The Romanov Conspiracy

by Glenn Meade

  48

  CARLINGFORD LOUGH, IRELAND

  The coastal fishing village was once a busy Viking port. Dominated by the ruins of the twelfth-century King John’s Castle, the inlet was peppered with sailboats that warm Sunday afternoon.

  Children played along the strand; men in starched high collars and straw hats and women in bonnets and long dresses strolled the seafront.

  Lydia and Andrev parked the Ford and found a picnic spot. They unrolled a blanket and looked inside the picnic basket: a bottle of Burgundy, chicken and cucumber sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, crockery, and utensils.

  Andrev opened the Burgundy with a corkscrew, poured two glasses, and handed one to Lydia. “Tell me about yourself. If we’re to trust each other with our lives, we ought to know all we can about each other.”

  Lydia sipped from her glass. “My father traveled around a lot when my brother and I were young. We lived in St. Petersburg for eight years, where he ran a horse-breeding business. Luckily, my parents saw the writing on the wall and we got out of Russia well before the war started.”

  “And the governess job?”

  “My father thought it might be an interesting way for me to spend a year.”

  “And was it?”

  She considered. “I hated all the regal nonsense, if that’s what you mean. But I liked the children. There’s something very special about them, something especially sweet and unconventional. And surprisingly for royalty, they were quite unspoilt. They slept on hard beds and each had their chores.”

  “You became close?”

  “I like to think so. They had their moments, like all children, but the family never seemed happier than when they were in their own company. Behind it all, they’re simple, devoutly religious people.”

  Lydia put down her wine. “But no doubt you learned all that when you served in the royal guard. Alexei, of course, suffers from constant ill health. He’s an invalid really, a terrible worry to his parents.” She paused, then changed the subject. “What about you? What happened that caused your wife to seek a divorce?”

  Andrev stared away, his eyes dark. “What always happens in such cases? People change.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  “Would it surprise you if I said I don’t know? All I’m certain of is that you can drive yourself insane trying to figure it out.”

  “You must still love her.”

  “I don’t think I’m even sure what love is anymore, at least not the kind between a man and a woman.”

  “Why else would you be going back?”

  Andrev said intently, “Because above all I want my son to grow up free and unafraid, and not to be used as part of some insane, bloodthirsty social experiment by a madman like Lenin.” Raw pain etched Andrev’s face and he changed the subject. “Tell me about your fiancé. How did you end up on different sides?”

  “When hostilities began, everyone saw the Kaiser as a war-mongering tyrant bent on destroying Europe’s liberty—at least that’s how the British told it. So Sean joined up, like many Irishmen. Of course, after 1916 everything changed.”

  “Why?”

  “That was the year of the Irish rebellion. When the British executed the republican leaders without a shred of mercy, there was no going back.”

  Andrev looked into her eyes, probing them. “Tell me the rest.”

  “What do you mean?

  “I’ve had hell inside me, and I can see it in others. The moment we met I sensed you were devoured by hurt and anger. And I’m not just talking about what’s happened to your country. I mean personally.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve learned enough about human nature to know that behind anger or bitterness or hurt there’s always a wound, or fear, or frustration. There’s something you’re hiding. Am I right?”

  Lydia’s neck flushed red, as if he’d struck a nerve. “I think I’ve told you enough already.”

  “Can I tell you what else I’ve learned? We never truly reveal ourselves. Like Salome and her dance. She hides herself from the world with seven veils. Most of us never remove our veils. It’s our protection, a way to guard ourselves. That’s just what you’re doing now.”

  “Really? And you’re an expert, are you?” Lydia yanked the blanket from the ground, scattering the food and plates, knocking over the wine bottle as she got to her feet. “I think it’s time we stopped this nonsense and drove back.”

  A voice behind them said, “I’m glad to see you two getting along like a typical married couple.”

  They turned and saw Boyle standing there, smiling.

  Lydia said, “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d drive out and give you the news. There’s been a change of plan. We leave for Russia tomorrow.”

  49

  Later that evening a heavy summer storm swept in suddenly, rain hammering on the cottage thatch and flailing against the glass.

  Andrev was sitting up in his bed reading, a clutch of books on the nightstand, the oil lamp lit, one of the windows open a crack.

  A knock came on his door and Lydia appeared.

  She had on a worn Aran wool sweater a couple of sizes too big for her, and it made her look young and vulnerable. “May I come in? I wanted to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “Getting angry today.”

  “It’s already forgotten. What’s the book?”

  She held up a slim volume in tan leather. “W. B. Yeats. He’s an Irish poet I have a fondness for. I found it on the shelves outside. There’s a poem in particular I’ve marked. It’s a favorite of mine.”

  “May I?”

  She sat on the end of the bed and handed him the book. Andrev opened the leaves on a silk marker and studied the page, his eyes drawn to several of the lines, which he read aloud:

  How many loved your moments of glad 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.

  When he finally looked up, he seemed touched. “I’m not sure I understand it, but it sounds very beautiful.” He closed the book. “Are you afraid now that we’re finally going into Russia?”

  She brushed a strand of hair from her face. “To be honest, I don’t know what I feel. I think I just want it all to be over, if that makes sense. But that wasn’t why I wanted to talk.”

  “No?”

  “Maybe you were right about the seven veils. That they’re a way to protect ourselves. I think I’ve always felt like an outsider, ever since I was a child and my family moved around so much. Some people thought I was privileged, maybe even spoiled, but really I wasn’t. I was just lonely, and never truly felt at home anywhere. Until I met Sean. For the first time in my life I felt connected to another human being.”

  She hesitated, emotion welling in her. “There’s an old Irish saying: ‘May I know you until the end of my days.’ That was how I felt about him.”

  A powerful gust lashed the window, flickering the oil lamp, almost blowing it out. Andrev put down the book and said softly, “It’s all right, Lydia. We’re all entitled to our privacy. I shouldn’t have been so inquisitive, and you don’t have to explain.”

  Her eyes moistened. “No, I really think I need to tell someone. Sometimes, you see, it makes me feel so lost, so angry with the world because it can be so unjust. I haven’t told it to another living soul, and it torments me.”

  “What does?”

  “Before Sean left for the front we made love. It’s a very human instinct when there’s a war. Couples want to acknowledge their feelings, they fear they may never see each other again.”

  “Of course.”

  “Not long after Sean left I realized I was pregnant. It stunned me. I was all emotions—happy, lost, confused. I knew my parents would be shocked. In my family, daughters don’t get pregnant before marriage. It’s unheard-of.”

  She b
it her lip. “I prayed for forgiveness and yet somehow I felt that God would understand what I’d done. I desperately wanted Sean’s baby, you see. Maybe some instinct in me even knew he wouldn’t ever come back and perhaps that was our only chance to have a child together.”

  “Did you tell your parents?”

  “I never got the chance. A month later I received the telegram that Sean was missing in action. The news hit me hard. I—I lost our baby.”

  Rain lashed the window, the wind howled. She looked at Andrev, her eyes wet. “I’ve never told that to a soul, not even to Finn, my brother.” She tugged at her sweater. “This old thing belonged to Sean. I wear it to remind me of him when I’m feeling lonely. Silly, isn’t it?”

  He saw torment in her face, and she seemed totally lost as she said, “I’m sorry, I think the reality of everything just hit me like a ton of bricks. I began to wonder what would happen to Finn if I don’t make it back. He’s still a child, really. I’ve looked after him since he was an infant. I—I worry about him.”

  Andrev saw that she was struggling with her emotions, and when she couldn’t hold back any longer she started to cry, great convulsive sobs that shook her body. He reached out, pulled her toward him, gently stroked her hair. “You poor, tortured soul.”

  Another powerful gust pounded the cottage. It stormed into the room through the open window, rattling the bedroom door and the rafters, blowing out the oil lamp, tossing the tree branches wildly.

  He cradled her head on his chest, holding her tightly in the raging darkness.

  PART FOUR

  50

  Sorg came awake drenched in sweat.

  His body felt seared by heat. He was lying on a metal bed in a cell with a barred metal door. It was deathly silent and the cell stank of damp air.

  When he struggled to sit up he couldn’t. His body was covered with a coarse gray blanket and he was tied down with leather straps. His clothes were gone and he felt naked under the blanket.

  He moaned and slumped back on the bed. He remembered little after passing out. Just a vague memory of briefly coming awake while he was being dragged along a stone corridor. Now that he was fully conscious, he was certain he was in a prison. He heard footsteps and his heart hammered with alarm. A key rattled in the lock and the door clanged open.

  A nun stood in the doorway. She was tall, middle-aged, with a gaunt but kindly face. Her bleached porcelain skin almost made her look sickly. Still, there was strength in her piercing blue eyes, no denying that, as she balanced a heavy tray in one hand.

  It contained a towel, a basin, and a jug of steaming water. In her other hand she carried a lit oil lamp. “You’re awake at last. How’s the patient?”

  “Where am I?”

  The nun banged shut the door and hung the lamp on a wall hook. “In the basement of Novo-Tikhvinsky Convent. One of our nuns found you collapsed. I’m Sister Agnes, Mistress of Novices. Do you want to tell me who you are?”

  Sorg didn’t reply.

  The nun saw caution on his face and said at once, “Forgive me, but I’m not used to all this subterfuge. You were supposed to leave your mark inside the church door. I was to leave another just like it, then come and ask, ‘Are you lost? Do you need help?’ And you’d reply, ‘I need to get to Market Street.’ But I think we’re past all that now, don’t you?”

  Sorg said, puzzled, “How did you know who I am?”

  The nun smiled. “You were delirious because of your wound. You kept repeating that you needed to get to Market Street. I also found a ring on your finger.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Stored safely with your clothes and belongings out in the hall.”

  The nun wore a plain silver band on her own finger. She removed it and handed it to Sorg. He saw the engraving inside the ring, next to the silversmith’s mark, just like his own.

  “Does that convince you?” the nun asked.

  Sorg handed it back. “I came here the day I arrived in Ekaterinburg. I left my mark on the church door and there was no reply. I tried again every day for three days and there was still no answer. I wondered what happened to you. Finally, I asked for you by name at the hospital. They said you were gravely ill.”

  The nun slipped the ring back on her finger. “I fell victim to the typhus that’s broken out all over the city. They moved me to a hospital in Perm. I was in a bad way so I left instructions with one of the nuns to make contact with you, but she herself fell ill and died. Still, I’m well now, and you’ve survived, that’s all that matters. How are you feeling?”

  “As if I’ve been trampled on by wild horses. This place looks like a prison.”

  The nun smiled. “Actually, it used to be. The convent was built on the ruins of a Mongol fort used by Genghis Khan, complete with dungeons. These days we run schools, a hospital, an orphanage, a bakery.”

  Sorg tried to raise himself. “Are you going to undo these straps?”

  Sister Agnes pulled up a wooden stool and sat, placing the tray at her feet. She unbuckled the straps. “Your wound’s turned septic and you were delirious for a time. We had to make sure you didn’t fall out of bed.”

  Sorg massaged his wrists. “Where are the other patients?”

  “In nearby wards. It’s more private here. I didn’t want to risk you saying something you shouldn’t if you became delirious again.” The nun unwrapped the cotton towel to reveal a handful of what looked like herbs, along with a thick slice of bread.

  The pungent aromas of thyme and mint filled Sorg’s nostrils. He saw that the tray contained cotton dressings and scissors.

  Sister Agnes crushed a handful of the herbs, rolling them between her palms. The fragrances spiced the air. She placed the herbs in a bowl and then put a hand to Sorg’s forehead. “You’ll probably feel terrible for a few more days. You’ve lost blood. And you’re still running a temperature. Here, drink this.”

  She offered Sorg a glass of cold water. Easing his head forward, he sipped the refreshing liquid. Sister Agnes lay the crushed herbs on the bread.

  Sorg asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Making a poultice. Proper medicines are in short supply so we have to make do with the old methods. The poultice will draw out any pus from your wound.”

  “Am I going to live?”

  The nun unfolded the thick cotton cloth. She lay the bread in the middle and sprinkled on the herbs, moistening the concoction with steaming hot water. “With God’s help. What happened?”

  Sorg told her.

  The nun said, “I don’t think there’s any internal damage, but time will tell. You’ll definitely need to rest up and keep off the streets, in case the Reds are looking for you.”

  “That’s impossible. I have work to do.”

  “I understand but I’m a qualified nurse. Move about too soon and your wound could open, become infected again, and you could die.” Sister Agnes pulled back the sheet and used the scissors to cut away Sorg’s dressing. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  She dabbed the poultice in the steaming hot water. “Hunger’s a good sign. I’ll see that you’re given some broth and freshly baked bread. We’ve been extraordinarily busy. Brutal skirmishes between the Whites and Reds in recent days have clogged the hospital with the sick and dying. Lean forward, please. This may hurt.”

  Sister Agnes gently but firmly pressed the hot poultice against Sorg’s wound. Sorg gritted his teeth, feeling the heat sting his wound. Strangely, it seemed to ease the throbbing. “There’s something I need,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Laudanum.”

  The nun didn’t flinch. “It’s used by many who served in the trenches. Is that how you came to use it?”

  “That’s close enough.”

  “I’m afraid we have no laudanum here and it may be impossible to come by under present circumstances. The Reds raided our medicine supply last week. We have little of anything left. I may be able to manage some coffee and cigarettes, if they hel
p?”

  “Thank you.”

  The nun went to go.

  Sorg gripped her arm. “Please, tell me about the family.”

  The nun gently pried his grip away and patted his hand. “Rest first. Sleep as long as you can. Then you and I have plans to discuss.”

  51

  LONDON

  It was just after lunch that same afternoon as Boyle went up the steps to St. Andrew’s Private Hospital. His clothes were crumpled and he looked as if he’d had a rough night.

  He nodded to the uniformed policemen in the corridor who admitted him into the private room. A worried-looking Ambassador Walter Page stood by the hospital bed.

  Boyle’s heart stuttered when he saw Hanna.

  She was unconscious, covered in bandages from head to toe, her legs and hips encased in some kind of metal contraption. Her face was heavily bruised, even her eyelids, which were purple, swollen, and closed.

  Page said, “She’s got internal injuries, broken bones, and she hemorrhaged badly. The doctors say she may not survive.”

  Boyle’s eyes were burning, his face very pale. “Who did this, Walter?”

  “The police haven’t found the van or driver. But a witness said he looked Slavic and was actually grinning as he mowed her down. I’m convinced it’s the long arm of our friends in Moscow.”

  Boyle gently touched Hanna’s fingers, his voice hoarse. “Why?”

  “The real question must surely be why at this time. I smell trouble. That they’d try to kill her now means they’ve been watching her. If they’ve been watching her, then what else have they seen, or surmised?”

  Page saw Boyle struggle to keep his composure, his body trembling, as if finding it hard to keep his fury under control. When it seemed he couldn’t bear to look at Hanna’s injuries any longer, he turned away.

  Page put a hand on his shoulder. “I think we should call it off, Joe. If we’ve been compromised, you could all be walking into a death trap.”