The Romanov Conspiracy

by Glenn Meade

  “And where do you think you’re going, woman?”

  “I—I live here,” Lydia said. The man with the rifle had her in his sights.

  “Really? We’ll soon find out if that’s true.” The driver had a sharp, cunning face and as he came forward he tore out his revolver. “Get your hands up where I can see them.”

  “I—I’ve done nothing wrong,” Lydia protested.

  The man pushed her roughly against the wall. His hand moved coarsely between her legs as he patted her down. He searched her pockets and found the Nagant, triumph on his face. “Not so innocent now, are we? What are you doing with a weapon?”

  When Lydia didn’t answer, he grinned and pushed her forward. “Don’t worry, we’ll get the answer out of you. Keep walking, straight ahead. There’s a Commissar Yakov who’d like to have a word.”

  Yakov pushed through the tenement front door and moved cautiously along the hallway to Nina’s apartment. He nodded to the two men accompanying him and they kicked in Nina’s door, splintering wood, before they rushed in, rifles sweeping the room.

  Nina was standing by the bed, clutching her son to her breast, the child in tears, his lips trembling.

  “Where is he?” Yakov demanded, brandishing his gun.

  She didn’t answer.

  Yakov crossed to her, the crying child clinging to his mother, his face a mask of confusion and terror.

  “Don’t make this any more difficult than it already is. And don’t play games, Nina. You’re in enough trouble.”

  When she still didn’t reply one of the soldiers went to strike her with his rifle but Yakov caught the man by the arm and spun him round. “Get out. Both of you. Go the back way. Find him.”

  The men rushed out. Yakov stood staring at her with livid rage.

  “You fool, what have you done, Nina? This can only end badly for you. Where is he? Tell me and I promise to ask for leniency for you and your son.”

  But she seemed rooted to the spot, unable even to speak, a growing terror in her eyes. The sobbing boy clung even more tightly to his mother and shot fearful glances at Yakov.

  He was getting nowhere. “Stay here until I come back, and don’t move. Uri can’t escape, the area’s completely surrounded.”

  Only when he went toward the door did she react, reaching out for him with a pitiful expression, the child still in her arms. “Please, don’t harm him, Leonid, for Sergey’s sake, I beg you.”

  “It’s far too late for that.”

  72

  MOSCOW

  Andrev hurried between the back garden clotheslines, just as the weaselly-looking man with the pencil mustache who was guarding the rear rushed in, brandishing a handgun and followed by a group of armed soldiers.

  Andrev darted into the storage shed.

  The soldiers stormed toward the tenement. Andrev vaulted the wall and slid down the other side. He mounted the next wall, and when he reached the ramshackle door that led to the lane he heard the clatter of boots. He froze and his stomach knotted.

  In the lane, two armed soldiers went marching past, escorting Lydia.

  He stepped out behind them, wielding the Nagant, no mistaking the menace in his voice. “Not a sound or you’re both dead.”

  The men turned and saw Andrev aim his revolver at them.

  “Put down your weapons and lie on the ground.”

  The terrified soldiers obeyed.

  Andrev tossed away their rifles and picked up the revolver belonging to one of the men. He was about to toss it to Lydia when behind him he heard the soft click of a weapon being cocked.

  A familiar voice said, “Toss the gun aside. Don’t attempt to move.”

  He spun round as Yakov came through the ramshackle door, aiming his revolver, his face seething. “I said toss the gun. Now, or you’ll die here this minute.”

  Andrev threw the gun on the ground. Yakov struck him across the head with the butt of his revolver, and he staggered back against the wall.

  When Lydia rushed to help him, Yakov aimed at her and roared, “Don’t take a step unless I tell you.”

  Lydia obeyed. The two soldiers scrambled to retrieve their rifles. Yakov replaced his pistol in his holster and stepped over to Andrev.

  He struck him a savage blow that slammed him against the wall. “Consider that another small down payment on a debt I owe you.”

  Andrev tried to rise, unsteadily. “Leonid, you’re wrong if you think I killed Stanislas.”

  But Yakov wasn’t listening. He lashed out with his boot, kicking one of Andrev’s legs from under him, and he hit the ground.

  Yakov moved in fast, placing his boot on Andrev’s throat, crushing his windpipe. “Don’t try to lie to me.”

  “Take your foot off his neck.”

  Yakov’s head snapped round. The woman’s eyes had a steely look. “Who are you to demand anything?”

  Lydia simply said, “Do as I say.”

  The guard nearest Yakov stepped forward, a grin spreading on his face. “Let me deal with her, Commissar. Maybe a good beating will teach this one some manners.” He raised the butt of his rifle to strike out at her. “You stupid woman, answer with respect when the commissar asks you a question.”

  Lydia raised her hand and the Mauser appeared. It cracked once, hitting the guard in the forehead, and he collapsed like a sack of flour.

  The second guard was already bringing up his rifle.

  Lydia shot him once in the chest and again in the head and he was hammered back against the wall.

  As Yakov reached frantically for his holstered Nagant, Lydia stepped in and touched the barrel to his forehead. “Hand away from the gun.”

  Yakov reluctantly did as he was told.

  Andrev pushed himself up and removed the pistol from Yakov’s holster. A stone-faced Yakov looked at the dead guards, then up at Lydia and said, “You’ve both signed your death warrants.”

  “Be grateful she didn’t kill you, Leonid,” Andrev told him.

  All around them now they heard barked orders and shouts as troops reacted to the gunfire.

  Andrev grabbed the motorcycle and said to Lydia, “Get in the sidecar.”

  She joined him, clutching the Mauser and grabbing the second Nagant, the sound of rushing feet and voices growing louder.

  Yakov glared, filled with vehemence. “This isn’t finished. Not by a long way.”

  Andrev said, “Something tells me that even if there was time, you still wouldn’t listen to me, Leonid. Have it your way. But know one thing—this is between you and me, no one else. Harm Nina and my son and I swear I’ll kill you. I’d do it right here and now only I know it would condemn them. So heed my warning. I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

  He started the motorcycle, revving the engine just as a group of soldiers appeared and advanced uncertainly toward them from the far end of the lane. Lydia fired two quick shots and the troops darted for cover.

  The last thing an enraged Yakov saw was Andrev speeding off, the woman in the sidecar firing both guns at the soldiers, and then the motorcycle skewed around a corner and roared away.

  73

  EKATERINBURG

  11 P.M.

  Markov eased back gently on the reins and the horses slowed. His heart skipped when he saw the barricade up ahead in the milky darkness.

  Markov reached behind him, rapped his knuckles on the wooden coffin in the back of the carriage, and whispered, “There’s a checkpoint ahead. How are you holding up?”

  The lid was raised a little, enough for Sorg to breathe through. “Well enough. What do you want me to do?”

  “Keep the lid on and remain still, especially if the guards check inside the coffin. Get ready, we’re almost there.”

  Sorg slid the lid back on. Markov eased the horses to a halt at the checkpoint and two young armed soldiers came forward, each carrying a lantern, their rifles fixed with long bayonets. One said, “Don’t you know there’s a curfew, old man?”

  Markov waved a sheet of paper. �
�Igor Markov, undertaker, comrades. I have a special pass from the local commissars. I’m taking a corpse to my mortuary, and there’ll be several more before the night’s out.”

  “Let me see that.” One of the soldiers grabbed the paper, studying it in the lamplight.

  Markov said, “Check the coffin if you like. He’s as dead as a doorpost. But be careful.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He had typhus. It’s highly contagious.”

  The soldiers didn’t look happy at the prospect of examining the coffin but one of them used his bayonet to pry open the lid, then held up his lamp.

  Sorg lay inside, his face bone-white, his eyes closed, hands folded across his chest. He wore a black suit and on one sleeve was a red armband.

  Markov tipped his cap respectfully and said, “A good Bolshevik, gone to meet his maker.”

  The guard recoiled in disgust and let the lid fall back into place. “There is no God, undertaker. Don’t you listen to Comrade Lenin? Now get yourself out of here.”

  Five minutes later Markov jerked the reins to a halt. The horses snorted, their hooves fading on the cobble. “We’re here. It’s safe to come out now.”

  In the back, Sorg lifted the lid and eased himself from the coffin. He used a towel to wipe the flour Markov had applied to his face, and slipped off the red armband and thrust it in his pocket.

  The undertaker grinned. “A nice touch, that armband.”

  Sorg saw the huge church spire looming way off in the lunar darkness and recognized Voznesensky Cathedral. In the distance shimmered the broad Iset City Pond. “Where exactly are we?”

  “About three hundred yards from the Ipatiev House.” Markov pointed into the darkness beneath a granite archway. “The tunnel entrance is under there, beyond a locked iron sewer door,” he explained.

  “It leads to a turret set in the brickwork. You’ll see the Brotherhood’s mark painted above it. Behind it is a passageway that eventually ends at a brick wall. Behind that lies the basement storage room.”

  “I think I’ve got it.”

  “The bricks in the wall are loosened, but whatever you do don’t remove them, not until we’re ready to proceed with the recue. We don’t want to give the game away.”

  Markov handed over an unlit kerosene lamp, a box of matches, and a metal ring with a key. “You’ll need the lamp. The key’s for the iron door.” He consulted his pocket watch, then snapped it shut. “Eleven-fifteen. I’ll meet you back here in an hour. That ought to give you enough time. You recall the map details?”

  Sorg nodded.

  Markov touched his whip to the horses’ flanks. “Remember, any hint of trouble and get away fast. The Reds around here are all trigger-happy. They’ll shoot you dead at the slightest provocation.”

  74

  EKATERINBURG

  Sorg moved under the bridge as the sound of Markov’s horses faded.

  The archway was poorly lit but he spotted the sturdy, rusted iron door set in the middle of the wall. He checked to make sure no one was watching him and slid the key in the lock. It opened easily and he moved into pitch darkness.

  Closing the door behind him, he fumbled for a box of matches and lit the lamp. Yellow light flared all around him. He was in a passageway, a foul, sulfur-smelling channel with a gurgling sewer running down the middle, raised stone walkways on either side, the lamplight casting flickering shadows on damp walls.

  A rat scurried past, squealing as it went, startling Sorg. He put up his sleeve to cover his nose and splashed his way along the puddled walkway, wearing the rubber-soled boots Markov gave him.

  A little farther on he came to a rusty metal turret set in the walkway. Raising the lamp high he saw a reverse swastika etched in white paint, high above the brickwork. The turret had a simple latch and when he snapped it open, it squealed on its hinges.

  Inside, an arched tunnel lay beyond, white glazed tiles lining the walls.

  He heard a faint, echoing murmur of voices and cocked his ears. The murmur seemed to come from the end of the tunnel. Markov said to go no farther, but Sorg’s mind was gripped by a powerful curiosity.

  His heart thudding in his chest, he raised the lamp and crawled inside the tunnel.

  In the Ipatiev House courtyard, Kazan’s truck slid to a halt and he climbed out.

  Yurovsky, the komendant, was leaning against the door frame smoking a cigarette, his tunic unbuttoned, exposing his vest underneath.

  Kazan said, “Anastasia Romanov. I want to interrogate her now.”

  The komendant flicked away his cigarette. “It’s late. Come back tomorrow.”

  “I have Yakov’s permission. He may have something to say about that.”

  The komendant’s eyes flared. “I don’t know who I despise more—the Romanovs, or turncoats like you.”

  “We’re on the same side now. Get used to it. The girl, and quickly. I want to soften her up before I carry out a full interrogation tomorrow.” Kazan grinned. “Don’t fret, I won’t leave a mark on her.”

  “The parents will be concerned. I don’t want them panicking. My job is to keep them on an even keel until we’re ready to carry out the execution.”

  “Tell them we just need to ask the girl some routine questions. Don’t make a big fuss about it. Use all your charm. You’re good at that, Yurovsky.”

  The komendant grunted, buttoned his tunic, and called out to one of the guards, “Fetch Anastasia Romanov.”

  The man hurried off.

  Kazan followed the komendant into his office and strode over to the wall map. “Our spy’s gone quiet but I’m convinced he’s still out there. I’m having more checkpoints set up within a five-hundred-yard radius of here.”

  “Your problem, not mine. Where do you want to interrogate her?”

  Kazan cracked his knuckles. “The basement will do. It’s suitably dark and dingy. The perfect setting to frighten the life out of her.”

  “You can use one of the rooms I’ve cleared out. But you’ll have your work cut out for you. She’s a resourceful young woman, Kazan. Not the kind who scares easily.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  75

  MOSCOW

  It started to rain heavily as Andrev came round a bend.

  He saw the roadblock ahead in the distance and eased into the curb. He wore the driver’s goggles and he pulled them up.

  Lydia said, alarmed, “That’s the second roadblock we’ve seen in the last ten minutes.”

  Andrev considered. “I doubt Yakov’s had time to throw up checkpoints all over Moscow. My guess is they’re just routine.”

  He smiled down at her, nodding to the Nagant and the Mauser lying at her feet in the sidecar. “That was quite a performance back there.”

  “You can thank my Kentucky upbringing.” As the rain fell harder, Lydia rummaged around in the sidecar, found an olive-colored oilskin cape, unfolded it, and covered herself as best she could. “What now?

  “There’s a turn a mile or so back that’ll take us onto a minor road out of Moscow. We’ll try our chances there.”

  He went to pull down the goggles but suddenly he looked ready to crumple, as if there were a terrible weight on his shoulders.

  Lydia put a hand on his arm. “You want to go back, don’t you? To make sure Nina and Sergey haven’t come to any harm?”

  He tried to keep his voice steady with some difficulty. “It’s an agony not knowing.”

  “You can’t do any more, Uri. Surely Yakov won’t hurt them.”

  “If he does I’ll kill him.”

  THE KREMLIN

  Yakov entered the same impressive anterooms as before.

  The guard took his firearm, then knocked on the floor-to-ceiling doors and gestured for him to enter.

  Trotsky was standing by the window, immersed in his own thoughts, a glass of what looked like water in one hand as he stared out at the drenching rain. He turned, and his sullen dark eyes drilled into Yakov. “Step forward. Don’t stand
there like a fool.”

  Yakov obeyed. He noticed that the door at the other end of the room was open. In an adjoining office, Lenin was standing by his desk reading a letter. When he saw Yakov, he eyed him with a cold stare, walked over to the door, and kicked it shut.

  As the door slammed, Trotsky sipped from his glass and began to slowly circle Yakov.

  Without warning, he flung the contents of his glass in Yakov’s face.

  “I don’t employ fools, Yakov. But it seems in your case I may have committed an error. You greatly disappointed me.”

  Yakov silently wiped a hand over his drenched face.

  “Out with it. What happened? How did Andrev and the woman escape?”

  Yakov explained.

  Trotsky let out a deep sigh, his mouth tightening with extreme displeasure. “You’ve failed in your duty, Yakov. How will you rectify the situation?”

  “I’m having checkpoints set up all over the city. All hotels in Moscow and every barracks will be given a description of Andrev and the woman.”

  Trotsky slammed his glass on the desk, strolled over to a wall map of Moscow, and studied it. “You seem to forget that if anyone can escape a dragnet, it’s your shrewd friend Andrev. My gut feeling is you’re wasting your time and stretching our troops thin trying to find him in Moscow.”

  “If we have no luck in the coming hours, I’ll travel directly to Ekaterinburg. That has to be Andrev’s destination.”

  “Good, we’re thinking alike. What about his former wife and son?”

  “I have them in custody.”

  Trotsky almost spat his reply. “They must pay the price of his folly. I want it done tonight. Have them transported to the harshest prison camp you can find. Take care of it, Yakov. Fail me again and I’ll take it personally.”

  76

  One of the guards led Anastasia down the stairs. She wore a cotton dressing gown over her nightdress, her hair around her shoulders.