Nest of the Monarch

by Kay Kenyon

  “Yes. I saw them in their beds. And one broke free and ran mad, killing others. A horror. I escaped, my hair with blood in it.”

  Annakova looked at Evgeny, who nodded, though he did not seem to paying close attention. His gaze wandered here and there.

  “But why in beds, strapped down?”

  “Because the German doctors wish to see how they will die, for their records. They watch and write it all down in their charts. I know that they lie to you, because you would never do this to people pledged to your service. You would never allow it.”

  “I do not allow it,” she whispered. The resolve seemed to flow out of her. She sank to the floor by Evgeny’s chair, placing one hand on his knee. “I do not allow.”

  She looked up at Evgeny, who nodded gravely. “What I shall do? Tell me, Evgeny, tell me.”

  “You save St. Petersburg. Go to British. Go, Irinuska. Then I can die.”

  “Do not always speak of death! I beg of you.” She buried her face in his thigh and wept.

  His hand went to her head, patting her like a child. He cooed soft Russian words to her, stroking her head where her hair was pulled up in a braided bun.

  He looked up at Kim. “She go with you. Make end of it, this long road.”

  As he sat there he looked like a royal himself. Serene and kingly. “And so, Nora Copeland, you say, you swear, that you protect Nikolai?”

  “I swear it. I will protect him.”

  Annakova held on to Evgeny’s knees like a daughter might cling to her father. A tableau of devotion and despair from the pretender to the throne who would never win back the royal court, whose son would never be tsar.

  Evgeny sighed, putting a finger under Annakova’s chin, lifting her face so that she would look at him, and he whispered, “Dasvedanya, Irinuska.”

  Removing a handkerchief from her long sleeve, she wiped her eyes and slowly got to her feet. “I am ready to do this thing.”

  She gestured to Kim to bring her cape.

  Evgeny watched as Kim helped Annakova into her wrap. He picked up his cup of tea that had languished on the side table and drank it down all at once. Then he poured another cup, and gulped it down as well. Gagging, he reached for the pot again.

  Both Kim and Annakova turned to him. The thought occurred: Poison? Annakova cried out and rushed toward him. Kim got there first and lunging, swiped her hand at the teapot, sending it crashing to the floor.

  Evgeny groaned as a spasm took hold of him. Head thrown back, he trembled violently, hands and legs shaking.

  “Help him! Help him!” Annakova shouted at Kim.

  Kim ran to the sink for water, filling a glass, and rushed back with it.

  Evgeny vomited. The force of it bent him over, and he fell to the floor, gasping for air, his feet slapping against the floorboards as tremors shook him.

  Annakova was on her knees at his side, holding his head, murmuring his name. His body arched backward, once, and again. The tsarina looked up at Kim, frantic. But they had not the slightest idea what to do. He could not take water. A foul trickle ran down his chin. Kim watched, helpless to save him.

  Irina Annakova was moaning, saying his name and what sounded like endearments as she rocked at his side.

  Kim thought Irina should run for a doctor but knew it would be too late as Evgeny shook on the floor, his eyes rolling up in his head.

  The minutes passed as he slowly quieted. At last his body went slack. Kim reached down to check the pulse at his neck. He was gone.

  Tears streamed down Annakova’s face. “No one listen to old man. Old man having too much future.”

  Whatever future he had seen, he could not bear it. He could not bear any of them. And now he was dead.

  Annakova sat at Evgeny’s side for a long while. She held his hand, murmuring what sounded like a prayer in Russian.

  Kim took the execution order and burned the paper in the fire grate.

  At last Annakova rose and smoothed her gown. She raised her chin with a frightening royal poise. “Now you tell me, Nora Copeland, how we find airplane in forest.”

  THE WOODS NEAR A LAKE

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 23. In the silent forest Hannah was alone, heavily laden with a small woolen bed roll, two winter coats, sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, a tin cup, and a small stove to melt snow for water. It was cold but her parka and hat with earflaps were enough to keep her warm.

  Having left behind the truck at the end of the road, she had set out through the heavy trees toward the lake. The sky was high and clear, the snow on the ground only three or four inches thick. A little luck.

  Tonight she would lie under her blanket and all the clothes she carried on her back. There might be blankets in the shack, but one of her contacts in the area had said no one had been ice fishing at the lake for a long time. Perhaps the mice had made tatters of the blankets. Or the SS had dismantled the hut.

  Hannah did not relish spending the night outside if the shack was gone, but in truth, a cold hut would not be much better.

  Her main worry was that she would sleep too late in the morning. Perhaps best not to sleep at all tonight. And Kim? She must carry out her part of the plan. How long would the plane wait if Kim did not come on time? Tomorrow’s worry.

  She emerged out of the trees and saw the lake before her. The hut still intact. The lake, flat, frozen, and ample for landing a plane. Hurrying now to be quickly out of view, she made her way to the hut.

  THE AERIE

  LATER THAT DAY. “Where did he get rat poison?” Commandant Bassman asked his assembled officers.

  Captain Adler stood among the senior SS, his gut tight with anxiety. What had happened in Evgeny’s cabin? The tsarina’s story, as all had heard by now, was that she had paid a visit, had struggled with Evgeny Borisov as he threatened suicide, had watched in horror as he drank poison. But what really had gone on in Evgeny’s cabin this morning? He wondered if Nora had been there before or during the poisoning episode. Annakova had likely met with her. The timing suggested the three of them discussed the execution order and, of course, the vision of St. Petersburg. Sometime during this discussion, Evgeny had swallowed poison. And what had happened to the execution document?

  “The storeroom was not locked, Commandant,” one of the officers responded.

  At Bassman’s glare, the officer said, “It is locked now.”

  “The tsarina’s well-being is the priority of every one of you. We cannot have any mistakes that affect Her Majesty.”

  But they were going to kill Evgeny anyway. He had saved them the trouble. And now the tsarina was grieving instead of just regretting the need for his retirement rest at a home for the elderly.

  “Commandant,” Lieutenant Weiss said, “there is a document missing from Evgeny Borisov’s file.” At a nod from Bassman, Weiss said, “The paper authorizing his elimination.”

  Bassman’s face darkened. Very softly he said. “Lieutenant Weiss, you will find out how it is that the paper is missing.”

  “Yes, Commandant!”

  Bassman looked at the men grouped around him, searching the faces of his inner circle. His gaze settled on Adler, then moved on.

  Adler thought that Bassman suspected that they had a traitor among them. Perhaps not someone in the room. But someone.

  As the day darkened into late afternoon, Irina Dimitrievna Annakova sat by Evgeny’s body and prayed. Here in a side room of the infirmary, he lay on a wooden table, his hands folded over his breast. There should be a priest, but she was all Evgeny Feodorovich had for prayers.

  “Oh gracious Mother of God,” she whispered, “have mercy on this soul, a sinner. Oh Mother of Christ, present my prayer to your Son, that He may for Your sake hear me and save my beloved Evgeny’s soul and give him peace forever.”

  His body had been washed and dressed in his best clothes. On his collar, a discoloration where the maid, ironing his hastily laundered shirt, had scorched the linen.

  How tattered their estate was! No time to buy suit
able clothing in the rush to attain the Aerie where Hitler said they would be safe.

  Safe. But they had never been safe. The British knew of Monarch. If she had not agreed to leave with the woman, likely this Nora Copeland would have killed her. So she and Nikolai had never been safe. And how safe would they be if they fled on Christmas? But what was she to do, stay and bring further sorrow on her Progeny?

  There was no safety. Not even with Erich Stefan von Ritter. He did not know the truth of catalyst changes, that many of the Progeny—no matter the number, too many!—became ill beyond any possible healing. That they died, some of them, strapped to their beds for the tests of the Nazi doctors. Stefan did not know; she could not believe that he knew.

  The Germans had lied and lied. Not Stefan, but his masters.

  And yet. Hitler was her only chance to bring Kolya the throne. Back and forth, first horror, then resignation: people sometimes must suffer to bring a greater good. To defeat the Bolsheviks, who conducted their own slaughter of the Russian people.

  And what if Evgeny had been wrong about what he saw? Sometimes he saw things . . . things that he said were true but might be avoided. Things that might even be true in a world that lived alongside their own.

  Oh, Evgeny Sometimes I think you saw things that you feared but that were not true.

  What was she to do? Leave or stay? She had made her decision in Evgeny’s cabin, but now. . . . She looked at her hands, and thought of the power in them. She was a catalyst. Had God given her this power for a reason? Was it to make her valuable to Hitler, so that he would make Kolya tsar? Or was it an evil power that she must resist? The thoughts circled round and round. She would go. She would stay.

  And what of Stefan? This betrayal of him was almost beyond what she could bear.

  She placed her hand on Evgeny’s breast, remembering her duty to pray. “Give rest, Oh God, to the soul of Thy servant, and set him in Paradise. Give him rest, Oh Lord, and grant him forgiveness of his sins.”

  And mine, oh Lord. And mine.

  45

  THE AERIE

  CHRISTMAS EVE, 7:00 PM. The gathering in the reception hall was like so many soirees Kim had been to, except the guests here were monsters.

  At the notion, she chuckled with amusement. Take a little pressure off, and in her present condition terror became hilarity. It wasn’t good, she knew. At Kim’s side, Erika shot her an annoyed look. “Something is funny?”

  “No, of course not. Shall we see what the canapes are?” She knew there were some, because she could smell them from across the room. The tantalizing fragrance of beef, unless it was venison. She struck out across the crowded hall, Erika at her side in a severe suited jacket and skirt, looking more like a prison warden than a Christmas party guest. How fine that Erika looked the part, since she was a warden. Hilde was in the infirmary recovering from her bout of indigestion, deflected for now from making trouble.

  The great room occupied the entire Festival Hall’s second floor, except for a few SS officer suites. Kim had seen the reception hall from the plaza, with its long bank of windows looking out on the Bavarian Alps, but she had never been in it. Despite its size, the room was crowded by what looked like the entire garrison. Annakova had not yet arrived, but word was that she would make an appearance despite the loss she had suffered.

  An enormous Christmas tree dominated the far corner, liberally strewn with ornaments, lit candles in little holders and wrapped gifts beneath. Uniforms were on parade, brown of the Wehrmacht, the black of regular SS and Nachkommenschaft SS, and the civilians wearing, Kim supposed, their newly issued garb, as she did: her green dress with leather belt and black patent-leather high heels. She nodded to the few civilians she had met in the dining room, committed fascists looking starstruck among the elite SS, proud to be leaving soon for France, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Belgium, and wherever Hitler needed arms twisted and opinions firmly changed.

  Despite Evgeny’s terrible death yesterday, Kim was optimistic for her plan. Annakova had not turned her in, would escape with her. And Hannah would come to England. So many problems solved. The Nachkommenschaft, those lanky, pale experiments, would gradually recover. They would be able to eat corned beef cabbage again.

  It would have been funny, but the thought of cabbage turned her stomach.

  Bringing home two catalyst Talents would be a stunning success, lovely to think of. There were no limits to what a spy could do in the right place at the right time. She would make sure to press home the point with Duncan, he of the timid cautions.

  Not that she was entirely calm. In addition to Wehrmacht soldiers, the room was full of Hitler’s elite units, both regular SS and those who wore the vulture insignia. Were it not for the experience of the Berlin soirees among uniformed Nazis, she thought this gathering might have completely unnerved her.

  In the back of her mind, a warning curled. You should be afraid. Stay on guard.

  Some of the Nachkommen stood along the wall, a phalanx of thin men in black, as though lining up together would excuse them from socializing. Others mixed freely, some even laughing, their expressions wolfish. Tomorrow the purification ceremony would make them . . . more. More of what they already were.

  She had not yet seen Captain Adler. They had not spoken since yesterday morning when he alerted her that Evgeny was in his cabin. Even had she seen him here now, and as harmless as it might seem for the two of them to exchange a quick few words, she did not plan to approach him, and hoped he would not attempt to communicate.

  Everyone waited for the tsarina. Erika and Kim had practiced on the way down from the barracks how to greet her with appropriate solemnity, given her loss. For example, one could not say Merry Christmas. Erika decided on “Your Majesty” with a deep curtsy. And for Kim, “An honor to see you again.”

  They looked over the canape table with its cheeses, liver pate on quarter-cut black bread, deviled eggs, cake wedges and, for special constitutions, tiny raw slices of venison on crackers. Waiters groomed the table, removing crackers that had been left behind as the Progeny picked the toppings off.

  “Disgusting,” Erika huffed. “They have no manners.”

  “Manners?” Kim flicked crumbs from the bodice of her dress. “I hope you’re not criticizing, Erika.” She turned what she hoped was a predatory look on her. “We Nachkommenschaft do the best we can. Under the circumstances.”

  Erika refused to be impressed by Kim’s standing. She expected to be purified tomorrow after Christmas dinner, and so Kim was merely a little ahead of her. “Do not forget that I found us lipstick.”

  “So you did. You deserve a medal just for that.”

  “Over there,” Erika said, nudging her. “The Commandant, Colonel Bassman.”

  A gray-haired, barrel-chested officer stood by the Christmas tree in the company of several officers.

  “And who is the man with the scar?” Kim asked.

  Erika turned to look at an SS officer standing by the window drinking something red. He was a Nachkomme by the tall dome of his forehead and long chin. The one she had met yesterday near the cabins.

  But Erika didn’t know him. She excused herself to reapply her lipstick. Kim realized she didn’t feel comfortable being near the officer with the scar since he’d seen her approach Evgeny’s cabin yesterday morning. She made her way to the table with the champagne.

  A stir rippled through the crowd. Voices in the corridor outside, and people turned in the direction of the tall double doors.

  Over the heads of the assembled soldiers and administrative staff, Kim saw movement in the hallway; the tsarina approaching, stopping to greet some who were in the foyer. Kim supposed she would wear gloves since she would be shaking hands with people.

  Kim glimpsed the sparkle of jewels, a white gown. Heels clicked and men in uniform bowed. Senior officers stepped forward to greet the tsarina.

  And then Kim saw the entire entourage.

  The room shifted. Her champagne flute tilted and cold splashes slopp
ed onto her dress.

  Annakova had come into full view on the arm of Erich von Ritter.

  Kim slammed the flute down on the linen tablecloth, breaking the glass stem, spilling the contents. Lurching away from the table, she looked for a way to hide. She was in the direct path of the tsarina and her escort.

  Thoughts flew at her, trying to land. Erich von Ritter was dead. Dead at Rievaulx Abbey on the North York Moors. He would recognize her. But he was dead. She must get away. They were blocking the door. A Nachkomme near her jerked his attention her way. The broken glass. Her hand, bleeding.

  The Nachkomme approached her, nostrils flaring. What, he would lick her hand? He was offering her a paper napkin. She took it, saying in English, thank you, pressing the napkin into the palm of her hand, making a fist to keep it there. How could she move into a corner of the room and avoid the advancing couple? The man on her arm—he was limping. That could not be von Ritter.

  But in another moment Annakova was standing before her. Now that the tsarina was an arm’s length away, Kim knew her situation was real, even if it was impossible. Annakova was still on Erich von Ritter’s arm.

  “Sir Stefan,” the tsarina said, “here is American who took bullet from my son and is so brave. Nora Copeland.” She nodded at the man at her side. “This is Sir Stefan.”

  Kim stood speechless. Small, bleeding, dressed in green. Words stuck in her throat. The room continued tipping as lights from the chandeliers splattered into her eyes like shards of ice.

  “Come now, you must greet us,” Annakova said. Her face, a pale mask with a welcoming smile pasted on.

  “Your Majesty,” Kim whispered. She looked up at von Ritter. “Sir Stefan.”

  His face bore a surreal calm as he gazed at her. Not a flicker of recognition. Perhaps her bangs, her short hair? The green dress. He didn’t know her.

  But he did, of course.

  “Nora Copeland, is it?” A faint expression began to make its way across his face. Amusement. Yes, of all things, amusement. Her life, over, and Erich von Ritter, as always, finding reason to be delighted by what the world held up for him. As now, standing before him, Kim Tavistock, the erstwhile Yorkshire spy who had once foiled all his plans. And did so with enough grace that, at the end, he had let her go.