Playing in the Snow

The snow was coming down heavily blanketing the already soaked streets in a thick white layer. The close clumped houses were nigh unrecognisable, each one a block of freezing snow and ice.  Roman Tolstoy cursed as he slid on a frozen patch of the cobbled road and nearly fell flat on his back, glancing around he spotted a group of men huddled together. Their soot stained clothes and faces marking them out as factory workers most likely from the towering brick monstrosity that loomed over the pale streets.  Roman glared at them, daring them to pass comment on his near fall but they fearfully lowered their gaze. The two headed eagle insignia sewed onto his coat indicating him as a servant of the Czar, they knew as well as he did that one word and they would never be seen again. Taken to a special building in the newly christened Petrograd and would then simply disappear, another victim of the Czarist autocracy. Watching them shuffle away Roman rummaged in his deep coat pocket and extracted a grubby notebook, flipping over a page or two he found what he was looking for. An address he had hastily scribbled down after a hushed phone call received in his office an hour earlier:

No.12 Factory Road, Moscow.

Five minutes later Roman was still stood in the street, even though he knew the number of the accursed building the snow made it impossible to distinguish one house form another.
"Roman, for God's sake get in here!" came a shout and he spun round to see Nicolai leaning out of an open doorway, light spilling from inside out onto the frozen street. Jogging over Roman grasped him by the hand briefly before hurrying past him into the warm house. Rolling his eyes Nicolai shut the door with a bang, dislodging a large clump of snow from the window just above which landed on the ground with a muffled thump. With the door closed the street was left dark and empty. Well, almost empty; a shadow peeled away from the alley opposite, gave the house one last look and softly padded away.  

Inside, Nicolai was bringing Roman up to speed.
"Got a call from this address at about five," he said as they both walked up a rickety stair case to the upstairs bedroom. "Woman in tears says someone has been shot. We arrived half an hour later, found one body and this woman shut up inside. Took us ten minutes to convince the bitch we weren't there to kill her!"
Roman nodded thoughtfully. "That was three hours ago, she's probably traumatized, the doctor seen her?"    
"No, got his hands full with our dead friend."
"What do you mean?" asked Roman, frowning in confusion.
"The good doctor says that the victim has been dead for longer than three hours, he says it's more like ten."
"Ten!" Roman exclaimed, "That's the middle of the morning! Cause of death?"
"Gunshot to the head, point blank range," Nicolai informed him.
Roman shook his head, "a gunshot by a crowded street, any witnesses?"
"None so far, doubt there will be."
"Why do you say that?" Roman asked as they reached the top of the stairs.
Nicolai laughed grimly, "this is Moscow my friend, people are too scared to report other shit in fear of us discovering theirs."

The soft sound of someone weeping caused Roman to turn, spotting a closed door he made for it.
"Not yet Roman," said Nicolai, grasping him by the shoulder and steering him towards another doorway. Roman's first impression was that of complete chaos, everything in the room; books, furniture and clothing had been thrown aside as if picked up and scattered by some indoor hurricane and the smell of drying blood was almost unbearable. His attention was soon drawn to the body sprawled out on the floor; male and clothed in a brown habit like those worn by monks, the corpses clothing was now stained by blood. Romans eyes took in every detail, the two wounds; one located just above the left eye the other a gory mess were his genitals used to be. After inspecting both wounds, Roman stood back to take in the scene. It was only then when something clicked inside his head and he found himself studying the cadavers face. The black beard, stained and untidy, the low forehead and bushy eyebrows and most of all, the eyes, eternally open in death and yet Roman recognised them anywhere. He had met that penetrating gaze once before while meeting the Czar, behind Russia's leader had stood someone else and it was that man who now lay before Roman in a crimson pool. Roman was too shocked to think but one word escaped his lips before he could stop himself.
"Rasputin."