The Romanov Stone

by Robert C. Yeager

  He led her to an office in a small out building that served as a museum. A monk with a smooth-shaven, round face and short-cropped black hair glanced up from behind a large, cluttered desk. He was in his early seventies and looked like a corporate human resources manager who just happened to be wearing a soft brown robe rather than a suit and tie.

  “I met Father Mikhail as a novitiate,” said the businesslike monk. “He was very elderly, in his early nineties, I think.” But the cleric shook his head when Kate vaguely described a valuable gemstone that had passed from her family to a priest at the monastery.

  “Father Mikhail was perhaps the most selfless human being I’ve ever known. Years ago, one of his uncles died, leaving him a large amount of money and an estate in Sardinia. He simply signed the deed over to the church and dropped it, with all the cash, in the offering box.”

  He leaned back, smoothing both hands over his chest. “In my position, at the time of his passing, I make an accounting for each priest’s belongings.

  “When Father Mikhail died, everything he owned could be put in a shoebox. I remember thinking how much of the spirit and how little of the world he left behind.”

  His mouth quavered and he turned briefly away.

  “There is no way he died with anything of value,” he said, turning back to her with moist eyes. “If he had, Father Mikhail would simply have left it here, with us, in the Monastery of the Caves.”

  Chapter 17

  Flicking on the lights as she entered, Kate gasped. A burly, black-haired man stood in the middle of her hotel room holding a flashlight and a silky scrap of lingerie.

  “Very nice, Miss Gavrill,” he said in English, twisting a silk thong in his fingers and smiling in a way that reminded her of an oil slick. “On the outside, you dress very conservatively. Tweed coats, heavy slacks. On the inside, however, we find something else, something very different.” He had heavy brows and a wet, fleshy smear of a mouth. “Our women would do almost anything for such delicacies.” He gazed at her boldly. “So would our men.”

  “Put those down!” she demanded, flushing. Her penchant for thongs had been Kate’s sensual secret, something she wore on special occasions when she wanted to feel sexy, or to hide panty lines. They were also cooler, and the high-waisted, “control” model she favored featured a wide crotch that didn’t cut in. “Why are you here?”

  Behind him, Kate could see her clothing and papers scattered across the hotel bed. From the balcony and bathroom, two men in gray suits drifted toward her. One slid between her and the door. Kate pointed a shaking finger at the big man. “Who are you?”

  “Kiev Police. We’re here to ask you the same question, Miss Gavrill.” He reached in a navy sports jacket and briefly flashed an identification badge bearing his picture and a row of numbers. “I’m Detective Lieutenant Vulcan Krasky.” In one gesture, he motioned her to sit on the bed and for the other men to leave.

  Kate sidestepped to avoid being brushed by the departing officers, but remained standing. She crossed her arms, gripping herself just above the elbows. She tried to stop shaking.

  Krasky rose and slowly walked around her, stopping behind her and closing the distance between them to a few inches. His breath felt hot against her neck. It smelled of garlic and onions.

  “Why, Miss Gavrill, do you go around Kiev asking questions about dead priests?” He spoke the words softly, almost caressingly, into her left ear.

  She stared straight ahead. Her heart rate climbed. “I can talk to anyone about anything I choose. I’m an American tourist.”

  “Indeed you are, Miss Gavrill. From Pennsylvania, I believe. But your field is economics, not religion, no? So why do you want to know so much about holy men and their churches?”

  “I’m surprised you can’t answer that yourself. Especially after illegally rummaging through my personal belongings.”

  “I will decide questions of legality here, dear lady.” Krasky slid his hand under her left elbow, pinching his fingers into a claw. “You are trembling, Miss Gavrill. It would be much easier for us both if you would cooperate.” He applied light pressure.

  “There’s nothing—”

  “Are you looking for something, Miss Gavrill? Something valuable?” Grasping her shoulders, he pulled Kate back toward him, then twirled her around and pushed her into the chair. Resting both hands on the arms, he bent over her.

  Her superior conditioning would have given her a chance in the open, but in leaning over her Krasky deployed his sheer bulk to overwhelming advantage. Used to confidence in her own strength, Kate was angered at its sudden absence. “How dare you touch me?”

  “We don’t fear your popes and presidents here, Miss Gavrill,” Krasky said in the same soft tone. “And just so you know, in the Ukrainian Republic it is a high crime to remove religious icons, artifacts or other objects of historic importance. Unless, of course, you have prior official permission.”

  He rapped once on the door and the two goons reappeared on her threshold.

  “I hope we meet again under more pleasant circumstances, Miss Gavrill,” Krasky said, slowly moving out of the room. From his left sleeve, he pulled an embroidered handkerchief, which he used to dab the perspiration on his forehead. “For now, however, I strongly suggest that you leave Kiev.” On reaching the door, he turned and tossed her underwear back to her.

  * * *

  Vulcan Krasky had been a mob soldier for years. When he shook down Kiev businesses, Krasky rationalized that he was providing a service. The mafiya held to a code of conduct not yet offered by official police or government agencies. If a business had a labor dispute with another business, the owner contacted his local capo; the difficulty would be quickly, quietly and efficiently resolved. In many rural parts of the country, the mafiya presence was like that of a patronly local government, woven into family life and traditional holidays. It supplied stability and services, such as food for the poor, which were once the sole purview of the church.

  As in Russia, the Ukrainian mafiya determined who opened a business, stayed in business or went out of business. Punishment for flaunting that authority—punishment that Krasky occasionally meted out—included brutal beatings or death by briefcase bombings or machine gun bullets.

  In compensation, Krasky’s lifestyle stood several clicks higher than that of more honest colleagues. He took his children to puppet theater shows, enjoyed a glass of Miskhako with most meals and was a heavy spender at the Sarochin Market every August. Like other corrupt cops, Krasky made a good side living turning over apartments and cars seized from middle-class citizens who had the bad fortune to get in traffic accidents. Wearing his uniform, Krasky would show up at the scene to warn victims to settle quickly with the mafiya. The hapless motorists would sign over their property, which Krasky would then sell on, splitting the take with his capo, Boris Lada.

  Chapter 18

  Kate rubbed her shoulders and, with trembling hands, tried to sort through the clumps of clothing and paper on her bed. She could still feel Krasky’s fingers around her arm.

  There isn’t any stone here. The insistent voice of doubt grated in her head. What real evidence did you have that the stone was in Kiev anyhow? Memories of memories by Anya and Irina? Did you really think the Romanov Stone—if there were such a thing—would just be sitting here, waiting for you to drop by and pick it up?

  Kate had no ready answers. In retrospect, it seemed utterly foolish to have believed that, in the space of a few days, she could locate a long-dead, impoverished monk who—nearly a century ago—had secretly been given a super-precious gem. In the chaos and desperation of post-Revolutionary Russia, wouldn’t anyone, even a holy man, simply have kept such a jewel for himself? Why hadn’t Blake, an internationally known gemologist, ever heard of the stone? Or found it listed in even a single standard reference? And, of course, there was what amounted to an official Bank of England denial t
hat a Romanov account ever existed.

  Now, a sadistic big-as-a-bear cop was sniffing around. Who knew what Krasky’s real motives were? Maybe he had a side business shaking down tourists.

  The photograph! Sudden fear choked Kate’s throat. She plunged both hands into her suitcase, between the folded t-shirts where she’d slipped the fragile image in its brown manila envelope.

  It wasn’t there! She turned her luggage upside down on the floor and rifled through its contents.

  Unless she’d simply misplaced it, the picture was gone. By now Krasky and his thugs had almost certainly seen it. Which meant they’d be back, either to collect a bribe or to arrest her.

  Simon Blake warned you this would be dangerous.

  “Dammit! He won’t be right! I won’t let him!”

  Kate clapped a hand to her mouth. She’d shouted the words so loudly they rang in her ears.

  * * *

  An Hour later Kate’s resolve had melted. Face it, she told herself as she stood in front of her hotel bathroom mirror, Blake was right. This is stupid. And dangerous.

  Kate picked up the phone, changed her airplane reservations and ordered a taxi.

  It was almost 11:00 p.m., but she’d have time to catch a 1:00 a.m. flight to Moscow.

  Maybe she was being a coward, but right now leaving seemed the prudent path. She’d run into a dead end, and finding Krasky in her room had unnerved her—and fully verified Blake’s warnings. Especially now, with the photograph missing. Or perhaps the enormity of what she was attempting had finally sunk in. The former Soviet Union, she’d concluded and as Blake had warned, could be a scary place.

  Even so, Kate made a fervent pledge: what she was doing would be a strategic retreat, not a surrender. She’d head back to Moscow and regroup, rethink her options. She wasn’t about to walk away from Irina’s challenge. After all, it wasn’t just about finding the Romanov Stone. It was about finding herself.

  Kate was on her way to the airport when it struck her. Or rather, when the words of the priest replayed in her head. Father Mikhail would simply have left the treasure here, the old monk said.

  Sitting in the taxi, Kate put her face in her hands, and shut her eyes. She pictured herself climbing the high board above an Olympic-size swimming pool.

  She looked down. The water appeared calm and unbroken. Think, she commanded. THINK.

  What if, before he was assassinated all those decades ago, the archbishop had made the same decision when he arrived in Kiev, but with a twist? What if, although he knew he couldn’t safely keep the stone himself, he also feared entrusting his precious cargo to another living soul, even an ordained priest? After all, being found by the Bolsheviks with the Romanov Stone would mean death, no matter what one’s clerical rank. Or, perhaps, he’d merely wanted to retain his options, including the option to be greedy.

  He would also have had completely legitimate reasons to delay a choice between keeping his promise to Nicholas II and keeping the stone himself. After all, Anya and her little girl might die in flight, or simply never show up. In that case, the dowry should rightfully go to the next closest members of the Tsar’s family.

  Kate stepped up on the imaginary board and prepared to dive. Focus, she whispered to herself. Focus.

  Weighing such possible outcomes, the prelate might not have given the Romanov treasure to a living person at all. Once in Kiev, he might have decided to hide it with someone else, someone whose silence and honesty could be assured—for all time. Moreover, to better ensure it would be found if something happened to him, he might logically have written that priest’s name on the photograph he left for Anya. And, when the archbishop perished, the stone, egg and documents would have remained exactly where he left them—with a now mummified monk named Father Mikhail, dead for nearly a century, in the Monastery of the Caves.

  Again, Kate thought of her mother’s death and her last words, the fervor of Irina’s hopes for her family and her people. Suddenly Kate’s courage flamed like fire under a kettle. She squeezed her eyes tight and leaned forward. Don’t be afraid, girl. You’ve still got the power.

  She was off the board now, floating in a perfect, slow-motion arc toward the surface below.

  She slipped silently into the water.

  Kate slid open the driver’s window, keeping her face slightly behind and to one side of the opening.

  “Please turn around,” she said, “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going back to Kiev.” Kate sat deep in the rear seat, using the shadows to conceal her features. By morning, she knew, Krasky would be questioning every cabbie in the city.

  “Take me to a quiet hotel,” she told the driver. “Something small, without any foreigners.” Kate would have to wake somebody up, but so be it. She wasn’t quitting yet.

  Chapter 19

  Shortly after midnight the following day, Kate stood before the Monastery’s wide, high-arched entry which, as custom decreed, stood open. The heavy, carved door to the Near Caves appeared formidable, but its simple pot-metal bolt proved no match for Kate’s arm strength—and a pry bar she’d purchased earlier that same day at a local ironmonger’s, along with a flashlight and other tools. Beneath skintight rubber gloves, her fingers tingled. Kate jimmied the lock, then rested her hand on the heavy rope handrail at the cave’s entrance.

  That morning, at the Monastery registration desk, she’d thumbed through an ancient, leather-bound ledger which revealed the location of each of the interred monks, with separate rosters for the Near and Far Caves. While some of the saints had died a thousand years before, their bodies were still perfectly preserved. None had ever been treated with formaldahyde or other chemicals. Earlier generations and today’s pilgrims believed this to be a miracle, but Soviet-era scientists attributed the phenomenon to the caves’ absence of moisture, which prevented organic decay. The biggest miracle may have been that the monastery itself still stood after seventy years of atheist rule. One tale, perhaps apocryphal, claimed that, under orders from Moscow, Soviet trucks arrived to haul away the cadavers but were forced to abandon their mission when the vehicles refused to start. Stalin did succeed, however, in ending use of the caverns for any new burials.

  Kate theorized that the archbishop had hidden his secret treasure with a monk’s cadaver during the actual process of internment, perhaps even using his office to officiate at the burial. So she focused on “Mikhails” who died during the years 1917 and 1918, when the prelate might still have been alive.

  Her heart jumped when she found a “Father Mikhail,” deceased in 1918, in the Near Caves. But a moment later, she came upon a second Mikhail corpse, dead a month earlier, located in the Far Caves. There were a dozen more Mikhails, but each had died before 1917 or after 1920, when the archbishop himself was already dead.

  Signing up for one of the monastery tours, Kate resolved to locate both remains, but to start with the Near Caves, where the bodies were reputed to be better preserved. In the Near Caves, each monk’s brass name was buffed to a high polish. But when her group reached the Far Caves, she’d needed to rub the dust off six coffin plates—she could make out the capital “M,” but little else—before finding the second Father Mikhail. Once, the monk leading the tour turned around, frowned when he saw what she was doing, but said nothing. As soon as she’d located the second coffin, Kate slipped away from the group and out of the monastery.

  Now, only hours later, Kate took 110 carefully counted steps down a long narrow passageway. She’d already determined that no electricity—and hence, in all likelihood, no alarm systems—existed in the caves themselves. On the tour, they’d carried twelve-inch candles. Her flashlight’s strong beam played against the shadows of the rough-hewn walls.

  Save for that solitary cone of light, her surroundings were black as coal. The only sounds were her own footsteps and breathing. The air stank of dried clay and death.

  She reached the Near Caves,
and the first coffin. Kate was bending over to examine the top when she saw the date written on a yellowing card taped to the lower right hand corner. March 12, 1937. She stood upright, breathing deeply in the darkness. The registry must have been mistaken. She was certain the recorded date was 1917. In any case, this priest was still alive, or perhaps even a child, when Anya and Lydia fled their homeland.

  That left just one chance.

  Kate walked deeper, into the Far Caves, arriving at the second and, she fervently hoped, correct coffin. It offered no outward clue as to when its occupant had died.

  Like the other monks-under-glass, this Father Mikhail resembled a life-size leather doll. The flashlight cast every shadow into relief, making his features seem oddly incongruous. Above the flat plane of his face, a finely chiseled nose and chin jutted eerily, like mountains on the moon. His skin was the color of undyed candles.

  Kate slipped off her raincoat. Against the black spandex body suit and navy tennis shoes, her hands and ankles seemed to float in the darkness, like ghostly appendages. She took a breath and ran her hands over her invisible body.

  Was she absolutely mad? Who did she think she was—Angela Jolie in “Tomb Raiders”? A month ago she was standing in her classroom in rural Pennsylvania, teaching economics. Now she was standing in a medieval cave looking for dead bodies.

  Insane or not, however, Kate had gone too far to turn back. She shivered once and went to work.

  The top of the coffin came to her waist, allowing good leverage. She clamped the flashlight under her left arm. Removing a can of penetrating oil from the bag and fitting its plastic nozzle, she squirted a drop of the liquid around each of the lid’s twelve screws. She paused then, and in clockwise order, began removing them—they came out surprisingly easily.

  Kate placed the screws in her bag, then wedged the pry bar under the coffin’s heavy glass lid.

  Sliding the lid half open, Kate felt around the open side from the priest’s head to his toes. Nothing. Again using the pry bar as a lever, she slid the glass cover to the other half of the coffin. She made the same quick inspection, and came up with the same negative results.