A Very Dangerous Woman: The Lives, Loves and Lies of Russia's Most Seductive Spy (5 page)

Oblivious, and thinking only of the Christmas festivities to come, Moura lifted Tania in her arms and skipped lightly up the steps and through the arched doorway into the warm hallway; in her wake came Micky, Pavel and Kira, followed by the servants bearing the last items of luggage.

The doors swung closed behind them, shutting out the cold and sealing in the joy of the season.

2

Choosing Sides

December 1916–October 1917

30 December 1916

Sir George Buchanan, British Ambassador to Russia, stood at one of the tall windows in the huge reception room in the Alexander Palace. Outside he could see Tsar Nicholas taking his daily walk in the snow-covered gardens, accompanied by his retinue.
¹

The palaces of Petrograd were magnificent, but those of Tsarskoye Selo,
*
the imperial family’s country retreat, a dozen miles from the city, were of a separate order of splendour. On one side of the park stood the Catherine Palace, a vast glory in ice-white and sky-blue stucco, rank upon rank, row after row of pillars and lofty windows, bordered in ornate mouldings lavished with gold leaf, and surmounted by a huge pinnacle of golden domes. On the adjacent side was the Alexander Palace, the smaller fondant-and-cream marvel where the family actually lived in relatively understated opulence.

Sir George had travelled down that day from Petrograd, having requested an audience with the Tsar to talk over the political situation in Russia. For an ambassador, he took an uncommon interest in the internal affairs of the country, and enjoyed an unusually close friendship with the Tsar. Sir George Buchanan was described by one of his junior consuls as ‘a frail-looking man with a tired, sad expression’ whose monocle, refined features and silver hair ‘gave him something of the appearance of a stage-diplomat’, but who possessed ‘a wonderful power of inspiring loyalty’.
²
Sir George was deeply worried. He believed that the Tsar and Tsarina had little conception of just how divided and unhappy their empire was, nor how tenuous their own position. Their own ministers were misleading them, and the government was riddled with agents working for German interests. The gossip in Petrograd now was not of whether the imperial couple would end up being assassinated, but which of them might go first.
³

For a man with Sir George’s insight, the evidence of unrest was profoundly worrying. Violent insurrection was lurking around the corner. He was concerned about his own family, and was considering sending his daughter Meriel to stay with her Russian friend, Moura von Benckendorff, at her country estate in Estonia. Yendel was close enough to the capital to be easily accessible, but far enough to be out of danger if the sparks hit the powder keg in Petrograd.

Meriel and Madame Moura did voluntary nursing together at the city’s war hospital. They were well acquainted through Moura’s diplomatic connections, which had brought her into the sphere of the British Embassy. The young lady had apparently been brought up by an English-speaking nanny and had an affection for things British. Many of the younger male attachés had been very taken by her charms, as had the British naval officers whose ships berthed at Reval,
^†
the Estonian port.
⁴
Her husband’s relations held posts throughout the imperial government and diplomatic service. Indeed, the sad news had reached Russia this very day that Count Alexander von Benckendorff, Russia’s Ambassador to Great Britain, had died in London. His brother Paul was Grand Chamberlain; both were favourites of the imperial family, and the news was bound to have upset the Tsar.
⁵

The family were already in a state of shock following the murder of Rasputin (the Tsarina was grief-stricken, but some said the Tsar was relieved to be rid of him). They had confined themselves here, taking comfort in trivial entertainments and denying to themselves that there was any real unrest among their people. Sir George had attempted to warn His Majesty some weeks ago that Rasputin was regarded as a poisonous influence, and that there was talk of a plot against his life, but the Tsar had declined to listen.
⁶
Would he listen to reason now?

At last, His Majesty Tsar Nicholas II, Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias, returned from his walk in the gardens, and Sir George was summoned into his presence. As soon as he entered the room, he guessed that his mission was futile. Whenever the Tsar wished to talk seriously with Sir George, he welcomed him in his study, where they would sit and smoke. But today the Ambassador was ushered into the formal audience chamber, and found the Tsar standing in state. That meant he was willing to hear Sir George as Ambassador of Great Britain, not in the role of friend and counsellor on all political matters. He had guessed what the visit portended, and didn’t wish to hear.

Sir George tried nonetheless. Using every reserve of charm and persuasion, he turned the conversation to Russian politics, and tried to convince the Tsar to appoint a new president of the council who would be approved by the Duma, Russia’s parliament, and heal the rift between the ruler and his own state. Reminding His Majesty of his warning about Rasputin, Sir George described the unrest that was rife throughout the government, the Duma and the entire country. The Tsar said he knew perfectly well that there was talk of insurrection, but that it would be a mistake to take it too seriously.

Making one last effort, Sir George abandoned reason and tried an appeal to emotion, citing his long devotion to the Tsar. ‘If I were to see a friend,’ he said, ‘walking through a wood on a dark night along a path which I knew ended in a precipice, would it not be my duty, sir, to warn him of his danger? And is it not equally my duty to warn Your Majesty of the abyss that lies ahead of you?’
⁷

Tsar Nicholas was moved, and when they parted, he took the Ambassador’s hand and pressed it warmly. ‘I thank you, Sir George,’ he said.

But as time passed, it became evident that nothing would change. About a week after the meeting at Tsarskoye Selo, Sir George was told by a Russian political friend that there would be a revolution before Easter. But he needn’t be alarmed – the revolution would come from within the political elite, would be temporary and would merely force the Tsar to accept a proper constitution. Such a revolution would forestall any danger of a revolution among the workers and peasants, which would be an altogether more violent and dreadful affair.
⁸

This was somewhat reassuring. Nonetheless, when his daughter Meriel was invited to visit Moura von Benckendorff at Yendel, Sir George encouraged her to go.

Sunday 26 February 1917

Strange how the most life-altering journey might begin with the lightest of steps: with careless laughter and gay farewells, and not a trace of foreboding of the nightmare that is to come.

Moura parted the heavy bedroom curtain and looked out into the evening dark, moving close to the glass to see through the lamplit reflection of her own glittering eyes. The snow lay heavy and silent across the landscape, glowing eerily under a rising Estonian winter moon. The stars were out, and tonight the wolves would be running in the forests. Moura shivered. It was a good night for a journey, a good night for change.

She hummed happily – the haunting gypsy melody she had sung for her spellbound guests the evening before, sitting on the hearth rug, the crackling fire reflecting in her golden eyes . . .

Her breath hazed the glass, obscuring the view. A good night for a journey indeed: time to shake the sleepy country snows of Yendel from her heels and get back to the city. The long-extended Christmas holiday was over at last, and the day appointed for the journey back to Petrograd had arrived. She needed the city as she needed breath. Any city would do at a pinch – they were all lively in their various ways – but Petrograd was life itself, the beating heart of empire, and people were its blood. Even with the troubles that had scoured it – the anti-war feelings, the workers’ soviets
^‡
stirring trouble, the shortages and protests and strikes – it was still the breath of life to Moura, and she loved to feel its pulse.

She thought about the ball at the Moika Palace, and the death of Rasputin. Moura was smart enough to know that the bitter retribution of the Tsarina would stir up the masses still further, but was not timid enough to fear the consequences herself. Pah – let the wolves run! She could run faster.

She didn’t know – nobody at Yendel knew – that the patter of their feet and the rank gust of their breath had already begun sweeping through the city.

The maid snapped shut the clasps on the last valise, and Moura came out of her dream, turning away from the window. The maid bobbed a curtsey, slid the valise off the dresser and went out of the door. The trunk had already been taken down by a footman. There was a faint jingle of bells outside. Moura glanced out; the sledges were being brought round to the drive, the horses stamping their feet on the packed snow. They were as eager to depart as she was.

Moura took a last look at herself in the mirror, adjusted her fur hat, and followed her luggage downstairs.

Convivial chatter and the laughter of children filled Yendel’s hall that evening. After a hurried dinner, the small house party – consisting of Moura’s children and her two closest friends – had gathered in the entrance hall while the sleighs were made ready, taking one last lingering taste of the manor’s warmth and comfort before venturing out into the cold. The two young women lounged in the comfortable chairs by the fire, chatting. There was Meriel Buchanan, daughter of the British Ambassador – she had a long, rather mournful face, but her rosebud mouth broke into a smile at the sight of Moura descending the stairs. The other young lady was Miriam Artsimovich – American-born, despite her name. They were the last and dearest of the holiday guests, lingering on to the very last gasp of the holiday. Both were dressed for the cold.

‘My daaahlings,’ Moura pronounced theatrically as she made her entrance. Despite speaking English better than Russian, she enjoyed investing it with a heavy Slavonic cadence.

While the women rose as if royalty had made an appearance, the children gathered round her. Pavel, son of his father, and Tania, daughter of her mother – and of course Kira, of uncertain parentage. Moura stooped to kiss her little darlings, while Micky stepped in to impose some order. She was one of the few people whom Moura loved and utterly trusted.

Standing aside, Moura posed to show off her exquisite fur-trimmed travelling outfit to her friends. It was duly admired, and while they waited for the coachman’s summons, the three of them fell into breathless conversation – as excited as the children were about the impending night-journey.

Their talk was all of society gossip, the journey ahead, and of the war. All three women worked as volunteer nurses at the hospital of St George, where rumours circulated among the soldiers about the special sort of care given to wounded officers by the lady Moura.
⁹
But there were
always
rumours about her of one kind or another. There were always people credulous enough to believe, and Moura herself took delight in encouraging them.

Entirely absent from their conversation was any mention of the latest events in Petrograd. The news of the storm that had begun to break the previous day had not yet reached Estonia; the papers had merely reported shops being looted, and that there were strikes in the factories. It sounded much the same as in the weeks prior to the holiday, and they were so accustomed to it that it had not cast a pall on their conviviality.

When the time came, the travelling party – three ladies, three children, Micky, and Moura’s maid – went out into the freezing dark and squeezed into the open sleigh, wrapping themselves in rugs and furs. While the women fussed and chattered, the house servants waited, freezing obediently in the arched loom of light from the great hall door, waiting to bow their farewells.

‘Feet
inside
the sledge, little Pavel!’ Moura swept the boy onto her lap. ‘The wolves will bite them!’

‘There are wolves?’ the little boy asked.

‘Always there are wolves,’ said Moura. ‘And on a night like this they long to feast on the feet of careless little children! But – we shall outrun them! Away!’

The coachman shook the reins, and the sledge leaped forward with a shivering jingle of bells, its runners hissing and the horses’ hoofbeats thumping gently, muffled by the snow.

It was a short but searingly cold journey to the local village station at Aegviidu, where they had booked a compartment aboard the Petrograd train. The night glowed; the sky was clear and dotted with stars, and a rising moon shone on the still, silent expanses of snow.
¹⁰
They drove on down the road that ran straight from the house, past the frozen lakes, and twisted through the woods beyond. The quiet of the sleigh’s passage in the icy shades of the woods filled the women with eerie shivers of exhilaration. Here and there, woodsmen’s cottages loomed up, with lights glowing yellow in their windows, filling Meriel’s head with thoughts of fairy-tale witches.