Bulletproof Jewels

by Gabros

The reds spare all of the Romanov children, but not out of the kindness of their hearts. Historical AU. Cover image by JustDerkT.

29. Coming

Triggers in the endnotes.

This chapter, just like chapter 27, is not focused on the Grand Duchesses, who are only mentioned, and that is for plot reasons. Parts of this story are heavily inspired by books, movies, TV series, and real-life people that I will only mention in the endnotes whenever they come up (Along with potential TRIGGERS) so as not to spoil the chapter.

England. May, 1918.

The affluent industrialist Percival Bernard Williams and his wife Lizzie had never felt prouder or more relieved than they do now.

Following a wound sustained while rescuing a friend who had crashed behind enemy lines, their boy, the battle-hardened 24-year-old flying ace David Percival Williams, was not only knighted but also awarded the prestigious Victoria Cross award.

The investiture took place in Buckingham Palace, and the medal was presented by King George V himself. Not bad for a family that three generations ago earned a living taking away people's garbage for scavenging, Percival thinks with satisfaction as he enjoys breakfast with his family in the garden surrounding their spacious manor, a country house with pale yellow-orange walls, light blue stepped roof tiles, and white window frames, arches, columns, and cornices built in Neo-Renaissance style.

Sitting at the white table with their parents are David and Rosie, his seventeen-year-old sister. The latter is already in her nursing uniform. When the war started, Lizzie followed the example of other wealthy philanthropists and aristocrats and turned the family home into a military hospital, though Rose had to wait until she was sixteen to begin training as a nurse.

The place where the family sits is thus surrounded by blanket-covered wounded and disabled men in blue pajamas spending some time outside, walking under the sun with the aid of doctors, nurses, and sometimes crutches or wheelchairs.

"This came just now, sir", an elderly footman dressed in an elegant black and white uniform approaches the table carrying the mail on a silver tray.

"Thank you, Mr. Jones", Percy retrieves the correspondence. "You may leave."

The footman bows respectfully before walking away, leaving the family to themselves.

Percival and Elizabeth always dress as if the whole world were scrutinizing them attentively. She is now wearing a long purple dress covered in white lace, with big, outdated mutton chop sleeves, as well as short lace gloves and a flowered hat of lilacs that covers most of her pinned-up blonde hair, whereas her husband, a dark-haired man with small blue eyes and a twirled mustache, is sporting a white shirt with a dark red tie tucked underneath, gray vest, jacket, and trousers, a pair of shiny black shoes, and a bowler hat the same color. From the pocket of his jacket also hangs the golden chain of a small watch.

"What is the matter, boy?" He asks his son as he examines the mail. "You have not uttered a word this morning."

David flinches as his mind returns to the present, to his real surroundings.

"You are not thinking of going back there again already, are you?" Rose asks her brother with a concerned frown. "At least let that nasty donut in your shoulder close first!" She tries to sound lighthearted, but her sad smile betrays her.

"Rose!" Elizabeth scolds her daughter before turning to her son, her voice gentler. "You deserve a long, long leave, darling", she rubs his good shoulder, the one that is not currently bandaged under his blue striped pajamas, "you are a hero, you earned it."

What he earned at times feels more like a slower form of strife, David thinks, different from combat, but no less cruel… he would never purposely upset his family by expressing such rather strange thoughts though. Only another soldier could ever understand. Maybe Rose will, someday, if her sweetheart Thomas survives to explain things more thoroughly than her patients sometimes try to.

"Is there anything from Tommy, daddy?" Rosie asks her father anxiously, as if reading David's thoughts.

"Oh, Lord, let there be!" Elizabeth closes her eyes and joins her hands in prayer.

"No", Percival replies sternly, "and you already know that I do not like this tailor's son for you, Rose", he points his finger at her, "he has nothing, you could do better, you should always aim higher." Before his daughter has a chance to reply, he changes the topic abruptly. "This is for David", he hands his son an official-looking envelope, seemingly from the military.

"Oh! Do you reckon it is another medal?" Rose ignores her father's rather rude remark about her special friend and instead focuses on her older brother, grinning at him and hopelessly praying for a reaction from him that she knows has become exceedingly rare. "It would not surprise me, Davie."

David opens the envelope absentmindedly and is confused to find only a short letter instructing him to contact a number written at the bottom. He rises from his seat, offering his parents and sister only a brief explanation, and pets the family dog before heading to his father's office, where the closest telephone is kept on the desk.

The man on the other end of the line tells David to report for luncheon at two o'clock in two days at a famous gentlemen's club in London.

What the hell? The airman thinks with annoyance and a bit of apprehension. He does wish he was being sent back to fly, but he knows better, and he does not want to waste whatever time he has left with his family otherwise.

When the day comes, David takes a train to London and arrives at the club wearing his Royal Flying Corps uniform, consisting of full-length khaki trousers with wool puttees the same color wrapped around the lower legs, brown brogue boots, and shirt and tie of a lighter green shade, both visible at the collar but tucked underneath a darker khaki tunic bearing two breast pockets for personal items and two smaller, lower pockets for other items, all of them with round golden buttons similar to those on the buttoned placket.

Three vertically lined up stars, the rank insignia of captain, are embroidered in beige on each of the tunic's forearms, and more than one Royal Flying Corps badge adorns the garment. This bronze piece is nothing less than the monogram "RFC" surmounted by a king's crown and surrounded by a laurel wreath, the tips of which touch each side of the crown. There are two of them on opposite sides of the collar and another one above the left breast pocket, between a pair of light gray angel wings in worsted cloth. The khaki British military cap also sports this badge at the front.

David is wearing the usual officer Sam Browne belt, a thick brown leather belt with a thinner supporting strap that passes over the right shoulder. There is a leather pouch and holster attached to the belt containing a handgun as well. If he were about to actually fly, he would have also brought with him, at the very least, a long brown leather trench coat and thick gauntlet gloves to protect him from the cold up there. He wonders what he has truly come for.

The facade of the building is brown, with many white arches, columns, and window frames. Upon entering, David is escorted upstairs by one of the club servants, an elderly man dressing similarly to his father's footmen. The two walk for several minutes, going through a couple of long passages, one of which David would not have found without help.

The young man's final destination is a small, hidden dining room for club members only, less elegant than any of the other splendid interiors he has seen so far, today or before.

The servant leaves right before David is welcomed by two gentlemen dressed merely in plain suits of different shades of gray, which one would guess could be considered rather informal and unsuitable for the club's main coffee room, where the men have always worn tailcoats or frock suits with elegant white bows, vests, and shirts.

David regrets having come in uniform for a moment, especially with the two rows of undress medal ribbons under the RFC badge and above the left breast pocket. He sometimes feels too embarrassed to wear them, as if he were trying to show off, but his mother caught him today before he could go out without them.

"It is an honor to finally meet you, Captain Williams", a man with graying hair is the first to approach and offer his hand. "Or shall I say… Sir David Percival Williams?"

David blushes at that, feeling rather mortified. He leaves his cap hanging on the edge of the coat rack before the table and extends his hand, allowing the man to give him a firm shake. "Please forgive my appearance", he says politely, looking around nervously.

"Oh, nonsense, my boy!" The gray-haired man exclaims.

Either way, the pilot thinks, at least the lack of civilian clothes scares those silly girls with the white feathers away, something older men like those in front of him do not usually have to worry about as much.

David is offered to join the empty table, and as he and the men sit and begin introducing themselves and small-talking, he realizes that the man who first greeted him is none other than the Royal Navy's Captain Cumming, head of the relatively novel overseas branch of British Intelligence known as MI6.

The other individual present is also from the Royal Navy, Captain William Reginald Hall, a man with a distinct facial twitch referred to by Cumming as "Blinker."

"Forgive us for inviting you to this rather plain room, David", Captain Cumming says, "but I am afraid that it is far more discreet than any of the others."

"Do not be sorry", David smiles. "My father is a member, and he used to take me with him before the war, so I have seen most of the rooms."

"You must be hungry and thirsty after your journey, but worry not, the food is ready. Then we will thoroughly explain the reason for your summoning here."

"I was wondering… Captain Cumming, if you do not mind, I know that you need me for a reason, but I was hoping to be posted back to my squadron as soon as possible in the near future… once my wounds heal, of course."

"Good", the man grins, sounding both impressed and amused by David's apparent thirst for battle, but then the waiters arrive with the food, and nothing more is mentioned of the topic. The pilot does not dare to bring it up again.

During most of the meal, the discussion revolves around the war. Cumming voices concern about the criticism certain generals are facing for alledgedly measuring succes in winning yards without regard for the number of casualties and for little strategic gain. Williams mentions being impressed by the British people's recilience now that the war has cut hard into civilian life, with high inflation and economic decline.

All of the plates have been cleared away by the staff and the three men are having coffee when Cumming finally gets to the point, right after clearing his throat. "Dear boy, you must be wondering why you are here, with me and Blinker in these quiet surroundings."

"Yes, I was rather wondering that", David takes another sip of coffee, making an effort to hide his sarcasm.

"This must all seem very strange to you, but the truth is that we have another task for you, another task in Russia."

"Me?" The 24-year-old opens his eyes wide. "In Russia? Again?!" He does not want to think about his dishonorable actions that winter of 1916.

"Yes, you, in Russia", Cumming replies with a huge smile. "You are a talented mechanic, a competent war hero with a diverse set of skills from your time in the infantry and later at the Royal Flying Corps, you did too good a job last time, and by now you must be at least familiar with the language."

"I am grateful for the praise, Captain Cumming, but I was not in Russia long enough to learn more than a few words, especially because I spoke mainly to hotel clerks and people from high society, people who knew English, French, or both."

"That will be no problem, we can get you a translator", Blinker casually suggests as he finishes his coffee, making David cringe. It seems unavoidable now. He will be playing reporter in Russia while his friends fight and die in the air.

"You are no doubt aware, David, that the Emperor of Russia abdicated about a year ago", Captain Cumming continues.

"Yeah", Williams nods, "my men and I heard about it in France." It made his despicable actions seem like a waste.

"Well, as you may also know or at least suspect, the former emperor and his family have been made prisoners, first by Kerensky's Provisional Government and now by Lenin and his Bolsheviks. His Majesty the King is extremely concerned as to their safety. He and the former tsar are cousins, as you may…"

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, of course you know… well, as I was saying, our men in Russia tell us that the former tsar and his immediate family are being transferred to Ekaterinburg, in Siberia, and that his life is now in danger, increasingly so. Our king has been pressing his government to 'do something' to rescue them, and as you might have already guessed, David, that is where you come in."

"Me, sir? I am just a pilot, not a trained intelligence officer. If I may ask, why me?"

"You happen to be on leave and thus available due to your wounds, which are serious enough to explain your absence for a few months but not incapacitating as to prevent you from fulfilling what we will be requesting of you."

There is a moment of silence as David nods and takes in the words, and then Cumming keeps going: "Your former infantry regiment has had a very great number of its officers killed."

"I know", David says softly, "it has been terrible", he shakes his head, "absolutely terrible." His eyes fill with tears, but he has success in holding them back.

"Yours is not the only one", Captain Cumming elaborates. "The army is so short on experienced personel, that they simply refuse to allow any of their able-bodied officers to be singled out for missions. I only managed to get you because you had been wounded, and because I had been informed that there was nobody more efficient nor dependable than you."

"Thank you, sir, I am flattered", David sighs, giving up. "I am just still a little bit confused regarding the specifics of the mission."

"Do not worry, we have not yet begun explaining. More coffee?"

"Yes, thank you."

Once the three men finish what is left of the beverage, Captain Cumming resumes:

"As I was saying, His Majesty has given his government instructions, vague as they may seem, to 'do something', so the Prime Minister told me to find someone. When I suggested your name, he agreed immediately, for reasons that only you and I know," he adds with a knowing wink that makes David uncomfortable. "We have overriden all protests from both the Royal Flying Corps and your parent regiment. We also obtained agreement from your Lieutenant Colonel that you would be permitted to take with you a maximum of nine soldiers, including a second in command, a doctor, an explosives and ammunition expert, and a wireless signaler. We believe that this combination of skills will enable you to design and execute an escape plan for the Imperial Family under a great variety of conditions. Your regimental headquarters will also try to meet your choice regarding the remaining five soldiers."

"And I will personally make sure you receive the assistance of a translator", Blinker adds, "making that ten men under your command."

David rubs his chin with his fingers and thinks. If he picks his friends, his surviving friends that is, he could be saving them from a certain death, but then again…

"Are we anticipating an exceedingly dangerous mission?"

"I am not going to lie to you", Captain Cumming closes his eyes for a momment and sighs, "it will be difficult and dangerous, David, possibly very dangerous, deadly even. We cannot hide that from you. You first have to locate the imperial family, as they may yet again be transferred. You then have to come up with, work out, organize, and execute both a rescue plan and an escape from Russia, and the government has demanded that this is done in a discreet way, without drawing any attention to our intelligence activities, so they will not be offering additional assistance. Furthermore, our men in Russia believe that the Bolsheviks will become increasingly hostile to our nation."

"I see…" David nods. An amazingly huge and hostile country it is, which still doesn't sound as dangerous as the Western Front.

"The first step in this mission, besides the journey, of course, will be for your small team to persuade some of the local white forces to help you."

"How should I make contact with these forces, sir?"

"You will travel to Russia through the eastern route."

"Not on a boat through the Baltic Sea, sir?"

"No. We will send you to New York, from where you will cross America by train until you reach San Francisco. From San Francisco, you will travel to Japan, and from there, to Vladivostok. You will then travel west on the Trans-Siberian Railway towards Ekaterinburg, or to wherever the Bolsheviks will be holding the family hostage by the time you and your men arrive. You need to make contact with the Ural Cossacks. Our consulate in Omsk has made arrangements with them, so they expect you. You would be attached to them but with an independent command. I trust that your leg is good enough for riding now, is it not?"

"It is a bit sore at times, but I have managed quite a bit of riding and fox hunting in my spare time."

"Good. Any questions, so far?"

Yes, but the one question in mind makes David so embarrassed that it takes him a while to ask. "Money?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, yes, money, dirty money", Captain Cumming grins, pointing a finger at him. "I was wondering when it would come up, but do not worry, you will be issued with money belts and a generous supply of gold sovereigns for you to pay your team and buy food and horses. You may also have to 'buy' the loyalty of certain Russians to assist you with the escape."

"Alright", David looks up and starts counting with his fingers, trying to remember everything properly, "so… New York, San Francisco, Japan, Trans-Siberian Railway, Omsk, consulate, Cossacks, Ekaterinburg, plan rescue, and out of Russia."

"That is right, we are getting started, but you must also endeavor to keep in contact and report with us through our nearest consulates wherever you go, as soon as possible.

"Understood."

"New, we have thought this through for a long time, and in order for you to be have the maximum possible 'influence' with the Russians, you will be promoted and paid as an acting Lieutenant Colonel."

"Good God, a Lieutenant Colonel?!"

"Not bad for a 'hostilities only' 24-year-old, huh? You have done well, Dave. Very well indeed."

David stays silent for a momment as he reflects on everything that just happened. He has no clue for how long the war will continue and feels guilty knowing that he is about to abandon his crew to their fates. Well, even that is an understatement. He is incredibly distraught. But part of him welcomes the opportunity to do something that may actually save a few of his surviving friends for good, and who knows? Perhaps also the former tsar and his family.

That only leaves the question of his parents and sister. The latter, and their mother in particular, will not be happy unless he tells them that this new mission of his is less dangerous than what he is usually accustomed to, which may in fact be true. He isn't there in Russia to examine the situation just yet, but a white lie is a white lie.

They will be worried though, that is for sure. There is no way the letters and telegrams will arrive in England at the same speed they did from France.

"Sir, how much of this mission can I reveal to my family?" He asks.

"Give me a second…" Cumming pauses and turns to Captain Hall, who up to then had observed the young pilot intently, but barely ever uttering a word. "What do you think, Blinker?"

Captain Hall smiles with understanding. "This mission is secret. But, exactly what David may say to his loved ones, I leave to you."

"Well, David…" Cumming turns back to the young man. "I think that you can inform your family about your departure to Russia as long as you ask them to be discreet. We will be sending several battalions to support the White Army, so your posting will not seem all that strange, but you must keep the real nature of the mission a secret at all times, is that clear?"

"Quite clear, sir."

"Now, who from your regiment would you like to select for the mission?"

Without hesitation, David answers.

Oo

Ekaterinburg. August 8th, 1918.

Restless activity reigns over the British Consulate at Ekaterinburg. It has been this way ever since the White Army and their allies from the Czech Legion took the city from the Red Army, and there is a reason for that, for there are many different ways in which the final fate of Russia could drastically affect the interests of Great Britain.

Besides his own country's economic and geopolitical stakes in the former empire, the English monarch King George V has an additional motivation to be deeply interested in the affairs of war-torn Russia, a very personal one. As far as he is aware, his maternal cousin, the former tsar, is still being held as a prisoner there along with his family. George knows that he must try to do something.

The two royal cousins used to share a very close friendship, and as they looked rather similar, with their bulging big blue eyes and elegantly styled beards, they would sometimes even switch clothes and have fun impersonating each other during important events and parties. George's letters to Nicholas would often end with the signature of "your most devoted cousin and friend."

Following his coronation, Nicholas visited England with his wife and children on more than one occasion, never missing the chance to have a good laugh reminiscing old memories with his dear cousin.

Being loyal allies against their shared cousin, Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany, Tsar Nicholas II and King George V didn't stop exchanging letters during the war until the Russian revolution of 1917, a year that was also hard on the English monarch.

Following a summer dinner party at Buckingham Palace, George V decided to change his name.

The event was simpler than one hosted by any other European monarch would have been, because King George V and his wife, Queen Mary, had recently instituted a spartan regime at the palace in order to portray themselves as deeply committed to the war effort, which in many ways, they were.

Like their Russian cousins, King George V and Queen Mary were characterized by their utmost dedication to moral uprightness according to the mainstream views of their time and place. They had a strong sense of duty and regard for their prestigious position as well, and during the war they endeavored to make the people identify with the monarchy. They did this by making themselves present in their everyday lives and those of the soldiers, visiting hospitals, factories, and slums, something that Nicholas and Alexandra had failed to do as thoroughly and often.

The event that would inspire King George to make a difficult change was thus relatively modest, this out of solidarity with the people going hungry due to the blockade Germany was trying to impose on the British Isles. The candlelights were dim, there was no heat nor alcohol, and even the food was plain.

These noble efforts, however, only managed to secretly irritate the British aristocracy, who, in general, did not come to follow the monarch's example. George and Mary might have been admirable, but they weren't known for their social skills. Both were deeply shy and self-conscious.

The conversation that day was almost as bland as the meal, save for the moment one of Queen Mary's ladies-in-waiting casually revealed that the royal family name, Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, was widely regarded as pro-German by society. Insecure and prone to care deeply about public opinion, George was deeply startled. He grew pale and left the table soon afterwards.

The abdication and arrest of his Russian cousin earlier that year had shaken him deeply, reminding him of past history lessons featuring angry mobs and headless kings. They warned him of things yet to come.

The King of England had always been hypersensitive to public opinion for this and many other reasons, and the new rumors only made him even more frightful than usual for his position. The war itself had started to make him age faster, turning his beard gray and giving him bags under his eyes.

A few weeks before the meal, the Provisional Government's foreign minister had asked the British ambassador in Russia for the second time whether Britain could give asylum to Nicholas and his family.

The new Russian government had offered to pay the Romanovs' travel expenses, and for the family's stay in Britain, just the smallest portion of their recently frozen assets could have been unfrozen in order to support the relatively modest middle-class existence they would have led in the English countryside.

King George knew that a simple "yes" would have been in order, the honorable and dignified response despite being of no advantage to England.

After all, a couple of years earlier, in 1915, Nicholas II could have easily signed a separate peace with the Germans, leaving Russia's allies, mainly France and Britain, to their fate. The Germans and Austrians had in fact contacted the Russians with an attractive proposal that year.

Had Russia left the war in 1915, before the British had time to deploy Kitchener's newly trained army, before tanks started being manufactured, and way before the Americans joined the conflict, Germany would have already won, easily so. But despite the fact that Russia was fighting the war to little to no benefit for herself or her people, Nicholas II kept his word. He didn't betray his allies or break his promise to aid them till the struggle's bitter end.

It seemed to be the time for George to repay his cousin. Furthermore, everything appeared to be in order for this to cause the English government as little trouble as possible.

Kerensky had enquired of Sir George Buchanan, the British ambassador in Russia, as to when a cruiser could be sent to take on board the Romanov family, and through the neutral medium of Denmark, a promise had been obtained from the German government that their submarines would not attack the vessel carrying the imperial exiles.

The Provisional Government was eager to get rid of the Romanovs in a humane manner. The Germans were ready to compromise. The British government was more than willing to consent, and in fact, initially did so.

But then King George V received and read the first of many fateful letters. There were objections to the former tsar's presence in England. Labor movements considered him a tyrant and an oppressor to his people. The thought of the expenses that the Romanov family's stay in Britain would signify also roused outrage, regardless of how big or small the cost or who would actually have to pay. It was, they claimed, a waste in such a time of need.

George V was facing England's left wing press and their trade unions and Labour Party politicians, who had widely welcomed his cousin's abdication. They were, in fact, celebrating the fall of "Bloody Nicholas" and his "German Empress", for Alexandra was another issue. The British public, just like the Russian one, incorrectly suspected her of sympathizing with her country of birth or even spying for the Germans.

"Every day the King is becoming more concerned about the question of the Emperor and the Empress of Russia coming to this country", Lord Stamfordham, King George's secretary, wrote to A.J. Balfour, Britain's Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. "His Majesty receives letters from people in all classes of life, saying how much the matter is being discussed, not only in clubs but by working men, and that Labour Members in the House of Commons are expressing adverse opinions to the proposal. The King desires me to ask you whether after consulting the Prime Minister, Sir George Buchanan should not be communicated with a view to approaching the Russian Government to make some other plan for the future residence of Their Imperial Majesties?"

It was not the last time King George would try to influence his government to revoke the offer of asylum. That same day, Lord Stamfordham wrote to Balfour again: "The King wishes me to write again on the subject of my letter of this morning. He must beg you to represent to the Prime Minister that from all he hears and reads in the press, the residence in this country of the ex-Emperor and Empress would be strongly resented by the public, and would undoubtedly compromise the position of the King and Queen from whom it is already generally supposed the invitation has emanated.

"Buchanan ought to be instructed to tell Milyukov that the opposition to the Emperor and the Empress coming here is so strong that we must be allowed to withdraw from the consent previously given to the Russian Government's proposal."

George V managed to convince his government to retract their offer of asylum, keeping his own role in the decision rigorously secret. Prime Minister Lloyd George would take the blame. The truth was too dishonorable and embarrassing for the monarch. After all, he and his family were not in any sort of danger whatsoever, and neither were their positions. The anti-government sentiment in Britain was hardly as powerful as that of Russia had been leading up to the revolution. There was an influential conservative coalition counteracting the opposition, there had been no massive riots nor terrorist campaigns, and despite the hardships caused by the war, most of the public expressed support for the monarchy and the parliamentary system, content with their ability to participate in the political process somewhat, at least when compared to many of their European neighbors. The mere suggestion that any English mob would be willing to even attempt to burst into Buckingham Palace over a foreign tsar being granted asylum, perhaps merely temporarily, was not only ridiculous, it was preposterous and silly. But George cared for his reputation nonetheless and feared for his popularity. He and his wife had worked hard to build their public image. They listened to their people, they cared. Perhaps if his cousin had, he rationalized, things would have worked out differently.

Greatly distressed, the British ambassador, Sir George Buchanan, called the Provisional Government, and with tears in his eyes, scarcely able to control his emotions, he informed them of the British government's final refusal to give refuge to the former emperor of Russia.

"It is impossible", Sir George said, "I cannot say specifically why, but it is due to considerations of internal British politics." Since George V was a constitutional monarch with little to no real authority regarding state matters, few would suspect for many years to come that he had had anything to do with the decision. Certainly not his most tragic Russian relatives.

Later on, Nicholas and his family, who were under house arrest at their Alexander Palace, near the city of Petrograd, were told to pack their belongings before being sent to the city of Tobolsk, in Siberia, deeper into the heart of an increasingly divided and war-torn Russia.

Around the same time this was happening, following that summer dinner party, George chose a new last name for himself, a flawless, English-sounding, completely non-German, and entirely made-up last name: Windsor. Perfect for his carefully constructed public image.

From then on, the British royal family would be thought of as an exclusive product of the English Home Counties, which it wasn't, as their true last name, Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, had been given to George's grandmother Queen Victoria, herself half-German, by his grandfather Albert, the Prince Consort, son of the German Duke of Coburg.

Blood ties linked the whole of European royalty. As Queen Victoria's eldest grandson through her daughter Vicky, Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany was George's first cousin. Wilhelm and Nicholas were related too. Both were great-great-grandsons of Paul I of Russia, as well as being second cousins once removed, descended from Frederick William III of Prussia.

Wilhelm and Nicholas had wielded real political power, the former still doing so to a certain extent. Over the course of the war, the military had gradually turned the once imposing German monarch into a sort of symbolic figure more than anything else despite his many hysterical complaints.

What Wilhelm and Nicholas had said and done during their reigns would always matter. It had changed the course of history for better or for worse. As a constitutional monarch, their cousin George V did not possess nearly as much influence or importance, though neither he nor his father and grandmother before him had ever enjoyed acknowledging so. George certainly didn't appreciate feeling powerless to change the world around him or be of use to alleviate the sufferings of his people, and this among other frustrations in his life had led him to take out his pent-up anger on those around him at times, especially his children, David, Albert, Mary, Henry, George, and John, among whom he could act as a domestic tyrant at times, yelling and pushing them to fulfill their roles as princes and princesses in a perfect manner. It was one of the few things he had control over.

In 1914, George V had to look on, again powerless to do anything, as Kaiser Wilhelm and Tsar Nicholas failed to keep Europe from descending into the worst war in history so far, a conflict that would tear their nations apart and make their peoples suffer countless horrors. Every now and then, however, a window of opportunity opened when George's decisions did have consequences. His role in the functioning of the British government was still welded into the fabric of the empire's constitutional politics. 1917, the year he changed his last name, gave rise to one of those moments when the monarch could make a difference, when he had power over the future of his cousin Nicholas and that of his beloved family.

George V made his decision, but it was not until the more radical Bolsheviks unexpectedly overthrew the Provisional Government that he started to regret it, when it became clear that his old friend's life was in actual danger, that he had cowardly risked it to save his own popularity.

What is even worse, King Haakon VII of Norway had offered to send a warship to rescue Nicholas and his family, and King Alfonso XIII of Spain had been willing to help too, but George V had told them both not to bother, as he would send a ship himself. The English monarch had then been so embarrassed by his own dishonorable change of mind that he had failed to inform either one of them about it.

By late 1917, filled with guilt and regret after having discovered the danger to which his cousins, nieces, and nephew were now exposed, King George V began discreetly instigating the British Secret Service to rescue them, using both bribery and his limited influence as the nation's almost symbolic ruler in order to achieve this.

Several rescue strategies were conceived by the British spy networks stationed in Russia, especially around Tobolsk and later Ekaterinburg, but none were ultimately considered safe or wise enough to actually implement. The British government and King George V himself didn't want to give the public the impression that they were willing to waste an exceedingly large amount of precious resources in a hopeless endeavor, likely to fail and affecting mainly the privileged royal families of Europe, an unpopular German Empress among them.

Still, as late as March 1918, a Hudson's Bay trouble-shooter called Henry Armistead set up a Romanov rescue bid in collaboration with local Russian monarchists, a few British agents, and a Norwegian Arctic shipping merchant aimed at getting the family out of Tobolsk via the River Enisei. The rescue plan was eventually foundered though, among other reasons because the plotters were being too closely watched by the local Cheka.

Similar problems caused several potential rescuers issues all summer long. Someone would often come to the British Secret Service presenting an idea to rescue the Imperial Family, which was then noted down and found to be too difficult to carry out. Neither Lloyd George nor King George V had any influence in vetoing these ideas, nor would they have had any in approving them, as they were, for the most part, unaware of, and detached from, the details surrounding the activities of their spies, who worked with a certain degree of independent decision making and secrecy, and answered to the government as a whole, not to the monarch personally.

King George V is just as clueless now that Nicholas and his wife have been killed as he was then. All the English monarch knows is that something, however useless, may soon be done on his behalf to save the Romanovs, alleviating his feelings of guilt to a certain extent.

The British intelligence cells stationed in Russia still have conflicting reports regarding the fate of the family, Captain James Wilson's party being the only one with the full picture, though Lieutenant Colonel David Percival Williams and his men are soon to be second.

The only team tasked specifically with saving the family arrived in Ekaterinburg way too late, when the Romanovs had already long disappeared.

David and his men arrived in Omsk only when the Ural Cossacks had already taken Ekaterinburg along with the Czech Legion and a few other white forces.

It didn't take long for the newly 25-year-old to learn that the Romanovs had gone missing, and with them, his reason for being there. In spite of this, David and his crew went ahead and got in touch with the Ural Cossacks, hoping to create rapport with these potential allies.

The two groups finally met in Ekaterinburg, where David booked a hotel for himself and for his men, who having unpacked their belongings and settled, went out and began surveying the city with the help of a young Ural Cossack Captain named Nicholas Dmitrievich.

Nicholas had helped capture Ekaterinburg with his half squadron of around 40 mounted men, so he was well acquainted with the city and its surroundings.

During summers, the Ural Cossacks did not dress in their distinct long winter coats, but light summer uniforms consisting of high-collared khaki tunics with dark blue, crimson piped shoulder boards, dark blue, peaked caps with crimson bands and white-on-green striped cloth cap badges, and baggy dark blue trousers with crimson side stripes tucked into lose, black leather knee boots. The men wore black leather belts with sabers attached, brown leather carrier bags over their right shoulders, and rifles over their left shoulders. They also carried leather whips known as knouts.

David and his men, on the other hand, traveled through the streets of Ekaterinburg in civilian clothes, simple black, white, or gray shoes, bowler hats, vests, suits, and ties. They didn't wish to draw much attention to themselves, preferring instead to pose as mere reporters during their stay in Russia.

Captain Nicholas Dmitrievich led them to the British Consulate, where they met British diplomat Thomas Preston, a light blond man in his early thirties often dressed in a black suit with a light silver tie and always wearing a monocle over one of his eyes.

As his men waited outside in the reception, David gave Preston a brief report in the privacy of one of the consulate's offices, offering an explanation of the mission while leaving out confidential information and providing evidence in the form of sensitive letters and telegrams that the orders came from the MI6. The 25-year-old pilot left out the true purpose of his journey to Russia, claiming instead that he and his men had only come to assist the British diplomats posted there in securing good conditions for the imprisoned imperial family.

In response, the busy Thomas Preston invited David to come over to his house on another occasion in order to discuss the situation now that the family had gone missing.

The meeting took place the next day. Having ordered his men to keep becoming acquainted with both the city and their Cossack allies, David headed towards the diplomat's home, a comfortable place above the British Consulate.

Thomas greeted David in the main hall and then showed him into the drawing room, where they both sat down facing each other.

Preston went on to introduce his wife Ella, a pretty young brunette wearing her long hair up in a bun and sporting a long blue dress with long sleeves and white buttons at the front, as well as brown cloth-topped boots. She was sitting next to her husband on the sofa, along with Vice-Consul Arthur Thomas.

Present in the room was also Richard Salter, another consular officer sitting in a chair close to David's, and close to the main hall, with his back against a wall, stood a man no older than 30 that David instantly recognized, a quiet individual going by the name of "Captain Jones." His true name was Major Oswald Rayner, and unlike the other men in the room, who were all wearing formal civilian clothes, he dressed in the khaki military uniform of a captain.

My God, David thought. What is he doing here?

The young pilot knew that Oswald was probably there on a military intelligence mission, but his presence still unnerved him.

Luckily enough, Rayner did not give any signs of having met David previously throughout the course of the visit, which started out with the maid, a small-sized Russian woman wearing a black dress with white apron and mob-cap, bringing coffee, tea, and biscuits.

Thomas Preston's drawing room was comfortable, spacious, and furnished in a classic English manner, and not having yet had breakfast, David was grateful for the snacks.

The young pilot quickly learned quite a lot about the diplomat's recent predicaments in the city. Both the Consul and the Vice-Consul told the story.

Thomas had worked in Russia for quite a while, and he even had a mining company there. It was in Ekaterinburg that he had met his wife Ella Henrietta von Schickendantz, a Bavarian-Swedish woman.

Some time after the war started, Preston was promoted to British Consul of the city, and following the Bolshevik coup in October, his surveillance of the mining industry of the region on behalf of the British War Office became ever more important than it already was, as the Bolsheviks were shipping out the platinum and gold reserves from Ekaterinburg by rail to Moscow.

Preston was assisted in his duties by Arthur Thomas, who was not only the Vice-Consul but also a mining engineer from Cornwall.

During those arduous months of Bolshevik rule, Thomas Preston was burdened with the responsibility for all foreign nationals resident in the area, something that truly challenged him and his wife, as the Bolshevik yoke on the city was brutal.

The reds ran riot, terrorizing the local population, taking hostages and murdering them and making it difficult even for Preston as British Consul to make any requests to this new revolutionary government without his life being regularly threatened, for the Bolsheviks refused to recognise his status.

To make his matters even more complicated, it was also his duty to constantly press the Ural Regional Soviet over the care and treatment of the Romanov family.

Preston could do little for them though, as it was extremely difficult for him to operate effectively. The ongoing civil war and the desperate situation in Ekaterinburg had left him practically stranded, with only intermittent telegraph contact with London and dwindling funds. Food and other general shortages were becoming serious too, so much so that he had to fund his consulate throughout 1918 from the proceeds of his mining company.

The failing communications between London and Russia also meant that he often had to take decisions without consultation with his government.

"I am very sorry you had to go through all of that", David said empathetically when the diplomat paused his story. "It is hard longing to help while having so little power to do so."

"It is", Preston sighted, looking down with sadness. "But eventually, I managed to establish a sort of relationship with some of the members of the Ural Regional Soviet, the Deputy Head Sergey Chutskaev, for example. I had almost daily interviews with him at one point, I would pressure him to treat the prisoners fairly and compassionately, especially the women, and I tried getting him to allow more letters in and out, as well as more visitors. I had very little success, which made my constant meetings with four particular individuals somewhat embarrassing. I am referring to members of the Romanov entourage who had been denied permission to join them in the Ipatiev House."

"Who were these people?" David asked.

"The children's tutors Pierre Gilliard and Sydney Gibbes, of course, as well as Doctor Derevenko and Tsarina Alexandra's companion, Baroness Buxhoeveden, all of whom were stranded in Ekaterinburg and increasingly anxious about the imperial family. Every day we strained our brains to figure out how we could rescue the Tsar and his family."

"But nothing came of it."

"No", the diplomat replied sadly, causing his wife Ella to squeeze his shoulder. "These loyal servants were eventually ordered to leave Ekaterinburg. When the city was captured and they were allowed to return, Pierre was incredibly distraught by the sight of the murder room. Can you imagine? A bunch of children you helped raise, slaughtered just like that? I have been told that some of the entourage fled east and intend to leave Russia, though Pierre is still in the area, trying to help with the investigation. I wish I could do more for him, for all. Despite my best efforts, I was powerless to intervene when…" Thomas shook his head. "Any attempt to kidnap the Romanovs and rescue them would have been an act of madness and fraught with the greatest danger to the family themselves. Beyond a few loyal followers in the city, there was practically no interest locally in their fate, and I never got the slightest intimation of any organized plot by the White Army to try and storm the house. Besides, during the Bolshevik Reign of Terror in the Urals, the few sympathetic people had been only too well aware of the red guards' fanatical hatred of the Tsar, as well as that of the general population, too willing to snitch to the new government. We were awfully afraid. Now the Bolshevik sympathizers are, how things change…"

"Are you really sure that they are gone?" David pressed on, refusing to believe that was all.

"We heard the gunshots all too well", Ella replied. "They were haunting. We live only about five doors away from the Ipatiev House."

"When Ekaterinburg was liberated by the Czech at the end of July 1918", Thomas continued, "it was like the opening of a door into the sunshine from a huge cave in which we had been kept prisoners for months."

"But there are rumors, Preston", Vice-Consul Arthur Thomas added. "The boy needs to be aware of the whole truth in order to make a decision now. He can either stay for a while and join those in our ranks investigating the case, or get in contact with the MI6 citing the family's unknown whereabouts as a reason to request permission to be freed from further duties."

"Oh, yes, the whole city is alive with rumor and counter rumor, Arthur", Thomas Preston rolled his eyes at his Vice-Consul, "mostly wild, mind you", he looked back at David. "I think it best if I take you briefly through the events as we saw them."

David listened as Preston recalled in detail everything he and his wife had heard and seen that July 17th from the observation post in the attic, as well as what they had later read on the papers, and following that, the pilot asked if he would be allowed to see the murder house with his men.

"Of course", Preston answered. "I would be delighted to show the Ipatiev House to you this very evening. I could even point out some details which may help you with orientation."

"I would really appreciate that, Mr. Preston", David said. "I also have another question, you say that the Bolshevik papers announced the death of the former emperor soon after the events, but who do you personally believe was shot there, just the Tsar or his entire family and remaining retinue as well?"

"Well, after what we heard and saw, both my wife and I are convinced that all of the prisoners were shot that dreadful night."

"But we cannot be absolutely certain", Arthur Thomas spoke up. "It is true that Preston and Ella over here saw and heard some things, but they did not actually see the shooting itself, or any uncovered bodies."

"We were lucky in that we saw far more than any other delegation", Preston nodded, looking slightly annoyed about being contradicted, "but we cannot be absolutely certain, of course. As we have established, the city is alive with wild rumors."

"Something to keep in mind is that our government seems to be 'cozying' up to the Bolsheviks now, at least half-heartedly", Captain Jones suddenly joined the conversation, "this is probably to thwart any German attempt, as unlikely as it may seem, to get the Russians to re-enter the war, only on the German side this time. A couple of our informants suspect that there is a possibility that the Bolsheviks could do this in order to gain international recognition and share in any spoils resulting from an allied defeat, though I believe it is rather unlikely considering how many enemies inside the country they are already surrounded by."

"It better be unlikely!" Williams exclaimed. "My God, at this point? I thought by now it would be evident that the Germans are losing this war, especially with the Americans on our side. Are we not winning?"

"It certainly would be rather imprudent of the Russians to think of rejoining", Preston agreed. "The point is that our higher-ups do not want us to openly oppose the official Bolshevik version of events in which only Tsar Nicholas was executed, for that and several other reasons. Should the Red Army prevail, we will still need a way to trade with the Russians and look after our interests here, do you understand?"

David nodded. He understood perfectly well. That was probably the reason why his mission was such a huge secret. The British government couldn't compromise their potential relationship with the future government of Russia. Helping the white forces was one thing, peace between wartime enemies could always be negotiated afterward, but the continual presence of Romanovs in England would always present a diplomatic challenge for any hypothetical future relationship between Great Britain and a Red Russia, specifically Romanovs rescued through violent means.

"Well, regardless of what the Bolsheviks say", Preston continued, "one of my agents managed to copy a most interesting cable sent by Isaac Goloshchokin, who is a military commissar of the Ural Regional Soviet." He left the drawing room for a few seconds, seemingly to go to his office, as David could tell by the sound of drawers opening and closing.

When the Consul returned, he was holding a piece of paper. "This is the copy", Preston said. "The original was sent to Moscow on behalf of the Presidium of the Ural Regional Soviet a few hours after Ella and I heard the murders." He turned to the Vice-Consul. "Arthur, please read it to the Lieutenant Colonel."

"Yes, sir", Arthur Thomas took the paper and started reading the copied cable, which confirmed that the emperor had been shot by a decree of the Presidium of the Ural Regional Soviet, later going on to say that his family had been "evacuated to a place of greater safety."

"It is an euphemism!" Preston concluded, though David wasn't sure he agreed, and apparently, neither did the enigmatic "Captain Jones", for he went on to say:

"There are numerous rumors that claim one or more of the children escaped from the house, and a couple of reports originating west of Siberia claiming that there are guards searching the trains for a young woman and a boy. There are even witnesses who claim that the imperial women or the children as a whole were taken by sealed train to Perm on July 17th or 18th. However, from the evidence we have so far, it is safer to assume that only a few imperial valuables were on that train. Furthermore, after analyzing dozens of reports detailing the murders, claims, rumors, and witness accounts, we have concluded that it is most unlikely that any of the girls escaped, or anyone really."

"Are you all sure?" Lieutenant Colonel David Percival Williams asked, looking at everyone in the room.

"I am sure, almost all of us are", Consul Thomas Preston confirmed, "but since you and your men are on a mission to procure the family's well being, you may want to be fully certain before you give up on your endeavor, so it is important that I mention that much of our intelligence is based upon intimidating interrogations done to the few Ipatiev House guards left behind when the city was captured, as well as their drunk and almost boastful bar talk. It is not unreasonable then to believe that they would provide us with false confessions in order to get a good deal from us and avoid torture or even harsh punishments. The trickier part is that many of the indirect witnesses, that is, the guards who were not in the murder room, gave us suspiciously similar stories describing the murder of the entire family, without a single mistake, to the last grisly and gory detail, which always raises the eyebrows of any serious investigator. We later learnt through other sources that some of the suspects who confessed to the murders during interrogations had not actually been part of either the 'murder' squad or the 'burial' party."

"If I may say, despite everything, I believe the witnesses when they say that the whole family died in a horribly painful manner", Ella gave her opinion, sounding still shocked by what she had seen weeks ago. "My husband and I heard the gunshots, the screams, and the commotion go on for more than ten minutes. The guards were constantly running in and out of the house as if scared of their own actions themselves, it was dreadful."

David opened his eyes in horror.

"It did sound disturbingly chaotic", Preston agreed with his wife. "What some of the witnesses say is that the girls took a long time to die because the jewels they had sewn in their clothes were acting as bulletproof jewels. They had to be stabbed and clubbed to death."

"Before the sun rose that same morning", Ella continued, "their bodies were driven out under white sheets in a heavily guarded truck. We cannot be certain, as we did not count them, but we very much doubt anyone escaped."

"The truck then headed towards the Koptyaki Forest", Consul Thomas Preston finished. "The bodies were degraded and mutilated there. Some drunken guards have even boasted among themselves about having fondled the corpses of the maid, the Tsarina, and her daughters, the four Grand Duchesses."

"Disgusting", David frowned. The years of war had not yet fully dulled his sensibilities.

"Indeed, even by uncivilized standards. The bodies were then cut up and burned with fire and acid. There are many different versions regarding what occurred to them. Some say that they were fully dissolved, others say that they are buried out there somewhere. We are currently searching for them."

"There are other versions of the events, one of which claims that the whole family was tied to chairs before being brutally abused and then murdered, particularly the daughters", Captain Jones added, causing bile to rise in David's throat. "Some of the local peasants think that they were burnt alive in a hut."

"There is little evidence to back any of the alternative versions available, however", Preston clarified. "I personally believe that they were all murdered without ultraje beforehand inside the house and that none could reasonably have survived such planned and crowded butchery, though we are alone in this conclusion among the diplomatic missions, none of which have a strict view of what happened to the family at the moment. This makes it somewhat complicated and rather awkward for us to report back any clear answers to our embassies in Petrograd and thus London."

"What a complicated situation," David stroked his forehead with both hands. One of those headaches again.

"Yes, most certainly." Preston looked at him sympathetically. "As I said, it is your decision where to go from here, Lieutenant Colonel, but I do believe you will search in vain for any escaped Romanovs."

"I understand", Williams sighed, clearly disappointed.

"Oh! I was meaning to tell you. The reds have issued a new decree that affects both you and your men. All British, French, and other allied officers were allowed to travel around Russia at will before, but now that our nations, and recently the Americans too, are actively supplying material and men to the White Army, this freedom was ended precisely on July 17th. You must be very careful, Liutenant Colonel. We already have reports of British officers and spies being arrested and shot at sight. Of course you are safe here, but behind enemy lines on Bolshevik occupied zones is a completely different story. Now, would you like me to show you the observation post from which my wife and I witnessed the murders?"

"Yes please, and I would like to get my men so see the house afterwards, is that alright?"

"Of course."

Following the discussion, the 25-year-old pilot was led to Preston's observation post in the north-facing attic of the British Consulate. David was shown the field telephone as well, and after much thinking, he came to the conclusion that all he and his men were left to do was investigate.

It is August 8th now, a couple of days since David's arrival, and he and his party still have few useful clues as to the whereabouts of the Romanovs. Unbeknownst to them, Charles Lamb's messenger is about to reach the city.

Ivan Gavrilovich is a brown-haired fifteen-year-old of average height who had to claim he was sixteen in order to be granted the important assignment by Charles Lamb, James Wilson, and a few other British agents from Perm, Joseph Bell most of all, the only Englishman among them who can speak Russian.

Taking his horse by the reins, Ivan is being escorted to the British Consulate by a squad of six Czech soldiers who found him wandering around the area, confused, scared, and oblivious to the fact that he was no longer in Bolshevik territory.

The Czech soldiers wear brown breeches, black boots, light grey high-necked tunics, brown leather belts with shoulders straps, and peaked khaki caps, each with the red and white diagonal striped cloth cap badge of their legion. When Ivan first saw the Czech, he did not recognize them as such. He thought they were more Bolsheviks ready to hunt him down before he reached his destination.

Ivan himself is dressed as a peasant, with baggy white breeches stained by mud, black boots and cap, and high-necked kosovorotka shirt with red embroidered patterns, also dirty. He had never been as dirty before.

Ivan started out as a middle-class merchant's son, and he remained so until the reds arrested and murdered his parents and remaining older brothers.

"Here we are, boy", the Czech officer in charge of the group says, using a mixture of Russian and his mother tongue. It is a good thing that Russian and Czech are relatively similar, being both Slavic languages, for otherwise Ivan would not have been able to comunicate with the soldiers.

"Thank you", Ivan looks ahead at the white consulate building. He then puts his hand in one of the pockets of his pants and touches the small silver case containing the letter he endeavored so hard to get here, riding for hours without rest, only stopping at certain villages to eat and change the horse, rarely to sleep, always looking over his shoulder for red guards.

It will be worth the pain and effort. He will make sure of it, for his father and mother, for his brother, for the Tsar too.

Oo

David Percival Williams.

Dr. Allan Michael Evans asks me to remove my bandage again before breakfast.

"I need to take a look at your shoulder wound", he says.

Every morning is the same. I wonder when he will stop. It is already fully healed, with only a light pink scar reminding me of what happened months ago. I can move my arm perfectly well too, so he is making a fuss over nothing.

Allan is just a couple of years older than me, a fellow with deep brown eyes and black hair. We fought in the same regiment along with countless other Oxford students, a few of whom are now part of our small team of eleven in total counting myself.

I hand-picked him, Billy Davison, Richard Cripps, Adam Benson, and Andrew Kane, my only surviving friends. The remaining five were selected for me.

"Looks good", Allan says, "it has healed well."

"Told you so", I reply.

"I am more worried about those headaches you are getting, and your drinking, have you…?"

"It is nothing", I stand up from the foot of the bed and start getting dressed before he can press further. I will be needing no more bandages.

Once my men and I are up and dressed, we have breakfast as usual in the suite where Billy, Richard, Adam, Andrew, and I sleep, which also works as our base of operations, given its great size. There are several beds and sofas where we work and sleep, as well as coffee tables and chairs that are always filled with papers, machines, and documents. The rest sleep in two additional rooms.

We have not achieved much since British Consul Thomas Preston took us to the Ipatiev House, where we spent a lot of time inside the murder room in particular, getting a clearer picture of the events that had transpired on July 17th. The sight would have been disturbing for any civilian. The plaster on the lower end of the wall had been completely blown away by the gunshots, but there were bullet holes scattered all over the place as well. There was a sealed set of doors at the end of the room. It must have been incredibly frustrating for the victims to be so close to and yet so far away from freedom.

The following days, like usual posing as reporters in our civilian clothes, my men and I kept reviewing the available evidence with the help of Preston, the rest of the British Consulate staff, and a few other foreign diplomatic missions.

We have interviewed the available witnesses again and reviewed several intercepted Bolshevik messages. We bought horses and more than once went riding around the area in search of possible leads and witnesses.

There are no new clues yet. The trail seems to be about to run cold, which is why we have embarrassingly taken to treating the mission as a leave or vacation of sorts, often playing football with the locals, visiting new places in the city, swimming in the cold Iset River, and riding just for fun. My leg has never been better.

There will be no idleness today though, at least not for me.

"Anything new, Joffrey?" I stand up and approach our wireless signaler as soon as I am done eating. He, like many of us, tends to work and eat at the same time.

"Not yet", he replies.

Joffrey is sitting at a coffe table, adjusting his telegraph machine with one hand and holding a glass of juice with the other. The artifact is held inside a gray box that looks like a suitcase, so it was easy for him to travel with it.

"You can stop for a moment", I take a gulp of spirit from the small silver hip flask I always keep in the pocket of my jacket and then raise my voice to catch everyone's attention. "Listen up boys, here is what we are gonna do today. Yakov and I are paying a brief visit to the British Consulate again to see if there are any new leads.

"In the meantime, I want the rest of you to re-examine the evidence we have copied and see if you can find any connections. You have my permission to go out and do whatever you want later, but do not spend too much money on food and trinkets unless it is your own and not anything supplied by the government."

"Oh, come on, Davie!" Billy exclaims. "We are not going to find anything else, come with us! No one will know what we have actually been doing here!"

"And we have yet to see what the brothels are like here", Richard jokes, causing the religious young Billy to blush with badly hidden embarrassment and some of the other men to laugh out loud and nod in agreement.

I cannot help but smile at them. "Not this time, but nice try." I turn to Andrew Kane and point at him. "You, Andy, I had almost forgotten. I want you to ask Captain Nicholas Dmitrievich if any of his soldiers will be patrolling the white territories around the city along with the Czech, so that you can join them."

"Me?"Andrew asks, sounding rather disappointed that he may not be able to leave and spend the day fooling around with the others. "Why me?"

"Because you speak German, a language that a few of the Czech soldiers know, now stop being a lazy ass and do as I say, I may be a permissive higher-up but I am your higher-up nonetheless."

Everyone but Andrew laughs, and I let out another smile before continuing. "If the reports claiming that one of the girls survived are true, I would guess that she might not have gone too far, especially considering that she was likely seriously wounded. I want you to look for her, Andrew, you can take some of the others for company too."

"Yes, sir", he finally agrees.

"And make sure to bring pictures of the four Grand Duchesses for reference."

Oo

Yakov Iosifovich Dvorkin is our translator, an educated Russian Jew who fled the Pale of Settlement with his wife and some cousins following the 1904 pogroms.

"We were very lucky not to be directly affected by these antisemitic riots or even suffer any property damage", he once explained to me, "but we no longer felt safe."

Yakov is the oldest of the group at 34 years old, a tall, balding man with dark eyes and a kind face, and he now lives in East London, where he owns a store.

"You know", he says to me as we walk down the street towards the consulate, "I do feel bad for the children, being a father and all that, but I think the Tsar had it coming. As someone who was a subject of his, I can tell you that the people were not particularly happy."

Yakov is exceedingly cheerful and chatty. He makes for good company.

"I guess the people rose up against him for a reason", I shrug.

"Yeah, I was weary about coming back to Russia", he adds looking around. "I never felt at home here."

It is certainly not a cozy place anymore, if it ever was. I only know that the reds have behaved cruelly from what I have been told by both locals and diplomats, as well as that particularly grisly murder room left behind, but I have grown far more familiar with the terror the whites have recently inflicted upon the population. I have heard gunshots on more than one occasion that sound too close to come from anywhere but within the city, and Preston has told me about the many reprisals the whites have taken on those who collaborated with the reds. The men and women who accused their neighbors, the workers who aided and supported the revolution of October, and even those who simply sympathized with the Bolsheviks have sometimes been targeted by the vengeful whites. Jews like Yakov are viewed with particular suspicion, even when they do not belong to any of the former groups.

It is understandable then that our translator wants nothing to do with this place. I certainly do not. These vast lands have become just another battlefield where morality does not exist, where tales of heroes and chivalry come to die for those who actually stand close to the fight.

"Anyway", I shake my head and try to get back to business. "I was thinking that we could again interview the cleaning woman who told us she had heard the children sobbing inside a warehouse close to the train station. She may offer us some clues we could have missed the first time. Perhaps there is a way to figure out where they were taken afterward, or if they were killed there instead of the Ipatiev House as must believe."

"You really care about this mission, do you not?" Yakov smiles.

"Uhm… yeah, I care about every mission, my friend, why?" I frown, confused as to what his point is.

"I know", he laughs, slapping me on the back. "The boys have told me. Always the first to volunteer and the last one to give up, but I am afraid I do not think your determination will get you far here. I would advise you to stop taking yourself so seriously. This is not your "King and Country." Relax and enjoy the safety while it lasts."

I do not reply to that. The mere suggestion fills me with revulsion. Relax? Me? When better men than I are dying out there in my very own squadron? How could I?!

Realizing I might have come all this way to Russia for nothing is one of the greatest displeasures and disappointments I have ever had. Such a waste of precious time, of my combat flying skills. How many young British lads will die because of my absence?!

It is not just that I do not give up. In my almost four years of combat I have never failed on a mission. I have never disobeyed my orders. Ever.

The very least I can do now is take my mission seriously and be of use here, even if all I may achieve regardless is a good investigative report on the family's murder to present to the MI6 before going back. Some closure for His Majesty King George V.

"Look, we are almost there", I tell Yakov as I point at the consulate.

Upon entering the reception, we are surprised to see a young Russian boy in dirty peasant clothes, no older than sixteen, desperately pleading and arguing with the receptionist, an older man in a black suit, also Russian.

"What are they saying?" I ask Yakov.

"The lad is begging the receptionist to let him see the British Consul or Vice-Consul", he replies. "He says that he has an important letter. The receptionist is trying to tell him that Thomas Preston and Arthur Thomas are too busy right now, and to sit and wait at the reception… oh! The boy is now saying that it is urgent, that the…" Yakov stops, his eyes suddenly turning wide. "The receptionist is making fun of him, of his filthy clothes, he is not believing…"

"What?" I urge him to continue. "What are they saying?!"

"The Grand Duchesses need help, the lad says that they have been freed but that they and those escorting them need..."

"Follow me", I move to approach the boy and talk to him, but Yakov puts his arm in front of me, preventing me from doing so.

"It could be another set of fake pretenders", he says, which is true. Preston, his staff, my men, and I have already met with an Olga, two Tatianas, three Marias, no less than eight Anastasias, and four Alexeis seeking money, attention, an easy way out of the country, or all three. Lots of precious time has been wasted, but that is the nature of this mission.

"I understand", I say, "but it is our job to investigate these sorts of things. Translate for me, will you?"

"Oh, boy, here we go again", Yakov sighs, but he lets me go, and we both walk towards the boy.

"You, lad", I point at him. "Do you know the Grand Duchesses? Are they alive? Have you seen them? What about the rest of the family?"

After Yakov translates what I said, the boy replies, looking quite relieved about finally being taken seriously by someone, anyone:

"No, sir, not me, I have not seen them, but they are most definitely alive, I think only the daughters are though." This message is also translated for me, as are those afterward, back and forth.

"How can you be so sure if you have not seen them?" I am rather skeptical, but I try to sound kind.

"They were still being held captive when Peter and I were sent to deliver this letter", he takes out a small silver case from his pocket, probably where the letter in question is being kept, "but I know for a fact that they were planning to rescue them that very same day."

"Who?" I raise an eyebrow.

"The British, obviously, they must have saved them already", he starts speaking very, very quickly, and as if every amazing claim coming out of his mouth were self-evident, "well, other British, not you, they recruited me as an informer because I hate the Bolsheviks so much, and then gave me the mission in exchange for a large sum of money. Look, the letter is inside", he hands me the silver case over.

"What is your name?" I receive the rectangular container without opening it just yet.

"Ivan", he answers, "Ivan Gavrilovich."

"You said that you were sent here with a certain Peter, is that correct?" I continue only after the boy nods. "Where is he now?"

"He… he… he did not make it", the lad stares down, looking awfully devastated and yet trying so hard to be strong. My heart softens. I see so many brave boys I have fought with in him.

"Would you like to come over with us to the hotel and wash yourself?"

When Yakov translates my offer, I am able to understand, from the little Russian I know, that he adds something else: "You must be hungry too."

Oo

As Ivan takes a shower, Yakob and I order some food to be brought to the suite, which was empty when we arrived. The boys must be out there acting as if they were tourists.

Having walked out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, the boy savors every bite as if he hadn't had a meal in weeks. Yakob and I let him eat without doing so, as we had breakfast recently, but we sit at the main table with him.

We give the lad some clothes belonging to Jimmy, the smallest in our team, and then begin asking the important questions.

We soon learn that Ivan and Peter, both orphaned by the reds, were sent to Ekaterinburg in anticipation of a rescue attempt to save the Grand Duchesses that would be carried out by an English intelligence cell located in Perm. The mission of the two young men was to deliver a letter to the closest British delegation they could find on friendly territory, a letter written in both Russian and English explaining the situation and asking for help.

The whole story, though improbable, is slightly conceivable due to the pre-existing theory my men and I have looked into claiming that the Romanov women were taken alive to Perm following the Tsar's murder.

The manuscript itself is numerous pages long and reveals that should the rescue mission succeed, the agents responsible are planning to take the girls eastwards, away from the territories controlled by the reds.

There is just one small problem though. Between the reds and the whites, there is a considerable area currently being contested, a dangerous battlefield where the bullets are flying both ways, a no man's land of sorts.

Both the reds and the whites could easily get the girls killed accidentally, not to mention that the reds would suspect anyone trying to flee to the enemy of being a spy or counter revolutionary and shoot them on sight.

This is not going to be an issue for the many other people these British agents are helping escape the Bolsheviks, since they are taking way longer and more complex routes southwards, eastwards through China, and then northwards again to join the whites.

It is much less convenient to drag the imperial daughters along these long and almost equally dangerous paths, because they can be easily recognized due to newspapers and postcards, and because they pose a much larger threat to the Bolsheviks, who will likely send people specifically after them, both soldiers and spies. Time is of essence. The agents who sent Ivan and Peter cannot take the risk of an exceedingly long journey filled with threats of exposure and bandits while also being chased.

That is why reinforcements are needed. Joseph Bell, the man who signed the note, seems to believe that merely having more men to protect the four Grand Duchesses as they are led through the contested zone would be enough to keep them from harm.

The letter ends with a great number of maps and instructions on how to reach important meeting points, including latitude, longitude, pictures, and references.

"It is not going to work", I conclude almost as soon as I finish reading, hardly believing that any experienced soldier would reckon it ever could. The plan seems made almost in a rush, which gives credence to Ivan's story, if anything.

"How are you so sure?" Yakov asks me. We are speaking in English, so Ivan cannot understand us. It is better that way.

"Our group of eleven men is not gonna be able to sustain an attack from the far more numerous Red Army", I state that which is evident.

"Not even if we get help from the Russians?"

"Then we would have another problem. How do you sneak so many men behind enemy lines?" I point at the two meeting points in the letter's maps. "Might as well join the fight with the Ural Cossacks until we reach these places."

"By the time the White Army reaches those points, the British agents who rescued the Grand Duchesses will probably have already chosen the route through China."

"Exactly."

"We could sneak everyone behind enemy lines separately and then have them meet later", he suggests.

"That many people? I need at least a couple dozen men to organize a fighting force effective enough to escape the reds with the Grand Duchesses unharmed. Someone is bound to get lost, and no British national stands a chance if they are caught by the reds in such suspicious circumstances."

"Oh, I have heard the stories, David, you need way less than a dozen."

I shake my head, feeling somewhat frustrated. "Focus, we are talking about odds here. We must think of another way to help them…"

"You said so yourself, David, it is not going to work", Yakov shrugs, "and there is also something troubling me. I feel sorry for the young lad, but how do we know he is telling the truth? No other con man has tried ushering us away from the safety of the territories controlled by the White Army. What if it is a trap?"

"A trap by whom? The reds? How would they even know about us? It makes no sense."

"You are right about that", he admits, "but my actual suspicion is that there is no specific target except for British delegations or Russians loyal to the Tsar." Just then, Ivan begins complaining in Russian, though with a few scattered English words. "He says that he does not understand anything we are saying", Yakov explains.

"Tell him that we are still figuring out what is the best way to go about helping the Grand Duchesses, that he has done a great job and should get some rest now."

Oo

Still seated at the table, Yakov and I brainstorm on our own for only a few seconds before the perfect solution comes to me, clear as day.

"I could fly them here", I say. "One by one or even two by two, I will see when I get there, from youngest to oldest, the British agents helping them too."

Yakov smiles and then lets out a small chuckle. "I do not know why I did not think of that before."

"Me neither", I chuckle too, feeling overwhelmed with relief over the prospect of a successful mission, over my absence from my flying squadron having a meaning.

"Do the whites have planes here though?" Yakov asks. "Do we?"

"I will have to ask Preston that, but it is not important."

"What do you mean?"

"This is a heavily industrialized city, filled with all kinds of factories and rich in mineral resources. Vice-Consul Arthur could help us with the latter. He is an engineer from Cornwall and oversees the city's mines with Preston. As for the rest, I could build a biplane in my sleep." I truly hope that my rushed and frankly unearned rank of Lieutenant Colonel does help me achieve the maximum possible influence with the Russians, as Captain Cumming claimed it would.

"Alright", Yakov nods. "I guess I can expect more work than usual shortly."

"No", I shake my head. "I will ask the British Consul to make another translator available, I have another job for you." Though I do not think you are going to like it.

I will have to leave someone in charge too, someone who makes sure that the men actually work. I want everyone to remain safe and away from combat in this foreign war that is not truly the same as ours, at least not completely. I picked whoever I picked to save their lives after all, but they cannot just sit around while I save the Grand Duchesses on my own…

I think I will have my men provide the Ural Cossacks with military advice if they will take it. Yes. All of the boys are battle-hardened veterans despite their short ages after all, and their experience on the Western Front may or may not provide the Russians with new insight.

"So you have made your decision then", Yakov surmises.

"I have", I reply.

Do not worry Ivan, your suffering was not in vain, I am coming for them.

Oo

Perm Province.

Paul Igorovich Tabakov.

That bitch. That pampered, frigid, arrogant little bitch. Volya and I spent so much time looking for her and her bratty little invalid brother, asking every single peasant from every single village in the area, and that was only after having recovered from all of the nervous throwing up and explosive diarrhea that the shock initially caused us. We were so frightened that we didn't even think to fuck any of the peasant women on the pretext that they were hidding information, which is so unlike myself. I hadn't been as afraid in months. We should have tied up that used-up whore and gagged her. But no, she had to win, right? I couldn't break her. She still thinks she deserves better, a life away from my clutches. She still thinks she is better than me, more good. I don't get it. I destroyed her. She looked so pathetic. I made her bathe in freaking cum, and yet it is still she who made me look like a fool. I just don't get it.

Roman was seriously wounded and unconscious, a head injury no less. He would later wake up dumber than ever before, if that is even possible.

Nosan too almost gave me and Volya a heart attack. The son of a bitch drank more than any of us and looked as dead as Roman the next morning. Maybe that is the reason why his dick had started failing in the end. I should have known. He had beaten and slapped Olga's swollen red cunt harder than any of us out of sheer frustration.

We could have been executed, the four of us. It is a miracle that the Council of People's Commissars had mercy on us. Either way, we were arrested as soon as we set foot in Moscow, the only thanks we got for our honesty, or Volya's to be precise. I would have escaped and lived as a hermit without saying shit.

Roman and Nosan were sent to a hospital, where they would stay until they had fully recovered, but Volya and I spent two entire days in a cell without food or sleep and little water, being interrogated by some stuck-up, obnoxious little twat with four eyes who thought he was better than me, as if he too wouldn't have taken the opportunity to fuck a beautiful woman completely at his mercy, please! It was an incredibly humiliating experience. He called me so many names. Useless. Failure. And it is true, because of Olga. I feel like I cannot die without destroying her…

But all of that is in the past. The injustice did not last long, for my three comrades and I were soon assigned to help an investigator named Igor Pyotrovich Turov find Olga and her brother, for which we were first sent back to the area where we had lost them and then moved to Perm again to continue with the search following Alexei's recapture by another team also under Turov's authority and that of a certain General Gorlinsky, who we also receive orders from now.

Apparently, Igor Pyotrovich suspected that Olga had returned to Perm in order to help her sisters escape. He seems to have been correct, for recently we learnt that the four insufferable bitches have indeed disappeared from the Blue House, which from what I have been told literally exploded. Nothing would have pleased me more. I have gotten this new, intense fantasy where I am the one who finds them first and…

"Comrade Tabakov! Pay attention!" Commander Ovseyev yells at me as we both ride our horses through the woods. I suddenly realize that I have gone off course, so I quickly move the reins to set things right.

The reprimand doesn't infuriate me, which is rare for me. Despite his usually serious demeanour, Ovseyev is simply one of a kind. Not only is it unusual for him to be strict, but there is also something strange about him, something familiar. He chose me, Roman, Volya, and Nosan specifically to be part of the search party under his command, this despite the fact that what we did to the tsar's oldest daughter is an open secret among our special-assignment unit, causing lots of feelings of revulsion and admiration, depending on who you ask.

There are a dozen of us in this particular search party, all dressed in the army khaki color trousers, military cap, and shirt without epaulettes, as well as black leather boots, thick brown belts with holsters for our guns, rifles behind our backs, and red armbands. Some of us also have bags or sacks to keep supplies and black leather jackets, myself included. I feel as if I were part of the Cheka now, though of course I am not, officially anyway.

After a few more seconds riding, we arrive at a gigantic wooden lodge painted light green, with ugly blue window frames. I hate whoever owns the ostentatious and weirdly designed dwelling almost instantly.

We slowly get off our horses and watch as Commander Ovseyev knocks on the door before proceeding to ask the woman who answers a series of questions, most of them having to do with whether she is hiding British spies, as a group of them seem to be behind the escape of the four daughters of Bloody Nicholas.

So far, we have found no foreign nationals in any of the searched peasant wooden cabins. This doesn't seem to be affecting the commander's patience though. As usual, right from the start, he behaves in a much more professional manner than even Nosan and Volya. He is very kind and respectful to the woman and later her husband, who we soon learn are called Yelena and Victor, because the commander, of course, asks for their names. Nosan, Volya, Roman, and I never ask for names.

Commander Nectarios Igorevich Ovseyev doesn't raise his voice or intrude himself into the filthy rich peasants' house the way we did that glorious evening, not even after the proud woman obstinately refuses to let him in, something no other peasant has done. She sounds nervous, as if she were hiding something, which she clearly is. It is infuriating. Why doesn't Nectarios just walk in? I would like to give her something to be nervous about.

"Over there!" Nosan yells unexpectedly, pointing his finger at a group of men running away from the fields in the distance. "Roman, Arkadiy, Elisei, get your horses and go after them!" He too unties his horse from the tree nearby, gets back on, and takes off running with the former three men hurrying behind.

Commander Ovseyev's attitude immediately changes. He bursts into the house, shooting Victor on the foot and taking Yelena by the hair in the process. The couple's children start crying upstairs.

Those of us who didn't follow the escaping men walk into the house after the commander, making jokes, laughing, chatting, and breaking a few decorations. We explore the kitchen, the living room, and the bathroom. Yes, filthy rich. They even have running water, here in the fucking outskirts of the city. Not even most poor living in urban areas have that. They deserve the worst.

Victor tries to stay near his wife despite his injured foot, crying for her, but the last of us always has little trouble pushing him back, stepping on his wound, and overall giving him a hard time.

Eerily serious and silent, Ovseyev searches every room while dragging Yelena by the hair wherever he goes. The three children, two boys and an older girl, try helping their mother, but my comrades and I push them away too.

We soon find what we have been looking for. Two men occupy one of the rooms, though only one lies on the bed, half covered by a blanket as the other tends to his naked bandaged leg. When we walk in, they are both greatly startled and terrified, but the one who was tending to the young man on the bed places himself between him and us regardless.

Both are dressed in civilian clothes, not the loose pants and high-necked shirts that Russian peasants usually wear, but the type of generic city clothes probably worn all over the world nowadays.

"Identify yourselves!" Ovseyev yells at them. The man standing doesn't seem to understand him, but the wounded man does reply:

"Joseph", his voice shakes, his lip trembles, and his wide open eyes fill with tears. "My name is Joseph, and this is Dr. Jones."

"I assume your friend does not speak Russian", the commander says calmly now, moving in order to get a better glimpse at him. Joseph simply shakes his head, the tears rolling down his eyes now. "Were you part of the British intelligence cell that rescued the four former grand duchesses?" Ovseyev resumes his interrogation.

The last question makes something in Joseph's face slowly, and very gradually, change. A new emotion appears there in between his frightened watery eyes. Determination.

"No", he shakes his head.

"No?" Ovseyev raises an eyebrow. "You had nothing to do with it?"

"No", Joseph insists, still crying.

Oo

The next moments are greatly enjoyable. Having locked up the peasant family in one of the rooms, Ovseyev orders everyone else downstairs and outside.

My comrades and I form a semicircle in front of the house, surrounding the two Englishmen, now bound with rope from the commander's bag. We are about to continue the interrogation when Roman, Arkadiy, Elisei, arrive, having successfully caught and disarmed one of the three running Englishmen, a man named Avery. He is soon added to the center of the semicircle, though not before his pockets are thoroughly searched.

We find several notes and maps among Avery's belongings, some of which have specific places circled in red. They are of little use to us without context and translation to Russian though, and even though half of us are pointing our handguns at them, our three foreign prisoners refuse to talk when Ovseyev begins asking questions about the maps, even the injured young Joseph, who cried out in pain as we dragged him all the way down without a care in the world for his injured leg.

All the Englishmen do is glare and yell at us in their ugly, German sounding language, probably obscenities.

I can proudly say that it is me who comes up with the idea of making a fire right under a tree branch, where we hang Avery by the hands after tying them behind his back.

High, deafening, and piercing screams ensue as the Englishman's legs burn and his shoulders become more and more dislocated. My comrades and I laugh out loud for minutes at how girly and pathetic he sounds. The two remaining spies just stare in horror, the injured young man weeping inconsolably.

"If you want to stop you friend's suffering", the commander tells Joseph in that same old eerily calm tone he often uses, "you will tell us what those maps and notes mean." He shows him one of the maps in question.

"I don't know, please!" The arrogant little spy sobs, still refusing to talk.

"Translate for him then", Ovseyev tilts his head towards the man being tortured, who is now yelling something in English, "the maps were in his pockets."

"Please, oh God, let him go!" Joseph pleads loudly. "He is not saying anything, he is just screaming and asking for mercy!"

"Very well", the commander grabs the bandages from his injured leg and undresses the wound roughly, causing the young man to cry out in pain, "since you don't care about your friend, then perhaps you…"

The doctor, who had so far remained relatively quiet save for a few cries of outrage, suddenly screams something desperately at Joseph, something that causes the latter to finally give up and tell us everything he knows.

Oo

We have a lot of fun with Yelena and her twelve year old daughter afterward. I didn't know that the commander had it in him, but he does. It is as if he had chosen each of his men for a reason.

Ovseyev focuses on getting things done even while fucking in group. He doesn't do jokes nor jeers, only moans, and when it is not his turn, he makes sure everyone waits theirs. No rest for a leader. It is truly amazing.

Only two of our men refuse to partake, getting all grumpy and self righteous about it too, but they don't physically fight us to help the "damsels in distress" either. Suckers and killjoys, not to mention hypocrites, though to be fair, they and the doctor are a bit outnumbered even when counting the wounded and the little boys.

Once satisfied, deeply satisfied, our search party moves on to have dinner sitting around the same fireplace where we tortured Avery.

I wanted to burn the peasant family along with the spies in their own home, but Commander Ovseyev said that the fire could spread, so instead he sent Roman away to get rid of them all however he pleased. My friend hasn't returned yet, so his rabbit meat may get cold. It is Arkadiy who hunted them, but he is quite serious and quiet now, and he doesn't seem to have much appetite. That idiot was one of the two who refused to rape Yelena and the girl with us, his loss. Those whores were rich kulaks. They had fucking running water and several dozens of poorer peasants working for them in surrounding cabins who didn't raise a finger to help their masters and mistresses. Sure, many times we threatened to shoot whoever showed up to offer aid, and sure, the local Cheka has been confiscating weapons from the peasantry to prevent an uprising, but I am sure the real reason no one helped that greedy, ugly, evil, filthy rich family is that everyone hated them.

"Which one was better?" Elisei interrupts my thoughts.

"What?" I ask. "I am sorry, I wasn't paying attention."

"Come on! We have all heard the stories. We know that you, Roman, Nosan, and Volya fucked the tsar's eldest daughter. So, which one was better? 'Her Imperial Highness'", he says the title mockingly, with fake reverence, "Yelena, or her little Alina?"

The men jeer and banter around me.

"Mhm…" I think for a few seconds before answering. "I must admit that our recent 'experience' pales in comparison to the evening I deflowered Olga."

The banter and laughter thrives for a few seconds before Elisei asks a new question. "Well, that is clear as day, is it not? What woman or girl can compete with deflowering and spoiling a literal grand duchess? The power thrill you must have gotten…"

"You deflowered Olga?" A man named Gregory asks. "But Roman told me that he was the first!"

That idiot. I will make him pay when he returns. "No", I scowl, "it was me, I took her first, then the others."

"Yeah, it was him", Volya confirms, and he and Nosan nod, for which I am grateful.

"Regarding your question, Elisei", I resume the previous conversation, "there is the fact that she was a grand duchess, and I will tell you about it… oh, I will tell you about it", my mouth almost waters thinking of her, "but she was not the only reason why that evening was… let's say special. As you obviously know, Victor was locked up with his sons in one of the rooms upstairs, along with those three English spies, of course. He must have heard the screams and cries of his wife and daughter", I let out a cruel grin thinking of it, "he and his children must have cried too."

"There is no way to tell if the men cried", Volya laughs, shaking his head, "those two bitches were screaming way too loudly! Especially the little girl, I think we crossed the line, we were a tiny bit too mean to involve her in our grown up games as well!"

Most of us burst into laughter too, and I personally laugh so much that the vodka we are drinking flows through my nose, burning me. "Anyway", I continue once the laughter and the irritation in my nose and throat have subsided, "it would have been fun to hear and see the men's reactions, would it not?"

"It would have been far too risky", Commander Ovseyev shakes his head. He hadn't been too involved in the conversation before or even laughed, so his comment surprises me.

"All of them but the doctor were injured though", a young fellow named Philip shrugs, seemingly getting what I am saying, "and we could have kept them all tied up, I agree that it would have been fun to watch their reactions."

"You don't know what a cornered maimed beast is capable of doing when it is angry and has nothing left to lose", Ovseyev replies with that deep and serious tone of his, causing almost a minute of silence to descend upon us. Gregory, Elisei, and a couple more men seem particularly disturbed for some reason.

"Anyway!" I can't take it anymore, so I decide to lighten up the mood again. "My point is that Volya, Roman, Nosan, and I did force the former heir to watch as we turned his sister into a complete whore, and that this made the whole experience not only pleasurable but also a comedy delight."

"I am sure that it must have been fun", Elisei smiles, "the kid is a total crybaby."

"Wow, kind of unfair, is it not?" Arkadiy snaps at him. "Go through what he has been through and tell me how much of a crybaby you become." Like the commander, he hasn't been laughing either.

"What the fuck is your problem, Arkadiy?!"

The biggest crybaby here is Arkadiy, as well as Iosif, the other guy who didn't take advantage of the little cunts at our disposal, but his reaction is to be expected and not at all what just caught my attention.

"How can you tell that he is a crybaby, Elisei?" I ask with a smile, genuinely curious.

"Oh, yeah!" Elisei exclaims, but then he turns to the commander. "Can we tell the others who weren't there?"

"He is not a threat anymore", Ovseyev shrugs, nodding.

Elisei turns back to me, but he speaks to everyone around the fire. "Yeah, I met the brat, the 'heir', however you want to call him. Arkadiy, Gregory, Michael, I, and I think like half of us here were initially working under the commander back in Moscow, right?"

"I wasn't", Iosif says stupidly, almost defensively, as if Elisei were talking specifically about him.

"I didn't say all of us", Elisei rolls his eyes at him before turning to me again. "The point is, many of us, myself included, met the brat, alright? We guarded him for like a couple of days or so after Turov negotiated with two of the criminals who had found him and were trying to use him as blackmail material against the government or whatever."

"There was little left of him when he got to us though", Michael adds.

"Yeah", Gregory continues, "we tried getting him to tell us where his sister was and who had helped them escape, if they were foreigners, where were their bases, and so on, but he didn't tell us anything useful, he was blubbering most of the time anyway."

They didn't need help to escape us, that is for sure. Olga must have contacted the British later. I am not gonna say that out loud though. Too embarrassing, and they probably know the story already from what Volya and Nosan have told them either way.

"He didn't last long", Elisei finishes. "We could have executed him right on the spot and it wouldn't have made a difference, and before that, as I was saying, a total crybaby", he chuckles.

"Well, I am glad to know he had a hard time dying", I grin, "he was a total pain in the ass." A few of the men laugh. "But you missed the glorious evening that Volya, Nosan, Roman, and I had, comrades!" I brag. "We got his sister, his beautiful sister, and we fucked her for hours, fucked her good." I proceed to describe what went on inside that cabin in detail until I see the faces of the comrades before me across the fireplace light up as if they were reliving everything with me, the thrill, the ecstasy, every part of her body, white and then bruised. They look the same way they did about an hour ago, when Yelena and her daughter, held still, terrified, and at their mercy, were the objects of their desire. They also respond to my account, "joining" the scene by making lewd jokes and comments or sharing what they would have done and said to Olga had they been there to rape her too.

"We called her 'Your Imperial Highness' and pretended to be her servants", Nosan adds amidst chuckles when I finish. "'Would you like this plate of cock in your mouth or in your ass, Your Imperial Highness?'" He mimics the way he thinks a butler or a waiter in a fancy restaurant would speak, and we all burst into loud, long, and obnoxious laughter for the third time today.

"It is true!" Volya giggles. "We did that a couple of times! But you should have been right there comrades, you would not believe it, she was so ravishing…"

"Another thing we sometimes had to yell at her was 'Stop moving, bitch, your brother can't get a proper view when you do!'" Nosan jokes again, causing all of us to continue laughing, but it is true, we did often tell her that.

"Oh, man", Gregory groans when the laughter quiets down a little bit. "I am so jealous of you now. I would have loved to stick my dick in that yummy thing you described, Paul."

"Honestly, I am jealous too", Elisei admits. "We tried to do our best with the task we got and make it fun somehow, but it just wasn't the same."

Gregory shrugs. "Eh, it had its moments, I loved throwing the kid off his high horse, but no one denies that it was nothing more than a consolation prize."

I notice Ovseyev giving Gregory what seems like a warning look. It does the job. Gregory remains in a good mood, but he doesn't say anything else.

Well, whatever they did to that boy can't top forcing him to watch me fuck his sister bloody.

"I am back guys!" A voice I didn't realize I was missing exclaims behind me.

"Roman!" I smile, turning around.

"What took you so long?" The commander stands up, and several other men do the same, following his lead. "It is already dark."

"Oh, I was getting rid of the peasants, and the Englishmen, like you told me", my blond friend replies.

"So it is done?" Elisei asks. "They are all dead?"

"Dead?" Roman cocks his head in confusion. "Why would they be dead?"

"Roman, what did you do, you imbecile?" I become a bit worried.

"I got rid of them, like Commander Ovseyev told me to", Roman frowns, looking incredibly confused, like a sad little puppy. Everyone else does too.

"Yeah…" I nod, trying to speak slowly in order for him to understand me. "But how…?"

"Well I took them all to the woods, deep in the forest where they can easily get lost, which was hard to do because all of them were limping except for Dr. Jones and the two little kids, and one of the Englishmen had black legs, like burnt coal, which must have made it hard for him to walk, so Dr. Jones carried him on his back while Victor helped the other Englishman, which was hard for him to do also because of his bad foot and…"

"Comrade Roman, what did you do?!" Commander Ovseyev yells now.

"I told them all to go away, like this", Roman makes a hand motion signifying that exact same thing, causing all of us to groan in exasperation. "I got rid of them, like you told me to, it only took a while because they were limping so very slowly."

"Roman…" I close my eyes in frustration and sight. "By getting rid of them we meant executing them."

"Oh…" Roman's face is transformed by that idiotic smile of his. "Yeah…"

I turn to the commander. "I am very sorry sir, he is just a bit retarded…"

"Nevermind", Ovseyev says sharply, going back to his seat close to the fireplace. "Most of them are wounded, two of them are merely children, English officers are no longer free to travel as they please, and we have their notes and maps. They pose no threat. They are not the grand duchesses. Everybody gather now, we need to plan things out for tomorrow."

"Are we not going back to the city to report our findings?" Arkadiy asks.

"There is no time for that", the commander replies, causing him to grow pale, "didn't you hear what that Englishman named Joseph said? The four former grand duchesses are heading eastwards, and fast." He opens two of the maps, places them before us, and begins using them to help us picture what he is saying. "Now, Siberia is a gigantic place, so there would be no way for us to find them just by heading in the same direction, but the Englishmen left these, and these are meeting spots", he points at the places in question, which are circled in red. "They are stopping here first, and then here. Joseph said that this last spot is an abandoned country mansion that belonged to a wealthy farmer and merchant before the revolution. It is situated close to a small lake and a large field of blue flowers, which is how the grand duchesses and those traveling with them are meant to find it."

"We must reach that lake first!" I interrupt the commander without thinking, but now that I am talking, I cannot just stop. "Those four girls have been coddled and pampered their entire lives, I can bet that the people escorting them will make several stops for their sake. We are all adults here, right comrades?" I smile at them.

"Right", Volya smiles back, and almost everyone else nods in agreement.

"We will need almost no rest", I continue, "all we need is to change horses every now and then."

"There are British soldiers coming to help the four grand duchesses cross over the contested zone", the commander objects, "probably more than a dozen."

"So? We then must arrive before the reinforcements do. Otherwise, we go back. What is the other option? By the time we go back to offer a report and the Perm Soviet decides to act on it, the four grand duchesses will already be safe under white protection."

"For this to work there is no time to waste, so we leave tonight", Ovseyev says nonchalantly, seemingly convinced by my brilliant assertions. "Get ready. Take everything you need from the house, and take new horses too."

As everyone stands up and begins getting ready, I notice Ovseyev stop Arkadiy in his tracks. "You stay", he says. "You and Iosif stay, both of you are too weak for what is coming. I cannot deprive my men. This farm and this house have been expropriated, and I need someone to hand it over to the Perm Soviet."

Oo

August 9th, 1918.

We rode the entire night and have continued riding half this morning. None of us appear to be tired. It is as if we knew what the commander has promised without even being told.

How will we explain the injuries though? We will probably have to frame the English who are coming to help them. Yes, that sounds like a good plan, and we can threaten the grand duchesses with their friends and allies' executions in order to keep them quiet.

Oh, I can't wait to catch them! To enact my vengeance upon Olga for those grueling hours I spent in that Moscow cell because of her, being interrogated, spat at, slapped, scolded, humiliated, and made to feel lesser than, made to feel the way she made me feel with her self-righteousness, inadequate, imperfect, a burden, like my father…

Oh, the things I will do to her! To the four of them! To her while doing it to them! I will plan everything out with my comrades.

We will force Olga to choose again, this time between the innocence of her virgin sisters and her own self-respect. She will have to become ours, freely so. We will evaluate her performance constantly, and only when she has fully lost herself, when she can't recognize who she even is anymore, only then will I break her hopes, her delusion that she was at least helping her sisters.

I will finally have the beautiful Tatiana and Maria. The hateful and annoying Anastasia. We will ravish and torture them for hours as Olga watches. Then we will make all of them our whores. It will be a long road back to Perm for them. Oh, yes it will!

Don't get too comfortable, princesses, because I am coming for you.

I got some information from the book "Nicholas, George, and Wilhelm: Three Royal Cousins and the Road to World War I." Also used Helen Rappaport's "Ekaterinburg" and her online article on Thomas Preston.
The book "Hidden Account of the Romanovs" by John Browne was a great source of inspiration and information too. I loked it very much and it is easy to find.
TRIGGERS: Olga's four rapists appear again in this chapter. They speak very, very crudely and disrespectfully about her, her body, and specific things they did to her. They also torture a few people, hurt another woman and her little girl the same way they did Olga (Though this not described thoroughly and is mostly just mentioned), and plan to do it again.