The clacking of typewriter keys filled Gleb's ears as he went through another Romanov rumor report.
The latest news involved a scheme being hatched to pass local girls off as Anastasia, Tsar Nicholas II's youngest daughter. Reading the report made Gleb's chest tighten – it brought back too many memories.
The princess was long dead and gone, like her family. The people refused to accept it, but it was a reality he had been forced to experience. He put the page down and gazed out the window into the streets of Leningrad. The city passed by before his eyes, but his mind was elsewhere, in a different time.
He had been a boy then, the night his father took up his pistol with a conflicted expression. He had told young Gleb not to look or listen, to cover his eyes and ears. Young Gleb had defied those orders, peeking outside across the street and seeing Anastasia herself, a model of pride and resolve even as she headed to her doom. He had turned away shortly after, but try as he and his mother might, there was no blocking out the sounds. The final cries of the royal family still rang in his ears as clearly as day. They had had a dog with them, and silent tears had rolled down his cheeks as its last whimpers died out.
But clearest of all was the eerie, terrible quiet after it was all over. Gleb lost the innocence of a child right then. His father came home, face grave and white as a ghost, and it had not taken long for his home to fall apart, for young Gleb to soon find himself alone in the world.
The new government took him in, and he understood what his father had helped set into motion. And why everything had been necessary. He vowed to carry on the Vaganov legacy, and his zeal and drive sent him soaring up the ranks of the militia, to the fine office he was in now.
And still the Romanovs haunted him, the silence a constant accusation.
No. He struggled to regain his focus. This was no time to ponder his personal demons. There was work that needed doing. He knew, as did the perpetrators of this plot, that there was no truth to this tall tale – it was nothing but a bald-faced attempt to rip off the former Dowager Empress, now a sad, lonely old lady hiding in France and trying to use her money to continue lying to herself, as the royals were wont to do.
He simply needed to catch them and make an example of those who would try to destabilize the new way of life for their personal gain, who would keep the dead from resting. Yes, to lay this to rest would be the greatest act of mercy he could afford to perform for the Romanovs.
He took a few deep breaths and finally managed to finish reading. The conmen were hiding in the old theatre within what used to be Count Yusupov's palace. Gleb shrugged on his coat and donned his hat. He slipped his pistol in his pocket. Nodding to some comrades, he slipped out the doors.
This was not something he normally did – he, as deputy commissioner, had the authority to send soldiers out to verify the report. But he needed some fresh air. He needed to be swallowed up by the city.
The chatter in the square was strangely peaceful rather than annoying, now that he wasn't straining to hear what they were saying. Still, he did not linger, his strides long and his steps to the old palace quick.
He was only a few feet from the door when he spotted a familiar face. The pretty street sweeper from yesterday. She was holding her broom almost carelessly at her side as she stared up at the building.
Gleb frowned as he drew close. He steeled himself – if she was intending to take part in the scheme, he would need to have her arrested.
"Oh, it's you," she said brightly, turning to look at him. He stopped short, caught off guard – she had known he was there.
"And it's you, comrade," he replied slowly, carefully. "What brings you here?"
She turned back to the façade, something wistful in her face. "It's a beautiful place."
He was not sure what to make of that. It was a vague enough excuse to evade capture, if she was guilty.
"I don't suppose that's why you're here," she added.
He decided to be frank. Innocent or guilty, they all needed reminding of their place in the new order. The legitimacy of the government would not be challenged, even by a street sweeper.
"No, comrade." His voice rang with every bit of his authority. "I'm here investigating a case. Funny business going on there in the palace."
"Funny business?"
"Have you not heard the rumors?" he asked, trying to determine if she was simply playing the fool. She shook her head.
"Some people have spread talk that the Princess Anastasia lives," he explained. "The once-Dowager Empress is offering a reward to anyone who can find her. Conmen" – he gestured to the door – "are taking advantage of it."
She frowned, visibly bothered. "That's cruel."
"Indeed. So many, like you, are admirably creating a future for themselves in this new world. And yet, there are those few bad apples getting up to mischievous activity."
"May I come with you?" she asked as he began to push the door open.
"No," he responded immediately. "I will put you in no danger." Leaving no room for argument, he made his way inside, taking care to be stealthy.
There was a soft swishing noise behind him, and he whirled, pistol in hand. He had to grit his teeth to keep from groaning in exasperation.
"Why are you here?" he hissed.
"I can take care of myself," she hissed back, her eyes trained on the barrel of the gun. Her raised broom provided utterly useless protection.
Gleb jammed the pistol back in his pocket. He should have locked the door behind him, he grumbled in his head. He could push her out, but they had probably made enough noise as it was.
The sound of a switch flicking and lights shutting off rang out in the distance. Gleb burst into a run, pistol raised. He flung the door to the theatre open, and this time, he really did groan in exasperation.
The lack of dust of some of the chairs and the tracks on the floor told him he had been on the right track. But they had escaped yet again.
"This room," she whispered. Her voice echoed off the walls. "Have I been here before?"
Gleb was trying not to glare at her as he stowed his gun for the second time in less than five minutes. "This was the prime theatre of the former Count Yusupov," he replied, his tone biting. "You might have seen pictures."
She sank into one of the vacant chairs, gazing around. She looked…lost, and Gleb found himself softening. He took the chair next to her.
"What's your name, comrade? If I have to report a failed mission, I might as well know who to blame."
She stared at him, frightened. "I don't know!"
"Comrade, I was making a joke." He held his hands up.
"Oh." She hesitated. "They called me Anya."
"They?"
"The nurses. They said I was found by the side of a road, a few years ago. I had no memory of anything before waking up in the hospital, so they gave me a name. And a hat."
"What happened to the hat?" he quipped, indicating her bare head.
She let out a small laugh. "I don't know either."
"Anya." He drew out each syllable, appreciating how it sounded. "It's a good name. Straightforward."
"And you are?" She gestured to him. "Only fair since you pointed a gun at me."
He conceded, although it was entirely her fault that had happened anyway. "Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov."
She blinked. "I think 'comrade' is easier –"
"Just Gleb." He was flustered again. This really was getting quite out of hand.
The shadows on the wall grew longer – it was getting late. He stood up. "We should leave…Anya."
She looked around the room one more time before she rose. "It's a shame. It seemed so…splendid before."
"The new order will bring a different kind of splendor," he assured her. "One that will not only be for the privileged few, but for all. General and street sweeper alike. There's no need to live in the past."
He let her pass first out to the street. As he exited, he took another glance at the faded beauty of Yusupov Palace.
Then he shut the door behind him with finality.
