the Romanov Prophecy (2004)

by Steve Berry

  "Amazing they let you near anything," a voice said.

  "Not really," Lord said. "We're not actually involved with the Tsarist Commission, though we have credentials that imply that. We're here to look after your interests and to make sure Stefan Baklanov is selected. Just like back home, lobbying is an art form here, too."

  A man in the back row stood. "Mr. Lord, we all have careers on the line. You understand the gravity of this? We're talking about a possible reversion from a semi-democracy to an autocracy. That has got to have a spillover effect on our investments."

  He was ready with an answer. "We have no idea at this point how much authority the new tsar will have. As yet, we don't know whether the tsar will be a figurehead or the ruler of all Russia."

  "Get real, Lord," one of the men said. "These idiots aren't going to turn complete political power over to a single man."

  "The consensus is that's exactly what they will do."

  "This can't be happening," another said.

  "It may not be all that bad," Lord quickly said. "Russia is broke. It needs foreign investment. You might find an autocrat easier to deal with than the mafiya."

  A few muttered their assent, but one man asked, "And that problem is going to go away?"

  "We can only hope."

  "What do you think, Taylor?" another man asked.

  Hayes stood from his place at a back table and stepped to the front of the room. "I think what Miles told you is absolutely correct. We are about to witness the restoration of the Tsar of All Russia. The recreation of an absolute monarchy. Pretty amazing, if you ask me."

  "Pretty damn scary," one of the men said.

  Hayes smiled. "Don't worry. You're paying us big bucks to look after your interests. The commission has opened for business. We'll be there doing what you hired us to do. All you have to do is trust us."

  TEN

  2:30 PM

  Hayes entered the tiny conference room on the seventh floor. The office building rose in central Moscow, a strikingly modern rectangle with a gray-tinted glass facade. He always appreciated the choice of meeting locations. His benefactors seemed to revel in luxury.

  Stalin sat at the coffin-shaped conference table.

  Dmitry Yakovlev was the mafiya's representative in the Secret Chancellory. In his midforties, with a shock of corn-colored hair spilling over a tanned brow, the man radiated charm and control. For once, the three hundred or so gangs that occupied western Russia had all agreed on a single envoy to represent their mutual interests. Too much was at stake to argue over protocol. The criminal element apparently understood survival, and well knew what an absolute monarch with the full support of the people could do for them. Or to them.

  In many ways, Hayes realized, Stalin was the center of everything. Gang influence reached deep into the government, business, and the military. Russians even had a name for it: Vori v Zakone--Thieves in Law--a description Hayes liked. But their threat of violence was real since a contract killing was a far cheaper and faster way to settle a dispute than the courts.

  "How was the opening session?" Stalin asked in perfect English.

  "The commissioners organized themselves, as expected. They'll get down to business tomorrow. The timetable is six days to a first vote."

  The Russian seemed impressed. "Less than a week was what you predicted."

  "I told you I know what I'm doing. Was the transfer made?"

  There was a hesitation that signaled irritation. "I am unaccustomed to such directness."

  What was not said, but nonetheless clear, was that he was unaccustomed to such directness from a foreigner. Hayes decided to employ tact, though he, too, was irritated. "No disrespect intended. It's only that the payments have not been made, as agreed, and I'm accustomed to arrangements being honored."

  On the table was a sheet of paper. Stalin slid it across to him. "That's the new Swiss account in Zurich you requested. Same bank as before. Five million, U.S., went in this morning. That's all the payments due to date."

  Hayes was pleased. For a decade he'd represented the mafiya in their American diversifications. Millions of dollars had been laundered through North American financial institutions, most funneled into legitimate businesses seeking capital, more used to purchase stocks, securities, gold, and art. Pridgen & Woodworth had earned millions in legal fees through his representation, all made thanks to a combination of friendly American laws and even friendlier bureaucrats. No one knew the money source and, to date, the activity had not attracted any official attention. Hayes had used his representation to expand his influence in the firm and attract a huge array of foreign clients that turned to him simply because he understood how business was done in the new Russia--how to use fear and anxiety--how uncertainty could be a friend if one knew precisely how to alleviate it. Which he did.

  Stalin smirked. "This is becoming quite profitable for you, Taylor."

  "I told you I wasn't going to take the risks for my health."

  "Apparently not."

  "What was all that about yesterday? What you said about expanding my role in this whole affair."

  "Just as I said. We may need certain matters handled and you come with a measure of deniability."

  "I want to know what you're not telling me."

  "It is truly not important at the moment. There is no need for concern; we are simply being cautious."

  Hayes reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew the card Stalin had given him the day before. "Will I need to make the call?"

  Stalin chuckled. "Does the notion of such loyalty--that on your order men would submerge themselves in the river--appeal to you?"

  "I want to know why I might need them."

  "Let us hope you won't. Now tell me about the power concentration. What was mentioned today at the session?"

  He decided to let the matter drop. "Power will be concentrated in the tsar. But there will still be a council of ministers and a Duma that will have to be dealt with."

  Stalin pondered the information. "It seems our nature to be volatile. Monarchy, republic, democracy, communism . . . none of it really works here." He paused, then added with a smile, "Thank goodness."

  Hayes asked what he really wanted to know, "What of Stefan Baklanov? Will he cooperate?"

  Stalin glanced at his watch. "I assume you will have the answer to that question shortly."

  ELEVEN

  GREEN GLADE ESTATE

  4:30 PM

  Hayes admired the shotgun, a Fox side-by-side with a Turkish walnut stock, hand-rubbed to an oil finish. The pistol grip was lean and straight with a beavertail fore-end and hard rubber butt plate. He tested the action, boxlike, with automatic ejectors. He knew the price ranged from seven thousand dollars for a basic model to twenty-five thousand for an exhibition-grade. Truly, an impressive weapon.

  "Your shot," Lenin said.

  Hayes shouldered the gun and took aim into a cloudy afternoon sky. He steadied the barrel with a feather-light touch.

  "Pull," he yelled.

  A clay pigeon shot from the thrower. He followed the black dot in the sight, moved ahead, and fired.

  The target disintegrated in a shower of debris.

  "You're a good shot," Khrushchev said.

  "Hunting is my passion."

  He spent at least nine weeks a year traveling the world on expeditions. Canadian caribou and geese. Asian pheasant and wild sheep. European red stag and fox. African Cape buffalo and antelope. Not to mention the duck, deer, grouse, and wild turkey he routinely sought in the woods of northern Georgia and the mountains of western North Carolina. His office in Atlanta was littered with trophies. The past couple of months had been so intense that he'd not had a chance to shoot, so he was grateful for this outing.

  He'd left Moscow right after his meeting with Stalin, a car and driver delivering him to an estate thirty miles south of town. The manor house was a lovely red brick veined with ivy. It was owned by another member of the Secret Chancellory--Georgy Ostanovich, better known
to Hayes as Lenin.

  Ostanovich came from the military. He was a thin, cadaverous man with steel-gray eyes encircled by thick-lensed glasses. He was a general, though he never wore a uniform, a line officer who'd led troops in the assault of Grozny at the outset of the Chechen war. That conflict had deprived him of one lung, which was why he now labored with each breath. After the war he'd become an outspoken critic of Yeltsin and his weak military policies, and only Yeltsin's fall from power had prevented him from losing his rank and commission. Top officers were worried about their future under a tsar, so the army's presence in any conspiracy was deemed critical, and Ostanovich had been chosen its collective representative.

  Lenin stood up to the mark and prepared to shoot.

  "Pull," the Russian yelled.

  A second later, he scored a direct hit.

  "Excellent," Hayes said. "With the sun going down, the shots are getting difficult."

  Stefan Baklanov, the Heir Apparent, stood off to one side, his single-action shotgun open. Baklanov was a short man, balding and barrel-chested, with light green eyes and a thick Hemingway beard. He was nearing fifty, his face seemingly devoid of emotion and that worried Hayes. In the realm of politics, whether a candidate could actually govern was often immaterial. The question was whether or not it appeared he could lead. Though Hayes had no doubt that all seventeen members of the Tsarist Commission would eventually be bribed, their votes assured, a suitable candidate must still be presented for their perusal and, even more important, the damn fool had to be able to lead afterward--or at least effectively implement orders from the men who'd put him there.

  Baklanov stepped up to the mark. Lenin and Khrushchev moved back.

  "I am curious," Baklanov said in his baritone voice. "Will the monarchy be absolute?"

  "No other way will work," Lenin said.

  Hayes broke his gun and extracted the spent cartridge. Only the four men stood on the elevated brick terrace. The fir and beech groves beyond were dotted with autumn's copper. Past a pavilion, in the far distance, a herd of bison mingled on an open plain.

  "Will I be given full command of the military?" Baklanov asked.

  "Within reason," Lenin said. "This is not Nicholas's time. We have . . . modern considerations."

  "And will I control the army?"

  "What would be your policies concerning the military?" Lenin asked.

  "I was unaware I would be allowed my own policies."

  The sarcasm was clear and Hayes saw Lenin did not appreciate it. Baklanov seemed to notice. "I realize, General, you believe the military is vastly underfunded and our defensive capabilities have been hampered by political instability. But I do not believe our destiny lies in a strong military. The Soviets bankrupted this nation by building bombs while our roads crumbled and people went hungry. Our destiny is to fulfill those basic needs."

  Hayes knew this wasn't what Lenin wanted to hear. Russian line officers earned less each month than street merchants. Military housing had become no more than slum tenements. Hardware had not been maintained in years, the most sophisticated equipment outmoded to the point of obsolescence.

  "Of course, General, certain funding allowances will have to be made to correct past deficiencies. We do need a strong military . . . for defense capability." It was a clear signal that Baklanov was willing to compromise. "But I am wondering, will the royal property be restored?"

  Hayes almost smiled. The Heir Apparent seemed to enjoy his hosts' predicament. The word tsar was an ancient Russian corruption of the Latin caesar, and he thought the analogy quite appropriate. This man might just make an excellent Caesar. He possessed an unbridled arrogance that bordered on foolishness. Perhaps Baklanov had forgotten that the patience of Caesar's colleagues in ancient Rome eventually ran out.

  "What did you have in mind?" Khrushchev asked.

  Khrushchev--Maxim Zubarev--came from the government. He had a brash, swaggering way about him. Perhaps, Hayes often thought, it was compensation for a horse face and crinkly brown eyes, neither of which was flattering. He represented a sizable bloc of officials in the Moscow central bureaucracy concerned about their influence under a restored monarchy. Zubarev realized, and had expressed many times, that national order existed only because the people were tolerating governmental authority until the Tsarist Commission finished its work. Ministers wanting to survive that metamorphosis would have to adapt, and fast. Hence their need for a voice in a surreptitious manipulation of the system.

  Baklanov faced Khrushchev. "I would require that ownership of the palaces possessed by my family at the time of the revolution be restored. They were Romanov property, stolen by thieves."

  Lenin sighed. "How do you plan to maintain them?"

  "I don't. The state will, of course. But perhaps we could enter into some sort of arrangement similar to the English monarchy. Most will remain accessible to the public, entrance fees used for maintenance. But all Crown property and images will belong to the Crown, to be licensed to the world for a fee. The English royals raise millions each year that way."

  Lenin shrugged. "I see no problem. The people certainly can't afford those monstrosities."

  "Of course," Baklanov said, "I would reconvert the Catherine Palace at Tsarskoe Selo into a summer residence again. In Moscow, I would want exclusive control of the Kremlin Palaces, the Facets being the center of my court there."

  "Do you realize the cost of such extravagance?" Lenin said.

  Baklanov stared at the man. "The people will not want their tsar living in a cottage. Cost is your problem, gentlemen. Pomp and circumstance is essential for the ability to rule."

  Hayes admired the man's daring. It made him think of Jimmy Walker bucking the bosses of Tammany Hall in the New York of the 1920s. But such a course came with risks. Walker ended up resigning, the public thinking him a crook, the Hall abandoning him for not taking orders.

  Baklanov rested the gun butt on his shiny right boot. Hayes took a moment and admired the wool suit--Savile Row if he wasn't mistaken--Charvet cotton shirt, Canali tie, and felt hat with a chamois tuft. If nothing else, the Russian knew how to present himself.

  "The Soviets spent decades indoctrinating us on the evils of the Romanovs. Lies, every last word," Baklanov said. "The people want a monarchy with all the trappings. Something the rest of the world will take notice of. That can only be done with great spectacle and circumstance. We shall start with an elaborate coronation, then a gesture of allegiance from the people to their new ruler--say, a million souls in Red Square. After that, palaces will be expected."

  "And what of your court?" Lenin asked. "Will St. Petersburg be your capital?"

  "Without a doubt. The communists chose Moscow. A move back will symbolize change."

  "And will you have an assortment of grand dukes and duchesses?" Lenin inquired, the general's disgust undisguised.

  "Of course. Succession must be preserved."

  "But you despise your family," Lenin said.

  "My sons will receive their birthright. Beyond that, I will create a new ruling class. What better way to reward the patriots who made all this possible?"

  Khrushchev spoke up. "There are those among us who want a boyar class created from the ranks of the new rich and gangs. The people expect the tsar to put a stop to the mafiya, not reward it."

  Hayes wondered if Khrushchev would be as bold if Stalin were here. Stalin and Brezhnev had been left out of the meeting intentionally. The division had been Hayes's idea, a variation on the good cop-bad cop scenario.

  "I agree," Baklanov said. "A slow evolution will be beneficial to all concerned. I am more interested that the heirs of my body inherit and the Romanov dynasty continue."

  Baklanov's three children, all sons, ranged in age from twenty-five to thirty-three. To a man, they hated their father, but the prospect of the oldest becoming tsarevich and the other two grand dukes had enticed a family truce. Baklanov's wife was a hopeless alcoholic, but she was Orthodox by birth, Russian, with some royal blo
od. She'd spent the last thirty days in an Austrian spa drying out and had repeatedly assured everyone she would gladly forgo the bottle in return for becoming the next Tsarina of All Russia.

  "The continuation of the dynasty is something we are all interested in," Lenin said. "Your firstborn seems a reasonable man. He promises that your policies will be continued."

  "And what will be my policies?"

  Hayes had been waiting for an opening. "To do exactly as we say." He was tired of tiptoeing around this bastard.

  Baklanov openly bristled at the bluntness. Good, Hayes thought. He needs to get used to it.

  "I was unaware an American would be playing a role in this transition."

  Hayes zeroed in a tight gaze. "This American is the one funding your lifestyle."

  Baklanov looked at Lenin. "Is that true?"

  "We have no desire to spend our rubles on you. The foreigners offered. We accepted. They have much to lose, or gain, from the years ahead."

  Hayes went on, "We'll ensure that you will be the next tsar. You'll also get absolute power. There will be a Duma, but it will be as impotent as a castrated bull. All proposals for law would have to be approved by you and the state council."

  Baklanov nodded in approval. "Stolypin's philosophy. Make the Duma an appendage of the state to endorse government policy, not to check or administer it. Sovereignty to the monarch."

  Petr Stolypin had been one of Nicholas II's last prime ministers. So much a bloody defender of tsarist order that the hangman's noose used to quell peasant revolts was tagged the Stolypin Necktie, and railway cars to Siberia for political exiles named Stolypin Carriages. But he'd been assassinated, shot at the Kiev opera by a revolutionary while Nicholas II watched.