the Romanov Prophecy (2004)

by Steve Berry

  "Fucking chornye," Droopy said.

  He reared back to strike again, but Orleg grabbed his fist. "Enough. He'll be no good to any of us." Orleg pushed Droopy back toward the desk, then stepped closer. "Mr. Lord, this gentleman does not like you. On the train you sprayed his eyes with an aerosol, then in the woods you pounded his head. He would very much like to kill you and I really don't care, except that the people I work for desire some information. They have authorized me to say that your life will be spared if you cooperate."

  Lord did not believe that for a second. His eyes apparently betrayed his mistrust.

  "You don't believe me? Excellent. It is a lie. You are going to die. Of that we are sure. What I will say is that you can affect the manner of that death." Orleg was close and he caught the scent of cheap alcohol through the aroma of his own blood. "There are two options. A bullet to the head, which is quick and painless, or this." Orleg displayed a piece of duct tape dangling from his outstretched index finger, which he yanked free and then crumpled over Lord's broken nose.

  The pain brought renewed tearing to his eyes, but it was the sudden loss of air that got his attention. With his nose and mouth sealed, his lungs quickly exhausted the remaining bits of oxygen. But not only couldn't he inhale, he couldn't exhale, either, and the skyrocketing carbon dioxide levels made consciousness strobe in and out. His eyes felt like they were about to explode. In the instant before darkness overcame him, Orleg yanked the tape from his nose.

  He sucked in lungfuls of air.

  Blood leaked down his throat with each breath. He couldn't spit it out, so he swallowed. He continued to breathe through his nose, savoring what until now he'd taken for granted.

  "Option two is not pleasant, is it?" Orleg said.

  If it was possible, he would have killed Feliks Orleg with his bare hands. There would be no hesitation, no guilt. Again, his eyes betrayed his thoughts.

  "Such hate. You would much like to kill me, would you not? Too bad you will never have the chance. As I said, you are going to die. The only question is whether it will be quick or slow. And whether Akilina Petrovna will join you."

  At the mention of her name, his gaze locked tight on Orleg.

  "I thought that might get your attention."

  Filip Vitenko stepped up behind Orleg. "Is this not going a bit too far? There was no mention of murder when I relayed this information to Moscow."

  Orleg turned to face the envoy. "Sit down and shut up."

  "Who do you think you are talking to?" Vitenko barked. "I am the consul general of this station. No Moscow militsya gives me orders."

  "This one does." Orleg motioned to Droopy. "Get this idiot out of my way."

  Vitenko was jerked back. The envoy quickly shrugged off Droopy's grasp and retreated across the room, saying, "I am calling Moscow. I do not believe any of this is necessary. Something is not right here."

  The door leading out of the office opened and an older man with a long smashed face and crinkly eyes the color of burnished pennies stepped into the room. He wore a dark business suit.

  "Consular Vitenko, there will be no calls to Moscow. Do I make myself clear?"

  Vitenko hesitated a moment, considering the words. He also recognized the voice. It was the man from the speakerphone. Vitenko shrank to the corner of the office.

  The new man stepped forward. "I am Maxim Zubarev. We spoke earlier. Apparently, our little ruse did not work."

  Orleg backed away. This older man was obviously in charge.

  "The inspector was correct when he said you are going to die. That is unfortunate, but I have no choice. What I can promise is that Miss Petrovna will be spared. We have no reason to involve her, provided that she does not know anything of relevance or possess any information. Of course, we never learned what it is you know. I am going to have Inspector Orleg remove the tape from your mouth." The older man motioned to Droopy, who promptly closed the door leading out of the office. "But there is no need to waste your voice screaming. This room is soundproof. Perhaps you and I can have an intelligent conversation. If I am convinced you are being truthful, Miss Petrovna will be left alone."

  Zubarev stepped back and Orleg yanked the tape from Lord's mouth. He worked his jaw and loosened the stiffness.

  "Better, Mr. Lord?" Zubarev asked.

  He said nothing.

  Zubarev pulled a chair over and sat down, facing him. "Now tell me what you failed to tell me on the phone. What evidence do you have to support a conclusion that Alexie and Anastasia Romanov survived the Bolsheviks?"

  "You own Baklanov, don't you?"

  The older man heaved a long breath. "I see no reason why that is relevant, but in the hope that you will cooperate I will indulge you. Yes. The only thing that could stand in the way of his ascension is the reemergence of a direct bloodline to Nicholas II."

  "What's the point to all this?

  The older man laughed. "The point, Mr. Lord, is stability. The reinstitution of a tsar could greatly affect not only my interests, but a great deal of other individuals' interests as well. Was that not your purpose for being in Moscow?"

  "I had no idea Baklanov was a puppet."

  "He is a willing puppet. And we are clever puppeteers. Russia will thrive under his rule, and so will we."

  Zubarev casually examined the fingernails of his right hand, then looked at Lord. "We know that Miss Petrovna is here in San Francisco. She is no longer at your hotel, though. I have men looking for her now. If I find her before you tell me what I want to know, there will be no mercy. I will let them enjoy her and do as they please."

  "This is not Russia," he said.

  "True. But that is where she will be when all that occurs. A plane is waiting at the airport to return her. She is wanted for questioning and we have already cleared that with your customs authorities. Your FBI has even offered to assist in locating both you and her. International cooperation is such a wonderful thing, is it not?"

  He knew what he had to do. He could only hope that after he failed to show at the zoo, Akilina would leave town. He was sad he would never see her again. "I'm not going to tell you a damn thing."

  Zubarev stood. "Have it your way."

  As the older man left the room, Orleg slapped another strip of tape over his mouth.

  Droopy stepped close and smiled.

  He hoped the end would be quick, but knew that it wouldn't.

  Hayes looked up from the speaker as Maxim Zubarev entered the room. He'd listened to the entire exchange with Lord from down the hall, courtesy of a room microphone.

  He, Khrushchev, Droopy, and Orleg had left Moscow the previous night within hours after the call verifying Lord's location. An eleven-hour time difference had allowed them to travel nine thousand miles and arrive by the time Lord was having lunch in San Francisco. Thanks to Zubarev's government connections, police visas had been arranged for Orleg and Droopy. What Khrushchev had just told Lord was true. A call had secured the help of the FBI and customs in locating Lord and Akilina Petrovna if needed, but Hayes had declined American intervention, hoping to keep the situation confined. An easy exit from California and back to Russia for Lord and Petrovna was arranged through the State Department, few questions to be asked by Immigration at the San Francisco airport, a Russian warrant for murder the means of securing unquestioned American assistance. The idea was to contain exposure and stop whatever it was Lord was intent on finding. The problem was they still did not really know what that was, beyond some incredible assertion that perhaps somewhere in the United States was a direct descendant of Nicholas II.

  "Your Mr. Lord is a defiant man," Khrushshev said, as he closed the door.

  "But why?"

  Khrushchev sat. "That is the question of the day. When I left, Orleg was stripping two wires from one of the lamps. Some electricity surging through his body might loosen his tongue before we kill him."

  Through the speaker Hayes heard Droopy's voice as he told Orleg to cram the plug back in the wall socket. An amplif
ied scream that lasted fifteen seconds pierced the room.

  "Maybe you might reconsider telling us what we want to know," Orleg's voice said.

  There was no reply.

  Another scream. This one longer.

  Khrushchev reached across the desk to a candy dish and fingered a chocolate ball. He unwrapped the gold foil and popped the morsel into his mouth. "They will continue lengthening the amount of electricity until his heart gives out. It will be a painful death."

  The tone was cold, but Hayes had little sympathy for Lord. The fool had placed him in a difficult situation, his irrational actions jeopardizing a lot of planning and millions of dollars. He now wanted to know everything as badly as these Russians.

  Another scream rattled the speaker.

  The phone on the desk buzzed and he lifted the receiver. A voice on the other end informed him that a call had come in through the switchboard downstairs for Miles Lord. The receptionist thought it important and decided to see if Mr. Lord was available to take the call.

  "No," Hayes said. "Mr. Lord is in a conference right now. Put the call through to here." He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. "Shut that speaker off."

  A click in his ear and a female voice asked through the phone, "Miles. Are you all right?" She spoke Russian.

  "Mr. Lord is not available at the moment. He asked me to speak with you," he said.

  "Where is Miles? Who are you?"

  "You must be Akilina Petrovna."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Miss Petrovna. It is important we speak."

  "I've got nothing to say."

  He motioned to switch the speaker back on. A crackled scream instantly blared.

  "Did you hear that, Miss Petrovna? That is Miles Lord. He's being questioned at the moment by a determined Moscow militsya. You could end his pain by simply telling us where you are and waiting there."

  Silence on the other end.

  Another scream.

  "Electricity is being passed through his body. I doubt his heart can take much more."

  The phone clicked dead.

  He stared at the receiver.

  The screaming stopped.

  "The bitch hung up." He looked at Khrushchev. "Determined people, aren't they?"

  "Very. We must learn what they know. Your idea of tricking Lord was a good one, but it failed."

  "I'm betting these two are more coordinated than we think. Lord was smart to hide her. But they had to have a way to reconnect, if this wasn't a trap."

  Zubarev sighed. "I'm afraid there's no way to find her now."

  He smiled. "I wouldn't say that."

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  4:30 PM

  Akilina was forcing back tears. She stood at a pay phone, the surrounding sidewalk busy with shoppers and pedestrians. She could still hear Lord's scream. What was she going to do? Lord had expressly forbidden her to call the police. He'd also made it clear that she was not to go to the Russian consulate. Instead, she was to find a new hotel, check in, and go to the zoo at six PM. Only when he failed to show was she to go to the American authorities, preferably somebody with the U.S. State Department.

  Her heart ached. What had the man on the phone said? Electricity is being passed through his body. I doubt his heart can take much more. The words were delivered as if killing meant nothing to him. His Russian was good but she detected an American twist, which was curious. Were American authorities likewise compromised? Were they working with the same Russians who seemed intent on discovering what she and Lord were doing?

  Her hand continued to grasp the phone, her gaze down to the sidewalk, and she failed to notice anyone until a hand touched her right shoulder. She turned and an elderly woman said something. The only words she caught were you and over. Tears were now dripping from her eyes. The woman noticed the crying and her face softened. She caught herself and quickly swiped the moisture from her eyes and mouthed a spasibo, hoping the woman understood Russian for "thank you."

  She stepped from the phone and merged into the sidewalk rush. She'd already checked into another hotel using the money Lord had provided. She'd not stashed the egg, gold bars, and newspaper in the hotel's safe-deposit box, though, as he recommended. Instead, she carried them in one of the bags that had originally held Lord's toiletries and change of clothes. She did not want to trust their safety to anyone or anything.

  She'd wandered the sidewalks the past two hours, darting in and out of cafes and shops, making sure no one was following. She was fairly sure she was alone. But where was she? Definitely west of the Commerce & Merchants Bank, beyond the city's main financial district. Antiques stores, art galleries, jewelers, gift shops, bookstores, and restaurants abounded. Her drifting had led her in no particular direction. The only thing important was to know the way back to her new hotel, but she'd brought one of the brochures and could always show it to a taxi driver.

  What had drawn her to this spot was the bell tower she'd noticed a few blocks back. The architecture was Russian with gilded crosses and a distinctive dome. The design was a breath of home, but there were clearly foreign influences in the pedimented main door, rusticated surfaces, and a balustrade she'd never seen on any Orthodox church. She could read the sign out front, thanks to a Cyrillic translation beneath the English--HOLY TRINITY CATHEDRAL--and concluded this was a local Russian Orthodox church. The structure harked of safety, and she quickly crossed the street and entered.

  The interior was traditional, built in the form a cross, the altar facing east. Her eyes were drawn upward to the dome and a massive brass chandelier that dangled from its center. The distinctive smell of beeswax drifted from brass stands holding thick candles that flickered in the muted light, the mild scent softening a lingering presence of incense. Icons stared back from all around--on the walls, in the stained glass, and from the iconostasis that separated the altar from the congregation. In the church of her youth the barrier had been more open, offering a clear view of the priests beyond. But this was a solid wall filled with crimson and gold images of Christ and the Virgin Mary, only the open doorways offering glimpses beyond. There were no pews or benches anywhere. Apparently people here, as in Russia, worshipped standing.

  She moved to a side altar, hoping perhaps God could help with her dilemma. She started to cry. She'd never been one for tears, but the thought of Miles Lord being tortured, perhaps to death, was overwhelming. She needed to go to the police, but something cautioned her that this might not be the right course. Government was not necessarily a salvation. That was a lesson her grandmother had hammered into her.

  She crossed herself and started to pray, muttering lines taught to her as a child.

  "Are you all right, my child?" a male voice asked in Russian.

  She turned to face a middle-age priest dressed in black Orthodox robes. He did not wear the headdress common to Russian clergy, but a silver cross dangled from his neck, an accessory she vividly recalled from childhood. She quickly dried her eyes and tried to regain control.

  "You speak Russian," she said.

  "I was born there. I heard your prayer. It is odd to hear someone speak the language so well. Are you here for a visit?"

  She nodded.

  "What is the trouble that makes you so sad?" The man's calm voice was soothing.

  "It is a friend. He is in danger."

  "Can you help him?"

  "I don't know how."

  "You have come to the right place to seek guidance." The priest motioned to the wall of icons. "There is no better adviser than our Lord."

  Her grandmother had been devoutly Orthodox and tried to teach her to trust in heaven. Not until this moment, though, had she ever really needed God. She realized the priest would never understand what was happening, and she did not want to say much more, so she asked, "Have you followed what is occurring in Russia, Father?"

  "With great interest. I would have voted yes for restoration. It is the best thing for Russia."

  "Why do you say that?"

 
; "A great destruction of souls occurred in our homeland for many decades. The church was nearly destroyed. Maybe now Russians can return to the fold. The Soviets were terrified of God."

  That was a strange observation, but she agreed. Anything that might have gelled the opposition was viewed as a threat. The Mother Church. Some poetry. An old woman.

  The priest said, "I have lived here many years. This country is not the awful place we were taught it was. The Americans elect their president every four years with great fanfare. But at the same time, they remind him he is human and may be wrong in his decisions. I have learned that the less a government deifies itself, the more it should be respected. Our new tsar should take a lesson from that."

  She nodded. Was this a message?

  "Do you care for this friend who is in trouble?" the priest asked.

  The question brought her attention into focus, and she answered truthfully. "He is a good person."

  "You love him?"

  "We have only recently met."

  The priest motioned to the bag draped from her shoulder. "Are you going somewhere? Running away?"

  She realized this holy man did not understand, nor would he ever. Lord said to talk to no one until after he failed to show at six PM. And she was determined to respect his wishes. "There is nowhere to run, Father. My troubles are here."

  "I am afraid that I do not understand your situation. And the Gospel says that if the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch."

  She smiled. "I don't really comprehend it myself. But I have an obligation to fulfill. One that is tormenting me at the moment."

  "And it involves this man, whom you may or may not love?"

  She nodded.

  "Would you like for us to pray for him?"

  What could it hurt? "That might help, Father. Then, after, could you tell me the way to the zoo?"

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Lord opened his eyes, expecting either another jolt of electricity or another piece of duct tape to be pressed over his nose. He didn't know which was worse. But he realized that he was no longer strapped to the chair. He was sprawled on a hardwood floor, his bindings cut loose and dangling from the chair's legs and arms. None of his torturers were around, the office lit only by three lamps and pale sunlight filtering past opaque sheers that covered floor-to-ceiling windows.