. He was excited about the War news, about Minsky’s death, the Czar being back at the capital, the effect
Rasputin was having on the populace, undermining all faith in Alexandra’s judgment, and all belief in the Czar’s essential goodness.

Finally, as I knew he would, he asked me about Lupa. Who was he? Why had I been with him in the kitchen? What was his relationship to Pohl?

It was easily explained, and most of it truthfully. Lupa was a special investigator assigned to the murders. I had a legitimate interest in the progress he was making. Lupa was an amateur chef and had struck up a friendship with Pohl. It was the right time to tell him—the explanation went down as easily as the wine.

The young revolutionary finished his meal and excused himself for a minute. I sat drumming my fingers on the tablecloth, anxious now to get to Lupa and impart this new information. Through the window, I could see that out in the street, the snow was again falling heavily. A waiter came and refilled my glass, and I wondered, not for the first time, how Borstoi was going to pay for this meal.

And that thought brought on other doubts about my would-be comrade. Why had he not been conscripted into the army? Did he have enough connections at court to protect him from that? Was he planning another assassination attempt on the Czar? How reliable was anything he had told me? If he didn’t believe my ruse as his coconspirator, he would be wise to feed me false information and hope it would further muddle affairs at court.

But before I’d come to any conclusions, he returned in a state of high excitement. He began babbling about the work of a friend of his, Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov.

“You mean Lenin,” I said, and could tell from his reaction that I had passed another test of sorts. He went on to say that when he published the latest paper he’d received from Switzerland, the revolution would begin at last.

I started to say something appropriate when there was a commotion in the hallway behind us. First we heard loud voices, then the sound of running feet, pots banging. The maitre d’ scurried past us to the kitchen and returned almost immediately.

In the center of the room, he clapped his hands once, and when he had everyone’s attention, spoke calmly. “I’m sorry to have to interrupt your meals, but I must ask that we evacuate the restaurant immediately. There is a fire.”

Fortunately, no one panicked, though we were beginning to smell the smoke while we stood waiting for our coats near the front door. We got outside just as the first of the firefighters arrived Klaxons blaring. I wanted
to stay and see if I could help, but Borstoi pulled me away rather roughly. Then he began chuckling.

“What’s funny? A fire could destroy half the city.”

“Let it,” he said. “It’s the rich half anyway. Let the bastards burn!”

But I couldn’t let it go at that, and I pulled away from his grip, about to go back and help.

“Giraud! The fire won’t spread. It’s confined.”

“How can you know that?”

He grinned. “Because I started it.” When I looked at him incredulously, he shrugged as if it were a small matter. “And they say there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Ha!”

10

A
fter leaving Borstoi, I wandered again through the back streets of the city. I felt I needed to get away from palaces, intrigues, and conversations and sort out my thoughts. The wind swirled snow in the doors and alleyways and every other building seemed to sport the red cross of the field hospital. I don’t know whether it was because of the muting effect of the snow, or because suffering men moan more at night, but I heard none of the sounds that had haunted the streets on my first walk through them.

As I pushed through the unswept knee-high snow, I had to remind myself that it was only October. The proper winter was still months off. Seeing the hopeless resignation on the faces of women and children pressed against the frosted panes as I passed, I began to believe in my heart that the country could never survive another winter of war and defeat.

It might almost be better, I thought, if Nicholas did give up, if the murders and lack of supplies and battlefield losses convinced him that the seemingly doomed effort was not worth it. At least then the immediate suffering might be lessened.

But then I remembered the brave sons of France, England, even Italy, who were dug into trenches from Amiens to Strasbourg, of the losses they’d sustained and the suffering they’d already endured. I thought of the eight million Russian boys who had already given their lives for the Allied cause. Shall all of that have been in vain?

No, it could not be. An afternoon with the likes of Borstoi was a glimpse of an uncivilized world, and I firmly believe that our cause is no less than civilization’s itself. Nicholas must not give up! His brave troops had already once saved my country—during the first weeks of the war as
Germany had to shift two regiments to the Eastern Front just when it seemed they had us overrun. And now we needed them again. It was a hard truth, but undeniable. The Czar’s commitment was our greatest, and only, hope. But what, I wondered, was Russia’s?