CHAPTER 12

MAY - JULY 1918 EKATERINBERG

 

The house of imprisonment to which the whole royal family were taken was a two-storey house situated on top of the highest hill in the town, owned by a wealthy merchant called Ipatiev. Commandeered by the Bolsheviks, Ipatiev was evicted and the house was altered to act as a high-security prison, and in April 1918 Nicholas, Alexandra and Grand Duchess Marie were installed, joined a month later by the other members of the family and their retainers; Nagorny, the constant companion of the Tsarevich, a young cook called Kharitonov, a footman called Trupp and a teenage kitchen boy called Leonid Sednev. The lower floor of the Ipatiev house was used as guardrooms and offices, whilst the upper floor was the one used as the prison, with the windows painted over in order that no-one could see in or out. The Bolsheviks called it 'The House of Special Purpose'.

Time was running out for the Romanovs, but the monarchist organisation had still not lost all hope. Royalists of all kinds flooded into Ekaterinberg; from countesses to clergy, from diplomats to doctors, all hoping for the sight and salvation of their Imperial family. There were also, despite the deeply socialist nature of the area, a number of monarchists permanently resident in Ekaterinberg, and such a man was the tailor Baoudin, who had property directly opposite the Ipatiev House. Immediately the Imperial family were interned he sent a telegraph to royalists in Petrograd requesting help. The head of that organisation, a man called Petrovich, held a midnight meeting with the highest ranking royalists in the land.

"We need to get someone in there, quickly." urged a Duke.

"Yes, yes, but who?" queried a Colonel.

"Someone," said Petrovich, "who knows the Family well, whom they trust. Someone who is ruthless, who will kill silently at a moment's notice."

"Do you know someone like that?" asked the Duke eagerly.

"Yes, sir, I do. I used to work for him, as one of his guards while he carried out assassination missions for the Tsar. Owing to extreme pressure from the Revolutionaries, he was forced to quit the country - but he can be found and contacted."

"Excellent. He is our man. If he is successful, he will be well rewarded. He will need backup within the place of imprisonment ..."

"That is being arranged." assured Petrovich.

The royalists made their preparations and, at the end of May, a cryptic telegram reached the Count: "Ekaterinberg needs you."

---oo0oo---

Well established in the community of Lucerne, the Count was disinclined to answer the call. He had for the past two years first lived a life of ease then, becoming bored, he had looked around for a project with which to amuse himself and perhaps reap a financial benefit. Money was no object, but he found it impossible to procure an active interest in Swiss watches owing to the closed-shop fraternity. There was, however, a growing trade in Swiss chocolates and, finding a small factory available on the outskirts of Lucerne, he employed six accredited confectioners and started a business which, in the summer of 1918, was just beginning to interest a sweet-toothed overseas market.

Max fought with his conscience. He knew that the Tsar and his family were imprisoned there, but he could see no good reason for placing himself in the greatest danger by being a part of a rescue attempt. And yet, he reasoned, if Petrovich's monarchists considered him the best man for the job, and, presumably with assistance, he was able to pull it off, he would be a hero and saviour of the monarchist cause. He had proved his loyalty, time and again ... but he had deserted his monarch for a life of luxury and, if he were being completely honest with himself, he was bored at the forced inactivity, very bored indeed. There would also be opportunities to kill... He sent a one-word telegram "Coming."

From a small apartment above his shop in the Pfistergasse, near the lakeside in the town of Lucerne, Max made ready for the most important mission of his life. He realised that the Bolsheviks would arrest him immediately if he travelled as a Russian nobleman. As a precaution when he fled Russia in December 1916 he had used a set of counterfeit papers prepared years before for him by the Ochrana and he had used that name for anonymity during his exile in Switzerland. His new name was Alexei, for his dead father and brother, Maximilianovich, from the first name he had previously used, and Mippipopolous, in memory of Lisa, his Lisa. As Alexei Maximilianovich Mippipopolous he would be visiting a dying relative in Ekaterinberg. So it was that, dressed in a broad-brimmed brown hat, cream-coloured long overcoat and brown suit, Alexei Mippipopolous set out by rail for Ekaterinberg. At the border of Russia he was thoroughly searched and his papers checked, but the lazy, scruffy guard saw no discrepancies, and Alexei returned to his mother country. The journey to Ekaterinberg was arduous, with many enforced stops in order to verify his credentials. Alexei arrived at Ekaterinberg Station at the end of June 1918. He wandered nonchalently down the platform, uncertain whether contact would be made immediately or after he had found temporary accommodation. As nobody approached him, he enquired of the platform master where suitable habitation could be found and was directed to a small hotel at the other end of town from the Ipatiev House.

He registered in a room, settled in, and waited.

Late in the Siberian summer evening a light knock at the door made Alexei jump up from the bed on which he was lying, dozing. He opened the door to reveal a small, white-haired, gnarled old woman, dressed in a long, black dress and pinafore with a shawl, clutched under her chin, covering her head. She looked up into his dark eyes and said simply "Nozh." He drew in his breath sharply at he sound of his password. These people knew exactly who they were dealing with. Good. The old crone crooked her finger in an indication to follow her. He put on his coat and hat as a dual protection against the cool night air and against recognition, and followed her, his heart beating a little faster in excited anticipation.

It was night by the time the little old lady led Alexei up a steep, dark alley which led to the back entrance of the tailor's shop. She wordlessly pointed to the entrance and shuffled on past, leaving Alexei to enter alone. He quickly climbed the flight of steps which took him to the rooms above the shop, then paused at the closed door, uncertain whether to knock or enter unannounced, but the door was pulled open from inside to reveal a man of medium height, black hair brushed straight back, and round, owl-like glasses. He had an inchtape round his neck. "Come in, Count." He ushered Alexei into a small room lit by two candles. There were two other men and a woman in the room. "My name is Erich Baoudin, this is my wife, Ainil, my assistant, Heinrich Kleibenzetl and a royalist associate of mine, Johan Markanova. There are many other royalist cells around town, but it is obviously impossible to hold a large meeting."

Alexei nodded his agreement. "Indeed. What precisely is the situation?" he asked, seating himself with the others around a small table.

"Not good, I fear." replied Baoudin. "The whole family, plus their entourage, are captive in rooms on the upper floor." Baoudin produced a detailed map of the Ipatiev House. "They are in these rooms, here and here." he said, indicating two rooms located next to one another. "In this one are Nicholas, Alexandra and Alexi, and the Grand Duchesses have the other one. Johan here has infiltrated the house, in the guise of a Red Guard. He has witnessed scenes that -" here he glanced at Johan, who continued the sentence himself "I have no wish to discuss, but suffice it to say that none of the family have any privacy whatsoever - some of the guards even follow them to the lavatory."

"Dear God!" exclaimed Alexei involuntarily, deeply shocked at the disgusting incursion of personal privacy. "Who is in charge?"

"Avadeyev. He's a drunken, thieving rascal, and I think the Cheka are about to replace him. There are rumours ..."

"Go on." urged Alexei.

"Well, the Bolshevik Cheka, their secret police, are stationed at the Hotel America, and two new arrivals have just - ah - checked in - Yurovsky and Medvedev."

Alexei visibly jumped. "My God, I know them! Yurovsky was the head of the St Petersburg Bolsheviks. We tried many times to eradicate him and his henchman. Every time we thought we had them, they had escaped. I will not fail this time!"

"At any rate," continued Baoudin, "we cannot consider releasing all the captives. With the weight of the guard in that house, that would be quite impossible. We have, however, been able to get hand-written letters smuggled out of the house, and here's the most important one ..." He unfolded a single sheet of lavatory paper and handed it to Alexei. It had three words scrawled on it -

"Rescue Alexi - Nicholas."

"Hm. That presents us with further problems, lady and gentlemen." Alexei said. "Do you know that the Tsarevich is a haemophiliac?" At the blank expressions on every face, he continued "If the boy is jostled or tumbles and hurts himself, he bleeds internally. The bleeding is almost impossible to stop and it subjects him to the most excruciating pain. I know - I have heard him cry in the night when I was on duty at Tsarskoe Selo and the Winter Palace. However, it is logical that it is the Tsarevich who should be saved." All at the table nodded agreement, looking to him for guidance. He sensed the feeling and responded. "Markanova - can you get me into the house posing as a Red Guard replacement before Yurovsky and Medvedev take over?"

"You would need papers to verify your rank and posting."

"Hm. Is there a good conterfeiter in town?"

"It'll take a couple of days."

"Have we got that long?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Do it, then, and use this name ..." he showed his fake passport to Markanova, who jotted down the name on a blank sheet of paper. "How about a uniform?"

"No problem, there are extras in the store that will fit well enough."

"Good. At this time, two days from now, I shall return." The meeting over, Alexei returned to his rooms.

The next two days he spent reconnoitring the whole town, studying the map of the house and considering possible escape plans. The Ipatiev House was located on a hill overlooking Ekaterinberg at the corner of Vosnessenski Prospect and Vossnessenski Lane. A tall wooden fence surrounded the house, making scaling the wall an impossibility. There was only one way in, and one way out - through the well- guarded gate. Two large, official-looking cars came and went frequently between the house and the Hotel America, as well as service horses and carts to bring in food and other necessary items.

Two nights after the first meeting, at midnight, Alexei retraced his steps to Baoudin's house. Markanova gave him the false papers and cards confirming him as a Bolshevik private in the Red Guard. He donned the Red Guard uniform of dull green with red epaulets and hat, with a belt holding a canteen around his waist. He also was given a rifle with triangular bayonet. Used to wearing military uniform proudly, he had to be shown by Markanova how to 'dress down' to match the bearing and attitude of the typical Red Guard. Then he was ready. "What's the situation inside the house?" he enquired.

"Yurovsky and Medvedev arrive tomorrow morning, so you must get in tonight. I will go in with you - I am expected back on duty at 6 a.m., so will arrive a bit early - over- zealous to my duty, one might say. We shall be - a little tipsy, perhaps, and you a long lost comrade. Understand?"

"Perfectly!" snapped Alexei. "Let's go!"

"How long will you be in?" asked Baoudin anxiously.

"For as long as it takes to get the boy out." replied Alexei curtly, already intent on his mission.

"Go with God!" wished Baoudin's wife as the two men slipped out of the now-unlit room.

They walked round to the front entrance of the tailor's shop and then, hanging onto each other and singing a Party song, the crude words of which Alexei soon caught on to, they caroused their way towards the laconic sentry posted at the gate. In the darkness the sleepy sentry saw two Red Guards, glanced cursorily at their papers and let them through. Markanova led Alexei to the barracks room, where, as quietly as possible, he stowed his kit on an empty bunk bed next to Markanova's before rolling onto it and drifting into a light sleep. Roused at six in the morning, the other guardsmen met their new comrade. Markanova made the appropriate introductions and Alexei was accepted without question into the group of guards. As Markanova had said, the changeover from Avadeyev to Yurovsky and Medvedev took place that morning, and Alexei's credentials were not re-inspected. It was the 4th of July 1918.

As a new member of the Guard, however, he was put on gate sentry duty, which suited his purpose perfectly, as he was able to monitor very closely indeed all the movements in and out of the house throughout the day and night. Eventually, as the rota was changed, he was given the task of guarding the royal apartments. This was the opportunity he was waiting for, to make contact at last with his Tsar. His tour of duty was from midnight to 8 a.m. on the morning of 10th July. As the guards had free access to every room in the house, Alexei simply stepped into the presence of his deposed monarch, who was sitting alone on the edge of his bed. Alexandra was with her children, giving comfort and reassurance none of them felt.

First of all a look of anger crossed the lined and exhausted face of Nicholas, then stunned recognition at the appearance of the familiar figure standing before him in an unfamiliar uniform, saluting. "Count Maltzev!" the Tsar moved forward and embraced the embarrassed Alexei. "It is so good to see a friendly face!"

"Your Majesty, my name is Private Alexei Mippipopolous of the Red Guard!"

"Well, well, I suppose it is!" Alexei could see tears welling in the light blue eyes. "So many times we have received letters to say that we were to be rescued, but no-one has ever come - until now. What is your plan? Can you get us all out?" the eagerness and hope in his voice tore at Alexei's heart.

"Sire, I regret to have to say that that would be impossible." The Tsar's face fell as the last shred of hope was torn from within him.

"Then there's no hope - no hope at all? What of my cousin George in Britain? Anybody?"

Alexei merely shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, Sire. But I am prepared to attempt to rescue the Tsarevich, when the time is right."

"Very well, but when?"

Alexei was about to reply when the door burst open. Alexei, his back to the door, froze. The thought flashed through his mind that, after all, the Red Guards did invade the Tsar's privacy at any time, so there was no reason for him not being there ...

"What's the meaning of this?" booted feet stamped into the room and a hand on Alexei's shoulder pulled him roughly around to face the newcomer.

For a timeless moment the two men looked at each other in stunned disbelief. "Hello, Leonid."

"Orlovsky! You!"

"I take it you know one another." commented the Tsar drily.

"Yes, Sire, we were friends in our youth ..." Alexei' s explanation tailed off as full memory of their last meeting returned. "So this is why you wanted to come back!" he said, taking in the appearance of his ex-comrade. Time had not been kind to Krov - his face was scarred and lined and he was desperately thin. "I have a score to settle with you ..."

"No time for that now, Leonid - you can kill me later. Right now, we have a mission to fulfil - Nozh. Sire, with your permission?" He indicated his wish to withdraw from the Royal presence.

The Tsar nodded and the two men left the room.

"You? You are my contact here?" Alexei's surprised whisper rasped.

"Wait here. When your replacement comes, pretend to him you're ill." commanded Krov.

A few minutes later a sleepy young private shuffled towards Alexei, who was sitting on the floor, clutching his stomach and groaning. Krov came up behind the young guard and helped Alexei to his feet, supporting him with one hand over his shoulder and the other round his waist. With dragging steps, Alexei walked with Krov to the dark and deserted wardroom.

"Nice act." commented Krov as he lit a single candle and placed it in the middle of the solitary table. They pulled up chairs and sat facing one another, both uncertain how to start.

"So you came back to Siberia to join the Revolution!" Alexei' s voice was heavy with cynical irony.

"The system had banished me, Leonid - I did not choose to come here."

"Please - for the duration of my stay here, my name is Private Alexei Mippipopolous."

"Hm. You always were one for changing your name to suit your mission." commented Krov reflectively. "Anyway," he continued, "despite appearances, I am not a Bolshevik - I became a Menshevik instead, wishing a peaceful Revolution. I am still trying to achieve that aim. I, too, would like to see the Royal Family rescued and sent abroad. You have been sent to put that rescue attempt into motion, have you not?"

Alexei sat silent for a moment, deciding whether or not he could trust this man who was once his friend but who was now a stranger. He came to the conclusion that he had no option -Krov was his contact and held a high rank, which could be of vital importance during a rescue bid. "There is another man in here to assist me - Johan Markanova.

"Good. Let him know who I am. Have you formed a plan?"

"We must wait a little while longer, say, a week, until the new regime has settled in. By then the new routines will be set and we can seek out the weak links. It must be by night. Let's see - a week from now is 15th July. We will make the attempt that night. Can you have a horse and cart standing ready that night?"

"It can be arranged. Now, return to your palette - you have been most unwell tonight, tovarich!" They softly laughed together, then parted.

---oo0oo---

During that last week, Alexei became fully aware of the atrocities being committed upon a helpless Royal Family. He was compelled to stand guard outside the Grand Duchesses' rooms while Yurovsky forcefully took his pleasure with them. He heard the sounds of struggle coming from inside, and was helpless to save them. All the girls were systematically and repeatedly abused first by Yurovsky, then by the sadistic Medvedev.

By 14th July it was clear to everyone in the Ipatiev House that something was about to happen. News that the White Russian, anti-Bolshevik, Army were advancing on Ekaterinberg and were expected to attack the Red Army defences within three days had irretrievably spurred the Ural Soviet to take the fate of the Royal Family into their own hands. Yurovsky and a member of the Ural Soviet made a number of trips to the nearby woods to survey possible sites to dispose of the bodies.

By that evening, Krov had organised the rota system in order that Alexei, Johan and himself would all be on duty the next night at differing parts of the house - Alexei, who would rescue the Tsarevich, had guard duty outside the Tsar's door during the night, Krov would guard the main door and Johan was posted on the outside gates. Krov had smuggled in a supply of vodka. He gave two bottles to Johan - one full of vodka, the other full of pure drinking water, and a small horse and cart waited by the side of the house.

Then, to everyone's dismay, Yurovsky ordered a double guard to be placed in and around the house for the nights of 15th and 16th July. No-one was to leave the house. All guards were issued with grenades, pistols and rifles. The position appeared to be impossible, but Alexei, determined not to be thwarted at this late stage and realising that this night would be their one and only chance, decided to go ahead with the plan. The guard on duty with Alexei at the Tsar's door was to be the same young man who came to relieve him when Alexei faked illness, and this gave him an idea.

Just after 8 p.m. that evening the guard changed. Alexei and the youth, called Ivan, took their places, one on either side of the door, and after a few moments Alexei appeared to grow restless then, unnanounced, he turned and opened the Tsar's door, slipped inside and closed it behind him before Ivan could say anything. Inside, Alexei motioned silence to the surprised Tsar, and brought a small phial from his uniform pocket "Give this to the Tsarevich now!" he whispered.

The Tsar drew breath to object but was again silenced by a gesture. "It won't harm him, just make him sleep for a few hours. We attempt the rescue tonight, Sire, and, to carry him, I must have him immobilised. If he cries out, all will be lost. I will return at midnight. Now, I must be noisy and abusive towards you - the other guard will be suspicious." He commenced to shout abuse and obscenities to the Tsar, making sounds as though he were striking his ex-ruler. Then he jerked the door abuptly open and exited. Young Ivan looked at him and smirked knowingly.

Four hours later, all was quiet within the House of Special Purpose. It was time for Alexei to make his first move. Standing to casual attention, he suddenly gasped in supposed pain and held his stomach.

Alarmed, Ivan asked "What's the matter? Are you ill?"

"I have - a pain - ahh!" gasped Alexei. "I think - I'm going to be - sick!" He ran along the corridor to the nearest toilet and, sticking his fingers down his throat, made retching noises for effect. He emerged some time later, his face grey and, still groaning, took up his position again. The two guards standing outside the women's bedrooms around the corner paid no attention to the incident.

Concerned, young Ivan looked at his ailing comrade. "You look terrible!"

"No, no, I'll be all right soon. It's the same -" he doubled up, grimacing, "as the time before. Ahhh!" He slid down the wall and sat on the floor, clutching his stomach and rocking in agony. Alarmed, Ivan ran from his post to Captain Krov Orlovsky, the Officer of the Watch. The instant the boy disappeared downstairs, Alexei got up, dusted himself down and slipped into the Imperial bedroom.

"Ready?" he whispered to the waiting Tsar.

Wordlessly, the Tsar indicated a sleeping bundle of boy. Alexei quickly and gently lifted him from the bed onto the floor and rolled him up into the Turkish carpet. He heard the sound of booted feet climbing the stairs and slipped outside again, resuming his prone position just as Ivan and Krov reached the top of the stairs. The unsuspecting young guard bent over the still form of Alexei, and sank soundlessly to the floor as a vicious chop on the neck, administered expertly by Krov, broke his neck.

Wasting no time, both Alexei and Krov entered the Tsar's room and Alexei swept the light body concealed in the carpet up and over his shoulder. Krov checked that the stairs were clear and waved Alexei on, covering his back. Alexei, unable to hurry with the precious burden he carried, reached the front door of the house after Krov. Krov slipped the bolts as quietly as he could and Alexei slipped outside into the darkness towards the waiting horse and cart, placing the boy gently in it. Up at the front gate, Johan had got his fellow guard quite drunk and, at that precise moment, the guard was standing, one hand propped against the wall to stop falling as he relieved himself.

Johan walked across as though patrolling the gate then, as he stood behind the defenceless guard, he suddenly delivered a karate chop to the base of the man's skull. The guard crumpled, and Johan had to stop him from falling, then arrange him as though he was still standing on guard by leaning the body against the wall. The way was now clear for the escape to be completed. He would open the gates at the last possible moment as the cart drew out.

A sound behind them as they placed the Tsarevich in the cart made the rescuers freeze. Suddenly the whole courtyard was ablaze with light from the searchlight on the roof. Silhouetted in front of the piercing beam was the large, thick-set form of Medvedev and the smaller, elegant form of Commandant Yurovsky.

"Going somewhere, gentlemen?" Yurovsky and Medvedev moved from the direct light to stand beside the cart, the pistols in their hands aimed directly at Krov and Alexei's hearts. Yurovsky casually strolled round the back of the cart and roughly flipped open the carpet. "Well, well, well. What have we here?" Yurovsky's voice was smooth, malevolent. "So, Captain Orlovsky, you are a traitor!" Medvedev raised the butt of his pistol as though he was going to club the sleeping child.

"NO!" Krov leaped forward to save the boy Yurovsky's pistol spat fire and Krov staggered, a look of surprise on his face. He put one hand to his chest and looked at the blood, then slowly crumpled. He was dead before he hit the ground. Panicking, Medvedev grabbed the butt of his pistol and hurriedly shot at Alexei who, in the split-second given him, tried unsuccessfully to evade the shot. He was thrown back by the impact of the bullet, the side of the cart stopping his fall. He slid to the ground and lay face down in the dust.

"Dammit, Medvedev, you trigger-happy bastard, I wanted one of them alive!" spat Yurovsky. Placing his boot under Alexei's prone body, he roughly pushed him to lie face-up. Alexei groaned and gripped his left side, curling up in agony. "Huh! Lucky for you - this son of a pig's still alive! Take him, and that whelp" he said, indicating the still-sleeping Tsarevich, "inside."

Medvedev booted Alexei, who gasped, grimacing in pain. "Up, you swine, get up!"

Alexei pulled himself erect, his right hand, clutching the wound, red with blood. "MOVE!" shouted the pitiless assassin, violently poking the pistol barrel into the small of Alexei's back, making him stumble. Alexei cast one glance at Krov's body. The sightless eyes were gazing directly at him. "Farewell, tovarich," thought Alexei as he staggered past, "I think perhaps it won't be too long - before we meet again ..."

"GUARD! Take this traitor to the basement!" Medvedev's big hand held Alexei's arm in a vice-like grip and he was marched, two guards armed with rifles behind him, half-walking, half-falling, down a flight of stairs. Yurovsky unlocked a door and Medvedev threw his captive violently in. Alexei fell on his injured side and rolled on the floor in agony. A table and chair were the only furniture in the room. "Get a rope and tie him up!" commanded Yurovsky. Medvedev tied him tightly into the chair, arms behind him, legs lashed to the chair. He was unable to move. "Right. First we deal with the Romanov whelp, then we come back to deal with you. If you're lucky you'll be dead before we get back to you!" and Yurovsky, summoning all the saliva he could, spat full in Alexei's face before he, Medvedev and the guard who had brought the rope marched out of the dark room, locking the door behind them.

Alexei tried to clean the spittle from his face, but every movement increased the throbbing agony in his side, and soon all feeling in his hands and legs disappeared as the tightly-bound ropes cut off his circulation. He wondered how long he had. The room was in pitch darkness except for a small window near the ceiling. Even if he could free himself, it was too tiny for him to squirm through to freedom. He was well aware of the methods of torture employed by the Cheka and realised that, if they discovered or recognised him, his death would be a slow, and excruciatingly painful, affair. With his knowledge of the house, he knew there was no way of escape. He started to feel cold, so very cold, and his body shook violently with reaction. He dimly realised, as he slipped into unconsciousness, that he was dying ...

He came to, his face damp with sweat, to the sound of vigorous movement in the adjacent room. As the mist before his eyes cleared, he realised that furniture was being moved out of the large room and being carried upstairs. Suddenly the door burst open and Yurovsky, Medvedev and four other armed guards entered. "Light, Medvedev, put on the damn light!"

"Uh? Oh." and the big man fumbled for the light switch, found it. Alexei's head was slumped to his chest, his dark hair falling over his face. Yurovsky strode forward and grabbed his hair, jerking his head upright, then threw it forward again.

"Still alive, I see. Pity. Medvedev - wake him up." Medvedev thought for a moment, then, with a smile and an evil laugh revealing broken teeth, he walked up to the semi-conscious Alexei, and, producing a cosh, he started to hit him in the face and body near the gunshot wound. Alexei cried out in pain, twisting and turning in the chair in a vain attempt to parry the blows.

"Ahh, awake at last, I see." commented Yurovsky smoothly, apparently enjoying the exhibition. "Now, who have we here? What's your name? Medvedev, stop that."

Alexei stared insolently and defiantly at his captors, resigned to humiliation and degradation but vowing, deep within him, that, if ever he should escape, these men would die by his hand very slowly indeed. "Ah, silence, I see. Medvedev, persuade him further. No, wait!" Yurovsky halted his henchman, who was advancing with the cosh. "Wait - I seem to find your face familiar. Do I know you?"

"Here it comes." thought Alexei, who still kept his silence.

"Medvedev, re-arrange his face!" The cosh struck him hard and a cut opened on his right cheek, the blood flowing. "Again!" This time the club struck hard over his wound, making him cry in agony. "You do not have much time left, soldier, so I would advise you to talk now - and I will make your last hours on this earth a bit easier. Now - where have I met you before?" When he received no reply he nodded to Medvedev, who struck him repeatedly until his face was swollen and bleeding and his eyes bruised and closing. The pain was unbearable and the fever from the wound was increasing, but Alexei kept his counsel. "Oh, dear. Stubbornness never did pay. I fear we must work more on that gunshot wound. Guard - strip him!"

The guard, untying Alexei's hands, tore the blood-soaked uniform jacket and shirt from his back. The wound was red and angry - suppuration had already set in and it was still bleeding. The bullet had hit a rib, splintering it, then exited his body. The guard resecured his hands to the back of the chair, then Medvedev went to work, obviously enjoying himself.

Gasping and semi-conscious, Alexei struggled to stay awake. Finally the agony became unendurable and Alexei broke. "I'll tell you, I'll tell you, you devils - please - stop it!"

"Very well - stand back, Medvedev. Now ..."

"Krasnoe Selo - you were - one of the officers - and Krov and I - students."

"Ah, yes, now I remember. But, as I recall, Orlovsky's only friends were Lev Yashkov and Leonid Ulakov-Holstein, and both of them are dead."

"No, not both of them."

"Ulakov-Holstein! But you were shot in front of a firing squad years ago!"

"No, I was not. The Tsar - had - other uses - for me ..."

"Other uses - what other uses?" Alexei's head dropped to his chest. "Medvedev! Wake him up again!"

Medvedev grabbed Alexei's hair and slapped his face vigorously till his swollen eyes flickered open. His whole body was shaking and glistening with the sweat of fever, his wound bleeding badly again.

"Now, Holstein, tell me what you did for your precious Romanov!" Yurovsky shouted.

His head suddenly clearing, in an unwise show of defiance he eyes flashed as he replied "I killed bastards like you!"

"An assassin! The Tsar's assassin! We've been trying to get you for years - and now - you just fall into our hands!" Yurovsky laughed wickedly and Medvedev followed his example.

"Can I kill him now, boss? Can I? Can I?" Medvedev raised his handgun to Alexei's head, cocking the trigger and sniggering in anticipation. Alexei closed his eyes, preparing for the explosion in his brain that would bring an end to the torture.

"No! No, wait! I have an idea - Medvedev, listen..." and he drew the big Russian aside, whispered in his ear, finishing aloud with "...and then we kill him!" Both men exploded into riotous laughter. "An excellent idea, don't you think?" Medvedev brushed the tears of laughter from his eyes, nodding his agreement. "But first - we have - preparations - to make for the 'party' tonight, haven't we, Medvedev?" Yurovsky looked at his captive, who had lapsed into unconsciousness again. "Leave him there - he isn't going anywhere!" and they marched out of the room, slamming the door and leaving a solitary guard outside. Alexei drifted in a twilight world of semi-consciousness. He was dimly aware of the shafts of daylight penetrating the small room from the tiny window above. Despite the sunlight the tiny room was still cold and he was trembling violently with fever, verging sometimes into delerium. During a period of consciousness he was forced to foul himself, watching as his urine seeped through his trousers and ran off the chair to form a stinking puddle on the floor around him. He had lapsed into unconsciousness again when the door was opened by the guard and a tall, stout man entered with a bag in his hand. He gasped as he recognised the man he had been sent to revive, and saw his wretched condition. Dr Eugene Botkin, physician of the Imperial Family, had been ordered by Yurovsky to keep him alive for as long as possible. Dr Botkin set to work. Turning to the guard standing over him with a rifle at the ready, he asked in a gentle voice "Please, release this man - I cannot administer to him like this. I request that you bring in a bed." The guard withdrew and returned shortly afterwards with Yurovsky. "I repeat, Yurovsky, if you want me to save this man's life, please let me lay him on a bed."

"And what if I don't?" responded Yurovsky gruffly.

"He will be dead within the hour." stated Dr Botkin simply.

"Huh." Yurovsky detailed a guard to do the doctor's bidding. Botkin cleaned, strapped up and patched the bullet wound and Alexei's battered face as best he could, then forced an herb tea down Alexei's gagging throat. "That should help him for a while, but he must be taken to hospital immediately." advised Botkin.

"He's going the same place as you!" answered Yurovsky enigmatically, and the guard pushed Botkin out of the room.

The night of the 16th of July 1918 fell. At 10.30 p.m. the Royal Family went to bed as usual, but were awakened by Yurovsky at midnight and told that, because of the advancing Czechs and White Army, the Regional Soviet had decided to move them. Simultaneously, Medvedev unlocked Alexei' s prison door. Alexei was lying propped up on the bed, bare to the waist, eyes glassily staring ahead of him. Alarmed that his quarry had died before fulfilling his Commandant's plan, he strode forward and shook Alexei violently. Alexei groaned. Medvedev pulled him up, put on a Red Army jacket and hauled him to his feet where he stood, head bowed and swaying, clutching his wounded side, his face bruised and swollen.

There came the sound of many feet descending to the basement, and the whole Royal Family and their remaining entourage, including Dr Botkin, the cook Kharitonov and the kitchen boy Sednev, the footman Trupp and the Tsarina's parlourmaid, were led into the room adjacent to Alexei' s. Medvedev violently pushed Alexei out of the anteroom and into the other room where all were assembled. Yurovsky was there, and so were all of his Cheka guards. Through a mist of pain Alexei could see the Tsar standing, holding the Tsarevich in his arms. Alexandra sat on a chair. The three Grand Duchesses stood, along with the other members of the suite. The Tsar's eyes widened in recognition of Alexei, and a look of concern crossed his face as he saw his faithful and loyal employee's serious condition. He opened his mouth to speak, but, turning to address his Royal captives, Yurovsky announced "I told you that we were moving you, but I'm afraid that is no longer possible. You friends have tried to rescue you, but, as you can see -" he turned to the swaying Alexei "they have been thwarted." The Tsar's blue eyes were calm, pitying, as he looked first at Alexei s wretched condition, then at Yurovsky. Yurovsky drew an extra pistol from his belt and put it in Alexei's weak hands, then placed his own pistol against Alexei's temple. "Shoot the Tsar." he said calmly. Alexei's eyes widened in shock when he suddenly realised what was about to happen. "No! No, don't make me do it!"

Yurovski cocked his pistol. "Do it - now!"

"No! Never!"

"Alexei..." the Tsar's voice was calm, "make it easy for me." Alexei realised it was the last, best duty he could perform for his Tsar. With terror in his soul, Alexei carefully took aim at the Tsar's heart and pulled the trigger at point-blank range. The Tsar, still holding his sleeping son, was thrown back and fell dead.

"You said you were the Tsar's assassin, now you truly are the Tsar's assassin!" Yurovsky shouted in triumph and laughed insanely as a fusillade of shots from the Cheka guard mowed down every member of the Royal party. They fired and fired and fired again until their ammunition was spent and the smell of gunpowder, blood and excreta from the still-twitching bodies filled the air.

Alexei stood, mouth agape in disbelief at the horrific scene he had just witnessed, the smoking gun still in his hand. "No!" he whispered, sinking to his knees. He raised the gun to his head to take his own life, but it slipped from his numb fingers and slid undetected beneath a bleeding body. "No! You've killed them all! You made me - kill my Tsar!"

"Check that they're all dead, make sure of it!" ordered Yurovsky, his face flushed, his body reacting to the orgy of death and vengeance he had commanded. The Cheka death squad moved amongst the pile of bodies, stabbing and clubbing with rifle butts anyone who moved.

"And now it's your turn to die, traitor!" spat Yurovsky as he turned to Alexei and raised his pistol to Alexei's head. Alexei, head bowed, closed his eyes. The hammer clicked, and clicked again. There were no bullets left in Yurovsky's gun. "GUARD!" he roared in frustrated anger. A young soldier, cap pulled down over his eyes, entered the room and gasped at the ghastly sight that met his eyes. "Kill him!" ordered Yurovsky, pointing at the defenceless Alexei. "Kill him now!"

Alexei recognised the guard. It was Johan. Resigned to his fate, he nodded imperceptibly as Johan took very careful aim, and fired. Alexei was thrown back over the bodies of the Tsar and the Tsarevich. He lay face down and motionless, a red weal from the glancing blow of the bullet on the side of his head seeping blood into his hair. "Is he dead?" asked Yurovsky. Johan bent over Alexei's still form and, to his relief, felt a faint heartbeat, but reported "He's dead, sir!"

"Good! Dispose of all the bodies to the mine!" and Yurovsky and Medvedev marched out of the execution room, elated at their night's work.

The floor was slippery with the blood flowing from the corpses and the guards were nauseated by the stench, so they did not check the bodies as thoroughly as they should have done. Johan stood over Alexei's body to protect him from being bayoneted. He had noticed a tiny movement from one of the girls' bodies and, whilst watching that no other guard came near Alexei, he checked the body of Grand Duchess Anastasia and felt a flicker of life there, too. Anastasia lay under the bodies of her two sisters. She had moved to the back a moment before the firing started and, although she had been hit by a ricocheting bullet behind her right ear and had been stabbed in the foot and clubbed about the face by an over- zealous guard, she still held on to life. The execution party left the room to its silent inhabitants and went off the celebrate by drinking vodka and dancing to exorcise the memory of that dreadful room. But one guard stole back. Alexei had not revealed Johan's identity under torture and Johan's loyalty to the Cheka was therefore not suspect. It was now immediately urgent that he get Alexei and Anastasia out, alive. Yurovsky had arranged for trucks to be ready at the side of the house in order to transport the bodies, under cover of darkness, to the mine shaft called 'The Four Brothers', situated outside of Ekaterinberg, into which they were to be dumped and incinerated. In the excitement of the moment, Yurovsky had not given the order to remove the corpses, thus giving Johan his only chance of rescue.

Alexei lay unconscious amongst the mound of bodies, their blood mingling with his. Johan reached into his pocket and produced smelling salts, which he hoped would be enough to jolt him to consciousness. He waved it under Alexei's nose, and suddenly his head jerked back from the pungent ammonia and he coughed convulsively, moaning and holding his injured side. "Alexei! Can you hear me? Can you stand? You've got to get up! Please, try to get up! We've got to get out of here!" and Johan put his arm under Alexei's shoulder and hauled him upright.

"Ohhhhh!" Alexei's groan was a mixture of pain and anguish as memory returned. "My head!" He held his head, closing his eyes from sight of the carnage . "No! Please - let me die with them! I failed - all dead - please - leave me - to die!" his voice was husky and feeble.

"No, you haven't failed! One of the Grand Duchesses is still alive! Come on, you must help me if you can to get her, and yourself, out of this hell-hole alive!"

Johan moved to the back of the room and re-checked Anastasia' s pulse. Yes! There was a beat! He pulled her sisters' bodies away from over her and looked around. There was a large travelling rug that Alexandra had brought with her, thinking they were going to experience the cool, Siberian night air.

Perfect. He wrapped Anastasia up in it and slung her young body over his shoulder. "Alexei - can you climb the stairs?"

"Please - go on without me - so weak - must - rest." and he sank to the ground.

"No, Alexei, come on, you can make it - just a few more minutes and you'll be safe!"

Alexei struggled to his hands and knees and, with the last vestiges of his waning strength, dragged himself up the stairs behind Johan, who walked swiftly with his precious bundle out of the unguarded door. The whole of the Cheka guard were either celebrating their liberation from oppression, or preparing to evacuate the house in the face of the rapidly advancing White Army, all unsuspecting of the audacious escape being carried out beneath their very noses. Johan had previously placed Krov's body in one of the trucks, so there was one real corpse there for inspection. He gently placed Anastasia, still covered in the rug, into the back of the truck, then returned for Alexei, who had collapsed and lay on the stairs. Johan carried him to the truck as well. Alexei, soaked in blood, his face chalk white, looked very dead. Johan covered Krov's body and Alexei with a tarpaulin, then climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine, driving slowly towards the gate. The double guard there halted him. "Corpses for disposal at the mine!" he lied casually. The guard flipped the tarpaulin up. Krov's dead face stared back at him. He quickly covered up the ghastly sight and waved Johan on, through the gates of the Ipatiev house and out to the safe haven of the Baoudin house.

---oo0oo---

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GO TO CHAPTER 13