A Very Dangerous Woman: The Lives, Loves and Lies of Russia's Most Seductive Spy

by Deborah McDonald

  But at the same time:

  There was something cruel in her face, which was a little too broad, with her high cheekbones and wide-set eyes, but she had an unbelievably endearing, feline smile.14

  Few could resist her, and not many wanted to.

  The first man she was said to have bedded – or the first whose name is known – was Arthur Engelhardt. The circumstances were confused, entangled with myth and rumour. Engelhardt appeared on the scene in 1908, when Moura was sixteen. At around this period a baby girl also appeared, named Kira. It was alleged later that Kira was Moura’s child by Engelhardt, but there was good reason to believe that she was the child of Moura’s elder sister Alla, who also had a relationship with Engelhardt. An unusual situation, in which the paternity of a child was known, but its maternity was in doubt.

  Whatever the truth of Kira’s parentage, it was Alla who married Engelhardt, and Kira was recorded as their daughter.15 It was a doomed marriage, and Alla’s life would be dogged by strife and drug addiction.

  Meanwhile, Moura put the Engelhardt affair behind her, and finally escaped the social wasteland of the Ukraine in 1909. Her other elder sister, Alla’s twin Assia, was married to a diplomat and living in Berlin, one of the most exciting cities in Europe for wealthy socialites. Assia was a typically wayward Zakrevskaya girl, her marriage having begun with an affair and an elopement. She invited Moura to come and stay with her. ‘Bring your smartest clothes,’ she wrote, ‘as there will be plenty of parties, Court balls and other functions to go to.’16 How could Moura resist? She packed her dresses, said farewell to Micky, and – aglow with excitement – set off for Germany.

  It was just as Assia had promised: a life of society, sparkle and intense experience. It was also the beginning of a new epoch in Moura’s life. In Berlin she was introduced to a friend of her brother Bobik, who was also in the diplomatic service. Assia thought this man – a young nobleman who was ten years older than Moura – would be a good escort for the seventeen-year-old. Moura thought so too.

  Djon Alexandrovich von Benckendorff came from a branch of a large Estonian aristocratic family. Along with the other Baltic provinces, Estonia was part of the Russian Empire, and there were several Benckendorffs in the imperial Russian diplomatic service. Djon had been groomed to be part of the next generation, and was already well on his way, having recently inherited his father’s large estate at Yendel. On top of his other advantages, Djon was an intelligent young man, coming almost top of his year at the Imperial Lycée in St Petersburg.

  Moura set her sights on him. She had the aristocratic connections, the bearing and personality to attract a conventional, conservative member of the nobility such as Djon. He probably failed to realise that she was not at all conventional, had a mind of her own, and was thoroughly independent in spirit. When he met her, she turned the full power of her charisma on him, and he soon came under her spell. Their courtship began.

  She was never in love with him, but his wealth and position appealed to her, and her mother considered him a suitable match. With such a man Moura would want for nothing, and have a wonderful social life. Mixing with the aristocracy at parties night after night suited her, and she quickly decided that as long as she lived she was never going to be ‘ordinary’.

  At a Court ball at the Sanssouci Palace – the flamboyant Rococo marvel at Potsdam belonging to the German royal family – Moura and Assia were presented to Tsar Nicholas, who was visiting as a guest of his second cousin, Kaiser Wilhelm. It was a ball comparable to the ones given by the Tsar himself at the Winter Palace in St Petersburg, which were renowned for being unbelievably lavish, with as many as three thousand aristocratic guests flaunting their wealth, dressed in colourful uniforms and magnificent gowns, sparkling with jewels and decorations. At the Sanssouci ball the Zakrevskaya girls, ‘in their beautiful Court dresses, with gold studded trains and traditional Russian head-dress studded with pearls’, made such an impression that the Crown Prince was heard to exclaim, ‘Quelle noblesse!’17

  This was the kind of intense, giddy society that Moura had been craving since childhood. She agreed to marry Djon, and the wedding took place on 24 October 1911. Moura was finally liberated, and would never have to return to life in the stultifying atmosphere of Beriozovaya Rudka and the cloying clutches of her mother.

  For the next three years the couple lived in Berlin, where Djon had a rising position at the Russian Embassy. Djon adored his bride, and Moura’s magnetic charm must have made him believe that the feeling was returned. It wasn’t, but neither was there any ill feeling – not yet, anyway. Moura’s status rose, and she became a focus of attention within the Embassy and Berlin’s wider diplomatic circles. She spent days out at the races, and weekends away at house parties.

  Their life was not confined to Berlin. Djon had a luxurious apartment in St Petersburg, where they would stay when he was given leave. There were great balls at the royal palaces; the Tsar and Tsarina opened these evenings by dancing a formal polonaise, and at midnight the dancing would stop for a huge sit-down supper.18 Many years later, Moura recalled one of these events:

  Inside it was suffocating, what with all the candles and the flowers and the fires, everybody wore pads under their armpits to soak up the perspiration, and outside it was twenty or thirty degrees below zero, one arrived in sleighs bundled up in furs, and shawls and robes, and there were bonfires in the palace courtyard so that the grooms and coachmen could warm themselves up while they waited. It was all very beautiful, and I remember the poor Tzar staring down my bodice when I curtsied, and the look the Empress gave him! So silly when you consider she was already spending her afternoons with Rasputin.19

  For just over a year the couple lived the carefree life of young aristocrats without responsibilities. Then the children began to appear. The first was Pavel, born on 29 August 1913. With the wealth of the Benckendorffs at their disposal, they were barely inconvenienced by the baby. Micky was summoned from Beriozovaya Rudka, and continued her work caring for the second generation of children.

  With her came Kira. Alla’s marriage to Arthur Engelhardt had been an unhappy one, and they had divorced in 1912. Alla, erratic and drug-addicted, had been unable to care for Kira; the little girl was sent back to Beriozovaya Rudka. Thus, when Micky came to take up her role as nurse to Moura’s new child, Kira came with her and joined the nursery of the Benckendorffs. She was treated as one of the family, further obscuring the truth about her parentage.

  Moura had everything – wealth, an august husband who adored her, a place in the high society of two of the most cosmopolitan cities in Europe, and the first of her beloved children. It couldn’t last. The young couple’s lavish lifestyle was curtailed by the coming of war in 1914. Germany and Russia joined the conflict on opposing sides, and Russia’s diplomats were withdrawn from Berlin.

  Shortly after the outbreak of war, Djon joined the Russian army, and became a staff officer at the headquarters of the Northwest Front, and spent long periods away from home.

  Moura had lost the society of Berlin, but she still had the imperial glamour of St Petersburg – or Petrograd as the Russians now patriotically called it, eschewing the old Germanic form. For more intimate socialising, she could retreat during the holiday seasons to the country estate at Yendel. She had Micky to take care of the children – now including baby Tania, born in 1915 – and little changed in her social life. All that was really different was the absence of Djon, and that was an absence Moura could easily bear.

  Micky was having difficulty getting Pavel out of the sledge. He had lost the toy soldier he’d insisted on carrying in his little hand all the way from Petrograd, and wouldn’t get out until it was found. Another absent soldier, Moura thought. Just like the boy’s father; but this one’s absence seemed to be more regretted. Setting Tania down, Moura joined in the search, turning over rugs and feeling in the cracks between the seats. Eventually the errant soldier – a hussar with a sword – was discovered; he had retreated to the floo
r and concealed himself among a tangle of furs. Pavel snatched the soldier from Moura’s hand and held him up triumphantly to be admired by Micky.

  The nurse smiled – a little tightly, Moura thought. Was Micky also reminded of a real-life soldier – her dead lover, the cavalry colonel? From time to time letters postmarked in Ireland would arrive for Micky; everyone knew that they came from Eileen, her daughter. She was a grown woman now, and had made Micky a grandmother. Whenever one of her letters came, Micky would be irritable and out of sorts for the rest of the day.20 But she always brightened up afterwards. Nothing could keep Micky’s spirits down for long.

  Moura turned back towards the house, squaring her shoulders in anticipation. There was a lot to do. The kitchen staff to shake up after their months on hiatus; parties to plan; guests to invite; outings and jaunts to conceive. She would certainly invite her friends from the British Embassy. Moura, with her anglophone upbringing, had a special affection for the British. And then there were her friends from the war hospital, where she had been serving as a nursing volunteer. And a whole host of relatives and society friends.

  The Benckendorffs would be represented by Djon’s brother Paul and his wife, and probably by Djon himself for a while, but hopefully not by his mother, and especially not the other female relatives. The Benckendorff aunts were like a private not-so-secret police, noting every fault in Moura’s character and behaviour; and they never shrank from giving an opinion. Even Micky, who was fond of Djon, learned to loathe the Benckendorff aunts. In the troubled years that were approaching, she would be forced to spend her energy protecting the children from their influence and Moura’s reputation from their wagging tongues.

  Some might say that Moura’s reputation was beyond protecting – already she had become a legend in Petrograd, and not just for her social brilliance. Intriguing, titillating rumours were forever springing up and circulating, attributing all manner of nefarious activities to her, including the remarkable claim that she was a German spy.21 How much was the product of overheated imaginations and how large a kernel of truth the stories might have (if any) was impossible to discern, and so people tended to believe what they wanted to about Madame Moura von Benckendorff. And so it would always be.

  Oblivious, and thinking only of the Christmas festivities to come, Moura lifted Tania in her arms and skipped lightly up the steps and through the arched doorway into the warm hallway; in her wake came Micky, Pavel and Kira, followed by the servants bearing the last items of luggage.

  The doors swung closed behind them, shutting out the cold and sealing in the joy of the season.

  2

  Choosing Sides

  December 1916–October 1917

  30 December 1916

  Sir George Buchanan, British Ambassador to Russia, stood at one of the tall windows in the huge reception room in the Alexander Palace. Outside he could see Tsar Nicholas taking his daily walk in the snow-covered gardens, accompanied by his retinue.1

  The palaces of Petrograd were magnificent, but those of Tsarskoye Selo,* the imperial family’s country retreat, a dozen miles from the city, were of a separate order of splendour. On one side of the park stood the Catherine Palace, a vast glory in ice-white and sky-blue stucco, rank upon rank, row after row of pillars and lofty windows, bordered in ornate mouldings lavished with gold leaf, and surmounted by a huge pinnacle of golden domes. On the adjacent side was the Alexander Palace, the smaller fondant-and-cream marvel where the family actually lived in relatively understated opulence.

  Sir George had travelled down that day from Petrograd, having requested an audience with the Tsar to talk over the political situation in Russia. For an ambassador, he took an uncommon interest in the internal affairs of the country, and enjoyed an unusually close friendship with the Tsar. Sir George Buchanan was described by one of his junior consuls as ‘a frail-looking man with a tired, sad expression’ whose monocle, refined features and silver hair ‘gave him something of the appearance of a stage-diplomat’, but who possessed ‘a wonderful power of inspiring loyalty’.2 Sir George was deeply worried. He believed that the Tsar and Tsarina had little conception of just how divided and unhappy their empire was, nor how tenuous their own position. Their own ministers were misleading them, and the government was riddled with agents working for German interests. The gossip in Petrograd now was not of whether the imperial couple would end up being assassinated, but which of them might go first.3

  For a man with Sir George’s insight, the evidence of unrest was profoundly worrying. Violent insurrection was lurking around the corner. He was concerned about his own family, and was considering sending his daughter Meriel to stay with her Russian friend, Moura von Benckendorff, at her country estate in Estonia. Yendel was close enough to the capital to be easily accessible, but far enough to be out of danger if the sparks hit the powder keg in Petrograd.

  Meriel and Madame Moura did voluntary nursing together at the city’s war hospital. They were well acquainted through Moura’s diplomatic connections, which had brought her into the sphere of the British Embassy. The young lady had apparently been brought up by an English-speaking nanny and had an affection for things British. Many of the younger male attachés had been very taken by her charms, as had the British naval officers whose ships berthed at Reval,† the Estonian port.4 Her husband’s relations held posts throughout the imperial government and diplomatic service. Indeed, the sad news had reached Russia this very day that Count Alexander von Benckendorff, Russia’s Ambassador to Great Britain, had died in London. His brother Paul was Grand Chamberlain; both were favourites of the imperial family, and the news was bound to have upset the Tsar.5

  The family were already in a state of shock following the murder of Rasputin (the Tsarina was grief-stricken, but some said the Tsar was relieved to be rid of him). They had confined themselves here, taking comfort in trivial entertainments and denying to themselves that there was any real unrest among their people. Sir George had attempted to warn His Majesty some weeks ago that Rasputin was regarded as a poisonous influence, and that there was talk of a plot against his life, but the Tsar had declined to listen.6 Would he listen to reason now?

  At last, His Majesty Tsar Nicholas II, Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias, returned from his walk in the gardens, and Sir George was summoned into his presence. As soon as he entered the room, he guessed that his mission was futile. Whenever the Tsar wished to talk seriously with Sir George, he welcomed him in his study, where they would sit and smoke. But today the Ambassador was ushered into the formal audience chamber, and found the Tsar standing in state. That meant he was willing to hear Sir George as Ambassador of Great Britain, not in the role of friend and counsellor on all political matters. He had guessed what the visit portended, and didn’t wish to hear.

  Sir George tried nonetheless. Using every reserve of charm and persuasion, he turned the conversation to Russian politics, and tried to convince the Tsar to appoint a new president of the council who would be approved by the Duma, Russia’s parliament, and heal the rift between the ruler and his own state. Reminding His Majesty of his warning about Rasputin, Sir George described the unrest that was rife throughout the government, the Duma and the entire country. The Tsar said he knew perfectly well that there was talk of insurrection, but that it would be a mistake to take it too seriously.

  Making one last effort, Sir George abandoned reason and tried an appeal to emotion, citing his long devotion to the Tsar. ‘If I were to see a friend,’ he said, ‘walking through a wood on a dark night along a path which I knew ended in a precipice, would it not be my duty, sir, to warn him of his danger? And is it not equally my duty to warn Your Majesty of the abyss that lies ahead of you?’7

  Tsar Nicholas was moved, and when they parted, he took the Ambassador’s hand and pressed it warmly. ‘I thank you, Sir George,’ he said.

  But as time passed, it became evident that nothing would change. About a week after the meeting at Tsarskoye Selo, Sir George was told by a Russian p
olitical friend that there would be a revolution before Easter. But he needn’t be alarmed – the revolution would come from within the political elite, would be temporary and would merely force the Tsar to accept a proper constitution. Such a revolution would forestall any danger of a revolution among the workers and peasants, which would be an altogether more violent and dreadful affair.8

  This was somewhat reassuring. Nonetheless, when his daughter Meriel was invited to visit Moura von Benckendorff at Yendel, Sir George encouraged her to go.

  Sunday 26 February 1917

  Strange how the most life-altering journey might begin with the lightest of steps: with careless laughter and gay farewells, and not a trace of foreboding of the nightmare that is to come.

  Moura parted the heavy bedroom curtain and looked out into the evening dark, moving close to the glass to see through the lamplit reflection of her own glittering eyes. The snow lay heavy and silent across the landscape, glowing eerily under a rising Estonian winter moon. The stars were out, and tonight the wolves would be running in the forests. Moura shivered. It was a good night for a journey, a good night for change.

  She hummed happily – the haunting gypsy melody she had sung for her spellbound guests the evening before, sitting on the hearth rug, the crackling fire reflecting in her golden eyes . . .

  Her breath hazed the glass, obscuring the view. A good night for a journey indeed: time to shake the sleepy country snows of Yendel from her heels and get back to the city. The long-extended Christmas holiday was over at last, and the day appointed for the journey back to Petrograd had arrived. She needed the city as she needed breath. Any city would do at a pinch – they were all lively in their various ways – but Petrograd was life itself, the beating heart of empire, and people were its blood. Even with the troubles that had scoured it – the anti-war feelings, the workers’ soviets‡ stirring trouble, the shortages and protests and strikes – it was still the breath of life to Moura, and she loved to feel its pulse.