Rasputin's Revenge (23 page)

Fortified by strong tea and several sausages stuffed into fresh rolls of black bread, I was ready to begin. I still didn’t have a specific idea, but my confidence had returned. I was certain I could read the moment and act accordingly.

I made one last stop at the alcove to see if Elena had finished with the Grand Duchesses, but it was still empty. Then, making sure I was well bundled against pickpockets and the cold, I left the Palace.

Borstoi’s shop was closed.

I knocked, then banged on the front door for several minutes to make sure he wasn’t hiding in the back. My frustration increasing, I stood in the street as though waiting for the door to magically open. A brittle sun began to break through the high white cloud cover from time to time. Its light was feeble; it gave no warmth. And when it ducked again behind the clouds, as it did regularly, it only served by contrast to make the day seem colder.

But there wasn’t much else I could do, so I wrapped my coat around me and made myself as comfortable as I could on a stoop in a covered doorway across the street. It was possible Borstoi would come late to his shop, and that possibility, I reasoned, was worth a few hours of my time.

Fortunately, it didn’t turn out that way. The chill hadn’t yet worked its way into my bones when a young boy walked up to the door of Borstoi’s shop and, without any hesitation, opened it with a key He leaned over, picked up some papers that were lying on the floor, and reclosed and locked the door. Putting the papers into the pocket of his coat, he began returning the way he’d come.

He’d only gone about three blocks when he disappeared into a building that, before the War, had probably been quite respectable. Now it had gone to seed, as had so much of this part of the city. My first impressions of St. Petersburg as the Venice of the North had been tempered by my wanderings through it. Certainly, the grand boulevards—the Nevsky and the Morskaya Prospekts, for example—were still luxurious and impressive, but the rest of the city had fallen as though from grace, and now seemed all the more sad for its past glory.

The boy came out of the house and walked back past me on his way somewhere else. I waited a few more minutes, then mounted the seven steps and pushed at the unlocked door. The inside of the house was dusty and stuffy, as though its windows had been closed for too long, but well-appointed and clean. The vestibule was wide and its hardwood floors echoed.

“Who’s that?” a voice called from a back room.

“Jules Giraud,” I answered. “Is that you, Karel?”

“Back here.”

There was a short, carpeted hallway with a staircase running off to the left. Just beyond the hall, I came to what must have been the dining room with its huge table and chandelier. Three other doorways opened into it—evidently eating had been a focal point in the lives of those who had lived here.

“In here, Giraud.”

Borstoi looked a mess. He was propped up in a makeshift bed in what was normally a smoking room. His right arm was in a sling and his head was wrapped halfway round with gauze, through which blood had seeped. One eye was half-closed and beginning to show purple, and several cuts marked his weak chin.

“Karel! What happened?”

In spite of his wounds, he smiled broadly. “It was marvelous, Giraud, bloody marvelous.”

“What was that?”

“The riot! You didn’t hear about the riot?”

“I had a busy day. What happened?” I had to remind myself that I was on his side. I sat down, feigning interest.

“Just outside the Palace. It started early—as soon as word got out that Nicholas had come to the city.” He grimaced in pain, made himself more comfortable, and continued. “The man’s incapable of doing the right thing.”

“Nicholas?”

He nodded. “It was a petition, that’s all. Five hundred workers asking—asking, Giraud, not demanding—that the bread shops open earlier and stay open later. But of course our Czar couldn’t be bothered with his people.

“And what was beautiful, what was incredible, was that when the guard was ordered, as they always are, to fire on the crowd, the soldiers refused.” He laughed, spittle coming to the corners of his mouth. Even though it obviously caused him pain, he laughed. “And then the fun really began!”

“The soldiers mutinied?” I asked.

“About two hundred of them. Poor bastards were executed last night.” That fact stemmed his ebullience for a second, but then he went on. “But you’ll see, the soldiers will join us in the revolution. We’re all the same class. They won’t fire on their own people.”

“That is wonderful news!” I said.

I remembered my meeting with Nicholas yesterday, even while all this was going on, suffering for himself and for his people. I was almost tempted to confront Borstoi with the complexity of the situation, but it was plain that nothing could sway him from his vision of “Bloody Nick.”

“And I have more that I hope you think is wonderful,” I continued, taking the box from my pocket and placing it on the sofa beside him.

“What is this?”

I forced myself to smile into his eyes. “I hope you’ll accept it as proof that I am with you in our struggle. You said you needed something.” I motioned toward the box. “That is something.”

He picked it up and carefully opened it. His eyes widened. “Is this real? Is it what I think it is?”

“Press the diamonds,” I commanded.

When he did, the “surprise” had the same effect on him that it had had on me. He sat mesmerized, just staring, trying to take in every detail. “Where did you get this?”

I shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m afraid I stole it. They’re rather careless in the royal apartments. Almost nothing’s locked up.”

He sat holding it for another few minutes, looking at it from all sides, opening and closing the lid. Finally, he closed it, then the box, and laid it carefully on an end table. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and smiled. “It’s a fortune, Giraud. It can buy everything we need. Guns, ammunition, printing supplies, bombs. Its the beginning, the real beginning.” He opened his eyes, tearing himself away from the dreams, and reached out his good hand. “You must forgive me, comrade, for doubting you. These times …”

“I understand completely,” I said. “They call for caution. I would have done the same thing.”

As though reassuring himself that it really existed, he again picked up the box and lovingly beheld its contents. “It’s unbelievable! A Febergé egg, here in my house.” He tore his eyes away. “Giraud,
tovarishch
would you be so good as to go to the kitchen and get some glasses? This calls for a celebration.”

When I returned, he had produced two bottles of unopened prewar vodka. Taking the glasses, he half-filled them, toasted the revolution, and drained his.

Coughing, he smiled. “The pain is gone, comrade. I feel only joy.”

He refilled his glass, this time toasting the memory of his father. Again we clinked glasses, and again he drained his. “You must really forgive me,” he repeated. “You didn’t seem one of us, somehow. Can you understand? Here, drink more.”

In the next hour, he returned to the egg several times as though to reassure himself that it was real. He would be talking, or finishing another drink, then reach over, open the box, and stare at it, energized anew. He had finished two-thirds of the bottle, and was, literally, feeling no pain. By this time, we were great old friends. I had been pouring most of my drinks into a cuspidor that rested beside his sofa, and was still quite sober. It was time to go to work.

“Karel, comrade,” I said in a controlled slur, “where can we trade this egg in for rubles? It will not be easy, I’m afraid.”

Again he reached for it, opened it, took in its beauty. “Never thought …” he began; then bringing his eyes into focus on me, he smiled. “Oh, not to worry, comrade. We have friends, besides you, in high places.”

I didn’t want to push. “Excellent. Here, let me look at it.”

As he handed it to me, he reached for the bottle, dispensing with the glass altogether. It was as though he needed the jolt from the alcohol to keep his good fortune in perspective. He tipped the bottle up.

“Giraud,” he whispered hoarsely. “You know Kapov?”

My hands, holding the egg, began to tremble, my heart to pound. To cover up, I stood myself to a shot of vodka.

I nodded, hardly daring to believe I’d heard what I thought I’d heard and that the circle was at last beginning to close.

“I know an Ivan Kapov, but he’s the Czar’s cousin.”

Borstoi grinned crookedly, showing a mouth of gapped and blackened teeth. “Isn’t it rich? That’s Kapov.”

“He is a comrade?”

That really brought on a fit. “Kapov? Comrade Kapov?” He howled at the thought, grimacing as the laughter shook his bruise-racked body. “Oh, that’s good.” There were tears in his eyes. “I haven’t laughed so well in years. No, Giraud, Kapov is not a comrade. After the revolution, he will be among the first to go to the wall.”

He picked up the bottle and drained it, then lay back for a moment to recover his breath. I grabbed the second bottle, opened it, and put it in his hand. The plan I hadn’t been able to formulate that morning was now fully developed.

“I don’t understand, then, comrade. If …”

“Look,” he said, forcing his eyes open. “We want the same thing. Different reasons.” I had to struggle to make out the increasingly slurred words. “Using each other now. We both want the War over. Now. After that?” He shrugged. “After that we fight.”

“And we can trust Kapov?” I asked.

He opened his eyes full and summoned up all of his lucidity. “Blood pact,” he said. Then he laughed. “We started the murders so we’d have it on each other.”

“You’ve been …?”

He waved a finger from side to side in front of his face. “Tsk, tsk … only the first, Dieter Bresloe, a pig. The Czar’s bodyguard. I was bait.” He shook his head to try and clear it. “Kapov captures me, locks me in Bresloe’s room. Goes to his friend Dieter, says he’s caught an anarchist.
Bresloe comes back, we overpower him, knock him out, close door, leaving grenade behind.” He smiled madly at the memory. “Boom!” He laughed, drinking again.

“How did you get the grenade?”

Borstoi shrugged. “Kapov talked some fool general into showing off his arsenal, and he just pocketed a few and walked away with them.”

“Sukhomlinov,” I whispered.

Borstoi, now lying back limp as an old rag, made a face. “I don’t know. Don’t care.”

I didn’t want to seem so curious that I called attention to it, but I had to know more. “But why did you kill Bresloe?”

He snorted. “Kapov’s idea. Stupid. Weaken Nicholas by killing his friends.”

“It seems to be working,” I said.

He wagged his head. “Too slow, not certain. Kill Nicholas.” He laughed weakly. “Kill Bloody Nick himself and the War will end. You’ll see.”

“But the other murders?”

“Not me. Too risky, too slow.”

“Just Kapov?”

He shrugged, belched, swallowed. “Don’t know. Probably. Doesn’t matter.” He looked over at the egg, raised the bottle again to his mouth. “Doesn’t matter now,” he said, the tone of triumph ringing even through his drunkenness.

I was silent a moment, trying to comprehend what I had just heard. The royalist Kapov and the Communist Borstoi were the strangest of allies at first blush, but on a little reflection I realized that they were no more unlikely than monarchist Russia and republican France. The common goals outweighed the other differences.

Borstoi’s snore roused me. He lay back, his mouth gaping open, the bottle cradled in the crook of one arm. As I watched, he shifted, snorted again, settling into the cushions, then moaned quietly. His deep breathing became regular, his eyes opened partway, showing only a jaundiced shade of yellow.

After a quarter of an hour, during which I scarcely breathed, I whispered his name. When there was no response, I spoke it aloud. Then I nudged him. Finally, I made a fist and pounded him on his broken arm. At that, he moaned but remained sleeping. If he’d awakened, I would have told him I was trying to rouse him, but he didn’t move.

The second bottle was already half empty, so he’d downed perhaps a litre of vodka himself. They gave less than that to people who were to have limbs amputated.

I picked up the egg, took one last loving look at it, closed the box, and put it carefully into my coat pocket. The sun, outside, cast a topaz glow over the room as it broke through the clouds just before setting. After a last look at my slumbering “comrade,” I walked outside to the street, hands in my pockets, whistling.

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