The Romanov Conspiracy

by Glenn Meade

  “Your point?”

  “No doubt the note was meant for me, but I have no idea who sent it. I know no one of that name. You have my word on that.”

  “Your word means nothing to me,” Yakov snapped. “I think your daughter’s lying. I think she’s a good little actress who knows more than she lets on. Heed my warning. Any more notes, or if anyone tries to contact you in any way, you inform the guards at once.”

  “I know my daughter, Commissar. I believe she spoke the truth. And I’m sorry if Anastasia offended you. But in many ways she’s still a child. Surely you understand?”

  Yakov let loose his venom. “A pity you weren’t sorry when you trampled on your people. When you and your kind crushed their spirit with your army and secret police.”

  Nicholai Romanov fell silent, his face gray.

  Yakov leaned in close and spat out his words. “Once I had a wife. But she was shot down like a dog by your army. Once, I had a sister and mother. But their lives were nothing except poverty and squalor while you mocked them with your riches. You condemned them and countless others to death by your stupid arrogance.”

  Beads of sweat broke out on Nicholai Romanov’s brow. “I … I’m truly sorry.”

  “‘Sorry’? Is that all you can say? Your daughter asked if it wasn’t enough that her father is persecuted. No, it isn’t. It will never be. I won’t rest until you and all your kind are never a threat to Russia again, do you understand me?” Yakov raised a clenched hand to lash out but at the last moment he held his fist in the air.

  Nicholai Romanov stared back at him blankly, his lips trembling. “I—I meant it. I am truly sorry.”

  Yakov struck him. The force of his blow sent Nicholai Romanov reeling against the table. As he stumbled to his feet, he clasped a hand to his cheek.

  Yakov slapped a hand on his holstered gun, rage in his voice. “Go, join your daughter. Get out of here before I put a bullet in you.”

  39

  Yakov stepped into the komendant’s room.

  It was empty except for Kazan, who stood alone at the window, toying with a brass knuckle-duster. He slipped it into his pocket as Yakov entered. “Any luck?”

  “No. The girl proved obstinate.”

  “She’s an insolent creature. I can hardly say I’m surprised.”

  “Something tells me she knows more than she’s saying. I want the family observed more closely, especially the girls. If anyone attempts to pass them any notes, I want to know about it. Where’s the guard commander?”

  Kazan said, “I asked him to leave us, Commissar. I have a private matter to discuss.”

  Yakov selected a cigarette from his metal cigarette case. “I can’t imagine you and I having anything to talk about, Kazan. But out with it.”

  “It has to do with your brother’s murder.”

  Yakov was about to light his cigarette but he stopped short, pain turning his face to stone. “What’s that got to do with you?”

  “Such a terrible misfortune. One you no doubt wish to avenge?”

  “Don’t pretend you have a bleeding heart, Kazan. Get to the point.”

  “I heard you hunted down his killer, Captain Uri Andrev, in St. Petersburg, where you confronted him. There was a shoot-out; he escaped.”

  “Where’s this going? What kind of scheming are you up to, Kazan?”

  “I’m merely trying to be of service. If I can help you find Andrev, all the better.”

  Yakov strolled over to the wall map of Ekaterinburg and looked back. “How? I’ve scoured half of Russia looking for him. He’s disappeared, most likely left the country.”

  Kazan removed a bottle-green folder from his leather attaché case. “You’re right about that. I have reason to believe that Andrev left for England.”

  Yakov crushed his unsmoked cigarette in an ashtray on the desk. “What are you talking about?”

  “Certain of my Ochrana colleagues fled to Europe since the revolution. I make it my business to stay in touch with several who’ve proven valuable informants. Needless to say, their information doesn’t come cheap. I provided them with Andrev’s name, background, and his physical description.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “One of them living in London claims he met a former army officer named Uri Andrev at a Russian émigré club. It’s all here, in the file, as much as I’ve learned.” Kazan handed over the file.

  Yakov took it eagerly and read the two typed pages inside. When he finished, he felt a surge of rage. “So, Andrev’s escaped. I knew it.”

  “Fled, but not escaped. Justice has a long arm. For a price my contact can arrange to have Andrev abducted and brought back to Russia. Or have him killed, whatever you wish.”

  Yakov slapped the file on the desk. “I want to deal with Andrev personally.”

  Kazan grinned. “I thought you might. Leave it to me. In return all I ask is that you allow me to interrogate the girl alone.”

  Yakov considered, then nodded reluctantly. “I’ll give you an hour.”

  “That doesn’t give me much time.”

  “It’s an hour more than I should, Kazan.”

  A horn hooted beyond the window. A car appeared at the barricaded entrance. The lone driver showed his papers, was waved through, and halted in front of the house before he scurried up the front steps. “One of my men.” Kazan said, joining Yakov at the window. “I’ll see what he wants.”

  Yakov waited as Kazan left to join the driver in the open hallway. The men held a whispered conversation before Kazan returned.

  “Well?”

  Triumph lit Kazan’s face. “My interrogation will have to wait. Our troops spotted a man matching the Phantom’s description in one of the districts. We’ve surrounded the area and we’re stopping everyone going in and out.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  Kazan tapped the Ekaterinburg wall map with his knuckle-duster. “A thorough search. We’ll comb street by street, building by building. Tear the place apart brick by brick if we have to.” He turned back, intensity blazing in his eye. “I’ll catch this Phantom if it’s the last thing I do.”

  In her bedroom, Anastasia sat on her narrow cot.

  Next to her sat her sister Maria. In one hand she held a pair of worn underwear. In her other she clutched a needle and darning thread. On a square piece of linen that lay between them was nestled a collection of small precious stones: diamonds, rubies, emeralds.

  Her dog Jimmy asleep at her feet, Anastasia finished stitching a ruby into the corset: the thread roll was empty.

  Maria’s voice was filled with excitement. “Are you sure he said Philip? I mean, could it really be the same Philip?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “But he was your piano teacher.”

  “Remember, you said yourself that you wondered if he might be a spy.”

  Maria gave a nervous laugh. “I … I was only joking, Anastasia. Really I was. What did you tell Papa?”

  “Nothing yet. I don’t know if I should tell him anything.”

  “Why?”

  “He has enough on his mind. Besides, I’m not really sure. All I have is a suspicion. But it’s a strong one. I always felt that there was more to Philip than met the eye. I suppose that’s why I found him so interesting.”

  Maria giggled and covered her mouth with a hand. “Try to be sensible, Anastasia, and not just a silly romantic.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can’t really think that your piano teacher followed us all the way to Siberia and means to help rescue us. Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? I’m glad you didn’t tell Papa; he’d think you’ve gone crazy. It has to be someone else with the same name.”

  Anastasia considered, then put down her needle and stood. “Perhaps you’re right. I’m being silly.”

  “Where are you going? We still have work to do.” Maria indicated the gems. “Mama said we have to finish sewing these into our underclothes.”

  “We need more thread. Th
e novices will be arriving soon. I’ll go and get some. Promise me you’ll tell no one about this.”

  “About what?”

  “What I told you. That I thought it might be the piano teacher.”

  Maria giggled again.

  “I mean it, Maria. No one. Keep it our secret.”

  In the hallway, Anastasia encountered two young guards. They glared at her. She made a face. The guards laughed. They always seemed to get fun out of her. “Where are you going, Anastasia Romanov?”

  “To get more sewing thread.”

  “Don’t be long.”

  “I’ll be as long as it takes, you pair of idiots,” Anastasia whispered under her breath.

  “What did you say?” One of the guards frowned.

  “I said I won’t be, and thank you for allowing me.” Anastasia smiled charmingly and skipped downstairs.

  Once in the hallway, she waited by the exit door—she was not allowed go outside except when the komendant ordered. She saw the novices arrive; Antonina and Maria approached the palisade entrance. They carried two wicker baskets containing food and supplies.

  Sometimes the two young women carried secret messages for her father, hidden in the fresh loaves of bread or in the milk containers they brought, but that happened less and less of late.

  The novices saw her, smiled, and waved as the guards checked their baskets.

  Anastasia waved back.

  As she waited there, she saw no one in the hallway.

  Her heart was beating as she slipped a hand in her skirt pocket and removed the photograph.

  It was the one of her and Philip she’d taken with the Kodak at Tsarskoye Selo, the two of them smiling for the lens.

  It wasn’t the best of photographs, their features a little blurry, but she treasured the image. She had taken it from her collection the moment her interview with Yakov was over.

  “Be strong. Help is near. Philip.”

  She felt her face flush and her heart race as she stared at Philip’s image.

  Could he really have sent the note?

  It made absolutely no sense. And yet some ridiculous instinct told her it was he.

  She heard a door creak somewhere in the house and slipped the photograph back in her pocket.

  Even though Maria didn’t care to admit it, her younger sister was the boss in the relationship. She would do as she was told.

  For now, any suspicion she had would remain a secret.

  40

  IRELAND

  It was a glorious June day and Boyle drove the Ford T on the inland road, Lydia in the passenger seat. They passed rolling countryside, the road dipping steeply as they entered Collon village.

  It was all quaint stone houses and whitewashed cottages, with a handful of grocery stores and pubs, the village dominated by a magnificent Presbyterian church built of red granite.

  A cattle market was in progress and the streets thronged with farmers and stank of livestock. Boyle steered out of the village through the herds of cattle and drove for another twenty minutes, until they came to a pair of granite gate pillars, each topped with a carved stone lion.

  The lions guarded an eighteenth-century estate with a handsome manor house, its vast lawns dotted with ancient oaks. Boyle drove through the open gates. They left the main gravel driveway for a dirt road. It led past thick woodland to a thatched white cottage, another Ford T parked outside.

  A black-painted iron sign by the front door was inscribed Briar Cottage.

  Fragrant roses and honeysuckle scented the air, the site protected from the winds by rolling hills of thick yellow gorse, and there was a commanding view of the distant sea. Boyle hooted the horn but no one appeared.

  “The others ought to be around somewhere. Well, what do you think?”

  Lydia glimpsed a white lighthouse in the distance and to the north saw the Mountains of Mourne. “It looks familiar. Isn’t that Clougher Head way over there? Where exactly are we?”

  Boyle grabbed her bag from the backseat. “It’s called Briar Cottage. It belongs to the widow of an old friend of mine named Volkov.”

  “Vasily Volkov?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “He used to do business with my father in St. Petersburg. He’s a horse breeder and businessman. And a gambler and womanizer if I recall correctly.”

  Boyle tipped back his hat and laughed. “That sounds like poor Vasily all right. He was certainly a boyo for the women in his day, until his wife, Hanna, put manners in him. After he died she inherited the estate.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Boyle’s humor faded. “Murdered by Lenin’s secret police, and a brutal end it was, too. Come on, let me introduce you to Hanna and to Uri Andrev.”

  At that same moment, three hundred yards away, Hanna Volkov was climbing up a rock-strewn slope covered in yellow gorse. She wore a long skirt and a waisted coat that emphasized her figure—unsuitable clothes for climbing, which was why she was struggling.

  As she neared the top, scattered with boulders, Andrev climbed on ahead with ease and then turned to hold out his hand. “Here, get a grip of my arm.”

  Hanna did so, and he pulled her up. The cottage lay far below the ridge, hidden by some woods. On the other side the land sloped down to a river, crossed by an old stone bridge. From there the landscape was flat like a pancake, the river flowing all the way to the coast, the view superb.

  Hanna said breathlessly, “Well, I promised you a spectacle, Mr. Andrev.”

  “It’s certainly that.” Andrev studied the scenery and pointed to a distant scattering of ancient-looking granite ruins. “What’s that?”

  “The remains of Mellifont Abbey. It dates from the sixth century, when Ireland had a reputation as an island of saints and scholars. Christian monks came to the rugged coast from as far away as Egypt and Syria. They claimed Ireland was the one place where they felt closest to God.”

  “And those mountains?”

  “They’re called the Mountains of Mourne. They say the Celts who settled this land buried their kings and queens near the peaks and that the ghosts still linger.”

  Andrev half-smiled and sat on a boulder. “That sounds like just the kind of romantic myth that appeals to sentimental Russians.”

  She joined him. “We’re certainly alike in many ways, the Russians and the Celts. Tough yet sentimental, a strange combination.”

  “Do you know this country well?”

  “My husband, Vasily, and I first came here six years ago when he bought the estate to breed horses. We traveled all over the country, from Rathlin Island and the Giant’s Causeway, all the way down to the rugged Kerry coast. We had fond memories of our time here.”

  “You still miss him, don’t you?”

  “Terribly.”

  “I know why I’m doing this, but what about you?”

  Hanna’s face darkened. “Before the Cheka beasts finished him in the cellars of the Lubyanka Prison, he was trying to rally international help to rescue the tsar. I promised myself I’d finish his work.”

  “Why’s Boyle involved?”

  “He and Vasily were friends. Boyle hates the Reds and all they stand for.”

  “Tell me more about this woman I’m supposed to be traveling with.”

  “She’s American-born, of Irish extraction. She speaks Russian like a native. In fact, her father ran a business in St. Petersburg.”

  “To be honest, I’m not exactly happy at the thought of a woman accompanying me.”

  “Why?”

  “We both know that Lenin’s secret police are capable of rape and torture if we’re caught.”

  “She knows the challenges and the dangers. And you certainly won’t have to worry about her abilities, Mr. Andrev.”

  “Then unless she’s a complete fool, why did she volunteer?”

  Hanna rose from the boulder and smoothed her skirt. “That’s a question for another day. And now, we better get back. Boyle ought to be here. Are you coming?”

&
nbsp; The sun beat down, the afternoon glorious, and the river below looked cool and inviting. Andrev said, “I’ll catch up, if you don’t mind. On a warm summer’s day like this, I think I’ll make the most of it and take a swim.”

  “Don’t be fooled by that water. It’s always icy cold.”

  “It couldn’t be colder than in Russia. Can you make your own way back?”

  “Of course.”

  Without another word Andrev turned and moved down the hill, like a boy off on an adventure.

  Hanna watched him go. When he reached the river bank he tore off his shirt, his bare chest muscled, but she didn’t fail to notice the angry red scars on his back.

  To her surprise, he undressed completely and plunged naked into the icy water. He resurfaced after a few moments with a splash, sucking in air, then he started to swim against the current with strong, even strokes.

  She shook her head, smiling to herself. “It ought to be interesting to see what Miss Ryan makes of you.”

  And then she turned and started down the hill to the cottage.

  41

  Boyle carried Lydia’s bag inside the cottage.

  She was surprised to find it quite large, with a beamed ceiling and an open fireplace. Coarse slabs of chocolate-brown turf were stacked by the unlit open fireplace, the air rich with the earthy smell of peat.

  Boyle moved to the kitchen area, dominated by a black iron range. “Anybody home?” he called out.

  When no one appeared, Boyle said, “The cottage was once used by the gamekeeper until Vasily had it rebuilt as a visitors’ lodge, and often used it as a study.” He walked her through, showing her the two bedrooms and bathroom at the back. “The gamekeeper won’t bother us, by the way. He has the week off.”

  “Where are the others?”

  Boyle put a hand over the cooking range. “They’ll turn up. The stove’s hot, so let’s see if I can rustle up some tea.”

  As he pumped water from the sink into a kettle, Lydia studied the room. In front of the fireplace was a rocking chair next to a big old chaise longue, the lime-colored velvet material scuffed and worn. She noticed several silver-framed photographs arranged on a rolltop writing desk.