The Dragon Book (18 page)

“Why not give it to me to pass along then, Father,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound as querulous and weak to him 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 needed to be just a few steps back, so that I would have room to draw steel, but not so far away as to be unable to close and strike. I had no idea what I might tell His Majesty to explain my murder of his wife’s closest advisor in the halls outside his chambers. But tales could be fabricated, evidence planted. I was not terribly good with a knife, but I had skills in that other department.

But the knife will have to come out first.

With that in mind, I took a small step back and prepared to pull my blade.

But, surprisingly, the mad monk stood just a single moment in thought, then turned and spoke to me.

“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 disturbed at such a time. I will speak to him in the morning, after our prayers.” He managed to pack information and insult in five short sentences before turning on his heel and marching away from me.

I stood and watched him disappear around a corner, sweat from my knife hand drip-dripping into my jacket.

MY car followed Rasputin’s, but not that closely. I did not want to frighten him off. As we were both going to Prince Yusupov’s palace, and I knew where it was—well, didn’t everybody?—I could take a slightly longer route.

I’d never actually been to the palace before. The prince was sole heir to the largest fortune in Russia, and I was certainly not in his set. But if I could help pull off this coup, perhaps he would reward me greatly. After all, he had tired of his old friend in carousal, Rasputin, who had gone with him to all the dubious nightclubs long before his marriage.

The prince had said quite plainly a year ago, “Will no one kill this
starets
for me?”

I hadn’t known it then, but when I spoke of my own plan to Pavlovich, he brought me in on this one. Because of Pavlovich’s extensive social calendar, the first time he was free was this evening, December 31. We didn’t want him canceling any of his other engagements and thus arousing suspicion.

I felt marvelous to have been able to move the monk along and could not wait to hear their applause. It warmed me on such a cold night. I leaned forward and told my driver, “Faster! Faster now.”

It was pitch-black outside, lit only by the car’s lights illuminating the swirling snow. The driver had a heavy foot, and soon we approached the palace.

I went in the back way, as if a servant, as planned. One of the stewards took me down to the cellar room where the dinner was to be. I peeked out from behind the curtain. No one was there yet.

The cellar room was of gray stone with a granite floor. It had a low, vaulted ceiling.
Ah,
I thought,
it already feels like a mausoleum.
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 by the living. A white bearskin rug and a brilliant fire in the hearth further softened the room’s cemeterial aspect.

In the center of the room, a table was laid for six: the prince, the monk, Pavolovich, two other conspirators, and the prince’s wife, who had been the bait to lure Rasputin to the place. Though he was not to know it, Princess Irina was off in the Crimea with her parents, not here.

I smiled. What a plot we have hatched! What a coil!

A samovar in the middle of the table was already smoking away, surrounded by plates of cakes and dainties. On the sideboard were the drinks, filled with poison, and the glasses, their rims soaked in poison as well. Dr. Lazovert had told me himself that each cake was filled with enough cyanide potassium to kill several men in an instant.

Several! We only wanted to dispatch
one
.

My smile grew larger. All was at the ready. As soon as Rasputin dropped, it would be my job to get the body out of there. But just in case he was slow to die, I had a pistol as well. And my knife.

From upstairs came the sound of music. I think it was “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” 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. I would have to hide again. They would soon be bringing Rasputin down.

I feared being found behind a curtain and situated myself on the other side of the wooden serving door. It had a small window. I could see but not be seen. Perfect.

And then the door opened, and in walked the mad monk himself, followed by a nervous-looking Prince Yusupov. I wanted to shout at him, “Stop sweating! You will give the game away.” But we were already well into it. It would play as it would play. I shrank back for a moment, away from the window in the door, took a deep breath, and waited.

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.

But no—he preferred the chase, the slow seduction, the whimpering of the whipped dog that would be the prince. He must not jump the fence before it was close enough. His mother always said that. The old folk wisdom was true.

He touched the charm around his neck. The prince would hate him but could not harm him.

“Have some cakes,” Prince Yusupov said, gesturing with a hand toward the table. There were beads of sweat on his forehead.

Rasputin wondered at that. It was, indeed, too warm down in the cellar, but he himself was not sweating.

“The cakes were made especially. Especially for you,” Yusupov said.

And indeed, they were the very kind of he loved best. Honey cakes topped with crushed almonds,
skorospelki
covered with branches of fresh dill, caviar blinis, and so much more. But Rasputin did not want to appear greedy.

“Please,” Yusupov said. “Irina had them made especially. We would not want her to be disappointed.”

“No, we would not,” Rasputin said, managing to make the four words sound both engaging and insulting at the same time. He picked up a honey cake and a blini and ate them, savoring the taste. Surprisingly, they were too sweet and dry. “Some Madeira, if you please,” he told the prince.

Yusupov himself went to the sideboard and poured the wine with exquisite care into a glass.

The first glass went down quickly but barely moved the dry taste out of Rasputin’s mouth. Forgetting that he didn’t want to appear greedy, he held out the glass for refill.

Eagerly, the prince filled it for him.

“And the princess?” Rasputin said, after downing the second glass.

“Here shortly. She had to see off her own guests and change costume,” Yusupov said.

“Ah, women,” said the monk. “God bless them. My mother used to say, ‘A wife is not a pot, she will not break so easily.’ Ha-ha. But I would rather say, ‘Every seed knows its time.’”

Yusupov started. “What do you mean by that? What do you mean?” He was sweating again.

Rasputin put his hand out and clapped Yusupov on the shoulder. “Just that women, God bless them, are like little seeds and know their own time, even though we poor fellows do not.” He slashed a hand across his forehead. “Is it very hot in here?”

“Yes, very,” said Yusupov using a handkerchief to wipe his own forehead.

“Well, sing to me then, to pass the time till your wife gets here,” the monk said. He pointed to the guitar that rested against the wall. “I heard you singing often in those far-off days when we went into the dark sides of the city. I would hear you again. For old times’ sake. And for your lovely wife Irina’s.”

Yusupov nodded, gulped, nodded again. Then he went over and picked up the guitar. Strumming, he began to sing.

I could not believe my ears. Downstairs, someone was singing, slightly off-key. I moved back and peeked carefully through the window. Rasputin was still on his feet. There seemed to be cakes missing from the table. An empty glass stood on the table as well. And Yusupov, that damned upper-class clown, was strumming his guitar and singing. Had he gone faint with worry? Had he decided not to kill his old friend after all? I turned away from the sight, raced up the servants’ stairs, and found Dr. L., Purishkevich, and Grand Duke Dmitri at the top of the stairs that led down to the cellar.

“For the Lord’s sake, what is going on?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper. “To my certain knowledge, the man ate several cakes. And had a glass of wine.”

“Two at least,” said Dr. L. “We heard him ask for a refill. He is …” he whispered as well, “not a man at all, but the very devil. There was enough poison to fell an entire unit of Cossacks. I know; I put the stuff in it myself.” He looked wretched and—as we watched—he sank into a stupor.

I took his hands and finally had to slap his face to revive him.

All the while we whispered together, Yusupov’s thready voice, singing tune after tune, made its way up the stairs.

“Should we go down?” I asked.

“No, no, no,” Purishkevich whispered vehemently, “that will give the game away.”

“But surely he is already suspicious.”

“He is a peasant,” said the Grand Duke, which explained nothing.

I was a-tremble. After all we had planned, for it to come to this?
This,
I thought,
is the worst possible thing.
Oh, had I but known!

Suddenly the door to the cellar opened, and we all backed up, I the fastest. But it was just poor Yusupov, saying over his shoulder, “Have another cake, Father. I will see what is keeping my wife.”

And Rasputin’s voice, somewhat hoarsened, called up to him, “Love and eggs are best when they are fresh!”

“A peasant,” the Grand Duke repeated, as Yusupov came up to find us.

If I was trembling, Yusupov was a leaf on a tree, all aflutter and sweating. “What should I do? What can I do?”

“He cannot be allowed to leave half-dead,” Purishkevich said laconically.

The Grand Duke handed Yusupov a pistol. “Be a man.” And Yusupov went back down the stairs, holding the pistol behind him.

We heard Rasputin call out, “For the Lord’s sake, give me more wine.” And then he added, “With God in thought, but mankind in the flesh.”

A moment later we heard a shot. And a scream.

“Come,” said the Grand Duke, “that will have done it.”

I was not so sure, but in this company it was not my place to say.

We ran down the stairs one right after another, the Grand Duke first, Dr. L. second. Purishkevich stayed behind.

The monk had fallen backward onto the white bearskin rug, his eyes closed.

Dr. L. knelt by his side, felt for his pulse. “He is dead.”

But of course, that was premature, for not a moment later, Rasputin’s left eye, then his right, opened, and he stared straight at Yusupov with those green eyes that reminded me of dragon eyes. They were filled suddenly with hatred. Yusupov screamed.

I could not move, nor could poor Yusupov. The Grand Duke was cursing under his breath. And I thought we were about to lose Dr. L. again.

“Long whiskers cannot take the place of brains,” said Rasputin to the ceiling, and as he spoke, he began to foam at the mouth. A moment later, he leaped up, grabbed poor Yusupov by the throat, tore an epaulet from Yusupov’s jacket.

Yusupov was sweating so badly that the monk’s hand slipped from his throat, and Yusupov broke away from him, which threw Rasputin down on his knees.

That gave Yusupov time to escape, and he turned and raced up the stairs. He was screaming out to Purishkevich to fire his gun, shouting, “He’s alive! Alive!” His voice was inhuman, a terrified scream the likes of which I’d never heard before or since.

The three of us watched as Rasputin, foaming and fulminating, and on all fours, climbed after him.