Rasputin's Revenge (12 page)

“Did you arrange this?” I asked coldly. “And if you did, why?”

“Don’t be angry, Jules.”

“I’m sorry, but it doesn’t seem wrong to ask what I am doing here.”

“Come,” he said, “let us sit down. We need to talk.”

We had reached a gazebo on the banks of one of the rowing lakes that hadn’t yet frozen over. Lupa motioned me inside and we sat on wooden benches along one of the walls. The gentle lap of the water, the susurrus of the breeze through the bare trees, the shimmering sky to the North—all might have been soothing on another occasion, but tonight all I felt was a sudden isolation from my fellow man. The stark, lonely setting seemed the mirror of my soul.

Far off, a bird screeched; then we heard a muffled crack, like a gunshot, followed by a rumbling noise.

“What’s that?” I asked, too upset to think for myself.

“It sounds like a tree breaking under the weight of the snow,” Lupa replied, and he was right.

“I’m afraid I’m not thinking too clearly,” I said.

“You are angry,” Lupa repeated.

I raised my voice. “I am five thousand kilometers from my home, away from my wife and child. I have risked my life to get here because I believed my mission was essential to our war effort. Now I am told that I’ve been duped, and by the very people I believed I could trust. What kind of fool wouldn’t be angry?”

The big man put his hand on my shoulder. Knowing how he disliked physical contact of any sort, I realized it was a powerful gesture. “Jules, your role here is critical. That much is true.”

“But I am not to get my commitment from the Czar?”

“Oh yes, as far as that goes, that’s also correct.”

“But there is more.”

“Let’s just say that your official status ties in neatly with your real purpose here.”

“And that is?”

“And that is to help me try to save Russia.”

I stared at the younger man, his face sober in the silver shadows. There was no trace of the arrogance that his words would imply. “And you must know,” he continued, “that upon that salvation rests the future of France.”

I leaned back against the cold, unfinished wood. If I could still be of help to my country, any sacrifice would be worth it, but my pride still smarted. “If my work here is so crucial,” I asked, “how is it that I could not be told about it?”

Lupa folded his hands in front of him, elbows on his knees. “Because, my friend, I perceived that you must have a legitimate and important reason to be here in your own right, and you do. I wanted to give you several days to establish yourself in your official capacity before recruiting you to my work.”

“But you had no confidence that I could carry off the deception.”

“That’s not the point. Why burden you with it? Even now, you could refuse to help me and you would still have an important function here at court. We are both working for the same thing—to keep Nicholas on the throne and his troops at the front.”

After another minute of wrestling with myself, I saw the logic of his position. There was even, I realized, an admirable economy about it. It was better that I remain ignorant until I was ready to play an active role—what I did not know I could not reveal, either intentionally or
par hazard
.

“All right,” I said. “Why are you here? To investigate the murders?”

“Of course.”

“And Anastasia sent for you?” I didn’t see a connection there.

We left the gazebo and began walking along one of the many bridle paths that wound back around the palaces. “Not directly,” Lupa said. “Actually, the Czarina sent for me. She sent the messages through Anastasia, who is the daughter of King Nikita of Montenegro. He, in turn, appealed to me.”

“And I?”

“I knew I would need you. Since I would be an official investigator—in effect a member of the police force—I expected that people would try to hide things from me. But I needed eyes and ears where my presence would not be sensed. You are the most skilled undercover operative I’ve worked with. I therefore determined to have your help.”

“But conveying the message to me? How did you accomplish that?”

He chuckled again. “That was rather fine. Anastasia’s husband, Grand Duke Nicholas, is a close friend of General Foch. I remembered that you and Foch were also on good terms.”

“And my offer to the Czar?”

“That, Jules, is genuine. Originally, it was to be offered through Paleologue, but Foch thought a special emissary would be more effective. And he agreed that you were the ideal choice.”

I had to laugh at all the flattery. “All right, but why did Alexandra send for you in the first place?”

He nodded. “She saw the effect the first killings had on Nicholas. She reasoned, correctly I think, that someone is launching a personal terror campaign against him. And she also thinks that, unless it’s stopped, it will succeed.”

“But succeed in what, exactly?”

“In forcing Nicholas to sue for a separate peace.”

“Does she really care so much about that? She herself is German, isn’t she? One would think she’d quite favor it.”

“No.” Lupa shook his head. “No, even though her enemies believe that, I’m sure it’s not true. Her loyalty is to her husband, and to passing on the Romanov line through Alexis, and she is fanatical about that. Otherwise, she is quite naive politically. Her main concern is the personal effect the War, and these murders, have on the Czar.”

“That ties in with what Paleologue told me,” I said, and explained the ambassador’s characterization of the royal family as petite bourgeoisie. But another thought occurred to me. “If these murderers simply assassinated Nicholas, wouldn’t that get the job done?”

“No, I don’t think so. The throne would pass to Alexis, under the Regency of Alexandra. The people, as they always have in the past, would probably rally to the Romanov line, and the War would continue.”

“So the ultimate object of the murders is to get Russia out of the War?”

Lupa slowed down. “I don’t know. It seems the most logical answer.”

“But …?”

“Yes, Jules, but …” He stopped and took a huge gulp of the freezing air, as though he were clearing his head. “I’m not sure. It’s perplexing. Knowing that doesn’t narrow the field at all.”

“But surely …”

Lupa shook his head. “No, Jules, not at all.” He ticked off the points with his fingers. “The Royalists want a separate peace because so long as Nicholas keeps losing on the battlefield, the monarchy loses prestige. The democrats want the same thing because they believe that a demoralized Czar would grant concessions to the Duma. The Communists want the men now fighting the Germans at the front to be home to start the revolution. About the only people that don’t want a separate peace are the Allies and, thus far, Nicholas himself.”

We’d come all the way round behind the Alexander Palace. Lupa pointed out the lights in the upstairs window that marked the bedroom of Nicholas and Alexandra. As we watched, the shadow of a man came to that window, seeming to bear the weight of the world on his slumping shoulders as he stared out over the glittering snowscape.

Lupa must have felt the same way I did—we had intruded upon a private moment. He touched my arm lightly. “This walking has given me an appetite,” he said. “Perhaps we can get a bite in the Czar’s kitchen.”

“Oh, yes,” I answered sarcastically. “After ten courses at dinner, I’m famished. Let’s just nip into the Czar’s kitchen and have a snack.”

But Lupa was already moving. “If you’d rather not, we’ll meet again tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder.

I followed him. “Do you have entrée to the kitchen?”

“Of course. Do you think I’d agree to come to such a godforsaken corner of the world as St. Petersburg without making some demands for my own comfort?”

“But the Czar’s own kitchen?” I caught up with him just as we reached the back door to the Palace. He had a badge or pass of some sort that got us past the Ethiopian guardsmen, who in any event seemed to know him.

“It is not so outrageous. After all, I do have some small reputation as a chef, so I put myself in a place where I could satisfy my own desires and also be of some help.”

I remembered the state dinner I’d attended the other night, and how, unbidden, I had thought of Lupa as the food had begun to appear. I recounted the experience to him.

He nodded. “Just so. I’ve always admired your palate, Jules. It doesn’t surprise me you recognized my touch. Any chef worth his mettle leaves a signature on his work.”

We had come to another checkpoint. Inside the palace, every new hallway had a brace of the Ethiopian guardsmen. They are a unique feature of the court here, brightly dressed in blue and red, scimitars in their belts. Their role, however, ostentatious though it may be, is not for show.

And Lupa is evidently not only known but liked. We were waved by after the most perfunctory of exchanges.

“How long have you been here?” I asked him.

“It will be three weeks tomorrow.”

“You seem to have made friends already.”

“Yes, they’re good men. I like to experiment, as you know; and someone has to eat what I prepare.”

“But surely you’re not the chef de cuisine?”

“No, no, not at all. That is Max—Maximilian—Pohl, the hope of Russia.”

I laughed, thinking it was typical of Lupa to accord that honor not to a general or a statesman, but to a cook.

But my friend stopped and faced me. “I’m not joking, Jules. Pohl is a great chef, but he is also a great man. He possesses that rarest of qualities—one which seems to be entirely missing here—of balance. It shows in his dishes, of course, but more in the way he lives and in his politics.

“Do you remember how we were saying that everyone except Nicholas and the Allies want a separate peace? Well, there is one other exception—those who believe that there is enough goodness in the Russian heart to overcome these troubles. Pohl is such a man. He knows the Czar well—Nicholas will often come down to the kitchen at midnight and boil up some mushrooms in a little tin cup. They talk. They are friends.

“And Nicholas, he says, is ready to include the people in the government. It was he, after all, who created the Duma only ten years ago. But first he wants to win the War. If he’s forced to negotiate a separate peace, he will be weakened and the people will probably revolt, and that will result in chaos.”

Except for food, I had rarely heard Lupa speak so passionately about anything. Pohl obviously made a strong impression on him. I wanted to question him further. I had, after all, seen things outside the palace, on the streets, that indicated the time for balance had passed. I wondered if Lupa and Pohl, cooking here in the palace, had much sense of the tension that pervaded the capital.

But we had come to the kitchen and heard voices raised in anger. We pushed open the doors in time to see one man, nearly as big as Lupa and armed with a butcher knife, lunge at another.

The smaller man ducked out of the way, pulled a ladle from a rack over his head, and threw it at his attacker.

“Max, watch out!” Lupa yelled.

The ladle missed its mark, clattering loudly into the pans on one of the stoves. The armed man—Pohl—again attacked, and again the other man evaded him, then turned and rushed toward us, toward the doors.

“Auguste, stop him!” Pohl yelled.

Though dressed in his greatcoat, my friend didn’t hesitate. He took a couple of steps, then threw himself horizontally at the fleeing figure, hitting him above the knees. The two men fell to the floor in a heap. Still, Lupa’s quarry did not rest, but continued to struggle trying to free himself.

“Jules, get help!” he cried.

Immediately I turned and rushed back toward the last checkpoint. But the guards had already heard the noise and were descending upon the kitchen at a run even as I pushed through the doors. They might wear scimitars, but both of them carried revolvers as well, and had them out.

It was over in seconds. The guards covered the other man as Lupa struggled to his feet, rubbing his head. Pohl walked up to him with the knife in his hand and held it in front of his face. “I ought to cut your throat,” he said.

If this was the balanced and mild hope for Russia, I thought, the country was beyond hope.

“Put the knife down, Max,” Lupa commanded.

The guards, knowing both Pohl and Lupa, seemed inclined to let them do whatever they wished. The chef seemed to struggle with himself, then slowly brought the knife to his side.

“Get out of here, Karel. I never want to see your face again.”

The small man fairly spit at his attacker. “You’ll see my face in your dreams ‘til you die, you coward!” Laughing horribly, he continued. “What I’ve already done ought to haunt all of you palace rats long enough.”

Then, without so much as a glance at Lupa, myself, or the guards, the man dusted off his coat and began walking out of the room.

“It’s all right,” Pohl said to the guards. “Let him go. It was a personal matter.”

“I would hardly call that personal,” Lupa said coldly.

We were seated at a small table in the back of the kitchen, drinking the best beer I had tasted since my last sip of my own home brew back in France.

“Karel Borstoi was the best friend of my youth, Auguste.” The Czar’s chef spoke calmly. He is the size of my friend, but the resemblance ends there. Where Lupa is dark, nearly swarthy, in appearance, Pohl could be a Swede. His hair is pure white, almost as though he powders it with flour. In spite of having no eyebrows, a thin ascetic nose, and an overbroad sensuous mouth, he has something attractive about his face. He smiles easily, and there is in those blue eyes a sense of joy in life, of understanding beyond his ken—even, as Lupa would have said, of balance. “I will not see him rotting in jail.”

“You were about to kill him half an hour ago.”

“Death is release. Prison is its opposite. There is no comparison.”

“Don’t quibble with me, Max. He tried to kill the Czar. You just admitted that.”

According to Pohl’s story, it was true. Borstoi had come into the kitchen as he had often done before. After all, he was a personal friend of
the chef. The two men had been sitting drinking, and when Pohl had gone for more beer, Borstoi had taken the opportunity to try and put arsenic in the Czar’s sugar bowl. Pohl came back a little early, discovered his friend’s betrayal, and the fight had started.