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Updated: May 2, 2025
The capital teemed with Germans like Stürmer and Fredericks, traitors like Protopopoff and Soukhomlinoff, men like Azeff, Guerassimoff and Kurtz one day the bosom friend of Ministers and powerful noblemen, and the next cast into the fortress of Peter and Paul Rogogin, the sycophant Raeff whom Rasputin had made Procurator of the Holy Synod and the drunken "saint" Mitia the Blessed at last dismissed spiritualists, charlatans, and cranks.
"Each functionary on being first admitted here," said Rogogin, "is compelled to take a solemn oath never to divulge its existence to a living soul not to his wife, father, sister, brother, or dearest friend." All was remarkable, a spying system of which I had never dreamed.
When we entered the Director's well-furnished private room and the door was closed, Rogogin took from a locker drawer a letter which he handed to the monk, saying: "Here is the letter of which I spoke; if I hold it back it may arouse suspicion."
"True, my dear Féodor," remarked the monk, fingering the cross nervously, and then taking a cigarette which the general offered him. "But had not our friend Rogogin been on the alert and opened the dainty dancer's letters, what a trap we should have fallen into not only ourselves, but the Empress also!
He is a blackmailer, and has been to Berlin to endeavour to sell some documents to Maximilian Harden documents which, if published, would place a certain member of our Imperial family in a very unsatisfactory light," Rasputin said. "My friend Rogogin here will bear me out." The Police Director, after a few minutes' silence, asked: "Has he sold the documents in question?"
Vladimir would have presented the documents to the Emperor, and an unholy domestic scene would have resulted. This fellow Botkine must never reach Russia!" he added seriously. "I agree," replied the general. "Let us see Gutchkoff at once," he added. General Gutchkoff was a Jew and the director of the dreaded political police, with whom Rogogin, of course, worked hand-in-glove.
I have the honour to remain, your Excellency's obedient servant, IVAN BOTKINE." The monk listened attentively, his big, strange eyes wearing a sly, crafty expression. He fingered the jewelled cross suspended from his neck a habit of his. "Ah! So Botkine leaves Berlin on the twenty-second. It is well that we know this, my dear Rogogin eh?" "Yes," laughed the traitorous general.
It was not many months after his appointment when one night, at the Poltavskaya, Rasputin received a visit from General Rogogin, the Director of the Black Cabinet, the cabinet noir, the existence of which was rigorously kept secret until the Revolution afforded the public a glimpse of Russia behind the scenes. Even from the tribune of the Duma it was declared that the Black Cabinet was a fiction.
For half an hour Rasputin, much worried by the secret inquiries of the Premier into the doings of the pro-German camarilla, chatted with the general, more than once expressing fear regarding the perilous situation. "Revelations seem imminent," he exclaimed anxiously. "The man Botkine must never arrive in Russia you understand that, Rogogin!"
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