“Welcome back, Dr. Slater,” he said, saluting quite unnecessarily. “Colonel Waggoner, the acting commander, has ordered that you report to HQ immediately upon arrival.”
Ordered. It was funny how little import the word carried for Slater now.
“Better make sure you straighten your tie and shine your shoes,” Groves said dryly.
Slater knew that there was no love lost between what was left of his own team and the new regime.
“It’s this way,” Rudy said, starting in the direction of the largest Quonset hut, where the lab tent—altogether gone now—had once stood. How, Slater wondered, had they disposed of the deacon’s remains? To do so safely, a host of critical precautions had to have been taken. But were they?
“Frank,” Kozak said, snagging his sleeve, “we must talk. As soon as you have time.”
Rudy stopped and called out, “Dr. Slater? I’m afraid it’ll be my ass in a sling.”
“It’s very important,” Kozak added, in a low but urgent tone.
Slater figured it probably had something to do with the geological studies he’d been completing, but what could be that pressing? The graveyard, he had been advised, had been cordoned off—for good this time—and the whole island made a secured site. But scientists, he also knew from experience, always assumed their own work to be critical. “First thing,” he assured him, before turning to follow his impatient escort.
The headquarters was bustling with activity, and the far end was reserved for Colonel Waggoner’s office. He had the square jaw, the square shoulders, and the square head that Slater had encountered all too often in his military career. He was standing up and on the SAT phone when Slater was shown in, and he motioned brusquely at a chair positioned across from his desk.
Shades of being sent to the principal’s office, Slater mused.
When Slater had been made to sit there long enough for the point to have been made, Waggoner ended his call and said, in an admonitory tone, “Guess you’ve noticed that we made a few changes. We run this operation pretty differently now.”
“You should have waited,” Slater said. “There are safety protocols that need to be observed.”
The colonel looked taken aback. “We have an AFIP officer on-site, handpicked by Dr. Levinson in Washington.”
“Who?”
“Captain Stanley Jenkins, M.D.”
“He’s a good choice,” Slater said, relieved. He’d never worked with him personally, but he’d read the man’s reports from the field and knew he was an up-and-comer. “Do whatever Captain Jenkins tells you to do and you won’t go wrong.”
Waggoner looked even more put off. “Dr. Jenkins is here in an advisory capacity only, and he takes his orders from me. Maybe you’ve forgotten how the military branches of our government work since your court-martial, Dr. Slater.”
It was a cheap shot, but Slater let it pass.
“As for your associates, Professor Kozak and Sergeant Groves, I have asked them to restrict their movements to the base. Kozak’s been completing some ground studies inside the colony walls. I can’t say what the hell they’ll be good for, but they keep him away from the cemetery and out of my way. As for you, the debriefing will take place at 0900 hours tomorrow morning, so collect any notes or data you might have left lying around here and bring them. Also, make sure you gather up your remaining gear because as soon as we’re done, you and your pals will be flown off the island. There will be no further access.”
After ordering Slater, in addition, to restrict himself to the common areas within the perimeter of the stockade, he dismissed him with a flick of his wrist. Slater had the impression that the colonel had waited his whole life to sink his teeth into an operation of this importance—though how long the Coast Guard would maintain its sole jurisdiction here was an open question—and he could tell he would brook no interference.
Once outside, Slater blew out a deep breath and rubbed his aching ribs. The seat harness on the chopper had given them a workout. Looking around, he noticed that high-power spotlights had been mounted atop the stockade walls, and given that the sunlight was already fading, they had been switched on. The grounds were bathed in a harsh white light that threw stark shadows in every direction and lent the colony, with its old log cabins and storehouses, an oddly artificial appearance. The crooked church, with its decrepit onion dome, looked like the haunted house from an amusement park. Yellow tape had been stretched across its doors in a big X, along with loops of heavy chain.
But no one, he also noted, was watching him. Ensign Rudy was nowhere to be seen, and a couple of other Coast Guardsmen were busy wheeling a cart of cables from one tent to another. If he was going to make a run at the one place he was most eager to see—the old graveyard—he wasn’t likely to get a better shot than this.
With the colonel’s order not to leave the colony grounds still ringing in his ears, Slater sauntered toward the main gate, jauntily saluting the Coast Guardsman stationed there, before heading down the ramp that led to the cemetery. He didn’t dare look back, but he had no sooner approached the woods than he saw that a wide swath of the trees had been felled and the ramp had been replaced by a gravel driveway fifteen feet wide. He could see the muddy tire treads, and the rumble of machinery got louder all the time.
By the time he got to the spot where the old gateposts had once stood—they, too, were gone—he had noticed the unmistakable smells of powerful disinfectant chemicals and hot tar. Hanging back, he saw the funnel of a cement truck pouring a thick, even coat of concrete over the remaining ground. All the tombstones and crosses had been removed, and half a dozen workers in full hazmat suits, hard hats, and hip waders—a novel combination—were smoothing the surface as it was laid down. The decontamination shack had been left standing, but huge, empty cylinders of malathion, an organophosphate widely used in places like Central America where DDT had lost its sting, were strewn around outside it. Slater didn’t have to ask. Rather than running the risk of exposing any more of the bodies, the AFIP must have decided simply to poison the ground, to saturate it with concentrated, industrial-strength chemicals, then seal the graveyard for good measure under a foot of fresh concrete.
It wouldn’t last, he thought. The warming climate would eventually shift the earth again, and crack the cement. But that was government for you. Do the temporary fix for now, then form some committees to debate the problem for several years to come.
A curious worker spotted him, and instead of ducking out of sight, Slater waved and shouted, “Good job! Keep it up!” The worker returned to spreading the concrete.
Then Slater turned around and followed the well-lighted drive back to the colony gates. Behind him he felt like an old and terrible giant had been put to bed beneath a new blanket. He prayed it would sleep there soundly forever.
Inside his tent, he found that his cot and personal effects had been left untouched. A vial of his Chloriquine pills was lying beside an empty coffee cup and a report he’d been annotating. Professor Kozak popped in, and perching awkwardly on a campstool, said, “You saw the cemetery?”
Slater nodded while stacking some loose papers. “Did they disinter any of the other bodies first?”
Kozak shook his head. “They took one look and sent in the bulldozers to level the place.”
Slater nodded and started gathering up his notebooks.
“How did it go with Waggoner?” Kozak asked.
“Pretty much as expected,” Slater replied, stuffing the notebooks into a backpack. “We’ve got till maybe noon tomorrow before we’re exiled for good.”
Kozak stroked his short silver beard thoughtfully. “Then there is no choice. It will have to be tonight. At midnight.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We’ve got to get back in the church.”
“Why go back?” Slater asked, mystified. “There’s nothing inside the place but old broken pews and tables. What’s the point?”
Kozak took his iPhone out of his pocke
t, swiped his finger across it a couple of times, then held it out. Slater saw a photo of an old headstone, with what looked like a pair of doors etched on either side of a Russian name.
“Okay,” Slater said. “Nice carving. But what about it?”
“That is the tombstone of the man we dug up,” Kozak said. “Stefan Novyk. The deacon.”
Slater still didn’t understand.
“The two doors are called the deacon’s doors. They are the way through the iconostasis.”
“You mean that wooden screen, right, the one with all the junk thrown together in front of it?”
“Yes. The altar is behind it.”
“I’ll take your word for it. But even if you think there’s actually something of value back there, do I have to remind you that we’re not the raiders of the lost ark?”
“No, we are not,” Kozak agreed. “But we are scientists, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And historians?”
That one was questionable, but Slater nodded in agreement anyway, just to get him to finish.
“For instance, wouldn’t you like to know how the flu got to this place in the middle of nowhere?”
It was a question that had indeed puzzled Slater, but the Spanish flu had been ingenious that way. All it might have taken was a single lost kayaker from the mainland.
Kozak put the phone down, dug deep into the other pocket of his coat, and produced the sexton’s ledger. He must have been keeping it under wraps, Slater thought, or the colonel would surely have confiscated it by now. Turning to the last pages, and with his stubby finger underscoring a final section, written in a florid, feminine hand, Kozak translated the words.
“Here it reads, ‘Forgive me. I have become the curse of all who know me.’ ” Kozak looked up. “Do you remember the words carved into the gates of the graveyard, over and over?”
“They said, ‘Forgive me,’ ” Slater replied, and the professor nodded with satisfaction before returning to the book.
“There is also a burial entry. For the deacon. The writer says that he saved her from the wolves and gave her shelter on the island, and this is how she has rewarded him.”
“With what? The flu?”
Kozak simply went on. “This last burial entry was for someone named Sergei. He must have been lost at sea, but his body washed up onshore. She writes that she had to bury him herself, with a cross around his neck, because no one else was left to do it.”
Slater was moved by this anonymous woman’s terrible ordeal, but before Kozak could go on, he said, “This cross—does she say anything more about it?”
The professor scanned the faded ink again and said, “Yes, since you ask—she calls it the emerald cross.”
Nika, Slater recalled, had retrieved just such a cross from the wreckage on the bridge. It was found in her pockets when she passed out at the hospital in Nome, and for all he knew, it had been hermetically sealed and sent to the AFIP labs by now along with every other single thing they had been carrying. The widow Vane would no doubt bring suit to get it back.
“By the time she’s done with the journal,” Kozak continued, “the writer is claiming that her soul is doomed to live on in this awful place forever.”
“Who could blame her?” Slater said. “She must have been raving mad by then.”
“Exactly,” the professor replied, “No one could blame her, especially considering what else she had already endured. This was a girl—a young woman—who had seen Hell itself.”
“You know who it is?” Slater said. “She’s signed it?”
Kozak, nervously clearing his throat, turned to the last page. “Here, she is begging Heaven to release her from her earthly bonds. And then, below that, she wrote her name.” He underlined the signature with his finger again.
Slater waited. “Well?”
“It reads,” Kozak, said, stroking his silver beard and holding Slater’s gaze, “ ‘Anastasia, Grand Duchess of All the Russias.’ ”
Chapter 66
Sitting with Kozak and Groves in the mess tent that night, Slater felt like a mutineer. All around them, the Coast Guardsmen and techies who had been brought in to deal with the cleanup of the colony were chowing down, boisterously trading jokes and telling stories, piling their plates high and unwinding from another trying day, while Slater and his own team were huddled over an aluminum table in the corner, partly concealed by stacked crates, and speaking in low tones about things no one would ever believe.
“But I thought all those stories about Anastasia were bull,” Groves said, mopping up the sloppy joe gravy with a crust of bread. “She died along with everybody else in her family.”
“Not necessarily,” Kozak replied. “There were always rumors that one of the sisters had survived.”
“How?” Groves asked. “Unless I’ve got my history wrong, they were executed at close range.”
“According to some accounts—and these were given by the assassins themselves—the bullets bounced off the girls’ bodies. The killers became frightened, thinking that the young duchesses might be divine, after all. It was only later, when the bodies were stripped at the coal mines and the corsets were taken off them, that the jewels were found in the lining.”
“So it was like they had body armor on,” Groves said, a little less skeptically now.
“Yes. And there is also a story of a sympathetic guard who helped to smuggle Anastasia to safety.”
“That’s a lot of speculative leaps you just made,” Slater said. Despite what had been written in the sexton’s journal, he could not accept it all as readily as Kozak had. Maybe Kozak had misinterpreted something; maybe it was a hoax—or the entry of a woman who had gone justifiably mad. “For one thing, haven’t all the bodies been recovered?”
“Not necessarily,” the professor declared. “There are still questions. Eleven people were shot in that cellar, but the physical remains of only nine, maybe ten, were ever identified with some degree of certainty. Remember, the bodies had been mutilated, dismembered, burned, and saturated with acid; they had also been moved from one place to another to avoid detection. It was all a great jumble of broken bones and rotting teeth, scattered in several places.”
“But what about DNA analysis?” Slater asked.
“By the time the burial sites were revisited in 2008, the decay had been substantial. Also, please remember that six women were killed there, and four of them were sisters, close in age. Even if a bone could be identified as that of a young woman, it was difficult to know whose it was. Was it Anastasia, or simply a piece of Maria or Olga or Tatiana?” Kozak leaned back in his chair, dabbing a napkin at his beard. “No, my friends, it has never been a settled question. It never will be,” he said, “unless we settle it.”
“And how is breaking into the church tonight going to help settle it?” Groves asked.
“Everything precious that the colony contained would have been kept in its sacristy, the altar room behind the iconostasis. There should be two doors that lead through it, one at either end. The deacon’s own records are undoubtedly inside, listing all the members of his congregation. Is there some evidence of Anastasia there? Who knows what we might find?”
“But that’s if we could get in,” Groves said. “Have you noticed that they’ve roped the place off, padlocked the doors, and plugged the hole in the side wall? The colonel’s even got a sentry doing laps around the place.”
Kozak smiled and unfolded a topographical map between their plates. “The beauties of GPR,” he said, pointing to a dip in two of the lines.
“What am I looking at?” Groves asked.
“To prepare a foundation for the church and to level the ground, the settlers set off dynamite. The same way they prepared the graveyard. Then they sank the corner supports, and built the church with a small gap underneath it.”
“A crawl space?” Slater said.
“Yes, and the tilting of the church has left it wider right here, under the northern side. It is probably big
enough for us to get through. Then we pry a hole up through the floorboards; most of them are rotting, anyway.”
“Is that a treasure map you’ve got there?” Slater heard a derisive voice booming from the entryway. Looking up, he saw Colonel Waggoner and his retinue stomping the snow off their boots and unzipping their parkas. Slater’s first impulse was to conceal the chart, but that would only call more attention to it. “Better use it fast,” Waggoner said. “Your flight leaves tomorrow, gentlemen, at noon sharp.”
One of his lieutenants said something Slater couldn’t make out, and Waggoner, laughing, replied, “What more harm could they do?”
Then he marched on toward the table reserved for the commander, with all but one of the others in tow. Slater didn’t recognize him, but he wore a captain’s uniform under his coat and, after nodding hello to Kozak and Groves, extended his hand.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Dr. Slater.”
“This is Captain Jenkins,” Kozak said.
“AFIP,” Jenkins added. “First thing I had to do on this job was read through all your files in D.C. If you don’t mind my saying so, you’ve done some spectacular work.”
“Tell that to your boss,” Groves said, lifting his chin toward Waggoner’s table.
“Jenkins!” the colonel hollered. “No consorting with the enemy!” He laughed, as if it were a joke, but no one was fooled.
“He makes a lot of noise, but don’t worry,” Jenkins confided. “So far, he’s let me run my own show. We used the professor’s ground-fracture maps to pump undiluted organophosphates to a depth of two meters.”
“What about leeching?” Slater asked.
“Should be minimal, and we’re laying concrete on top in the meantime.”
“It’s going to crack.”
“You know that, and I know that, but the oversight committee in Washington wanted concrete, so I’m giving it to them.”
Already, Slater could see that Captain Jenkins was better at the politics than he had ever been.
The Romanov Cross: A Novel Page 45