The Romanov Prophecy

by Steve Berry

  Lord wore a jacket and a pair of leather gloves brought from Atlanta, along with thick woolen socks. His jeans were the only pair of casual wear he'd packed before leaving for Russia. The sweater was bought in Moscow a couple of weeks back. His world should have been one of suits and ties, casual clothes simply for a Sunday afternoon, but events had taken a dramatic shift in the past few days.

  Maks had also provided a little protection, an old bolt-action rifle that could easily be characterized as antique. But the weapon appeared well oiled, and Maks demonstrated how to load and fire. He warned them about bears that roamed at night, especially this time of year as they prepared for a winter's hibernation. Lord knew little about guns, having fired one only a couple of times while in Afghanistan. He wasn't necessarily comfortable with the idea of being armed, but he was even more uncomfortable with the prospect of encountering a hungry bear. It was Akilina who surprised him. She readily shouldered the rifle and popped off three shots into a tree fifty yards away. Another of her grandmother's lessons, she said. And he was glad. At least one of them knew what they were doing.

  He grabbed the shovels and flashlight from the backseat. Their clothes bags were there, too. As soon as they were through, after a quick trip back to Vassily Maks, they intended to leave. Where they would go was unclear, but he'd already decided that if this journey proved a dead end, he was going to drive southwest to Kiev and catch a flight to the United States. He'd call Taylor Hayes from the safety of his Atlanta apartment.

  "Let's go," he said. "Might as well get this over with."

  Black columns of trees rose all around, their boughs rustled by a frigid breeze that chapped his skin. He used the flashlight sparingly, conserving the batteries for the dig.

  The muted image of tombstones appeared in a clearing ahead. They were high in the Old World style, and even through the darkness it was obvious the plots had not been maintained. A layer of frost iced everything. The blackness of the sky above hinted that more rain might be on the way. No fence of any kind delineated boundaries and no gate signified an entrance, the trail leading from the road simply dissolving into the first line of markers. He could imagine a cortege of mourners led by a solemn, black-robed priest making their way down the path, a simple wooden coffin part of the procession, a rectangle in the black earth waiting.

  A scan with the flashlight revealed that all the graves were overgrown with underbrush. A few cairns were scattered throughout, and most of the heaps of memorial stones sprouted bushy weeds and thorny vines. He shone the light on the markers. Some of the dates reached back two hundred years.

  "Maks said the grave was farthest from the road in," he said, leading Akilina deeper into the cemetery.

  The burial ground was spongy from rain that hadn't let up until midafternoon. Which should help with digging, he thought.

  They found the grave.

  He read the words chiseled beneath KOLYA MAKS.

  HE THAT ENDURETH TO THE END SHALL BE SAVED.

  Akilina slid the rifle off her shoulder. "Seems this may be the right path."

  He handed her one of the shovels. "Let's find out."

  The ground peeled up soft and clumpy and carried a sharp scent of peat. Vassily had said the oak coffin should be shallow. Russians tended to bury their dead that way, and he hoped the old man was right.

  Akilina worked near the stone marker while he burrowed at the other end. He decided to dig straight down to see how far they needed to go. About three feet in he struck something hard. He cleared away the wet dirt, revealing wood, rotting and splintered.

  "That coffin is probably not going to come out," he said.

  "Which doesn't speak well of the body."

  They continued digging, clearing away layers of mud and, after twenty minutes, a dark rectangle was opened.

  He shone the flashlight down.

  Through gashes in the wood he saw the body. He used the shovel, pried off the remaining splinters, and exposed Kolya Maks.

  The Russian wore the uniform of a palace guard. Occasional bursts of color flashed in the weak beam. Muted reds, dark blue, and what was once surely white, now charcoal from the black earth. Brass buttons and a gold belt buckle had survived, but little remained of the trousers and jacket beyond shreds, leather straps, and a belt.

  Time had not been kind to the body, either. The flesh was gone from the face and hands. No features were left except the eye and nose sockets, an exposed jaw, and teeth clenched tight in death. Just as the son had said, the father cradled a metal box on what was left of his chest, rib bones protruding at odd angles, limp remnants of arms still crossed.

  Lord had expected a smell, but none drifted up other than the musty odor of wet dirt and lichens. He used the shovel to peel back what was left of the arms. The little bit of coat sleeve crumbled away. A couple of sod worms scampered across the box lid. Akilina lifted the box out and set it gently on the ground. The exterior was dirty, but still intact. Bronze perhaps, he thought, to survive the moisture. He noticed a padlock on the front.

  "It's heavy," she said.

  He knelt down and tried the weight. She was right. He shook it back and forth. Something with mass slid inside. He laid the box back on the ground and grabbed the shovel.

  "Stand back."

  He pounded the point of the blade into the lock. It took three jabs to crack the hasp free. He was about to reach down and open the lid when a swirl of light streaked across the tree line. His head whirled around and he saw four dots in the distance--the headlights of two cars approaching fast down the lane where they'd parked. The car lights extinguished at about the point where they'd parked.

  "Kill the light," he said. "And come on."

  He left the shovels and grabbed the box. Akilina cradled the rifle.

  He plunged into the trees and maneuvered through the underbrush to a point beyond the open grave, but far enough into the woods for cover. His clothes quickly dampened from wet foliage, and he was careful not to jostle the box, not sure of how fragile the contents might be. He slowly moved in the direction of their car, weaving a path around the cemetery back to where they'd parked. The wind freshened, now beating a loud rhythm with the branches.

  Two flashlights clicked on in the distance.

  Crouching down, he moved toward the burial clearing, stopping short, still in the trees. Four dark forms emerged from the end of the trail and entered the cemetery. Three stood tall and strode firm. One was hunched forward and moved slower. In the beams of one of the flashlights he spotted the face of Droopy. The other beam revealed the pudgy features of Inspector Felix Orleg. As they came closer he could tell from the silhouette that the other man was Cro-Magnon, and the final form was Vassily Maks.

  "Mr. Lord," Orleg called out in Russian. "We know you are here. Make this easy, would you please?"

  "Who is he?" Akilina whispered in his ear.

  "A problem," he mouthed.

  "That man with the light was on the train," she whispered.

  "Both of them were." He looked back at the rifle she held. "At least we're armed."

  He watched through the undergrowth, around the dark streaks of trees, as the four forms moved toward the open grave, two flashlight beams leading the way.

  "This where your father is buried?" he heard Orleg ask.

  Vassily Maks moved toward the stone marker revealed by one of the lights. The wind momentarily masked the voices and he could not hear if the old man said anything. But he did hear when Orleg yelled in Russian, "Lord, either come out or I'll kill this old man. Your choice."

  He wanted to reach back, take the rifle from Akilina, and rush forward, but all three of the other men were surely armed and certainly knew how to handle themselves. He, on the other hand, was scared to death and was betting his life on the prophecy of a charlatan murdered a hundred years ago. But before he could make any decision, Vassily Maks made it for him.

  "Do not worry about me, Raven. I am prepared."

  Maks started to run from his fat
her's grave, back toward the cars. The other three forms stood still, but Lord could see Droopy's arm raise, the outline of a gun in his hand.

  "If you can hear, Raven," Maks screamed. "Russian Hill."

  One shot cracked in the night and the old man dropped to the ground.

  The breath left Lord and he felt Akilina stiffen. They watched while Cro-Magnon calmly walked over and dragged the body back toward the grave, tossing it into the hole.

  "We have to go," he whispered to her.

  She didn't argue.

  They crept from tree to tree, made their way through the woods back toward the car, and stepped to where the three vehicles were parked.

  Running footsteps were approaching from the direction of the cemetery.

  Only one set.

  He and Akilina crouched low in the foliage just beyond the muddy roadbed.

  Droopy appeared with a flashlight in hand. Keys jingled in the dark, and the trunk to one of the two cars opened. Lord rushed from the woods. Droopy seemed to hear the steps and rose up from the trunk. Lord crashed the metal box onto the man's skull.

  Droopy collapsed to the ground.

  Lord looked down, satisfied that the man was out, then glanced into the trunk. A tiny light illuminated a dead stare from Iosif Maks.

  What had Rasputin said? Twelve must die before the resurrection can be complete. Mother of God. Two more just had.

  Akilina rushed forward and saw the body.

  "Oh no," she muttered. "Both of them?"

  "We don't have time for this. Get in our car." He gave her the keys. "But be quiet with the door. Don't crank the engine until I tell you." He handed her the box and took the rifle.

  The cemetery was a good fifty yards up the road, the route soft and muddy. Not the easiest terrain to negotiate, especially in the dark. Cro-Magnon and Orleg were probably searching the woods, Droopy sent back to retrieve the other body, an open grave the perfect place to dump it. Lord had even left two shovels for them. It wouldn't be long, though, before they began to miss their associate.

  He chambered a round, aimed at the right rear tire of one of the cars, and fired. He quickly chambered another and blew out the front tire of the other car. He then raced to his car and leaped in.

  "Go. Now."

  Akilina turned the key and slammed the gear into first. Tires spun as she maneuvered the front end left and straightened back out on the narrow road.

  She floored the accelerator and they shot off into the dark.

  They found the main highway and drove south. An hour passed with both of them quiet, the excitement of the moment ebbing with the realization that two men had just died.

  It started to rain. Even the sky seemed to share their sorrow.

  "I can't believe this is happening," Lord said, more to himself than to Akilina.

  "What Professor Pashenko said must be true."

  Not what he wanted to hear. "Pull over. Up there."

  There was nothing around but dark fields and dense woods. He hadn't seen a house for miles. No cars had appeared behind them, and they'd passed only three going the opposite direction.

  Akilina whipped the wheel left. "What are we doing?"

  He reached for the metal box lying in the backseat. "Finding out if this was worth it."

  He cradled the muddy box in his lap. The lock had shattered from the shovel blows and the bottom was dented from the blow to Droopy. He wrenched the hasp free, slowly opened the lid, and shone the flashlight inside.

  The first thing he saw was the shimmer of gold.

  He lifted out the ingot, about the size of a Hershey's chocolate bar. Thirty years underground had not diminished its glimmer. Stamped into the top was a number and the letters NR, a double-headed eagle between them. The mark of Nicholas II. He'd seen photographs of the symbol many times. The ingot was heavy, perhaps five pounds. Worth right now about thirty thousand dollars, if he correctly recalled the current price of an ounce of gold.

  "It's from the royal treasury," he said.

  "How do you know?"

  "I know."

  A small cloth bag that had deteriorated lay beneath. He fingered the outside and determined that it had once been velvet. In the weak beam of the flashlight it appeared a dark blue or maybe purple. He pressed down on the exterior. There was something hard inside, and something smaller. He handed the flashlight to Akilina and used both hands to peel back the rotting cloth.

  A gold sheet covered in etched words appeared, as did a brass key. On the key was inscribed C.M.B. 716. The words on the sheet were written in Cyrillic. He read the inscription out loud:

  The gold is for your use. Funds may be necessary and your tsar understood his duty. This sheet should also be melted and converted to currency. Use the key to access the next portal. Its location should already be clear. If not, then your path ends here, as it should. Only Hell's Bell can point the way beyond. To the Raven and Eagle, good luck and Godspeed. To any intruder, may the devil be your eternal companion.

  "But we don't know where the next portal is," Akilina said.

  "Maybe we do."

  She stared at him.

  He could still hear the words Vassily Maks had screamed before dying.

  Russian Hill.

  His mind quickly reviewed what he'd read through the years. During the Russian civil war that raged from 1918 to 1920, White Army forces were heavily financed by American, British, and Japanese interests. The Red Bolsheviks were deemed a great danger, so gold, munitions, and other supplies were funneled to the Russian mainland through the frontier town of Vladivostok on the Pacific coast. Maks had told them earlier that the two Romanov children were herded east, away from the Red Army. The easternmost point was Vladivostok. Thousands of Russian refuges had taken the same route, some fleeing the Soviets, some seeking a fresh start, others just on the run. The American West Coast became a magnet not only for refugees, but also for the funding of the beleaguered White Army, which eventually was defeated by Lenin and the Reds.

  He heard Vassily Maks scream once more.

  North Beach lay to the east, Nob Hill to the south. Beautiful old houses, cafes, and offbeat retail stores dotted the summit and slope. It was a trendy part of a trendy city. But in the early 1800s it was where a group of Russian fur traders had been buried. Then, the rocky shore and steep terrain were populated only by Miwok and Ohlone tribes. It would be decades before white men dominated. The legend of the graves gave the spot its name.

  Russian Hill.

  San Francisco, California.

  America.

  That was where the two Romanovs had been taken.

  He told Akilina what he thought. "It makes perfect sense. The United States is a big place. Easy to lose two teenagers there, and no one would have any idea who they were. Americans knew little about the Russian imperial family. Nobody really gave a damn. If Yussoupov is as smart as he's beginning to appear, that would be the percentage play." He held up the key and stared at the initials etched into it. C.M.B. 716. "My guess? This is the key to a safe deposit box in a San Francisco bank. We'll just have to find out which one when we get there, and hope it still exists."

  "Could it?"

  Lord shrugged. "San Francisco has an old financial district. There's a good chance. Even if the bank's gone, the boxes may have been left with a successor institution. It's a common practice." He paused. "Vassily told us that he had one other piece of information to give us after we got back from the cemetery. I'm betting that San Francisco was the next leg of the journey."

  "He said he didn't know where the children were taken."

  "We can't assume that was the truth. Just more deception until we retrieved the box. Our job now is to find Hell's Bell, whatever that is." He lifted the gold ingot. "Unfortunately, this is useless. We'd never get it out through customs. Not too many people nowadays would have imperial gold in their possession. I think you're right, Akilina. What Professor Pashenko said must be true. No Russian peasant would keep something like this and not m
elt it down a long time ago, unless it was more precious to him in its original form. Kolya Maks apparently took this seriously. As did Vassily and Iosif. They both died for it."

  He stared out the darkened windshield. A wave of resolution shot through him. "You know where we are?"

  She nodded. "Near the Ukraine border, almost out of Russia. This highway goes to Kiev."

  "How far?"

  "Four hundred kilometers. Maybe less."

  He recalled reading State Department briefings before leaving for Moscow that noted the lack of border checks between Russia and Ukraine. It had proven simply too expensive to staff all the checkpoints, and with so many Russians living in Ukraine it was deemed an unnecessary bother.

  He glanced through the rear windshield. An hour behind were Droopy, Cro-Magnon, and Felix Orleg. Ahead was open.

  "Let's go. We can catch a plane out of Kiev."

  THIRTY

  MOSCOW

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 18

  2:00 AM

  Hayes studied the five faces gathered in the paneled room. It was the same room they'd used for the past seven weeks. Stalin, Lenin, Brezhnev, and Khrushchev were there, along with the priest whom Patriarch Adrian had assigned as his personal envoy. He was a short man with a frizzled beard the texture of steel wool and rheumy green eyes. The envoy had exercised enough foresight to dress in a simple suit and tie, showing no outward signs of association with the church. The man had been unceremoniously dubbed by the others Rasputin, a name the priest did not like.

  All of the men had been summoned from a sound sleep and told to be present within the hour. Too much was at stake to wait until morning. Hayes was glad food and drink had been prepared. There were platters of sliced fish and salami, globs of red and black caviar heaped onto boiled eggs, cognac, vodka, and coffee.

  He'd taken the past few minutes to explain what had happened the day before in Starodug. Two dead Makses, but no information. Both had stubbornly refused to say anything. Iosif Maks had merely pointed the way to Vassily, the old man leading them to the grave. Yet he'd said nothing, save for a shout to the raven.