“Whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter, at least not yet,” he said, gazing up at her. “What matters is this German officer believes you’re a Romanov. If the Russians seek a separate peace, the Nazis could withdraw from the Eastern Front completely. The British will face a German army twice the size it is now. Even if America joins the war, we won’t stand a chance.”
Charlotte began to pace. She could only take a few steps before hitting the opposite wall. “That’s all speculation. I know for certain what will happen if I don’t help them. Laurent is sick.” She felt the tears roll silently down her cheeks once more. “He needs help. Where else am I going to find help for him?”
Luc straightened his back. “We’ll protect our son,” he said. “I promise. Please trust me on this.”
Charlotte shook her head uncertainly. “You didn’t want him. You didn’t want a child. You didn’t even want to be a husband, not really, let alone a father.”
At first, Luc didn’t respond at all. Then, slowly, she saw the corners of his lips quiver and the hurt in his eyes, so deep she couldn’t stand it. She felt an arrow in her heart every time she thought of how badly they’d treated one another. Charlotte wished she could take back the words, but she had to know for sure. If he couldn’t take the truth, how could she trust him with Laurent’s safety?
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. But you know how much I love him.” All of his pain seemed to fade, as though by sheer force of will. “I’m here now. I’m going to help. We have to try to escape. If it doesn’t work, I’ll insist you had nothing to do with the planning. They’ll still let you go with Laurent. But if we escape, we’ll go straight to your parents’ house.”
“I thought you wanted us to go to Spain.”
“We should see your parents first. Maybe they know more.”
“So we need to figure out a way out of here.” Charlotte raised her eyebrows, hoping for an answer. Luc looked down at the sawdust collecting on the ground.
“You haven’t figured that part out,” she said.
“Not yet,” he admitted.
Charlotte bit her lip, thinking. Luc looked stronger now, but a moment before he had looked like death. Surely he could look that way again.
Luc gave one of his sleepy half smiles. It reminded her again of the time when they’d loved one another, when they thought they could accomplish anything together. “I know that look,” he said. “You have an idea.”
“They already know you’re badly hurt,” Charlotte said. “Maybe we can convince them you’re in even worse shape than they think.”
Thirteen
BRIGHTON BEACH
PRESENT DAY
Veronica gazed out the sedan’s tinted window, watching the sky darken as a storm approached. She had been in the car with Alexei Romanov and his driver for thirty minutes, a knot slowly twisting in her gut. She tried to focus on the route they’d taken in from the city and the area they were driving through now. The neighborhood reminded her of East Los Angeles, except all of the signs were in Cyrillic, not Spanish. Hand-painted cards in storefront windows advertised sales on produce, electronics, imported compact discs, and the immigrant’s best friend: prepaid phone cards. A woman huddled in a brightly colored shawl sold canned caviar from a street cart. Behind the woman, dark waves crashed restlessly against the shore.
“That’s all you know?” Alexei Romanov said.
Veronica glanced up front, at the driver’s cold blue eyes framed by dark lashes, as he adjusted the rearview mirror. She lowered her voice. “I told you already. Alexandra may have been pregnant in 1902. No one knows for sure. She was desperate for a son.”
“This was two years before the birth of the heir, my namesake, Alexei?”
His namesake. Veronica found that comment a tad pretentious, even if it happened to be true. Romanov’s calm demeanor grated on her already frayed nerves. He was a well-groomed man, but she chose to focus on a few loose and unruly white strands of eyebrow hair. “Some historians think it was a false pregnancy. Others think a stillbirth.”
Romanov rubbed his hands together. He’d been fidgeting the whole drive, but not the way Michael fidgeted. Michael acted as though he was being followed, as though some central casting gangster might sneak up behind him and stuff a chloroform-soaked handkerchief in his mouth. Romanov looked more like a little boy waiting to open birthday presents. “The family expected an heir. A fifth girl would have been…”
“A disappointment,” Veronica said.
“Then Mikhail’s story already has a ring of truth to it.”
“I didn’t say that.” Veronica listened to the intermittent scraping of the windshield wipers against the front window and the patter of raindrops on top of the car as the storm clouds finally released. She wouldn’t let herself believe it. And yet the images of the royal procession along the Neva River came rushing back to her mind.
“Did the empress ask for anyone’s help when she tried to conceive a son?” Romanov said. “Besides Phillipe Vachot, I mean. A female servant perhaps?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Ms. Rubalov does.”
“Then why are you asking me?” Veronica asked, irritated.
“I hoped for validation. Regardless, I’m certain you’ll want to hear her story.”
A subway train rattled above them as they drove underneath elevated tracks. Romanov leaned forward and made a twirling motion with his index finger, signaling the driver to turn into a parking lot near the wooden boardwalk. Veronica peered out the front window, blurry from the beating rain. Across the parking lot, a bright neon sign blinked VALENTINA against the gray sky. “I thought you were taking me to this woman’s house.”
The driver parked and turned the engine off. Romanov hopped out, unconcerned with the rain and buttoning his fur-trimmed overcoat against the wind. He slid over to Veronica’s side of the car, opened the door, and offered his arm, as though escorting her to a formal dinner party.
She didn’t budge. “Where are we?”
“Brighton Beach. The cultural center for Russians in North America.”
“I mean why a restaurant? I thought we were going to this woman’s house. I thought you said she could talk to me today.”
“How often do you get to eat authentic Russian cuisine when you’re back home in California?” Romanov said proudly.
Veronica could eat Russian food whenever she wanted. There were places all over West Hollywood and even some in the Valley. She just wasn’t a big fan of cabbage and borscht. “I’m not hungry. I want to talk to Ms. Rubalov.”
Romanov reached into his pocket for his phone and checked it. “Not yet.”
“We are not meeting old lady here?” The thick Russian accent boomed from the front seat. “What is this that takes so long?”
“Ms. Rubalov asked that we come to her home. But Mikhail hasn’t received the message yet. I don’t want to impose overly long on her hospitality. She’s not a young woman anymore. We don’t want to exhaust her. We should wait a while longer.”
Despite the wind and chill blowing into the car, Veronica’s hands went clammy. “What’s really going on?”
The driver twisted in his seat and scowled at her. Romanov merely smiled and nodded as though everything were fine.
“Tell her!” the driver roared.
Romanov gave a timid laugh. Veronica realized this was the first time she’d seen him thrown off his game. And she found it strange he would let his chauffeur take that tone with him. “I’m afraid I’ve engaged you in something of a ruse,” Romanov told her.
The knot in Veronica’s gut grew into a sick lump of terror.
“Now that you’re with us, we think Mikhail will see the sense of our request for his DNA,” he added.
They didn’t require her expertise or academic credentials. Alongside the terror, she felt a pang of injured pride. She was no more than bait on a hook. And not very strong bait at that. “You’re using me to get Michael to talk to you? I don
’t know that I’ll do you much good…” The driver was still scowling at her. Veronica realized it might not be a good idea to imply she’d outlived her usefulness. “… because Michael made plans this afternoon to visit friends,” she added quickly. “And he’s not the type to check his phone every few seconds. It might take a while.”
Romanov smiled, the charmer once more. “We are patient people, aren’t we, Grigori?” He nodded at the driver and gave a nervous laugh. “We’ve already waited nearly a hundred years for the heir.”
“You are patient man. I am man who knows value of time.” The driver, Grigori, jumped out of the car and slammed the door shut behind him. He threw his trench coat on over his jeans and black turtleneck sweater and then folded his arms in front of his chest.
Veronica decided to try a different tactic. She directed her comment to Grigori as he stood in the rain. “There are laws in this country that protect innocent citizens from being held against their will.”
Immediately Romanov chimed in: “He’s covered by diplomatic immunity.”
A diplomat? This guy reeked of mafiosi. She was sure of it. He could have passed for Tony Soprano’s Russian cousin. Veronica looked Grigori straight in the eye, trying not to stare at the purple acorn scar on his cheek. “You’re a government representative?”
He smirked. “I know the right people. They give me proper credentials.”
“What about you?” she asked Romanov. “You’re American.”
“A very old American,” Romanov replied. “Besides, my citizenship was always more of a technicality anyway.”
Pain throbbed at the base of Veronica’s skull, like someone had taken a vise to her head and clamped down. She needed to contact Michael and warn him not to come. She still had the Mace, if she could figure out how to get to it without them noticing.
“Please.” Alexei Romanov nodded toward the restaurant’s front door. “You serve a great purpose here. You should feel honored.”
Veronica shrank back in her seat and shook her head.
Grigori leaned down. Before she even realized what was happening, he had taken her by the shoulders. He wasn’t rough. It didn’t hurt. She didn’t even think to resist. He pulled her out of the car, lifting her off the ground momentarily. Then he set her before Alexei Romanov, leaving no doubt as to who controlled the situation.
“Now, now,” Romanov said, clicking his tongue against his teeth. He kept his voice even, but his brow wrinkled. “Really, that sort of thing isn’t necessary.”
The chill forced Veronica tighter into her thin coat. Droplets of rain brushed her cheek. She had Mace. She could disable Grigori and run. She reached for her purse, but Grigori grabbed her wrists, more roughly now, and put her hands behind her back, blocking any possible escape. She saw no choice but to follow Romanov.
Inside, Valentina had two levels. The top level, on the boardwalk, was brightly lit and filled with Formica tabletops. As they passed the kitchen, thick Russian accents competed with running water and a blend of balalaika and techno pop blaring from an old radio. The scent of fried potatoes and onions filled the air. Veronica’s stomach curdled.
Romanov led them down a steep flight of stairs to the restaurant’s lower level. Grigori still held her hands tight behind her back. Either no one noticed or no one dared say anything. Downstairs, the main dining area was decorated in gold and silver tones that left no room for subtlety. Sound equipment had been shoved against the back wall and a dance floor roped off to the side. She imagined the bar picked up at night, crowded with Russian gangsters in expensive suits tinkering with smartphones—the kind of place where they brought in strippers.
Alexei Romanov led them to a booth in the back, where bottles of mineral water and the ubiquitous zakuski, small plates of pickles, boiled eggs, and sliced herring—the chips and salsa of Russian tables—awaited consumption. Romanov slid into the booth beside her and Grigori sat across from them, removing his trench coat. Veronica didn’t dare meet his gaze.
Instead, she stared at the menu. All of the items were in Cyrillic. Silently, she translated: crab salad with soured cream, wild porcini mushroom soup, baked cod in a walnut sauce. It helped steady her thoughts.
“First, you try to convince me Michael’s a fraud,” she told Romanov in a low voice. “Now you believe his story?”
Romanov brought out a pair of reading glasses and perched them low on his nose. “Really, you should come to New York under more pleasant circumstances. I’m sure if you and I talked, we’d find we have much in common.”
An hour earlier, when she still thought of Alexei Romanov as a courtly if eccentric old gentleman, Veronica would have agreed. Not anymore. “We have nothing in common. You’re a liar. I think you believe Michael’s claim and the story about the fifth daughter. He’s a threat to you. You don’t want anything from me. You just wanted to lure me out here to get to him.”
Romanov lifted a slice of herring from the serving plate and began chewing irritably. His bites were dainty enough, but the sight of the fish in his mouth made her stomach turn again. “When Mikhail first came to us, we wanted to believe him,” he snapped. “But his story was so outrageous. Now we will determine the truth once and for all. If Mikhail is the true heir, he’ll need my help. Think about the current government in Russia and how they behave. It’s an abomination. Not that this country is any better, what with all the foreign policy disasters. The U.S. could use a rival.”
“You want a tsar to bring back the Cold War?”
Romanov compressed his lips. “Of course not. My parents were staunch monarchists. They dedicated themselves to the preservation of the glory of the old order. No one was more pleased to greet the demise of the Soviet Union than my family. But that doesn’t mean Russia shouldn’t remain a strong presence in the world.”
“Let’s say Michael is the rightful heir,” Veronica said. “He doesn’t strike me as the sort who wants to dominate the world outside a game of Risk. He doesn’t even think Russia should restore the monarchy.”
Romanov waved his fork in the air like a mad conductor. “He wants this more than I do. He has a plan. I know it.”
Veronica stared back down at the menu: buttered pastries filled with shredded beef, carrots cooked in sugar. “Michael wouldn’t cooperate with your organization. He warned me not to come to see you. Now I see why. I hope he stays far away.”
Grigori slammed his fists on the table so hard their bottles of mineral water shook.
“Mikhail will come for her,” Romanov assured him. “He’s the sort.”
“Maybe he will come. Maybe not. I give him extra motivation.”
Grigori reached under the table. He retrieved a hard, flat smartphone and pointed it at Veronica. She heard the imitation click as he took her picture.
“Is that really necessary?” Romanov removed a handkerchief from the front pocket of his blazer and dabbed the corners of his mouth.
“He’ll call the police.” Veronica switched to Russian and raised her voice on the last word, hoping someone in the restaurant might hear her and come over.
Grigori shrugged and pressed some buttons on the phone. “Speak in English, like me,” he said calmly. “Less people to understand.” He nodded his head at Romanov and continued in a low voice. “I send this with message. He will not contact police. He will come. He will not want me to kill the girl here.”
No emotional affectation. Just a simple statement. A choking sensation gripped the back of Veronica’s throat.
A rosy-cheeked waiter with curly blond hair and a green apron approached their table. He gave Grigori a respectful nod, and then Grigori proceeded to order blini with caviar, borscht and black bread, salmon and trout. This gave Veronica time to gather her thoughts. She needed to stall. She had to find out who Grigori really was and what he wanted. Then she needed to contact Michael and warn him.
Grigori waved his hand and the waiter withdrew to the kitchen.
“Who are you?” She might as well start with the
obvious.
“A chauffeur. Good way to make money. So many lazy people.” Grigori waved his arm vaguely and then laughed a little, sounding pleased with himself.
“I mean who are you really?”
“I work for businessmen,” he said smoothly, still in English. “I follow instructions. I collect money. Good way to live. They pay well. What more is to know?”
Veronica stared down at the menu again, but now all of the Cyrillic letters were a meaningless blur. “What type of ‘business’ do these men conduct?”
“A little of everything. Real estate. What does this matter?”
“I’m here against my will,” Veronica said. “I want to know why.”
“Americans. Always wanting to know why. Always wanting to understand.” He gave a big, petulant shrug. No one could shrug like a Russian. “Under old system, money was nothing. Success was about connections. Not anymore. I want money for little house in the country, a dacha. When I return to Russia, I grow turnips and spend winter nights reading our great authors.” He tilted his head cunningly. “You like Alexander Pushkin?”
Veronica loved Pushkin, but she ignored the question. “You have no personal stake in all of this?”
“For this one”—he pointed at Romanov—“politics is passion. Not for me.” He smiled at Veronica, almost fondly, like she was an unruly child who amused him. “But it pays well. Half of Russian people want Stalin back. Street vendors sell notebooks with his ugly face. He is rock star now. Maybe they bring tsar back instead. New rock star.”
“Come, Grigori.” Romanov gave a nervous chuckle. “I don’t know that half of Russia wants Stalin back.”
A spark of hope flickered at the back of her brain. She turned to Romanov. “You want to know the truth about Michael badly enough to involve your organization with someone like this? And these men he works for, these…” Veronica was about to say mobsters, then stopped herself. She started to say nut jobs, but caught herself again. “… businessmen.”
“My loyalty is to Russia,” Romanov said, his wrinkled face pink with agitation. “Now is the time to seize sublime destiny.”
The Secret Daughter of the Tsar Page 19