“Oh, no, I am not,” said Rowena as her detestation of von Wolgast resurged.
“Oh, yes, you are,” Ragoczy said quietly. “He will need all the care he can be given. And it will all be in vain.” The desolation in Ragoczy s face was beyond anything Rowena had ever seen, and she was shaken.
“All right,” she said, taking care to walk well out of von Wolgast s reach as she started for the stairs.
“If we leave him alone,” Ragoczy added, his words colder than arctic midnight, “he might find a way to take his own life, and he cannot be allowed such a cowardly death, when he has condemned himself.” He stared down at von Wolgast. “In another time I would have offered you syrup of poppies, to ease your torments. Remember as your last hours pass that you were prepared to let me endure what you will now endure.”
The ragged cry of “You must not! Gott in Himmel, you must not!” that von Wolgast gave sped Rowena on her way; she could not bear to remain with her stricken enemy, afraid that she might begin to understand the relentless, stern compassion Ragoczy had shown, and what it had cost him to attain it.
Text of a dispatch from Sidney Reilly to “C”, sent in code using Key 17, from Berlin, Germany, to London, England by English embassy communique, delivered October 2, 1911.
Writ in Blood
523
So you are putting me back on my tether. Very well, I will do your bidding once again. Your courier handed your instructions to me at the Flying Competition, in which, as you must have been informed, I placed second, in the person of Karl Hahn. I am delighted to be flying once again; it has been too long. Incidentally, this courier was an improvement on the so-called Angebot, but surely you could have found a more original name for him to use than Jones. I will be leaving for Prague in the morning, where Oertel Morgenstem will vanish once again, and Sidney Reilly will return, as per your orders, to Saint Petersburg, there to resume my usual style of life. If you intend this as a reprimand, you have not achieved your goal. If you intend to learn more about Franchot Ragoczy’s activities, 1 will be well-situated to observe him, along with the others you have stipulated. I am curious about young Alexendr Kerensky as well as some of the others you have assigned; 1 am inclined to surveil him in addition to the rest. You may think he is nothing more than an intellectual firebrand, impressed with his own rhetoric, but I am not so sure that he will be gone from the public eye once his education is over.
The report from the Amsterdam hospital on von Wolgasts death makes grim reading. One day you must tell me how you contrived to get a copy of those records. To linger for nine days in such hideous agony. If I were a more soft-hearted chap, I could almost feel sorry for that corrupt, murdering swine. Is there any truth to the rumor that the company that now owns von Wolgasts arms factory is controlled by Tancred Sisak? For the sake of the world, I hope not: that is precisely the kind of gossip one expects when a new ownership takes over a crucial business. It is bad enough having Sisak dealing with every lunatic group with money enough for his purposes; if he had the capacity to manufacture guns as well as sell them, the peace of the world would be far more precarious than it already is.
While I have not been as diligent in my observation ofRagoczy, I have learned that he has assisted the police in trying to discover what has become of von Wolgasts fortune; whatever he was able to tell the authorities, I have not yet determined, but it must have been sufficient for their purposes. I had it from Erich Rotscheune that Ragoczy has wound up his affairs in Germany for the time being, which would tend to indicate he will not be returning here for some time. Rotscheune said he has no reason to expect him again until 1913, and for that reason has signed the title to the house over to Rotscheune, with the provision that it can only be let to Ragoczy himself. From what I was told, the offer was so generous that Rotscheune took it at once.
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
I continue to be absolutely convinced that the trouble in the Balkans is dangerous to the peace of all Europe. It may look like nothing more than one of those periodic escalations ofhostilites that occur from time to time, but I believe what is happening now is substantially different than what we have seen before. With the Turks out of the way, all the old hatred are flaring. You may call me an alarmist, but I know you share my concerns. If you do not see them as the threat I do, it is only because you have not recently seen what I have. The peace in Serbia is a sham, and I tell you now it will not last. Now that I am back in harness, I will do what I can to persuade you to view the Balkans as dangerous to more than Austro-Hungary. Expect that next week's dispatch will come from Saint Petersburg, unless you countermand your orders in the next two days. I am only sorry to have to give up flying until spring, but an open cockpit over Russia in the winter? No, thank you.
Sidney Reilly (Capt.)
11
Franchot Ragoczy arrived at Countess Amalija Romanovna Korman-skayas mansion as the first heavy snow was falling on Saint Petersburg, filling the night with a ghostly whiteness that made the whole city appear to be a gossamer image in a dream. He was pleased when Gennady opened the door promptly, and he murmured a few words of appreciation as he handed over his heavy coat and Astrakhan lamb hat. “They are in the dining room, I suppose?”
“Yes. They have eaten supper and they are expecting you. I trust you enjoyed the concert?” He indicated the stair leading up to the salons and dining room.
“Yes, thank you. I like Borodin and Grieg.” Ragoczy nodded his understanding of the instructions he had been given as he twitched the sleeve of his faultless evening clothes; on the sash over his claw-tailed coat the Order of Saint Stephen of Hungary blazed, a starburst of diamonds. Satisfied he was in order, he made his way up the stairs and along the gallery to the dining room door, pausing to knock once before entering.
The long rosewood table was made to accommodate twenty; tonight there were places laid only at the far end, for an elegant, private party
Writ in Blood
525
of three: Countess Amalija, her nephew Duke Leonid Ohchenov, and Nikolai Alexandreivich Romanov, Czar of all the Russias. Had they not been in court regalia they might have looked like any mother dining with grown sons; no servants lingered to wait on the small party, and the ease of a casual evening belied the diners’ formal evening wear. The remains of a goose lay on a platter between them looking like the beams of a long-wrecked ship, and other serving dishes attested to a lavish five-course meal, accompanied by select French wines. At the moment two bowls of chocolates were being passed among the three, and a bottle of cognac stood open beside Leonid s elbow.
“Ah, Count,” said Countess Amalija, rising to greet this new arrival. She went toward him, her satin gown whispering, the jewels at her throat, hanging from her ears, and standing in her hair twinkling in the soft gaslight glow. She offered her hand to kiss, and smiled as he bowed to her; the scent of violets, roses, and sandalwood was on her wrist. “I was certain you would arrive before midnight.”
“And here I am with twenty minutes to spare,” he said, going to bow to Nikolai, and then to shake hands with Leonid. “I know you have had a wonderful evening; I need only look around to—”
“Not quite wonderful,” said Nikolai, his expression somber. “I had a telegram yesterday from Buda-Pest. My Ambassador there informs me that the unrest in the Balkans is growing worse. The Serbs are an obstreperous lot.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Ragoczy, who was not surprised. “If I may ask, how specific was the news?”
“You have the right to know more than anyone I could think of. It is specific enough,” said Nikolai, sighing. He made an attempt at levity. “Better in the Balkans than in the streets of Saint Petersburg, I suppose.” The hesitant smiles that greeted this provided little relief for him. “I have spent a good portion of the evening trying to think of anything more I can do; I fear I have not been the best company. You need not claim otherwise; I know how I have been behaving. I apologize for my preoccupation, but there is so much to consider. Sunny
tells me that Otyets Grigori will have the answer, but I am not convinced it is so. Not that I question her devotion to Grigori Efimovich, or his wisdom. I know our son would not be alive without him.” He cleared his throat. “We—that is the family—are leaving for Moskva tomorrow. There are matter of state that must be dealt with there, and Stolypin has recommended it. Had the family been against it, I might have refused to go, but ... It will be dreary travel, but Sunny is certain that Moskva is better for Alexei in winter than is Saint Petersburg.
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
So—” He lifted his hand in acquiescence, his face sad.
“You have done all anyone could expect of you, Little Father,” said Ragoczy, using the old honorific for the Czar with all the kindness he could offer; he shared some of Nikolai’s distress, but not so acutely as the Czar felt it.
Leonid poured more cognac for Nikolai and then for his aunt, refilling his glass last of all. “I cannot help but worry about my children. If war comes, they will bear the brunt of the suffering, if they survive. War is worse than plagues for most children, for they are spared nothing. I am worried for my youngest brother, too. You’ve met him, Count. Konstantine. He is proud to be a Guard cadet, but in battle, he would be nothing but a green boy.”
“Green boys do not often—” Nikolai began, halting before he said too much. “And my daughters are all honorary officers in my best regiments, not that there is the least chance they would ever have to face enemy bullets, but when I see them in uniform, I cannot hide my anxiety for their well-being. Of course, they would want to do their part: attend the wounded in hospital, and visit the men at the front to cheer them. I could never want any of my children to be hurt. It would be agony to see Alexei prepare to fight, he is so young, though the troops expect the Czareivich to be with them, to lead them. Alexei cannot be allowed to expose himself to danger, not while he is—” He silenced himself.
“And your heir is not a strong child, is he?” Ragoczy asked with such gentleness that he did not offend Nikolai.
“I would not like to see any of them come to grief,” said the Czar stiffly, aware that it was not suitable for him to admit any failing in Alexei.
“Nor would any other parent,” said Leonid, his regular features darkening with the thoughts crowding his mind. “I cannot bear to think of any child of mine having to suffer, no matter what the cause—bee sting or war, it is only a question of scale. To have a child die is unbearable, but to see one suffer is the torment of hell.”
“For heaven’s sake, not again,” said Countess Amalija, her voice brisk and her eyes shining, “Must we end our meal shrouded in gloom? When we were doing so well? Can’t we have a bit of amusement? Count,” she plowed on, “tell us about the concert. Unless it was filled with dirges, or Mahler.”
“It was Borodin,” said Ragoczy, prepared to do as she wished. “All strings. Actually very nice. They ended with a little Grieg: the Holberg Suite. I think it must have been a concession to the Europeans in the audience.”
Writ in Blood
527
“Grieg is Norwegian, isn’t he?” asked the Countess, doing her best to bring about the participation of the others by enthusiasm alone.
“Yes, but that is closer to Europe than Russia,” Ragoczy pointed out, smiling easily as he escorted Countess Amalija back to her place at the head of the table, then took a seat next to Leonid, his chair angled slightly away from the table.
“And better than some of the moderns. How anyone can listen to Richard Strauss, I cannot imagine,” said Leonid. “I’ve tried to sit through some of his works, and I always end up itching all over before the music is half-finished.” He, too, realized that it was not appropriate to speak about the Czareivich as they had done.
“The only Strauss I like,” said the Countess as she selected another chocolate, “is Johann. Now there was a composer.” She began to hum the Village Swallows, letting herself get caught up in the tantalizing three-quarter time. “When I was twenty years younger, I would waltz the night away, and think nothing of it. But that was twenty years ago.” She shook her head once. “Now it is an effort to dance for more than an hour, and for the rest of the ball, I am content to relinquish the floor to those younger than I. Well, it is the way of all flesh, the burden of our years.” She glanced at Ragoczy. “Or almost all.”
Ragoczy held up his hands in protest, as if he misunderstood her remark. “I must apologize, my dear; I am no dancer. No, even in my younger days, I did not bow to Terpsichore’s altar.” Much as he loved music, he had never discovered any desire within himself to dance, no matter how much he appreciated watching it done.
“I’ve wondered about that,” Nikolai said, doing his best to participate in the new direction their conversation had taken. “I thought at first you had had no opportunity to learn; then I realized you fence well and move gracefully, and I became more puzzled.”
“Unfortunately, Czar, it takes more than grace and a good feint to dance. When it comes to dancing I often play the music, which, you will agree, is important.” Ragoczy made a game of sighing, his thoughts going back more than two millennia, recalling the many times he had used his ability to play well to his advantage, and the many times it had provided him solace when nothing else could. “So while I play, I merely watch all those lovely women whirl around the floor in their partners’ arms.”
“And dream about them?” Leonid suggested with a wink.
“Perhaps.” Ragoczy stared into the middle distance. “And perhaps, one of them might dream of me.” For the last five months he had been able to spend time with Countess Amalija, but that would not continue
Chelsea Quinn Yarhro
indefinitely no matter how willing she continued to be. Eventually he would have to return to his more usual but less satisfactory source of sustenance—visiting women while they dreamed and providing their fulfillment without their knowledge of him; it was how he had survived as long as he had. The necessity of it saddened him.
“Who would have suspected you had such a romantic streak, Count?” Leonid said lightly.
“And in a man my age, too; shocking, isn’t it.” Ragoczy made a motion, declining the offer of cognac.
“I wouldn’t say so,” remarked Countess Amalija, her brows lifting significantly. “In fact, I am grateful that the Count is willing to say what he thinks; so many men become mealy-mouthed after thirty, as if they never had an improper thought in their lives.”
“I’ve noticed that, too,” said Nikolai. “The women often are that way from the start,” he added, not quite disapproving. “Not that it would be fitting for women to swear like troopers, or laugh at lascivious jokes.” “I should think not,” said Leonid with spirit. “There are women, of course, who bring out the . . . beast in men, but it isn’t wise to marry one who does.” He reached out for another chocolate. “Wives are meant to be our comrades in life, not our adventures,” He glanced in the direction of his aunt, and added in chastened tones, “Not that I do not adore Irina, for I do. And you know I do not keep a mistress.” “You might, if you could afford her,” said Countess Amalija, practicality taking the acid out of her remark. “You might want to have a mistress as capricious as Irina is loyal.” She tossed her head and the diamonds in her tiara flashed. “I know the ways of men, and I have learned it is folly to try to hold them to the same standards of conduct that women are. You men are so worried about heirs and lineage, and their fear of comparison with others. Not that I am unmindful of family bonds, for blood calls to blood. Wouldn’t you agree, Count?”
“Most certainly,” said Ragoczy promptly, knowing that Countess Amalija was having a marvelous time tweaking him this way; he hoped she would discontinue her sport soon, for he wanted no awkward questions to arise in the minds of Nikolai or Leonid. “The bond of blood is undeniable.”
“And it endures as nothing else can,” said Nikolai, mistaking Ragoczy s meaning. “There are times I worry that my line will end with Alexei.” He shook his h
ead once, as if trying to sort out how he came to make such an admission. “Of course, my brother is alive and well, Gospodi pomilyiu.”
“Your daughters, too, will no doubt marry suitably,” said Leonid, and
Writ in Blood
529
not simply to curry favor with the Czar. “They are all such beauties, most charming, and truly accomplished, not like some of the noblewomen one sees trotted about the world. Remember that Spanish Duquessa who was here four years ago? She was small as a dwarf and ignorant as a Crimean peasant. I do not wonder that her father was hard-pressed to find her a husband.” He made no excuse for his sharp tongue, a sign that the cognac was getting to him.
“Leonid,” his aunt reprimanded him. “The poor woman could not help those things.”
“But her family had perpetuated them, marrying cousins to cousins for generation upon generation.” He stopped and glanced at the Czar, whose background had its share of cousins, and whose Czarina was more closely related to him than was entirely wise. He stared down into the nearest bowl of chocolates. “Not that these things were understood in the past.”
“The royalty of ancient Egypt usually married brother to sister,” Ragoczy remarked. “Eventually the dynasty would not be able to sustain the rulers, and a new House would rise.” In his centuries at the Temple of Imhotep, he had had many opportunities to see the results of this practice, and to realize that it was not a wholesome way to protect the royal blood from contamination. “In my view—which is admittedly that of an exile who has been about the world more than he intended—blood strengthens with diversity, as any good fanner knows.”
“But what of race?” Nikolai asked, scandalized. He had more cognac. “Cross-breeding sheep is one thing, but men?”
Ragoczy shrugged. “Czar, all mens blood is red, no matter what color their skin.”
“True enough; and as you say, a man in your position cannot permit himself to be too finicky,” said Nikolai, helping himself to more chocolate. “Sunny would be furious if she saw how many of these I am gobbling.” He looked directly at Countess Amalija. “You have done me a world of good tonight, including the chocolates.”
Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain Page 70
