The Romanov Conspiracy (24 page)

She heard his boots clatter down the stairs moments later.

She crossed to the window and looked out, saw Yakov climb into a truck before it drove away. She watched it go and let the curtain fall back into place, and then she went to stand over her son, Yakov’s threat fresh in her mind.

She looked down at Sergey’s sleeping face, at the tiny beads of perspiration on his brow, his plump cupid lips and delicate skin, the damp
blond curls she loved to run her hand through. She stroked his face gently with the back of her hand as she heard his labored breathing.

When she could bear it no more, she turned her face away, her eyes welling up with tears as she stumbled over to one of the wicker chairs.

Then, with her head cradled in her arms on the table, she cried: for her parents, for her child, for the secret she kept and had promised never to tell, for the husband she’d forsaken, and for the whole sorry mess her life had become.

26

LONDON

The carriage turned into Hyde Park and the horses trotted toward one of the fountains. The sun was out, the day hot, and Cockney vendors on bicycles sold ice cream from boxes of crushed ice.

The carriage halted and Hanna Volkov climbed down, hoisting her sun umbrella over her head as she approached the fountain.

A sickly-looking man in his sixties stood smoking a cigar and staring at the surge of water as he leaned on his cane. He was dressed in a formal suit and hat and looked an odd figure with his bug eyes, pasty face, and fat nose.

He turned as Hanna approached, and tipped his hat to reveal his balding head, his accent unmistakably American southern. “Why, Hanna, it’s wonderful to meet you again.”

“And you, Mr. Ambassador.”

Walter H. Page replaced his hat and looked out at the sun-drenched grounds busy with strolling couples and playing children. “Would you mind if we walked? This old man needs to stretch his legs.” He gestured with his walking cane to the path that led past the fountain.

Hanna saw a beefy man in a bowler hat and mustache follow in their footsteps twenty yards behind. He looked uncomfortable in his brown suit. She guessed that he was the ambassador’s bodyguard.

“I take it you put our proposition to Mr. Andrev?”

“Yes, I did.”

Page tapped his cigar. “Then before I ask the all-important question, I’d like your opinion, Hanna.”

“Mr. Ambassador?”

“Having met Mr. Andrev, would you trust him? I mean, completely
trust him never to breathe a word about our scheme to a soul, at risk of his own life?”

She hesitated for just a second before she said, “Yes, I would.”

“Forgive me, but I sense a slight doubt, Hanna.”

She looked toward the fountain. “It’s not a doubt, more a concern.”

“Tell me.”

She told Page some of the details of her meeting in the church that morning. “I think Uri Andrev has been through some kind of personal hell. Something awful happened to him after he escaped from the camp.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s obvious to me that he’s suffered a shock of some kind. If you want my opinion, he’s hurt and he’s confused, maybe even close to broken.”

A worried look flashed on Page’s face. “Broken?”

“Not quite. But I think he’s a man on the edge. And yet, he’s got strength about him that you can almost touch. It’s most strange.”

“What exactly happened to him?”

“He wouldn’t say. But I sense he’s been deeply affected by something other than the problems with his family.”

Page considered before he sucked on his cigar, blew out smoke. “I’m old enough to recall as a boy seeing General Sherman’s troops march into our town and torch our family home. It affected me greatly. Civil war’s a brutal experience, one that leaves deep scars and divides families and friends….”

“You’re going to ask me if I think Andrev’s been too deeply affected by the war to be of use to us?”

“I simply wondered if his distress would impair his ability to carry out his tasks.”

“I honestly don’t know, Mr. Ambassador. But I don’t think we have much choice at this late stage, do we?”

Page took another puff of his cigar, and Hanna could almost hear his mind whirring as he weighed her answers. “I suppose not. So, Boyle is still in Ireland, working on Miss Ryan?”

“He hopes to have her answer by today.”

“Then I guess only a single question remains. Is Mr. Andrev with us or not?”

Five minutes later Hanna Volkov’s carriage turned out of Hyde Park and joined London’s busy traffic.

Walter H. Page stood there a minute longer, watching the carriage go, lost in thought as he finished his cigar, then crushed it with the heel of his shoe. He walked a short distance to his own waiting coach, climbed in, and the driver snapped the reins and the horses trotted toward the park exit.

A hundred yards away a thickset, middle-aged man with a coarse peasant face sat on a bench, leaning against the crossbar of his bicycle, sweating as he licked the remains of an ice cream.

He observed the coach belonging to the balding, odd-looking little man move out into the traffic after Hanna Volkov’s. Next to the woman with striking good looks, the little fellow looked ugly. “Beauty and the Beast,” he called them, smirking to himself.

The thickset man finished the ice cream and tossed away the remains of the wafer cone, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and mounted his bicycle. Sweat prickled his face as he tried to decide whom to follow from now on—the Beauty or the Beast?

And then he made up his mind and started pedaling like mad.

27

DUBLIN

Across the Irish Sea it was raining that same day, a summer downpour that drenched the city’s streets.

Rivers of water pelted the windows as Boyle sat by Lydia’s bed in the Mater Hospital. Perspiration bathed her face and she muttered something in her sleep.

The doctor said to Boyle, “She’s going to need a few more days before she gets her strength back, so try not to tire her too much.”

“I’ll do my best. And otherwise?”

“She’s young and healthy, and ought to fully recover.” The doctor left, closing the door softly.

A little later the rain stopped and sunlight flooded the windows. Boyle waited patiently and saw Lydia’s eyes flicker. She blinked drowsily, took in her surroundings, and then her confused gaze settled on her visitor.

“How do you feel, Miss Ryan?”

Her voice sounded slurred. “Tired and sore. Who are you?”

Boyle smiled and fetched a wheelchair left in a corner. “You’ll be glad to know that the doctor says you’ll be fine. Here, let me help you into the chair.”

Lydia came fully awake. “Why? Where are you taking me?”

“For some fresh air. You and I need to chat.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m the man who’s going to save your life.”

The tiny park behind the hospital was filled with flower beds and overlooked a row of eighteenth-century Georgian houses. Boyle halted the wheelchair by a wrought-iron bench.

The granite watchtowers of nearby Mountjoy Prison poked their heads above the hospital walls. Boyle produced a packet of Player’s Navy cigarettes and said good-humoredly, “I hear smoking’s all the rage among women ever since Mrs. Pankhurst threw herself under those Derby horses for the sake of equality. The suffragette newspapers are calling cigarettes ‘the torches of freedom.’”

“Is that meant to be a joke?” Lydia asked.

“No, just my way of saying that I won’t be offended if you’d like a cigarette.”

“I wouldn’t. Are you going to tell me who you are?”

“The name’s Joe Boyle.” He lit his cigarette, cupping the flame in his hand before he shook the match and tossed it away. “A terrible habit, one I’ve begun to indulge in only occasionally recently. Perhaps it helps me over the hurdles. You’re giving me a mighty suspicious look, Miss Ryan.”

“It’s your accent that confuses me. What are you doing working alongside British intelligence murderers?”

Boyle took a drag. “Now that’s where you’d be wrong. But I am a colonel in the Canadian army, unofficially. Just don’t ask me to explain; my story’s complicated.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Let me keep it simple. I want your help, Miss Ryan, and I want it badly.”

“To do what?”

Boyle took another drag and blew out smoke. “You really are a remarkable young woman, do you know that? There aren’t many with your background. Your father ran a successful horse-breeding business in St. Petersburg, where you were educated at St. Benedict’s Convent and learned to speak Russian like a native.”

“I fail to see what any of that has to do with you.”

“Let me finish. Your parents retired to Kentucky, and seem to think that you and your brother are safe in your uncle’s stud farm in Kildare. They know nothing about your involvement in Irish republicanism or his, for that matter. If they did they’d have a fit and want you on the next boat to America.”

“You seem to know a lot, Boyle.”

“I make it my business. Before you met your fiancé you worked as a governess to the Russian royal family. That must have been quite an adventure for a young woman of nineteen.”

Lydia said, “The House of Romanov employed hundreds of foreigners as governesses and tutors. I was only one of many.”

“True, but didn’t the children consider you one of their favorites? The tsar sang your praises after you helped save one of his daughters from a near drowning in the grounds of Peterhof. What was it he called you—his ‘Irish good luck charm’? Though I’d hazard a guess that you’re not exactly an admirer of royalty since you turned republican.”

Lydia’s patience waned. “Take me back inside, Boyle. This is tiresome.”

She raised herself from the wheelchair but Boyle gently pushed her back. “Hold your horses, we’re just getting to the interesting part.”

“What is this, Boyle? A short summary of my life before the British execute me?”

“Let me tell it to you straight. The people I represent intend to rescue the tsar and his family.”

“What?”

“You heard me. If all goes as planned, we intend to snatch the Romanovs from under their captors’ noses.”

Lydia stared at him, then she laughed. “Are you mad, Boyle?”