The Romanov Conspiracy

by Glenn Meade

  The komendant jerked his head at one of the three-guard escort. “Fetch two chairs.”

  The guard returned carrying a pair of bentwood chairs, which he placed near the doors by the far wall. Nicholai Romanov gently lowered his son onto one. His wife eased into the other. Their daughters gathered beside their mother, while Dr. Botkin and the others stood nearby.

  As the boy watched him with wide, curious eyes, Yurovsky began to arrange his victims in a particular order, behind the chairs. “There have been rumors that your health is not good,” he told them, “and that you are being poorly treated. So before we leave, I will need a photograph to prove otherwise. Please stand as I ask.”

  The family obeyed as the komendant posed them: Maria, Tatiana, and Olga standing close behind their mother, who remained seated; the family doctor and the three domestic servants in front of Anastasia, who stood defiantly alone. Nicholai Romanov stood next to his son, sitting in the second chair.

  The komendant once again checked his watch. “The photographer is delayed but will be here presently. I’ll be back once he arrives.”

  His men retreated from the room. Yurovsky was the last to leave. He paused at the door. Did he see a faint hint of uncertainty, a glimmer of terror on their faces?

  His said reassuringly, “Once we’ve finished taking the photograph, you will board the truck in an orderly fashion. You’ll be driven to a safer location, away from any shelling.”

  He took a final look at his victims, making sure they were still in the same pose, and then he nodded, pulling the doors shut after him with a soft click.

  In the room at the back of the mortuary, lit by a bare lightbulb, Boyle donned dark breeches and leather knee boots and pulled on a Chekist leather jacket.

  He studied the de Gennin map, the parchment laid out on the table, then looked up. “How are they getting on with the bodies?”

  Andrev peered out into the courtyard and saw Markov and Sorg finish loading a dozen of the white-sheeted corpses onto the back of the hearse. “It looks like they’re done.”

  They returned, Markov closing the door after them, carrying a sledgehammer and a pick. “Once I hitch up the horses we’re ready to go. Here are the tools you wanted.”

  Boyle examined them. “Perfect. What about explosives?”

  “I’m afraid all I have are some cans of kerosene and a supply of embalming fluid. I’m no chemist, but I’d bet that if you ignite both you’ll make quite a bang.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it. Load everything on board the hearse before we leave. And I’ll need clear directions for the tunnels.”

  Markov nodded and left.

  Andrev said to Boyle, “You mind telling me now what exactly you have in mind?”

  “First, you better bring Yakov in and see what kind of mood he’s in.”

  Andrev returned, escorting Yakov, still blindfolded by the sackcloth and with his hands tied. Boyle stood in front of him and tore the sack from his head.

  Yakov blinked and took in the scene. Facing him, next to Andrev, was a big, solidly built man. He looked formidable, all business, his hands on his hips. Yakov’s eyes darted around the windowless chamber. “Where are we? What goes here?”

  Boyle said bluntly, “Tell the commissar we’ll need his full cooperation. If he gives it, he’ll live to see his daughter.”

  Andrev translated. Yakov was silent, stern-faced.

  Boyle went on: “Tell him that in return for his help he can accompany us when we leave Ekaterinburg once we’ve finished our business. I solemnly promise we’ll get him and his daughter out of Russia. I have people in Moscow who can do that, just as soon as I can arrange it. Tell him.”

  Andrev translated.

  Yakov uttered a terse reply.

  Boyle asked, “What did he say?”

  “You’re insane, and haven’t a hope.”

  Boyle’s mouth tightened in an almost chilling grimace. He stepped up to Yakov, grabbed him by both lapels as he stared into his face. “You could be right about both. But you’ll do exactly as you’re told, whether you like it or not.”

  Andrev translated.

  Boyle added, “Tell him if he doesn’t, I’ll make sure he’s keeping the devil company before the night’s out.”

  Andrev interpreted; Yakov remained tight-lipped.

  Boyle stepped back and Lydia asked, “What happens now?”

  “Markov, you and I will travel in the hearse. Yakov will lead us in the truck, Uri with him, to get us past any checkpoints.”

  “I hope you have a solid plan, Boyle,” Andrev said.

  Boyle jabbed a finger at the parchment. “It’s bluntly simple. We’ll haul the bodies into the tunnel entrance, along with the kerosene and embalming fluid. Later, when we exit the tunnel, we ignite both fluids. In an enclosed space, it should cause an impressive blast.”

  “What about the guards on the tunnel?”

  “I’ll deal with that,” Boyle said. “But first, you and Yakov have to gain entry to the house. I need you to convince the komendant that the executions will go ahead, but that you’re to conduct a last-minute interrogation of the family, on Moscow’s orders.”

  “Interrogate them about what?”

  “The missing jewels are as good a reason as any. Make it clear that Lenin wants all the Romanov valuables accounted for. Tell the komendant you have information that precious stones have been withheld and that you intend to find them. You’ll need to get the family into the basement room and keep the guards out. Only then can we attempt to evacuate them through the tunnel.”

  “That’s asking an awful lot, Boyle.”

  He smiled and slapped a hand on Andrev’s shoulder. “Of course it is, but I have every confidence in a man of your abilities.”

  “What will we be doing?” Lydia asked.

  “You and I will make our way to the basement, to guide the family out through the storeroom. Once everyone’s safely aboard the ambulance, I’ll blow the tunnel.” Boyle hefted up the sledgehammer and the pickaxe. “I want to be prepared in case we need to open up the wall some more or breach the basement doors.”

  Lydia said, “Troops will be swarming all over the area after the blast. What happens when they find the bodies?”

  “If the blast does its job, there won’t be much left to identify, which ought to distract them while we’re quitting town.”

  “How?” asked Sorg.

  “I want you and Markov to get down to the railway station. Make sure that Yakov’s train is stoked and ready to depart.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  “You’ll have a written order from Yakov here. We’ll join you just as soon as we can.”

  Sorg shook his head stubbornly. “No, I’m going into the tunnel with you.”

  Boyle snapped, “We’ve all got a job to do for this to stand a chance, and I’ve given you yours. It’s vital the train’s ready. Now can I depend on you or not?”

  Sorg didn’t look happy but answered, “Yes.”

  Andrev said, “What if by some miracle we all manage to make it to the station, then what?”

  “We’ll head south, toward the White lines. Beyond that, I’m hoping we’ll have a clear run all the way to Bucharest.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting about the machine-gun nest in the church tower? And the other two at the house?”

  “We’ll be out of their line of fire and in darkness, so they shouldn’t bother us.”

  Andrev considered. “I still don’t like it. Everything’s too rushed.”

  Boyle replied, “It could either go as smoothly as silk, or we could all wind up dead. But do you have you a better idea at this stage?”

  “No.”

  “Then we’re stuck with it.” Boyle tore his Colt pistol from its holster. He slapped his notebook and a fountain pen on the table. “Now, tell Yakov here I want him to write a note, and he’s to be quick about it.”

  107

  In the guardroom, Yurovsky nervously rechecked his two fir
earms, a Colt and a Mauser. The final moment was approaching. His men sat hunched together, chain-smoking cigarettes, clutching their weapons, a few with bayonets stuck inside their belts. Adrenaline coursed through their veins; every one of them was on edge, their tempers frayed, Yurovsky could see that.

  One of them, a swaggering drunk named Ermakov, looked eager for action with three revolvers. He clutched two near-empty bottles of vodka, one in each hand, and splashed generous measures into the men’s enamel mugs. “Get that into you, you’re going to need it, comrades. But make sure you shoot straight.” Ermakov grinned drunkenly. “Send them all to hell, every last one of them; there’ll be no sparing women or children.”

  Yurovsky swallowed a mouthful of vodka from a bottle on the table and wiped his lips. He allowed the alcohol because he knew his men needed it for the grim task ahead. He already felt a little drunk himself, but not so much that he didn’t realize the men were getting out of control. Their fast and furious drinking was giving them Dutch courage, but if it kept up they would be in no fit state.

  He slapped down his mug and grabbed the bottles from Ermakov. “Enough! We all need clear heads.”

  “When are we going to do it? When?” Ermakov snarled.

  Yurovsky again consulted his watch: 2:15 a.m. From his tunic, he took the piece of paper that contained the execution order he would read to the family. He beckoned one of the younger guards. “Have the driver start the truck. The rest of you, prepare your weapons.”

  The Fiat drove toward the lake and slowed as it approached the archway. They were over three hundred yards from the Ipatiev House.

  A pair of Reds with bayoneted rifles guarded the iron door. They stepped out from under the archway, one of them waving a lantern. The second guard held up his hand for the truck to halt. The guards looked young, barely in their teens, but alert and cautious. They studied the men wearing leather jackets seated in the truck. A female in the back wore a Red Army uniform and carried a lantern. One of the guards said, “We have orders not to let anyone pass here.”

  Andrev left the engine running and climbed down, leaving Boyle on the other side of the front seat, holding an unseen Colt pistol to Yakov’s side.

  “I’m Commissar Couris. This is Commissar Yakov, from Moscow.”

  The guard nodded, recognizing Yakov from the compound, and respectfully tipped his forehead. “Yes, Commissar.”

  Andrev snapped, “This area is under control of the Cheka for now. We’ll take over here. You two keep watch down by the lake.”

  “But we have orders—”

  “And now you have mine.”

  As the guards disappeared in the lake’s direction, Andrev jumped back into the Fiat.

  Boyle said, “You did the wise thing, Commissar.” He offered Yakov a cigarette, and he accepted it. Boyle tossed him a box of matches. “Tell him what I said, Uri.”

  Andrev translated.

  Yakov lit a cigarette, blew out smoke, and seemed strangely calm. “You’re walking to your deaths, all of you. There are more guards around the Ipatiev House than there are flies on a jam pot on a summer’s day.”

  Andrev interpreted, and Boyle smiled. “Typically Russian, always the pessimist. But it’s not over yet.” He nodded to Lydia. “Give the signal.”

  Lydia waved her lantern.

  Within minutes there came the sound of horses’ hooves, clip-clopping through the darkness. Markov appeared driving the hearse, Sorg beside him, the carriage laden down with white-sheeted corpses. The undertaker jerked the reins and the hearse settled to a halt.

  Boyle wasted no time inserting the key in the gate lock. The door yawned open, revealing the tunnel. He gestured to Sorg. “Fetch some lamps and we’ll get these bodies unloaded.”

  Sorg climbed down and grabbed two more lamps from the back of the carriage and lit them. They worked quickly, moving the corpses into the tunnel. Markov removed the white sheets, the sickly smell of death already on the air.

  When they were finished, Markov folded the sheets and tossed them on the hearse. He handed Boyle a single written sheet of paper containing a diagram. “My directions are simple enough to follow, and I’ve drawn a map so you won’t get lost. You’ll see our symbol marked in paint above the metal turret.”

  Boyle took the page. “With any luck, we’ll meet you at the station. Give us no more than an hour.”

  Markov climbed up on the hearse and took the reins. Sorg joined him and said, “Mind telling me what happens if you don’t appear by then?”

  Boyle slapped one of the horse’s flanks. “It’s a case of every man for himself. Go!”

  As the sound of the horses’ hooves faded, Boyle checked his watch. The rattle of a vehicle sounded on cobblestone and he said to Andrev, “Right on time.”

  The motorized ambulance appeared out of the gloom, its headlights off, Sister Agnes driving. She halted under the archway, the engine running.

  Boyle went to speak with her and when he came back he said to Andrev, “We’re all set. Here’s hoping we’ll meet you in the basement.”

  Lydia said, “Good luck, Uri.”

  “You be careful.”

  Boyle hurried them, and they barely had a moment to embrace before he handed Lydia a lantern and ushered her inside the iron door. He grabbed a lantern for himself, and the sledgehammer and pickaxe, and went to join her.

  He paused at the doorway. Fixing Yakov with a threatening stare, he addressed Andrev. “Make certain Yakov understands. If he gives us the slightest hint of trouble, he gets a bullet.”

  Somewhere outside the house, Anastasia heard a truck start up. Then came a harsh crunch of gears and the engine noise grew louder. The vibration rattled the grimy, barred window.

  She realized she was in the same room where her interrogation took place. The table was gone, but the chairs the guard had brought looked like the same ones.

  Everyone appeared tense and expectant, even her papa. No one spoke, apart from a few whispers from her mother, and little Alexei. Beyond the double doors, they all heard raised, muffled noises that sounded like the guards getting drunk.

  “Where’s the photographer, Papa?” Alexei asked for the third time.

  “Heaven knows. But I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

  “They told us to hurry but they’re leaving us to wait.”

  “I’m sure they have their reasons, Anastasia. They can’t be long.”

  Anastasia clutched her dog in her arms. Jimmy had settled down, the little spaniel content to be stroked. She looked over at her papa again. Why did he keep giving Dr. Botkin odd glances? Her father smiled back at her reassuringly. But she had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach—a feeling she couldn’t explain—and it wouldn’t go away. “Maybe they’ve got drunk and forgotten about us, Papa?” she said, looking for an answer—any answer.

  “I hope not, my love.”

  Anxiety was growing in everyone, she sensed that. Alexei, wide-eyed as always, shifted uneasily in his chair, clutching his crippled leg. Olga, emaciated with worry this last year, was wringing her hands and hovering by their mother, tight-lipped and nervous. Tatiana, as ever of late, looked pale and sickly as death. Maria, with her baby face and her lush hair down about her shoulders, somehow still managed to look the picture of health, but she offered her sister a fleeting, anxious smile.

  Anastasia winked back. How I love them all.

  And at that moment, for some strange reason, she felt the intensity of that love all the more. Perhaps because they were all here, huddled expectantly as prisoners in this small room, ignorant of what would happen to them next. She felt vulnerable, and sensed that vulnerability in each member of her family, though not a word was spoken now.

  Of the others, Dr. Botkin looked the most apprehensive. He fidgeted, clasping and unclasping his hands, sweat beading his forehead.

  The small room felt warm and claustrophobic.

  But Anastasia felt that their discomfort was more than that: it was as if everyone in the room sen
sed something was about to happen, and yet no one knew what. Or is it simply my imagination?

  A second later, they all heard it: a rumbling, jarring noise. Not the vehicle engine—that was still humming in the background. This sound was different.

  Heavy footsteps. Lots of them, marching toward the doors.

  Her dog’s ears pricked up and his tiny body fidgeted in her arms. For some reason she glanced at her brother’s face: Alexei’s skin was even more bone-white than usual. He looked petrified with fear.

  The floorboards trembled and shook like thunder. A split second later, the doors burst open …

  108

  Andrev sat in front next to Yakov, who drove the Fiat up a deserted Voznesensky Prospect. As the wheels bumped over cobble, Yakov said, “Why sacrifice your life and Nina’s? Why dare so much, and for what? We can still turn back. I beg you. This stands no hope.”

  Andrev kept one hand in his jacket pocket on the Nagant. “In spite of that I must try.”

  “The family could already be dead for all we know.”

  “We delayed the truck from the garage. Nothing’s going to happen without transport to remove the bodies.”

  “And even if you make it inside the house, then what?”

  Andrev said, “You tell the komendant we have a special directive from Lenin. The execution order’s to be delayed just long enough for us to search the family for the missing gems.”

  “And how do you convince him you have the authority?”

  Andrev removed the forged letter from his pocket. “This ought to confuse him for long enough. All I need is five minutes alone with the family to get them into the tunnel.”

  “I tell you it’s doomed, Uri.”

  “We’ll see. No tricks, Leonid. I don’t want to kill you, but if I have to, so help me I will.”

  They approached the Ipatiev House compound. The guards on the barrier looked tense but they relaxed a little when they saw Yakov. “Raise the barrier,” he ordered. The guards studied Andrev. Yakov said, “This is Commissar Couris, on a special mission from Moscow.”