The Romanov Conspiracy (17 page)

“Stanislas …” Yakov uttered his brother’s name in disbelief, and his heart jolted as he felt a lump in his throat that almost choked him.
A crimson wound stained the back of his brother’s greatcoat, his face lifeless.

Mersk babbled hoarsely, “It was Andrev who did this, Commissar. He tried to strangle me and I almost passed out. Andrev took my knife and stuck your brother like a pig, then he and Tarku escaped.”

For a few brief moments Yakov looked numbed, an unreality to it all, and then he fell to his knees, clasped his brother to his chest, and rocked him back and forth in his arms. “Dear God. No … !” his voice cracked.

And then it sounded as if a terrible wound had opened and Yakov threw back his head and screamed, a haunting shriek of anguish that came from the very depths of his soul and seemed to echo without end in the frozen darkness.

PART TWO

15

LONDON

MAY 18, 1918

3:30 A.M.

It was raining that morning and still dark as the uniformed guards waved the dark green Rolls-Royce through the gates of Buckingham Palace. The car tires sloshed over rain-drenched cobble as the chauffeur drove toward the rear and halted within a private courtyard.

The driver climbed out and opened the back passenger door, and a small, sickly-looking man with bug eyes and an oversized nose stepped out into the rain.

Wearing a top hat, an elegant long black overcoat, and a silk scarf, he looked up at the distant night sky over London’s East End, his gaze drawn to two huge German zeppelins, their silver cigar shapes suspended in the glare of searchlights. The air erupted with the deafening explosions of British anti-aircraft artillery and the shriek of air raid sirens.

The zeppelins usually came during darkness to drop their bombs before they scuttled back across the North Sea.

Explosive flashes lit up the night as a palace aide, a plainclothes Guards’ officer, came forward and escorted the man into an oak-beamed hall. The officer helped him remove his overcoat, hat, and scarf. “Good morning, Mr. Ambassador. Another air raid, I’m afraid. It’s good to see you again, sir.”

There’s nothing much good about it
, the man thought. “Is the king awake yet?” His accent was unmistakably American. North Carolina to be precise.

“Yes, sir. Allow me to take you to him.”

He followed the officer along a warren of passageways until they came to a paneled door. The aide stepped inside, flicked on an electric table light, and gestured to a nearby armchair. “I hope you’ll be comfortable, sir. I doubt that His Majesty will keep you waiting long.”

The officer withdrew, closing the door. The American slumped into the armchair and coughed, clearing his chest, clogged as usual from a ten-a-day cigar habit. He was in an anteroom to the king’s study, heavy with period furniture and oil paintings.

On a dais was a bronze bust of a drab-faced Queen Victoria, the walls adorned with paintings of kings and queens long dead, their portraits adding gravitas to the monarch’s office. The visitor had waited here on many occasions but none so early as this cold, wet May morning.

Walter Hines Page, U.S. ambassador to the Court of St. James’s, was beset by anxiety. He heard footsteps, slipped on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, stood, and checked himself in one of the wall mirrors.

His bespoke dark suit with tails and his waistcoat were immaculate, his body smelling faintly of soap after the steaming shower he’d taken soon after being wakened by a transatlantic telephone call. The report he received during that ten-minute call had carved deep worry lines into his skin.

He looked down at the black leather attaché case handcuffed to his right hand, and which was the cause of his distress. By nature a restless man, Page felt sweat rise on his brow as he thought about the contents. Glancing up, he saw the bronze bust of Queen Victoria stare back at him. Her dour face seemed to scold him for what he was about to deliver.
The bad news is not my fault, ma’am, I’m only the messenger
.

Outside, he heard the distant cracks of more explosions as the door opened and the officer reappeared. “His Majesty will see you right away, Mr. Ambassador.”

16

They were seated in the paneled study, a log stove blazing, the king at his desk, the Union Jack in a glass-and-wood frame on the wall behind. It was a battle-tattered flag that Page was sure had some historical significance, but that morning he didn’t care a hoot to ask.

The king wore a crumpled silk dressing gown and his sad, hound dog eyes looked puffy from lack of sleep. The uncanny likeness of King George V to his cousin Tsar Nicholas of Russia always unsettled Page. The men could have been twins—with identical features, matching beards and mustaches.

A silver tray with china cups, milk, sugar, and pots of fresh coffee and tea were placed on the desk. The king was in good spirits despite the air raid and dug a hand into his dressing gown pocket as he glanced beyond a leaded window, the night sky sparking with muffled explosive flashes.

“Take a seat, Walter. It sounds as if our anti-aircraft boys are having a busy night of it. Coffee or tea? Help yourself.”

“Coffee, thank you. I do apologize for waking you, Majesty,” Page replied in his mannerly southern twang.

“Your call to my aide said it was most urgent.” The king noted the handcuffs locked to the briefcase. “A bit dramatic, the bracelets, aren’t they, Walter?”

“I think you’ll understand when I explain, Majesty.”

Page unlocked his attaché case with a key from his waistcoat. Removing an envelope from the case, he unfolded the single page inside. “I received a phone call from President Wilson at two a.m. Our conversation concerned a secret coded telegram the president sent to my office prior to his call. He ordered me to reveal the contents to you
personally, along with his instruction to discuss with you certain grave matters. I have here the decoded telegram. Perhaps you might care to read it, Majesty?”

The king frowned, took the page, and read:

FROM: PRESIDENT WILSON. REPORT URGENTLY TO HIS MAJESTY:

OUR AGENT CODE-NAMED DIMITRI CONFIRMS THAT THE TSAR AND HIS FAMILY—WIFE ALEXANDRA, DAUGHTERS OLGA, MARIA, TATIANA, ANASTASIA, AND SON, ALEXEI—WERE REUNITED IN THE SIBERIAN CITY OF EKATERINBURG ON MAY 23RD, AFTER BEING SEPARATED AT TOBOLSK.

DIMITRI SECURED INFORMATION FROM A TRUSTED HIGH-RANKING SOVIET OFFICIAL, WHO BELIEVES THE BOLSHEVIKS INTEND TO EXECUTE THE TSAR AND HIS FAMILY, DESPITE SECRET NEGOTIATIONS WITH THE ALLIES. INFORM HIS MAJESTY OF OTHER POINTS TO BE DISCUSSED. AWAIT CONFIRMATION INSTRUCTIONS HAVE BEEN FOLLOWED.

The king looked up, his voice husky. “You’re sure about the message concerning Nikki and the family? You know how notoriously unreliable the telegraph can be.”

“The message was resent three times to avoid ambiguity.”

The king sighed and handed back the page. “If you don’t mind my asking, who the devil is Dimitri?”

“Our top agent in Russia. He managed to get close to the Romanovs for a time, by befriending Princess Anastasia before the Bolsheviks imprisoned the family.”

“He must have a death wish, dashing around Russia at a time like this.”

The United States, like Britain and Germany, had its share of spies in Russia. Since the Bolshevik uprising, nations had sent dozens of their intelligence operatives into the country to keep them abreast of the looming civil war.

The king sipped from his cup. “Not that I’d know much about our own agents. Sometimes I think my prime minister deliberately keeps me in the dark, fearing I’ll interfere. But if it’s true about Nikki?”

“I’m told we can take it as gospel, sir. Lenin’s fraught, his regime is being battered on all fronts. And desperate men take desperate measures. Besides, our agent’s reports have proven highly accurate in the past. His intelligence gathering is absolutely first-class.”

“That disturbs me. Nikki may not be the wisest of kings, but I’ve always known him to be a good man.”

Page didn’t care all that much personally for the Russian tsar—his own opinion was that recent events were chickens coming home to roost. Among most diplomats, the tsar had a reputation as a decent enough man. But Page considered him a weak fool who had allowed himself to be manipulated by Russia’s corrupt elite for their own ends.

Millions of working-class citizens had been kept in check by the Ochrana, the state’s brutal secret police: dissenters were purged, exiled to Siberian penal camps, tortured, or shot, while the tsar stood by like a dolt.

Page said, “I’m pretty sure it will disturb everyone, sir. But we face greater dangers. Since Lenin seized power we’ve all been biting our nails. We know that he’s in negotiations with the Germans to pull Russia out of the conflict. That would be devastating for us. The Germans could free up their divisions from the eastern front and move them west. The war could drag on for years.”

The king sighed and put down his cup. “You hardly need to remind me.”

“And then there’s the gold.”

“I was wondering when you’d get to that.”

Page said, “Britain accepted millions in gold bullion from the tsar for safekeeping, to make sure Russia’s reserves didn’t fall into Red hands if they seized power. A wise move as it turned out.”

Russia had the largest gold reserves in the world. Over sixty million pounds in gold bars had been shipped to vaults in Britain and Canada for safekeeping—a vast amount. Another forty million was deposited in Swiss banks.

The king took a silver box from the mantelpiece and lit a cigarette
with a match. “We need that gold, Walter. Without it, the expense of the war will ruin us. But what’s your point?”

“Now that the Reds are in power, and they’ve found the coffers almost empty, they’ll want the gold back. This leaves America in something of a dilemma.”

“Go on.”

“We’ve loaned Russia millions to buy weapons for their war effort. They don’t just owe us, sir, but everyone. Look at France, for heaven’s sake. Half of all French households have purchased tsarist bonds. But the Reds could refuse to pay us all back. Or tell us to go to Britain instead and take it out of the gold.”