The Kremlin Games(125)

“And that could be dangerous.” Sheremetev nodded. “I’ll look into it.”

* * *

Director-General Sheremetev did indeed look into it. He interviewed both Bernie and Natasha and came away from those interviews uncertain. Bernie really was too valuable an asset to dispose of casually. He understood what was being built in the Dacha better than any other single person. That very knowledge made him more dangerous.

That night at dinner, Natasha asked the question that they had all been wondering about. “What is the situation in Moscow?”

The director-general looked at her then turned to Bernie. “Are you familiar with the Tokugawa shogunate of Japan?”

Natasha knew that before Bernie had come to the Dacha he would have been, at best, vaguely familiar with the history of Japan or the rule of the shoguns. However, while most of his education as a consultant at the Dacha was technical, some of it was historical, especially for what was now current history. And Bernie had ended up translating or helping to translate quite a bit of history.

“Yes, a bit, Director-General Sheremetev. The emperor is mostly a religious figurehead. He reigns, but he doesn’t rule. It’s the shogun who has the real political power.”

Sheremetev nodded. “Yes, that’s basically correct. I believe we need a similar system here in Russia, given all the problems we’ve had with our czars. I believe Russia needs a strong hand at the reins, but doesn’t need—certainly can’t afford—the sort of, ah, disruption that a dynastic squabble would produce. To provide the first while avoiding the second, I have taken on a role analogous to that of shogun. Mikhail never really wanted the power of the throne, anyway. This way Mikhail will remain safe, comfortable and secure . . . as long as there is no trouble.” He smiled.

It was, Natasha thought, an extremely cold smile.

“Mikhail’s limited year was a good plan, poorly executed,” he continued. “We do need more gold and silver to augment the paper money and to use in foreign trade. However, the way he did it, without properly preparing the ground, almost led to a revolution.”

Natasha didn’t snort, not even under her breath, but she wanted to. Yes, the dvoriane were upset, but they never would have rioted unless they believed that they had support in the Boyar Duma.

“He had no means in place to ensure the loyalty of the service nobility,” Sheremetev continued. “That is why I have created the post of political officer. Russia had them up-time under Stalin’s rule. They watched the service nobility, even if they called it something else in the twentieth century. Political officers will be mostly, but not entirely, deti boyar, whose job is to make sure that their charges don’t do anything stupid. I thought of using the church, but people get really upset about things like that.”

Suddenly everyone was looking at Colonel Leontii Shuvalov.

Director-General Sheremetev noticed and laughed. “Oh, not at all. Leontii is a fine man, but not nearly the right man for this. The new political officer for the Dacha is . . . Cass Lowry.”





Chapter 72



A hunting lodge just west of Tatarovo



Mikhail Romanov, Czar of all the Rus, bounced his daughter on his knee with a mixture of relief and profound loss. The relief was because he and his family were safe—at least for the moment. The loss was not for the loss of power, but for the loss of his father.

Mikhail had been told that his father had died of a stroke and that was entirely possible. Filaret, Patriarch of Russia, had in fact had a series of minor strokes. And, considering the rumors about the limited year and the peasants, the riots were a natural response to his father’s death.

Still, the timing was suggestive, and Fedor Ivanovich had been awfully quick to respond. Filaret would never have gone along with Sheremetev’s takeover and he had the connections to fight back. Mikhail couldn’t help the belief that one of Sheremetev’s agents had managed to get close enough to the patriarch to help the stroke along. The possibility that Filaret was still alive was no more than a fantasy.

Mikhail knew that he should be fighting “Director-General” Sheremetev because of those suspicions and for the good of Russia. But he wasn’t. He knew virtually nothing of what was going on in the wider world. He had no basis to plan and, for now at least, he and his family were being treated quite well. Also, from what he did know, Sheremetev’s plan depended on his continued safety.

Life was full of strange twists of fate and even more so when you were living in a time of miracles. The Ring of Fire had seemed a wild rumor when they had first heard of it. Sending Vladimir to confirm it—or rather, disprove it, which was the outcome they’d expected—had just been a precautionary measure. But it had all proved to be true. Vladimir had stayed in Grantville to learn the secrets of the up-timers and Boris had brought an up-timer back with him. Bernie Zeppi had started out as little more than a dictionary of up-timer English on legs. But being used as a dictionary has side effects. Poor Bernie had found himself in school. Mikhail laughed a little at that thought. One student and hundreds of anxious teachers, each insisting that he learn enough to explain some other artifact of a language that was foreign even to those who spoke seventeenth-century English. Mikhail could sympathize with Bernie’s predicament; he wasn’t a scholar by choice, either.