by Glenn Meade
Yakov stared speechless at the family’s corpses.
Andrev said angrily, “Well, what are you gaping at? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Not the children,” Yakov said hoarsely.
“It’s a bit late now,” Andrev answered bitterly, and brandished his gun. “Help with the girl. Go easy with her.”
Yakov helped Lydia gingerly raise Anastasia from the floor.
Boyle told Andrev, “Cover Yakov, and I’ll take the boy.” Boyle knelt, gently lifting him. As he did so, a mournful cry escaped from the child’s lips, the sound of his last breath leaving his body, and he shuddered and fell still.
“No …” Boyle said hoarsely. He gently lay the child down and felt his pulse. Finally he looked up in despair and shook his head. “He’s gone for good. God have mercy on his soul.” Boyle used his thumb and forefinger to close Alexei’s eyes. An overpowering sense of grief seemed to smother them all, but it barely lasted, Boyle already hustling them toward the storage room. “What are you all waiting for? Uri, take the girl from Lydia, she’ll lead the way with the lamp. I’ll cover our back.” He jerked his gun at Yakov. “Get going.”
As they withdrew, Boyle was the last to leave. He took one last look around the execution room, barely able to fathom the awful carnage, and then he pulled the doors shut after him.
Kazan turned the Opel into Voznesensky Prospect, the car’s suspension bouncing on the stones.
Sorg was cramped between two of Kazan’s comrades, his hands still tied.
Kazan approached the compound and halted, a truck parked near the doorway, its engine running. The barrier was down, and the guards looked even more jittery as Kazan clambered out of the car. “Is the grisly business done yet?” he demanded.
One of the older guards said, “What’s it to you? I thought we threw you out!”
“I want to know, are they dead?”
The man grinned. “No one could have lived through that hail of gunfire.”
“When?”
“Less than ten minutes ago. Now get out of here before I’m tempted to shoot you.”
Kazan raged, “You’re the one who’ll be shot, you imbecile. I’ll see that you face a firing squad for your contempt. Where’s Komendant Yurovsky?”
The guard balked at the threat. “Inside. Why?”
“Lead me to him. It’s a matter of the utmost urgency.”
They moved through the tunnel. When they finally came toward the exit, Boyle passed Markov’s pile of dead bodies, the fuel cans and containers of embalming fluid stacked next to them. “Everyone be quiet.”
They fell still, not a sound from anyone, and Boyle listened intently behind them, cupping an ear, but he heard nothing. He nodded to Lydia. “Signal to the sister. Then come back here.”
She opened the iron door and moved outside, carrying her lamp. They all heard an engine move closer, there was a wash of headlights, and Lydia stepped back in. “She’s here.”
Andrev reached across and felt Anastasia’s wrist, blood still flowing from her wounds, then he put a finger to her neck. “She’s still got a heartbeat, but I wonder for how much longer.”
Lydia said, “What about igniting the fuel?”
“There’s not much point now, is there?” Boyle replied, and ushered them toward the iron door.
In the guardroom, now that the killing was over, Yurovsky experienced a strange kind of relief and it made him feel lightheaded. He raised a vodka bottle to his lips and took another long swig, the alcohol helping numb his mind.
All around the room his men were doing the same, collapsed on cots and chairs, chain-smoking cigarettes and getting drunker by the minute, trying to settle their frayed nerves after the savage, close-quarter butchery.
A guard appeared. Yurovsky said, “What do you want?”
“It’s Kazan, he’s turned up again.”
“Tell the fool to go away.”
“Now who’s been drinking too much?”
He looked up to see Kazan standing over him, accompanied by a man wearing a gray slouch hat.
Kazan stared at the drunken guards through clouds of cigarette smoke, a stash of handguns and bloodied bayonets discarded on the table, cluttered with overflowing ashtrays and vodka bottles.
“What do you want?” the komendant demanded, his eyes blurred from drink.
“You’re certain the family’s all dead?” Kazan demanded.
With a frenzied look, the komendant took another swig from the bottle and waved a blood-soaked bayonet from the table. “Of course I’m sure. We had to use these to finish them off. Yakov’s in there now, checking our work, before we move them to the truck and clean up. See for yourself if you don’t believe me.”
“Yakov?” A chill rippled through Kazan.
“Hurl your accusations against him now, Kazan, and see where they get you.” The komendant sneered. “He’ll have you up against a wall to face a firing squad.”
“You drunken fool,” Kazan spat, and stormed from the room, already reaching for his pistol.
He burst open the basement doors and stalked into the grisly scene, ignoring the stench of death and gunpowder. Unmoved, he took in the knot of bullet-ridden corpses and the walls, splashed with crimson.
His comrade recoiled, putting a hand over his mouth. “They really slaughtered them, didn’t they? No mistake.”
“Shut up. Don’t make a sound.” Like the eyes of a preying animal, Kazan’s gaze flicked between the bodies and the storage room doors. Clutching his pistol, he moved toward the doors, trampling on the victims, wading in their blood. It was impossible to tell how many dead there were, the corpses were such a tangle, but Kazan said to his comrade, “Count the bodies.”
Kazan halted by the doors and listened. When he heard nothing he gripped the handles and pushed. The doors gave easily. Darkness lay beyond.
“How many bodies?” Kazan demanded.
“Ten, I think.
“You think?”
The man counted again. Kazan did, too, to be absolutely certain.
“Yes, ten.”
“One’s missing.” Kazan was livid. He searched the dead faces and saw no sign of Anastasia Romanov. “The conniving little witch is gone.”
“Will I get a lamp to enter the tunnel?”
“Forget it, we’re too late.”
“What will I tell the komendant?”
Kazan said viciously, “That drunken moron? Nothing. Let him earn himself a hangman’s noose. Get back to the car; we’ll head them off at the station.”
“What if they try to leave?”
“They can’t. I sabotaged their engine and ordered the stationmaster to block all trains leaving the city. The vermin aren’t going anywhere, I’ll make sure of that.”
They reached the Opel, clambered in, and Kazan backed the car like a madman out past the barrier. He sped down Voznesensky Prospect, then slammed on the brakes. Across the street was the city’s main Red Army barracks. He swung round in the seat, the engine still running, and fixed Sorg with a triumphant grin.
“I was right—the family’s been executed. They’re all dead, except perhaps that little witch whose interrogation you interrupted. It appears your friends have taken her out through the tunnel. But they’ll not get far.”
Sorg slumped, torn between hope and dismay.
Kazan nodded to his comrade in the passenger seat and jerked a thumb toward the barracks. “Alert the commander. Tell him we’ve cornered enemy agents. We’ll need every man from the barracks he can spare. I want the railway station sealed as tight as a drum.”
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Andrev turned the ambulance down a littered backstreet. A wispy, early morning fog began to descend as they arrived behind the railway, near the cargo bays.
A tired-looking elderly railway employee smoking a clay pipe manned a barrier, and Andrev shouted, “Get that barrier up, we’ve got wounded to transport!”
The man snapped to life when he saw the leather jacket and Andrev drove
through and down by a platform. He halted as close as he could to Yakov’s train, sixty yards away. He climbed out and ordered Yakov to do likewise.
Boyle said, “See if the engine’s steamed up and ready to go. Take Yakov with you. We’ll join you.”
Andrev trained his gun at Yakov. “You heard him, Leonid. Let’s go chat with the driver.”
They marched away and Boyle went round the back of the ambulance and opened the doors. By the light of a lamp, Sister Agnes and Lydia tended to Anastasia, removing blood-soaked clothes with a scissors and placing fresh cotton on her wounds. The nun covered her with a coarse blanket.
“How is she?”
Sister Agnes shook her head and held up a bloodied corset. “I’ve managed to stem the bleeding but I don’t know what’s happening internally. Cup your hands and hold them out.”
Boyle did as he was told.
The nun turned the corset inside out. With scissors, she cut jagged lines crisscrossing the material. A spray of sapphires, diamonds, and emeralds filled Boyle’s hands, cascading from the corset.
He palmed the gems into one hand. Even in the poor light, they glinted brilliantly. “It seems to me not all the bullets penetrated her body where the gems were sewn into her clothing.”
The nun nodded. “They saved her from being killed instantly.” She indicated tight columns of gems woven inside the corset lining. “It’s probably why Alexei didn’t die at first. No doubt they were sewn into his clothing, too.”
Boyle took the corset and examined the fabric. “Will she make it?”
“Impossible to say. But she’ll need proper medical attention, a hospital really.”
“Too risky. But Yakov has a medic. The sooner we get her on board and depart, the better.”
Andrev came back, looking despondent as he escorted Yakov, who didn’t look much better.
Boyle weighed the gems in his palm and held up the corset. “This is what saved her—precious stones sewn into her underclothes.” He handed them back to the nun, who took a leather coin pouch from under her habit, filling it with the gems for safekeeping. Boyle said to Andrev, “What’s wrong? You both look like death.”
“Zoba, Markov, and the engine driver have been shot dead.”
Boyle sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Any more bad news?”
“Nina’s unconscious four carriages down the back. She was with the medic; they were both tied up. He was out cold, too, but I managed to wake him. They’re alive at least. The medic’s gone to see to Anastasia.”
“Did he say what happened?”
“It was Kazan. The medic thinks he went back to the Ipatiev House, determined to find us. He took Sorg.”
Boyle’s broad shoulders appeared to slump. “Can it get any worse?”
“The locomotive’s been sabotaged. We’re going nowhere, Boyle.”
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The fog seemed to be getting worse as they marched to the engine and climbed up the boarding steps. When Boyle saw the engineer’s body, he fixed Yakov with an iron stare. “A nasty piece of work, Kazan.”
Andrev said, “It seems he learned his craft in the tsar’s secret police.”
Boyle examined the shattered dials and the severed pipes. “They obviously didn’t teach him anything about steam power.”
“What do you mean?” Andrev asked.
Boyle examined a metal pipe where it had been sliced through, then he fiddled with a couple of valves. “I know something about locomotive engines. None of the main pipes have been cut. Just the ones to the indicators.”
“Meaning?” Andrev inquired.
“I think the train will still operate, but we’ve no way of knowing if the steam pressure or water level are right. Where exactly did you leave Yakov’s engine and tender?”
“About five miles from here.”
He considered and sighed. “We might not make it that far. We’ll have to be careful how we stoke; I’d hate to risk blowing up the boiler.” Boyle slipped on a heavy padded glove and opened the furnace door. A blast of heat greeted them. “Grab a shovel and start working as fast as you can,” he told Yakov.
Andrev translated.
“This is all a waste of time,” Yakov said, tight-lipped.
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Yakov began shoveling coal into the furnace.
Boyle told Andrev, “Get the others on board. Use the carriage closest to the engine. And see how the medic’s doing with the girl.”
Andrev hurried down the engine’s steps.
Boyle fiddled with the shattered instruments and pipes, seeing if he could repair them, but it was useless. He checked the water tank, making sure it was filled. “Come on, Yakov, keep that shovel working.” After a time, Boyle made a gesture for Yakov to stop. “Okay, that’s enough coal for now. We ought to be ready to give it a go.”
Yakov tossed down the shovel and wiped his brow.
Boyle smiled at him. “I’ll bet you’re asking yourself if it’s insane to risk driving this thing. What if it blows up in our faces?”
Yakov stared back at him, not comprehending, his eyebrows raised.
Boyle said, “Well, you better pray it doesn’t explode, Yakov. Because it’s you who’ll be doing all the shoveling.” He gestured with the Colt. “Now get yourself down those steps; our job’s not done yet.”
Boyle hustled Yakov back to the carriage and they climbed aboard. The floor was congealed with blood. Two bodies lay sprawled on the floor, Zoba’s and Markov’s, his bloodied left leg shattered at the knee.
“Butcher’s work,” Boyle remarked angrily.
Yakov stared down bitterly at Zoba’s corpse. “He was a good man.”
Boyle understood that much in Russian, and he offered a reply. “Then he kept the wrong company.” He gestured to the bodies and added, “Move them over there, against the wall.”
Boyle turned his attention to Anastasia. She lay on a soldier’s metal cot at the far end of the carriage, her head now swathed in bandages.
She moaned once or twice in pain, but didn’t stir. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow. Lydia and Sister Agnes knelt on one side of her while the medic dabbed his stethoscope on her neck and chest, then felt her pulse.
“How is she?” Boyle asked.
The medic looked doubtful. “The wounds to her skull appear to have been caused by bayonets and have probably concussed her. The good news is the bleeding from her abdomen has stopped. The bad news is she could be bleeding internally. But it’s impossible for me to know exactly at this stage if any of her major organs are damaged. Only time will tell.”
“Can you operate, if necessary?”
The medic scratched his jaw. “If it comes down to it. But there’s no guarantee she’d live through it, not in her state. It’s all in the lap of the gods, I’m afraid.”
Boyle sighed with frustration. “Where’s Uri?”
Lydia replied, “Gone to check on Nina.”
“Go fetch him. Tell him we’re ready to leave.”
Lydia moved along the corridors. She noticed a sweet, pungent smell of some kind of narcotic as she came to a sleeper compartment. A pretty, blond-haired woman lay unconscious on the lower bunk.
Even in repose she looked distraught, her eyes blotched from crying. She stirred and cried out, her sleep troubled, and then fell still again.
Concern in her eyes, Lydia stood watching her from the doorway.
And then came a mournful cry, a noise almost more animal than human, from the next compartment …
As she entered, Andrev was kneeling by a lower bunk, next to Sergey’s body. The boy was wrapped in a sheet. His eyes were closed, his body stiff, the lips slightly parted.
Andrev rocked his son back and forth in his arms. He looked crushed, his face stricken, and his dark, tormented eyes hinted at a soul in hell.
Lydia could do nothing but watch him suffer.
He turned and their eyes met. He gently laid his son’s body down, kissed his cheek, and stood.
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For a moment she thought his misery would choke him and then he lurched past her, out into the corridor, drawing the back of his hand over his mouth to stifle his tears.
She had no words to console him, and so she did the only thing she could, her arms going around him, binding him to her, sharing his grief.
He clung to her for a long time until finally he drew away.
“I—I don’t know what to say, Uri. How to comfort you.”
“You can’t.”
“I—I saw Nina. Is she going to be all right?”
He wiped his eyes, and they moved into the compartment where Nina lay unconscious. He stared down at her sleeping face, touched it with the back of his hand. “The medic gave her ether to help her sleep. She was distraught. She lived for Sergey. We both did.”
They heard a sudden noise in the corridor behind them.
Sister Agnes came rushing up, her habit flapping. “Boyle wants you both back in the carriage. It’s more bad news.”
They followed the nun back to the carriage, just as the sound of a car engine roared onto the fogged platform.
Boyle was peering out the window. “It seems you can’t get rid of a bad thing.”
Andrev and Lydia joined him.
An open-topped Opel halted nearby. Kazan was in the driver’s seat. With him were two of his men, one in front, one in the back, guarding Sorg. Kazan jumped out and spoke to Sorg.
“What the devil is he up to?” Boyle remarked.
Almost immediately at least six trucks laden with armed troops rumbled onto the far end of the platform. Dozens of soldiers jumped down and began taking up positions, a uniformed commander shouting orders. At least a hundred more stormed into the station, appearing out of the thin veil of fog, their boots echoing like thunder.
Boyle’s face crumpled, Andrev’s, too, knowing that all was lost.
Yakov wandered over to join them. “I warned you. The same old roads all lead to hell in the end.”
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