Chapter 9: Secret Police Hopeful

“So you see, Young Master, the Police Department is an organization established through the reorganization of the Ministry of Internal Affairs’ police division. Its primary duty is not only criminal investigation but the arrest of dissidents… that is, bad people who oppose His Majesty.”

Ever since that dinner, the educational policy of my tutor, Chief Procurator Pobedonostsev, had subtly shifted.

“You are still young, Young Master, but your comprehension is exceptional, so it can do no harm for you to know these things.”

The Tsar must have dropped a quiet word in his ear.

Mikhail dreams of joining the Okhrana (the secret police) when he grows up, so please educate him little by little.

I’d phrased it the way a child would, a policeman who catches people spreading bad ideas, but anyone could see that made me an Okhrana hopeful, right?

– The Okhrana of this era isn’t some KGB-type organization, so nobody’s gonna get suspicious. They’re less power brokers and more grunts getting worked to the bone.

In short, I could pass for a model example of an illegitimate son with an impeccable grasp of his own place.

So all I could do was keep living up to expectations.

“Your Excellency. May I ask you something, though?”

“Please, go ahead, Young Master.”

“In the neighborhood where I used to live, there was a man called Mishka. He worked in a factory.”

The Chief Procurator closed his book with a flicker of mild curiosity.

“Did this man do something unusual?”

“Once, when he was drunk, I overheard him talking. He said that every so often, certain people would come around and hand out books. Books that said things like, a better world is coming, you must rise up.”

“…Hm.”

They say my circumstances weren’t especially comfortable before I came to the palace, so it would hardly be strange for me to have known men who worked in factories.

“But then he came back with one of the books, and he was angry. He said their hands were too clean.”

“Oho, now that is a novel observation.”

“Isn’t it? The hands of the people handing out the books, I mean. No calluses, no grease under the fingernails, hands that were far too white. He asked how the hands of men telling people to rise up and fight could be so different from theirs.”

The Chief Procurator’s eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly.

“And what did this Mishka say then?”

“He said, ‘Those people pretend to be on our side, but in the end they’re just another set of aristocrats we’ll have to work to feed.’ It made such an impression on me that I remember it to this day.”

He’d actually added that even so, they were still better than the factory-owner bastards he’d like to grind up and drink, but there was no need to mention that part.

“Young Master.”

A strange weight settled into the Chief Procurator’s voice.

“How did you take this Mishka’s words, Young Master?”

“Hmm… at first I didn’t really understand. But while going around doing charity work, I met other people who said similar things. One old grandfather who came for bread told me, ‘Those people live abroad themselves while sending us books telling us to do the dangerous work’.”

“That is true as well. I don’t know if you are aware, but most of the traitors who style themselves revolutionaries live in hiding in the safety of England.”

“That seemed strange to me. If you’re truly on the same side, you should share the danger together. But one side stays somewhere safe while making only the other side do the dangerous things… is that really being on the same side?”

Pobedonostsev did not speak for a moment.

A strange silence settled over the drawing room.

At last the old man let out a slow sigh and opened his mouth.

“Young Master. Today I wish to tell you one truth that I hope you will engrave upon your heart.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“Those who call themselves socialists have no concept of loyalty. Their oaths to their comrades, their promises, their faith, none of it is genuine. Their only faith is in themselves. This Mishka you met saw through their hypocrisy by instinct, thanks to a lifetime of hard labor. And that is the reality.”

“Yes, I’ll keep it in mind.”

– Hey. Whatever else, that one is absolutely, unconditionally true, so remember it.

Seong-jun’s voice rang through my head as if it had been waiting for its cue.

As if I needed telling.

I knew with perfect clarity the bloody history of purges the Bolsheviks carried out among themselves after the revolution ended in the original history.

And besides, wasn’t it a Russian missile that hit Seong-jun and crash-landed him in my head in the first place?

Nobody in this world knew better than the two of us what commies without a shred of loyalty were capable of.

An absolute proposition that must not be forgotten and never could be.

That was exactly why I was buying all this trouble for myself in the first place.

If I ended up as some generic Socialist Cadre A, it was a hundred percent guaranteed I’d get a “Thank you for your service, Comrade, farewell” and a bullet in the back of my head.

In other words, simply standing at the front line of the revolution wouldn’t cut it.

The conclusion Seong-jun and I had reached was that unless I climbed to the very top, untouchable by anyone, and became a Tsar who had merely painted his flag red, I would die in the end.

And not just number one, but a number one so overwhelming that other men wouldn’t even dare dream of challenging me.

Trotsky. Stalin.

An overwhelming commie Tsar who would blur not only those two names but even Lenin’s into obscurity.

While I painted that picture in my head, the Chief Procurator closed his book and prepared to wrap up the lesson.

“Young Master. And there is one more thing I must tell you.”

“Yes? Is there extra tutoring, by any chance?”

“No, it is happier news than that. His Majesty has said that you may be brought along to this year’s New Year rite, the Blessing of the Waters on the Neva.”

“…Me?”

The Blessing of the Waters on the Neva was the more religious of the two New Year rites held each year.

With the senior ranks of the Orthodox Church turning out in full force, Pobedonostsev, as Chief Procurator, would naturally have to attend as well.

“Yes. Your formal appearance in society is still a long way off, but it is common for the children of imperial or great noble families to be deliberately brought to grand occasions like this by their parents. One must grow accustomed to the atmosphere of society from a young age.”

“What should I do when I’m there?”

“You need only watch the adults’ proceedings from a balcony or a corner of the venue. There will be no question of joining the dancing or the banquet. The diplomats and other nobles will make no unnecessary show of acquaintance either, so you may quite literally just watch.”

“I understand, Your Excellency. I will be honored to go!”

After the Chief Procurator rose with a satisfied smile and left the room, I sat at my desk for a long while, fidgeting with my fingers.

What was the Tsar’s intention?

– Word about us has already spread through society as far as it’s gonna spread. Could be he wants to manage things, quietly show everyone you’re a kid bright enough for the Chief Procurator to escort in person, so the weird rumors stop spreading.

By any commonsense reasoning, that would be correct.

In the old days, or at least before I entered this palace, I would have agreed with Seong-jun’s deduction.

But consider who my father is.

The last emperor of the Russian Empire, the Last Tsar, His Majesty Nicholas II.

There’s no way our dear father could play a move that sophisticated and political, right?

– …Fair point, actually.

Never, ever read his moves like he’s a man of common sense.

That kind of thinking was exactly what landed me here, condemned to live shut up in this palace until I turn 25, and I couldn’t afford to make the same mistake twice.

Given Nicholas II’s personality, the most likely explanation was that he simply wanted to show off his hardworking son, even if only indirectly.

Failing that, maybe he wanted to reward his admirable boy by showing him a new world.

Whatever the case, if I was being told to go watch, then I’d watch harder than anyone.

The true face of Imperial Russia’s high society, sprinting full tilt toward hellfire.

* * *

“Papa! Papa! It’s not fair that only Misha gets to go!”

“That’s right, that’s right! We want to see it too!”

The moment they heard I was going to the New Year rite, Olga and Tatiana latched onto the Tsar’s arms and began throwing a tantrum.

Ordinarily he would have cut this sort of whining off firmly, but today even the Tsar let a smile slip as he stroked his two daughters’ heads in turn.

“Haha, I’m sorry, my princesses. You’re still too young.”

“Misha’s young too!”

“That’s because Misha is a boy. Around next year, I’ll let you watch from the balcony for a little while as well.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I promise.”

Only then did Olga’s and Tatiana’s faces brighten.

Their eyes, brimming with the expectation that any day now they’d be dancing with the grown-ups in the middle of some glittering ballroom, were unmistakably those of little children.

…But next year, and the year after, and the year after that, it would end with them watching from a faraway balcony.

As far as I knew, the Romanov Grand Duchesses never made a proper society debut even after coming of age.

Courtesy, as ever, of Her Majesty the Empress’s oh-so-loving child-rearing policy.

They lived their whole lives cut off from the outside world, so much so that even being called Your Imperial Highness supposedly felt awkward to them. A society debut?

Nothing more than a dream that would never come true.

Still, best not to dwell on it for now.

To save those girls, I had to survive, and to survive, I absolutely had to pull something off at today’s event.

And for that, having Olga and Tatiana absent actually worked in my favor.

A few days later, I climbed into a carriage alone with Chief Procurator Pobedonostsev and set off for the venue.

“Young Master. As I have said, today you need only watch, listen, and learn. The first rule of society is that a child must never intrude on the adults’ affairs.”

“Yes! I’ll remember, Your Excellency.”

“And among the foreign diplomats, there may be those who take a curiosity in who you are. If they address you, it would be best to greet them politely and excuse yourself.”

“Yes! Greet and retreat.”

“His Majesty permitted you to be brought along solely so that you might grow familiar with the atmosphere, not so that you might attract anyone’s attention. Do not forget that.”

I already knew all of this, but I made a point of folding my hands neatly in my lap and sitting through the old man’s kindly nagging.

Today of all days called for extra effort in playing the model student.

When we arrived at the venue, a solemn spectacle unlike anything I had ever seen in my life spread out before me.

A massive platform, erected temporarily atop the Neva River.

The black cassocks of the Orthodox priests surrounding it stood in vivid contrast against the white snow piled over the city.

The resplendent uniforms of the Imperial Guard, drawn up in ranks to one side, glittered in the sunlight.

At the New Year, the Tsar personally performs the religious rite of breaking the ice of the Neva and dipping a cross into the river, and every high noble and foreign diplomat in Petersburg must attend without exception.

Since the Chief Procurator had to take his place officiating the rite, I was shown separately to a small seat in one corner of the grounds.

The perfect spot for noble children to watch the adults’ proceedings from a distance.

Sitting there, pretending to take a light drink and some refreshments, I slowly swept my gaze over the entire venue.

Of course, at events like this a child is a creature to be seen and not heard, so not a single person openly approached me in my corner.

Still, however they pretended otherwise, I could distinctly feel most of the nobles’ gazes settling on me for a moment, one by one, before sliding away.

“That boy is the collateral Odoyevsky they speak of…?”

“So they say. His Majesty took him in personally, apparently.”

“And doesn’t His Excellency the Chief Procurator tutor him personally, from that tender age?”

“Indeed. The rumors are everywhere that he’s such a genius, for His Majesty to grant him that kind of special treatment….”

Whispers like these brushed past my ears.

Well, all of that was noise with no bearing on my goal, so in one ear and out the other.

– Whew, haven’t even debuted and your name recognition is off the charts. What’s next, autograph requests?

“Shut it for a second. I need to focus right now.”

The truth was, no matter how loudly I sang about wanting to join the Okhrana, there was one limit I couldn’t leap over.

If I took the orthodox route, by the time I actually became Okhrana the revolution would already be at the door. It would be too late, far too late.

So what method should I take?

Seong-jun kept spouting nonsense about how any proper genius detective solves a case in his teens and ends up working alongside the police, that’s just the formula.

But in that nonsense, I caught hold of a thread.

The point was simply to make the Tsar trust my intuition and powers of observation, wasn’t it?

Meaning there was absolutely no need to knock the Tsar out with a tranquilizer dart and put on a deduction show on the spot like in some comic book.

I just had to spoon-feed him.

Set things up so that once the Tsar conceded, even once, that “this child’s intuition is no ordinary thing”, everything afterward would topple on its own like dominoes.

That would move up the timetable for getting my hands into the Okhrana, and above all, once the Tsar himself began trusting my analysis, my political influence would become formidable.

The question was what to serve as the menu for that first spoonful.

Fortunately, the most appetizing prey wandered right into my field of view.

– Found him easier than expected. Told you, an Asian guy mixed in with a crowd of Russians sticks out like a sore thumb.

True enough, an Asian man, and a Japanese one not particularly fluent in Russian at that, was a conspicuously visible presence in this gathering.

Small of build but with his back held ramrod-straight, the man wove among the diplomats, his gaze strangely busy.

To some diplomats he offered lengthy greetings; past others he moved with only a brief nod; and in some circles he deliberately hung back a step and simply listened.

I didn’t even need to check his face against the photograph in Seong-jun’s memory to know at once.

Akashi Motojiro.

Military attaché of the Japanese Legation to Russia, and Lieutenant Colonel of the Imperial Japanese Army.

And, with the Russo-Japanese War on the horizon, a spy on active duty, currently operating inside the country with great vigor and entirely unbeknownst to anyone.

In fact, they say no one caught on to Akashi’s espionage until the war actually broke out, but to a child’s innocent eyes, he simply looked suspicious.

– Ooh, that looks delicious.

I’d have to report him, wouldn’t I?