The Final Fabergé Read Free

him!” Yusupov said. “For the good of Russia.” He clutched the gun with both hands, his body shaking, his face white and wet from sweat. He said, his voice high and shrill, “I never killed anyone before.”
    The others, led by Purishkevich, pushed past him and went below and into the room where they found Rasputin had fallen onto his back and lay sprawled on a bearskin rug. Dr. Lazovert bent over him and put his hand beside the growing splotch of blood high up on Rasputin’s chest. He pressed fingers against the monk’s neck, searching for a pulse, and apparently not finding one, looked up to the others and nodded.

    Purishkevich took control, ordering Sukhotin to personally report Rasputin’s death to the military command, and for Pavlovich to go forward with the plan previously agreed to for the disposal of Rasputin’s body. To Lazovert he said without a shred of conviction, “You’ve done your work, go home,” making it plain that the good doctor had botched his assignment. Purishkevich edged closer to the prone body, lit a cigar, and spat out shreds of tobacco on Rasputin. He turned and said, “I must use the telephone.”
    Alone, Yusupov sat in a straight-back chair, facing the body, eyes fixed blankly on Rasputin’s face, lips forming words to a childhood prayer. Then he saw an almost imperceptible movement in the dead man’s face. Not possible, his nerves playing tricks, he thought. It had been like a twitch, and then it happened again. One eye opened. Yusupov scrambled to his feet, searching for his Browning, sick with the fright that Rasputin was not dead. Now both eyes were open and the monk rolled half a turn and struggled to his feet and was coming at Yusupov, roaring in anger, blood trickling from his mouth.
    â€œFelix! Felix!” he screamed with a mad voice, saying only the name over and over. “Felix! Felix! Felix . . .” He locked an arm around Yusupov’s head, but the smaller man wriggled free and ran upstairs, finding Purishkevich in his study.
    â€œHe’s alive, God save us!”
    Purishkevich ran quickly, making his fat short legs move with unaccustomed speed, tugging his own revolver from his coat pocket. The basement room was empty, and he hustled back to the main floor, and out to the courtyard, where he found Rasputin stumbling over the banks of snow, shouting, “Felix, I’ll tell the Czarina!”
    Purishkevich fired twice, missing, then moved closer and put a bullet in Rasputin’s back. He moved closer and aimed more carefully. The last bullet tore through the monk’s neck and once again he lay sprawled. Purishkevich went to him and kicked him fiercely in the head.
    Yusupov came into the courtyard, his steward, Nikolai, next to him. The steward bent down over the body. “I think this time he is dead.”
    â€œGet his coat,” Yusupov ordered. “We’ll wrap his body with it, then put him in my car. Later, when the streets are empty, you will take it to Petrovsky Bridge and drop it in the water.”
    Nikolai Karsalov did as he was commanded. It was proper for him to obey orders given by every member of the powerful Yusupov family. He retrieved the coat and as he draped it over his arm, the package that had
so concerned Rasputin fell to the floor. Nikolai hesitated, then tore away the wrapping and opened the box. He held the Egg of Eternal Blessing in his hand, dazzled by the jewels and shining blue enamel. He could not guess its value, nor in that brief moment did it occur to him that the infamous monk may have put a curse on the egg. But he was aware that in all the excitement, Felix Yusupov would not remember that Rasputin had appeared with a package under his arm. He put the egg back into the box, wrapped it, then ran to his room and took a high boot from the bottom of his armoire and crammed the box inside it.

Chapter 2
    LENINGRAD, DECEMBER 16, 1941
    S omeone had fixed the