more.
Sorg replaced the pen and checked his pocket watch: 11:45 a.m. Soon he could begin his work. He felt anxious.
As he put away his watch he felt the bulge in his pocket.
He rummaged and removed a small brown pharmacy bottle with a glass stopper. Laudanum tincture. A blend of nine parts alcohol to one part cocaine, commonly sold in pharmacies without prescription. It was becoming harder to find in Russia these days, along with everything else.
It would be tempting to take a few drops to settle his nerves but he resisted. He needed to conserve his supply. Tea and cigarettes would have to do. He replaced the bottle in his pocket.
He lit a cigarette, sipped his tea, and settled down to wait.
And his mind turned to the first time he visited another Romanov palace and encountered the most spirited young woman he had ever met …
5
Sorg would never forget the gala evening at the Peterhof Palace.
The ballroom was full of so many desirable, beautiful women, and they looked stunning in their jewels and fine silks. He found so much beauty almost intimidating, and clutching a glass of Burgundy and dressed in his formal evening suit with tails, he left behind the sound of Strauss waltzes and wandered through gilded palace rooms.
Chandeliers sparkled from a thousand reflections, and centuries-old Bokhara rugs and oil paintings adorned the walls.
Tall negro servants, wearing colorful turbans and robes, came and went carrying silver trays of food along richly carpeted corridors.
It struck Sorg as an obscene irony—streets away in St. Petersburg existed the most deprived slums. Huge tenement blocks where families paid a third of their wages to landlords. Where factory workers lived ten to a room. Men who worked twelve-hour days, with only Sunday afternoons to rest.
Sorg wandered along a corridor dripping with chandeliers. After he’d spent a month in the capital, his palace invite was arranged with the help of the American ambassador. It was meant to be an intelligence-gathering exercise as much as a way of introducing Sorg’s face to St. Petersburg society.
Such sumptuous events attracted the usual crowd—dukes, duchesses, princes of royal blood, ambassadors and diplomatic staff, wealthy businessmen with muttonchop whiskers, and the idle champagne set—including the sinister monk, Rasputin.
Sorg spotted him swanning around drunkenly with a bunch of titled married women in tow. The monk’s bad teeth, long greasy hair, and coarse laugh didn’t seem to deter the ladies’ fascination.
As he passed a room Sorg heard the sound of music and stepped in. A young woman was seated at a gleaming Steinway, playing the opening movement from Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto.
Dark auburn hair trailed down her back in waves, her pale classical beauty complemented by the modest, pastel blue silk dress she wore. A lush figure seemed ready to blossom beneath the silk’s sheen. She looked ravishing. Sorg guessed that she was no more than sixteen or seventeen, but with her high cheekbones and determined mouth, she had a self-assured look.
She played with such joyful intensity that Sorg felt himself captivated. She must have sensed his presence, for she stopped and turned to face him. Sorg put his glass down and clapped.
The young woman eyed him uncertainly and fingered a simple pearl choker around her neck. “I can’t believe that deserved applause. Do you like Tchaikovsky?”
Sorg said, “If you’d asked me five minutes ago, I would have said no. But I think you’ve made me a convert.”
Her eyes were striking, cornflower blue. He was never good with the opposite sex, always found them a challenge, but for some strange reason this young woman made him feel at ease. Maybe it was the spark of mischief he saw in her eyes.
She swung round on the piano stool and smiled. “You’re far too kind. Conrad says I need to practice more.”
“Conrad?”
“My piano tutor, but he’s an idiot. He’s threatening to leave
Sorg replaced the pen and checked his pocket watch: 11:45 a.m. Soon he could begin his work. He felt anxious.
As he put away his watch he felt the bulge in his pocket.
He rummaged and removed a small brown pharmacy bottle with a glass stopper. Laudanum tincture. A blend of nine parts alcohol to one part cocaine, commonly sold in pharmacies without prescription. It was becoming harder to find in Russia these days, along with everything else.
It would be tempting to take a few drops to settle his nerves but he resisted. He needed to conserve his supply. Tea and cigarettes would have to do. He replaced the bottle in his pocket.
He lit a cigarette, sipped his tea, and settled down to wait.
And his mind turned to the first time he visited another Romanov palace and encountered the most spirited young woman he had ever met …
5
Sorg would never forget the gala evening at the Peterhof Palace.
The ballroom was full of so many desirable, beautiful women, and they looked stunning in their jewels and fine silks. He found so much beauty almost intimidating, and clutching a glass of Burgundy and dressed in his formal evening suit with tails, he left behind the sound of Strauss waltzes and wandered through gilded palace rooms.
Chandeliers sparkled from a thousand reflections, and centuries-old Bokhara rugs and oil paintings adorned the walls.
Tall negro servants, wearing colorful turbans and robes, came and went carrying silver trays of food along richly carpeted corridors.
It struck Sorg as an obscene irony—streets away in St. Petersburg existed the most deprived slums. Huge tenement blocks where families paid a third of their wages to landlords. Where factory workers lived ten to a room. Men who worked twelve-hour days, with only Sunday afternoons to rest.
Sorg wandered along a corridor dripping with chandeliers. After he’d spent a month in the capital, his palace invite was arranged with the help of the American ambassador. It was meant to be an intelligence-gathering exercise as much as a way of introducing Sorg’s face to St. Petersburg society.
Such sumptuous events attracted the usual crowd—dukes, duchesses, princes of royal blood, ambassadors and diplomatic staff, wealthy businessmen with muttonchop whiskers, and the idle champagne set—including the sinister monk, Rasputin.
Sorg spotted him swanning around drunkenly with a bunch of titled married women in tow. The monk’s bad teeth, long greasy hair, and coarse laugh didn’t seem to deter the ladies’ fascination.
As he passed a room Sorg heard the sound of music and stepped in. A young woman was seated at a gleaming Steinway, playing the opening movement from Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto.
Dark auburn hair trailed down her back in waves, her pale classical beauty complemented by the modest, pastel blue silk dress she wore. A lush figure seemed ready to blossom beneath the silk’s sheen. She looked ravishing. Sorg guessed that she was no more than sixteen or seventeen, but with her high cheekbones and determined mouth, she had a self-assured look.
She played with such joyful intensity that Sorg felt himself captivated. She must have sensed his presence, for she stopped and turned to face him. Sorg put his glass down and clapped.
The young woman eyed him uncertainly and fingered a simple pearl choker around her neck. “I can’t believe that deserved applause. Do you like Tchaikovsky?”
Sorg said, “If you’d asked me five minutes ago, I would have said no. But I think you’ve made me a convert.”
Her eyes were striking, cornflower blue. He was never good with the opposite sex, always found them a challenge, but for some strange reason this young woman made him feel at ease. Maybe it was the spark of mischief he saw in her eyes.
She swung round on the piano stool and smiled. “You’re far too kind. Conrad says I need to practice more.”
“Conrad?”
“My piano tutor, but he’s an idiot. He’s threatening to leave
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