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enthusiasm for destroying the place or perhaps it had been the girl, her soft arms entreating him
toward a different sort of life. There had even been talk that Yulian was on the verge of deserting the
cause entirely and decamping to Paris. Paris, of all frilly, inconsequential places. Gregor had of
course denied these claims and steadfastly defended his brother. He had always sworn that when the
time came and the oppressors were trapped within the theater row by row, Yulian would not hesitate
to throw the bomb into the imperial box, just as planned. Gregor had said that Yulian’s spoken
reservations about doing so were only the natural nerves of a boy his age, a claim Vlad had found
ludicrous. Yulian had been seventeen, not twelve. The perfect age for a soldier: old enough to have
stepped away from his family of birth but too young to have formed a new one through marriage.
“I was not aware that changing the plan was under discussion,” Gregor said, lighting a
cigarette. “You have stated that you wish the plan to change, but that is all. No decision has been
made.”
Vlad continued to stare at his coffee. “Without Yulian, it may prove easier and more effective
to take a woman out than it is to get a bomb in.”
“Kidnapping is crude. A clumsy way to strike at the heart of the beast.”
“And you’re suggesting that a bomb thrown in a crowded theater would have been precise?
This is a strange time for you to become squeamish about the notion of women and children being
involved, but even if you are, you must conclude that seizing a hostage is more morally defensible
than bombing the theater. We won’t hurt the girl, at least not if her father cooperates.”
“And that’s another thing,” Gregor said, with a shake of his sandy-colored curls. “Why are you
so fixated on the tsar’s daughter? She is but a child. Her youth and her sex make her sympathetic,
which is the very last thing that we want in a victim. Should she be injured in the process, trust me,
the resultant street gossip will not play well to our cause.”
“It has to be someone very close to him. Someone he loves.”
“This Xenia is undoubtedly too well guarded.”
“On any ordinary night, you would be correct. But backstage, awaiting her turn to dance at the
ball, she will not be. Look, Gregor, you know what we have in our hands. Yulian’s notes, telling us
not only the particulars of key locations but also who will be where and at what time. The Imperial
Waltz in which Xenia dances is the first item on a program which begins at eight in the evening. She
enters from the left hand side of the stage. She will be wearing a red gown, a gold headpiece on her
brow. When else will we know precisely where one of the tsar’s children will be at a specific time,