Winter Palace (3 page)

“The shop was swarming with the security people from down the street,” Katya told him. “You left the door wide
open. The security cameras can't see into the back alcove, so they didn't know what had happened until the cameras showed the medics wheel Alexander out on a stretcher.”

Alexander's eyes had been open when Jeffrey raced into the alcove. They had pleaded with him, even while one hand tore at the carpet and the other pressed hard to his chest, clenching the suit and shirt with inhuman strength. The power of that gaze was a knife that Jeffrey still felt.

“They almost lost him.” She choked on that, swallowed, tried again. “But he's stable now. I've seen him. Twice. He's breathing okay. His heart rate is stable. They say if he makes it through the next seventy-two hours he will probably be out of danger.”

“Want to see,” he whispered, his voice a rasp.

“You can't move just now,” she replied gently. “They've made x-rays of your neck and head. There doesn't appear to be any serious damage, but the doctor wants to check you again. And you have to be fitted with a neck brace.”

She stroked a strand of hair from his forehead. “Even if you could move, there's nothing to see. He's in intensive care and heavily sedated. There are all kinds of monitors, and he's being carefully watched.”

“Want—”

She shushed him, lowered her face and kissed him softly. “Pray for him, Jeffrey. Speak to him in your heart. He will hear. Now try to rest. He needs you to be strong, and so do I.” She grasped his hand with both of hers. “Close your eyes. I'll pray with you.”

Despite Katya's entreaties and the doctor's orders, the next morning found Jeffrey making his stiff-legged way alone to Alexander's bedside. His neck was encased in a white foam vise that smelled like a rubber glove. The soreness had moved lower to wrap around his back and shoot down his legs if he made too wide a step.

Jeffrey entered the hospital room to find the Count
Garibaldi di Grupello, an old friend and client of Alexander's, looming above the foot of the hospital bed. The count greeted him with a grave nod, then returned his attention to the bed's silent form. “You positively must not allow me to win our bet, Alexander. You, Jeffrey, what is the word for someone who throws in the towel too early?”

“Wimp,” Jeffrey offered, immensely relieved to find Alexander's eyes open.

“Precisely. My dear old friend, listen to me. Behave yourself and do not under any circumstances permit yourself to indulge in any wimpish behavior. We must marry these young people off, then give them a proper start. How on earth do you expect me to do this alone if you insist on wimping away?”

Jeffrey cleared the burn from his throat. “The correct term is wimping out.”

“Whatever. I am sure the message has been received. Yes? Nod if you heard me, Alexander. There. You see? He agrees. And now my three minutes are up. Farewell, old friend. Next time I intend to hear you argue with me once more.”

He turned away with a regal half bow. “Jeffrey, be so good as to join me in the hallway for a moment.”

Before following the count, Jeffrey stood a moment looking down on Alexander and feeling weak with relief to find him alive. The old gentleman's eyes held him in silent communion. Then one hand raised to point weakly at Jeffrey's collar.

“I bumped my head on the ambulance roof,” Jeffrey explained.

Alexander released a sigh.

“Hard,” Jeffrey added.

Alexander rolled his eyes toward the headboard, gave his head a gentle shake.

Jeffrey watched until he was sure Alexander was resting peacefully, then slipped quietly from the room.

Once the door was closed behind him, the count said, “Young man, you must be strong for our friend in there.”

“I've been told that before.”

“Because it is true.” The count squinted at the brace and demanded, “What on earth is that ghastly thing clamped to your neck?”

“Long story.”

“Not a tiff with the young lady, I hope.”

“Not a chance.”

“That is good, for she shall also rely on your strength for now.” The count held up his hand. “I know, I know. From all appearances she relies on no one but her God. Such appearances are not always true, young man. She has great strength, but not the ability to withstand such blows to those she loves.”

“I don't know if I do, either,” Jeffrey confessed.

The majestic nostrils tilted back as the count gave Jeffrey his most affronted gaze. “You
must
. You are the bonding force here. Now, go in there and be strong, and bring our friend back to life. The world would suffer too great a vacuum were Alexander to pass out of it.”

Jeffrey found it difficult to force words around the thought of Alexander's absence. “What do I say?”

“Talk of antiques,” the count commanded impatiently. “What else? Speak about the shop. Feed to him a sense of remaining here with the living. Tell him I have finally agreed to purchase that cabinet, although how you can manage to claim such an outrageous sum for it and still keep a straight face is utterly beyond me.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Buying the cabinet. You wouldn't want me to lie to him, would you?”

“There, you see? This is what Alexander requires from you. He must feel a part of life. Now go in there and fill the empty house.” The count turned his attention to the closed door. “For a man of years, illness brings a new meaning to the word
alone
. Let him live through your strength, Jeffrey, until he is once again prepared to live for himself.”

Chapter 4

Prince Vladimir Markov, last surviving member of the Markov dynasty, knew exactly what the general was thinking behind his practiced stone mask. No doubt all the former Soviet army officer saw was a beautiful Monte Carlo villa transformed into a vast sea of clutter. The general made it quite clear that he considered the prince an eccentric collector, a magpie in a foppish nest, a pathetic has-been who clung to any object even slightly scented by the past.

It was true that the prince's villa was so full of furniture and paintings and valuables that it looked more like a warehouse than a home. Several rooms had simply been stacked from floor to ceiling and then locked up. The living room alone contained sufficient articles to furnish ten chambers.

But it was not a fanatic's hoarding instinct that drove Prince Markov. Not at all. The articles represented his family's royal past, a past that included a palace large enough to hold all his precious belongings. That palace he intended to have for himself once more.

Prince Markov treated the general with polite disdain. The peon could think what he liked, as long as he helped place the means to the desired end within Markov's grasp.

These days, the prince reflected, retired Soviet army officers were eager for any work that would keep them from the shame of common unemployment. Many of the groups struggling for power and wealth within the crumbling Soviet empire found them perfect as hired hands. Retired Soviet generals, it was said, had years of experience in corrupt activities. They were utterly efficient. They were brave to the point of idiocy. They were weaned of troublesome concern for human life. And they were too dogmatic to come up with independent plans on their own.

These days, it was very easy for such a one to go bad.

General Surikov had a taste for antiques. He stopped several times in his slow meandering walk toward Markov's balcony to examine several of Markov's more remarkable pieces. Markov held his own impatience in check. Barely.

“I know what needs to be done,” Markov said, ushering his guest through the doors and out onto the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean and the Bay of Nice.

“Of course you do,” his guest replied, giving the spectacular view an approving glance. “You're a professional.”

General Surikov was a trim, hard man in his late fifties. He would never allow himself to balloon out as some of his fellow senior officers did. Not for him the triple chins that enveloped his colleagues' collars on parade days, nor the enormous girth that required two towels knotted together in the military baths. Nor did he show the red-veined nose and cheeks of a dedicated vodka drinker. His hair was short, his face as tough as his grip.

“These new Russian politicians,” General Surikov complained, accepting the offered seat. “They sit in front of the television cameras and mouth, ma-ma-ma-ma, like sheep. All their lives they've studied butterflies through a microscope or written poetry nobody can read on a full stomach. And now they're running our country.”

“Accountants,” Markov agreed. “Engineers.”

“Civilians and dissidents.” The general snorted his disgust. “They tell the people, why do we need a military power? My comrades and I must sit and watch them enact this charade called transition to capitalism. Where is the mighty Soviet state now?”

“Gone,” Markov sympathized. “Lost forever.”

“These buffoons will not hold on much longer,” the general added ominously.

Markov straightened. “You have news?”

“Nothing definite. Nothing except the
Afgantsi
are prepared to move.”

Markov nodded. With the growing governmental crisis, the
danger of a hardliners' coup grew daily. If one happened, it would no doubt be led by the cabal of officers, veterans of the conflict in Afghanistan, who were known as
Afgantsi
. “Rumor has it that now they virtually control the army.”

“For once the rumors are correct,” General Surikov replied with evident relish. “The new Defense Minister is one of us. Through him we have secured all but two of the top defense positions. Within the past eighteen months, we have settled the entire senior officer corps in our grasp.”

“You served in Afghanistan yourself, did you not?”

“In the early days, yes, before ill health forced me to accept a posting to the Baltic. Were I only ten years younger!” Surikov sighed. “Still, at least I am now again able to stand proud and proclaim that I did my patriotic duty.”

And spilled how much innocent blood in the process, Markov reflected. Aloud he commented, “How nice for you.”

“Patriotism, yes. It is indeed nice to be among friends who still honor the word, while these idiots called politicians stand around and allow our empire to crumble.”

“It appears to be what the people want,” Markov observed.

“The people!” The word obviously left a bitter taste in Surikov's mouth. “The people are sheep, to be led astray by the lies of blathering imbeciles. The people will like what they are told to like. Where is their pride now, I ask you. Where is their direction? What has democracy brought except growing chaos and disaster piled upon disaster?”

“A valid point,” Markov soothed, deciding not to mention that much of the present chaos was caused by the people who now employed Surikov—they and others of their kind. “When do you think the officers will make their move?”

“Either this winter or the next. When coal and oil run low, and food runs out, and patience runs thin, and fear runs rampant.” The words came out as a chant. “Then you will hear the Russian bear howl its demand for change. And we will be ready.”

Markov considered the situation carefully and decided a
right-wing coup would not damage his objectives; perhaps it could even help things along. An alliance with a former prince of the realm might appeal to the new Russian dictators as a further stamp of legitimacy. “How, pray tell, does all this mesh with your current work?”

The general hesitated, then responded, “A man must eat.”

“A good time to have friends, no?”

“I am not made for following a capitalist's orders,” Surikov confessed.

“Or for poverty,” Prince Markov reminded him. “Which is why you are here.”

General Surikov gave an abrupt nod. “To business, then. I am here to report that the time has come to proceed.”

Markov struggled to keep the triumph from registering on his features. “This pleases me,” he said smoothly.

“As it should. It is seldom that my superiors show such confidence in an, if you would excuse me, outsider. Not to mention one of the former czarist aristocracy.”

Superiors. The thought was laughable. The Russian ship of state threatened to sink any day now. Crime filled the current political vacuum, creating vast opportunities for the unscrupulous. Criminals knew sudden power and wealth, and courted those who had lost power with the advent of democracy. Out of the chaos a new alliance had been born.

“Please tell your superiors,” Markov kept the irony from his voice, “that I am certain our plans will meet with great success.”

“They better,” the general replied. “With all due respect, let me assure you that errors of judgment are met with great harshness.”

“There is no need to speak in such terms.”

“Of course not. I am simply doing as ordered. They, you see, have never had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

Markov straightened the lapel of his immaculate jacket. “Have they informed you of a time plan for the next stage?”

“Now,” the general replied bluntly. “My superiors say the stock has reached capacity. And there have been further developments.”

Markov raised an eyebrow. “Developments of what sort?”

“Nothing that affects our plans.”

Which means they didn't tell him, Markov guessed, wondering how such developments might affect his own designs. “Then I shall make my contact immediately,” Markov replied, “and inform you when events begin to unfold.”

Chapter 5

Jeffrey arrived at the intensive care unit two days later to learn that Alexander had been moved to a private room. He rushed back down through the central lobby, hurrying because Katya and the doctors allowed him only a few minutes alone with the old gentleman. But as he passed by the main entrance, he nearly ran into his friend Andrew. The antique dealer's face was almost hidden behind a massive bouquet of flowers.