Ted Bell - Tsar

Alex Hawke spent the rest of the trip staring down at the sea, all the way to the frozen white fields of Germany. He was oddly troubled for a man who’d just escaped a horrible death. Something was stuck in his craw, and for the life of him, he could not figure out what the hell it was. Half an hour later, he had it. An offhand remark Putin had made last night, a simple sentence that had seemed innocuous enough at the time.

It’s a great irony, isn’t it, that it was his daughter who found you and delivered you to the sacrificial altar?

Alone on a deserted beach? One of hundreds just like it? No. How could he doubt her love? She’d just saved his life. This marvelous woman who was carrying his child. She was truly beautiful. And true beauty, as she’d told him one afternoon at Half Moon House, came from deep inside.

He reached over, took her hand, and gently squeezed it.

“I may not have mentioned this,” Hawke said, whispering into her ear, “but I want to thank you for saving my life.”

“I had nothing to save until I found you. Now I have you, I have everything.”

It was snowing.

A beautiful winter’s night. Anastasia rushed through Cathedral Square to the Grand Kremlin Palace, her long white sable coat trailing behind her in the powdery snow. She was late, breathless, and completely happy for perhaps the first time in her life. Her heart, she knew, was full at last. Every palace window was aglow. Nothing had never looked so dazzling.

Lofty and majestic, the Moscow residence of the Tsars dominated the southern part of the Kremlin. The windows of the main wing faced the dark Moskva River, brimming with ice floes in mid-December. There were great throngs of people lining the quay and the bridges despite the heavy snow, all eyes gazing up at the glittering palace. All of Moscow seemed aware that this was a truly historic night not to be missed. The city seemed frozen in place; even the traffic had come to a complete stop.

For the first time in more than ninety years, Russia had a Tsar. Bells were ringing loudly from every church tower, and in some places, crowds had gathered and were singing ancient Russian folk songs, passing bottles of vodka to stave off the chilly night air.

The Grand Kremlin Palace overshadows all other Western European palaces of the period in terms of sheer size and ornateness. It was only fitting, she thought, that her father’s greatest triumph should be celebrated in such a glorious setting. She hurried up the white marble staircase leading to the State Parade Chambers on the second floor. This entrance was closed to the public tonight but, tonight, Anastasia was not the public.

She was the princess.

Two guards in their most festive regalia stood at attention on either side of the ancient wooden door in the huge east wing of the palace. The door was fifteen feet high, a masterpiece of nineteenth-century Russian carpentry, made from the wood of nut trees without using a single nail or any glue.

A chain of halls named for the old Russian orders lay behind this door: the St. George, St. Vladimir, St. Catherine, St. Andrew, and St. Alexander Halls. Anastasia paused at a cloak room just inside the entrance and gave the attendant her sable coat, hat, and muff. Also her furry boots, which she exchanged for the pair of heels in her bag.

Then she hurried through the vast octagon of St. Vladimir Hall, her heels clicking on the parquet floors. One of the arches opened onto a passage leading directly to the largest and most festive hall in the palace, St. George Hall. The dimensions of the lovely cloister vault were gigantic, nearly two hundred feet long and sixty feet wide. At the far end was the orchestra, and she noted with pleasure that they were playing, not Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninoff, but her father’s new symphony, Light of Dawn .

She pushed through the sea of beautiful gowns and splendid uniforms toward her father. Above the crowd, six massive gilt chandeliers lit with more than ten thousand electric candles cast a lovely glow. She saw him! He was standing with a small group on a raised podium just in front of the orchestra, in one of his most splendid white uniforms.

She hurried toward the new Tsar, her eyes shining.

“Father,” she said, embracing him. “I’m so sorry I’m late. You look wonderful.”

“My dear girl. I’ve just asked for a waltz. Will you join me out on the floor?”

“I should be honored, Papa.”

He took her outstretched hand and stepped down from the podium. As they made their way to the center of the floor, a lovely Strauss waltz began, and the crowd parted magically, every eye on the new Tsar and his beautiful daughter in her shocking crimson gown. She looked at her father, dazzling in his uniform, and remembered something Alex had said to her that night in the troika.

Don’t look now, but we’re living in some kind of bloody fairy tale.

It was true, she was. As she’d made her way through the palace’s many halls, she’d heard the words whispered over and over as she passed. “The princess! Do you see her? How beautiful she is!”

And then her father was waltzing her around the suddenly empty dance floor, the crowd having moved to the sides of the hall, leaving the Tsar and his daughter alone to bathe in the adulation of all of Moscow. And no one in the ballroom that night would ever forget how heartbreakingly beautiful the new Princess of Russia had looked, waltzing with the Tsar.

“Oh, Papa, isn’t it magical?”

He pulled her close and whispered softly into her ear. But his words were a cruel shock.

“How dare you?” he hissed. “How dare you?”

“What?” she cried, pushing away so that she could look up into his face. “How dare I what, Papa?”

She had never seen such anger as flashed in those eyes, and she tried to shrink back, but he held her tightly around the waist with one hand, the other hand cruelly squeezing her fingers. And so they danced on, the enraptured crowd blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding before their eyes.

“Betray me, of course,” he said, his voice low but full of menace.

“I? Betray you? Never!”

“Ah, and now you lie. You little bitch.”

“Tell me, then! Tell me what I have done.”

“This fucking Englishman. The one you invited into our home. You think he loves you? Ha! He is only using you to spy on me. He is an agent of MI-6! I had him arrested and sent to Energetika, where he so richly deserved to be. Only to find out that he has been rescued! And not by his comrades, no! By my very own daughter!”

“Papa, what are you saying? It was you who had Alex arrested? Because earlier, when I told you he’d been taken, you said it was all a mistake. That you would have him freed!”

“This was a matter of state security. It is not incumbent upon me to confide to you in matters of state.”

“Papa, Alex is not a spy. He’s much too gentle a soul for that kind of work. Besides, I would never betray you. I thought you wanted his freedom. So I took it into my own hands. He’s the man I love, Father. The man I want to marry. I wanted him to meet you because I love you, too. And I am so proud of you both that I wanted to-”

“Silence! You don’t know what you are talking about, you silly little fool. Listen to me carefully. I never want you to see him again. Ever. ‘ Smert Shpionam ,’ Anastasia. Remember that. ‘Death to spies.’ And anyone who conspires with them. Understand me?”

“And now you threaten me? Your only daughter?”

“I care only for the state.”

“Father, please, I beg of you. Can we not discuss this later? At some quiet place and not here in front of all Moscow?”