My Father the Czar
                             Copyright 1998
                   Library of Congress number: 98-96138
                          by AUTHOR22@aol.com
                          All rights reserved

Chapter Eighteen

                              + + + + +
                                YALTA
                            DECEMBER 1916
                            From the Diary
                           of the Tsarevich
                              + + + + +

The distance from St. Petersburg to Yalta is only a thousand miles,
but it took our train almost three days to travel across that part of
Russia.

Never before had the Imperial Train been sidetracked by other traffic.
Unlike almost any trip I had ever made, this one drew virtually no
spectators. I thought the cause might be the dismal weather.

The cold air of the capital had been laden with the astringent odors
from the munition plants. We were told that the smell, which found its
way all the way south to Tsarskoye Selo, had been captured by the cold
water of the rivers.

We had boarded the train just before sunset, and ate dinner on board
while we were still sitting in the station.

By the time we reached Moscow, Olga was beginning to look better. She
managed a smile but her eyes looked as though she had been peeling
onions. Mama had ordered that no newspapers or magazines could be
brought on board. We were to seal ourselves into the past as though
this frightful war had never begun.

Catherine is being something of a nag. The edict baring the newspapers
had her upset as she had been following the progress of our troops in
great detail; but Mama said that Olga's health is more important. I
suppose she is right.

I've tried to re-engender that fondness which Catherine and I had in
the past years, but it seems that she no longer has any of the
interests which I do. Even when I tried to discuss the detailed scenes
we were going to put into our movie, it met with a total lack of
interest. In fact, the only response which I got was a stifled giggle
when I described the sex scene of Sarah and Yars "doing it" while
standing on their heads.

I figured that if I were to crawl into bed with her in the early
morning and snuggle up, her early morning pisser would take us back to
the days before we had taken our voyage on the Standart. There was no
privacy during those three days on the train, so I could not instigate
any adventures.

As soon as we had pulled into the train station near Yalta we motored
directly to our vacation home in Belovezhe. One of the things I like
best about this particular house is its bathrooms. Only Catherine's
did not have a sunken bathtub. Of course I invited her to use mine
and, even though I could detect a light of disapproval in Mama's eyes,
she said nothing; but Catherine's response was: "Maybe later".

After the long trip Mama and my sisters wanted to bathe, as did I.
There was a sudden shortage of hot water.

Catherine disappeared while I was bathing. One of the servants said
that she was in the solarium writing a letter. The Belovezhe house is
rather large and sprawling. The solarium is a cozy place looking out
over the Black Sea.

When I found her, she was not writing, but rather slouching back in
her chair with her feet resting on a tea table in a most unladylike
position. I was tempted to sneak up on her, grab her cock and give it
a yank; but instead, I whispered: "Looks like you are getting ready to
jerk off."

Alex-P's eyes flickered open with a gentle smile. Looking around, I
could see that we were alone and planted a big kiss directly on his
lips. "I've wanted to do that for a long time."

He quickly lowered his feet to the floor and pulled his skirt down.
"You shouldn't do that. You never know if someone is watching."

"So? They will just think that I am trying to get you into bed. That's
what everyone thinks anyway. So why not?"

Then Catherine told me that he had not drochit (wanked off) in a long,
long time. He had been exercising his will power.

I teased him about the fact that it was easy to exercise will power if
there wasn't any temptation around.

"Little you know. I've turned down more than one invitation. The
younger soldiers aren't used to keeping it in their pants and, on top
of that, almost every girl in town was trying to get me to fuck her.

"On the other hand, YOU have obviously been using your petooshock like
you were about to lose it."

We laughed for just a moment, then Catherine's mood turned plaintive.
"My Tsarevich, I am deeply troubled about my uncle. I don't understand
why so many people hate him. The newspapers have been full of it. His
name is on everyone's lips. Yet you and I have seen the value in him.
He is wise and loving. He has taught us many things and, if you are
honest about it, you even owe him your life."

Catherine sighed and looked out over the ocean. "I was writing a short
note to Sergy. You have not heard from him have you?"

I shook my head, "No. But then, even if he had written, there's no
telling when or even if the letter would catch up with us. I'll ask
around and see if we can visit the Odessa base."

"Speaking of the army, have you noticed that all of our security
personnel are army? Last time we were here they were our regular
palace guard."

                              + + + + +

Sakhar Burakov had not found her way to the position of secretary to
the Chief of Naval Operations by accident. The plan to place her in
that position had commenced almost a month before.

Sakhar was an odd name for this particular female. A younger woman
bearing that name would have immediately been nick named "Sugar", as
that is what Sakhar means in one of the southern dialects.

Sakhar had been widowed in late May. Her husband had been drafted into
the army because of his skills as a physician. He had been assigned to
the "Green Bottle" Brigade and thus ended his short army career under
the command of General Alexander Bezobrazov.

For several months she had been attempting to get his "death benefits"
from the army... all to no avail. Even the active duty field personnel
were not being paid.

When Sakhar was little more than a schoolgirl she had worked for Roman
Malinovsky at a small newspaper in the suburbs of Moscow. Although she
was a skilled office organizer she had begun work as a part-time
stringer. Her skills in nosing things out were extraordinary.

She had lived a good, quiet life after she had married the doctor. The
couple begat no children. It wasn't that they didn't want any; it just
wasn't high on their priority list. She would have been a good mother,
that is if you believe that a drill Sergeant would be good at
mothering. She had discipline! She was forceful! --and she looked like
someone with whom one would not want to take issue.

She was devastated by the news of the loss of her husband, but had
rallied well. The major impediment to her future was money; or rather
a lack of it. Her husband's credit had dried up as soon as he was
drafted. It became nonexistent once he had died.

It was than that she remembered her old mentor Roman Malinovsky. It
took her only two days to locate him; he had become the managing
editor of St. Petersburg's Pravda.

Their reunion took place over lunch in a tiny restaurant next door to
the newspaper. She had hoped that Malinovsky would hire her as a
stringer if not a full fledge reporter. She was suddenly taken-a-back
by his proposal. He asked her to apply for a job as a secretary at the
Naval Base.

The expression on her face was one of disappointment. Curious, she
pressed on to find out why her mentor was trying to farm her out to a
different employer. His explanation was that she was to report back to
Malinovsky any new, unreported, events within the Russian navy. He
pointed out that the position would place a substantial amount of
responsibility on her shoulders. The bottom line was that, because of
her background, because her husband had been killed in battle, because
the government owed her death benefits, they would be likely to hire
her.

After their luncheon, Sakhar went directly to the naval base and
filled out an application. She added a three-page, hand written note
explaining why she was seeking work, underlining her status as a war
widow.

Two days later she received a letter asking that she report to CNOP
headquarters for an interview.

She started work the following Monday.

It was only after she had begun work that Malinovsky explained how she
was to keep Piotr Veilky's name off of the draft list; then, he went
into great detail as to the background of the matter.

Sakhar Burkov had never been known for her subtly. She frequently
found the best way to hide something was to create a substantial
diversion.

It was Friday afternoon when the next draft list crossed her desk to
be posted at the Naval Academy. She added "Piotr Veliky", then crossed
it out. She then wrote a short note, "Please report to the office of
the Chief of Naval Operations the first thing Monday morning." After
placing the note in an envelope and addressing it to Veliky, she sent
both the list and the note to the school.

The messenger placed the list on the bulletin board, then attempted to
deliver the note to Veliky; however, the boy was in class, so the
messenger tacked the note next to the draft list on the bulletin
board.

The last class of the day was over. Piotr lingered to speak with the
teacher. He didn't quite understand the logic of a particular naval
maneuver. The man was impatient to begin his weekend and, instead of
answering Piotr's question, he instructed his student to re-read
chapters six through eleven of the textbook.

"Hey! Veliky, your name's on the shit list." One of his fellow
classmates yelled at him as he exited the lecture room.

Piotr walked faster than usual. He was surprised to see that there was
no one standing in front of the bulletin board.

His heart was pounding as his eyes scanned down the list. When his
eyes came to rest on the last line, it was as though his world had
come to an end. Even though his name had been crossed out, the fact
that it had been on the list made him feel that it was just a matter
of time. When he saw his name on the note, he removed it from the
board and read it.

"What had he done, or not done, to have had his name put on that list?
Why was he being called to CNOP?" He realized that there was nothing
that he could do until that dreaded interview on Monday morning
except.... --Except to study his ass off.

Monday morning found him standing by the locked entry to the office of
the Chief of Naval Operations. It was 7:00 AM. His eyes were red from
the strain of having read from early morning to late night during the
entire weekend. He felt that he knew more about naval history, tactics
and maneuvers than his teachers did. He had organized every quiz sheet
he had ever taken chronologically, then re-read every passage or
chapter of text material that bore on any question he had answered
incorrectly. The last sheet of the sheaf of papers was the letter from
The Tsarevich Aleksey Romanov.

Sakhar Burakov had purposely arrived early. She knew that Veliky would
be waiting for her.

She approached the locked door, key in hand. "I suppose your Veliky,"
she grunted.

The figure that greeted Piotr's eyes was that of a giant of a woman.
She wasn't fat, but she was muscular. Her hair was gray. Her bearing
was that of a no-nonsense person of authority who was intent on
bringing down his world.

"Yes ma'am." Even the Czarina had not instilled in him the fear which
this woman did.

"Well, come in. Let's get this over with and get you back to your
class. From what I can see you can't afford to miss a single minute."
She hadn't meant to let him off the hook that easily, but she had
intimated that he would remain enrolled at the Academy.

She led the way to her desk in the open lobby of CNOP; the same desk
that had been occupied by Adrian. She pointed at the "guest" chair and
said: "Sit!"

"Madam..." He paused, then saw the little sign that said "Sakhar
Burakov" on the edge of her desk. "Madam Burakov. I have been
examining every quiz sheet that I have taken during my studies here at
the Academy. During the past two days I have read and re-read each
one, then studied any text book materials which covered any question
whose answer was marked incorrect. I doubt if there is a student at
the Academy that has as good a record... or understanding of naval
tactics as I do."

"Good God Veliky. You really think you are something special don't
you? Well, let me tell you that you are NOT.

"I know all about you and Adrian. You aren't going to diddle me. So
you'd better understand that it is the quality of your school work,
not the length of your Hui, that is going to keep you in the Academy."

Piotr's face turned from red to white, then back to red. He remained
silent, not knowing what to say next. He had been on the verge of
giving the woman his letter from the Tsarevich, but suddenly realized
she would most likely misunderstand.

In the end, his response was simply: "Yes ma'am. I will work even
harder."

"All right then. That's all I wanted to talk to you about. I would not
feel right in posting your name on the draft list without first
telling you the lay of the land."

"Sugar. Sugar indeed! Humph!" was Piotr's reaction as he ran down the
steps, and out of CNOP headquarters.


                              + + + + +

St. Petersburg should have been a beehive of activity, but it was not.

There seemed to be no fervor to win the war. The streets were dark and
vacant. Most of the streetlights were out of order. Wind was being
channeled along the river. The days were short of hours. The sun
seemed to be reluctant to show its face. During the course of the day
it darted behind clouds or remained shrouded in a haze. Then suddenly,
as though frightened, it would dive below the horizon, abandoning the
world to another long cold night.

Out of sight of the darkened streetlights, masses of homeless people
hovered together in back-alley shacks lamenting the loss of their
homes. These were the foreign refugees who had descended upon the
capitol when the Huns had overrun their territories.

Prince Yusupov had returned from Moscow with a mission in mind. He and
Vladimir Purishkevich were to discuss what could be done to end
Rasputin's influence over the Czar.

The dark, reeking atmosphere of the city could be likened to an
enormous rabbit warren where knots of shadowy figures huddled,
breeding conspiracies. Here and there, tiny groups of zealots met with
amateur soldiers of fortune and soon swept on to form other groups
with similar intent. They were not as well organized as the Black
Hand, yet their goal was the same; change the course of history.

Purishkevich and Yusupov were huddled over a rough-hewn table in the
corner of a bar in an area of the city quite foreign to them. They
each had ordered from the barman a pint, that stood untouched before
them for a long period of time. The proprietor left them alone; many
of his customers found their way into the front pages of the
newspapers. He did not want his name linked with them in that way.
Besides, he thrived on the traditional tip.

Yusupov had described his plot to rid Russia of Rasputin. It was
amateurish to say the least. Purishkevich found himself uncomfortable,
wishing that he had ignored the invitation of this young and
rebellious radical.

A short, stocky man entered the establishment and headed directly to
their table. Without invitation he pulled out a chair and joined the
conspirators. "Stalin. My name is Stalin. Lenin asked me to listen in
on your plans... offer any advice that I might. I don't expect to do
more than advise. Now where is this assassination to take place?"

Yusupov described his home --a large three story building fronting on
the river. He added that Rasputin had already taken part of the bait;
he had accepted an invitation to dinner and he had already bedded his
wife, Irina.

Stalin looked up sharply, wondering what kind of a man he was talking
to; a Zealot who used his own wife as bait.

The plan was simple. It was almost not a plan. When asked what method
would be used to kill the holy man, Yusupov rapidly glided over the
question by saying: "I'm not sure. Probably put cyanide in his food or
wine, or shoot the bastard. I've converted a room in our cellar into a
sound proof dining room."

Stalin looked anxious and asked: "In the basement? Don't you think he
will be suspicious?"

"I'll simply tell him that it is a 'special' dinner party --a Roman
orgy. I'll hang erotic pictures on the walls and place a wide couch on
one side of the room. The idea will be that he can drink, eat, and
then bed Irina."

Stalin shook his head, but said nothing. Getting rid of Rasputin was a
goal they both shared, but he wouldn't risk the reputation of the
Communist party by getting involved with such amateurs. "It looks like
you already have your plan in place. I don't see how we can be of any
assistance." He stood and left the bar saying nothing else.

On eighteen separate occasions, Yusupov tried to contact Purishkevich
during the next four days. It soon became obvious that the politician
wished to disassociate himself from the prince. While this obvious
shunning pecked at his ego, Yusupov soothed his burised feelings by
reasoning that the man could also no longer take any of the credit for
the "salvation" of Russia.

                              + + + + +

Gregori Rasputin did not want to leave his bed even though the hour
was late.

He had not forgotten his dinner engagement with Yusupov. His chlen had
grown stiff as he lay there contemplating the evening's activities and
it was that which finally pried him out of bed.

He was both hungry and horny. The obvious solution was to have an
early lunch at The Embers.

He pulled back the heavy drapes to reveal a hateful day. Banks of snow
attested to the fact that the white stuff had been falling most of the
night. He could hardly see across the street. Just looking out the
window caused him to shiver.

He put on a heavy robe, opened his bedroom door and sniffed the air in
hopes of catching the aroma of freshly brewed coffee; there was none.
"Maria? Are you awake?"

His daughter's voice responded. "Of Course father. Are you up? Would
you like breakfast?"

"No. No, my dear I am going out for lunch. Don't plan on my joining
you for dinner; I'm having a late one with the Yusupovs."

He returned to his bedroom to choose something comfortable, but warm.

Again he looked out of his window and saw two large men at his front
gate. He presumed they were Protopopov's idea of a bodyguard. They
could accompany him to The Embers, but they would not be needed at the
Yusupov's, after all Irina was the Czar's niece.

It was early afternoon when Rasputin returned to his house. Maria had
gone out without leaving a message.

He felt sleepy. He had drunk far too much. The house was a bit chilly
and, rather than light a fire, he elected to lie down while still
wearing his overcoat. It was while he was removing his boots that he
saw a note on his bedside table; it was from Maria.

"Irina Yusupov telephoned. Dinner will be later than planned. They
will send a Limo around 9:30."

The delay in dinner changed things. A bathhouse would now be in order.
A good steam followed by a deep body massage would get him ready for
the evening. His mind embraced the expected pleasures. He would have
to limit this afternoon's activities; he could not allow himself to
ejaculate. Then he wondered if the Prince wanted to watch his wife
being fucked. Had he really thought about it, he would have been
surprised to note that the idea of an audience had intensified his
lust.

He had been in his house less than twenty minutes when he again
departed. When his taxi arrived he invited his two bodyguards to be
his guests for a steam and massage. It was only a token courtesy as
the two men would have needed to be with him anyway, but it opened a
dialog between the three men that otherwise would have been absent.

They had disrobed and were sitting in the steam room. The dense fog
had suppressed the conversation; but Rasputin had noticed something
which he thought was funny: The more muscular of his two bodyguards
had a tiny cock. He wondered if the man had channeled his lustful
thoughts into weight lifting and pushups, instead of exercising his
chlen as other growing boys did.

Twenty minutes of sweating was more than enough. The steam had been a
community endeavor, the massage rooms were private. One of the men sat
outside of Rasputin's room while his partner was being massaged;
midway, they switched.

The masseuse who attended Rasputin had worked on him many times
before. She was a woman in her mid thirties. Her arms and fingers were
strong from many hours of practicing her art.

She had turned him on his stomach and her fingers were digging into
his shoulders; then, slowly she moved downward in strong, well defined
motions. She hit one spot that caused an involuntary groan of
pleasure. She moved still further down across the small of his back,
then grasped his left buttock with both hands, kneading it like bread
dough. When she switched her grasp to his right buttock, he spread his
legs slightly. His penis lay flat in a downward position and it
appeared to be rigid; but then he was, after all, larger in that area
than the average man anyway. Her hands abandoned his buttocks, taking
up a purchase just above his knee; then began working their way upward
alternately gripping and then releasing his inner thigh muscles. She
was within half-an-inch of his erection when Rasputin snapped his legs
closed. "Not today, I have a date tonight."

The woman continued her work without hesitation.

Rasputin wondered if the bodyguard with the small cock would take
advantage of the sexual opportunities to be found in this place.

It was late in the afternoon when they left the bathhouse. The skies
had cleared, but the temperature had fallen. The sun's rays
illuminated the haze, spreading a golden glow, immersing the city's
roofs and spires in a warm light.

Dusk was at hand as Rasputin returned to his home. Maria met him in
the entryway. "You saw the note from Prince Yusupov next to your bed?"

"Yes, my dear. I will not be home until late, so do not wait up for
me. In fact I might spend the night in their guest room."

Maria retired to her third floor bedroom and lay down for a short nap.
She still needed to fix dinner for herself and wondered if her
Okrahana friend might join her.

It was close to ten that night when Maria heard a car driving down
Gorokhovaya Ulitsa. It braked to a stop outside their house. She
pulled back the draperies and looked down at the car. A man stepped
out of the back seat completely enveloped by his overcoat. The collar
was turned up so that she could not make out the man's face, but from
his bearing she presumed it was Prince Yusupov.

Even from that distance she could hear the limousine door slam closed.

The clear sky was lit by a multitude of stars. She could see the man
better as he came closer to the front steps; but, then he veered off
to the left and circled around to the back entrance. She was used to
her father's late night visitors; using the back entrance to avoid the
Okrahana men out front was nothing unusual.

She closed the drapes and crawled back into her bed.

She woke when she heard her father call to the maid for his boots. She
slipped out of bed and into the hallway. It was dark and she almost
bumped into him.

"Oh, Maria!" he said. "Did we awaken you?"

"Yes, Papa, but no matter. Are you going out now?"

"Yes, Marochka," he said, using his affectionate pet name.

"Be careful. You know what Minister Protopopov said?" She referred to
the interior minister's warning about violence against him.

Maria was frightened for her father. She had seen him being stabbed in
the stomach by a woman two years before. She knew, from girls at
school, from glances in the street, and allusions in the newspapers
that many others also wished him ill.

Her unease increased when she caught a glimpse of Yusopov in her
father's study, lounging against a desk strewn with papers and bowls
of fruit. He was a young man, tall and slender --"rather prettier than
handsome," she thought --and he had unbuttoned his overcoat to show
his finely cut evening clothes. He still wore his fur cap, as though
to prove that a prince had no need to uncover his head in front of a
muzhik.

"Are you ready?"

Rasputin sighed. "The dinner... Is it formal? I see you have dressed
for dinner."

The man shook his head, "No Otyets. You should be dressed as
comfortably as possible. Remember this is a replica of a Roman orgy. I
will change as soon as we reach my house."

"Then give me a moment to change into a different blouse, moy
malenki."

Otyets means "father"; moy malenki,  "my little one." Strangely, the
closeness between the older man and his visitor was further
demonstrated when Rasputin went into his room and began plowing
through his closet. He pulled out his favorite blouse. Its blue satin
was embroidered with gold sunflowers; The Czarina had stitched it for
him herself.

He put on his finest pair of breeches, the blue velvet ones. This was
his third change of clothes that day. He tied a golden sash around his
blouse, splashed his favorite cologne on his ears and neck and then
combed his beard. Finally, he poured half a glass of mineral oil and
downed it. Addressing Maria he stated: "The oil will protect my
stomach from too much drink. Felix is trying too hard to be trusted."

He made to leave.

"Papa, Papa." Maria ran to and embraced him as though she foresaw the
future. Words would not come, but she thought he understood. He kissed
her and wiped away her tears.

"Do not fear, Marochka," he said. "Nothing can happen to me unless it
is God's will." He helped her into bed, made the sign of the cross
over her, right to left in the Russian style, then departed.

Once she had heard the front door close, Maria rose from her bed and
cleared the window of frost. She watched Yusupov open the limousine
door for her father. The door slammed shut, the wheels spun briefly on
the ice, then the car sped away. Maria returned to her bed and fell
into a restless slumber. She did not remember her dream, only that she
awoke crying aloud, "Proshchaitye, Papa!" --Farewell, Papa.

The black vehicle sped along the city's streets. The driver did not
pay attention to his passengers. Yusupov had placed his left hand on
Rasputin's knee. "So Gregori, I trust that all is forgiven? I gave to
you my wife as a token of my wish to please you." His hand was working
its way towards the soft crotch of his guest.

"And what do you have planned for tonight, my friend?"

"Something most unique. You will experience a Roman orgy patterned
after the ones given by Caligula. I have built a dining room in the
basement, next to the wine cellar. You will be served by three
beautiful girls whose only wish will be to please you."

"In that case Felix, you should resist your compulsion. You do not
want to deprive the young ladies of my essence."

Yusupov withdrew his hand. "Of course. I wasn't thinking."

The car turned off the street, passed through two eight-foot wrought
iron gates, moved slowly around the circular driveway and stopped in
front of the entrance to Yusupov's home.

The driver quickly stepped out of the vehicle and opened the right
hand passenger door.

Rasputin followed his host up the short flight of wide steps, through
the front door and down the main hall. They paused at an inconspicuous
doorway, which concealed a downward staircase. The Prince opened the
door, revealing the staircase, and said: "Gregori, I must change out
of this formal attire. We are a little early. Would you please go down
and make yourself comfortable. There should be Madeira as well as
something to nibble on. I'll be back shortly."

Rasputin nodded, grunted a "yes", and proceeded down the stairs.

He was astonished by what he saw. The walls were laden with beautiful,
highly erotic paintings. The scenes were not random or abstract. Each
one was a masterpiece which, in itself, must be a prized possession.
But when the collection was viewed in its entirety it became a vividly
erotic tale. The central character in each picture had been modeled by
the same woman.

He seated himself at the table and poured himself a glass of wine. He
sipped it and thought it a little bitter. He examined the bottle and
noticed that the Vintner was unknown to him. He sipped again and found
that his taste buds had adjusted.

Upstairs, Yusupov had gone directly to his room where two men awaited
his arrival. "How did it go?" spoke the older of the two. "Do you
think he suspects anything?"

"No. The old fool can't think beyond his Hui. Joe, help me into this
dress."

The younger of the two was as handsome as Yusupov was pretty. His dark
hair was cut short and was flattened on top. His eyes were a dark
shade of olive green, yet they sparkled with creativity. His pectoral
muscles flexed under a tight silk shirt which matched the color of his
eyes. He held the dress while the prince shed his clothing. "Do you
think this masquerade is necessary?"

The older man said, "He's likely to be dead by the time you return. If
he drinks any of the Madeira he's done for. There is enough cyanide in
that to kill a dozen men."

"Nevertheless, just in case. He is expecting female companionship. He
might need some coaxing to take that first drink."

Yusupov had stepped into the black lace dress, the hem of which swept
the floor. The younger man handed him several pieces of padding to
enhance the breasts. "God you are gorgeous. Any chance we can sleep
together tonight."

The prince smiled, held the boy's chin and kissed him. "You'd better
believe it. I'm not accustomed to murdering people. My nerves will
require a good deal of soothing."

The old man brushed his bushy mustache and chuckled. "Aren't you
fellows ever going to grow up. You are no longer children." Then he
addressed Yusupov directly, "And you Felix... is there no chance your
marriage with Irina can be consummated? My God, you have been married
for five years. I can't imagine any man, even a woman hater like you,
avoiding dipping his wick. You do wake with an erection, do you not?"

"Oh do shut up. You will make Joe jealous."

A black lace veil was added to the ensemble, which shrouded all below
the nose in a semi transparent shadow.

"What will you do if he catches on and does not drink any of the
Madeira?"

"The icing on the cakes has almost as much poison in it as does the
wine."

"You'd better take a pistol, just in case." The older man laid a gun
on the bed. "It's loaded, so be careful."

"No! I won't need it. If I offer to suck his cock, he'll forget
everything else."

"Not if he discovers what's hanging beneath that dress, he won't. For
God's sake, please be careful."

Yusupov's hand was on the doorknob. "I'll be back as soon as I have
anything to report." He hurried to the entrance of the basement room,
paused and listened. He heard nothing. He thought they might have been
correct... Rasputin was most probably dead. The top step creaked under
his weight.

"Ah! It's about time. Do you have more wine?"

Yusupov was shocked. The wine was gone and the man was still alive.
Not only alive, but alive and demanding more wine. In a falsetto voice
he stated: "I will ask one of the servants."

"Oh, mademoiselle, I thought that Yusupov had returned. Come, enjoy
one of these delightful pastries."

"I'll be right back. The Prince will have my head if you are not
looked after immediately."

The brief glimpse of the woman was enough to make him realize that she
must have been the model in all of the paintings. That realization
brought his chlen to full erection. Yusupov had told him that the
women were his for the taking. He was tempted to strip and get right
to it when she returned.

Upstairs, Felix ran into the bedroom, almost hysterical. "Where did
you buy that Cyanide, the neighborhood candy store? He's emptied the
Madeira, eaten half of the cakes, and is demanding more?"

Joe led the way into the kitchen, uncorked a fresh bottle of wine and
poured half of it into a bowl. He then opened a paper bag whose label
bore a skull and crossbones and the word 'POISON'. He was about to
spoon out some of the powder when Yusupov asked: "Is that what you
used last time?"

The boy nodded "Yes", but laid down the spoon.

Yusupov turned to the older man, "Major, do you have more Cyanide?"

The man shook his head, "No. That should be strong enough. Just last
week I used it to put a sick mare to sleep."

Joe ladled several spoonfuls of the powder into the bowl, then mixed
it thoroughly. After pouring the mixture back into the wine bottle, he
held it up to the light, inspecting it's clarity. Satisfied, he pushed
the cork back into the bottleneck and handed it to the prince. "That
ought to do it."

The Major suggested that all three of them go down to the basement
room. Yusupov was adamant in his refusal. "No. Even drunk, he is not
so stupid. --And that Hui of his is reported to be always in a state
of readiness."

Joe responded, "Reported? I thought you had seen it in its full glory
when you dined with him at The Embers. Everyone in town was talking
about the man's outrageous behavior."

The prince reddened at the memory. He had mixed emotions. He wanted
the man dead, yet he was also curious about how well Rasputin
performed in bed. He sighed to himself in resignation to the fact that
he was unlikely to lay hands on that magnificent instrument. He
thought, for a fleeting moment, about amputating that fabled member
and taking it to a taxidermist; what a prized dildo it would make.
Next time he was at odds with Irina he could offer her the use of it.

                              + + + + +

Rasputin was getting restless. He had been cooling his heels for far
too long. Where were the promised women? Irina should have been there
to greet him when he arrived. Yusupov had said there would be three;
he had barely seen one.

He wasn't pleased with the wine or the pastries and there weren't
enough of either. This was supposed to be a dinner party --and served
amid a Roman orgy.

Just then he heard the door open. This time he looked before he spoke.
It was the woman returning. "Thank God, she has another bottle of
Madeira," he said to himself.

"Ah my dear, I must know. Is that you that graces those canvases?"

Yusupov attempted to keep his voice steady, but high as he descended
the stairs. "You like them? I have a dear friend who is quite
talented. Perhaps you have heard his name? Joseph Botkin? He is a
close friend of the Prince."

Rasputin said, "Are they yours, his, or Felix's? I would like to buy
them."

"You would need to talk to the artist." Yusupov thought this might
provide a good excuse to bring Joe down from the kitchen just in case
rougher stuff should be needed.

"You are a pretty thing. I'd love to compare the paintings with the
living model."

Yusupov set the new bottle of wine on the table and just barely evaded
a quick move by Rasputin to grope her crotch.

"The invitation was for dinner and an orgy. So far, all I have been
offered has been this tasteless excuse for a Madeira and these cakes.
It has been a long day and I am hungry."

Yusupov was hugging the staircase as though he was preparing to
escape. "It might have been a bad bottle; it is one of Felix's
favorites. Try the new one."

Rasputin had already poured his glass to the brim. His hand shook
slightly as he raised it to his lips, spilling the ruby red liquid on
his blue satin blouse. Instantly the fabric turned to a bright orange.
He sat the glass down, untasted, quickly trying to daub the droplets
with his handkerchief. He glared at the girl as though it were her
fault. "There are no more cakes." This time, he carefully bent over
the wineglass and sipped its contents without lifting it from the
table. "This is worse than the first bottle. Are you trying to kill me
or something?"

Yusupov's face turned pale. He quickly turned and started up the
stairs.

"And tell Yusupov to get his ass down here, or I'm going home."

He downed the entire glass in a single gulp as he heard the door
close. Then he poured another. He picked up the new bottle and
examined its label; it wasn't even from the same vineyard. He tasted
more. This had more of a bite to it. Kind of sharp --and a little
metallic. He held a mouthful on his tongue for almost a minute before
swallowing. The effect was as though he had consumed the entire
bottle. He raised the bottle to his lips and let it flow freely down
his open gullet.

                              + + + + +

The three men heard the thud as Rasputin's body hit the floor.

The Major said, "I think that last bottle did the trick. What are we
going to do with the body? Bury it in the cellar?"

"You've been reading too many mystery stories; it would stink up the
house."

"Joe, help me out of this dress. I need to put something else on if we
are going to carry him out of here."

Yusupov was bent over, trying to pull off the top part of the dress
when they heard a door open and close.

"I thought you said Irina was away for the weekend," the Major stated.

"She is! --and I've given all of the servants the night off."

"What the Fuck!" A deep voice growled at them from the doorway. It was
Rasputin standing unsteadily on his feet. "You fucking Queers. What
were you planning on doing? All three of you gonna suck my Hui?"

He turned and started to walk away. "I'm going home. You sick
assholes!"

Joe's tackle hit Rasputin just above the knees and brought him down
with a force that shook the building.

The Major struck Rasputin's head with a fireplace poker. It sounded
like a watermelon being dropped.

The three encircled him, but he did not move.

The Major knelt and felt for his pulse; but there didn't appear to be
one. "Well, at least we didn't have to carry him up those damn
stairs."

Joe was visibly shaken by the violence.

Yusupov put his arms around the young artist and said: "That was
awful. You read about people being killed, but until you actually
witness it, you have no idea what it's like."

The Major asked, "Do you have a wheelbarrow? We could lift him in that
and wheel him out to the car."

Yusupov led the way out to the gardener's tool shed. It took only a
few minutes for them to find what they were looking for.

They were astonished when they returned to the kitchen. Rasputin was
gone. The only sign that he had been there was a small pool of blood.

"He can't still be alive." The Major pulled out his revolver and
headed toward the front door.

Almost paralyzed with fear the three men stood at the front door and
watched Rasputin lumber towards the closed iron gates.

The Major steadied himself against the door jam, aimed his pistol and
fired.

The impact of the bullet caused Rasputin to stagger to the right; but,
other than that, seemed to have little affect.

"Too far." The Major ran towards the gate, followed by Yusupov and
Joe. They were less than 10 yards from their quarry when the Major
took aim and fired twice in rapid succession. Still Rasputin staggered
forward.

When they reached him, he was holding on to the iron gate. Blood was
flowing from his head and his back. The blue satin blouse looked like
a rag used to sop up oil in a garage. The gold embroidered sunflowers
could have been mistaken for bird droppings. His grip slipped as his
body sagged. For a moment he appeared to be suspended in the air;
then, just as quickly, he fell to the ground, face down.

The Major said, "Joe, go get that wheelbarrow. No one is about, we can
drop him in the river."

Within minutes they had transported their victim to a nearby
footbridge which crossed the Neva river. No one saw the three men lift
the cumbersome cargo and let it fall. No one else saw the body splash,
then sink below the surface. No one heard the sudden groan as
Rasputin, still alive, floated helplessly away from his assailants.

                              + + + + +

At 5:30, Saturday Morning, the 17th of December, 1916, Roman
Malinovsky was awakened by one of his servants; he was wanted on the
telephone.

He was a bit grouchy when he lifted the receiver and grumbled into the
mouthpiece.

"Roman, this is Sasha Romkoski. Sorry for the early hour but I've got
something too hot for the Wedomosti. Rasputin has been murdered."

Despite the earliness of the hour, Malinovsky's response was the
professional's standard query of: "what, who, why, where, and when".

"Yusupov had descended upon The Embers along with his boyfriend Joe
Botkin. Iveren telephoned me. Of course I rushed right over but the
couple had gone home. So this is second hand stuff."

Malinovsky, now wide-awake, thanked the rival reporter, hung up and
immediately telephoned the Yusupov residence. The telephone rang for
at least 15 minutes before a sleepy female voice answered. She was
reluctant to disturb her master. Once she was convinced that the
caller was a newspaperman, she said that she would try to wake him.

Minutes rolled by as the telephone remained silent.

"Who is calling?" A male voice asked.

"Malinovsky of Pravda. I just had a telephone call from Sasha Romkoski
of the Wedomosti. He tells me that Gregori Rasputin has been killed
and that you know something about it. If this is true, I need to meet
with you as quickly as possible."

The gist of the story was confirmed. Malinovsky would be at Yusupo's
home within the hour.

He then telephoned the paper and ordered a special edition. The
headline was to read:

GRIGORY RASPUTIN HAS CEASED TO EXIST!

Malinovsky's files were full of background material that the editor of
the city desk could use to begin assembling the lead article. They
could hint, allude to, but must be careful what specific information
they attested to as being fact.

He'd telephone the newspaper from Yusupov's place as soon as he felt
secure about the details. He'd be back in the office by early
afternoon.

He rushed back to his bedroom, shouting at his wife that a major story
had taken place.

                              + + + + +

The murder quickly became a sensation.

Alive, he Rasputin been protected by the censors. His obituarists had
fewer constraints. They turned the death of the "court pilgrim
--debaucher" into a great political event. Newspapers doubled their
print runs, splashing the forbidden name in their largest typefaces.
Telegraph operators on the railroad network slipped the news into
routine reports of train movements. Travelers in sleds took it from
the rail depots to frozen villages.

For centuries, Russian society had been highly stratified. In the wake
of this murder, the stratification became strongly polarized.

In rural Russia, peasants cursed the killer. For the first time in
history a peasant had risen to be a council to the court. In the eyes
of most it was a political assassination of the worst kind. "He
defended the people against the court and they killed him because of
it."

Even the aristocracy was divided into groups. There were those close
to the Czarina who bemoaned the event as an absolute disaster while
others were overjoyed that the usurper had been eliminated.

The war had started to meld the various social stratas, but those
closest to the centers of power still considered each layer to be
clearly defined. A woman of noble birth, who had been enrolled in the
Czarina's "Help the wounded" project, suddenly found herself in a
state of total confusion. Her husband headed a political faction of
the Duma who, while supporting the Czar, felt that Rasputin's
influence was of the worst kind. He was overjoyed when he first heard
the news. His wife had assumed that same attitude. She had arrived at
a military hospital, overjoyed by the turn of events, only to be faced
with the shocking evidence that few, if any, of the soldiers shared
her elation. While polite, as befitted her station, they were none the
less silent and hostile.

The publisher of the St. Petersburg Wedomosti was furious when he saw
the Pravda headlines. He had been scooped by an arm of the Communist
Party. In an hour-long tirade he belabored his entire staff, from
editors to pressmen, describing his disappointment. When a new
employee told him that he understood the newspaper was under an
Imperial mandate not to publish stories about Rasputin's association
with the Imperial family, the publisher's response was a strangled
expletive.

It appeared that all restrictions were now lifted, not only at the
Wedomosti, but nation wide as well. The press had a field day. Every
little incident, every rumor, even known falsehoods found their way
into print.

The French ambassador reportedly recalled that Rasputin had claimed to
have a vision as he passed the Peter and Paul Fortress, describing its
iron-bound punishment cells as being used to house a glittering
clientele of opponents of the regime. "I see many people tortured
there," Rasputin supposedly had said. "Not individuals but whole
crowds, --masses, clouds of bodies, several grand dukes and hundreds
of counts. The Neva will be red with blood."

On the afternoon of the 18th, a reporter filed a story that Rasputin's
body had been taken in a metal casket from a mortuary to the railroad
station to be transported to his home in Siberia.

Later, it was confirmed that the body had been taken to Tsarskoye Selo
where it remained in the basement awaiting instructions from the Czar.
In the meantime a pathologist from the Military Medical Academy
performed an autopsy. His findings were that water from the Neva was
found in the victims lungs; he had not died of poison, nor from the
severe beating, not even from having been shot three times. He drowned
shortly after his attackers had thrown their victim into the river.

A freelance piece appeared in a number of newspapers including both
Pravda and the Wedomosti. Gregori Rasputin was said to have voiced a
dream: "If I was Czar, I'd steal hundreds of rubles and eat fat all
day long." The uninformed writer went on to say, "Fate had given
Rasputin all he had ever wanted: A lot of vodka, a lot of mutton, a
lot of embroidered shirts, a lot of money, and a lot --too much --of a
'supply of women'."

Stunned by the news of the violent murder of someone he had known,
Piotr Veliky found solace in the company of his acquaintances at The
Embers. He would have preferred the company of Sasha Romkoski but had
to settle for a few drinks with Bruce Lockhart. Iveren spent most of
his time talking privately with his brother. Had the corpulent one
known it, he would not have missed the opportunity to comfort the
cadet. The boy was shaken by the accumulation of calamities and needed
to be comforted in someone's arms; anyone's!

An off beat newspaper, Russkoye Selo, published in Kazan reflected the
attitude of rural Russia. In a somewhat lumbering story they wrote:

"They said Gregori Rasputin was a criminal. He has been sued in court
for horse rustling. He has been sued in court for perjury. He has been
condemned to be flogged by a local court." The newspaper referred to
the Khlysts, an outlawed religious sect, with a line on orgies and
flagellation. "He staged Khlyst prayers over a pit," the newspaper
continued, "and showed 'corporal bitterness' in convents." That meant
whipping nuns.

"His influence was unprecedented, particularly because he was a
Siberian, unthinkable in a peasant. He was cheap. He was elementary
and simple and comfortable to deal with for anyone with a good story
or deep pockets. Imagine a patron who is able to 'fix' an affair for a
small consideration ... Old foxers, intriguers, dodgers and political
rogues are saying that: 'If there had been no Rasputin, he would have
been invented!'"

"These pundits have substituted rumor for fact --Gregori Rasputin was
a fish eater who disliked meat and his remains were in Tsarskoye Selo
not in transit to his family."

The story described a "vaudeville of state" in which a "gilded slush"
of ministers, bishops, princes and princesses had danced on the
peasant's grave.

"But why did they dance?" they asked. "Why didn't the princes and
counts hold back the women of their circle who so readily, with such a
mystical reverence, paid this holy man their 'women's dues'?"

They refrained from naming the Empress in the context of Rasputin's
"dues"; it was a detail they could be sure their readers would supply
for themselves.

The muzhik was naturally meek and fatalistic, the court grand master
had warned; he would accept an injustice but continue to ponder it. At
some point he would demand an accounting; "and, when the muzhik ceases
to be meek, he becomes terrifying." That point was being reached.
"Perhaps the landowners are getting rich, various rogues are getting
richer, but the people, the common people, are being beggared," a
writer from Irkutsk complained. The peasants were growing "more
furious every day." In the sweet-scented wilderness of rural Russia,
Alexander Blok wrote, were "twisted, unhappy and browbeaten people
with ideas and beliefs from before the Flood."

Russia had become a tinderbox... and most of it was directed toward
the Imperial family and their associates.

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