September 14, 1911. 11:00 AM.
Hotel Continental, Kiev.
The Prime Minister's suite smelled of rancid Turkish tobacco.
Pyotr Stolypin stood before the full-length mirror, adjusting the white silk sash of his gala uniform. He looked imposing, the archetype of the Russian statesman: bearded, severe, and with a tragic dignity in his gaze, as always.
"I won't wear it," Stolypin said without turning, speaking to the reflection of the child seated in the velvet armchair behind him.
Alexei sighed, closing the Latin book he pretended to read. On the bed, like a dead, ugly snake skin, lay the object of discord: Neva Technical Solutions' Mark-1 vest.
It was a grayish-beige garment, made of industrially pressed silk layers and reinforced with overlapping scales of cold-rolled tungsten alloy. It wasn't elegant. It was heavy, rigid, and above all, lacked any chivalrous honor.
"Uncle Pyotr," Alexei said with the patience of a teacher speaking to a student. "It's not a suggestion. It's an order. You promised in March; you have to wear it."
"I am a Knight of the Order of Saint Andrew, Your Highness. I'm not a turtle hiding in a shell," Stolypin replied, turning with blazing eyes. "If God wants me to die today for the Tsar, I'll die standing. I'm not going to walk through the Opera creaking as if I were some kind of soldier from 200 years ago. What will history say? That Russia's Prime Minister was afraid?"
"History will say what I write in it," Alexei cut, his voice losing all childish warmth. He got down from the armchair and walked toward the bed. "And I prefer history to say you were a pragmatic man than to say you were a proud corpse who refused to take care of himself to protect the Empire."
Alexei took the vest. It weighed almost four kilos.
"Listen well, Pyotr Arkadyevich. If you die today, agrarian reform stops tomorrow. In five years, peasants will return to burning estates. In less than seven years, the Empire will collapse. You are the load-bearing pillar. Your life doesn't belong to you, nor to your honor, nor to your family. It belongs to the State; it belongs to Russia."
The child lifted the heavy garment and offered it to him.
"Wear it. Not from fear of death. But from fear of leaving my father alone against the wolves."
Stolypin looked at the child. He saw the hardness in his blue eyes. He saw the burden Alexei carried on his own small shoulders.
The giant sighed, defeated by brutal logic.
"It itches like hell," Stolypin grumbled, removing his immaculate white frock coat.
"That's what I told you a few months ago..." Alexei responded.
Stolypin put the vest over his linen shirt. He adjusted the side straps. It cut off his breathing and forced him to keep his back even straighter than usual. When he put back on the white frock coat and buttoned it, the extra volume was barely perceptible, disguised by his robust build and the sash.
"I feel ridiculous," the Prime Minister admitted.
"You look alive," Alexei pronounced. "Now let's go. The Tsar awaits us."
. . . . . . .
Grand Duchesses' Suite. 17:00 PM.
The atmosphere in the sisters' room wasn't the usual chaos of laughter and hair ribbons. It was the tense silence of a locker room before the championship final.
Tatiana stood, letting her maid fasten the last hooks of her pale pink gala dress.
"You may leave, Anya," Tatiana said.
When the maid left, the 'General' lifted her silk skirt. On her right thigh, secured with a reinforced lace garter, there wasn't a love letter but a thin leather sheath. Inside rested a Toledo steel stiletto, short but sharp as a needle.
"Are we ready?" Tatiana asked.
Olga, seated before the vanity, opened her small evening bag adorned with pearls. Between the handkerchief and the smelling salts bottle, the glass of the chloral hydrate syringe gleamed, protected in a velvet case.
"Ready," Olga said, though her hands trembled slightly. "I hope I don't have to use it. The dose is... hard to calculate."
"Only use it if the tackle fails," Maria reminded, flexing her arms, testing the resistance of her sleeve seams. She was the team's brute force. Her job was to immobilize.
Anastasia was on the floor, rubbing resin on the soles of her new dancing shoes.
"These marble floors are an ice rink," the little one complained. "If I have to run, I'll kill myself before reaching the assassin."
"You won't run," Tatiana said. "You'll slide. Like we rehearsed in the ballroom."
They looked at themselves in the large mirror. Four imperial princesses, beautiful, wealthy, and apparently fragile. History's perfect victims.
Tatiana smiled, but the smile didn't reach her gray eyes.
"Let's dance," she said.
. . . . . . .
Kiev Opera Theater. 19:30 PM.
The heat inside the theater was overwhelming, a suffocating mass composed of two thousand people's breath, cigar smoke from the vestibule, and the dense French perfume of those who prefer being perfumed to a shower.
Kiev wanted to celebrate. The city was bedecked with tricolor flags and portraits of the Tsar. The local elite, Polish landowners, Jewish merchants, and Russian bureaucrats had congregated to see and be seen.
Alexei entered the Imperial Box, walking one step behind his father. The theater exploded in applause and cheers.
"God save the Tsar!"
The national anthem resonated, majestic and deafening.
But Alexei didn't look at the stage. He looked at security.
It was a disaster.
The corridors were packed with standing people. Emergency exits were blocked by extra chairs for VIP guests. And the Okhrana agents... Alexei saw them leaning against walls, distracted, looking at ladies' cleavages or chatting among themselves.
In the center of the chaos, near the orchestra's main entrance, was Colonel Kulyabko, Kiev's Okhrana chief. He displayed his medals and smiled with the arrogance of a man who believes he has everything under control.
'Idiot,' Alexei thought. 'You've left the henhouse doors open.'
The performance began. "The Tale of Tsar Saltan" by Rimsky-Korsakov. The music was beautiful, vibrant, a celebration of Russian folklore.
First act. Nothing. First intermission. People went out to drink warm champagne. Stolypin remained in his seat, surrounded by admirers. Too many people for a clean attack.
Second act. The heat increased. Nicholas II fanned himself with the program. Alexei felt sweat running down his back under his starched shirt. His eyes scanned the orchestra's gloom again and again, searching for anomalies.
And then, during the last measures of the second act, he saw him.
He wasn't a man with a round bomb and smoking fuse. He wasn't a fanatic with bulging eyes.
He was a thin young man, dressed in a rented black tailcoat that was a bit too large. He walked down the left side aisle with such laughable calm.
Dmitri Bogrov.
He carried the opera program rolled in his right hand. But the way he held it was rigid. There was weight inside that paper.
Alexei looked toward the entrance. Kulyabko was there, and when Bogrov passed beside him, the police chief simply nodded. He had given him the pass.
The curtain fell for the second intermission. Applause erupted. The gas lights rose in intensity, illuminating the theater with a golden, cruel glow.
People began standing, seeking fresh air.
But Pyotr Stolypin stood up and walked toward the orchestra pit railing. He stayed there, back to the audience, his white uniform making him the most visible target in the entire Russian Empire.
Bogrov changed direction. He no longer headed toward the exit. He headed toward the pit.
"Papa, don't go out," Alexei said, gripping the Tsar's hand tightly. "Stay here."
"What's wrong, Alyosha? It's hellishly hot."
"Watch the play, Papa," Alexei whispered, not taking his eyes off the orchestra. "The real drama starts now."
In the orchestra, four figures in pastel-colored dresses began moving against the crowd's current, converging toward the front row.
The gunpowder waltz had begun.
A/N: If you've enjoyed this story and want to read ahead, I have +10 more chapters available on my patr eon.com/Nemryz. Your support helps me continue writing this novel and AU. Thank you for reading!