Bulletproof Jewels Chapter 19: Bitter thoughts, an anastasia fanfic

Moscow. July 27th, 1918.

Igor Pyotrovich Turov.

It has been days since my investigation began and I have nothing to calm Sverdlovʼs fears. The missing former grand duchess and heir might have already been smuggled out of the country for all I know. To my great relief, neither Lenin nor Sverdlov seem to be in a hurry. They know they can always send assassins if the missing Romanovs are spotted years later in a foreign nation.

I am the one who is most worried about finding that woman and her brother. I want to make a good impression on these important members of the party, and that is not going to happen if the Romanovs escape the country.

If only I had supported the October revolution in time! I was too busy examining its risks and low likelihood of success to become a significant player though. Now my memory shall be buried in the footnotes of incredibly specific history books detailing the evolution of detective and police work methods. I will be known exclusively as that relatively successful private investigator from the late Russian imperial period. All of this despite the considerable financial support and loyalty I have offered to the cause. Despite having known for years that we were on the right side of history.

I look at my papers once again, studying the leads aided by a magnifying glass. The last clear lead we had was a witness from Kambarka. A waiter. This witness claimed he had heard a man yelling out loud in a cafeteria that the tsarevich had survived. The same waiter later described the people who were traveling with him.

Paul and Volya, two of the guards responsible for letting the Romanov citizens escape, were summoned to come to Moscow in order to help me with the search as soon as I was tasked with the investigation, and so was the crew of the steamer they were traveling on. They were the ones who explained to me exactly where and how they had lost the woman and the boy. I sent my first search parties to the location indicated by these unruly guards and instructed them to question as many witnesses as possible, using official pictures for reference. None of that worked. The peasants all wanted something in return, and they would have said anything to avoid being tortured. All I managed to do was create rumors that may one day harm our cause.

We received the clue from Kambarka indirectly, from a local Cheka that had arrested the witness for "spreading false rumors."

I never suspected Kambarka. I thought the settlement was too far from where the Romanovs had been lost. If it weren't for a search party that wandered off, we would have never found anything.

The lead from Kambarka was later corroborated when I ordered patrols of red guards to be placed at every train station located on several possible routes I suspected the Romanovs might have taken. They couldn't ask for grand duchess Olga and grand duke Alexei, of course, so I ordered them to look for a boy on a stretcher and a woman with a swollen face.

I received a report saying that people fitting this exact description had been found. The suspects were allowed to proceed with their journey though, for the clueless guards who stopped them werenʼt mine.

Since I donʼt have enough guards at my disposal, I have been granted a certain degree of authority over Red Army units not directly under my command, this with a seal of approval from Lenin. Unfortunately, unlike my men, most guards don't really have a clue of what they are actually looking for or how fundamental its finding is for the future of our nation. Some of them were also foolish and gullible enough to believe whatever they were told by the people traveling with the Romanovs.

I was so worried after learning I had mistakenly dismissed Kambarka as a possible location that I might have gone too far this time. I even made sure there were people looking for the Romanovs at the stations of Petrograd. I just hope that rumors do not spread among the people, causing them to accurately deduce that the woman and the child on the stretcher those red guards have been frantically searching for are actually the heir and a missing grand duchess.

The thousands of pretenders already emerging throughout the nation, probably looking for attention, do nothing to help with the quest either. I have had about ten different reports on these sorts of lunatics in just two days.

The only lead I have now is the death of one of my men, Davydov, and that of one of the men under his command. They patrolled here in Moscow. Davydov was a nice fellow, a loyal man. It truly is a shame. He was probably murdered by another one of his men, for I never saw that fat and ugly man again. I don't have evidence that this is connected in any way to the missing heir and grand duchess though. It could have been a petty robbery for all I know. The mysterious ugly man looked more like a common criminal and less like a true revolutionary.

Recently, I received a telegram saying that said the Cheka headquarters in Perm had evidence for some sort of conspiracy involving the lower ranks of the British intelligence. It may seem selfish, but I hope they fail more disastrously than I probably will. That way, I may not gain any fame or praise for being assigned this almost impossible job, but I wonʼt look like a complete idiot either. I curse myself for my self-centeredness. It is one of the things I hate the most about myself.

I am about to read the autopsy reports detailing how Davydov died one more time when I hear a knock on my office door.

"Come in", I say, and my secretary, Dina, does. "What is it, woman?" I ask without pride in my tone. I become truly moody whenever I feel like I am failing at something. I used to be the best in my field. This has been the hardest investigation of my career.

"A letter from the Cheka", she lets me know.

"Another pretender?" I inquire without taking my eyes off the autopsy report.

The Cheka has been informed by the Council of Peopleʼs Commissars that my office is in charge of dealing with pretenders from all over the country in order to determine whether they are actually insane or have personal and political aims that make them worthy of execution.

This way, our investigation remains as discrete as possible, and the average Chekist can continue doing his or her job safe in the knowledge that the real imperial family is no longer a cause for their concern.

The secrecy, however, is exactly the reason why this search is causing me so much trouble. I have been instructed not to name any of the two people I am looking for, at least not in urban areas where rumors can spread like wildfire. This wouldnʼt be a problem if we werenʼt also discouraged from using photos as references to question witnesses unless strictly necessary. I also need more men and staff, but that would only make our secret too big to hide, and I am too proud to ask Sverdlov for more help. The young man practically idolizes me. He is aware of my long history of success as a private investigator and assumes that looking for these people is a similarly easy task for me.

"This one is different", my secretary replies, referring to the pretender. I doubt they are different. It takes little effort to assume a fake identity. People would be surprised by how convincing some pretenders can be, although most of them are easy to spot by their looks or behavior. No true Romanov would act as if they wanted to be spotted. I have staff who sort the false alarms out, Dina among them. I only check or meet the most convincing pretenders.

"How so?" I put the magnifying glass down and look my secretary in the eye.

"They don't have the motives of a typical pretender", Dina responds, reading or maybe re-reading the contents of the letter with unusual interest.

"They?" I open my eyes wide.

"The members of certain local Chekas around Moscow have been receiving pictures of a boy", Dina hands me the opened envelope. "The images are slipped under the doors of their buildings."

I empty the contents of the envelope on the desk and my mouth opens wide when I look at the pictures. The child looks older than he did in his last official pictures, as evidenced by his height and long face, but he canʼt be older than fourteen. His eyes are sunken, probably by a lack of sleep, and his strained expression denotes absolute fear. In two of the pictures, he looks as if he were about to cry, making his features hard to recognize at times… but it is him. No one who has spent days studying his face and years seeing it on postcards could think otherwise.

Alexei Nikolaevich is holding a newspaper, showing its date to the camera: "July 23rd, 1918."

"Our government is being blackmailed", Dina states before I am able to ask her who or why took and left the pictures inside those Cheka buildings. "The people who kidnapped him want the release of a number of prisoners and have threatened to turn him over to reactionaries if their demands aren't met. The Cheka left you a copy of the threatening letters. They have also solicited more resources for your investigation. A general, General Gorlinsky, has been assigned to help you. You may be promoted as well."

This couldnʼt have been easier for me. People who act as if they had already won always make at least one mistake, and one mistake is all I need. The only real challenge left is the sister. If the boyʼs kidnappers had the grand duchess, they would have also taken a picture of her, of that I am sure… or perhaps they do have her but were simply too incompetent to use her. Where could she be if not with her brother?

Perm. July 30th, 1918.

Olga Nikolaevna Romanova.

I am lost, and not only metaphorically. I canʼt find the address written in Sergeiʼs notebook.

I arrived at Perm in the morning and have been wandering ever since. I do not have any money left to take a carriage or motorcar. All I can do is walk, occasionally asking for directions. Hundreds of soldiers walk among the locals, probably retreating from Ekaterinburg or preparing to stop the Czech legionʼs advance.

Some of the people passing by seem confused as to why I am dressed as a man. Since there is no longer any need to pretend I am one, I have stopped forcing my voice to sound deeper and taken off my cap to reveal my growing golden hair, making my gender obvious.

Having grown tired, I sit on the sidewalk to rest for a while, looking at the people walking down the street without much interest.

I miss having Alyosha by my side. He would have been so eager to help me with my mission, so willing to see every difficult experience as an adventure. I find the way I am missing him right now almost funny, as if he were with papa and not in terrible danger. The truth is so horrible I can no longer process it.

All of Sergeiʼs money was stolen from his suitcase while he lay dead on train station floor, and so were most of his clothes. This must have happened when Anastasia and I abandoned the body to escape the red guard.

Nothing else was stolen. The thief or thieves had not seen the inherent value of his writings, letters, or pictures. They just wanted the money and some of the clothes. Thank God for that. I can still make sure all of his important belongings end up with his family.

Our night had been so full of endless worries that Valeriy, Anastasia, and I did not realize the money was missing until we started planning my trip back to Perm. For a moment, we put everything on hold. Valeriy, Anastasia, and I only had a few rubles in our pockets, not enough for a dayʼs worth of meals, let alone staying at a hotel for weeks or buying train tickets.

Not knowing what to do, we carried Valeriy on a stretcher to the house belonging to the woman who had found him, Natalia, whose offer of hospitality was still open. Anastasia and I continued discussing how to proceed in the living room, Valeriy lying on the sofa. We came up with a solution.

"Sergei always kept several disguises hidden in case they were ever needed", Valeriy said, "love, can you please check if all of them were stolen?"

Anastasia dug through the suitcase and eventually found an army uniform. "Look, Olga could travel back to Siberia with the soldiers leaving for the front", she suggested.

"That is a good idea", Valeriy turned his head to me. "If you dress properly, carry the suitcase inside the coat, and kept your head low, no one will notice you."

The mere idea made me shiver.

"No", I refused in an apologetic tone. "What if all of the men traveling in the same train carriage as me know each other and immediately see that I am out of place? What if I look suspicious and they call someone to interrogate me?"

"It is unlikely that the average, low-ranking soldier will be focusing on what looks or doesn't look suspicious", Valeriy told me. "You may only need to watch out for political commissars, but even those have no reason to be searching for a Grand Duchess among their men."

I was not convinced. The thought of being alone around that many red soldiers unprotected made me start crying in fear. Even if they didn't suspect me of anything, they could have still found out I was a woman. I already knew what men were truly capable of.

"All you have to do is mix right in the middle and act normal", Anastasia encouraged me.

"But what if they ask who I am", I sobbed. That was no longer what I was worried about the most, but I didn't want to shame myself by revealing my greatest concern.

"You say you are a new conscript", Valeriy said. "I know you can do it. I saw the way you talked to that guard at the train station. Just get in character. I actually think you are less likely to be discovered traveling this way than on a passenger train."

"But my voice…" I protested.

"If you can't fake a male voice, just use Sergeiʼs story, you are a female soldier", Anastasia adviced me. "You are not a bad actress, you know?"

Another thought occurred to me.

"What am I going to eat?" I asked. "I have enough money in my pockets for a day but…"

But the money that kind redhead gave me would not have been enough for the entire journey. I would have never begged for food from the soldiers either. Both Valeriy and Anastasia stayed silent for a while.

"I am not sure if the soldiers are fed on the way", Valeriy admitted. "Are they supposed to buy food with their own salary?" He asks me.

"I know they were fed at the front and on the medical trains during the war", I replied, "but some of them brought their own money in case they got hungry. I am not sure how things are done now though."

"We can ask Natalia to lend you some money", Anastasia assured me. "We will repay her."

I became a sobbing mess.

"Alright, alright," Valeriy was easily moved by my tears. "We will think of something else." He looked at his wife with concern.

I did not want to do it, but I did not have a better idea either, and at that moment, I am ashamed to say, some dark part of my soul found comfort imagining the red soldiers recognizing me. I knew too well many of them would be have been proud to brag about having raped the former Tsarʼs daughter before anything else. I didn't care anymore as long as they made sure to kill me as soon as they were done.

I would not have had to live another day without my parents and siblings. I would not have had to live another day without knowing Alexeiʼs whereabouts or if my sisters would be safe in the end. Life was and still is becoming too hard. How much more will I be able to handle?

I looked at myself in the mirror. I was dressed in a simple soldierʼs uniform similar to the one infantrymen used to wear before the revolution. The red guards do not dress too differently. Khaki pants, a long shirt the same color, black boots, and a long coat.

The cap most Russian soldiers wore was also khaki, but the section used to protect the sight from the sun was black. A metal oval decorated the front of the khaki portion. This metal oval had a black circle at the center surrounded by a golden one. The red soldiers do not wear this cap anymore, so Anastasia and I simply removed the metal oval.

I wore the cap at all times to cover my hair and avoid having to cut it.

I hate wearing menʼs clothing. I feel so unlike myself. Without a skirt and a corset, I feel almost naked. I felt vulnerable and exposed throughout the entire journey. I havenʼt been able to change or bathe in days either. It is disgusting.

I hope I am offered a proper outfit when I arrive. I canʼt wait to take these damned clothes off.

Hours before I left, Anastasia got a job at a hospital not too far away from Nataliaʼs house. Then she gave me the addresses of both Natalia and the hospital.

It is said that God never gives you more than you can handle. I know that now to be true, but at that moment, I just hoped it was.

I traveled on a crowded car loaded with common soldiers who, most of the time, left me alone, but that was no comfort.

I grew up surrounded by officers and sailors. All of them nice, all of them there to protect us. I never had any reason to think badly of any man. I didn't even suspect harmless vices, not until proven otherwise. I was too innocent.

I wonder if that same innocence is the reason mama never believed any of the rumors about our friend Grigori Rasputin, how could she? Even I still hope most of what was said about our friend was nothing but malicious gossip, but what did mama really know about evil men until very recently?

My world has been turned upside down. I canʼt think good of any man. I suspect the only thing that has stopped the guards from harming my mother and sisters these past few months is fear of reprisals. I will never be able to believe with full certainty that a man has a good heart unless I see he has been given an excellent opportunity to harm me without repercussions and still refuses to do so.

All men are potential monsters now. All of them until proven otherwise.

I am almost falling asleep on the pavement.

I didnʼt sleep much on the trains. Any movement or sound, any soldier sleeping, sitting, or even standing slightly closer to me than usual would make me panic.

My heart would start beating so fast I feared I was truly dying several times. I feared there was something wrong with my lungs or that I was having a heart attack. Quickly and silently, I would confess all of my sins every time this happened. What I have endured has genuinely affected my health. One of these days, it wonʼt be a false alarm.

Sometimes, I had the sensation I was going crazy, and in consequence, I wouldn't be able to reach Perm. I would be wandering the country indefinitely like a madwoman. I would forget my own identity, I would never know the fate of my siblings…

Every night was similar to the one I spent on the Rus, where I would wake up every five minutes or so to make sure nobody had entered our cabin. It was much worse on the trains though. I didn't genuinely fear for my life on the Rus, only for my virtue and that of my sisters, and even then, deep down I didnʼt truly believe we were in any actual danger.

Since I couldnʼt sleep on the trains, I spent most of my time crying. I cried myself to sleep the one night I managed to rest little more than two hours.

It is still too painful to think I wonʼt be there to comfort Alexei if he is indeed executed, or that he may be alone for the rest of his life if he isn't. Just what the poor little darling feared. Please God, comfort him. I am trying to think back to all of the good memories I have of him now that they are still fresh. In the future, I may forget them.

Just before we left Tsarskoye Selo and were moved to Tobolsk, Alexei pushed me into the lake with my clothes on.

The memory makes me so nostalgic. I was there, floating in the water, completely bewildered. I looked up and my brother was still barefoot on the plank, laughing.

Whenever he acted like his typical self, I didn't worry nor cared for the future, because I knew that he was smart enough to suspect we were in danger, and if he could act like a carefree child knowing our circumstances, so could I.

My sisters and I took turns pulling his sled during winter in Tobolsk. The poor dear enjoyed that simple amusement so much.

Alexei was almost as depressed as I was when our parents left. Later in Ekaterinburg, he missed being able to walk, and I spent enough time with him to know there was something else saddening him. Perhaps the same thing that saddened him when our parents and Maria left. He looked so stressed whenever Tatiana misguidedly, albeit with good intentions, told him to get better so we could meet papa and mama again. He confessed his feelings of guilt to me. After that, I explained the situation to Tatiana and she stopped her innocent pestering of our brother.

The days before they took him, he kept apologizing for something. I suspected what it was about… no, I knew what it was about… and I still didnʼt calm his fears.

I did not tell him that it wasnʼt his fault, because I was too caught up in my own shame and embarrassment to do so. I was already so tired when those monsters came up with the macabre idea of using my brother. I would have given up. My strength would have run out… I desperately wanted that man to stop hitting me… I wanted it to be over.

Alexei should have known that. I should have tried to compose myself for a second and told him. Now my brother may die thinking that he is the sole reason those men… oh, I donʼt want to think about it.

If my baby brother dies, Uncle Michael is next in line, but I do not know where he is or if he is safe. As far as I know, he is still under arrest. I need to pray for him as well.

If something happens to my uncle too, Grand Duke Cyril is next in line. He is the son of my late great uncle, Vladimir. At this point though, I would prefer Russia as a republic rather than an Empire with Cyril on the throne. He betrayed my family.

During the infamous riots that shook St. Petersburg last year, when the mob was looting and burning the village of Tsarskoye Selo, Cyril had command over the guards stationed outside the Alexander Palace. As long as the guards stood there, the mob stayed away. But Grand Duke Cyril abandoned my family. I was sick in bed with measles, and so were all of my siblings except for Maria. My father was away at the front, so my poor mama and Maria were left to face the frightening situation alone, with considerably fewer guards there to protect us. Maria spent herself so much that she almost died once she fell ill as well. The very sailors who had served us abroad the Standart during our beautiful summer cruises deserted us along with our treacherous cousin.

Cyril ordered the guards under his command to abandon his four invalid cousins in the middle of the night while they slept in order to support the Duma. I genuinely believe he is an opportunist who just wanted the throne for himself. I have heard the rumors of several plots hatched by Cyrilʼs mother, Grand Duchess Maria Pavlovna. His branch of the family has acted like a bunch of vultures for a long time, but I suspect their treacherous plotting behavior only increased after my brother almost died at Spala and Uncle Michael married a commoner around the same time.

If Cyril had stayed on his post, it is plausible that all of my family would have been safe right now.

My sisters wouldn't be at risk, my brother wouldnʼt be missing, and I wouldnʼt be completely heartbroken.

If anything were to happen to Alexei, Cyril would probably claim his right to the throne from his comfortable exile as soon as he heard the convenient news. Cyril is safe with his family in Finland while we are here, grieving our parents, in grave danger. It isn't fair.

Cyril must be eager for any news confirming the deaths of my father and brother. Reprehensible and despicable traitor.

I could almost cry from rage, but I have cried so much throughout my journey that I donʼt think I have any tears left.

After minutes of bitter thoughts, I stand up and start looking for the address again. It is not a hotel but a house that must be rented.

Rybak street 023, it says, by the river. I have already walked near the port, but the house may be far from there and only close to the river, as the notebook says.

I come across a kiosk selling newspapers. I canʼt help but feel curious. I might have missed something important.

My mind fills with grief as I grab one of the newspapers and remember the way I read them to Alyosha.

"Can I?" I ask the woman selling the newspapers, referring to whether I can take a small peak without buying one or not. She looks at me with pity, probably because of my face. Maybe because of the way that I am dressed. Similar things happened to me several times throughout the journey. Some of the men were exceedingly courteous and even offered me food whenever they deduced I was a woman. I felt a bit safer around those types. They gave me hope, and for seconds they restored my faith in the inherent kindness of people.

Once, after realizing I was no man, one of those soldiers asked me what had brought me there. He did so in a familiar tone that went beyond usual cordiality.

"This is a revolution, comrade", I snapped in my best sullen tone without looking at him, "not a tea party. Perhaps you have forgotten why you are here."

Kind he was, but it was no time for making friends. The experience only made me slightly more confident about my acting skills.

"Only for a minute", the woman in charge of the kiosk responds.

I read the headline of the newspaper: Ekaterinburg at the hands of foreign invaders. The Czech legion, those are the foreign invaders. I do not trust them, but they have no quarrel with us. They were so close. So, so close… one week and they could have saved my father, my mother… I touch with longing the golden bracelet that my sisters and I got from mama, the only thing I have left from either of my parents. The reds took the rest, and they only allowed us to keep the bracelets because they could not be removed. They even took our crosses, which had been given to each of us after being baptized. We never took them off, not even while bathing, not until they were stolen.

I suddenly realize that the guard who stopped us in Moscow could have recognized me by my bracelet. He might have hoped to ask me to show him my wrist before Sergei convinced him otherwise. I haven't fretted over the bracelet in days, which is good. Had I been touching my wrist, I would have looked more suspicious.

I kiss my bracelet as I remember my mother. She used to call me her big Olga. My poor affectionate mama…

I read in the first paragraph of the paper. It confirms to the world that my father is dead. I start crying as if I did not know that already. Seems I did have some tears left after all.

Reading about papaʼs murder on a newspaper that sees his demise as an act of justice makes it all the more horrible. His death is becoming more painful with each passing day.

The newspaper says my siblings and I have been taken to a safer location, but they include my mother in this, and my brother, who they never intended to spare. If what Charles suspects is true, they never intended to spare me and my sisters either... they are liars.

They do not even mention Dr. Botkin, or Trupp, or Kharitonov, or Anna Demidova. I canʼt imagine how their families must be feeling without knowing where they are. Tatiana and Gleb Botkin also lost their father, but they may still think he is alive. The reds must feel truly ashamed of what they have done or intend to do if they resort to these lies.

The article mentions a soldier who stayed in the city, defending it with his men at least five hours after it had already been taken. He barely escaped capture afterwards. The author praises his name and calls for other comrades to follow Gleb Vaganovʼs example. There was a time I would have admired his courage and passion. Perhaps I just hate the cause he is passionate about.

These past few days traveling with the soldiers have made me feel discouraged. I heard them talk. Most of them didn't talk about politics at all, but some of the ones who did said positive things about the new government, the government that killed my father, the same government this one Gleb Vaganov was so desperate to defend. Knowing so many of my countrymen freely support the reds is so conflicting. It is hard to reconcile with the things my mother used to tell us about the real Russians, so loyal to the Tsar… it is hard to reconcile with my love for Russia itself.

I canʼt help but feel angry at those soldiers and sometimes hatred even for the man in the newspaper.

Years of studying French history and even reading novels from the perspective of revolutionaries have allowed me to concede that this hatred so many people have for us didn't spring out of nowhere. It came from years of serious problems and grievances being ignored or not properly handled. But rationally acknowledging something is one thing, feeling it in your heart is another.

I sigh. God does not want my heart to be filled with hatred for either my countrymen or treacherous relatives.

Humans are so weak. How many times will I have to ask God to forgive me for my thoughts? He wants my heart to be filled with love, my mother used to say. I need to keep my mind off our enemies and focus only on the meekness of our Lord.

I remember the prayer I read back when I was imprisoned with my family, back when I thought we were going through the worst. I copied that prayer behind one of my icons. I need those words now more than I did back when I wrote them down, so I murmur them after returning the newspaper:

"Send us, Lord, the patience, in this year of stormy, gloom-filled days, to suffer popular oppression, and the tortures of our hangmen. Give us strength, oh Lord of justice, Our neighbor's evil to forgive, And the Cross so heavy and bloody, with Your humility to meet, In days when enemies rob us, To bear the shame and humiliation, Christ our Savior, help us. Ruler of the world, God of the universe, Bless us with prayer and give our humble soul rest in this unbearable, dreadful hour. At the threshold of the grave, breathe into the lips of Your salves inhuman strength, to pray meekly for our enemies."

I repeat the prayer over and over again as I walk. Soon my troubled mind has rested, becoming clear enough to keep searching.

I realize now that all of the doubts and resentment I have been carrying haven't allowed me to find the address. "Seek and you shall find" says the Bible, but I wasn't seeking anything before. I was too busy thinking about how pointless everything was.

I knock on the door of a small yellow and white mansion standing amongst similar buildings. It looks so… normal. There are even shops around, and poor people begging in the streets. Not what I imagine when I think of a place inhabited by spies.

One of the poor souls begging nearby is an old and wrinkled babushka. I take my two remaining coins from one of the coatʼs pockets and hand them over to her, making me too distracted to see or hear the door opening.

An unknown skinny black-haired man with blue eyes stands on the doorway when I return. He is dressed in simple civilian clothes and seems surprised by my strange aspect. I stay paralyzed for a few seconds. I had not rehearsed this part.

"I am here to meet an officer", I finally say in English, probably sounding a bit nervous. "Charles Lamb."

"Who asks for him?" The man inquires, also in perfect English.

"Please let me see him", I beg pathetically, my voice breaking in the process. "He will know who I am. I really need his help. Something terrible has happened."

The man leaves the door open and invites me to enter, but before I can reach the living room, he has started touching me.

First my shoulders. I stand still. Then my arms. I canʼt breathe. This canʼt be happening again.

My stomach… as soon as he feels my knife, I push him away and scream frantically. I have kept the knife inside the pocket of my shirt these past few days, close to my chest. It has provided me with a small feeling of safety, without which I would have probably gone insane.

"What is happening here?" I hear a woman say in Russian as she approaches us from the living room. I try to breathe again.

"I was making sure she didn't have any weapons", the man replies. His Russian is moderately accented. He looks at me again, but I donʼt dare meet his gaze. I stay still.

"I am sorry miss", he apologizes. "We do this to anyone new who happens to enter, and you are dressed as a soldier, so I thought... you understand, right?"

My breathing steadies slowly, but I donʼt answer.

"Could you please hand the knife over?" He asks, extending his hand. "I am sure that is what you have hidden, and what do you have in that suitcase?"

I donʼt want to do that. I donʼt know this man.

"I will not give you anything until I see Charles Lamb", I firmly state. Maybe not so firmly.

"Please sit", the robust woman looks at me and then moves her head in the direction of the living room. Then I hear her speak to the man. "It is just a knife, Randall, let's wait until the officers arrive."

She is right. Keeping the knife helps me feel as if I were in total control of the situation, but it is probably not as useful as I wish it were. My life and that of my sisters depend on these men now, extraordinarily little on me.

The interior of the house is nicely decorated. The British agents must be using someone elseʼs dwelling.

As I sit on one of the couches of the living room, I am surprised by how soothing the sensation of the soft cushion soon becomes. The trains I traveled on had hard seats… I am about to fall asleep, but the man who opened the door comes back to me before I can.

"I have my suspicions about who you are", he tells me. "But I will wait for Charles to arrive." He looks at me up and down with a frown. "That uniform looks dirty. Would you like to change your clothes?"

I put my guard down, for now. He does not seem like a monster.

"I honestly… only want to sleep right now", I reply, and my eyelids close before I am even able to lie properly on the sofa.

I am awakened by the disturbing sound of several men talking in the dining room next to the sofa where I am lying. Someone must have covered me with a blanket while I was sleeping. I sit up quickly, immediately relaxing upon picking out Charlesʼs voice.

"We must waste no time then", one of the men says in a tone of voice that displays authority.

"No", I hear Charles reply, "let her sleep."

"I am awake!" I announce, walking in uninvited.

Dressed as civilians, the men around the dining room table are speaking over a huge city map, carefully studying a red spot. Is that the house where my sisters are still being kept? Oh God, please let it be! Let them be rescued! Are they even safe? All eyes turn on me, and I quickly take off my coat to reveal the suitcase I have been carrying with me this entire time.

"I am sorry for interrupting, but I need your help", I blurt out, and Charles, who was already standing up, approaches me. Seeing him again makes me emotional. The last time I saw him, I was still with my brother. I was filled with hope for both him and my sisters.

"What happened to Sergei, Olga? Where is your brother? And what in Godʼs name are you doing here?" His concerned tone is enough to make me burst into tears.

"They took him!" I sob as I extend my arm so he can take the suitcase. "They took him and Sergei is dead!"

I keep crying out those two sentences over and over again: "They took him, and Sergei is dead."

After grabbing the suitcase, Charles hugs me. I flinch violently, but then I accept his comfort without fear for some reason. Perhaps because he reminds me of a time not long ago when I felt wholeheartedly that the horrors I had gone through would pay off in the end. Perhaps because he seems like a good man… or I want desperately to believe he is. I know too well now that bad men do not have a particular look.

"Igor Pyotrovich Turov? Who is that?" Says the man I am guessing is the leader. Despite his gray hair and an equally gray mustache, he still looks strong. Charles must have given him my suitcase, as he is now searching through its contents. "We have no reports of anyone named like him."

"He is, the man, looking, for us", I pant, still in Charlesʼs arms. "Can you, make sure, those letters and, pictures, get to Sergeiʼs family?"

The gray-haired man takes his eyes off Sergeiʼs notebook and looks at me with sadness and pity.

"Of course," he nods. "They will also receive a modest sum of money."

"My sisters?!" I cry.

"We have found their location, your help has made this easy", Charles responds.

"Could you also help me find my brother?"