The Romanov Succession

8

Alex’s host was awaiting him at the Grand Duke’s door when he emerged from the bedchamber: craggy old Prince Leon on whom the entire retinue-in-exile depended so much.

“Glad to see you here, Alex. Very glad,” he murmured in his slow splendid deep voice. Genuine feeling trembled in it; he gripped both Alex’s shoulders and gave his grave paternal nod, the next thing to a smile; and limped back toward the others. His hair had thi

Alex waited for Vassily Devenko to reappear; the Grand Duke was still pressing his dream of restoration.

Count Anatol Markov had returned to his seat-in the circle yet apart from it, quietly drinking vodka from a chilled glass. He watched Alex as he might watch an inanimate object.

Alex had been a long time seeking clues to Count Anatol’s composition; it was very hard to understand the chemistries that had produced Irina out of Anatol’s genes. He was dry, distant, epicene in disposition; cynical and suspiciously skeptical of everyone. He was thin as a sapling, the hair lying across his neat little ca

Tragedy seemed to have hovered around him for decades. At Ekaterinburg in 1918 a Bolshevik fanatic named Jacob Sverdlov had engineered the assassinations of Czar Nicholas and the Empress Alexandra and their children. A month after the brutal murders Jacob Sverdlov had been found beaten to death in a Moscow street; systematically bludgeoned out of existence, every bone in his body shattered. It was fairly well accepted by a good number of the White exiles that it had been Count Ahatol who had thus avenged the Royal Family. It was said that it was the first and last time in his life that Anatol had shown passion; but surely Irina Anatovna was not the product of an emotionless conception.

Of the seven men in the room-Vassily would make the eighth-one was not a Russian.

Prince Leon said, “Our American representative, Colonel Alexsander Danilov. Alex, I am sure you know General Sir Edward Muir.”

He’d seen the old photographs; now he made the co

Prince Leon said, “Sir Edward is here to represent the viewpoint of the British crown.”

“Unofficially of course.” The Scotsman spoke in a Russian that was fast and without hesitation but thickly accented with an Edinburgh burr. He wore grey evening clothes well-cut to his long gaunt frame but too heavy for the Mediterranean climate; there was a sheen of perspiration on his smooth ruddy face.

Alex moved toward the chair beside Prince Leon’s. “Am I here as an American army officer or as a White Russian?”

“Decide that for yourself,” Count Anatol said coolly. “After you have heard our plans.”

“Here is General Devenko,” Prince Leon said. “We can begin now, I think.”

“About bloody time,” said Baron Oleg Zimovoi in his harsh peasant Russian.

Before Vassily sat down he gave each man in turn a studied scrutiny. Alex saw him nod his head half an inch to the British general; Sir Edward cracked a sliver of a smile. It was the extent of their greeting-two men who’d soldiered against a common enemy in the bleeding Crimea of twenty years ago.

Vassily’s face was ungiving: he looked like a man who knew better than to expect too much. “What is it to be then-action or only more debate?”

“The decision will be made tonight,” Prince Leon said. “Every man here has made assurances of that.”

Vassily’s intolerant gaze swept their faces, lingering briefly on Anatol’s and Baron Oleg Zimovoi’s. “I remind you all-Hitler is not standing still while you dispute politics.”

Anatol’s eyes narrowed to slits in the pale flesh. “You doubt our word, Vassily?”

“Only your willingness to keep it if it means the sacrifice of some petty political objective.” Vassily snapped it; clearly his nerves were on a raw edge.

Prince Leon said, “We must put Sir Edward and Alexsander in the picture before the decisions are taken.”

Vassily leaned his head back against the top of the chair. He crossed his legs and closed his eyes. “Let us get at it then.”

“We are eight here,” Prince Leon said, “but some of us represent the proxies, so to speak, of large blocs of interest. I have commitments from General Deniken and his group, and of course I speak for the house of the Grand Duke Feodor. Prince Michael”-he inclined his head toward the old man in the chair beyond Vassily’s-“is here to speak for the house of the Grand Duke Dmitri. Baron Oleg Zimovoi has undertakings from his followers to honor the decisions we make here.”

The council’s spectrum was remarkably full-Oleg on the far left with his following of thousands of White Russian Socialists, the rest of them scattered across the center toward the right where Anatol the monarchist held the extreme position. They’d found a unanimity for which Alex could find no parallel in his experience.

It would have made a singular group portrait. Nearest the door sat Vassily-stern and arrogant, a political man only in his virulent old-fashioned hatred for Bolshevism. Then Count Anatol, the icy conservative with bored contempt in his eyes. Sir Edward Muir, who shared the firsthand memories of a brutal civil war that had seared and scarred them all. Prince Leon at the focal point beside him, his bad leg stretched out. Alex next: the youngest man in the group. Then there was General Anton Savinov-genial and rotund, a middle-aged Muscovite with a big-boned phlegmatic face and an easygoing chuckle-it had been some years before Alex had realized he was slightly drunk all the time. He’d been a hero-Wrangel’s right arm in the Kuban in 1919. That was the penultimate experience of these men’s lifetimes; the final experience had been the talking about it, the judging of everything else in the light of it.

At the edge of the circle sat the venerable Prince Michael Rodzianko-royal first cousin to the Grand Duke Dmitri who lived on a vast lakefront estate in Switzerland.

And finally Baron Oleg Zimovoi. There was no one who pretended to be fond of Oleg: he was everyone’s enemy, everyone’s scapegoat. He was a hard man, physically and morally tough, an old Socialist who had battled his way through life conceding nothing: physically an assembly of cubes and blocks in testimony to his stolid Byelorussian ancestry. His energies had been dissipated for years in the attempt to persuade the monarchist factions that there was a valid distinction between his brand of democratic Socialism and the Bolshevik brand of despotic Communism. It was a distinction the conservative White Russian wings did not choose to take seriously; Oleg had been regarded for years as a misguided pest, an intellectual fool or even a potential traitor. He was tolerated because of his lineage and because he spoke for thousands of Socialists among the White Russian exiles. He maintained a flat in Barcelona, churning pamphlets out of his typewriter and speaking out recklessly against Hitler, Stalin, Franco and the rest of his political demons. At any time there might be the measured tramp of Guardia Civil jackboots in his hall, the rap of a nightstick against his door.

They were a dramatically dissimilar lot. But they had one extraordinary thing in common. Each of them had enjoyed great power and had lost it. The remembrance of that power-now twenty years gone-remained in their bearings and their souls. The twenty lonely years had weeded out all the weak blunderers who had made a travesty of Imperial Russia’s last years; only this hard brilliant cadre remained, waiting for a sign that they were needed once more.