by Glenn Meade
“Really? Your visits always help relieve the monotony.” She giggled. “Maria says the formality here makes her want to set fire to the palace. What will you do? Will you stay in Russia?”
“That depends on how much worse things get.”
“Do you think they’ll get worse?”
“I’m afraid so. How are the guards treating your family?”
“Well enough. Why?”
“This government isn’t going to last forever, Anastasia. Others may come to power, and some may be angry people who’ll want to harm your father.”
“I overheard my mother say that to Papa. But Papa said that won’t happen. That the people would never allow it.” She looked at Sorg intently. “Papa always puts his faith in God. He says he’ll never leave Russia, not ever. He loves it too much. I just don’t understand why anyone would hate Papa. He’s such a kind and gentle man.”
“Not everyone thinks that way. There are some who believe he did terrible wrongs in the past.”
“I’m not stupid, Philip. I’ve overheard people talk about such things, especially the guards. They said sometimes Papa allowed very bad things to happen. Some people call him ‘Bloody Nicholas.’ What’s your opinion?”
The question threw Sorg. Part of him wanted to protect her, but he couldn’t hide the bitter truth. “May I be honest?”
“Of course.”
Sorg told her. When he finished there was a silence. A shocked Anastasia put a hand to her mouth and looked close to tears. “I—I expect you must hate my father for what happened to your family.”
“At times I have.”
She considered. “I don’t doubt you, but I still love my father. I know he tries to be a better person. We all do. My sister Maria says we all commit sins but that emperors can commit bigger sins than most. And my mama always tells us to be considerate of others. To think of ourselves last, to always show a loving heart. Do—do you secretly hate me?”
“How could I? It’s not your fault. But some people may want revenge for the wrongs they believe your father did.”
“Do you know what Rasputin said to my parents before he was killed?”
“What?”
“He prophesied that none of us Romanovs would live. That we’d be killed by the Russian people. I know some say Rasputin was insane, and Papa would probably agree, but he was always good to Alexei. The trouble is my mama’s a superstitious woman and she fears his prophecy.”
He feared the truth of her words but tried to comfort her. “I think perhaps your mother worries too much.”
“I hope you’re right.” She brightened, then said earnestly, “I’m going to miss your company, Philip. May I tell you a secret? Maria also said that there may be more to you than I think.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What’s the expression she used? ‘A dark horse.’ She says you might even be a spy. You’re not a spy, are you, Philip?”
The teasing question startled Sorg. Is she just making fun or does she suspect me?
Before Sorg could even speak, she fumbled in the leather pouch on her lap and produced a Kodak camera—the small vest pocket model that was all the rage. “Do you like boats?”
“Why?”
“No reason. There are a few things I really like. Messing about on boats is one. And taking photographs is another. May I take yours? I’d like to have a photograph of you to remember you by. I’ll keep it among my albums.”
“Of—of course.”
“You’re not smiling. Smile.”
“I find it hard to, knowing I’ll never see you again.”
“Then imagine that we will.”
A self-conscious Sorg looked into the lens, tried to smile, and barely managed it.
Anastasia said, “Try not to look like I’m going to shoot you, Philip. This isn’t an execution, you know.”
That made him smile.
Anastasia brightened. “Actually, I think I’d prefer it if I took one of us both. Would you mind?”
“No.”
She shifted back on the bench and leaned close to him—so close he could smell her lavender scent—held one hand outstretched so that the camera was aimed at them, and pressed the shutter.
“Thank you,” she said. “I feel better knowing I have this to remember you by.”
Sorg saw the officer march toward them, adjusting his monocle.
Anastasia jumped to her feet and stuffed the Kodak in the pouch. “I better go. Mama will get worried. She always gets worried these days. Papa says she’s a bag of nerves. May I say something very personal?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again, but I want you to know that I enjoyed our meetings. In fact, Maria thinks I’m a little in love with you.”
Anastasia blushed and offered him her hand. Sorg, speechless, accepted it. He felt his heart beat furiously as he held her soft fingers.
At that moment, she looked like the lost adolescent she truly was, trying to find her way in the harsh adult world. There seemed to be something incredibly naïve and touching about her, an almost childish honesty that again aroused in him the powerful feeling that he wanted to protect her.
Then, without warning, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Good-bye, Philip. I’m sorry for what happened to your father, I truly am. Please forgive my family.” She turned and raced past the officer through the garden and up a flight of stone steps.
Sorg, watching her go, put a hand up to feel the ghost of her lips on his cheek.
34
EKATERINBURG
Sorg heard the harsh rattle of a motor engine and came alert.
A truck passed him in the alleyway outside the loft window. Seated in the back were at least ten Red Army soldiers. A couple were females, rough-looking peasant girls. The Reds recruited anyone able to carry a rifle.
The laudanum had worn off and now his adrenaline kicked in. He tensed and checked his pocket watch: 10:50 a.m. He had nodded off.
He glimpsed a movement in the Ipatiev House garden and settled his right eye into the spyglass. His heart skipped. The Romanovs had stepped out into the garden. Sorg recognized Anastasia walking next to her sisters, Maria and Tatiana, who pushed Alexei in a wheelchair.
The usual half dozen or so armed sentries patrolled the grounds, while two more washed down a truck parked near the fence.
Sorg swore. For some reason, the guards had allowed the family out early for their daily exercise. It could ruin his plans.
He shifted his attention back to the alleyway below. The truck drove slowly to the farthest end, turned, and disappeared.
Sorg wasted no time. He stashed the spyglass and tripod under the woodpile and clambered down the stairs.
Sorg dragged the handcart along the public road that ran along the eastern side of the Ipatiev House. As he walked he slipped on a red armband and tucked the revolver under the scrap in the handcart.
A few pedestrians passed him in the street, most of them gawking at the house. The Romanovs’ prison was the worst-kept secret in town.
The building’s whitewashed upstairs windows meant he could see nothing inside the house, nor could he make out anything beyond the double paling. In the Voznesensky Cathedral bell tower, Sorg couldn’t even spot the Red Army soldier manning the machine gun. The man was probably asleep.
The day was hot, with a light breeze blowing. Sorg halted the cart. Two guards patrolling farther along the fence chatted and paid him no attention. From his handcart, Sorg grabbed a glass bottle filled with water and took a long drink.
From his observations, Anastasia and her sisters often lingered at this sunny part of the property on their walks. As he stood drinking he was convinced he heard the murmur of girlish voices beyond the fence.
His heart pounded. The guards were still chatting. He knew he had to act fast.
From his pocket he took a smooth, round stone. Tied to it was a piece of string to secure the note he’d written. Sor
g tossed the stone over the fence. It landed with a dull clunk.
“Hey, you!”
Sorg froze. A small, aggressive guard with a thick mustache came hurrying toward him. “What’s your business here? What are you up to?”
Sorg felt his blood drain. He prayed the man didn’t see him toss the stone.
“I asked you a question,” the guard barked as he walked around Sorg, shifting his rifle to waist level, studying him suspiciously. “What’s your business here?”
Sorg gestured to the bottle in his hand, then to his red armband. “Can’t a hardworking comrade take a drink of water to quench his thirst?”
The guard relaxed a touch, pointed his rifle down. “Be quick about it, citizen, and don’t loiter here in the future, you hear? Or you’re liable to get shot.”
Sorg dragged the cart into a side street, scurrying away as fast as he could.
He felt lucky the guard didn’t see him, or he could have been arrested and shot. It was getting even more difficult to get close to the Ipatiev House. That worried him. It made carrying out his tasks almost impossible.
As Sorg pushed his handcart through the crowded alleyways, he glanced over his shoulder. He wasn’t being followed. Did Anastasia or one of her family find the stone? What if one of the guards found it? His worried mind was assaulted by questions, and the frustration of not knowing the answers was killing him.
Fifteen minutes later he came out onto Yentov Street, across the road from his lodgings. Sorg stopped in his tracks.
A crowd of Red Army troops was gathered outside the lodging house, their truck parked on the pavement. A man was being led out in handcuffs. It was Sorg’s fellow tenant, the card-playing young man with the wispy beard who he thought was a White deserter.
Sorg felt his stomach churn. Leading him out of the house was a fleshy man with a bald head and wearing a long black coat.
Kazan.
A stunned Sorg heard a voice behind him say, “Put your arms up high!”
Sorg snapped round. A female Red Guard stood behind him, brandishing a worn-looking rifle with a long bayonet. He hadn’t heard her approach. She was skinny and too small for her weapon, but the look on her face was sheer determination. “I said put your arms high. Don’t take a step or I’ll kill you.”
Sorg had no time to reach for the hidden revolver and tried to sidestep. The woman squeezed the trigger of the old rifle.
There was a click. The round either misfired or she forgot to load the chamber. The woman came at him with the bayonet. It pierced Sorg’s side and he felt a searing pain.
He staggered back as his left hand came up instinctively and grabbed the rifle, pulling the woman closer, just as his steel pen appeared in his other hand. In an instant he slipped the blade between her ribs. The woman gave a terrifying final croak and fell still. Sorg let her body slide to the ground.
He put a hand to his side. He was bleeding heavily, the pain excruciating.
“You! Halt!”
Kazan must have seen him and barked at him from across the road. The sound of his voice rattled Sorg.
Some instinct made him grab the woman’s rifle. He snapped open the bolt—the chamber was empty but the magazine full, meaning the woman hadn’t loaded a round.
He quickly loaded, aimed, and fired at Kazan. The rifle kicked painfully into his shoulder and as the round cracked the soldiers ducked behind a wall—all except Kazan, who stood staring defiantly like an enraged bull as he reached for the holstered gun on his belt.
Sorg quickly snapped home another round, caught Kazan directly in his sights, and squeezed the trigger.
The shot struck Kazan and he buckled, clasping both hands to his crotch.
Across the street, someone screamed an order and a rifle volley rang out, shots chipping the brickwork above Sorg’s head, the ricochets whistling. The soldiers advanced, aiming their rifles.
Sorg abandoned his cart and ran into the backstreets, an explosion of gunfire raging behind him.
35
The bullet-scarred train with the red star on front thundered into Ekaterinburg’s main station.
It ground to a halt with a squeal of brakes and a cloud of steam.
Yakov stepped down from his mud-stained carriage. The station was bedlam, passengers and troops milling in all directions.
A fleshy, bald-headed man approached from the platform. His face was bone white and he looked in pain, a finger of his right hand heavily bandaged. “Commissar Yakov. You had a pleasant trip?”
“What are you doing here, Kazan?” The turncoat former Ochrana agent always reminded Yakov of a snake.
“I wanted to pass on information that may interest you.”
“And since when are the Romanovs your concern?”
“A case I’m working on, Commissar. It has the highest priority.”
“That’s news to me. What happened to your hand?”
“Someone tried to kill me.” Kazan’s face flushed with rage as he showed the flap of his holster, where a hole was drilled through. “My revolver was hit; I had to replace it. The bullet took off the tip of my finger. An inch lower and I could have lost my manhood.”
Yakov raised an eyebrow. “That certainly made the day a little more interesting. What’s your information?”
“There’s been a disturbing development in regard to the Romanovs. Perhaps we might travel together and I can tell you on the way?”
An Austin-Putilov armored car was parked outside with its engine running, a Fiat truck behind it, and when they climbed aboard the truck Kazan snapped an order and the armored car hooted the horse-drawn traffic out of the way.
“I’ve taken the liberty of booking you a room in the city’s best hotel, the Amerika, a favorite of the local Cheka.”
“I’ve no need. I’ll quarter aboard my train.”
“As you wish. Do you know Ekaterinburg, Commissar?”
“Vaguely.” As the convoy trundled through the streets, Yakov saw a skyline crowded with stunning golden-domed churches and spires, alongside ugly smokestacks of redbrick iron factories and smelting works. Some of the tough Siberian inhabitants looked like a product of the iron factories they served: stocky and muscular, with broad shoulders and fists like hammers.
Kazan went on, “There’s a population of just over a hundred thousand, but that’s grown since hostilities began. Wealthy mine owners and nobles have homes here, but we’re rooting out these vermin. Many have been shot, others banished to camps.”
“The kind of butcher’s work you enjoy, no doubt. What about the Romanovs: are they behaving?”
“I believe so. The family take their meals with their guards, the same rations. They’re allowed an hour’s exercise daily, half in the morning, and half in the early evening.”
“What’s this disturbing development you wanted to discuss?”
Kazan took a creased sheet of paper from his pocket. “This morning one of the guards found this note near the Romanov daughter Anastasia. He observed her attempt to pick it up while she exercised in the garden.”
Yakov examined the note. Oddly, the Cyrillic handwriting was in ink. It read: Be strong. Help is near. Philip. “Was she questioned?”
“She told us nothing. I doubt she had time to read the note. Still, it concerns me that whoever left the note may be trying to rescue the family.”
“Tell me your suspicions.”
“Philip may be a name or even a code word. It’s impossible to tell without further interrogation. Ekaterinburg’s full of spies, but I believe the message may have come from a foreign agent we’ve been hunting for well over a year. Perhaps you’ve heard?”
“The one they call ‘the Phantom’? Lenin has taken a personal interest and wants him caught. But this Phantom has eluded you so far, I hear.”
Kazan’s mouth curled with displeasure. “He’s been lucky to have stayed one step ahead of us. But his luck won’t last forever.”
“You sound confident, Kazan.”
“I’ve be
en hunting him since he murdered the landlord of a property near the Alexander Palace. He made it look like an accident by burning down his apartment. I’m convinced he was observing the Romanovs and that we may be dealing with the same man.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Thirty years’ experience. And this.” Kazan produced a small brown medicine bottle from his pocket. “I raided a lodging house in the markets’ area this morning as part of a search for White deserters. One of my men found this empty bottle hidden under a bed in one of the rooms.”
Yakov examined the bottle and smelled a faint but bitter whiff.
Kazan said, “It contained laudanum, commonly used to quell pain or anxiety. I found a similar bottle in Tsarskoye Selo. A lodger I arrested claimed it belonged to another occupant who went by the name Felix Zentov, but that’s probably an alias. As I took the lodger into custody, Zentov showed up.”
Yakov handed back the bottle. “And?”
“He was challenged by one of our female soldiers, there was a scuffle, and he stabbed the woman to death. Then he fired at me before he escaped. We found a revolver hidden in the handcart.”
“He’s got guts, I’ll give him that. Did you get a good look at him?”
Kazan said, “It all happened too fast, but I have a detailed description from the landlady and the deserter. He matched a rough description of the Phantom: twenty-five to thirty, medium height, with a curious gait that may be the result of an old wound, which could be why he’s taking the laudanum.”
Yakov again studied the handwritten note. “Anything else?”
“With your permission, I’d like to interrogate Anastasia Romanov more forcefully. See if she knows more than she’s telling.”
“You mean torture her? No, I’ll handle her myself.” Yakov tucked the note inside his pocket. “I’ll hold on to this for now.”
Kazan’s mouth narrowed with displeasure. “Be warned, she’s a willful character, not easily intimidated or broken.”
“What about the guard on the family?”
Kazan said, “Forty men in total, all of them handpicked and loyal to Lenin. Over a dozen are billeted in the Ipatiev House, others in a place we’ve commandeered as a guardroom across the street called the Popov House.”