The Romanov Conspiracy

by Glenn Meade

  “I don’t get it. What’s it all got to do with the remains of the woman?”

  Yakov looked back at me and his watery eyes blazed with a sudden zeal. “It has everything to do with it. In fact, perhaps it’s fitting that we should begin our meeting here, in this very graveyard, Dr. Pavlov.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we are standing among secrets and lies, and all of them need explaining.”

  Briar Cottage faced the distant sea and must have been well over a hundred years old. An oval-shaped metal sign on the wall by the front door was painted black, the name inscribed in decorative white lettering.

  The cottage was obviously once part of a large country estate, for to get to it we passed through a pair of ancient granite pillars, each topped with a carved stone lion, their limestone features weathered by the elements.

  Across some fields I noticed the ruins of a huge manor house and the crumbling stone walls of what looked like an orchard. We drove along a gravel road that wound through a meadow dotted with massive oaks before we finally arrived at the whitewashed cottage.

  It all looked very quaint, with a blue-painted door bordered by a trellis of roses. It commanded a view of the countryside and was protected from the sea winds by rolling hills, rich with the fragrant coconut scent of thick yellow gorse.

  It started to rain again as I parked my rented Ford on the gravel outside, next to a dated blue Toyota sedan. A few straw remnants of the cottage’s original thatch stuck out from under the black slate, looking like a roughly fitted wig.

  I followed Yakov to the door. He was surprisingly agile for his age but I could see the years were taking their toll, his hips giving him trouble. The door was split into an upper and lower stile, as you still sometimes see in parts of rural Europe, and he fumbled with the lock and led me inside.

  The cottage was unexpectedly large, with a beamed ceiling and a breathtaking view of the Mountains of Mourne sloping to the sea.

  The place looked in disarray. Books, newspapers, and magazines were strewn everywhere, some scattered on a large coffee table in front of the limestone fire mantel, stained black by the years.

  Wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with books and stuffed with collections of yellowed newspapers tied together with string. A selection of briar walking sticks were stashed in an umbrella stand in a corner, two ancient armchairs either side of the fireplace; on one of them the fabric on the arms looked paper-thin from wear. A wicker basket was piled high with logs and turf.

  The room was a bit cold but a fire was still going. Yakov removed the screen, rattled the sparking embers with a fire iron. He tossed on a few logs and some chunks of turf, replaced the screen, and rubbed his hands.

  “The older you get, the more you appreciate a little warmth. Sometimes a summer’s day here can be a touch chilly.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  Yakov went to boil an electric kettle with fresh water. “Over three decades. At first I rented the cottage, then I bought it when the owner died. A nice lady comes by to cook and clean for me.” His smile widened, good-humoredly. “We have an arrangement. She cleans my clutter, and when she’s gone I make a mess again. Tea?”

  “Tea’s fine.” I noticed black-and-white photographs on the walls. Judging by the clothes worn by the men and women in the images, I guessed the era to be about the time of the First World War, or soon after.

  One of the photographs was of a couple. I stepped closer to examine it. A handsome, Slavic-looking man wearing a cloth cap and a striking young woman with long dark hair. They looked happy. The woman’s arm linked the man’s and they struck a casual pose as they relaxed, smiling, outside a whitewashed property.

  At the bottom of the photograph was written in blue ink: Uri and Lydia, taken by Joe Boyle at Collon, July 2nd, 1918. My eyes were drawn to the white-painted property behind the couple. The photograph could have been taken anywhere, but then I noticed its half door and a rose bush trellis and I recognized the property I was standing in, Briar Cottage.

  Yakov measured three spoonfuls of dried tea leaves into a ceramic pot and blended in the steaming water; a rich aroma filled the room. “In case you’re wondering, the cottage was once part of an estate owned by a Russian businessman and his wife, a well-known stage actress from St. Petersburg who found fame before the First World War. Her name was Hanna Volkov—perhaps you’ve heard of her?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Do you mind if I ask where you got your interest in Russia, Dr. Pavlov? It seems very strong and personal.”

  “My grandmother came from Ekaterinburg, so I grew up hearing stories about her homeland. Every time she watched the movie Doctor Zhivago she’d cry for a week afterwards, if that explains anything?”

  Yakov offered a faint smile. “I’ve heard it can have that effect. Beneath what can seem like an icy exterior, Russians are a deeply emotional people.”

  “She always said that Lenin’s revolution was a fight for the soul of Russia. That it was a battle between good and evil, between God and the devil, and that for a time the devil won.”

  Yakov rubbed a hand thoughtfully on his jaw. “Perhaps she was right. It was certainly a brutal battle.”

  The room spoke of Russia and so reminded me of my grandmother’s home. A gleaming lacquered onion doll decorated a bookshelf. A polished nickel-plated samovar stood in a corner and gilded religious icons hung from the walls.

  Even the books on the shelves told a story: Waldron’s The End of Imperial Russia, King’s The Court of the Last Tsar, Fischer’s Life of Lenin. I noticed among the shelves countless volumes about the Romanovs, and just as many about Anna Anderson, the mysterious woman whom some claimed to be Anastasia, the tsar’s youngest daughter.

  “What brought you to Ireland, Mr. Yakov?”

  “Many things, all of them personal. I first came as a guest lecturer to Trinity College many years ago and never returned to Russia. But that’s another tale.” He swept a hand toward the shelves. “I’m happy with my books and my papers for company. It’s a quiet life but an absorbing one.”

  “May I?” I gestured to the bookshelves.

  “Help yourself.”

  I plucked down one of the books and studied the cover. The Lost World of Nicholas and Alexandra. I flicked through the pages and glimpsed photographs of a Russia that my grandparents knew, complete with black-and-white photographs of the tsar’s family, including his beautiful four daughters and handsome young son. I selected another book, one of the many about Anna Anderson. “You seem to have a keen interest in Anna Anderson, Mr. Yakov.”

  “No doubt you’re familiar with her story?”

  “Of course. She was a mentally unstable woman with no papers to identify her who was pulled from a Berlin canal in 1920 and admitted to a psychiatric hospital. She refused to say who she was, but she seemed to have such an intimate knowledge of the Russian royal family that her supporters always claimed she was really the tsar’s daughter, Anastasia, who survived the Romanov massacre.”

  I flicked idly through the book and added, “She also inspired films, a Broadway musical, and numerous books, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Yakov nodded, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat. “Correct. She was a mysterious, fascinating woman whose existence raised more questions than it answered. Some say those questions persist.”

  “She was certainly a puzzling character, I’ll give you that.” I slid the book back and next to it I noticed an ancient copy of Yeats’s poems, the tan leather binding scuffed with age. I took it down, opened it, and saw it had been published in 1917. I flicked open a page that was marked with a long thread of brown silk, the page well thumbed. I read some lines.

  When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

  And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

  And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

  Your eyes once had, and of their shadows deep;

  How many loved your moments of gl
ad grace,

  And loved your beauty with love false or true;

  But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

  And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

  Yakov said, “Do you like Yeats?”

  I looked up. “I like this, if only I knew what it meant.”

  “It can mean whatever you want it to mean, but as always with Yeats there are themes of love and loss, memory and longing. They’re melancholic traits the Russians and Irish share, as well as a passion for poetry.”

  I closed the book, replaced it. “Have you family, Mr. Yakov?”

  “There’s only me, I’m afraid. My wife and I were never blessed with children.”

  “You never lost your Russian accent.”

  “Russia was my home for much of my life. Please, take a seat, Dr. Pavlov.” He gestured to one of the worn armchairs by the fire, then filled two glass cups with fragrant, steaming tea.

  “Do you need help?” I asked.

  “I’ve managed for many years on my own, since my wife died. I shall manage until my health defeats me. Sugar? Milk? Or cream, as you Americans say?”

  “No cream, one sugar. When are you going to unravel this puzzle for me, Mr. Yakov?”

  He added sugar to both our glasses and included a few more spoonfuls for himself. Yakov handed over my glass. As I took my seat he slid into the armchair opposite, groaning as he sat. “First, I should tell you more about my background, Dr. Pavlov. My father was Commissar Leonid Yakov, recorded in the history books as a high official in the Bolshevik secret police, the Cheka. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  I went to sip the hot tea but instead lifted my eyes in surprise. “Yes, I have. He had quite a brutal reputation, if I remember correctly.”

  “For a time my father was among the most feared men in Russia. And with just cause. He did many terrible things.” Yakov sipped from his glass and added, “In fact, the grave you just saw, of Uri Andrev.”

  “What about it?”

  “He and my father had a very close personal bond.”

  “What kind of bond?”

  “One that went far deeper than either of them could have imagined. A dark family secret that they unknowingly shared.”

  “Family secret? I don’t follow.”

  “Andrev’s father and Leonid Yakov’s mother … they once had a relationship. They came from very different classes, you see, but they found great comfort in each other. In fact, they had a child together, named Stanislas, a brother to my father and Uri Andrev, though it remained a secret.”

  “I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. Can you explain?”

  “All in good time, doctor. You say you found the body?”

  “Yes. Along with the locket you mentioned in one of your letters. It was clutched in the woman’s hand.”

  Yakov shook his head and his pale lips trembled slightly. “I’m both relieved and amazed by your discovery, doctor.”

  I put down my cup. “I can’t wait to hear how you knew about the woman. I brought the locket.”

  His eyes rose. “Did the authorities allow that?”

  “Actually, I didn’t tell them.”

  “Dr. Pavlov, surely you know that theft of any artifact in Russia—”

  “Is a serious offense, yes, but trust me, I intend to take it back. First I thought you’d want to see it for yourself. I’ve also brought head-and-shoulder photographs we took of the body, right where we found it.”

  Yakov said anxiously, “May I see them?”

  I handed across a padded manila envelope filled with photographs.

  Yakov’s yellowed hands trembled as he slid out the color forensic snapshots and carefully spread them on the table. He slipped on a pair of thick reading glasses and picked up the snapshots delicately, one by one, as if they were precious.

  He registered the images of the woman’s body, shot from different angles. When he finally looked up, his eyes were moist. “May I see the locket?”

  I offered it across. “It has the raised Romanov Imperial eagles on the front, as you suggested. There’s an inscription on the back but it’s corroded and I haven’t been able to decipher it. But seeing as you knew about the locket I’m hoping that maybe you can help me there. Do you know what else it says?”

  Yakov took the locket almost reverently, as if it were a sacred thing. He studied the corroded metal, turning it over in his palms, the fragile chain cascading down, and this time Yakov’s eyes really did fill with emotion.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Yes, Dr. Pavlov.” His voice sounded hoarse.

  “Our discovery at Ekaterinburg obviously means something to you.”

  “I think you could say that.”

  “Tell me, how did you know about the locket?” I probed.

  “The same way I knew about the woman’s body. My father told me.”

  A thought hit me like a hammer blow and my pulse quickened. “Did your father have anything to do with the Romanovs’ execution?”

  I remembered seeing Leonid Yakov’s name mentioned in the history books, but never in that regard.

  To my surprise, his son nodded. “Yes, he did. He was secretly directed by Lenin to supervise their execution. And I must tell you that I’ve never made that admission to a soul until now.”

  “Do you know what the rest of the inscription says?”

  “I believe I do, Dr. Pavlov.”

  “Then for heaven’s sake, tell me.”

  Yakov looked away, into the distance, as if he was trying to see something in his mind’s eye. But whatever it was, it must have been deeply personal because he didn’t speak. And then for no reason at all that I could fathom he began to cry. Deep, convulsed sobbing that made his shoulders shake. He took out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes. “Please, forgive me.”

  “Mr. Yakov, there’s nothing to forgive. What upset you?”

  “The memories of an old man.”

  “I don’t understand. Who was the woman? And what does she have to do with the grave we just saw? There’s a connection, isn’t there?”

  Yakov suddenly looked frail and troubled, completely alone, like an old man close to death and fearful of the prospect. A second later his face changed, and something in his sad expression suggested a small boy who’s suddenly gotten lost without his parents. He said quietly, “You’re an expert on the Romanovs, aren’t you, Dr. Pavlov?”

  “More a professional interested party than an expert.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’d never believe what I have to say.”

  “Why not?”

  Yakov’s voice lost its frailty. “Because the accepted history of what happened the night the Romanovs died is a huge conspiracy.”

  “That’s a very bold statement, Mr. Yakov.”

  “I can prove it.”

  I looked at him, bewildered. “If that’s true, have you ever discussed this claim of yours before now?”

  Yakov’s eyes blazed with fervor. “I’ve tried to many times, but no one would believe me. No more than you would believe me without evidence. But now that you’ve found the bodies and the locket, you have the evidence. I’m an old man, I can’t have a whole lot of time left, so I want you to hear the real story, Dr. Pavlov.”

  “What real story?”

  “Of what happened to the Romanovs on the night they disappeared, all those years ago. It’s not the story the history books will tell you. There was terrible bloodshed that night, unbelievable brutality and death, that much is certain.” He paused. “But there were too many vested interests for the real truth to come out. And when I’m done the entire mystery of Anna Anderson, the woman they called Anastasia, will be explained.”

  I stared dumbfounded at Yakov. He added, “In fact, if this story began anywhere it began in St. Petersburg in 1917 with an American spy named Philip Sorg.”

  “I’ve never heard of Sorg.”

  “Few people have. Sorg’s an enigma, a young man who was in love with the tsar’s daughter, the royal prince
ss Anastasia. The couple you saw in the photograph taken outside this very cottage, Uri Andrev and a woman named Lydia Ryan, they were part of it, too. They spent time here together in this very house before traveling to Russia for the rescue.”

  “What rescue?”

  “To save the tsar and his family.”

  I must have looked shocked as I met Yakov’s gaze. “I read about a number of rescue plots, but surely they all came to nothing.”

  “Believe me, this one was different.” Yakov’s face ignited. “This one the history books do not record, and with good reason. For you are about to discover something that I did, Dr. Pavlov.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That as far as the Romanovs are concerned, the real truth lies hidden beneath mystery, myth, and lies.”

  PART ONE

  THE PAST

  2

  JANUARY 1918

  It was the coldest winter in twenty-five years.

  In Paris, a foot of snow fell in a single night and fourteen homeless vagrants perished, their frozen bodies stuck to the city’s sidewalks. The tragedy forced the capital’s mayor to throw open the metro stations to shelter the destitute from the cruel weather.

  Parisians joked grimly that the winter would claim more fatalities than the German shells. The bloody war that raged all over Europe had already claimed seventeen million lives and was being made even more brutal by the freezing climate.

  A newspaper reported that on the Western front, ravaged by battles and snowdrifts, a squad of German artillery cut off for three weeks without rations roasted their horses to survive. When the horse meat was devoured, the soldiers boiled and ate their leather saddles.

  In Siberia, where the temperature was twenty-five below, Uri Andrev was fighting a different battle as his hunters closed in for the kill.

  Shouts and cracks of rifle fire echoed as shots ripped through the trees left and right of him. They smacked into the birch trees and kicked up tiny exploding puffs in the snow, but Andrev kept moving, his body racked by exhaustion, his weary legs like rubber in the bone-numbing snow.