The silence in the opulent room at Tsarskoye Selo was a living thing, heavy and suffocating. Tsar Nicholas II stared at the decree on the table, his face a pale mask of disbelief. The document was a death warrant for the absolute power his family had wielded for three hundred years. He looked at Mikhail, at the cold, unwavering certainty in the young baron's eyes, and saw not a subject but an historical inevitability. He looked at his own ministers, and saw only their fear reflected back at him. With a trembling hand, the Tsar of all the Russias picked up his pen and signed his authority away.
The transfer of power was not marked by a coronation or a celebration, but by the quiet scratch of a nib on parchment.
Mikhail did not waste a single moment. "The first meeting of the State Council for National Security will convene in one hour at the General Staff Building," he announced to the stunned room. To Sergei Witte, he said, "Prepare a full accounting of the treasury's liquid assets and our current war debt." To a shocked but compliant General Kuropatkin, he ordered, "Recall all troops to their barracks and await my direct orders. No one is to move without my authorization."
He was no longer offering advice. He was issuing commands.
The first meeting of the new council was a tense affair. Mikhail sat at the head of the table, flanked by his chosen allies: Witte for finance, a promoted General Denisov for the army, and a representative from the Dowager Empress to signify her crucial support. The few remaining ministers from the old cabinet who were included sat cowed and silent, stripped of their power, present only to provide a veneer of legitimacy.
Mikhail's first directives were swift and decisive, aimed at cauterizing the bleeding heart of the capital.
"First," he began, his voice cutting through the tension, "we restore order, but not with brutality. General Denisov, your troops, along with Mr. Gromov's railway unionists, will enforce martial law in the capital. You will patrol the streets, protect property, but your primary objective is to de-escalate. There will be no more firing on unarmed citizens."
"Second," he turned to Witte. "The Russo-Imperial Bank will establish a relief fund for the families of yesterday's victims. We will pay for the funerals. We will provide pensions for the widows and orphans. The state has committed a grievous error; the state will make the first gesture of atonement. Announce it to the press immediately."
It was a masterful stroke of public relations, seizing the moral high ground and portraying his new government as compassionate and responsible.
"Third," he said, and on this point his voice became as hard as the steel from his foundries. "This war is over."
A shocked silence fell over the room. General Kuropatkin looked aghast. "Commissioner, we cannot simply surrender! The honor of the army…"
"The honor of the army is not served by dying for a lost cause," Mikhail countered, his eyes cold. "The war is a logistical and financial catastrophe that is bleeding the Empire dry and fueling this revolution. To continue fighting is national suicide." He looked at Witte. "Sergei, you will open back-channel communications with the Japanese through the American President, Roosevelt. We will seek a peace treaty. Our negotiating position will be based on the late Admiral Makarov's successes, which proved we can inflict damage. We will cede some territory, but we will preserve the nation."
Finally, he addressed the entire council. "A full, public commission will be established to investigate the events of 'Bloody Sunday.' The officers who gave the order to fire will be identified and brought to trial. The people must see that there is accountability. They must see that the old way of doing things is over."
The council meeting concluded, leaving a stunned silence in its wake. The directives issued within that single hour began to radiate outwards through the capital's nervous system. Orders went out to the military to stand down, funds from the Russo-Imperial Bank were dispatched for victim relief, and Witte began drafting the first secret cables about peace negotiations. The news of these first actions by the new State Council spread quickly. For some, like the hardline patriots at the English Club, the talk of peace was an immediate and unforgivable betrayal. They saw not a pragmatic leader, but a traitor selling out Russia's honor.
The chapter concluded late that night. Mikhail stood alone in what was once Minister Plehve's vast, opulent office. It was his now. Captain Orlov stood guard at the door, the head of a security service that now answered only to the State Council—and to Mikhail. On the desk lay a map of the entire Russian Empire, a sprawling landmass teetering on the brink of collapse.
He had done it. He had climbed the ladder of power and seized the top rung. The feeling was not one ofelation. It was a feeling of immense, crushing weight. Every problem in the 6,000-mile expanse of the empire—every strike, every famine, every military defeat, every sputtering revolutionary spark—was now his to solve.
The boy baron was gone. The industrialist was gone. The Deputy Commissioner was gone. He was now, in all but name, the autocrat. He had won the throne room. Now he had to win the future.