The days following the dispatch of his letter were the longest of Mikhail's life. He confined himself to his St. Petersburg office, a self-imposed prisoner awaiting a sentence. Every rumble of a carriage on the street below, every sharp knock on the door, sent a jolt of adrenaline through him. He knew Plehve's agents were closing in; Witte had sent word that a warrant was being prepared. The city, once a landscape of opportunity, now felt like a cage, and the walls were shrinking with each passing hour.
He slept in his chair, his dossier of evidence in a locked briefcase by his side. He ate the simple meals his manservant brought him and spent the hours refining his arguments, rehearsing the presentation he might never get to make. It was a battle of nerves, waiting to see which would arrive first: the Imperial summons he had prayed for, or the secret police he expected.
The summons came on the third day. It was not a letter, but a closed carriage of the Imperial household, black with the gold trim of the Dowager Empress's personal livery. An immaculately uniformed officer of the Chevalier Guard presented himself at the door. "Baron Volkov," the officer stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "Her Imperial Majesty, the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna, will grant you an audience. You will come with me. Now."
The ride to the Anichkov Palace was a silent, surreal journey. Passersby bowed their heads as the imperial carriage passed. Mikhail knew he was now untouchable by Plehve's men, but he felt no relief, only the crushing weight of the coming confrontation. This was no longer a game of wits with ministers; he was about to plead his case to the symbolic mother of Russia itself.
He was led not into a grand throne room, but into a surprisingly intimate, private study. The room was filled with portraits of her children and grandchildren, and the air smelled of lilac and old paper. He caught Princess Sofia's eye for a moment as she stood near the wall. She gave him the barest hint of a nod, a small gesture of solidarity that helped to steady his nerves.
The Dowager Empress spoke, her Danish accent a crisp counterpoint to the soft furnishings of the room. There was no pretense of courtly warmth in her tone, only a weary authority. Her eyes, though clouded with a recent and profound sadness, missed nothing. "Baron Volkov," she said, her voice cutting through the silence. "You have made a series of claims that are, to say the least, extraordinary. I am listening."
There was no room for error. Bowing deeply, Mikhail began. He did not plead for his life or rail against his enemies. He started not with a plea, but with evidence. He laid out his initial, ignored report on Japan's military strength. "This was presented to the ministers last year, Your Majesty. A warning that went unheeded."
He then immediately followed it with copies of the shipping manifests and Makarov's telegrams. "And this, Your Majesty, is what I did when the war I predicted began. I knew Admiral Makarov was being sent into battle with shells that would shatter and optics that were useless. I could not allow Russian sailors to die because of bureaucratic incompetence. So yes, I bypassed the bureaucracy. My syndicate provided the tools that allowed the Admiral his victories."
Finally, he presented the dossier on Katorov and the Pskov officials, showing the web of corruption that tied back to Plehve's ministry. "The same incompetence that ignored the warnings is rooted in the same corruption that enriches men like Katorov while weakening the state. Minister Plehve and his faction are not just failing to win this war; their system is designed to fail."
He finished and stood in silence, his case made. The Empress regarded him for a long, unnerving minute.
"You are either the most loyal and brilliant subject in my son's empire, or the most ambitious and dangerous," she said finally, her voice cutting. "You admit to treasonous acts—bypassing the state's authority, running a private supply chain to a war front."
"My actions were necessary, Your Majesty," Mikhail replied steadily. "To obey the letter of a flawed law in the face of certain disaster would have been the greater treason."
The Empress's gaze sharpened. This was the heart of the matter. It was an argument that resonated with her own deep distrust of the bureaucracy she felt often ensnared her son. Finally, she reached for the copies of the coded telegrams. Her gloved finger traced the name of the sender: Makarov. As she read the late admiral's own words—his praise for the new shells, his reference to the 'wolves' teeth' Mikhail had given his fleet—her stern composure seemed to waver for a fraction of a second. The words on the page were not the self-serving claims of a young industrialist; they were the professional correspondence of a fighting admiral she had known and respected for years. That fact carried more weight than any dossier.
She put the papers down and simply watched him for what felt like an eternity. The silence in the room was absolute. In that quiet moment, he felt he was being weighed and measured not just as a man, but as a potential asset or threat to the throne itself. "The honor of the military and the competence of my son's government are my primary concerns," she stated finally, her voice leaving no room for reply. Then, with a slight turn of her head, she added, "You may go." The audience was over.
With a deep bow, Mikhail backed out of the room, his mind racing. The Empress had given him nothing—no sign of favor, no hint of her intentions. He was escorted down the grand staircase, each step echoing in the silence, acutely aware that his entire future had just been decided in a conversation that lasted less than ten minutes.
As he reached the palace entrance, he saw another carriage waiting, this one flanked by two armed gendarmes from the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Plehve's men. For a terrible second, he thought he had failed.
But the officer of the Chevalier Guard who had brought him simply guided him past them, toward a different carriage. "Baron Volkov," the officer said, his tone still flat but with a new meaning. "Her Majesty has expressed concern for your safety pending a full review of this matter. You will be escorted to a secure residence and placed under the protection of the Imperial Guard."
Mikhail understood. He had not been exonerated, but he had not been condemned. He had been taken from the board. He was no longer Plehve's prey, but he was now the Empress's piece. She had not just saved him; she had claimed him. As he entered the carriage, he was no longer a free man, but a ward—or a prisoner—of the throne itself. He had survived, but the stakes of his game had just escalated to a level where he was no longer even in control of his own moves.