Read Online Field of Mars by Stephen Miller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen Miller
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letters she had mentioned a possible return to Petersburg at Christmas, but naturally this would be prevented if her motherâs illness continued. Someone, then, would have to stay in Lisbon to manage things. If so, did he have plans to join her?
No.
So, gone for a year in March, then. And gone for a lot longer than that, to be truthful.
. . . with my greatest consideration and respect, I remain . . .
Gone.
SIX
It was a grey Bulgarian dawn and Sergei Andrianov woke from his sleep in the back of the Rolls touring car the railway had lent him. It came with a chauffeur, a quiet Italian named Mattei, who had gone inside the shed to talk with the signalman. He checked his pocket watch and there was a simultaneous hoot of an engineâs whistle. Right on time, he smiled.
He straightened in his seat, found his case and extracted a cigarillo. He had been travelling throughout Europe for nearly two weeks through the dying summer and he was tired. This train, about to pull into the tiny siding, only kilometres inside Bulgaria across the Rumanian border, was the climax of all that work. He had spent his time moving from railway stations to hotels, in and out of telegraphersâ kiosks, and then done it all over again. He had eaten catch-as-catch-can, passed envelopes to men who would pass them to others, assured the timid, threatened the weak. Not for the first time he had wondered if he should empower one of his confederates to take some of the task off his shoulders, but whom could he trust? Not Gulka, he had his hands full with security back in Petersburg, not Evdaev, he was more figurehead than tactician, and much too much the ditherer.
No, the Plan was a spiderâs web, each strand with its own discrete connections, but all of them leading to the centre, with him in control of everything. The smallest tremor in the web would bring his attention to bear, he would move rapidly to the troublesome situation, deal with any problem that might arise.
And to bring someone in at this late date would mean more risk. A jealous second-in-command would recognize the Plan for what it truly wasâan elaborate strategy to preserve the Andrianov business interests. Ideology, while important and sometimes synonymous with his success, was mostly a smokescreen. What he had to do was to provide the leverage, the ideas, and the impetus to bring Russia into a war for which it was ill-prepared. Only Evdaev would have advance warning and would emerge as a hero, but Tsar Nicholas would be humiliated. And a second defeat after Japan would be the last straw. Losers always change their leaders, and that would be his moment. Publishers had been paid, articles already prepared, politicians cosseted, all of them standing ready to inflame the population. With the Duma a madhouse, the right men would come forward at the critical instant and call for abdication and arrest; stripped of its intricacies, that was the Plan.
He stepped out of the huge vehicle and peered around the corner of the station. Now he could see the train approaching along the tracks from Rumania; there was another careful whistle and at the signal box he saw the points change as the switch was thrown that would shift the train on to the line leading from Bulgaria to Serbia.
âTea, excellency?â The chauffeur had come out. He was holding a tray with a single steaming mug on it. The fragrance of the tea was strong in the morning air, a scent of oranges and something darker. Everything was different in the Balkans . . .
He took the offering without a word and carefully sipped. Together the two men watched the train pull up to a watering tower. There was a great hiss of steam as the engine braked to a stop, a rumbling as the couplers collided with each other along the length of the train.
âDo you want your boots, excellency?â
âYes, thank you.â They moved back to the car and he sat on the edge of the seat, took off his dress shoes, and laced up a
No.
So, gone for a year in March, then. And gone for a lot longer than that, to be truthful.
. . . with my greatest consideration and respect, I remain . . .
Gone.
SIX
It was a grey Bulgarian dawn and Sergei Andrianov woke from his sleep in the back of the Rolls touring car the railway had lent him. It came with a chauffeur, a quiet Italian named Mattei, who had gone inside the shed to talk with the signalman. He checked his pocket watch and there was a simultaneous hoot of an engineâs whistle. Right on time, he smiled.
He straightened in his seat, found his case and extracted a cigarillo. He had been travelling throughout Europe for nearly two weeks through the dying summer and he was tired. This train, about to pull into the tiny siding, only kilometres inside Bulgaria across the Rumanian border, was the climax of all that work. He had spent his time moving from railway stations to hotels, in and out of telegraphersâ kiosks, and then done it all over again. He had eaten catch-as-catch-can, passed envelopes to men who would pass them to others, assured the timid, threatened the weak. Not for the first time he had wondered if he should empower one of his confederates to take some of the task off his shoulders, but whom could he trust? Not Gulka, he had his hands full with security back in Petersburg, not Evdaev, he was more figurehead than tactician, and much too much the ditherer.
No, the Plan was a spiderâs web, each strand with its own discrete connections, but all of them leading to the centre, with him in control of everything. The smallest tremor in the web would bring his attention to bear, he would move rapidly to the troublesome situation, deal with any problem that might arise.
And to bring someone in at this late date would mean more risk. A jealous second-in-command would recognize the Plan for what it truly wasâan elaborate strategy to preserve the Andrianov business interests. Ideology, while important and sometimes synonymous with his success, was mostly a smokescreen. What he had to do was to provide the leverage, the ideas, and the impetus to bring Russia into a war for which it was ill-prepared. Only Evdaev would have advance warning and would emerge as a hero, but Tsar Nicholas would be humiliated. And a second defeat after Japan would be the last straw. Losers always change their leaders, and that would be his moment. Publishers had been paid, articles already prepared, politicians cosseted, all of them standing ready to inflame the population. With the Duma a madhouse, the right men would come forward at the critical instant and call for abdication and arrest; stripped of its intricacies, that was the Plan.
He stepped out of the huge vehicle and peered around the corner of the station. Now he could see the train approaching along the tracks from Rumania; there was another careful whistle and at the signal box he saw the points change as the switch was thrown that would shift the train on to the line leading from Bulgaria to Serbia.
âTea, excellency?â The chauffeur had come out. He was holding a tray with a single steaming mug on it. The fragrance of the tea was strong in the morning air, a scent of oranges and something darker. Everything was different in the Balkans . . .
He took the offering without a word and carefully sipped. Together the two men watched the train pull up to a watering tower. There was a great hiss of steam as the engine braked to a stop, a rumbling as the couplers collided with each other along the length of the train.
âDo you want your boots, excellency?â
âYes, thank you.â They moved back to the car and he sat on the edge of the seat, took off his dress shoes, and laced up a
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