The morning of Sunday, January 22nd, 1905, dawned bitterly cold and grey. From the tall windows of his St. Petersburg office, Mikhail watched the city transform. It began as separate streams of humanity, trickles of people emerging from the working-class districts, that slowly merged into great, flowing rivers of people. They moved with a solemn purpose, not the anger of a mob. He could see the icons they carried bobbing above the crowd, their gilded surfaces catching the weak winter light. He could see the large, framed portraits of the Tsar, held aloft like shields. They were not marching against their sovereign; they were marching to him.
Captain Orlov stood near the door, receiving a steady stream of reports from his men stationed throughout the crowds. "The column from the Putilov factory has joined the main procession," Orlov reported, his voice a flat monotone. "Father Gapon is at its head. Gromov's railway men are forming a disciplined flank, as instructed. The mood is peaceful, almost prayerful."
"And the palace?" Mikhail asked, his eyes never leaving the vast spectacle below.
"The Tsar is not in residence. He remains at Tsarskoye Selo. The Palace Square is being cordoned off by infantry regiments and Cossack cavalry."
Mikhail nodded slowly. All the pieces were in place. The shepherd was absent, and the wolves were guarding the flock. He processed the incoming reports with a chilling detachment. The historical account from Alistair's memory was now resolving into a real-time data stream.
The last message arrived, a slip of paper delivered by a breathless courier. Mikhail unfolded it. The handwriting was stark. Three phrases, relayed from the agent at the Palace Square: Volley fire initiated. Crowd breaking. Multiple casualties. He stared at the words until they blurred. The dry facts he had once studied in Alistair's life—dates, names, casualty estimates—were now being written in real-time, in blood, on the streets outside his window.
While the city authorities were paralyzed with shock and indecision, Mikhail acted. His pre-positioned machine went into motion with ruthless precision.
First, the narrative. The credible witnesses his Directorate had identified—a university student, a respected factory foreman, a tearful mother whose son had been shot—were quietly extracted from the chaos by Orlov's men. By evening, their harrowing, firsthand accounts were being delivered to the editors of the city's more liberal newspapers, contacts Witte had carefully cultivated. The official government story of a revolutionary mob attacking the police would be stillborn, smothered by a wave of public outrage fueled by his carefully curated truth.
Second, order. As riots began to flare up in the outer districts, Mikhail issued his next set of orders. Matvei Gromov's disciplined railway unionists, acting on pre-arranged instructions, moved not as rioters but as a stabilizing force. They formed organized cordons around the central telegraph office, the main railway hubs, and the city's electrical station. The contrast was stark and intentional: while the Tsar's troops were creating chaos, Mikhail's assets were preserving the essential functions of the city.
Third, force. He sent a single, coded telegram to his garrison commander at the Volkovo works: "Implement Protocol Suvorov. Secure all primary rail junctions and bridges between Pskov and St. Petersburg. Allow no military traffic to pass into or out of the capital without my direct authorization. You are to protect the army's supply line from the spreading civil unrest."
He had, in a single move, seized control of the capital's military lifeline, framing it as a necessary act of a loyal commissioner protecting the war effort. He informed General Kuropatkin of this action only after his troops were already in motion.
With the city on the brink of open revolution and the government in a state of terrified paralysis, Mikhail made his final move. He did not ask for a meeting. He, Sergei Witte, and Princess Sofia—representing the new power of industry, finance, and enlightened aristocracy—traveled to the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoye Selo. They were granted an immediate audience with the Tsar.
Nicholas II was a man broken by the day's events, his face pale and his eyes filled with a fearful confusion. He was surrounded by the same incompetent ministers who had led him to this disaster.
Mikhail did not bow as a supplicant. He stood as the only man in the room with a plan. He spoke calmly, laying out the situation with brutal honesty: the city was lost, the people's trust was shattered, and the government had proven itself incapable of ruling.
"Your Imperial Majesty," Mikhail said, his voice ringing with an authority that dwarfed everyone else in the room. "The state has failed. A new hand is required to restore order before the entire Empire is consumed by revolution."
He placed a single sheet of paper on the table before the Tsar. It was not a petition; it was a decree, already drafted. It announced the formation of an emergency "State Council for National Security," which would be granted temporary supreme authority to manage the war, the economy, and domestic order. It announced the dismissal of the current cabinet. And it named its chairman, vested with the full power of the state.
Baron Mikhail Anatolievich Volkov.
The Tsar looked from the paper to Mikhail's cold, unwavering eyes. He saw not a subject, but a successor. He looked to his advisors, and saw only fear. He looked to the memory of the day's events, and saw only his own failure.
The chapter concluded in that silent, opulent room, the fate of the Russian Empire hanging in the balance. He had manipulated the crisis, managed the chaos, and now stood before the Tsar, not as a subject, but as the only man offering a viable path out of the abyss. This was a hostile takeover of a failing state, and he was there to present the terms of surrender.