Khalif twitched between his legs, pawing the dust. The horses always knew, they remembered from one year to the next. They could smell the excitement, the smoke, and the blood. It had been bred into them for generations. Drums began to pound and the artillery fired a rippling salute. Now he was screaming a command and his men drew their sabres…the sudden gleam of sharpened steel against the white sky.
He had hardly to touch the spur to Khalif, and they were off.
Sergei Andrianov sat in his box in the dignitaries’ grandstand that spanned the long eastern dimension of the Field of Mars. The enclosure was a wooden creation with finely turned filigree along the eaves of the roof, wide awnings freshly painted in the Imperial colours. Pennants flew from every flagstaff, from every post – a rush of red, white, and blue. The men surrounding him were in summer suits, some with straw hats and coloured feathers pinned to their lapels. The women were fanning themselves against the heat, chattering and cheering. Almost everyone had opera glasses.
There had not been time for him to take his private car and he was exhausted because he had been forced on to the express, then had spent a sleepless night mulling over the chaos that had taken place at the bindery. In the hours before dawn he arrived in Petersburg, and took a carriage straight to his house; a mansion inherited from his father and refitted with all the modern conveniences, built upon the rise of the Kamenoovstrovsky Prospekt, giving on to a fine view.
Andrianov, except for the quality of his clothing, was the kind of man that was overlooked, until he moved. He knew that it was his energy people first noticed. Business, pleasure, whatever he did, it was like that. Not stopping was attractive to some women, not attractive to others. He couldn’t help that. The rules of life were made for ordinary men, not someone like him. A cultivated man, a man with money. A fine nose, even features. Perhaps more Teutonic than Slavic in his appearance, with blond hair and eyebrows that emphasized his brow and the shape of his skull. Looking out over the field below him, as the gleaming cavalry regiments organized themselves into multi-coloured patterns, he was glad he had elected to come alone, mainly because he could make an easy exit when the festivities were finished.
Unfortunately he had to share the box with Dr Lemmers and they’d found themselves beside the repulsive Brogdanovitch who was wedged into his seat, red-faced and sweating. The moment Brogdanovitch had laid eyes on him, he’d abandoned his wretched family and leaned across to hector Andrianov about the new electric engines he was experimenting with in his mills.
Andrianov listened and nodded, pretended to be more interested than he was. But inevitably it was too much; he let Brogdanovitch’s theories on oil transport fade away, turned his attention to the field and watched Prince Evdaev as he wheeled his horse and took his place at the head of his cavalrymen. Behind him the regiment cantered smartly to their stations.
Andrianov looked along towards the military enclosures, the ornate uniforms, the splashes of gold braid and feathers creating a perfectly ironic display of romantic traditionalism. A lesser man would be laughing at the absurdity. All around him in the capital he could see the chaos mounting. How many others on the Field of Mars had the blessing of such sight? A dozen?
Less than a dozen, he decided.
He had only reached out to a select few of these visionaries. He could bring the others into the Plan later, when the time was right.
He shook his head at the plumes, the polished brass, gold, and silver – the huge lie that was being paraded before him. Evdaev’s beloved military had grown soft under the command of an inherited elite, unable to project Russia’s will even within her borders. It amounted to a supreme obscenity to which this horde of perfumed aristocrats was utterly blind. The best rifles in the world were British, the best light howitzers French, the best heavy ones German, the best General Staff, German again. So much for Russia as the great military steamroller.
Domestically? The economy was as thin as pasteboard; he knew its fragility intimately, and, yes, he had taken advantage of the markets, why not? The police were ineffectual and corrupt. And all of it ruled by a teetering autocracy – Nicholas held in thrall to Alexandra, his German-born Tsarina, and her grotesque companion, Rasputin. Throughout Russia were cries for reforms that would never be granted until it was too late. And Andrianov was supposed to simply sit on his hands, put his holdings at risk while the Tsar and his sycophantic ministers dithered? They were like a pack of blind children, stumbling towards the brink!
The looming threats were there for anyone to see, but none of this crowd had ever visited the darker quarters of the city, none of them could begin to grasp that surrounding their perfect palaces and sculptured gardens was a rising tide of revolutionary ferment.
If the Tsar did nothing, sooner or later someone would take matters into their own hands. And Sergei Andrianov had long realized that the future belonged to the one who struck first.
That morning he had struck over breakfast.
Breakfast was with Bear, otherwise known as General A.I. Gulka, head of the Third Branch of the Imperial Chancellery, the Okhrana. Alexandr Ivanovich was a large man, more porcine than ursine, with puffed, watery eyes. Like all military men he was fond of his uniform and decorations, and he wore them at all times. He wheezed, and ate his meal enthusiastically while Andrianov listened.
‘I can assure you there is no cause for worry, excellency. It is an insignificant death,’ Gulka breathed.
‘You’re certain? Nothing that would put Gosling in jeopardy?’
‘Mmmn…absolutely nothing at all.’ Gulka chewed reflectively for a moment, knife and fork standing at attention, and then, after having decided that he believed what he’d just said, returned to his plate. When Andrianov had not made a comment after several seconds, he looked up. Innocent. Unknowing.
‘You didn’t have to intervene…send anyone to take care of it?’ Andrianov asked quietly.
‘Mmm, no, no. Nothing could be simpler. It’s purely a municipal police matter. Some little whore, she’s disgusted by her life, lovesick, homesick, who knows? She throws herself out a window in order to end it all. It’s plausible.’ Another shrug.
‘And no relatives have come forward, no one to look under the rugs?’
Gulka half-laughed, shook his head. ‘Girls like that, Sergei. No one wants them back, eh?’
Andrianov stared at him. Gulka was one of his most valuable assets. His resources were infinite. The coup would be impossible without his cooperation. If he had not been brought into the Plan, Andrianov would have been forced to kill him. Appropriately, Andrianov’s payments for his services ran to thousands of roubles each month. What made it more difficult was that the fat man knew his worth, exploited it at every opportunity, constantly tried to raise the stakes. Not for the first time Andrianov reflected that Gulka’s greed might bring the entire scheme crashing down.
‘Good. I’m glad there’s no trouble, because Gosling is important, very important, Alexandr Ivanovich. He may seem like a small bird, but we need him, eh?’
‘Mmnn…Yes, if you say so, Sergei. He’s our holy grail if you say so.’
‘He’s the one who signs the papers, and he doesn’t know us, cannot be traced back to us, yes? He’s the one who’s in front. He doesn’t know it yet, and we’ve taken these steps to ensure that he will never turn on us. That was the rationale all along, that was Ivo’s big idea. To isolate Gosling from the rest of us, yes? I’ve never met the man. You yourself said it was a good idea. I’m sure you understand his value, and I’m sure you are aware of the danger. If something were to go wrong –’
‘Nothing