Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain
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in the Guard at a time like this. What happens if fighting breaks out again? Hes so young.”
“I know,” said Leonid. “I am concerned for him, too. Anyone with a trace of good sense would be. But it is the tradition, and we haven’t fortune enough to establish all the family without gaining some patronage for them.” He slapped his knee. “I have tried to think of some way to keep him safe, but short of withdrawing him from being a cadet, there is nothing I can do.”
“And he would resent that,” said Amalija knowingly. “He thinks himself glorious just for wearing the uniform.”
“And with good cause,” said Leonid in defense of the Guard. “It is an honor to be part of that service. I counted myself very lucky to have been in the Guard.” He noticed that Konstantine was coming back. “So I hope that the Czar is able to establish some peace in Russia if not in the world.”
“For his own son as much as for anyone else s,” said Countess Amalija. “I don’t know what ails the boy, but he is not strong, and I think the Czar and Czarina would rather die than see Alexei go off to battle.” She shivered.
“They love their children,” said Leonid. “They do not want to see any of them come to harm. And with just the one son to inherit, they will be inclined to protect him more than most children, and would do so if he were hale as a horse, instead of given to fevers.” He stared at the platter where the dregs of caviar sat in a bowl surrounded by shaved ice that was now mosdy slush. “I think of my children, and I know' how it would make me feel, to see them exposed to war. How much more dire it is for Nikolai and Alexandra, w T hose dynasty rides on the shoulders of the Czareivich.”
“You speak as if you think war is coming,” said Konstantine, a martial light in his youthful face. “Think what excitement we would have then.”
“Think of the calamity,” his Aunt admonished him.
“It would make my career, to fight in battle,” Konstantine insisted. “It’s what we all hope for, a war to gain promotion and notice.”
“Providing you survived,” said Ragoczy curtly.
“Count,” Countess Amalija protested.
“Well, of course I should survive,” said Konstantine with the confidence of inexperience. “I may not have seen real fighting, but I have got high marks in my maneuvers.”
“Are you certain that war is the same?” asked Leonid, suddenly very somber. “I wish I could be.”
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“What would be the point of maneuvers if war were not like them?” Konstantine asked, his temper flaring at what he thought was a slight to his honor.
“It could be that maneuvers are intended to give you a context to reduce the confusion of war,” said Ragoczy gently. “War is so confusing that without a context, it is easy to become wholly disoriented and thereby do yourself and your men more harm than good.” He studied the far wall. “War is also very noisy, and you cannot rely on hearing the commands you expect. The maneuvers you practice give you something that is familiar to all for those times when the guns speak louder than anything else.”
“My word, Count,” said Leonid with dawning respect, “You talk like a true officer. I would think you must have been in war at the worst. I had no idea the battle for your homeland was so—”
“I suppose all battles have more in common than not,” said Ragoczy, recalling himself. “The guns shoot farther and faster than they used to, but that only makes the confusion worse.”
Leonid nodded. “True enough,” he said in a measured way, the speculative angle of his head indicating he was not yet satisfied that Ragoczy had told him all he knew about the nature of war. He would have asked more, but Ragoczy s daunting reserve had returned, and he could not summon up enough audacity to attempt to break through it.
“I wish you would talk about something more pleasant,” Countess Amalija admonished them all. “You may think me a squeamish old woman, but whenever I hear talk of war, I cannot forget all the dead.” She gave a wan smile. “Say what you will, the dead are the harvest of war.”
“I will not argue,” said Ragoczy quietly, but with such feeling that Leonid obediently changed the subject to the controversy surrounding the Paris premiere of Igor Stravinsky’s Firebird ballet, and the forthcoming new work to be performed in Poland, Petroushka. Within an hour Leonid dragged his youngest brother away from their Aunts house, leaving Ragoczy and Amalija Romanovna Khormanskaya alone.
“Do you think they are lovers?” Konstantine asked Leonid as they drove away.
“I think if they are it is no one’s business but theirs,” said Leonid pointedly.
Countess Amalija watched the automobile make irregular progress down the icy street, remarking over her shoulder, “Konstantine is growing up so fast.”
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“Not half as fast as he would like to,” said Ragoczy. “He would give an ear to be twenty-five tomorrow.”
“And there are times I would give an ear to be twenty-five again,” said the Countess, chuckling, and came away from the window. “Are you really going back to Berlin?”
“I think I must,” said Ragoczy. “But I will go to Amsterdam first. And possibly to France.”
“Amsterdam. Your English artist,” said the Countess with a slight smile. “I hope she is as talented as you think she is.”
“I will try to bring you something she has done,” he promised, coming up to her and laying his hands on her shoulders. “I have not yet thanked you for your determination to restore me to Nikolais good graces. And do not tell me,” he went on as she shook her head, “that the Czar and Czarina simply happened by this afternoon: they were out for a drive and decided to stop in? Truly? That would not convince even a child.”
“And you are not a child,” said Amalija, making a gesture of concession. “Very well; I did send a note around to the Winter Palace in the hope it might be useful.”
He kissed her, offering her more affection than passion. “I am honored that you would do so much for me.”
“It was not entirely for you,” she reminded him, moving away from him toward the piano. “I have gained much from their visit, and I intend to make the most of it.”
“And so you should,” Ragoczy agreed, going after her.
“Yes; I think so.” She stopped in front of the keyboard and began to pick out the melody of Sadko’s Song of India. “When were you planning on going?”
“The end of next week, if the weather allows. I will go by sea to Amsterdam.” He could not conceal his dislike of travel over water, and made no effort to do so.
“Roger is going with you?” she asked, still playing.
“Yes,” said Ragoczy, saying with unexpected humility, “I told him it was not necessary, but he refused to remain here. He said someone would have to handle my affairs if I were incarcerated, and he would be the one.”
“He is very loyal to you,” said the Countess, sitting on the bench in order to continue to play, now using both hands.
“He is,” said Ragoczy. He stood and listened to her for a short while. “Are you angry with me?”
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Countess Amalija stopped playing and turned to look at him. “No, Franchot Nemovich, I am not angry,” she told him before putting her attention on her music once more, “I am frightened.”
Text of a letter from Sidney Reilly to “C” sent in code using Key 49, from Berlin, Germany to London by diplomatic courier, delivered February 19, 1911.
I must tell you again how distasteful it is to me to withhold information from the police that would exonerate Ragoczy from all suspicion regarding any part he might have played in the murder ofNadezna. My records and the records of my agent L. S. can show that Ragoczy was gone from the house by the time von Wolgast arrived, and further, that there was blood on von Wolgast s clothes when he and his accomplice left. This should serve not only to end all suspicion for Ragoczy, it may cause the authorities to resume their investigati
on of her death. I am certain your cautions are too severe in regard to my speaking with the police. So far as they are concerned, Oertel Morgenstem is a legitimate journalist from Prague, who has been assigned to Berlin to report on the cultural life. They would have no reason to think that I had my own network of spies to protect, and they would understand that as a journalist, I would require a number of sources for my articles. I wish you would reconsider and give me permission to speak to the police, as Morgenstem, of course. I could provide them my notes in such a way that my network will be wholly protected. I know that the murder of Renfred Meyer has demanded greater vigilance in these matters, but I dislike the unnecessary damning of an innocent man all in the name of preserving the network I have developed in Berlin.
I have kept some watch on von Wolgast since that last night, and I am convinced he is one of those working to discredit Ragoczy here in Germany. I can understand why an arms manufacturer might want to promote war for his own profits, but I find it contemptible that this Baron von Wolgast woidd actively try to ruin a man seeking to bring about a limited peace. It is one thing to engage in open debate but quite another to resort to the subterfuge von Wolgast employs. You may think it odd that I, of all persons, should castigate anyone for taking such steps as this Baron has, but I tell you there is no one more keenly aware of the limits that should be adhered to than I am. If von Wolgast were engaged in espionage, I would not cavil at what he is doing, but he presents himself as a man of business, not a spy. I find such double-dealing and underhandedness reprehensible. Had he not participated in
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Nadeznas murder, I would still think him despicable. You may say that I am splitting hairs when I remind you that I am only willing to kill when that death advances the purpose of my mission. Others may think that the differences between von Wolgast and me are minor y I think they are vast. For that reason alone, I want to see von Wolgast answer for his crime. That prosecution of von Wolgast would lift the shadow of suspicion from Ragoczy is an added benefit that may prove useful in future.
I must also tell you that I think having this man removed from his sphere of activities woidd be of great benefit to Britain. Having guns being sold indiscriminately throughout the world the way von Wolgast has been doing endangers areas of British interests. You are aware, I know, that von Wolgast works extensively with Tancred Sisak, and is party to some of the most questionable sales and transfers of weapons taking place in the world today. If von Wolgast were removed from the game, another might well take his place, but we would have time to put men in place to monitor what he does. I need not point out the use that would be.
I reiterate my plea to be allowed to speak with the police. Inspector Herbert Blau who has charge of the investigation has an excellent reputation for integrity, and I know if I go to him directly he will pursue all the information supplied with diligence and vigor. I can probably persuade him that it would be unwise for me to testify. Since Blau is no fool, he is likely to respect what I tell him. I maintain that the circumstances in this particular instance are extenuating and that Ragoczy would not be the only one to realize worthwhile ends as a result of my actions. Let me have your response quickly, for I fear that von Wolgast might remove himself from Berlin if he learns that his crimes are not as secret as he has persuaded himself they are.
Sidney Reilly (Capt.)
3
At the first sound of the door-knocker, Rowena rushed down the stairs, calling to her housekeeper not to bother: she would answer it herself. “I know who it is, Yseut.” She had been anticipating this moment since
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she had wakened, earlier than usual, at the first glimmer of dawn, her mind swimming with images from her dreams. She had spent most of the morning fretting under weepy skies, discontented with her attempts at work and unable to concentrate enough to remedy them. She had fretted over a dozen sketches and set them aside, annoyed at the quality of work she was doing, and blaming it on the muzzy light the rain created. An hour ago, she had left off all pretense and gone down to her bedroom to dress for Ragoczys return. She had spent the last ten minutes attempting to read more of Frank Norris’ The Octopus. Now as she swung open the door, she had to admit to herself that her pleasure at seeing Ragoczy went beyond mere flirtation to an emotion that troubled her as much as it delighted her.
“Rowena,” he said, removing his Russian hat and bowing slightly to her. “My cherished one. How good to see you.” He was elegant in his black cashmere topcoat, open just enough to reveal the white of his silken shirt and the rich, black silk tie with his eclipse sigil worked in dark burgundy.
Flushed with excitement and the intrusion of cold, she beamed at him. “I’ve made progress on your portrait, Count. You must let me show it to you,” she said, all but dragging him into the house and closing the door. “I don’t want to lose all the heat, or let the rain in,” she explained as she put the latch in place.
Ragoczy submitted to this flurry of activity until the door was secure; then he took Rowena in his arms and kissed her thoroughly, only drawing back when she moved. “I’ve missed you,” he said to her. “Let me look at you.”
She had donned a neat suit in red-amber wool, one with a wide collar and a dropped waistband of russet velvet that clung to her hips, setting off the straight line of the skirt that reached almost to her ankles and the neat rose-brown button-pumps. Beneath it, her blouse of ecru silk had a simple, mannish collar instead of a lace insert, revealing his frog necklace at her throat; her short strawberry-blond hair was newly trimmed and she had touched her lashes with kohl and used lip-rouge on her mouth; she smelled faintly of violet scent. “Well?” she asked.
“Very fetching; I’m truly complimented,” he told her, adding, his demeanor gently teasing, “So fetching that I hope you weren’t painting in such nice clothes, or that you wore a smock if you did.”
“I’ve quite wasted the morning, waiting for you to come,” she confessed. “How was your journey.”
“Tedious,” he admitted, “as all journeys over water are for those of my blood. We do not relish separation from the earth.” He thought of
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the t many times he had traveled in closed rooms or in the holds of ships in order to be atop the crates of his native earth; it helped alleviate the worst of his misery.
“It is difficult to imagine you at such a loss,” she told him, taking his hand in hers and then letting it go.
“Be glad you have never had to deal with it. Roger is a hero for what he does when we travel over water,” said Ragoczy with great feeling. “I do not say hero lightly.”
“Do bridges bother you?” she asked, prolonging the courtesy of the moment. “Amsterdam is filled with bridges.”
“Yes; and canals,” he confirmed. “It is hard to escape running water here.”
“Does that cause you distress?” she inquired, with a stab of chagrin for his discomfort.
“Upon occasion; it is quickly remedied when I am once again on solid ground,” he said. “Crossing oceans takes longer.”
“And the rain?” she asked with an involuntary glance at the door, as if she expected it to burst open, flooding them.
“It is a mild inconvenience when it is like this. Severe storms are more taxing, but not unbearable,” he said. “And neither rain nor storms nor running water would keep me away.” As long as he wore his earth-lined shoes, he added to himself.
“Well, water or not, I am happy to have you back in Amsterdam.” She laughed, her self-consciousness fading as she saw the ardor ignite in his eyes. “I’ve been working on your portrait; its three-quarters done, I think,” she said. “And I’ve done a series of studies of barges on the canals, trying to improve my eye with near and far light. They aren’t as good as I want them to be, but they are not too shabby, either. You can tell me what you think when you see them.”
“They’re probably excellent,” he s
aid, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it on the coatrack by the door, then met her gaze steadily. “You, like most artists, compare what you have done to the perfect version you have in your mind, and you find what you have done lacking. As the rest of us can make no such comparison, we are more easily satisfied.” His compelling eyes rested on hers; then he took her face in his hands and kissed her again, this time tenderly, all his attention concentrated on her, on the texture and weight and warmth of her.
When she drew back from him, she was somewhat shaken. “You’ve never kissed me that way before,” she said, her cheeks flushed anew.
“You’ve never wanted me to before,” he said, his voice somber and lighthearted at once. The entryway was small enough to feel crowded
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with two people in it. He nodded in the direction of the drawing room door. “Shall we be a little more comfortable?”
“The drawing room? I thought ...” She could not keep the disappointment from her face; she did her best to conceal her response. “I thought you would want to go to the studio ...”
“And so I do,” he assured her, inwardly pleased that she had been anticipating their reunion. “But with you dressed so fashionably, I supposed you wanted to follow the social dictates.”
“When have I ever followed social dictates? I would be in England raising heirs for Rupert if I gave a fig for society’s dictates, wouldn’t I?” she asked him scornfully, and flounced off toward the stairs. “I want to show you what I have done. I haven’t been frittering away my time, waiting for you to come back. And I want to be a little more private than we are here.” She stopped on the third stair and turned to look back to look at him, hanging on the bannister with her left hand so she could lean toward him. “If everything you tell me is true, my wish is your command.”
His laughter was soft and genuine. “That is certainly one way to look at it,” he said as he followed her up to her studio, suiting his pace to hers, aware of the emotions contending within her.