The Tsarina's Legacy (32 page)

“You don't look well. I worry for your health, believe it or not. For Catherine's sake, if not my own.”

Grisha looked up at last, trying not to think about his desperate need for the laudanum he had slipped beneath him and out of Zubov's line of vision. “Your concern for your benefactress is touching.”

Zubov's smooth forehead wrinkled. “You really believe that is all she is to me?”

“Don't worry.” Grisha waved his hand, hoping the gesture would encourage Zubov to go away. “I'm sure you'll be well provided for one way or another. I'll see to it myself if need be.”

Zubov snorted. “Never mind, Prince. I only sought you out because I want you to know how grand this entire sham appears.” Zubov stepped forward, ducking so he wouldn't bump his elegant head against the alcove's low entranceway. “Yet another sad artifice constructed by Prince Potemkin to fool the poor shortsighted empress. Another Potemkin village.”

“I don't follow,” Grisha said.

“I suppose we should all be used to such nonsense by now. But I wanted to tell you personally, Prince, since you were so hell-bent on ruining me, I thought I would return the favor. This whole miserable enterprise is a failure.”

“The empress seems well pleased, as do the other guests. Is envy really your best play right now?”

“In the moment the empress is pleased, perhaps,” Zubov said, examining his cuticles, rearranging his ridiculous pink cravat, and trying to match the lazy note in Grisha's voice. “But in the end, I believe you have played into her worst fear.”

“You presume to understand the empress so well. What is her worst fear?”

“You.”

Grisha's stomach tightened. “The empress knows I am her truest friend.”

“It was not enough to be a friend,” Zubov snapped, “you had to be her lover. It was not enough to be her lover, you had to be her husband. You forget your place. You fashion yourself an emperor. No, not even an emperor. A pasha. You only dress in the Western style for show this evening. We all know that any other night you can be found lounging abed in your robes with a hookah pipe, concubines in harem pants dancing about. You wish to be pasha in the south. You wish to be king of Poland. You desire too much and you are a threat. And if she did not see it before, how could she help but see it tonight with all this showy fuss.” Zubov retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and waved his hand. “Your time is over. You have ruined yourself.”

The entire evening had been designed to celebrate Catherine, but he supposed with a few clever tweaks and whispered words his intent might be misconstrued. “And you are the man to be at her side from now on.”

“Not only me,” Zubov said, lowering himself, squatting before Grisha. “I have powerful friends on my side. Grand Duke Paul for example. These symptoms you display now? Catherine says it is a recurrence of the malarial fever. The tsarevich has a different theory.”

“Pray tell.”

Zubov reached over and wiped perspiration from Grisha's brow. Grisha shuddered, understanding how a woman must feel when subject to the unwanted grope of a lecherous man. He grabbed the boy's slender wrist, but Zubov was more powerful than his lithe frame suggested and easily broke from his grip.

“Grand Duke Paul thinks your prick has finally got the best of you.” Zubov stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket and stood upright once more. “Could this not be the tertiary stage of syphilis? In its last stage, syphilis attacks the brain, fills one with all manner of delusions of pomp and glory. It explains your physical ailments, your moodiness, and your grandiose dreams of power. In a way, it is the only logical explanation for the spectacle you have made of yourself these past months. And all these years … married to the empress but sharing a bed with any woman who would have you? Such behavior would catch up with you. This is your fault.”

Grisha's hands shook so badly he feared the vial might fall and clatter onto the floor. He tried to tell himself Zubov didn't know what he was doing, didn't know the implications of what he was saying, what this vile rumor would do to Catherine. It was Grisha's fault, for testing the boy and for making light of Paul. He had underestimated them both. He had failed Catherine.

“You know the last stage of this dreadful venereal illness, Prince?” Zubov stroked the folds of his cravat. “Death. It's only a matter of time. Anyone can see that. You look as though you have one foot in your grave already.”

“The empress may sense death near me,” Grisha said in a low voice. “And may feel more apt to grant my wishes so that I might leave a legacy.”

“But then what if it is syphilis, Prince? Your paranoia. Your grandiosity. All symptoms of a brain addled by the disease in its final stages. The empress may pity you, but she can hardly wish to indulge the insane wishes of a barren old fool intent on usurping her power.”

He lunged at the boy, but Zubov was quicker and backed away in time. Grisha fell to the floor, winded and coughing, feeling cowardly and impotent.

“Nice try, Prince,” Zubov told him. “If you can't struggle to your feet, I'll be happy to accompany the empress to her carriage and back to the Winter Palace.”

Sixteen

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

 

Dr. Herrera has made plans to participate in St. Petersburg's Pride Parade and other organized efforts to oppose both Reb's prison sentence and the so-called propaganda law.

 

PALACE SQUARE
PRESENT DAY

Veronica stood alone, panting from the sudden sprint, watching the black sedan pull away from the curb and maneuver past tour buses. Everything around her—the heavily clouded steel sky, the protesters chanting, even the black iron double-headed eagles on the railings—seemed to close in on her. Despite the cold, she felt overheated and sick to her stomach. Gasping for breath, she stared up at the stormy sky, at the angel on the column towering above—built to commemorate the victory of Catherine's grandson Alexander over Napoleon in 1812—and the grim line of statues atop the long façade of the palace. She felt insignificant, useless. She needed to pull herself together. She needed to get to the American consulate and talk to an ambassador, a diplomat, anyone who could find Michael. Dmitry would help. She would figure out a way to get Irina's help as well. Hadn't Dmitry told her Irina had influence in St. Petersburg?

But why did Michael shake his head? Like a warning.

She ran back across the square, tripping on stones slick now with streaks of icy snow, flinging her arms to her sides for balance. As she righted herself, she ran smack into Irina, bundled into a long silvery fur coat and scowling as someone squawked on her phone. Anya stood next to her in a thick red head scarf and matching wool coat.

“Michael is gone,” Veronica cried, shuddering as she tried to control her mounting panic. “They took him. Did you see?”

Anya looked lost in her own thoughts. Her breath formed a cloud of frost in the air as she spoke. “I saw.”

“Why would the police take him? He hasn't done anything!”

Anya's voice remained calm. “It was the same with Reb. We didn't find out why he was arrested until much later. We will figure out what happened. I promise.”

“Where is Dmitry?”

“He had to go to Reb,” Anya said in a low voice. “Once you made your announcement, Reb received a death threat. It's not the first one, but Dmitry needs to be with him.”

The protesters still chanted at the top of their lungs, but now the police stood to the side, averting their eyes. One of them even laughed. Veronica wondered if she should approach them for help. Michael's tourist visa was only good for thirty days. What would they do if that expired? Could the American consulate get them a new one? Maybe one of the police officers would know what to do.

And then she turned to Irina, still on her phone. Veronica's eyes narrowed. She suspected Irina would be more useful than any police officers. Irina likely knew the right people or at least could direct Veronica to the right people.

“I'll call you back,” Irina said, pressing a button on her phone.

Veronica bit her lip. She could barely manage the words. “The police took Michael.”

Irina ran her hand through her silky blond hair. “I know. I just spoke to Sasha. He will investigate.”

“How?” Sasha looked as though he would feel far more comfortable surfing on a beach somewhere or hiking through redwood groves than busting an American out of a foreign prison. She couldn't stand the thought of Michael's fate resting in his hands. “He doesn't even speak Russian.”

Irina pulled her fur tighter around her pale neck. “Sasha does well here. He has plenty of friends.”

“Female friends?”

“Besides the bimbos. The Yusupov name opens doors. Besides, you never know when those women might be helpful.”

The Yusupov name. All of that money before the Revolution. “These ‘friends' think he will clean up if the family fortune is restored.”

“It's his family's money. Everyone has a right to their proper inheritance. You should know this better than anyone.”

Irina swept her hair to one side with her fingers, trying to keep it from getting mussed in the wind. Her phone rang again and she scrambled to answer it. Veronica heard Sasha's deep American squawking and fought an impulse to snatch the phone from her hands.

“I see…” Irina's voice trailed off. “Very well then. I'll tell her.”

“Tell me what? What's happening?”

Irina dropped the phone back in her purse abruptly. Then she fumbled around until she located the Firebird pendant to pin her hair in place. “Your friend, Mr. Karstadt, he is an attorney? Immigration law?”

Veronica thought her heart might burst. “Yes.”

“You would think he'd know better then. Apparently he was carrying something on him he shouldn't have been. Sasha doesn't know the details yet, but Mr. Karstadt has been taken to a holding facility in the center of the city.”

Veronica swallowed, throat suddenly hoarse. “A holding facility?”

“He's American,” Irina said. “They won't keep him in a common jail with Russian pickpockets and Gypsies. This is a more serious matter.”

“Michael hasn't done anything wrong.”

“Not that you know of,” Irina said. “But how much do any of us really know? We have strong authorities here. They keep us safe. Besides, you're the one who made this mess. I told you. I told Dmitry. Stay out of this. Keep the Society out of politics. You're to blame.”

Veronica took a step toward Irina but felt Anya's steadying hand on her shoulder. “You think the arrest of Nika's friend is related to Reb's case?” Anya asked.

“Of course it's related,” Irina said. “They want to send a message and this is the best way they know how. They will hurt someone close to the new tsarina. But that doesn't mean your precious False Mikhail is blameless. The police must have had some reason or another for taking him into custody.”

“No,” Veronica said, shaking her head. “He hasn't done anything.”

“Either way, the solution is simple,” Irina told her. “Back down. Stop talking about Reb Volkov and this silly vodka boycott. I guarantee things will look much better for Mr. Karstadt.”

*   *   *

The guard took his time inspecting Veronica's paperwork, running fat fingers over the form, her tourist visa, and her passport. Veronica wondered if he would find fault with some detail and turn her away. But after another minute, his features relaxed. He adjusted his brown jacket and made a little bow as he returned Veronica's papers. “Everything looks to be in order, Nika.” He nodded toward the hat resting on the station before him, the gold double-headed eagle medallion, and winked.

So he knew her. Veronica found herself leaning in close to him, not exactly flirting but taking him into her confidence. “How is he doing?” she asked in Russian.

“Mikhail? He is managing well enough.”

She would have preferred the guard sounded annoyed when she asked about Michael. Instead he seemed sorry for him.

The guard gestured for her to follow. The sound of his boots on the tile floor echoed off the walls around them. The facility was not the darkly lit stone-walled dungeon she'd imagined, but rather pristinely white. Narrow hallways fanned out from the central booking area in neat lines and the strong scent of bleach almost overpowered the decay in the air. She'd feared Michael would be taken to a place where he would be dumped and forgotten. This seemed like a place prisoners were taken to be shot. It would be easy to clean blood from the walls. She fought off another chill. She needed to get Michael out of here now.

No. They had let her in to see him. The situation couldn't be that bad.

Unless whoever had taken Michael saw her as no threat at all.

The guard led her down one of the hallways to a steel door and swiped a key card over a magnetic strip. On the other side of the door, five cells were lined up side by side. The tiny cells only had room for a cot and a basin. As they continued forward, she saw they were all empty except for the cell nearest them at the end of the hall, which was occupied by a skinny, pale adolescent. His head was shorn and on the right side of his skull he had a bluish tattoo of a spider enmeshed in a web. He curled his arms around his legs and rocked back and forth on top of the narrow cot, muttering to himself. Veronica quickened her pace.

The guard directed her to the last cell in the row. Veronica ran the final few steps and then stopped and gripped the bars. Michael was lying on his back, arm draped over his eyes. He shifted and dropped his arm, squinting at her. A dark purplish discoloration tinged with red swelled under his left eye.

“Oh my God!” she cried. “What are they doing to you?”

Michael stood quickly and grasped her fingers. “It's okay,” he said. “Just a little misunderstanding, but I'm okay. I promise. Don't panic.”