March 11, 1911.
Imperial Greenhouse, Winter Palace.
The air inside the Grand Greenhouse was, in itself, a flagrant contradiction of Russian reality. Outside, on the Neva embankment, the wind howled relentlessly, dragging sleet against the granite walls while the thermometer descended to ten degrees below zero. However, behind the reinforced glass and iron structures, a carefully manufactured tropics reigned: a dense, humid atmosphere loaded with perfumes.
The smell of freshly watered soil mixed with the penetrating trace of nitrogen-rich fertilizers, used without restraint to sustain that ecosystem, above it all floated the almost cloying sweetness of orchids, exotic flowers the Empress had brought from Brazil through discreet and expensive trade routes, as if even botany should submit to her will.
Pyotr Arkadyevich Stolypin walked along the gravel path with that notorious heaviness of a man who wears an invisible lead vest twenty-four hours a day. Russia's Prime Minister had visibly aged in the last winter. His black beard was streaked with gray, and his shoulders, usually square like those of a draft ox, seemed to yield slightly under the weight of sustaining an Empire that resisted being saved.
Stolypin had survived much. He had seen his country house blown to pieces, killing dozens and injuring his own children. He had survived poisons, court intrigues, and the Duma's shouts. But upon entering the greenhouse and seeing the child waiting for him beside a giant water lily pond, he felt a different kind of apprehension.
Alexei was crouched down, observing a small green plant with leaves shaped like open jaws.
"Your Highness," Stolypin greeted, removing his top hat and wiping sweat from his forehead. The place's humidity was suffocating for a man dressed in a wool frock coat. "What is that dangerous plant you wanted to show me so urgently? A new species discovered in the Amazon?"
"It's called Dionaea muscipula, Uncle Pyotr," Alexei said without looking up. "Venus flytrap. It's fascinating. It produces sweet nectar on its edges to attract insects. It seems harmless. But when the fly touches the sensitive hairs inside..."
Alexei gently touched the leaf's interior with a pencil. The trap snapped shut with terrifying speed, catching the wood.
"...the plant becomes executioner," Alexei finished, standing up and dusting off his hands. "But I didn't call you to talk about botany, Prime Minister. I called you to talk about another kind of predator."
Stolypin tensed. He looked around instinctively to ensure the imperial gardeners were out of hearing range.
"I'm listening, Your Highness."
"He's a lawyer in Kiev," Alexei said, cutting all diplomatic preamble.
"A lawyer?"
"Dmitri Bogrov," Alexei murmured. Pronouncing that name was like throwing a stone into a pond that until then had remained calm. "My colleagues from the Special Section have found his name on a list of recurring payments. These aren't transactions from legitimate clients, but from a numbered account in Zurich. British money, Pyotr, from the same origin that financed that attempt to burn the Gatchina aerodrome."
Stolypin frowned, pulling out his silver cigarette case to have something to do with his hands.
"Bogrov... The name sounds familiar. I think it appears in security reports as an Okhrana informant in the local area. Lieutenant Colonel Kulyabko, Kiev's security chief, says he's a very reliable asset. He's handed over several minor anarchists to us."
"He's a toxic asset," Alexei pronounced coldly. "He's playing both sides. Or three. They pay him to live well. The Okhrana pays him for old information. And the anarchists believe he's their man inside the system."
"What are you suggesting, Your Highness? That he's an agent provocateur?"
"I'm suggesting he's the weapon they've chosen to kill you, Pyotr."
The Prime Minister stopped with the cigarette halfway to his lips. The silence in the greenhouse was only broken by the dripping of the irrigation system.
"Me?"
"Some people have tried industrial sabotage and it failed thanks to our decentralization. They've tried financial blockade and it failed thanks to Nobel," Alexei explained, walking around Stolypin. "They've understood you're the load-bearing pillar. You are stability. Agrarian reform is working; peasants are stopping listening to revolutionaries. If you die, the reform stops, the government collapses, and Russian asset values plummet. Without you... the Empire would cease to exist as such."
Stolypin lit the cigarette, exhaling smoke toward the palm leaves. His face recovered that mask of Russian fatalism that so frustrated Alexei.
"I'm aware I'm a target, Your Highness. I've lived with death on my shoulder since 1906. If it's God's will..."
"To hell with God's will!" Alexei exploded, losing his composure for a second. "This isn't theology! You are State infrastructure! You're not a martyr; you're part of it, and I'm not going to allow a foreign corporation to break you to improve their profit margins!"
The child's vehemence left Stolypin frozen in place.
"The Tsar plans to visit Kiev in September to inaugurate the monument to Alexander II," Alexei continued, recovering control. "You'll go with him. It's mandatory."
"Yes. It's my duty."
"Everyone knows you'll go. They have the itinerary. They'll use that visit." Alexei pulled out a folded blueprint from his inside pocket. He unfolded it on a gardening table dirty with soil. "The Kiev Opera. A gala performance. 'The Tale of Tsar Saltan.' You'll sit in the front row of the orchestra, not in the armored box."
"I like being close to the stage," Stolypin admitted.
"It's a security nightmare. Difficult access control, narrow corridors, alternating lighting." Alexei pointed to the orchestra entrance. "Bogrov will request a pass. He'll say he has urgent information about an attack on the Tsar. Kulyabko, that arrogant imbecile, will let him in because he'll want credit for saving the Emperor. And then, during intermission, Bogrov will approach you."
"How do you know all this with such certainty, Your Highness?" Stolypin asked, looking at the child with a mixture of fear and astonishment.
"Because it's what I would do if I wanted to kill you and had an unlimited budget and incompetent police in my favor," Alexei lied, hiding his historical omniscience.
"Then let's detain him. I'll order his arrest tomorrow," Stolypin said.
"No!"
Alexei put his small hand on the giant's.
"If we detain him now, in March, those who sent him will know their plan has failed. They'll send another assassin in September. Someone we don't know. It could be an expert or a bomb on the train tracks. Bogrov is the devil we know."
"What do you propose?"
"Isolate him. Cut off his access to quality information, but leave him free. Make him desperate. And in September... let him enter the Opera."
Stolypin paled. "You want me to let my assassin in?"
"I want him to enter a trap," Alexei corrected. "The Special Section will be there. My sisters and I will be there. We'll watch him. We'll let him approach. And when he pulls out the weapon... we'll capture him alive. We need him to confess who paid him. We need to expose his masters to the world."
Stolypin threw the cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his boot.
"It's madness, Your Highness. You're asking me to be the bait."
"I'm asking you to trust me," Alexei said. "But I'm not going to send you naked into battle."
Alexei signaled toward a large flowerpot. Behind it was a cardboard box.
"Neva Technical Solutions has developed something. They called it the Mark-1 model."
Alexei pulled out the vest. It was beige, ugly, and rigid.
"Pressed silk and tungsten alloy scales," he explained. "It stops a revolver bullet at five meters. I want you to wear it in Kiev. Under your frock coat."
Stolypin looked at the garment with evident disgust.
"Your Highness... a Russian gentleman doesn't hide behind metal plates. If I must die, I'll die standing. I won't use that. It's cowardice."
Alexei sighed. He knew he would say that. Romantic fatalism was Russian aristocracy's terminal disease.
"Do you think it's cowardice?" Alexei asked softly. "Do you think soldiers who wear helmets are cowards? Do you think sailors who travel on armored ships are cowards?"
"It's different."
"No, it's not. You're a soldier, Pyotr. Your battlefield is the Ministry. And if you die from pride, you won't be a hero." Alexei hardened his voice. "You'll be a deserter. You'll be abandoning my father, who is weak without you. You'll be abandoning me. And you'll be abandoning Russia to the wolves."
Stolypin looked at the child. He saw the real anguish behind the manipulation, that for Alexei, his survival wasn't only political, but rather personal. He was fond of him, or so it seemed even if only a little.
The Prime Minister ran his hand over the vest's rough fabric.
"It itches," Stolypin finally said.
"It itches like hell," Alexei admitted with a half smile. "But it's better than a hole in the chest."
"Alright," Stolypin conceded. "I'll wear it. But with one condition, Your Highness."
"Tell me."
"I'll control the Kiev police purge after this. If Kulyabko is as incompetent as you say, I want to be the one to tear off his epaulettes."
"Deal."
Alexei extended his hand. Stolypin shook it. It was a small hand lost in an enormous hand, but the grip had the same force of will.
"Now leave, Uncle Pyotr," Alexei said, looking back at the Venus flytrap. "I have to study how this plant digests. I think we'll learn a lot about how to treat Mr. Bogrov."
A/N: If you've enjoyed this story and want to read ahead, I have more chapters available on my Patreon at patreon.com/Nemryz. Your support helps me continue writing and translating this alternate history epic. Thank you for reading!