The Red Tide

by Christopher Nicole

  As for what he could possibly say to the Tsar...who, having greeted various other dignitaries, was now standing before him. Alexei bowed. “How good to see you again, Alexei Colinovich,” Tsar Nicholas said.

  “It is an honour to be here, sire.” The two men gazed at each other. As Colin MacLain’s son, Alexei had been automatically commissioned into the Preobraschenski Guards when still a boy, as had his older half-brother Peter. But when the entire family had been plunged into disgrace by the involvement of their sister Patricia in terrorism and anarchy, both had been forced to resign. Yet Nicholas could never have doubted that they were two of his most loyal supporters. Prince Peter Bolugayevski had indeed given his life for Tsar and Motherland in the battle for Port Arthur. And Alexei, as Governor of Moscow, had put down the revolt of 1905 with ruthless determination, even if he had again been forced to help his sister escape the Okhrana. The Tsar had received him after the rising had been crushed, agreed as his reward to exile Patricia out of the country rather than return her to Siberia, and then sent him back to his estate of Bolugayen. They had not met since, and Alexei had not been offered employment. But Nicholas had commanded him to attend the state opening of the Kiev Opera House. “My wife, sire,” Alexei said, and Sonia curtseyed.

  “I am charmed, Princess,” Nicholas said. He knew all about her, of course, and like everyone else in the court circle heartily disapproved of Prince Bolugayevski’s marriage, not merely because she was a Jewess, but a Jewess who had dabbled in terrorism, or so it was said. But he needed her husband.

  “You and the Princess must dine with me, Prince Bolugayevski,” he said. “After the performance. There is much we need to discuss.”

  Alexei bowed again. “I shall be honoured, sire.” Nicholas smiled at Anna. “Countess, meeting you is always the greatest pleasure a man can experience.”

  “You flatter me, sire,” Anna said; she was almost old enough to be his grandmother.

  “You also will come to supper, I trust.”

  “It will be my great pleasure, sire.”

  The Tsar passed on, and Alexei and Sonia were introduced to the two grand duchesses, extremely pretty and attractively unaffected girls. Then they followed their father up the stairs to the royal box, while the band played the national anthem. Stolypin hurried up. “Do what you can,” he said, and went into the body of the house; his seat was at the front of the orchestra stalls.

  Alexei had naturally taken a box, and he escorted Sonia and Anna to their seats, stood behind them as the anthem was played, and then sat behind them. Anna was inspecting the people below her through her opera glasses. “Oh, there is Countess Carnovska. I hadn’t expected to see her here. I must have a word with her during the interval.”

  “I’m surprised Nathalie isn’t here,” Sonia remarked. She too was looking at the faces beneath them.

  “I doubt she’d travel this far from Petersburg even for an occasion like this,” Alexei said. Nathalie Bolugayevska was his sister-in-law, the widow of his half-brother Peter. As such, she called herself, correctly, the Princess Dowager Bolugayevska. But Nathalie felt strongly that her daughter should have inherited Bolugayen, and was inclined to be difficult — especially when she had been drinking, which was usually the case. He was very glad she was not here.

  Alexei allowed his gage a sweep of the auditorium, and he frowned. Standing behind the seats of the dress circle were quite a few young men. All were impeccably dressed in full evening wear, and most were joking and chatting as they waited for the curtain to go up; clearly they were the sons of Kievan society, attending this sumptuous occasion. But one of the men stood to one side, neither smiling nor speaking to the others, gazing down the aisle which led to the orchestra pit and the stage. Presumably he was someone who had been commanded to attend, whether he liked Rimski-Korsakov or not, Alexei decided, and at that moment the lights were lowered and the curtain went up.

  Throughout the first Act his mind remained on the young man; he wondered if he would still be there at the first interval, or if he would have sneaked off somewhere to enjoy himself. Or drown his sorrows; he looked as if he had a few already. The music and singing ceased, and the safety curtain came down. The auditorium glowed, and a waiter came into the box with a tray of champagne and glasses. “I must go down and have a word with Elizabeth Carpowska,” Anna said.

  “I will come with you, at least as far as the cloakroom,” Sonia said.

  Alexei stood up and saw them out of the box. He sat down in Sonia’s chair, close to the balustrade, a glass of champagne in his hand, looking down on the animated scene beneath him as people rose and moved about, chattered to their friends. He smiled; Peter Stolypin was entirely surrounded, mostly, he suspected, by people eager to be seen speaking with the Prime Minister rather than actually having anything to say. He picked out his aunt, emerging on to the lower floor, and smiling as only Anna Bolugayevska could smile at the people who hastily got out of her way as she made her way towards Countess Carpowska, who was seated some rows back from Stolypin. Then he frowned as he again saw the lone young man. He had not moved, but remained standing by the door to the foyer, continuing to gaze down the aisle. If he has remained like that throughout the first Act then he must be as stiff as a board, Alexei thought. The door to the box opened, and Sonia returned. He poured her a glass of champagne, and she sat in Anna’s seat. “Enjoying it?”

  “I think Rimski-Korsakov improves as he goes on,” she said. “But I am enjoying being with you. Are we really going to have supper with the Tsar, afterwards?”

  “Does that thought frighten you?”

  “Yes,” she said candidly. He could understand that. Simply because she was a Jewess, she had every cause to hate this man, because of the constant, savage, pogroms against her people launched in his name. Equally, she could never forget that were she not the Princess Bolugayevska, she could be one of those hunted down and destroyed in the most brutal fashion by the ‘Black Hundreds’, as the irregular troops employed by the government for that purpose were called. Sonia’s entire family had been hounded out of existence, so far as she was aware. And now she was being required to break bread with a man who could be called a murderer, even if Nicholas, personally, had never harmed a soul in his life. But she would do so, because the Tsar’s favour safeguarded the future of her son.

  The warning bell sounded, and the lights began to go down. Alexei looked into the auditorium, seeking the return of his aunt, and saw the lone young, man at last move from his position against the wall. He frowned again as he watched the man walk steadily down the aisle, to join the throng of men still around the Prime Minister; they were just beginning to break up to return to their seats. The young man got right up to Stolypin, and spoke to him. Alexei, of course, could not hear what he was saying, both because he was too far away and because the auditorium was a huge buzz of sound as people returned to their seats, but it appeared as if the man was introducing himself, and was being acknowledged by the Prime Minister, for Stolypin was holding out his hand. The young man extended his hand as well. His back was turned to the other men, and they could not see his hand. But Alexei, looking down from above, could, and he saw that it held a revolver.

  It seemed that no one heard the sound of the explosion, either, nor was there any immediate reaction to the sight of the Prime Minister sitting down rather abruptly. It was only when the young man stepped away, and hurried back up the aisle to the doors, that it could be seen that blood was pouring over Stolypin’s white waistcoat. There was an immediate upsurge of noise. The women nearest to Stolypin screamed, the men shouted, and began tearing at the Prime Minister’s clothes in a vain attempt to reach the wound and staunch the bleeding. Alexei could not resist a glance to his right, to the royal box, where Nicholas was on his feet, staring at the scene beneath him as if paralysed; the grand duchesses appeared to be fainting with horror. Then he looked back down at the auditorium. “There!” he shouted, pointing at the young man, who was at the doors. “There!” />
  But it seemed no one could hear him; everyone was concentrating on the stricken minister. “Alexei!” Sonia gasped.

  “Look after Aunt Anna,” Alexei snapped, and burst out of the box, running along the corridor to the stairs.

  Sonia gathered her skirts and ran behind him. Her injury did not prevent her moving as quickly as anyone; it simply made her somewhat awkward. Now she found herself in the midst of a huge throng of people who were shouting, screaming, rushing to and fro. She attempted to push her way through the mass, and was thrust hard against a chair set to one side. She sat down heavily, losing her breath and one earring, panting more with anger than alarm at being so treated, and found a man stooping beside her to retrieve the earring. “Allow me to assist you, Your Highness.”

  She looked up. He wore the blue full dress uniform of an officer in the Actirski Hussars, his cape draped over his left shoulder, his chest a mass of gold braid. His hair was black and thick, his features surprisingly small, for he was a big, tall man. Certainly he was handsome enough, and, she realised, disconcertingly young. “Captain Paul Korsakov, at your service, Your Highness.” He held out the earring.

  Sonia got her breath back and took the jewellery. “You know who I am?”

  “Of course, Your Highness. Does not every man in Russia know the most beautiful princess in the land? I saw Prince Bolugayevski joining the chase of the assassin. Allow me to escort you to safety.”

  Sonia stood up, trying to regain her composure, more from what he had just said than from being jostled. “Should you not also be chasing the assassin?”

  “I have no idea what he looks like,” Korsakov confessed. “Besides, there is already a sufficiently large hunting party. I would rather be of service to you, Your Highness.”

  Of all the effrontery, Sonia thought. He certainly knows I am married. I wonder what else he knows about me? But he had paid her an enormous compliment, and she could certainly use an escort, as the pandemonium was growing.

  “The person you need to assist, is my aunt,” she said. “She is in the auditorium. Help me find her.”

  “We should hurry,” Korsakov suggested, and held her arm. She did not object, although when he said hurry he meant just that, and she received several more jolts and buffets as he pushed his way through the throng and down the stairs. The confusion in the auditorium was even greater than upstairs, the agitation of the members of the audience being heightened by the appearance of large numbers of policemen, trying to stop people from moving about, no doubt under the impression that the assassin might still be in the building. Meanwhile men were attempting to carry the Prime Minister up the aisle, not very successfully, because of the crush. Other people were screaming that they were hurt, or someone close to them had been...and Sonia’s heart lurched as she realised she could not see Anna. “What does your aunt look like?” Korsakov shouted above the din. He was now virtually holding her in his arms as he sought to protect her from the people jostling to either side.

  “She is very small and old,” Sonia shouted back, her lips almost against his cheek. “And very beautiful.”

  “Of course, the famous Anna Bolugayevska,” he remarked, for the first time understanding who she was talking about. “Come.”

  He began to push his way forward again, to find a policemen standing in front him. “No one is allowed in, Your Honour.”

  “Listen,” Korsakov said, “Let us through or I will break your arm.”

  The man gulped, and stepped aside. I have certainly accumulated a forceful escort, Sonia thought. But now people were parting to either side, and a few moments later they were facing Irina Carpowska, who was kneeling on the floor beside Anna. “My God!” Sonia cried. “Is she...”

  “She was knocked down when she tried to leave,” the Countess said. “People trampled on her. Who are you?”

  “Sonia Bolugayevska,” Sonia told her, herself kneeling beside Anna. Anna’s eyes were closed, and her face was twisted with pain, but she was breathing.

  “I think she has fainted,” Korsakov said. “We must get her out of here. Is your carriage nearby, Your Highness?”

  “It was. But I don’t know what is happening out there.”

  “Will you permit me, Your Highness?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Korsakov thrust one arm under Anna’s knees, put the other round her shoulders and stood up, lifting her as if she were a babe. He carried her towards the doorway, and the policeman, who had followed them into the auditorium, cleared a way for them. Anna sighed, and opened her eyes. “Why, young man,” she said. “Whatever are you doing?”

  “Making myself the envy of every man in Russia, Your Excellency,” Korsakov assured her.

  *

  “Ahem,” Morgan said. Patricia Cromb looked up from the letter she was writing. “There is a telegram, madam,” Morgan told her, holding out the silver salver.

  Harold Morgan had had an interesting life. A Welshman, he had as a youth of eighteen served with the 24th Welsh Fusiliers, and had been present at the immortal Battle of Rorke’s Drift. Surviving that ordeal, during which just over a hundred British soldiers had resisted repeated attacks by well over three thousand battle-hardened Zulu warriors, had encouraged him to seek a quieter career, and he had become a gentleman’s gentleman. When he had begun work for Mr Duncan Cromb, the American shipowner based in London, he had assumed that his every ambition had been realised. Duncan Cromb, the younger brother in a very wealthy family, had chosen to base himself in the London office, and seemed a totally settled young man. At that time, Morgan had had no idea that Mr Cromb had a Russian mother, much less that in her youth she had been one of the most famous female roués in history. Even less had he suspected that his quiet and refined employer was in the middle of a passionate and incestuous relationship with his second cousin, Patricia Bolugayevska. And even less had he suspected that his skills as a traveller and a soldier were going to be called into play to rescue the Countess Patricia from the depths of the revolutionary activity in Moscow in which she had involved herself.

  Morgan had regretted not a moment of that wild adventure. He adored the Countess Patricia, and would willingly lay down his life for her, even if his hair was now grey and his moustache drooping. There had been no change in the Countess over the dozen years he had known her. He watched her slit the envelope with the silver paperknife he had thoughtfully laid on the tray. Her magnificent straight auburn hair contained the same strands of gray that it had on the day he had first met her; her body was still slender, though not emaciated as it had been according to Giselle, Patricia’s maid, after her years in Irkutsk. It had been his pleasure to watch it fill out into the full maturity of a wife and a mother. She was now a beautiful woman and at thirty-four had reached perhaps her apogee. As for what went on behind that splendid mask, Morgan reckoned that no man, including her husband, could truly tell. Did she still dwell on the floggings and rapings she had undergone as a prisoner of the Okhrana with the hatred he had heard her express? She gave no sign of it.

  Was her heart still involved with those strange, anarchic, uncouth friends of hers, people like Vladimir Ulianov, who now called himself Nicolai Lenin, and his wife Olga Krupskaya, who had helped her escape from Siberian exile and had later called on her for help in launching their abortive and totally unsuccessful revolution? She certainly no longer corresponded with them. But she did correspond with her sister-in-law and closest friend, the Princess Sonia Bolugayevska. They had shared exile together, with all of its horrors, and it had been Patricia’s decision, after escaping, to seek refuge on her family estate Bolugayen. It had been this move that had first allowed the Jewess into the orbit of Patricia’s brother Alexei, and had caused him to fall in love. But did Patricia not still dream of her home, Morgan wondered, and the wealth and status that had gone with being the Countess Bolugayevska, an omnipotent existence she had handed on to her friend?

  Morgan hoped not. Here in London madam had everything she desired. Duncan Crom
b might be a younger son, but he was still a wealthy man, by most standards, if perhaps not that of the Bolugayevskis. This flat was one of the most expensive and elegant, and expensively and elegantly furnished, in London, even if it would have fitted into a single large reception room at Bolugayen. Patricia bought her clothes in Paris. And she was the mother of two splendid children. Surely she could ask for nothing more. Save...he frowned as he watched her also frown as she gazed at the words on the paper. “My God!” she said. “Aunt Anna!”

  “She’s not dead, I trust, madam?” Morgan was by no means sure that would not be a good thing. He had only a brief acquaintance with the famous Anna Bolugayevska, when they had all gathered at Bolugayen following her return from Port Arthur and their escape from Moscow. No man could meet Anna Bolugayevska without regretting he had not known her in her youth, but Morgan, who had never found the time to marry, had formed the opinion that she was not really a good influence on the family.

  “She’s badly hurt,” Patricia said. “Trampled in some panic at the Kiev Opera. What on earth was she, doing at the Kiev Opera? The family never goes to Kiev. I suppose Sophie had something to do with it,” she grumbled. “But...” she looked up, her face suddenly animated. “Alexei wants Duncan to go to her. And he says I can come too!”