Free Rasputin's Revenge by John Lescroart

questioning look, the ambassador smiled. “Our greatcoats are good for more than fighting the cold.”
    I was shocked to see the official representative of my country stooping to such levels, and probably did not hide my feelings adequately. But Paleologue was immune to my scruples. He closed and locked the cabinet, motioned for me to sit again, and gave me a little speech.
    “Don’t make the mistake which is ruining this country, Giraud. Don’t let yourself be cut off from reality. The palace is an unreal world where nothing is wrong, there is plenty of food, the Czar makes no mistakes, and the people are all happy and simple peasants.
    “There is no way that I can overemphasize the seriousness of the situation here. There is very little food. The people are quite close to revolt. Mismanagement, incompetence, plain stupidity are rampant here, as are greed, fear and panic. What you see at Tsarkoye Selo and here at the Winter Palace is the last flicker of the nineteenth century, of the world you and I grew up in.
    “Now it is not merely a new century—it is a different world, and there is no place in it anymore for the finer sensibilities—gentility, honor, charm. It pains me to say it, but what we are doing, especially here in St. Petersburg, is slogging through, trying our best to survive, and survive alone.”
    “But surely,” I said, alarmed at his pessimism, “survival alone is no goal. Without what you’re calling the finer sensibilities, what is the point to living?”
    “Ask that question and you won’t live to enjoy the answer,” he said. Then, realizing his harshness, he continued. “Giraud, I don’t mean to attack you. Maybe I’ve been here too long. I forget that there is another world—a Paris, for example, even a …” But, choked with emotion, he couldn’t finish.
    “I’m sorry,” I said.
    He waved it off, puffing at his cigar. “And now to business. The offer?”
    “First there is something else that might bear upon it. Have you heard about Minsky?”
    He thought a moment. “I don’t believe I know a Minsky.”
    “He is a Commissar, one of the Czar’s equestrian guard. I met him last night. In his own words, he is the last personal friend of Nicholas at court—all the rest defer to Rasputin.”
    “Well, what of him?”
    When, I told Maurice of the murder, he first had no response other than to close his eyes and draw reflectively on his cigar. He remained in that attitude so long that I wondered if he had perhaps forgotten my presence.
    “Sir?” I asked.
    Slowly, it seemed unwillingly, he pulled himself up and out of his reverie. With a deep sigh, he forced himself to speak.
    “You are correct, Giraud. This will bear upon your mission.”
    “What do you think I ought to do?”
    He stood and began pacing back and forth from the bookcase to the fireplace. “It is hard to say Initially, I was going to tell you to get to Nicholas and force a commitment as soon as possible. He is newly back from Spala, and in the past it has been after those tours as Commander-in-Chief that he has been most enthusiastic for the War. Now, though … now I am not sure.”
    “You think it might be wiser to wait?”
    “Not exactly I think he simply may not be prepared to make decisions. And there’s no point in showing our hand until we can bet it.”
    “But now would seem ideal to me. If we present a strong argument, in his preoccupied state he might commit before realizing all the implications.”
    Paleologue sat on the edge of his desk. “No, no. You don’t know Nicholas. He doesn’t act that way. These murders—there have been three before this, you know—have worked on his will. Of all rulers, he is the least aware of the position he is in. His immediate family is his life. In mentality, he is extremely petit bourgeois. Have you seen his apartments? The furnishings?”
    He stopped, checking himself. “Well, that is irrelevant. But he rules Russia as though he were running a small