The Romanov Conspiracy (44 page)

They reached the door and he thrust Lydia inside. He looked back and saw the terrified young mechanic, too shocked to move, still huddled on the floor. Andrev stumbled back, grabbed him by the collar, pushed him inside the cabin, and followed him in.

At that precise moment there was a terrifying grating sound of wood and metal disintegrating. The aircraft struck the ground with an almighty crash, hurtling them violently about the cabin.

Then it slid forward, hit something hard, and flipped on its side, bursting into flames.

Andrev awoke. He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious but he was lying on his back in a wheat field. The sun felt hot on his face, the stench of acrid smoke in his nostrils, the airplane in flames, black, oily clouds rising into the turquoise sky.

His mouth felt dry and his eyes stung, his lungs choking from the smoke. He coughed, fought for breath.

He didn’t recall being flung from the aircraft, but he could make out the shape of bodies inside the mangled fuselage. Smoke and flames billowed from the wreckage.

And then he saw Lydia, lying lifeless like a rag doll, her body draped across one of the shattered wings.

“No!” Andrev’s heart sank and he staggered to his feet and lurched toward the wreckage.

PART FIVE

62

MOSCOW

Drenching summer rain swept across the Kremlin’s cobblestones that late afternoon, and as the clock in the twelfth-century watchtower chimed out five o’clock, the dark green truck bearing Leonid Yakov chugged to a halt outside the Armory courtyard.

He climbed out into the rain. His stomach tightened. The abrupt Kremlin summons he received by cable in Ekaterinburg made him wonder if he was in trouble.

A young army aide waited for him in the courtyard. “This way, Commissar.”

As a door closed behind him Yakov found himself in a magnificent, high-ceilinged room. Tall windows overlooked a Kremlin courtyard and the spiced aroma of pipe tobacco scented the air.

Vladimir Lenin—a small man with a high forehead and goatee beard—was all charm as he put down his pipe and came round from behind the desk, his handshake firm. “Commissar Yakov, a pleasure to see you again. Sit down, sit down.”

Chubby fingers gestured to a chair and Yakov sat. Lenin radiated energy. Behind him a sideboard contained a polished samovar and a basket filled with fresh fruit, fleshy peaches and plums, sweet Crimean oranges and apricots. Yakov hadn’t seen such produce since Moscow’s food shortages.

Leon Trotsky wandered in from another room, his dark eyes intimidating as he removed a silver cigarette case from his breast pocket, selected a cigarette, and lit it with a match, then blew a ring of smoke to the ceiling.

Lenin waved a telegram. “I read your cable about the Romanovs’ security with interest. I’m also particularly intrigued by this enemy spy that Kazan’s been hunting in Ekaterinburg. The one we call the Phantom.”

“Is that why I was summoned here?”

“In a roundabout way, perhaps. The file, Leon.”

Lenin snapped his fingers at Trotsky, who removed a folder from the desk. He handed it to Lenin, who tossed aside the cable and flicked the folder open.

A wrinkled smile appeared on Lenin’s face. “I’ve been acquainting myself again with your personal history. A loyal party member. You’re exactly the kind of man we need in this brave new future we’re forging in Russia.”

“I simply do my duty, Comrade Lenin.”

The smile disappeared as Lenin tossed the file on his desk and rested his knuckled hands on his hips. “But I’m afraid that future may be under dire threat.”

“I don’t understand.”

“British forces have landed in the north of our country and are intent on sabotaging our revolution. Now our intelligence tells us the Americans are about to invade in the east—they already have many of their best spies in our country. They want to strangle us by seizing our ports and disrupting our supplies. And now there’s been an interesting twist. Tell him, Leon.”

“Yesterday just before eight a.m. a Russian-made Ilya Muromets bomber crashed in a field just over our lines, almost forty miles south of St. Petersburg. Our area commander arrived at the location to investigate within an hour. The aircraft appeared to have been shot down. That’s when it started to get really interesting, Yakov.”

“In what way?”

Trotsky blew out cigarette smoke. “Of the three crew, only a young mechanic survived. He was badly burned but conscious enough to be interrogated. We managed to get out of him that the aircraft was transporting a man and woman to somewhere outside St. Petersburg. Before landing they dressed themselves in Russian peasant clothing.”

Yakov said, “Do we know any more about them?”

Trotsky offered a razor smile. “We’ll return to that important question in a moment. As of now, there’s no sign of their bodies. They’ve disappeared.”

Trotsky strode to the window. “It would be easy for them to vanish. Half the country is on the move because of this war. But the couple strikes me as especially interesting. Do you know why?”

“I’m at a loss.”

“One of our spies in London has reliably learned that the Whites and their supporters intend to send a number of agents into Russia to attempt to rescue the Romanovs. We believe that the aircraft could be part of that attempt.”

Yakov said, puzzled, “But the aircraft’s Russian.”

“Correct. Designed and built by Igor Sikorsky, a traitorous rebel who fled the motherland, taking a number of our aircraft with him. We’ve determined from the chassis number that the crashed plane was one of the aircraft he removed.”

“And the crew?”

“All Russian, according to the mechanic. What’s intriguing is that he claims they left England twenty hours previous. Shortly before they were to land they were attacked by a German fighter and crash-landed.”

“Where was their final destination?”

Trotsky crushed his cigarette in an ashtray. “The mechanic didn’t know. But the plan’s clever, I’ll give it that—using a Russian aircraft to land agents on our soil.” He paused. “I learned a long time ago to suspect coincidence. I believe this is further evidence, along with these Allied landings, that they intend to challenge our revolution and rescue the Romanovs.”

Lenin’s fanatical gaze settled on Yakov. “I want you to hunt down these infiltrators. All enemy spies must be executed.”

He handed over the files. “As of now you’re in charge of this case. You’ll find everything we have on the crash and the Allied plan. The man in particular should prove an interesting prey.”

Trotsky’s lips twisted in a mocking grin. “We believe it may be an old friend of yours. A Captain Uri Andrev.”

Yakov’s face drained.

Trotsky added, “According to Inspector Kazan, Andrev escaped from St. Petersburg on a vessel bound for England. His description matches the male passenger. Who his female companion is, we’ve no idea, but she speaks Russian.”

Yakov was rigid.

Lenin said, “This rescue can’t happen. I won’t allow it. Very soon we’ll finalize the Romanovs’ fate. We must ensure that they can never rule Russia again.”

Yakov asked quietly, “How can you be certain it’s Andrev?”

It was Trotsky who answered. “An Orthodox priest recruited by one of our cells in London identified him as likely one of the conspirators.”

Lenin placed a hand firmly on Yakov’s shoulders. “You know Andrev better than most. Such knowledge can work to our advantage. You’ll also have help from Inspector Kazan in Ekaterinburg. You’ll have absolute authority in this case, but he’ll act as your deputy.”

“Why him?”

“The inspector has his uses, and two heads are always better than one. The letter, Leon,” Lenin said.

Trotsky made a show of producing a sheet of paper from the desk. “If anyone doubts your authority, Comrade Lenin and I have signed an order. Study it.”

Yakov accepted the letter, and read.

“Commissar Leonid Yakov of the Cheka is acting on a mission of special importance. Should he demand assistance from any quarter, be it military or civil, it must be given without question. Anyone who fails to obey this order will be shot.” It was signed, “Vladimir Lenin and Leon Trotsky.”

Lenin gestured at the wall clock; it read 5:30 p.m. “It’s almost thirty-six hours since the crash. If a capable man like Andrev is involved, I imagine he’s made swift progress. He could be anywhere by now. But his file says that his wife and son are in Moscow.”

“Yes.”

“After Andrev’s escape you tracked him down to St. Petersburg. There was a confrontation, shots were fired, but he escaped.”

“A mistake on my part. It won’t happen again.”

Lenin hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and the steel that was never far from the surface flashed, his eyes glinting dangerously. “I know it won’t. I’m sure Inspector Kazan will make certain of that.”

Lenin stepped over to the window, looked out. “Your wife was a brave and loyal party member. A true martyr. It’s on her account I’m giving you another chance.”

Yakov said nothing, simply stared ahead.

Lenin turned back to face him. “You’ve made more than one mistake. But so did I, seeing that I was stupid enough to be swayed into showing Andrev mercy. Then he makes a fool of us both and escapes. But this time, there will be no mercy, you understand? This time, you liquidate him.”