September 15, 1911. 08:00 AM.
Kiev Military Hospital.
The corridor of the reserved wing was steeped in a considerable smell of iodine, and even fresh starch, not forgetting also that particular fear bureaucrats feel when they know the guillotine is being sharpened, every inch of it for a possible purge.
Generals, ministers, and aides-de-camp murmured in groups, casting nervous glances at the closed oak door guarded not by police, but by Cossacks from the Tsarevich's personal guard.
Inside the room, morning light fell on a scene that defied every fact known to the great double-headed eagle.
Pyotr Stolypin was alive.
He was pale, propped on pillows, with bare torso wrapped in tight bandages. He breathed with difficulty, each of his inhalations became a reminder of those three ribs fractured by the impact of the assassin's bullet force.
His right hand, which had tried to stop the first bullet, was in a cast and elevated, the surgeons had spent hours reconstructing the carpal bones, if one could say reconstruct, but Stolypin would never write again with his former fluidity; he was a bit disappointed by that.
But his eyes were open. And they burned with fire.
"Your Majesty," Stolypin croaked, trying to sit up when the Tsar entered.
"Still, Pyotr, for God's sake," Nicholas II said, hastening to put a hand on his Minister's healthy shoulder. The Emperor's eyes were red and swollen. "The doctors say you need absolute immobility. The hematoma on your chest is the size of a plate."
"I'm alive, Sire. That's what matters," Stolypin responded, gritting his teeth against the pain. He looked toward the room's corner, where Alexei stood, observing the patient's temperature data in bed.
"The vest..." Stolypin murmured. "You were right, Your Highness. It's heavy, it itches, but it stops lead; that's why I'm alive."
"The bullet flattened against the plate," Alexei informed, without looking up from the paper. "If it had been another standard material, it would have gone through and we'd now be planning a State funeral."
Alexei left the data-filled chart and approached the bed.
"General Kurlov and Colonel Kulyabko are in the corridor, Papa. They want to come in to 'explain' the security failure and congratulate the Prime Minister on his luck."
Nicholas II's expression, usually soft and hesitant, hardened. The previous night's fear had turned into cold anger.
"I don't want explanations," the Tsar said. "I want their sabers on my desk."
"It's not enough, Papa," Alexei intervened. "If you accept their resignations, they'll retire to their estates with a pension. And the system that allowed an assassin to enter the Opera with an official pass will remain intact."
Alexei looked at Stolypin.
"Uncle Pyotr, last night you were shot. But it wasn't a security failure, let's say it was an invitation given by someone. Kulyabko opened the door for Bogrov, we need to know why, we need to know the reason for all this."
"Where is the assassin?" Stolypin asked.
"In the Kiev Fortress. In the deepest cell. Special Section men are watching him. Local police tried to take him last night to 'interrogate him', but I told them if they approached, we'd open fire."
"Why?" Nicholas asked, confused.
"Because if police interrogate him, Bogrov will 'commit suicide' or die of 'heart failure' before noon," Alexei explained brutally. "They need to silence him because he was one more pawn. Because Bogrov knows who paid for the ticket of everything that's happening in this area."
Alexei headed to the door.
"I'm gonna the fortress. I'm gonna extract the truth. And when I return, Uncle Pyotr, I want you to have the Okhrana dissolution decree drafted. We're going to burn the forest to kill the wolves."
. . . . . . .
Kiev Fortress Cells. 10:00 AM.
The cell was stone, cold and damp, like hundreds of prisons and garrisons. Dmitri Bogrov sat on a wooden stool, hands cuffed to the table. His right eye was closed from the swelling of Tatiana's fan blow, and he moved with difficulty, probably from bruised ribs after Maria's tackle.
But when the iron door opened, Bogrov raised his head with an air of being a challenger in a cavalry battle. He expected to see an executioner with a whip, or a priest, he expected pain, he expected the martyrdom that would take him to the greatly desired legend.
What he saw was an apparently seven-year-old child in an impeccable suit, followed by a teenage girl with a notebook and pencil (Tatiana).
Bogrov blinked with his good eye.
"The Tsarevich?" he asked, with a raspy voice. "Have you come to see the monster who almost killed your watchdog?"
Alexei didn't respond. He sat in the chair before the prisoner. Tatiana remained standing by the door, pencil ready on paper.
Alexei placed a folder on the table. There were no torture instruments, only papers.
"You're not a monster, Dmitri," Alexei said with a soft, almost bored voice. "And you're certainly not a martyr. You're a mediocre accountant."
Bogrov let out a nervous laugh. "I'm a soldier of the anarchist revolution. I've struck at the system's heart."
"You failed," Alexei corrected. "Stolypin is having soft-boiled eggs for breakfast right now, and you're here."
Bogrov's face fell. "Alive?"
"Alive and furious. But that's irrelevant to you. What interests me is your motivation." Alexei opened the folder. "You say you're an anarchist. That you want the people's freedom. That you hate capital."
"Death to capital!" Bogrov spat.
"Then why do you have an account in your name at the Cantonal Bank of Zurich with a balance of five thousand pounds sterling?" Alexei asked, sliding a sheet of paper with bank records the Special Section had intercepted.
Bogrov froze. He looked at the numbers, recognized the dates.
"That's... they're party funds," he stammered.
"Lie," Alexei said. "The anarchist party is bankrupt. They rob bakeries to eat. This money comes from Prometheus Ventures, a shell company registered in London. Or am I wrong?"
Alexei leaned forward.
"You don't work for the revolution, Dmitri. You work for a British investment bank. They hired you because Stolypin was stabilizing the Russian economy and that was bad for their profit margins."
The Tsarevich pointed an accusing finger at the prisoner.
"You're a corporate mercenary. Just another run-of-the-mill employee. Did you really think killing a Minister would make you a martyr for the revolution's cause? Stop dreaming and get to work. They sold you the idea of glory, gave you a cheap pistol, and promised you an escape they were never going to fulfill. Did you really think you were going to leave the Opera alive? Do you think Kulyabko was going to let you board the train?"
Bogrov looked at the papers. The reality of his situation collapsed on his eyes. He wasn't going to be remembered as a tragic hero who died for his ideals, for the great cause he was mentally destined to support. He was going to be remembered as a useful fool paid by foreigners.
"They... told me the way was clear," Bogrov murmured, trembling. "Valeri told me Colonel Kulyabko would turn off the lights after the shot."
"Kulyabko had orders to shoot you in the head as soon as you pulled the trigger, or so the papers say," Alexei said, lying with probable truth. "You were a loose end."
Bogrov began to cry. Not tears of repentance; these contained something all people in history possessed... tears of humiliation. His ego had been destroyed.
"I want names," Alexei said, pulling out a pen. "I want to know who contacted you in Nice. Who gave you the money in Zurich. And what exactly Kulyabko promised you."
"If I talk... will you spare my life?"
"No," Alexei said coldly. "You're going to be hanged, Dmitri. You tried to kill the Prime Minister. But if you talk, I promise your family won't be touched. And I promise Kulyabko and his bosses will fall with you. You won't die alone. Your death will probably be the beginning of a new era and the destruction of this Empire's corruption."
Bogrov looked at the child. He saw truth in his eyes.
"Write," the assassin said to Tatiana.
. . . . . . .
Military Hospital. 14:00 PM.
Alexei returned with the signed confession. Nicholas II read it in silence. Stolypin read it afterward.
It was a list of shame. High-Ranking Okhrana officers receiving bribes to 'look the other way.' Double agents financed by hundreds of Nations and Empires. The rot was throughout the Empire's system itself.
"Sign it, Papa," Alexei said, putting the Imperial Decree on the bedside table.
Nicholas II took the pen. For the first time in his reign, he didn't look at his wife or his spiritual advisors. He looked at the blood on his friend's bandages.
He signed.
That afternoon, General Kurlov, Colonel Kulyabko, and twenty-five more officers were arrested by the Cossack Guard. The Third Section (the Okhrana) was officially dissolved for 'criminal incompetence and imperial treason.'
Its assets, its files, and its competencies were transferred to a new entity: the Imperial Security Directorate (ISD). Its first interim director would be a civilian: Pyotr Stolypin. Its shadow operations director would be a fourteen-year-old girl named Tatiana, who in the future would be its second director.
. . . . . . .
September 16, 1911.
British Embassy, Saint Petersburg.
Sir George Buchanan, the British ambassador, found a small package on his desk. It had no sender. It hadn't gone through ordinary mail. It had appeared there.
He opened the envelope.
Inside was a small piece of deformed metal. A flattened lead bullet, with a microscopic fragment of tungsten embedded in the tip. But he didn't know this.
Next to the bullet, a white business card with the Romanov coat of arms in relief, but without a name. Only one sentence written by hand with childish but firm calligraphy, in English:
"Return to sender. Quality...."
Buchanan turned pale. He understood the message and what it referred to. For they themselves had planned it behind the scenes with the bankers' help and without the Royal Family's knowledge.
A/N: If you've enjoyed this story and want to read ahead, I have more chapters available on my patr eon.com/Nemryz. Your support helps me continue writing this novel and AU. Thank you for reading!