Chapter 16: All for the Tsar

Just as Mikhail had calculated, the Okhrana was nowhere near as meticulous an organization as its name suggested.

It was the very archetype of an outfit whose notoriety far outstripped its substance.

If the Okhrana had ever seemed like a formidable institution, that was thanks to the KGB, the Soviet Union’s infamous intelligence service of later days.

Until now, Nicholas II had known none of this.

No, he had never tried to know.

The Tsar was a being who reigned, after all.

Meeting the head of the Okhrana in person, a mere chief of secret police, was beneath his dignity, and intelligence was nothing more than scraps of paper the Minister of Internal Affairs collated and passed up to the Tsar.

But things were different now.

The Tsar had been force-fed the truth of just how shoddy the men who supposedly handled this country’s intelligence really were.

Had it been mere garden-variety incompetence, the Tsar might have let it slide with a smile.

A man’s inborn nature doesn’t simply go away.

The problem was that the belief that the Tsar’s throne was a station granted by God was also part of Nicholas II’s inborn nature.

“So, Misha. What you’re saying is that the Police Department and the Okhrana, as they are now, fall short.”

“Anyone can see it, can’t they? Your Majesty is the most exalted person in Russia, the leader God Himself established over Russia. My teacher said so too. And yet those people keep sending Your Majesty false reports and trying to shake Your Majesty’s position.”

However much of a pushover Nicholas II might be, could he simply let it pass when someone tried to shake the throne, the one and only pride he had?

“Your Majesty, do you happen to know how many employees the Okhrana has across the whole country?”

“Hmm… several thousand, surely?”

“I asked the Professor, and he said 49. Even counting every informant, it doesn’t reach 2,000.”

…That few?

The Tsar’s face stiffened.

“Is that true?”

“Yes. England has a much smaller population than our Russia, but their Special Branch alone has hundreds of men.”

Never mind competence; an organization lacking basic muscle simply cannot conduct a proper investigation.

Surely even Niki couldn’t miss common sense this basic.

“And the Professor says the Petersburg headquarters doesn’t even control the Okhrana in the other cities. Moscow is Moscow, Odessa is Odessa, every one of them operates on its own. That’s how a man called Zubatov could decide all by himself to run a workers’ organization that went on strike, and keep running it for 2 whole years.”

With Mikhail’s every word, a creeping sense that something here was very wrong rose in the Tsar’s chest as well.

But what drove the final nail in was not simple incompetence of that sort.

“And, um… Your Majesty, you’ve heard the news from Serbia, haven’t you?”

How could he not have.

Only days earlier, a coup had erupted in Serbia.

How aghast he had been at the report that the king and queen had been murdered in their palace and their bodies hurled out a window.

For Nicholas II personally, this affair had been a far greater shock than the general strike that had broken out across southern Russia just before it.

Every royal house in Europe had likewise reacted with something close to convulsions, denouncing Serbia like mad.

Europe’s royal houses were, in practice, almost all bound by blood, so a king being butchered was no different from one of their own relatives being killed.

Of course, a pro-Russian government taking power was welcome.

But the Tsar was himself an emperor, and he could not hide his revulsion at the fact that a fellow monarch had died so horribly.

“The Okhrana supported this coup, I’m told? That much I know.”

“Right. But my teacher said the Okhrana considers it a successful covert operation.”

The face of Nicholas II, a man who would chuckle through any unpleasant news, crumpled like a scrap of tissue paper.

“The king and queen died that horribly, and they call it a success?”

“Your Majesty, this is what I hate most. The Okhrana people don’t think about Your Majesty’s feelings at all. Your Majesty is an emperor too, so how much it must pain you when the king of another country dies like that. And if they go around boasting that it was their achievement, what becomes of Your Majesty’s honor?”

In the end, what mattered most was these men’s fundamental mindset.

Inside their heads, there was no Tsar.

Only their own achievements and results, with no thought whatsoever for what ripples those results sent toward the Tsar.

Failing to catch foreign spies was not their fault.

Falsifying reports could be shrugged off as standard practice.

A police-run union launching a general strike was simply unavoidable.

And a coup in which a king was brutally murdered counted as a success, because a pro-Russian government came in?

Nicholas II sat in silence for a long while.

This had passed beyond anything that could be endured under the heading of an intelligence service’s incompetence.

This was a desecration of the Tsar’s throne.

The Tsar is the sole leader God has established over Russia.

Men who sent false reports to that leader, who ran an operation that killed a king in that leader’s name, and who then paraded it as an accomplishment.

Thinking of his beloved wife and daughters, and of the son before his eyes, he felt his stomach twist.

“Misha. What should be done?”

His resolve was already set.

But an extreme herbivore man who had grazed on nothing but grass his whole life could hardly break into a sword dance overnight.

Fortunately, his son, wiser than anyone, had grasped even that limitation of the Tsar’s with perfect accuracy.

“I think it would be good to discuss it with the Professor.”

“Yes… that would be best.”

Pobedonostsev was the symbol of Russian conservatism, the man who had long championed the Tsar’s absolute authority.

If it was a matter of strengthening the Tsar’s authority, there was no chance he would refuse.

And so, two days later, two officials were summoned to the Tsar’s audience chamber.

Lopukhin, Director of the Police Department, and Yakov, section chief of the Petersburg Okhrana, stood frozen at attention, tense at an atmosphere quite unlike the usual.

Nicholas II sat silent in the chair facing them, while to his right Pobedonostsev stood with documents spread open, staring fixedly at the two men.

And finally, on a small chair in the corner, sat Mikhail, aspiring Okhrana man.

Call it a seating arrangement designed to drive home the incompetence of an Okhrana that had missed truths even an 8-year-old child could see.

Pobedonostsev spoke first, breaking the silence.

“Let us begin by reviewing the dazzling achievements the Okhrana has shown us this year.”

The old man’s voice was calm itself.

“First, it left the espionage activities of the Japanese military attaché Akashi Motojiro unattended for nearly 2 years.”

Lopukhin’s and Yakov’s shoulders shrank in unison.

“Second, it reported an incident in Kishinev that left dozens dead as a minor disturbance.”

Lopukhin’s gaze fixed itself on the floor.

“Third, a workers’ organization founded by the police themselves led a general strike 200,000 strong.”

The air in the audience chamber sank so heavy it was suffocating.

“Fourth, having involved itself in the Serbian coup, it stood by as the king and queen were brutally murdered, then rated this a successful covert operation.”

At this point the Tsar failed to keep his expression in order and frowned ever so slightly.

Pobedonostsev recited the Police Department’s and the Okhrana’s fantastic parade of incompetence for some 20 minutes beyond these, then closed the file.

“Well then. I take it you both understand why you are seated here?”

Director Lopukhin bowed his head first.

“…There is no excuse.”

“Ah, do not misunderstand. His Majesty does not intend to cast you out.”

The tension packed into the two men’s shoulders loosened, just a little.

“You have both already proven yourselves worthy of His Majesty’s trust. In the follow-up to the Akashi affair, and in the investigation of the Kishinev affair. You have demonstrated your admirable loyalty to the Imperial House with your own conduct. You may take it that this is why you are sitting here now.”

By every appearance the organization was about to be swept clean, and yet you two are not the targets.

Men with long years of field experience in their own right, the two of them slowly began to wear the look of comprehension.

“His Majesty’s will is this. The Okhrana, scattered across the country and each dancing to its own tune, will be bound into one. Its center will naturally be His Majesty, and henceforth all reports must go up to His Majesty directly.”

Lopukhin’s eyes widened.

“Directly, without passing through the Ministry of Internal Affairs?”

“The existing reporting line remains. But His Majesty will receive the same reports simultaneously. If His Majesty judges something amiss, an immediate reinvestigation follows; that is the new system. And he will issue direct orders when necessary.”

Section Chief Yakov cut in cautiously.

“Your Excellency, will the Ministry of Internal Affairs and the other ministries not push back?”

“Do you truly think the current Minister of Internal Affairs will object?”

Everyone understood.

Plehve, who had deceived the Emperor and buried the Jewish affair and the Primorye affair, raising an objection to the Emperor here?

Try it, and he would become a genuine traitor; how could he possibly resist.

No, his only way to survive was to cooperate with everything he had.

“Consolidate the branch offices nationwide under a central chain of command, and fold the dedicated counterintelligence agency now under discussion since the Akashi affair into the same structure. The final recipient of all reports is His Majesty, and His Majesty alone.”

Something began to change in Lopukhin’s and Yakov’s eyes.

If the Okhrana were unified and the counterintelligence agency brought under its wing, the organization’s power would grow beyond all comparison with today.

And reporting directly to the Tsar without going through the Minister of Internal Affairs meant, in effect, acquiring a standing equal to the Ministry of Internal Affairs itself, did it not?

This was not merely keeping their seats; a golden opportunity to climb a full rung had arrived.

No fool alive would refuse this.

“So His Majesty has made up his mind at last.”

Yakov bent deep at the waist.

“I shall do exactly as commanded!”

“As will I. To think Your Majesty had this whole design drawn from the very beginning… truly, you are our Tsar of all Russia!”

Lopukhin folded himself to the same angle.

This time, without even a trip to the bathroom to organize his thoughts, a stroke this audacious.

Gazing down at the two awestruck men before him, Nicholas II said not a single word.

In truth, it was because he had no idea what to say, but to those around him that silence looked like nothing so much as an emperor’s charisma.

Of course, Nicholas II accepted this entire process as only natural.

Well, wasn’t it?

Was it fitting for a Tsar to leave this country’s intelligence in the hands of incompetents who couldn’t match an 8-year-old child?

Of course not.

Niki could puff out his chest and declare it.

All of this was something he, the Tsar, was doing for the sake of this country.

* * *

The consolidation and reorganization of the Okhrana moved faster than expected.

As predicted, Plehve, the Minister of Internal Affairs and the man best positioned to object, acquiesced in silence.

Stripped bare over Kishinev and the Yalu slush fund, his limbs already cut away, there was no way he could stand against the Emperor.

And with the counterintelligence net already riddled with holes, and the strike affair exposing how pitiful their operational capacity was on top of it, what recourse did he have?

The section chiefs of the scattered city Okhranas received a blanket order to submit to central command.

Every chief who refused was replaced, and the system was polished to perfection around the Petersburg Okhrana.

It was a 49-man organization anyway; swap out a few key people and changing the culture is no great trick.

The reporting system changed dramatically too.

The old Okhrana-Police Department-Minister of Internal Affairs line was kept as it was, but a structure was imposed in which the same reports went up to the Tsar simultaneously.

If the Tsar judges something amiss, a reinvestigation order comes down at once.

Shrink a report the way they did with Kishinev, and the original comes up untouched through the other channel; there was no longer any way to hide a thing.

And there was one more change, the one that mattered most to me.

“Section Chief Yakov. From now on, when you come to the palace to report, the Young Master here will sit in.”

“…Pardon? His Majesty did bring him along once before, but….”

“Yes. His Majesty plans to raise the Young Master as the Okhrana’s future leadership. He must observe and learn the practical work starting now, so show him the materials as well, and answer any questions he has.”

By the Emperor’s order, I had secured a window through which I could look through the reorganized Okhrana’s files at will and, when necessary, intervene indirectly.

In the palace, it was common enough for capable children to begin practical training around the age of 10.

For the Tsar to groom a cherished talent as a bespoke expert from this young an age was, if anything, tantamount to declaring just how much weight he placed on the organization, so Yakov had no reason to refuse.

“If it is His Majesty’s will, I shall do my utmost to train the Young Master into the finest intelligence expert there is.”

Every extraneous line in the middle, ministers, Ministry of Internal Affairs officials and all, had been swept clean away, leaving only the Emperor.

But there’s no way my dear old man could actually manage the organization, is there?

In the end, the label may read 8-year-old apprentice, but in practice I had become the Tsar’s intelligence staff officer, nothing less.

-A bastard who swallowed the NIS whole at eight. This too must be the grace of Nicholas II, huh?

As a bonus, Yakov, who had made up his mind to become the Tsar’s faithful blade, very warmly closed the distance with me every time we met.

Still a child, yes, but a child the Tsar had singled out for personally ordered training; teach him well starting now, and there was no telling how great a boon he might be someday. Yakov could hardly fail to see that.

“Section Chief, I look forward to learning from you!”

“Yes, Young Master. The pleasure is all mine.”

Yakov went down on one knee, meeting my eyes, and put on a thoroughly good-natured smile.

“If there is anything you are curious about, you may ask me anything at all.”

“Oh, then… could I also learn about, um, the diplomatic covert operations of the European countries? Things like that?”

“Pardon? Your interest extends even to such matters?”

“Well, His Majesty hasn’t said it yet, but I’ve overheard things at his side. When the counterintelligence agency is formally launched, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ overseas intelligence will come over to us too.”

Yakov’s eyes trembled minutely.

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ overseas intelligence was territory the Okhrana had never dared even dream of.

“Those bad socialists are operating abroad these days, aren’t they? So they say we can’t just handle domestic security; we have to oversee foreign intelligence too, all of it, or there won’t be any unity.”

In the long run, it meant the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, even the military would have to hand their intelligence over to this side.

Yakov’s mouth opened slightly, then closed.

And soon an unconcealable turbulence rose in his eyes.

“Section Chief, I’ll study really, really hard. For our Majesty!”

“Yes. And I will serve His Majesty and the Young Master with all my strength, more than ever before.”

The Russian Empire’s intelligence network would be born anew from this day forward.

Not the hopelessly incompetent organization of old.

But a capable, thorough one, my Okhrana.