PROLOGUE

Whats bred in the bone will come out in the flesh.

-late 15th century proverb


Moscow, Russia, March 15, 1917
It was the tail end of winter. Late season flurries of snowflakes blew into his eyes, and the
dark came early. There was good reason for him to keep his eyes on the pavement and watch
his step.
The man was almost invisible in the shadow of the door frame. Kyril Komarov,
striding home, his mind on his own matters, was abreast of him, unheeding.
Shit, Kyril exclaimed, as a hand reached out and grabbed his coat sleeve.
Quiet, urged the voice. Kyril peered into the shadows to identify his accoster. It
took him a few minutes to place the man. He recalled him once as part of a government
team who had inspected the factory, some sort of minor government functionary.. Kyril
sieved his memory to recall the name.
Sergei Petrovich he whispered. What in the name of Christ are you doing? You
nearly gave me a heart attack.
Follow me, returned the man, opening the door. Once inside, Sergei released his
arm.
Sorry, but I needed to stop you, apologised Sergei. You know they've arrested
them?
Kyril stared back at him. All Moscow knew that the Tsar had abdicated that day and
his family had been put into protective custody by the Bolshevik army.
He nodded. So?
Word has it that you closed that factory of yours in Petrograd Shausse today.
Indeed, as we speak, your lovely wife, your brother and your dear son are all packing their
bags to leave Moscow with you tomorrow. Many would say that given the current situation,
this is probably a very wise move on your part. I understand you have family in Great
Britain?
Kyril paled. It was true that one of the factory staff could have talked and mentioned
the closure of the works, but no one was supposed to know the Komarovs were fleeing. He
wondered who had talked, and to whom. Surely not his wife nor his son.
It wouldnt be his brother either. Ilya might be young and enthusiastic, but he would
be the least likely person of them all to talk about secret things.
Sergei was watching Kyrils face. He snorted at the expressions moving across it.
A maid, I believe, he said in answer to the unasked question.
Don't worry, my friend. You have nothing to fear from me, but my boss would like
to meet you. If you would be so kind as to follow me now?
Kyril weighed up his options. Who knew who this Boss was? Even in these troubled
times it made sense not to cross the secret police. Particularly in these times, he added to
himself. Who knew where alliances were being formed? He shrugged his shoulders and
indicated assent, receiving a wry half-smile from his companion.
Thank you, my dear friend, he murmured courteously, before leading Kyril through
a maze of corridors and staircases. They passed through a green baize door.
He hadn't had time to take note of his surroundings when Sergei had accosted him,
but he knew that he must be in a government administrative building. Once through the door,
the narrow corridors broadened, and the next flight of stairs was palatial. Clearly he had been
brought in by a back entrance, and was now entering the areas of pomp and power.
Sergei paused beside a door, knocked and entered, drawing Kyril in with him.
The man seated behind the desk was unknown to Kyril, though clearly someone of
importance given his surroundings, the size of his desk and his military uniform. He appeared
in his late forties, and solidly built, although it was evident that it was muscle, not fat, that
was responsible for his size. He exuded power by his very presence. He raised his eyes as
they entered, and searched Kyrils face.
General Mirov, may I present to you Kyril Gregorovitch Komarov.
General Mirov nodded, and gestured to Sergei to go. You may leave us alone, he
said. Sergei saluted and left.
Kyril may not have recognised the face, but he knew the name. General Mirov was a
highly decorated officer in the Imperial Guard. He was one of the heroes of the war, praised
in the Press and adulated by the people for his exploits at the front against the German
aggressors.
Kyril studied the man in front of him. The general wasnt tall. Kyrils six foot height
gave him couple of inches advantage over the generals bald head. High Slavic cheekbones
narrowed down to a well moulded chin and firm mouth. The two men were much of the
same age, but the General had a raw physicality and athleticism which made him a
commanding figure.
Please sit, the General waved Kyril to one of the chairs. Thank you for coming to
see me so promptly, he added. Kyril blinked, surely he had been brought? Perhaps the
General had the wrong man? He didn't like to correct the General, so he stayed silent.
I hope Sergei was courteous in his invitation? asked the General. Sometimes he is
a little enthusiastic in carrying out his duties. But there you go; he has worked for me a long
time. There was a slight ghost of a smile in his eyes as he asked the question.
Kyril nodded silently, wondering where this was going.
I understand that you and your family leave Moscow tomorrow, and that you intend
to travel to Great Britain? Again Kyril nodded.
How was it that everyone seemed to know his business?
I also understand that you have always been a moderate, in your views politically? I
think your family business served the Tsar?
Kyril drew a deep breath, wondering how best to answer. We were appointed as
official harness makers to the Tsar, General. My factory provided equestrian saddlery and
other equipment to the imperial stables. It was an honour, replied Kyril. To keep that
licence we were regularly inspected and assessed.
The General grunted, stood up and paced across the room. Good. Then I have a
commission for you. He turned abruptly to face Kyril directly.
You must understand that in these complicated political times, while Mother Russia
moves towards the future, much of what was good in her past may be lost. He read Kyril's
look of incomprehension. I mean our cultural heritage, he explained.
Kyril nodded uncertainly.
There has already been looting by the masses. And even those who are charged to
look after such things are not immune to political propaganda. Already certain of our
Churches have been desecrated, and other artworks destroyed.
He came close to Kyril, and leaned back against his desk facing him. I am a historian
Mr Komarov, and a lover of Mother Russia and of our heritage. I fear for her future in the
next few years as idealists take it upon themselves to destroy the treasures of our history to
give the new regime credibility. He sighed. If you study history . . . Do you know your
history, Mr Komarov?
Kyril nodded. A little sir, although I am not an academic. My skills are those of a
business man.
Then you will know that this is the course of events in all such upheavals. So much
was lost to France in their revolution; so much, sold off as worthless at the time, ended up as
a possession of the crown of England. Now France has no way to regain her own heritage,
he said morosely.
"I do not wish to see this to happen to my country." He paused, So much will be lost,
but there is a little that I can do to help save some of it."
He reached forward, and clasped Kyril by the shoulder. You are a patriot, my friend.
Oh yes, I know that very well. Your views are known to me. I also know that you are an
honest man. I know that the reason you leave Russia is because you cannot stay
economically. You and yours are in danger because you are tainted by association with the
Tsarist regime. So you must take your family and go.
And who can blame you, he added. But there is one last service that you can
perform for your Nation.
He indicated a small crate on the floor against the wall. I need you to take this with
you in your personal luggage when you leave tomorrow.
Kyril turned to look at the box, and both men studied it in silence for a few minutes.
At last Kyril asked, What's in it, sir?
The General looked at him thoughtfully. I don't think you need to know that.
Kyril shook his head. If you don't tell me what is in it, then with respect sir, Im not
taking it with me. It could be anything and it could put me and my family in danger.
You may be safer, in fact, in your ignorance, demurred the General.
Kyril Komarov had not been a trader for nothing. General, I either know what's in
that case, or it doesn't come with me. I agree, Im a patriot, I can also follow your argument
about the destruction of the fabric of our culture. But Im not an idiot. If thats valuable
government property, then I need to know about it.
The General shook his head and sighed. Its not government property, Mr Komarov.
It is private property, and Ive been authorised by the owners to save and conceal it in the
way that seems best to me in the circumstances.
He looked at Kyril again. Are you certain you need to know?
Kyril nodded. In silence the General reached down and lifted the crate on to the desk.
He lifted the lid. Inside was a metal box, of the sort that soldiers have for their possessions in
the field. The General lifted the box out, and then unlocked the top of it. The lid lifted, and
Kyril looked inside.
For a few moments he made no sense of the contents, then realised that he was
looking at mounds of packing material. The General moved the packing aside to reveal
several wrapped parcels. He lifted one such parcel out, and very carefully, almost
reverentially, unfolded the wrapping. Kyril looked, and gasped at the opulent item being
displayed.
What is it, he whispered.
One of the Imperial family's Faberge Easter Eggs. replied the General. The
jeweller made one such each year, commissioned by the Tsar. There is no place in Russia that
is safe for them now. Do you understand now, Mr Komarov?
Kyril nodded numbly.
One day, if God wills, it will be safe for them to return to Russia. In the interim,
Harness Maker by Imperial decree, I am appointing you their steward. There is no safe place
that I can put them here in Russia. My own position is under threat from various parties. I
cannot keep them with me safely, and these are part of our heritage, Mr Komarov. They
must be saved and kept for the future of Russia.
He paused for a moment before asking quietly, Do you accept the charge?
Kyril ran his hand through his thinning hair, a gesture he often favoured, so his wife
told him, when his mind was troubled. He didn't want the responsibility, but he believed in
what the General had said. Treasures such as these had no place in Mother Russia at the
moment. Just as he was taking his wife and son to safe keeping, so these art works should flee
as well.
He nodded reluctantly. I accept, he said.
The General looked at him soberly. I know you dont want this charge, my friend.
But if you can save these for Russia's future, then you do us all a great service. I charge you;
keep them safe for our own dear land. He let out a sigh of relief.
Such service will not go unrewarded, or unsupported, he said.
He opened the drawer of his desk, and pulled out a few small bags. Take these, said
the General. Take these as payment for services rendered; for help in the times you have
ahead of you, and as my personal thanks.
He smiled at Kyril's questioning look. There are some diamonds, some other stones.
Good quality. There is also some gold and other coin, a couple of other ornate eggs of no
particular historical merit compared to the imperial eggs, but they will be of some value
nonetheless. You will need to source a purchaser when you trade the stones or eggs, but for a
man of your experience in trade, that shouldnt be too difficult. Choose wisely though. These
are stones of the finest water.
He pushed the bag across the desk to Kyril, who hesitated. Take them, Mr
Komarov, he said softly. I know what you and your family have already lost today as you
walked away from your factory, and what you will lose when you leave your home
tomorrow. He smiled wryly. These will provide a more than adequate recompense, I
believe. Use them well.
Kyril looked at him squarely. Thank you, he said at last. I will care for this
treasure, as you ask. I will always be a true patriot to my country, even though its not safe
here for me now. He picked up the bag, and weighed it. I thank you for your payment. It
will never recompense us for what we lose in our hearts as we go, but, he put the bag into
the inner pocket of his coat, if it provides assistance for us, I thank you.
The General nodded as Kyril picked up the trunk. Go with God, Mr Komarov, and
waved him away.

* * * * * * * *

Later that night, Kyril sat with Ilya in front of the dying fire. They shared a gentle nostalgia
for past evenings in this room in front of this fire. Tomorrow marked a change in their lives
and these last few moments in the family home were minutes to cherish and remember.
The brothers shared a fine boned physique which in Kyril manifested itself as a
sophisticated, trim figure, and in Ilya as a slightness that made him look younger than his
twenty eight years.
Beyond that, the physical resemblance between the two was slight.
Kyril was dark. Immaculate grooming kept his trim moustache smart and his hair
well cut, which disguised that his broad forehead owed more to a receding hairline than to
the intellectual brow he himself claimed.
In contrast Ilyas hair was longer and very fair. His slight frame still had something
boyish about it in spite of his years. His eyes sparkled with life and enthusiasm and he
moved with a dancers slim hipped grace. He had been a willing participant in the family
business, but Kyril had sometimes wondered whether this was the result of Ilyas happy
personality rather than a career choice made voluntarily.
The brothers complemented each other. They had always had an easy rapport. Kyril,
by nature was the serious one, Ilya, the family clown and charmer. Kyril could be
intimidating and it had often been Ilyas charm and easy manner which smoothed relations
between employed and employer at the factory.
Twenty years separated the two brothers, the result of three intervening miscarriages
on their late mothers part. Once their Father had died, Kyril had taken on the role of mentor
and guardian to his younger brother, a role he believed he still occupied.
Anna, dry eyed and determined, had left them together an hour earlier. Ill see you
tomorrow Ilya, she said bravely as she headed up to bed. From time to time the brothers
could hear the sound of her dry cough coming from the bedroom.
Both men were looking at the tin box. Ilya had declined to view the imperial eggs.
The fewer people who see them now, he commented, the better. I don't need to see
them. They were given to you, and yours is the responsibility.
He hesitated. Kyril, I was going to say this anyway, before you were handed this
responsibility, so I don't want you to think that the two things are related, but, he squared his
shoulders, I'm not coming with you tomorrow, not to the West anyway.
Kyril stared at him flabbergasted. Of course youre coming. We can't leave you here;
its even more dangerous now for us, thanks to the contents of this box. Someone may
connect us and this treasure. Sergei for one knows where I was tonight. Who knows who else
does?
I'm not staying in Moscow, Ilya said, I want to go east.
Kyril snorted. East is Siberia! Thats nonsense. There's nothing there.
Ilya smiled. Well, actually, there is also a young student friend of mine from
Yekaterinburg who says she waits for me. If that doesn't work out, I prefer the thought of
being a trader in the East. Ive read about Shanghai and other exotic places. I want to go and
travel, just not in the direction that you, Anna and Charles are going.
Kyril frowned at him in dismay. Wed never see you again! How could we travel
between Europe and China? We would lose you, Ilya . . .
I am sure that one day wed travel and meet up; me with my central Russian bride,
you with your English speaking son. The world isnt so big nowadays, Kyril. Mail gets to
every part of the globe; ships and travellers can go anywhere. Ilya smiled easily at his older
brother. This is the time of adventure for us, Kyril. Please don't make the parting hard.
He held his brothers hand. This world, our world here, has gone, big brother. We
have to build a new one for ourselves. I fancy the east with all its exotic goods, spices, teas. I
can be like Marco Polo!
Kyril knew Ilya well enough to know that once his mind was made up, he wouldnt
change it. Ilya might look slight and boyish, but he was tempered steel inside. Nor could
Kyril really argue with him. He wondered fleetingly, if he did not have a wife and child,
whether he would have taken the Eastern road.
At least take some of this, he gestured to the pile of stones. Maybe theyll give you
start up capital and help you on your way. That is, if you don't get murdered for them, he
added.
Ilya grinned. Trust me, big brother. I can look after myself.
* * * * * *
Early next morning the family and their servants assembled in the hall. They knelt in front of
the family icon and Kyril lead prayers for the safety of them all.
Well will meet in Heaven, if not again on earth, prayed Anna, hugging her brother
in law. She had tried to change his mind this morning, but had failed. Neither tears nor
entreaties would change his mind. In the end Anna sadly accepted the position.
As they said goodbye, she took a locket from around her neck. Please Ilya, take
this. It has photos inside of Kyril and myself, and a lock of Charles hair. At least have
some things from your family with you, she said as she put it on him. She tucked the
ornament down inside his shirt.
There, she said. No one can see it, but it means that your family will be close to
your heart.
Ilya grinned, hugged Charles and embraced his brother one last time.
Go with God, said Kyril.
May God be with you too, echoed Ilya.
Both knew they would, in reality, never meet again. The pain was so great, there was
no point in mentioning it. Neither brother knew what the future would bring. Maybe it made
sense that the risk, or the knowledge, of the imperial eggs, be shared between the two of
them. Maybe it was better, for the sake of that heritage, that their futures be separated.
Anna had now decided that Ilya should take the icon with him as well. You must
have some family heritage with you, she declared. You must remember your family, and
your God.
Kyril and Ilya exchanged wry glances, and Kyril shrugged.
Well both remember, he said obliquely to Ilya. Ilya nodded, shoved his cap, which
had shifted in their last embrace, back on to his head, and grinned.
The last possessions stowed, the family said goodbye to their servants, took the cab to
the station, and both branches of the Komarov family finally parted to their separate destinies.