❝ They seek him here… ❞

     “Perhaps you are right.” Marguerite agreed, a blush      coloring her cheeks pink as her French accent brushed      her words, “You forget that I am still becoming used to      speaking English all the time. I don’t yet have a knowing      of meanings as a British person would. So I ask your      pardon and for your understanding while I learn.”

“I meant only to inform you of the mistake, Madame. Of that, I assure you.”

There are a great many things of which he would wish people to inform him none more so than all the things she has not said to him… and yet, still, what-ever feelings may or may not exist towards his wife and indeed there is a tug of something at his heart when he notices that blush, still he would not wish her to be embarrassed by misspeaking in front of others. 

      “Are you making jests at my expense?” Marguerite       asked her hands going to her hips and her dark       brows raised, “Because, if you are, I swear to       either make you apologize or sorry for       insulting me.” The French-born woman was       clearly at least a little upset as her accent was       a tiny bit thicker but still understandable.

“Odd’s life! You flatter me, my dear,” he says with an inane little guffaw, those lazy eyes alight with amusement.

STARTER CALL!

Ah, there it was. The thinly veiled threat, given with a false smile and an ironic sense of encouragement. How very appropriate to put a positive spin on these things, as if it detracted from the idea that you would very soon be in a great deal of pain, or dead. Ideally, you’d be dead instead of the pain. Gleb glanced towards the hand on his shoulder and the way that it squeezed - almost friendly, but not quite. There was a stiff warning in there - a warning to play along, and not give reason for any one of the snipers with weapons trained on him to take him out in the middle of the street. For the good of Russia…follow this man to his death for the sake of Russia.  Everything for Russia. He felt a cold prickle run down his spine as the words touched his ear. An unfortunate incident. It really was only a matter of time before the truth was uncovered - he only hoped that Anya was safe, wherever she was, from any one they might send. He knew they would be taking him in for questioning - and they would use any means necessary to extract that information. He decided then and there - he would say nothing. Death was preferable and unavoidable.  The silence that passed between the two men seemed to expand into a chasm for several seconds as Gleb processed what was going on. In all of his years of dutiful service, he never imagined once that he would end up a traitor, being hauled off as a counter-revolutionary like all the rest. His eyes turned towards the vehicle, and back to the man standing before him. There was no flicker of fear in his eyes; his expression remained calm. Composed.” Resigned. “Of course, Comrade.” Turning away from him, Gleb pulled away from his grasp and walked towards the car. He took a moment to look at the wide expanse of the Nevesky Prospekt, the fine buildings and the people milling about. The spires in the distance, and the rush of the water in the canal… The car door opened, and he ducked down and sat, holding fast to the last images he would ever have of his beloved city.

He watches the younger man. Watches as he accepts his fate, agrees to it, even. Goes along with it without argument.

Regardless…

In beside him follows the man who had been speaking with him, who is seemingly the higher ranking of the three plainly visible. The third man closes the door behind them and then goes around to the passenger side and gets in as well. Even before the door has fully closed, the vehicle starts on its way to…

Where?

Who knows?

And between his fellow good and loyal Russians, there is not a word spoken. The only sound is the motor and the wheels going over the road, conveying them…… out of town, becomes quite evident… but… Even beyond the furthest reaches of the city, they make no appearance of stopping anytime soon.

For his part, the superior officer glances to his wristwatch, making careful note of the time that had passed. They would need to reach their destination soon. Fresh clothes would be awaiting all of them, as would all of the necessary papers and documentation and anything else they might need for their journey…

Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov was no fool. He had returned to Leningrad several weeks ago, and resumed his duties as usual. He’d given his full report on the case of the rumors of Anastasia, and had closed the case without much fanfare. Despite this, he had known better than to expect that it would have been the end of it. Despite what he had said to Anya before leaving for Leningrad - he knew that he would be coming home to eventual trial and execution. The secret police were nothing if not thorough - even when one of their own was in question - he knew that his trail would be followed, investigated, and confirmed.  He’d told Anya that it would have been just fine - but if he had to lie and die to save her life, then he would. He had already made his choice there in that estate room in Paris.  He had no regrets, despite the deep sense of conflict within him over betraying his beloved Russia. He had to remind himself that…Russia was not only the Bolsheviks, despite what he’d been trained to think and say. Russia…had always been so much more. It was a warm afternoon in June when he was stopped on his way back to his flat. Gleb froze on the sidewalk, looking out from under the brim of his hat, and regarded the men as they came to stand before him. It was highly uncharacteristic, not proper protocol - if he were to be summoned, he would have received a phone call in his office or at his flat. But this… Dark eyes regarded the insignia that the men wore, and their faces. He didn’t know them - they didn’t appear to be Cheka agents, but they were important. He frowned a little deeper, and turned his head slightly to see that he was gradually being surrounded.  So. We finally come to this moment. “…Good evening, Comrade,” he began evenly, turning his gaze back to the stranger who had addressed him. He squared his shoulders and tilted his chin up a little, regarding him. “I will come. May I ask what the reason is for my being detained?” He chose his words carefully, not knowing how many snipers might have had their guns trained on him as they spoke. Inside, his heart pounded, and for the first time in some time, he felt a prickle of cold fear settle in the back of his mind, tense in his chest.

The uniformed man steps closer, bringing his hand up to the younger man’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze in a gesture of faux friendliness. And then he leans in slightly, lowering his voice.

“You have been a good comrade and served your country well until this last most unfortunate incident. If you will but come with us quietly, Vaganov, we will make sure that those years of devoted service are taken into consideration.” 

His expression seems to mock that friendliness, yet in strikingly blue eyes, there is an earnestness all the same.

The message must be clear to him. 

Come with them and they will settle this quietly and discreetly. Perhaps even allow his reputation to remain intact. After all, surely it would be better for Russia as well were it to be so. Having given his report, it wouldn’t do to call it back into question now and revive those pesky rumors.

It is not difficult to discover where he is and to observe him, to gather his usual schedule. Without question, he is a man of habit, even when his entire world has been upended. 

Then it is only obtaining the proper documents from his people who had already set everything into motion ere the Pimpernel and the two most trusted of his band had even stepped foot into the country. They were in a race against time. Of that, the Pimpernel is certain. Even by his own observations he could see that his watch was not the only one. 

This would need to be carefully executed.

When at last everything needed has been supplied to him––documents, uniforms, transportation––his plan is set into motion.

It is during their target’s walk back toward his residence that a car pulls up and two men in all too familiar uniforms get out and approach him, stopping the young man in his tracks.

“Deputy Commissioner Vaganov,” he begins in flawless Russian. “You will come with me.”

Since Anastasia is largely where my muse is right now…

Clearly, Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet, also known to very, very few as the Scarlet Pimpernel, needs an Anastasia verse.

So, Please consider The Scarlet Pimpernel and his merry band smuggling White Russians out of Russia and into the surrounding countries, even to Paris.

Please consider that he had been formulating a plan to extract the Romanovs—or at least the children—especially considering their blood ties to the Crown in England as well.

Please consider him smuggling out when he is able others considered by the new regime to be persona non grata.

Maybe he succeeded or partially succeeded, maybe he did not.