The Romanov Conspiracy

by Glenn Meade

  “After that, I swore to myself I’d do my utmost to see the Reds ripped from power in the same heartless way they grasped it. In the last year I’ve built up a spy network of over four hundred agents in Russia, gathering intelligence.”

  Lydia looked from Boyle to Hanna. “You still didn’t say who you’re working for.”

  It was Hanna who answered. “Let’s just say we represent the tip of a rather complex iceberg. Have you ever heard of the Russian St. John?”

  “He was a priest who liked to do good in secret.”

  “That’s right.” Boyle then took a pencil and notebook from his pocket and laid them on the table. “The Brotherhood of St. John of Tobolsk is a kind of legacy, a secret society if you like. Its members come from all walks of life.”

  He picked up the pencil. “Right now the Brotherhood has a single purpose: to save the Romanovs from being butchered. Hanna and I are willing accomplices. Let me show you something.”

  Boyle flipped open a fresh page in the notebook and penciled an odd shape on the page—a reverse swastika.

  He went on: “The Brotherhood’s mark is an ancient Tibetan symbol used for good luck, the reverse swastika. It’s considered a symbol of faith, love, and hope. It’s also a secret key that you’ll encounter on your journey whenever you come into contact with our members.”

  Hanna put aside her glass. “Several rescue attempts were tried in Tobolsk, where the family was last held captive. Hence the Brotherhood’s name. Two other secret attempts were made since the family was moved to Ekaterinburg. They also failed. But this time we believe we have a chance.”

  “What if we don’t reach Ekaterinburg?” Lydia asked.

  Boyle said, “Hanna and I will be coming with you. I’m hoping that at least one pair of us will make it and conclude the rescue. So we’ll be taking exactly the same risks that you are. We’ll travel with you into Russia but take different routes to Ekaterinburg, where hopefully we’ll meet.”

  Lydia said, “Aren’t you worried we might divulge all this to the Reds if we’re caught?”

  Boyle smiled tightly. “No, because I’m sure you’re both sensible people.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The Reds are brutal in their dealings with foreign spies. If it’s a woman, she’d most certainly be raped and tortured before being killed. Either way, if you’re caught, you’re corpses. But I’m going to help you avoid too much unpleasantness. Hanna?”

  Hanna took two vials from her purse and placed them on the table. Each held dark brown liquid. “One each,” she said.

  Andrev picked up one of the vials and swirled the liquid. “What is it?”

  “Potassium cyanide. It kills in seconds. If you’re apprehended, I suggest you break the vial and immediately swallow the contents.”

  Andrev and Lydia regarded each other silently, then Andrev said, “On that cheerful note, is there anything else you’d care to tell us in case we’re caught?”

  Boyle stood, raised his glass. “All I can do is offer a suitable Irish toast. May you get to heaven long before the devil knows you’re dead.”

  45

  They cleared away the dishes from the table, then Boyle unfolded a map of Russia and stabbed it with a finger.

  “St. Petersburg, which will roughly be your starting point when you arrive.” He jabbed another point in the southern Urals. “Ekaterinburg, twelve hundred miles away, which you’ve got to reach as fast as you can. The quickest way is by train. Since Lenin took over he’s made all public transport free. That includes trains and trolley cars, and they’re all running. You can jump on and off any of them as you wish, and no need to buy a ticket. Free transport, Lenin’s promise to the people. The only one he’s kept so far.”

  “And the bad news?” Lydia asked.

  “Half the freight and passenger trains in Russia are out of service due to lack of maintenance and general bedlam, so you can expect transport delays everywhere. Your best bet is to travel from St. Petersburg by train, overnight to Moscow.

  “From there, the train journey to Ekaterinburg takes two and a half days or more, depending on delays on the line. But my advice is to move as quickly as you can. The swifter you move, the better your advantage. You’ll find cheap lodging houses along the way if you need.”

  Andrev tapped his finger on the map. “What if we meet checkpoints en route?”

  “Your papers will be in order and look genuine. We’ve used official Russian paper, so nobody can find fault with them.”

  “Assuming we make it to Ekaterinburg, what then?” Andrev asked.

  “Novo-Tikhvinsky is a huge convent complex in the city run by Orthodox nuns. Over a thousand sisters in all. Once you arrive go there directly. There’s a small church open to the public and on the back of the wooden entrance door, you’ll chalk the Brotherhood’s mark. That’s the signal that you’ve arrived. Return to the church within two hours and you ought to see the same mark drawn beside yours. That means it’s safe to meet. Wait in the church and you’ll be approached by a nun. She’ll ask, ‘Are you lost? Do you need help?’ You’ll reply, ‘I need to get to Market Street.’

  “The words must be exact, so remember them. If there’s no reply to your chalk mark, it may mean that it’s unsafe to meet. You try again the next day at the same rendezvous. If there’s still no reply, then it’s dangerous to proceed.”

  “What happens then?”

  Boyle said, “There’s a local undertaker, one of our people, who’ll step into the breach. Details later.”

  Lydia said, “What if we get separated en route?”

  “You rendezvous in Ekaterinburg using the same drill. Go to the convent church and leave a mark.” Boyle paused. “Obviously, I can’t say how long it will take for you to reach Ekaterinburg. You could make it in two and a half days, or it may take longer. It depends on how lucky you get. We’ve had reports of trains being attacked by White battalions, so the schedule’s likely to be erratic and you’ll have to play the cards as they fall.”

  “Do we have a reason for traveling?” Andrev asked Boyle.

  “You’re bound for the Caspian Sea for a spot of convalescence with relatives. Conveniently, the train routes via Ekaterinburg.”

  “Convalescence?”

  From his pocket, Boyle took an identity card and unfolded a sheet of paper. He laid them on the table. “Lydia’s already got her papers in the name of Lydia Couris. You’re her husband, a Red Army volunteer named Nicholai Couris. They’re officially stamped with your invalidity discharge.”

  “What’s my invalidity?”

  “Shrapnel residue in your back, lungs, and skull, which you sustained fighting the Whites. The scars on your body will attest to that. You’re prone to having epileptic fits on account of the head wound, which is why your wife is traveling with you.

  “If anyone should ask why you’re stopping in Ekaterinburg, it’s because your health has taken a bad turn and you need to rest. The Reds are inclined to be sympathetic toward their wounded comrades.”

  Boyle paused and added, “Don’t worry, we’ll go over everything again in detail, including your backgrounds. Take the map with you and study it. The routes you choose will be entirely up to you, but I’ve penciled in the quickest.”

  He looked at his watch, then at the evening sky beyond the kitchen window. “Before the light starts to fade, I want you both to change into the clothes you’ll be wearing for the journey.”

  Andrev said, “Any reason why?”

  “We’ve got one last important thing to do.”

  46

  It was still bright outside as Boyle and Hanna walked with them to the cottage. Boyle carried a box camera on a tripod, and a flash pan.

  Lydia asked, “Why the camera?”

  “You’re supposed to be a married couple. Couples carry photographs of each other. So don those rags, and I’ll do the necessary.”

  They dressed in their peasant clothing and came out to the front door, and Boyle to
ok photographs of each of them from different angles, then of Lydia and Uri together in several casual poses.

  When he finished he gathered up the camera tripod. “I’ll have them developed tomorrow while you two are busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  Hanna said to Lydia, “There’s a village on the coast called Carlingford, about thirty miles away. It has a pleasant stretch of beach. Do you know it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll have a picnic basket made up for you. Spend the afternoon getting to know one other. Can you drive, Miss Ryan?”

  “If I have to.”

  “Good. You can take the Ford. You’ll find bathing garments in your bedrooms.”

  As Boyle gathered up the rest of the equipment, Andrev said, “What’s the plan for the morning?”

  Boyle said, “Nothing too stressful. We’ll all meet at the main house at eight for breakfast and go over your cover stories and identities. Then you can have your day at the beach, getting to know each other.”

  “And what will you two be doing?” Lydia asked.

  Boyle smiled. “Hanna has some business to tend to in London, so she’ll be leaving us tonight to take the mail boat. As for me, I’ll be in Dublin trying not to enjoy myself.”

  Later that evening it turned chilly, a cold front that swept in across the Irish Sea.

  Lydia lit the fire with some old newspaper and kindling, stacked on chunks of turf, and the smoky aroma wafted about the room.

  Andrev made tea on the range, enamel mugs for each of them. He peered beyond the window at the howling wind tossing the branches, then let the curtain fall. “Today was a perfect summer’s day, and now it’s like a winter’s night. Is it always this unpredictable?”

  “That’s why the Romans called Ireland Hibernia, meaning Winterland. I’ve known single days when I’ve experienced the four seasons.”

  Andrev smiled and took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered her one. “Smoke?”

  Lydia shook her head.

  Andrev lit his cigarette with a taper he stuck in the fire, then examined the clutter of books on the shelves. “Do you know this place on the coast where we’re driving to tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I used to go there with my fiancé.”

  He removed a book from one of the shelves and flicked through it idly. “Where is he now?”

  “Missing in action over three years. He served with the British army.”

  He looked up. “I’m sorry. There’s no hope then?”

  “There’s always hope. I’ll never give up on Sean, not ever. He was the kindest, warmest man I ever knew.”

  “He served with the British, yet you’re an Irish republican. I don’t understand.”

  “A story for another day. What did Boyle tell you about me?”

  He put the book back on the shelf. “Enough to make me curious. Irish father, American mother, you lived in St. Petersburg for a time, as well as America. A governess to the tsar’s children at eighteen, and later a wanted Irish rebel. You’ve certainly had a busy life for a woman of twenty-four. That’s all I know, apart from your obvious weakness.”

  “What’s that?”

  Andrev smiled boyishly, with great charm. “Your Irish temper.”

  “Let me worry about my temper, Mr. Andrev.” Lydia leaned over to warm her hands at the flames, the light illuminating her face. “Boyle said you have a wife and son?”

  “Nina divorced me.”

  “What happened?”

  Andrev didn’t answer but stared away, toward the fire, his eyes dark, as if looking back across an unbridgeable gulf. “As you said, that’s not a story meant for now.”

  “You must still love her. Why else would you be going back?”

  He tossed his cigarette in the fire, crossed to his bedroom door, and looked back at her. “When was the last time you were in Russia, Miss Ryan?”

  “Five years ago.”

  “Things have changed, so I hope you know what you’re committing to. The odds of us making it to Ekaterinburg without encountering trouble are not in our favor. The country’s in chaos and there are bandits and deserters everywhere. If we don’t get caught by the Reds we’ll probably get robbed or killed, or both.”

  “Are you trying to frighten me?”

  “No, just make you aware of the truth.”

  “I’m well able to look after myself.”

  “No doubt. But if I were you I’d also try not be too cocky with that temper of yours. A sharp word to a Red guard at a checkpoint could be the end of us both.”

  “I’ve already had the lecture from Hanna Volkov, thank you. And I’m not stupid.”

  He gave a mock salute. “I’m glad to hear it. Good night, Miss Ryan.”

  Their eyes met, something passing between them again, of that Lydia was certain, and it brought the same rush of excitement. She felt it flow through her veins like a surge and she flushed, averting Andrev’s stare.

  And then he was gone, the door closing after him, the wind suddenly raging outside the cottage window, but the only sound Lydia was aware of was the ceaseless pounding of her own heart.

  47

  DUBLIN

  It was lunchtime the next day when Boyle strode into the Shelbourne Hotel on St. Stephen’s Green.

  In the lounge, decorated with green ferns and potted plants, a gramophone was playing a waltz, the dining room crowded with off-duty British officers and their ladies lunching.

  Boyle found a free table by the window and ordered coffee and a couple of plates of mixed sandwiches. They came within five minutes and as he bit into a sandwich, the U.S. aide strolled into the lounge, dressed in a crisp flannel Brooks Brothers suit and carrying a Trilby.

  “I see you’ve started without me,” MacKenzie said as he settled into the easy chair opposite.

  “I’m a man in need of sustenance, Mack. Help yourself to a sandwich. Rough crossing on the ferry?”

  “Not that bad, considering. So how goes it?”

  “They’re settling in nicely. I got some photographs of the two of them developed and they certainly look the part. Take a gander.”

  Mack examined the photographs, his expression even more sober than usual. Boyle remarked, “You look like your horse came in last in the Derby.”

  Mack handed back the photographs and sighed. “There’s a hitch, Joe.”

  “Big or small?”

  “Big enough to worry me.” Mack jerked his head toward St. Stephen’s Green park. “Let’s take a stroll.”

  Boyle finished his coffee and they left the hotel and walked over to the park. Mack said, “Our original plan was to send you all—Andrev, Ryan, and you and Hanna—by cargo ship from Belfast to St. Petersburg. From there you’d take separate routes by train to Ekaterinburg, where you’d meet up. We estimated the journey would take three to four weeks.”

  “Why do I get a distinctly bad smell about this?”

  “What do you know about our agent Dimitri?”

  “Only what Ambassador Page told me. He’s Russian-born with an American background, a man who’s familiar with the tsar and his family, and his help is crucial.”

  As they strolled round the park’s pond Mack kicked a pebble into the water and a half-dozen ducks went skittering after the splash, hoping it was food. “Dimitri’s our best spy in Russia. The truth is, he’d be impossible to replace.”

  “Don’t dance around it like a diplomat. Get to the nub, Mack.”

  Mack stopped walking. “We fear Dimitri may be compromised.”

  Boyle paled. “Don’t tell me that, not at this late stage.”

  “We received news from Ekaterinburg that the Cheka raided his lodgings. Dimitri escaped by the skin of his teeth. But it’s clear that he may be living on borrowed time.”

  “How much time?”

  “Impossible to say. Our spy’s a clever man who’ll do his utmost to keep one step ahead of the enemy, but his luck can’t last forever. If he’s caught, our plans may be sunk. Just as worrying a
re the White allies, the Czech legions. They’re fighting their way to Ekaterinburg faster than we reckoned.”

  Mack added, “We’re trying to convince them to slow down, but they seem determined to seize Ekaterinburg. We fear any sudden advance may incite the Reds to execute the family.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Hanna’s in London to meet the ambassador. He’ll propose to her that we speed things up. If we’re lucky, we estimate we’ve got a couple more weeks to free the Romanovs. That means a faster route. Things really need to be under way a lot sooner.”

  “Spit it out, Mack. How much sooner?”

  LONDON

  That same evening, a Slavic-looking man with high cheekbones and wearing a shabby work suit sat in a black Ford delivery van parked near the Connaught Hotel.

  The engine was running and he had his cap pulled well down over his face as he smoked a cigarette.

  The van was borrowed, no markings on the side, and he watched as Hanna Volkov came down the hotel steps.

  She carried a parasol and she looked across the road toward the busy tearooms.

  The man smiled to himself and tossed away his cigarette.

  Ten minutes earlier he left a note with the concierge, addressed to her. Dear Hanna, please meet me in the tearooms across the street. He signed it with an unreadable scrawl.

  He watched as Hanna Volkov looked left and right before she started to cross the street.

  The man released the handbrake and pressed the accelerator.

  By the time she was halfway across the road he’d already covered the distance between them.

  She heard the approaching engine because she looked up from under her parasol, her mouth open in horror as the Ford bore down on her at speed.

  The van struck her with a terrible thud of flesh hitting metal, and the driver kept going.

  Hanna Volkov was sent flying through the air in a swirl of skirts and limbs, her body bouncing off the sidewalk.