The echoes of the gunshots faded as they reached the heart of town. There, bonfires burned on the banks of the frozen Moscow River. Skaters glided over the ice, in rhythm to gay music from an orchestra. High above the river rose the Kremlin. The turrets, domes, and spires of its palaces and cathedrals soared to the heavens. The Grand Kremlin Palace was a magnificent Byzantine structure of white stone, lavishly gilded. Tiers of arched windows shone, the rooms within lit by crystal chandeliers. From one window, a man gazed down at the skating party. A high, intelligent forehead crowned his eyes, which drooped at the corners. His mustache curled up at the ends, but his mouth did not. His posture was proud, his expression humorless and calculating.

He was Nicholas Pavlovich, Tsar of Russia.

In the chamber where he stood, a lofty, vaulted ceiling arched from carved columns encrusted with gold. An entourage of soldiers, courtiers, and servants awaited his orders. Footsteps rang on the mosaic floor, and a man joined the Tsar. He was a Prussian, whose face had a Germanic cast laid upon pale eyes with heavily hooded lids and a long nose whose end overlapped the upper lip of a cruel, sensual mouth. His close-cropped silver hair gleamed. The Tsar waved his hand, dismissing his attendants. They discreetly faded away.

The only person who remained was a man who had secreted himself behind a column, from where the faintest word spoken in the chamber could be heard.

“What have you to report?” the Tsar asked.

“The agents from England have been put to death,” the Prussian said.

“All of them?”

“… Yes, Your Highness.” The Tsar didn’t notice that a heartbeat had passed before the Prussian answered.

Troubles weighed visibly upon Tsar Nicholas. “More will come. The British are determined to extend their control over the world and diminish mine.