the Romanov Prophecy (2004)

by Steve Berry

  Your Wify

  Lord knew that the writer was Alexandra, the last tsarina of Russia. She had kept a diary for decades. So had her husband, Nicholas, and both journals subsequently provided an unprecedented look into the royal court. Nearly seven hundred of their letters were found in Yekaterinburg after the execution. He'd read other diary excerpts and most of the letters. Several recent books had published them verbatim. He knew the reference to "our Friend" was their way of describing Rasputin, since both Alexandra and Nicholas thought their letters were being scrutinized by others. Unfortunately, their unfettered confidence in Rasputin was not shared by anyone else.

  "So deep in thought," a voice said in Russian.

  He glanced up.

  An older man stood on the opposite side of the table. He was fair-skinned with pale blue eyes, a thin chest, and freckled wrists. His head was half bald and graying fuzz dusted the sallow skin on his neck from ear to ear. He wore steel-rimmed glasses and a bow tie. Lord immediately recalled that he'd seen the man poring through the records, one of several individuals who seemed to be working as hard as he was.

  "Actually, I was back in 1916 for an instant. Reading this stuff is like time travel," Lord said in Russian.

  The older man smiled. Lord estimated his age to be nearing, if not more than, sixty.

  "I quite agree. It is one of the reasons I like coming here. A reminder of something that once was."

  He instantly warmed to the congenial manner and stood from the table. "I'm Miles Lord."

  "I know who you are."

  A wave of suspicion swept over him and his gaze unconsciously darted around the room.

  His visitor seemed to sense the fear. "I assure you, Mr. Lord, I am no threat. Just a tired historian looking for a little conversation with someone of similar interests."

  He relaxed. "How do you know me?"

  The man smiled. "You are not a favorite of the women who staff this depository. They resent being ordered about by an American--"

  "And a black?"

  The man smiled. "Unfortunately, this country is not progressively minded on the issue of race. We are a fair-skinned nation. But your commission credentials cannot be ignored."

  "And who are you?"

  "Semyon Pashenko, professor of history, Moscow State University." The older man offered his hand and Lord accepted. "Where is the other gentleman who accompanied you in days past? A lawyer, I believe. We talked for a few moments among the stacks."

  He debated whether to lie, but decided the truth would be better. "He was killed this morning on Nikolskaya Prospekt. In a shooting."

  Shock filled the older man's face. "I saw something on the television about that earlier. So terrible." He shook his head. "This country will be the ruin of itself if something is not done soon."

  Lord sat and offered a seat.

  "Were you involved?" Pashenko asked, settling into a chair.

  "I was there." He decided to keep the rest of what happened to himself.

  Pashenko shook his head. "That sort of display says nothing for who or what we are. Westerners, like yourself, must think us barbarians."

  "Not at all. Every nation goes through periods like this. We had our own during the western expansion and in the nineteen twenties and thirties."

  "But I believe our situation is more than merely growing pains."

  "The past few years have been difficult for Russia. It was hard enough when there was a government. Yeltsin and Putin tried to keep order. But now, with little semblance of authority, it's nothing short of anarchy."

  Pashenko nodded. "Unfortunately, this is nothing new for our nation."

  "Are you an academician?"

  "A historian. I have devoted my life to the study of our beloved Mother Rus."

  He grinned at the ancient term. "I would imagine there hasn't been much use for your specialty in some time."

  "Regretfully. The communists had their own version of history."

  He recalled something he'd read once. Russia is a country with an unpredictable past. "Did you teach, then?"

  "For thirty years. I saw them all. Stalin, Khrushchev, Brezhnev. Each one inflicted his own peculiar damage. It is sinful what happened. But even now, we find it hard to let go. People still line up each day to walk past Lenin's body." Pashenko lowered his voice. "A butcher, revered as a saint. Did you notice the flowers around his statue out front." He shook his head. "Disgusting."

  Lord decided to be careful with his words. Though this was the postcommunist era, soon to be new tsarist era, he was still an American working under credentials granted by a shaky Russian government. "Something tells me that if tanks rolled through Red Square tomorrow, everyone who works in this archive would be there to cheer them on."

  "They are no better than street beggars," Pashenko said. "They enjoyed privilege, kept the leaders' secrets, and in return received a choice apartment, some extra bread, a few more days off in summer. You must work and earn what you get, is that not what America stands for?"

  Lord didn't answer. Instead, he asked, "What do you think of the Tsarist Commission?"

  "I voted yes. How could a tsar do any worse?"

  He'd found that attitude quite prevalent.

  "It is unusual to find an American able to speak our language so well."

  He shrugged. "You have a fascinating country."

  "Have you always had an interest?"

  "Since childhood. I started reading about Peter the Great and Ivan the Terrible."

  "And now you are a part of our Tsarist Commission. About to make history." Pashenko motioned to the sheets on the table. "Those are quite old. Do they come from the Protective Papers?"

  "I found both a couple of weeks ago."

  "I recognize the script. Alexandra herself penned that one. She wrote all her letters and diaries in English. The Russians hated her because she was born a German princess. I always thought that an unfair criticism. Alexandra was a most misunderstood woman."

  He offered the sheet, deciding that this Russian's brain might be worth picking. Pashenko read the letter, then said when he finished, "She was colorful in her prose, but this is mild. She and Nicholas wrote many romantic letters."

  "It's sad handling them. I feel like an intruder. I was reading earlier about the execution. Yurovsky must have been one devil of a man."

  "Yurovsky's son said that his father always regretted his involvement. But who knows? For twenty years after he gave lectures to Bolshevik groups about the murders, proud of what he did."

  He handed Pashenko the note penned by Lenin. "Take a look at this."

  The Russian read the page slowly, then said, "Definitely Lenin. I am familiar with his writing style, too. Curious."

  "My thought exactly."

  Pashenko's eyes lit up. "Surely you do not believe those stories that two of the royal family survived the execution at Yekaterinburg?"

  He shrugged. "To this day the bodies of Alexie and Anastasia have never been found. Now this."

  Pashenko grinned. "Americans really are conspiratorialists. A plot into everything."

  "It's my job at the moment."

  "You must support Stefan Baklanov's claim, correct?"

  He was a little surprised and wondered about his transparency.

  Pashenko motioned to the surroundings. "The women, again, Mr. Lord. They know all. Your document inquiries are recorded and, believe me, they pay attention. Have you met our so-called Heir Apparent?"

  He shook his head. "But the man I work for has."

  "Baklanov is no better fit to rule than Mikhail Romanov was four hundred years ago. Too weak. Unlike poor Mikhail, who had his father to make decisions for him, Baklanov will be on his own, and many would revel in his failure."

  This Russian academician had a point. From all he'd read about Baklanov, the man seemed more concerned with a return of tsarist prestige than with actually governing the nation.

  "May I make a suggestion, Mr. Lord?"

  "Certainly."


  "Have you been to the archives in St. Petersburg?"

  He shook his head.

  "A look there might be productive. They house many of Lenin's writings. Most of the tsar and tsarina's diaries and letters are stored there, too." He pointed to the sheets. "It might help discover the meaning of what you have found."

  The suggestion seemed a good one. "Thank you, I just might do that." He glanced at his watch. "If you'll excuse me, I have more to read before this place closes. But I enjoyed talking. I'll be around for a few more days. Maybe we can chat again."

  "I, too, will be in and out. If you don't mind, I think I might just sit here a little while. May I read those two sheets again?"

  "Of course."

  Ten minutes later when he returned, the writings by Alexandra and Lenin lay on the table, but Semyon Pashenko was gone.

  SEVEN

  5:25 PM

  A dark BMW picked Hayes up in front of the Volkhov. After a fifteen-minute trek through surprisingly light traffic, the driver wheeled into a gated courtyard. The house beyond was late classical, built in the early part of the nineteenth century, then and now one of Moscow's showpieces. During the communist tenure it had been the Center for State Literature and Arts, but after the fall, like most things, the building went on the auction block and was eventually snapped up by one of the country's new rich.

  Hayes stepped from the car and told the driver to wait.

  As usual, two men armed with Kalashnikovs patrolled the courtyard. The house's blue stucco facade appeared gray in the dimming afternoon light. He sucked in a breath, bitter with carbon fumes, and stepped resolutely down a brick walk through a lovely autumn garden. He entered the house through an unlocked pine door.

  The interior was characteristic for a dwelling built nearly two hundred years ago. The floor plan was an irregular hodgepodge, the formal reception areas knotted toward the front facing the street, various private living quarters in the rear. The decor was period and he assumed original, though he'd never asked the owner. He wound his way through a maze of tight corridors and found the paneled salon where the meeting always occurred.

  Four men waited, each sipping drinks and smoking cigars.

  He'd met them a year ago, and all of their subsequent communication had been through code names. Hayes was known as Lincoln, the other four by their chosen labels--Stalin, Lenin, Khrushchev, and Brezhnev. The idea had come from a popular print Moscow gift shops peddled. It depicted various Russian tsars, empresses, and Soviet premiers gathered around a table, drinking and smoking, with Mother Russia the single topic of discussion. Of course, no such meeting had ever occurred, but the artist graphically fantasized how each individual personality might have reacted given such an event. The four men had chosen their designated label carefully, reveling in the prospect that their meetings were not unlike the painting--and that the fate of the Motherland now rested in their hands.

  The four extended a welcome and Lenin poured Hayes a vodka from a carafe chilling in a sterling ice bucket. A plate of smoked salmon and marinated mushrooms was offered. He declined. "I'm afraid I have bad news," he said in Russian, then told them about Miles Lord surviving.

  "There is another matter," Brezhnev said. "We did not know until today this lawyer was an African."

  Hayes thought the observation curious. "He's not. He's American. But if you mean his color, what does it matter?"

  Stalin leaned forward. Unlike his namesake, he seemed always to be the voice of reason. "Americans have such a hard time understanding the Russian sensitivity to fate."

  "And where exactly does fate tie in here?"

  "Tell us about Mr. Lord," Brezhnev asked.

  The entire subject bothered Hayes. He'd thought it strange they'd so nonchalantly ordered Lord's murder without knowing anything at all about him. At their last meeting Lenin had given him Inspector Orleg's telephone number and told him to arrange the murder through him. The instruction had bothered him at first--such a valuable assistant would be difficult to replace--but too much was at stake to be concerned about one lawyer. So he'd done as they asked. Now more questions. Ones that made little sense.

  "Came to my firm right out of law school. Phi Beta Kappa at the University of Virginia. Always been interested in Russia, took a master's degree in Eastern European studies. Good with languages. Damn hard to find a lawyer who can speak Russian. I thought he'd be an asset, and I was right. Many of our clients rely on him exclusively."

  "Personal information?" Khrushchev asked.

  "Born and raised in South Carolina, somewhat affluent. His father was a preacher. One of those tent revivalists who traveled from town to town healing people. From what Lord tells me, he and his father didn't get along. Miles is thirty-eight or thirty-nine, never been married. Lives a fairly basic life, from all I see. Works hard. One of our top producers. Has never given me any trouble."

  Lenin leaned back in the chair. "Why the interest in Russia?"

  "Beats the shit out of me. From conversations he seems genuinely fascinated. Always has been. He's a history buff, his office is full of books and treatises. He's even done some lecturing at a couple of our local universities and at a few state bar meetings. Now let me ask something. Why is all this important?"

  Stalin sat back. "That is immaterial, given what happened today. The problem of Mr. Lord will have to wait. What should concern us now is what happens tomorrow."

  Hayes wasn't ready to change subjects. "For the record, I wasn't in favor of killing Lord. I told you I could handle him, whatever your apprehensions may have been."

  "As you will," Brezhnev said. "We have decided that Mr. Lord is to be your concern."

  "I'm glad we agree. He won't be a problem. But no one has yet to explain how he was a problem."

  Khrushchev said, "Your assistant has been intent in the archives."

  "That's what I sent him there to do. On your instructions, I might add."

  The assigned task was simple. Find anything that could affect Stefan Baklanov's claim to the throne. And Lord had searched nearly ten hours a day for the past six weeks and reported everything he'd found. Hayes suspected something he'd passed on to the group had piqued these men's interest.

  "It is not necessary," Stalin said, "that you know everything. Nor do I believe you really want to. Suffice it to say that we deemed the elimination of Mr. Lord the most economical way to handle the matter. That effort failed, so we are willing to take your advice. For now."

  A grin accompanied the statement. Hayes didn't particularly like the condescending way these four treated him. He wasn't some errand boy. He was the fifth member of what he'd privately dubbed the Secret Chancellory. But he decided to keep his irritation to himself and changed the subject. "I assume the decision has been made that the new monarch will be absolute?"

  "The question of the tsar's power is still a matter of debate," Lenin said.

  He understood that some aspects of what they were doing were uniquely Russian, to be decided solely by Russians. And as long as those decisions did nothing to jeopardize the enormous financial contribution his clients were making and the sizable return he stood to enjoy, he didn't care. "What is the status of our influence with the commission?"

  "We have nine who will vote as we say, no matter what," Lenin said. "The other eight are being approached."

  "The rules will require unanimity," Brezhnev said.

  Lenin sighed. "I wonder how we ever let that pass."

  Unanimity had been an integral part of the resolution that created the Tsarist Commission. The people had approved both the idea of a tsar and a commission, with the check and balance that all seventeen commissioners must vote yes. One vote was enough to derail any attempt at stacking the deck.

  "The other eight will be secure by the time a vote is taken," Stalin made clear.

  "Are your people working on the matter?" Hayes asked.

  "As we speak." Stalin sipped from his drink. "But we will need more funds, Mr. Hayes. These men are proving expensi
ve to purchase."

  Western currency was financing nearly everything the Secret Chancellory was doing, and that bothered Hayes. He paid all the bills, but possessed only a limited voice.

  "How much?" he asked.

  "Twenty million dollars."

  He held his emotions in check. That was on top of another ten million provided thirty days ago. He wondered how much of the money was actually making its way to commission members and how much was staying with the men around him, but he dared not ask.

  Stalin handed him two laminated badges. "Here are your commission credentials. They will allow you, and your Mr. Lord, access to the Kremlin. They also authorize entrance into the Facets Palace. You have the same privileges as commission staff members."

  He was impressed. He'd not expected to be actually present at the sessions.

  Khrushchev smiled. "We thought it better that you be there in person. There will be a lot of American press. You should be able the blend into the surroundings and keep us informed. None of the commission members know you or the extent of your connections. Your observations should be helpful in our coming discussions."

  "We have also decided that we wish your role to expand," Stalin said.

  "In what way?" he asked.

  "It is important the commission encounter no distractions during its deliberations. We will ensure that its session is brief, but there is a danger from outside influences."

  He'd sensed during their last meeting that something was bothering these four men. Something Stalin had said earlier when he questioned him about Lord. Americans have such a hard time understanding Russian sensitivity to fate.

  "What would you have me do?"

  "Whatever becomes necessary. Granted, any one of us could get the people we represent to handle a problem, but we need a certain element of deniability. Unfortunately, unlike the old Soviet Union, the new Russia does not hold its secrets closely. Our records are open, our press aggressive, foreign influence great. You, on the other hand, have international credibility. And, besides, who would suspect you of any nefarious activity?" Stalin curled his thin lips into a wiry smile.