The Regency Crisis of '75: An Imperial Russian Tale
- Thread starter Greg Grant
- Start date
Introduction
It is April, 1975. For the first time in a generation, the Russian and the British Empires are not at daggers drawn, and Europe continues to enjoy the Long, Great Peace since the dim and distant times of Napoleon and his rampaging armies. But one man falling off a horse, of all things, threatens to upend everything, and political intrigues by various cliques may undo all the diplomatic progress made between the governments of Russia and Albion.
What did happen in 1933? At least four members of Romanov family died on same year. Of course that could be just bad luck but still pretty odd that three people on same family and closely related die within 12 months.
And why did Boris Vladimirovich served as tsar instead Nicholas Kirillovich who should had been immediate successor of Nicholas II?
There was an influenza outbreak. More Romanovs then died in the Bad Winter of '47, the Cruel Winter of '68 and the Couronian Flu of '74, which shall be touched upon in the tale.
Ah, stay tuned. There was a more than a slight "issue" with Nicholas Kirillovich.
Chapter I
Chapter I
On Monday, April 14, 1975, Alexander IV, the Emperor of the Russian Empire, woke in an ill mood. The mood did not improve at breakfast, or at the reading of the ministerial reports. His anxious valet consulted an aged under-footman who worked at Peterhof since the long reign of Tsar Nicholas II.
"Ask him if he'd like to take a ride, to take advantage of the good weather," said the old man, and the valet beamed, bowed low and skittered off to do just that. The Tsar brightened at the suggestion.
"Yes, yes, but I would like to be alone," said the temporal master of the largest nation on Earth.
Naturally "alone" did not mean "alone," since no tsar can ever truly be left to his own devices, much less outdoors, even at a sprawling well-guarded estate far from the populace, but the retinue was kept quite small, only three dozen men. As for the Tsar, he took little notice of them, enjoying the weather and his stallion. There was only a slight touch of frost on the grass. That, and the gurgling of the brooks, the songs of birds and the rays of the sun reminded one Spring was coming. The Tsar passed a lake grotto built by one of his ancestors, though which one he could not recall, and his humor turned dark. The grotto was his late mother's favorite haunt. He let loose a sigh, and the whole riding party exchanged worried glances. The young tsar did not part well with Alexandra of Saxony. She was named Regent when his father unexpectedly passed and helped guide the then underage Tsarevich Alexander to right decisions, but once he came of age, he shut her off from all political power, determined to show he was ruling in his own right. She took it about as well as Eleanor of Aquitaine would have. There were rows. And now she was gone. Taken by the Curonian Flu of '74, which took thousands. Though the official numbers were naturally suppressed and kept secret, even from the Tsar. And now he was alone.
The Tsar did have a little brother, and two sisters, but they were ill formed creatures, crabbed and politically illiterate. As for the literate among his more extended family and courtiers, they had biases and thought only of themselves and their party, not of their great role and certainly not of Russia. Here the Tsar gave another sigh, spooking his retinue into silence. The riders exchanged another worried glance and eyes fell on the four princes of royal blood who were riding with the Tsar today, and they in turn silently voted amongst themselves to nominate Nicholas Pavlovich, who was the closest to the Tsar in age and blood. The man gave a grim nod and signaled should a third sigh be heard, he'd intervene.
As for the Tsar, he took no note of it. His earlier sigh was due to him coming across the word "party." His beloved people recently once more engaged in their absurd and slightly unseemly hobby of counting votes, this time in the provincial elections in the half dozen governorates which bothered to have them. The results were disappointing, once they were explained to him. The moderate Constitutional Democrats, whom his late mother favored, and whom he grew to trust, had a good showing, which should have pleased him, but there was a threat on the horizon. The natural party of government for most of this century and his late father's favorites, the Union of Patriotic Russians, had been badly bruised in the elections, and not by the Democrats. The UPR were hard-right, but were decent about it, keeping out the loons. While said loons usually found a home in the small and feral Motherland Party.
But in the last governorate elections, a new party appeared which mauled UPR and all but wiped out the Motherland. The new party's adherents said out loud things which even Motherland deputies feared to dog-whistle, and they stood resolutely for the sort of xenophobia, anti-Semitism and chauvinism which should have by all rights died out with the Tsar's namesake Alexander III in the previous century. The Faith and Fatherland Party was now poised to wreak havoc in the much more important Duma elections set to occur later this year, or the next. The Tsar could not recall. There was an ugly mood about the realm. His realm. The people were uneasy. The natural order of things was upended by the Democrats, and clearly some of their changes were leading to a backlash. Take for instance the sordid spectacle of the torchlight marches of the supporters of the now thankfully banned Legion of Archangel Michael, terrorizing ethnic minorities and engaging in riots. Riots! And in Riga of all places! Riga, the third most cosmopolitan city in the Empire, and untouched by political violence for over 50 years, had a riot. It was enough to weep. His intimate friend the Mayor of Riga His Serene Highness Prince Kropotkin did weep when recounting the tale to him. Things were becoming unstuck. He sighed once more.
Nicholas Pavlovich rode up. Since there were quite a lot of Romanov princes named Nicholas, he was called Little Nikki by his princely relatives to distinguish him from the others. And Little Nikki suggested a race. The Tsar looked about at the whole of his retinue and puzzled.
"Oh I don't mean the lot, Majesty. Just the Romanovs. Loser shaves his mustache?" smiled Little Nikki.
The Tsar smiled back, patted his stallion's neck and called for a huntsman.
"Profirievich, give us a pair of good versts of unbroken ground?"
The huntsman knew his business and the grounds of the estate and spoke out without much pondering, "From here to the Boris's Oak, I should say, Majesty."
"All here know it," asked the Tsar of his cousins. There were nods all about. The Tsar's bodyguards exchanged an awkward glance, but none wished to speak up, and the nominal man in charge lacked royal blood or much standing, so he too kept silent. His superior, a Georgian princeling of the once royal Bagrationi family, was in St Petersburg, getting a tooth removed.
The five riders got into position, and the Tsar looked to the huntsman, who gave a count and waved on the racers, who took off most gallantly. Naturally, none of the princes were going to allow themselves to beat the Tsar, but they knew he would get cross if they let him win too obviously. So it was a real effort on their part to be seemingly on his heels without quite overtaking him, and none of the princes wanted to be last either and lose their fine facial hair, so they kept a close bunch. Such an action was quite unnatural over open ground, which was neither racetrack dirt, nor turf. And some began to slip back. As did Little Nikki, the initiator of the race, who was soon last in the pack of five.
Little Nikki spurred on his mount and seeing no opportunity to ride through, decided to go around. He was riding a gray, and as he looped, he came upon the heels of the Tsar's stallion, which spooked, for some horses at times do not care for grays. And the Tsar's horse chose to take issue with a strange gray animal coming up on its left flank and bolted to the right. The Tsar was not a great rider, but did his best to try to control his beast, but overcorrected, and veered too leftward, back towards the monstrous gray creature which had so terrified his horse in the first place. The Tsar's horse reared and the Tsar lost control and fell, under the thundering stallions behind him. He was trampled to death.
By contrast to his now dead sovereign, untitled hereditary nobleman Colonel Dolgorukiy was having a good morning. He too awoke in a villa, though his was south of Moscow, not of St. Pete. It was not as extensive as Peterhof, but it was far from shabby, for Dolgorukiy was a scion of the oldest and grandest aristocratic family in Moscow, tracing descent from the Viking warriors who invaded Russia in the days of yore and founded the first royal dynasty. The Colonel was in charge of the British Section of the Imperial Russian Army intelligence division of the Quartermaster Corps. Since time immemorial in Russia, the quartermasters were spies, as they scouted ahead of the army to find safe quarters for their troops and spot what sort of mischief the enemy troops were planning, and the tradition continued as men traded trains for horses and went on to armored cars and airplanes. Colonel Dolgorukiy was in the process of reading the London Spectator when his private line rang.
"Dolgorukiy at the apparatus," said Dolgorukiy into the receiver.
"Settle a bet," said his uncle in a curious voice and Dolgorukiy's heart skipped a beat. It was an article of faith someone somewhere was likely tapping their phones, be they foe or alleged ally, so coded phrases were worked out between the untitled nobleman and General-Major Count Dolgorukiy, the head of the Quartermaster Corps and the Chairman of the Privy Counter-Intelligence Committee of Russian Empire. "Settle a bet" meant the Tsar was dead. And that mean trouble. In England, with their 800 year old parliamentary tradition, their kings may have had the power to name and dismiss ministers, but it was something no sovereign exercised in centuries, deferring such things to elected government. In Russia, where the Duma was only created in the wake of the Troubles of '12, the Tsar named his ministers and dismissed them as he saw fit, including the prime minister. Thus the whole of the Russian foreign and domestic agenda, to say nothing of the armed forces, was now in the hands of a young boy, and whomever would be appointed to serve as his Regent and Guardian.
"How may I be of service, uncle," said Dolgorukiy eventually, his mind still reeling.
"Who won the Triple Crown in United States prior to the Secretariat?"
"Citation, in '48," said Dolgorukiy. So it was not an assassination then. An accident. Thank goodness for that, at least. No additional riots on the streets and no martial law, perhaps.
"Hmm, that is what I thought. Thankee. Are you free to have lunch?"
"I should think so, uncle. At the usual place then?"
"Yes. Let's make it noon. Lord save the Tsar."
"Lord save the Tsar," duly repeated Colonel Dolgorukiy and hung up. His hands were shaking.
The Home Secretary of Her Majesty's Government managed a nod, digesting the latest bit of awful. It had already been a miserable morning, or rather the continuation of a miserable night. The Prime Minster had convened his "Kitchen Cabinet" the day before, and invited her to it, to help plot out the looming general election. It turned out to be not a singular honor, for in an effort to ensure all the "relevant voices" were heard, the PM invited a dozen into his "kitchen." Four were Liberal grandees, which was four too many to the Home Secretary's line of thinking. The PM did not need to hear from legacy Liberals. They could be taken for granted. The next election would hinge on the Tawny Tories who braved voting Liberal last time around and needed assurance they had done the right thing and should do it again. The crowded "kitchen" produced nothing and stole her sleep. And now came this.
"The Tsarevich is underage, if I recall correctly?"
"Yes, Minister. There shall be a four year Regency until he turns 16. A strict interpretation of the Regency rules would result in the appointment of the daughter of the late Tsar Nicholas III by his first marriage as Regent. But she is unwell, and has not left her villa in over seven years. As she is unable to fulfill her duties, Pavel Pavlovich Romanov would have seniority. He is first cousin to Tsar Nicholas III and closely shares his politics."
The Home Secretary winced. She held not great love for Tsar Alexander IV, but under his reign the British Empire and the Russians managed to achieve a spirit of something approximating understanding. The Tory rags mocked the "Cold Peace," but it was a welcome change from the constant threats of the previous tsar. If all of it was to be now undone, and on the eve of the wedding and the election...
"There exists a non-zero percent chance of preventing him being named Regent, Minister."
The Home Secretary studied the chief of the British Secret Service Bureau. Technically speaking, the Bureau was not meant to do any overseas intelligence operations. Such actions were "limited" to the spies of the Foreign Office, Colonial, Dominion, India, War, and the Admiralty. The Bureau was intended to be a counterintelligence security agency dealing with internal matters within the British Empire, only. However, a succession of Bureau chiefs believed the best defense of the realm was going on an offense. And, the Secretary knew the man sitting before her had proven to be a loyal ally. Even the spy-averse PM felt it necessary to reward him with a life peerage for his services. But every other conversation with the man still felt like an open invitation to disgrace herself and destroy her career.
"Do what is necessary to protect the realm."
His Serene Highness the Mayor of Riga wept on the couch. His wife Natalie was cancelling their Friday night reservations at the Little Mushroom Inn. It would not do to take in live music while the Tsar was dead. As she hung up the phone, she jotted down things requiring immediate shuttering in Riga on a notepad, even if the official announcement concerning the Tsar's death was not yet made. Music halls, certainly. Live theaters as well. She wrote down "cinemas" and put a question mark. Then recalled when Tsar Nicholas III died, the cinemas stayed open, but did not show comedies. She made a note. No celebrations in the parks. No concerts there either. Live music in restaurants would have to be put on hold. She wrote "casinos" and underlined the word, twice.
In '47, through political dark arts, a local politico greased a bill through the Imperial Duma to grant Riga exemption from the 1911 empire-wide ban on mechanical games of chance (i.e., slot machines), and card games of skill with money wagered on the outcome. The bill barely passed, but pass it did, and a sea of gamblers came to Riga. Since then, casinos were part of Riga's fabric. To shut them down would do awful damage to the local economy. But when Tsar Nicholas III had died, they were shut, and people still talked today of moneys lost. Natalie drummed her fingernails on the writing desk. Slot machines would be turned off, but card tables would stay open, for now, until the official announcement of the death would be made. But no burlesque shows. And a ban on comedians performing as well.
"Dearest, I think we need to have a talk about what needs shutting down."
Prince Kropotkin smeared his tears along his puffy cheeks, gave one more sob and prepared to listen.
Out in the Beau Monde Tavern, a happening joint on the northern outskirts of the once great oil town of Baku, the owner of the place was humming to himself as he totaled up the weekend take. Someone double knocked on his door. He put a black cloth over the books and bade the intruder to enter. A young woman, stepped inside, hair piled high in a sloppy bun and her face screwed in concern.
"Stanislav Avseyevich, Duke Shervashidze cancelled for this Friday."
"Unfortunate, but such things happen every once in a while."
"The thing is, Stanislav Avseyevich, uh, three other parties have cancelled as well: the Deputy Governor of Baku and his lady wife; the editor of 'Evening Baku' and, uh, his niece; and the Prussian consul."
Sokolov felt a hot poker stab the back of his skull. 11 years ago, he was running a third-rate music-hall in Black Town, and he recalled how the Deputy Mayor of Baku made a show of calling in to cancel his table. Then a councilman called to do the same. Followed by a newspaper editor. Next day, Sokolov heard the rumor the Tsar had died. The subsequent month-long mourning period nearly made him bankrupt.
"Do we offer our condolences," asked the Minister-President of the Kingdom of Prussia.
"Not until the Russians formally announce the death," said the Foreign Minister.
The Minister-President recalled it took the Russians three days to announce when Tsar Nicholas III died, and that was a much simpler matter. Per the Articles of the Russian Imperial House, Queen Alexandra was immediately made Regent and Guardian, as wife of the departed tsar and mother to the Tsarevich. From what the President was told afterward, the three days were mainly spent on writing, editing and rewriting the official announcement. This time... if the rumor about the son of Pavel Pavlovich being the initiator of the horse race which killed the Tsar was true, he would not be able to immediately be named Regent, and it would mean delays until it was sorted out. Which was not necessarily a bad thing, since Pavel Pavlovich was not a friend to Prussia, but there now existed the nasty possibility of someone even worse being named Regent.
The rented rooms were shabby, but General-Major Baron May-Mayevsky supposed such was the nature of things in "Democrat" ruled Russia, where patriots such as himself had to hide from the swivel eye of the authorities in the pay of the rootless cosmopolitans. He sat between Vladyka (Bishop) Aleksandr and Vladimir Naryshkin. The former was once in the Motherland Party, the latter was the oldest son of the last decent leader of the Union of Patriotic Russians. Both were now in the Fatherland Party, as was the Baron, having judged the UPR and Motherland too meek for what Russia needed. There were four other trustworthy men in the room. The Baron wanted to get to the matter at hand, but the Vladyka spent a good half hour discussing the soul of the now-late Tsar Alexander IV and whether being a tsar saved him from the fires of Hell for his heathen policies. To sum: no, he was burning.
"Right, thank you, Aleksandr Isayevich. My good brothers, I think we have here an opportunity to set our beloved nation on the right course by ensuring the Tsarevich gets the right sort of guidance and a proper sort of regent. I have a notion on how we can best achieve both of those things."
On that note, have nuclear weapons been developed or nah?
Not as yet. There were rumors in the 1950s of wonder "city-killer" weapons, but nothing came of it. There are, however, biological and chemical weapons. Though in the last 11 years, they have been slowly and mostly quietly decommissioned by both the Russia and the British Empires. The lack of war since the days of Napoleon is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, peace. On the other hand, quite a few people don't understand what would war bring in the modern era. Colonel Dolgorukiy in particular is worried, because he has had vivid visions of the bombers turning cities into slaughterhouses.
Profile: Pavel Pavlovich Romanov
Date of Birth: September 12, 1910
Spouse: Princess Viktoria Alexandrovna of Servia (1919 - 1968)
Issue: Prince Nicholas Pavlovich (1949 -
Honorary military rank(s): Admiral-General of the Imperial Russian Navy
Military experience: None
Education:
Pre-Primary: Tutored at father's estate until the age of 7.
Primary: Tutored at the villa of Prince Nicholas Nikolaevich until the age of 12.
Secondary: Russian Imperial Cavalry Prepatory Academy at St. Petersburg.
Post-Secondary: none.
Religion: Russian Christian Orthodox
Languages: Russian (native) & German (fluent)
Romanov Branch: Alexandrite-Vladimirite (see chart)
Political allegiance: Unofficial supporter of the ultra-right wing of the Union of Patriotic Russians.
Known political views:
Opposes any easement of relations between the British and the Russian Empires.
Opposes the unification of Italy.
Opposes the Austrian led unification of the German states.
Regards the Kingdom of Prussia as an unfriendly state.
Stated the French Republic is weak and incapable of any meaningful assistance to the Russian Empire.
Anti-Semitic, and has been cited making repeated xenophobic and racist remarks against the Japanese, Ruthenians, Livonians, Azeris, Armenians, Tatars, Chuvash, Prussians, Estonians, Kazakhs, Karelians, Turks, Kalmyks, Greeks, Lithuanians, Chechens, Georgians, Dagestanis, Tajiks, Finns and Bulgarians.
Select Articles of the Fundamental Laws of the Imperial House of Romanov (I)
Select Articles of the Fundamental Laws of the Imperial House of Romanov.
Article 41. When an emperor younger than the age of 16 succeeds to the Throne a regency and a guardianship are instituted to last until he has reached his majority.
Article 45. When there is no surviving father or mother, regency and guardianship belong to the nearest in succession to the Throne among the minor emperor's major relatives of both sexes.
Article 237. If an emperor younger than the age 16 succeeds to the Throne and Articles 42 to 52 cannot be applied due a lack of clear and indisputable candidate to be named Regent and Guardian, males of the Imperial House over the age of 30 shall convene a Gathering to appoint the Regent and Guardian.
Article 238. The Gathering shall convene no later than nine days after the death of the emperor.
Article 240. The Gathering shall appoint the Regent and Guardian by a popular acclaim, when more than half of the Imperial House members present shall make known their preference.
Article 243. Between the death of the emperor and the Gathering, so that the realm is not without the firm hand of the Romanovs, a Regency Council will be formed within a day of the death of the emperor. The Council shall consist of the five oldest able males of the Imperial House.
Article 41. When an emperor younger than the age of 16 succeeds to the Throne a regency and a guardianship are instituted to last until he has reached his majority.
Article 45. When there is no surviving father or mother, regency and guardianship belong to the nearest in succession to the Throne among the minor emperor's major relatives of both sexes.
Article 237. If an emperor younger than the age 16 succeeds to the Throne and Articles 42 to 52 cannot be applied due a lack of clear and indisputable candidate to be named Regent and Guardian, males of the Imperial House over the age of 30 shall convene a Gathering to appoint the Regent and Guardian.
Article 238. The Gathering shall convene no later than nine days after the death of the emperor.
Article 240. The Gathering shall appoint the Regent and Guardian by a popular acclaim, when more than half of the Imperial House members present shall make known their preference.
Article 243. Between the death of the emperor and the Gathering, so that the realm is not without the firm hand of the Romanovs, a Regency Council will be formed within a day of the death of the emperor. The Council shall consist of the five oldest able males of the Imperial House.
You have a very captivating writing style.
This in particular earned quite the laugh from me.
Chapter II
Chapter II
Most Londoners woke on the day of the Tsar's ill-fated race unaware of his passing and were instead immensely pleased with themselves, in anticipation of the royal wedding. They felt the pride a family feels knowing they so thoroughly tidied up their home, it could not fail to impress the guests. And they were expecting quite a lot of guests. In addition to the 5,000 royals, politicians, industrialists, generals, movie stars and other notables, there were to be hundreds upon thousands of Her Majesty's subjects from all corners of the British Empire expected as well. And Londoners were ready to meet them, and overawe them with their city's splendor. Public buildings were renovated, hotels spruced up and slums cleared. Moneys poured in not just from the government, but from private concerns as well, who were cajoled into contributing by the new Public Works minister. And Londoners volunteered to do their part as well. All through the Fall of '74 and the Winter of '75, hard work was done. And now, although the mid-April sun did not warm much, the upcoming wedding warmed the hearts of nearly all Londoners, and they walked about with a sense of superiority even Balliol men would envy.
But at least one man did not feel much pride, or superiority. He haunted the docks, hands thrust into his Afghan coat, scarf wrapped around his neck, his head down and walking about aimlessly. Some of the rougher locals thought about divesting the grump of his clothes, but there was something unnerving about the man. Some said it was his stare, while pointed out a hulking Sikh bodyguard which followed him at a distance. Regardless, the grump was left in peace. For his part, the grump had reasons to be displeased. He was the former Governor of Bengal, who upon the end of his term in office expected to be made Viceroy of India, but got the order of the boot instead. A few months ago, he had at his disposal four government cars, two special trains, three houses, a 70-men brass band to announce his entrance, and the whole of the Bengal division of the Indian Civil Service to execute his policies. Now, he had bitterness and one lone bodyguard (down from 40 strong).
Sic gloria transit mundi, came to his scholarly mind. He was a professor before he became a politician. Another quote came to him, from his beloved Nietzsche. "Scholars who become politicians are usually given the comic role of having to be the good conscience of a policy." And so he was, for years. But he was too powerful on the backbenches to be ignored, and so he was sent off to India. Eden might have been a flibbertigibbet, but he knew how to make deals. The former Governor turned grump stopped, and rocked on his heels. He had smelled food. Real food. Not the ghastly nightmare which passes for native English cuisine. He followed his nose. Coming to London was a mistake, he realized. He made the assumption he would be more at home in a port town, with it being by definition colorful and more diverse. But all around him he saw nothing but an almost interrupted wall of plain pale faces and heard nothing but tortured English. This, after 15 years in Calcutta. He might as well have moved to Sevenoaks. He forced himself not to sigh. He had sighed once already and was determined to limit himself to just one a day. Some things were within his will power, others... Despite all his efforts, he found himself replaying the events leading up to his sacking. Though the knaves lacked even the courage to call it that. Rather they pointed out his term as the Governor of Bengal had expired and they had nothing for him. Nothing but humiliation.
He found the vendor by a disused wharf and studied him for a moment, disconcerting the small man. Then he addressed the man in Urdu and was pleased he had guessed it right. The grump motioned for his bodyguard to approach and ordered for him as well. The grump watched the food being made, his right hand feeling for money in his coat and instead coming across a letter he did not have the heart to throw out. His mentor R.A. Butler had been recently sacked as well, though he was forced out by his allegedly fellow Conservatives, not Liberals. Butler was named Master of the English College in Seville as the booby prize and had invited the grump to come see him. The grump did not want to see a good man thus reduced, for he had heard rumors Butler was known to walk about disheveled and retell the same anecdotes. Not that the grump was in better state himself, but at least he was not telling the same stories to the same people, as he had no people about him to tell any stories.
"Extra, extra, read all about it. The Tsar is dead! Extra, extra, read all about it in the Daily Herald," shouted a newsie, running by, burdened by an ugly haversack he had fastened on improperly.
"Which Tsar?" asked the grump.
The newsie stared at him as if he was from Mars. 15 years ago, the grump would have taken the trouble to educate the youngster on the fact Russia, Servia and Bulgaria all have tsars, but India had changed him, so instead he paid thruppence for the rag. The Tsar was that of Russia. That much the article managed to eke out. As to the rest of it, it was light on fact and high on infantile political analysis.
A cold morning breeze coming off the Thames snapped at the bunting hanging off the wharf and the Union Jack flag tied to it fluttered above the grump's head. He looked up. Inside the flag was a stylized epigram of two intertwined As, one for Her Royal Highness Princess Anne and the other for Prince Albert of Lippe, a chinless wonder who enjoyed jumping over things on horses as nearly as much as his would be British bride. The grump stared. For a man described as brilliant, even by his many enemies, he felt dumb. His navel gazing passing for self-introspection made him miss the obvious. The election. The Liberals will schedule the general election on the heels of the wedding to take advantage of the good feelings engendered by it. There was an opportunity there. He once more felt the letter from Butler and flashed a predatory grin. Perhaps he would go to Seville after all.
The food vendor stood frozen, holding the food, but daring not to disturb the man. He finally recognized the grump and was unsure what to do. His father would have bowed. His brother would have begged for mercy. And his uncle would have tried to kill the man. Sir John Enoch Powell, Baronet, CBE, KCIE, rarely elicited middling reactions.
A sea and half a continent away, another figure was walking aimlessly. Though he did not haunt the docks. He was inside his office, and he was wearing out the carpet as he paced, head tucked into his chin, foreboding thoughts swirling. Prime Minister Demidov had been blessed to be named leader of the Constitutional Democrats two years ago, and unlike nearly all of his predecessors, he did not have to start life in opposition, learning how to lose gracefully every six to seven years and trying to keep hope alive. He inherited a party in power of the largest nation on Earth. And unlike the last time the party achieved such a thing in the dim past, the Democrats ruled not via a ramshackle coalition, but by a solid majority in the Duma. When the Old Lion who led them to victory passed away, Demidov recalled the feeling of weight and responsibility when he was elected to lead on the Democrats. Strangers, often gray haired, would shamble up to him at party meetings, wearing old "Liberty" pins on their lapels, with tears in their eyes, to pump his hand, wish him well and appeal to do all those things the Democrats always talked about achieving. He vowed to do right by them, and began with an ambitious agenda, but a realistic one as well, for this time there would not dead hand of the Crown. Tsar Alexander IV saw the Democrats not as a threat, but as able allies wanting to help his Empire. But now the Tsar was dead.
Demidov collapsed into an armchair. The bombings and the riots of the last two years gave rise to the far-right in the streets and already made some of the moderates within his own party cautious and wishing to apply the brakes on the Great Train to Liberty. But then came the recent lovely governorate elections, and the critics retreated. And the right was splintering, with the Union of Patriotic Russians in disarray and the Motherland fanatics lapped by an even more fanatical faction. It was a pretty preview of the big Duma election. He was elated when the results from Pskov were read. Pskov! There was talk of even running Jewish candidates in some seats come the Fall. But now the Tsar was dead.
Barring a miracle, Prince Pavel Pavlovich would be named Regent. Even if he feigned to play fair and not immediately remove Demidov and offer some satrap among the Union of Patriotic Russians the post of Prime Minister instead, he could wait until the elections and retroactively outlaw the Motherland and the Fatherland parties and give their seats to the Union of Patriotic Russians. Or, he could force the two far-right factions to join the UPR in a grand coalition and make them the rulers of the land, regardless of the number of seats the Democrats won. The Regent could do anything, as could the Tsar. The soiled scrap of bum paper which passed for a...
Demidov stopped himself. He was being too hyperbolic and leaning into undue harshness. The Russian Empire had a constitution. It was not all that he wished it to be, but it was better than nothing. Though it did grant tyrannical powers to a regent. And in the hands of a creature such as Pavel Pavlovich...
There was a polite double-knock on the door. Demidov glanced at a mirror. Puffy face, but no signs of tears. Well, not an undue amount. The Tsar's death was to be accompanied by tears. Patriotic, really. He smoothed out his hair and mustache instead, adjusted his jacket, fiddled with his tie and pin and bade for the knocker to enter. The Minister of National Enlightenment Vladimir Nabokov walked inside.
"I have heard the most curious thing from my dear brother about Pavel Pavlovich's oldest son."
Nabokov's brother was the Chamberlain of the Royal Household. Demidov perked up.
Untitled hereditary nobleman Colonel Dolgorukiy walked into the ancient building nestled in Central Moscow and stood for a minute, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness of the church lit only by candles. There was, naturally a much bigger and modern family church located in fashionable quarters, but this was the original Dolgorukiy family church and none but the Dolgorukiy attended services here, overseen by a deacon who himself was a Dolgorukiy. Today there was no service, and no deacon, but General-Major Count Dolgorukiy sat in the front pew, next to their cousin the Special Deputy Minister for Internal Affairs for Moscow.
"If Pavel Pavlovich takes the helm..." began the Special Deputy Minister in a hushed, worried tone.
"Yes, yes, utter disaster. We need to prevent it," boomed the Count. He was a grand man, not used to small gestures or keeping his voice anywhere. The Deputy Minister ducked, and looked both ways.
The Colonel opened his mouth, and then closed it. They were playing with fire. But the Colonel recalled the still fresh events of the reign of Tsar Nicholas III. The near wrecking of the economy, with money the Empire did not have pumped into factories to create second-rate and then third-rate military hardware, which was valued by the Tsar and his cabal by the ton and not whether it could perform on the field. The strained relations with United States and France, their only allies. The near loss of the Middle East due to attempts to play the crusader. And the oppression in general, culminating with the expulsion of ethnic and religious minorities from sensitive posts in the government, industry and universities. The sense of being made to march in the wrong direction. It lasted six years, but felt like an eternity. And now, with another Nicholas III at the helm, shaping the mind of a 12 year old boy who could rule well into his 60s, as Tsar Nicholas II had done...
"We cannot have a purely negative goal. We should concentrate not just on preventing Prince Pavel Pavlovich from becoming Regent, but finding a suitable candidate to take his place," said the Colonel.
General-Major Count Dolgorukiy beamed, and turned his grand head to look to their cousin. The Special Deputy Minister did not smile. But he too could all too vividly recall the reign of Tsar Nicholas III, and as then head of Moscow's political police, he did not just march in the wrong direction, but force-marched others as well. He closed his eyes, and dipped his chin to agree to join the conspiracy.
Since the British Secret Service Bureau started off life as a subset of the Special Branch, as a courtesy all of its agents were granted the title "Detective." Detective-Inspector Shepstone ran the Gold Team, an operations group responsible for rapid responses. But the latest task put before him by his chief was a tad too rapid for his taste. The Gathering of the Romanov princes was in nine, check that, eight days. To execute an action overseas in such a time window was hard enough, but he was not given an action. He was merely told the desired outcome. He had to figure out the necessary action, find the personnel to implement it, get them into Russia, and execute. Shepstone had begun to piece together what sort of action was needed to achieve the desired result, but the issue he now faced was of personnel. He would not have time to slip a full team of Bureau agents into Russia. It would take too long, given the compressed timeline. Therefore, he had to primarily work with the men already in place. But this presented its own set of challenges. Upon being elected to power, the Liberals had taken an axe to the budgets of all the British intelligence services, because they did not care for spies and those they viewed as "secret police." The Bureau had to "make do more with less," and their Russian desk suffered. Furthermore, a series of recent misadventures forced the Bureau to pull some of its most seasoned hands out of Russia and reassign elsewhere. It meant the pickings were rather slim in Russia.
There was a double knock on the closed door to his office. Shepstone glanced about. Nothing was written on the blackboard and a black cloth was already draped over the desk with documents.
"Enter."
Detective-Inspector Dartnell stepped inside. He was head of the Bureau's Greek desk.
"Heard you were looking about for sensitive information on wayward Romanovs?"
"This place leaks like a sieve."
"Yes, well, it can have its advantages. Because I have the most wayward Romanov of them all for you.
Out on the sun-kissed isle of Mykonos in the Aegean Sea, Alexei Avianovich paced in his rooms overlooking the small town below, nervously eyeing the clothes rack in the corner. A sleepy eyed brunette in a partial state of undress reposed on the futon and attempted to light a joint. The redhead curled into a fetal position by her side was not sleepy eyed, but fully asleep, snoring. Periodically, Alexei would stop pacing and listen for the footsteps of the butler. Twice, he caught himself wanting to go to the bathroom and see if he could hear what was happening in the adjoining study. But he thought such actions unworthy of a Romanov, and besides the wall was too thick. He should have insisted on joining the meeting from the beginning but his father was dead set against it. "A serious meeting can only be done one-on-one," the old man said decisively, as if quoting some long held maxim. Alexei resumed his pacing. He was so focused on his task, he did not hear the butler until the creature was by his elbow.
"Avian Mikhailovich is requesting the honor of your presence in the study."
Alexei Avianovich exhaled, closed his eyes and then opened them again. The butler was still there.
"Do be so good as to tell my father I shall be there shortly."
The butler departed, and Alexei flew to the clothes rack. In order to not jinx himself, or the meeting, he specifically chose not to dress for the occasion until called upon and now that the moment was at hand, his vision blurred and he felt lightheaded. He held onto the rack with his right hand, as his left flicked through the clothes. Probably a uniform. But surely not something foreign. Then he saw it, a Cossack something or other, with wizard's robe sleeves, a plunging V-line and silver facings. The robe was black.
"What shirt goes with a black suit? Other than white," he asked the two women on the couch in French. When one still awake showed confusion, he repeated the question in Greek.
"Dove grey," automatically said the sleepy eyed brunette.
"Stop smoking and help me pick out a shirt!"
The brunette sighed, set down the joint on an ashtray and padded barefoot to the rack. Alexei held up the black Cossack robe. She studied it and then the rack.
"Something slate would work as well," she said and produced a collarless shirt of such a hue.
Alexei slipped it on and the Cossack robe, then studied his shorts, flip-flops and gnarled toes.
"I need boots, socks and pants."
The model studied the rack and produced blue pants with scarlet piping.
"I was thinking red," said Alexei.
"The blood stripes are red."
"I mean the pants themselves."
"Red trousers are for hussars, dragoons and lancers. Blue pants with scarlet stripes are worn by the Cossacks of Kuban and the Don."
Alexei stared.
"You are trying to play a Cossack, are you not?" asked the brunette.
"I suppose. But how do you know these things?"
"Did a play once about the Sack of Odessa."
Alexei never heard of the event, but gave a nod. He looked at himself in the mirror and braced.
"Wish me luck!" said the great-grandson of Tsar Alexander III and strode away, to join his father and his guest General-Major Baron May-Mayevsky on how they could all best assist their beloved homeland.
The brunette waited a minute, then went into the bathroom. She planted the British Secret Service Bureau provided transmitter in the study the night before, and slipped the receiver into the toilet tank in the morning. She lifted the top of the tank to check on the receiver. It was still recording.
Profile: Avian Mikhailovich Romanov
Name: Avian Mikhailovich Romanov
Date of Birth: September 12, 1914
Spouse: Princess Elizabeth of Greece (1904 - 1963)
Issue: Prince Alexei Avianovich (1945 -
Honorary military rank(s): None
Military experience: None
Education:
Pre-Primary: Tutored at home at the family apartments in Liege, Kingdom of Belgium.
Primary: Tutored at the court of Prince Nicholas of Greece until the age of 14.
Secondary: Chania Royal Military Prepatory Academy (Crete, Kingdom of Greece).
Post-Secondary: none.
Religion: Russian Christian Orthodox.
Languages: Russian (fluent), Greek (fluent), Belgian-French (intermediate).
Romanov Branch: Alexandrite-Alexandrite (disputed, see chart below).
Political allegiance: Unofficial but vocal supporter of the Russian Faith and Fatherland party, previously aligned with the ultra-right faction of the Union of Patriotic Russians.
Known political views:
Stated on several occasions he regards the continued existence of the British Empire as a fundamental threat to the peace and prosperity of Russia.
Opposes rapprochement between the Russian and the Austro-Hungarian Empires.
Stated the Third French Republic is weak, degenerate and incapable of any meaningful assistance to the Russian people.
Anti-Semitic, and has been cited making repeated xenophobic and racist remarks against the Poles, Ruthenians, Livonians, Azeris, Tatars, Chuvash, Estonians, Karelians, Turks, Lithuanians, Chechens, Georgians, Dagestanis, Tajiks, Romanians, and Slovaks.
Russia: Romanovs: Incomplete, Part II
Relevant Articles of the Fundamental Laws of the Imperial House of Romanov.
Article 53. On the demise of an emperor his heir accedes to the Throne by virtue of the law of succession itself, which confers this right upon him. The accession of an emperor to the Throne is counted from the day of the demise of his predecessor.
Article 134. Children born of a marriage which has not been authorized by the reigning emperor enjoy no privileges belonging to Members of the Imperial House.
Article 183. A marriage of every member of the Imperial House requires the permission of the Tsar to be held valid. Any marriage performed without this permission is not recognized; and all titles and dynastic rights of a Romanov thus married as well as their spouse and issue shall be forfeit.
Article 185. The marriage of a male of the Imperial House who may have the right of succeeding to the Throne with a person of another faith may only take place after she has embraced the Orthodox Faith.
Article 188. A person of the Imperial Family who has entered into a marriage alliance with a person not belonging to any royal or ruling house, cannot pass on to that person, or to posterity that might issue from such a marriage, the rights which belong to members of the Imperial Family.
- 1871. Grand Prince Alexei Alexandrovich elopes with a commoner, scandalizing the Romanovs. Tsar Alexander III adds Article 183 to the Laws, and retroactively applies it to Alexei, stripping him of all his titles and thereby depriving him of his princely pension and estates. In 1889, after the death of Tsar Alexander III, and upon the death of Alexei's wife, Tsar Nicholas II rescinds the application of Article 183, feeling its retroactive application violated the spirit of the Laws, and invokes Article 134 instead, thereby giving his wayward uncle back his princely pension.
- 1914. Michael Alexandrovich, the only living brother of Tsar Nicholas II, elopes with Maria of Bourbon-Two Sicilies, violating Article 183. There is also a question as to whether the House of Bourbon-Two Sicilies is a "currently ruling house," as the Sicilian Republic had overthrown the monarchy and exiled the royals, violating Article 188. It also rumored Maria, a Catholic, did not convert to the Russian Orthodox Christian Church until months after the ceremony, violating Article 185. The Tsar is furious at Michael for not asking his permission and sees his actions as dereliction of duty, as Michael is third in line to the Throne. The Tsar invokes Article 183, cutting off his brother, spouse and issue.
- 1933. The Succession Crisis. An outbreak of influenza kills the Tsar, the Tsarevich, and many other Romanovs. With Michael Alexandrovich disqualified, the Throne should pass to the oldest living son of the oldest brother of the father of the Tsar: Boris Vladimirovich. However, some in Imperial House reference Article 53 in arguing the right of Michael Alexandrovich to ascend to the Throne derives from his birthright alone, and cannot be revoked by any mere decision of Tsar Nicholas II. The argument does not sway the senior Romanovs. Boris takes the Crown.
YES YES YES
a thousand times yes.
This is already the dark, grungy 1970s alternate history spy thriller I’ve always wanted to write or read and the quality on this is next level.
Eagerly and enthusiastically watched.
a thousand times yes.
This is already the dark, grungy 1970s alternate history spy thriller I’ve always wanted to write or read and the quality on this is next level.
Eagerly and enthusiastically watched.
Chapter III
Chapter III
Prince Pavel Pavlovich Romanov stared out the window of his study onto his villa's courtyard. Had he walked in on anyone else standing about as such he would have mocked them for being melodramatic. But there was nothing melodramatic about having a taste of It and then having It taken back. He was in the courtyard, chopping wood to stay fit, when the messenger rushed up and announced the Tsar had died in an accident. No details were known at the time. The moment the words left the messenger's mouth, everything changed. There were two dozen servants in the courtyard and the looks on their faces... They respected him as a prince, and as their master, of course, but this was different. He heard whispers of "Regent," and Dusya, good old Dusya, whom he had known since she was a young scullery maid, fell on her ancient knees, wept and bowed. For 17 tantalizing minutes he was Regent, in his own mind, and in the eyes of all about. Then came the second messenger with the details and his heart broke. His own son was at the scene of the tragedy, and had initiated the fatal race. His bloody son.
Had the fool not been there, Pavel Pavlovich would have rode up to the Summer Palace, in full uniform, and as all skittered out of his way and bowed, he would have strode up to the bedroom of the young Tsarevich, placed a manly hand on the lad's shoulder and announced himself as his Guardian. But now... now, such an act would reek of opportunism and desperation, and the enemies of Russia, his enemies, would depose him from the job. Ancient witless creatures who dared share his royal surname would show up, decrepit and wheezing, and tell him he was being improper and he would be hobbled out of the gate. So now, instead of taking initiative, like a true prince and a real man, he had to wait for the five most decrepit and aged of the Romanov princes to gather the rest and vote on the matter. Vote! The whole thing was ridiculous. His name would be mentioned, naturally, for he was the only proper candidate, but others would be put forward their name as well and the geriatrics would play politics, as the Empire stood still and her enemies rejoiced and gathered.
The door opened. Pavel Pavlovich did not turn around.
"I asked not to be disturbed and I will not ask twice."
"Father, I..."
"Not now, Nikolai."
"Father, I know I..."
"Not now, damn your eyes!"
The door shut and he heard weeping as footsteps retreated. Air blossomed in Pavel Pavlovich's chest and tumbled out of his mouth as something dangerously close to an unmanly sigh. His own son.
"One other small item, Minister. You asked me to keep an eye on the former Governor of Bengal."
The Home Secretary gave a quick nod. As a thoroughly decent Liberal she did not care for England having secret-policemen, and she made sure the excesses of the Bureau were curbed, but at times... At times, she put in surveillance requests to the Bureau which would have shocked her younger self.
"The Governor has bought tickets to fly to Seville tomorrow."
R.A. Butler, thought the Home Secretary. He must be going to see his old mentor. Harmless enough, she supposed. But with the general election looming and a Bengal tiger loose so nearby...
"Have we a man in Seville?"
"Normally, no, not since the budget cuts. But there is one there now, due to the chess tournament."
"Chess tournament?"
"To crown the challenger to the champion of the world Spassky."
"Ah, yes. Have your man in Seville keep an eye on Powell."
"General-Major Baron May-Mayevsky travelled to Mykonos," announced Colonel Dolgorukiy.
"That poor island. Has it not suffered enough," chortled General-Major Count Dolgorukiy. They were in the Count's private office. It was swept for listening devices twice a day and staffed with family friends and trusted servants. The Count was a solid Union of Patriotic Russians supporter and regarded those who would splinter the natural party of government as traitors and fools. And having interacted with the man on more than several occasions, the Count regarded the Baron as something close to an idiot.
"I think you are thinking of Oia, uncle. They were the ones who experienced the recent earthquake. The Greek isle of Mykonos was not unduly impacted."
"Ah, so I am. Does he keep a woman there, or something?"
"I think not. But Mykonos is the current residence of Avian Mikhailovich Romanov."
"The Black Baron wants to take a gander at the black sheep."
"The trouble, uncle, is that the black sheep stands out. Have you looked at the genealogical charts?"
"Been doing nothing since our last chat."
"So have I, and they are not promising. All the princes we think likely to be of help to us can trace themselves to Tsar Nicholas I, but none can trace themselves to the more recent tsars. Avian can boast of descent from Tsars Nicholas I, Alexander II and Alexander III. Not even Pavel Pavlovich can do that."
"But he is not eligible."
"Some would argue against that. If enough argue..."
"The Devil take me. Right, what do we know of this Avian?"
In Mykonos, the sleepy eyed brunette made her way down a goat path from the hotel to the small town below. The weather was cool by local standards, but she saw the beet red faces of the already sweating Russian tourists. They were much preferable to the faces of locals, especially the women, who gave her cold stares. The men were slightly better, with most simply leering. But she had endured much worse since the apocalypse came to her island and turned her family along with thousands of others into desperate refugees, fleeing here and there to any port which would have them along the Aegean Sea. Her mother did not survive the degradation. She lost the will, then her mind, and then her body simply gave out. Her father turned bitter, and took it out on her when he found out what she did to survive. She left, but still sent him and her two younger brothers some money whenever she could.
She passed a pair of pampered Russian college girls, clearly lost in the narrow streets of the small town, and ignored their calls for help, feigning not to understand Russian or French. She then made a few sharp turns and found herself facing the sea. Nearby the windmills were silent. The air was still today. She took a lungful of the clean air, with only a single ferry clogging the view and stinking up the shore, and walked up to a deserted bistro, tucked between a pair of as yet unopened tourist traps.
Her handler was waiting behind the corner table, back to the wall, eyes on the menu, but missing little. She was a not unattractive blonde in her mid-thirties, dressed as if a Sicilian on a trip.
"Hello there," said the blonde and waved for her contact to sit opposite.
"Hello, Kitty," said the brunette and took her seat. She handed over the listening devices in a small chewed up souvenir bag, which the Sicilian blonde made to disappear in her large Prada purse, before giving back an identical small chewed up souvenir bag with an envelope full of cash.
"They left in the morning, by the early ferry, but I think you already know that. Did not say goodbye. I do not think Alexei wanted to go. But felt he had to, for the sake of his father."
His grandfather would not have bothered, thought Kitty. Grand-Prince Michael Alexandrovich Romanov ran away from the job, and to make sure they didn't call him back, shacked up with a princess of dubious bloodline, and a Catholic to boot. He knew the son of Tsar Nicholas II was sickly and may not live long enough to succeed his father, and even if he did, had no hope of siring an heir. The thought of inheriting the Russian throne so horrified Michael he went out of his way to disqualify himself. And now his only son Avian was rushing back, and not even for the real thing, but the booby prize.
"How are Alexei's nightmares," she asked the brunette.
"They go way and return with no rhyme or reason. He had a theory once that he would not get them if he only drank wine. That lasted a month. Then he was back to waking himself by screaming."
"Will you stay on in Mykonos?"
"How is that your concern?"
"We may have need of your services again, and are prepared to compensate you for them."
"Your compensation is terrible. I hope you are aware of that, but if you are not, the French would have paid me far more, as would have the Americans, the Austrians, and even the Prussians."
"The Sicilian State Security Agency is not a wealthy organization, but the Republic is thankful for..."
"You are British. The Bureau, I think. They started using female agents a little while back, but not for what I had to do to get close to him. It's the only reason I agreed to do this, you know. Not the money. It's the fact you are a woman and they trust you with something like this and don't expect you to soil your bedsheets to get it. Impressed me. Hope I won't get a knife in the kidney for blowing your cover."
"We don't do that."
The brunette managed a nod, got to her feet, clutching the small chewed up souvenir bag with the life-saving money, muttered her way through goodbyes and walked off. Kitty returned to the menu and decided she would have the marinated octopus and the honey-dipped cheese-bread.
Out in the Beau Monde Tavern, on the outskirts of Baku, Stanislav Avseyevich Sokolov examined his options, which came down to two approaches older than Crassus's sandals: hunker down, cut costs, fire anyone not needed and ride out the storm; or invest to try to regain profit. Ten years ago, Sokolov would have went with the first option without hesitation. After all, waitresses, valets, and even chefs are easy to find in Baku. But there was a world of difference between being a music hall operator in Baku's Black Town, and having a classy joint. He was no longer a grubby man eking out a living. It would send a wrong message if it looked as if the owner of a happening place had to sack most of the staff just to survive a lean month. He called for in his chef, Vovka Podlesniy, and asked him to close the door.
"Heard you got a cousin who knows something about the music equipment trade?"
Vovka exhaled, dug out a pack of cigarettes and lit up.
"Give me 15 seconds, would you? When you called me in here and said to close the door..."
"The Devil take me. Sorry. Did not realize how it would look. Back to the music furniture. We can't do live music for a bit, but what if we put speakers in the ballroom and play records?"
"That there is not a bad idea."
"Glad you think it. Call your cousin. I want to get this done 'fore Friday."
"All right. You should say something, you know. To the troops. Lots of long faces in the kitchen and the hostess and the rest of the front staff are scared shitless as well. They can read the signs."
"Vovka, when the boss-man starts saying not to worry, people know the opposite is true on account he felt the need to say something about it. You tell 'em. You got credibility."
Among the depressingly long list of anni horribiles of the Russian Empire, no year brought about as much abject misery (as yet) as 1912. It was forever enshrined in Russian memory as the Troubles of '12. After a lost war, the people of Russia mutinied. Five dozen cities and twice as many towns imploded in a sea of destruction. In the aftermath, when the Russian government regained the upper hand, a formal inquest determined all the Russian security agencies were deficient in their duties. But the agency which emerged with its reputation in the worst tatters was the Okhrana. It had the most power going into the Troubles and it did the least to put a stop to them. It was nearly shuttered.
Over the next two decades, the organization lay low, but set about making changes to its structure. During the Succession Crisis of '33, Okhrana eased their way out from under the Ministry of Internal Affairs and joined the Ministry of Justice. It gave them independence, and more importantly carte blanche in sentencing its detainees, for the Ministry of Justice ran the prisons and the camps. While the Special Section and the Gendarmes could inflict as much bodily harm to their detainees as anyone, when it came time to decide where to send the unfortunates, they merely made suggestions, while Okhrana chose. It meant anyone who fell into their hands, for any crime - no matter how vile or minor - could be sent to a Siberian labor camp, an even worse camp above the Arctic Circle north of Arkhangelsk, a logging camp in the wilderness, or a soft jail (if such a thing can be said to exist). They were judge, jury and executioner. By '75, Okhrana was one of the most powerful security organizations in the Russian Empire. And dark rumors swirled about them. In addition to the torture chambers and horror, it was said they had taken to wearing monastic habits in private, in an effort to ape the dreaded Oprichnina of Ivan the Terrible. And it was gossiped they had taken to addressing one another using clerical titles, which got the Ober-Prosecutor of the Holy Synod of the Russian Church to formally initiate proceedings.
Feofan Budimirovich Zub never wore a monastic habit in his life. True, he wore a jet black duty uniform which bore a certain similarity to clothes worn by priests from days of yore, but it was quite modern, slick, and made by a Russian affiliate of Hugo Boss. As to his rank, as an associate of the Ministry of Justice, he wore the insignia of a Court-Councilor, on his right lapel. His left lapel was blank. His superior officer Zahar Alexandrovich Bataev, who sat opposite him in the Okhrana subterranean divisional headquarters in Odesa, wore the insignia of a Collegiate-Councilor. He bade Zub to sit.
"We have compromising materials on some of the members of the Imperial House who will attend the Gathering. Your clearance has been upgraded to give you access to the following files. Use the information contained within to ensure our preferred candidate is named Regent and Guardian."
"All of the movie theater operators understand the situation, Serenity," reported the young man.
"Thank you, Poruchik," said Her Serene Highness Princess Natalie Kropotkina, her cheeks suitably puffy from tears she forced herself to shed, and her voice being suitably distracted and tired.
Poruchik Obolensky bowed and left. He was an officer in the Special Section of the Department of Police of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and as such should have only obeyed orders from his Ministry superiors, but he was an intelligent young man and wished to go far in the world. Kropotkina reviewed the gossip collected by the Special Section. The consensus was clear, the people of Riga were terrified of what the future held. She shared their fears, just as she shared her husband's sadness for the passing of the Tsar. She just did not let such things unman her, as her grandfather would say. She was a Siberian. Emotional displays were for people who did not have to face the wrath of winter for nine months out of the year. Her earliest vivid memory as a little girl was her grandfather taking her out after a snowstorm to a village near their diamond mine. Everyone had perished in it. She saw corpses of parents huddling to protect their children. Cows frozen in their stalls. And a half naked man, dead by a tree. He had shed his clothes, leaving a trail from his hut to the pine. Her grandfather patiently explained how extreme cold plays tricks on your mind and makes you at times take off clothes even as it gets colder and colder. The old man was always good for a valuable lesson, taught in the worst way possible, but still.
Prince Kropotkin wandered into the room, troubled. He closed the door and turned on the radio, loudly. Depressing music filled the room. Radio stations were not about to play happy music, despite no announcement from St. Pete as yet about the death of the Tsar. Given most radio stations preferred having plenty of lively music in their rotation, they ran out of the normally played somber stuff quickly and had to do deep cuts and sometimes even managed to showcase new artists or the ones who had no chance to be played under usual circumstances. For instance, the dirge now playing was by Muslim Magomaev. One knew something was amiss when not just an Azeri, but an Azeri with such a name got airplay on a major Russian station.
Her Serenity approached her husband and they sat on the couch. He turned to her and whispered:
"There is talk among some of the Romanovs to nominate Gavril Ioannovich as Regent and Guardian."
The big push at work is finally over and Greg Grant is doing another story, April started really well.
Okhrana, the poor mans SS.
Okhrana, the poor mans SS.