Winter Palace Read Online Free

such an outrageous sum for it and still keep a straight face is utterly beyond me.”
    â€œAre you?”
    â€œAm I what?”
    â€œBuying the cabinet. You wouldn’t want me to lie to him, would you?”
    â€œThere, you see? This is what Alexander requires from you. He must feel a part of life. Now go in there and fill the empty house.” The count turned his attention to the closed door. “For a man of years, illness brings a new meaning to the word alone . Let him live through your strength, Jeffrey, until he is once again prepared to live for himself.”

Chapter 4
    Prince Vladimir Markov, last surviving member of the Markov dynasty, knew exactly what the general was thinking behind his practiced stone mask. No doubt all the former Soviet army officer saw was a beautiful Monte Carlo villa transformed into a vast sea of clutter. The general made it quite clear that he considered the prince an eccentric collector, a magpie in a foppish nest, a pathetic has-been who clung to any object even slightly scented by the past.
    It was true that the prince’s villa was so full of furniture and paintings and valuables that it looked more like a warehouse than a home. Several rooms had simply been stacked from floor to ceiling and then locked up. The living room alone contained sufficient articles to furnish ten chambers.
    But it was not a fanatic’s hoarding instinct that drove Prince Markov. Not at all. The articles represented his family’s royal past, a past that included a palace large enough to hold all his precious belongings. That palace he intended to have for himself once more.
    Prince Markov treated the general with polite disdain. The peon could think what he liked, as long as he helped place the means to the desired end within Markov’s grasp.
    These days, the prince reflected, retired Soviet army officers were eager for any work that would keep them from the shame of common unemployment. Many of the groups struggling for power and wealth within the crumbling Soviet empire found them perfect as hired hands. Retired Soviet generals, it was said, had years of experience in corrupt activities. They were utterly efficient. They were brave to the point of idiocy. They were weaned of troublesome concern for human life. And they were too dogmatic to come up with independent plans on their own.
    These days, it was very easy for such a one to go bad.
    General Surikov had a taste for antiques. He stopped several times in his slow meandering walk toward Markov’s balcony to examine several of Markov’s more remarkable pieces. Markov held his own impatience in check. Barely.
    â€œI know what needs to be done,” Markov said, ushering his guest through the doors and out onto the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean and the Bay of Nice.
    â€œOf course you do,” his guest replied, giving the spectacular view an approving glance. “You’re a professional.”
    General Surikov was a trim, hard man in his late fifties. He would never allow himself to balloon out as some of his fellow senior officers did. Not for him the triple chins that enveloped his colleagues’ collars on parade days, nor the enormous girth that required two towels knotted together in the military baths. Nor did he show the red-veined nose and cheeks of a dedicated vodka drinker. His hair was short, his face as tough as his grip.
    â€œThese new Russian politicians,” General Surikov complained, accepting the offered seat. “They sit in front of the television cameras and mouth, ma-ma-ma-ma, like sheep. All their lives they’ve studied butterflies through a microscope or written poetry nobody can read on a full stomach. And now they’re running our country.”
    â€œAccountants,” Markov agreed. “Engineers.”
    â€œCivilians and dissidents.” The general snorted his disgust. “They tell the people, why do we need a military power? My comrades and I must