The Romanov Conspiracy (56 page)

“Pardon?”

“I have an idea. It’s risky, and desperate, but if it works we may still be able to liberate our man before he talks.”

“I’m listening.”

“Markov and I bluff our way into the hotel with some false papers and claim custody of the prisoner.” He saw the nun looked horrified. “Not impressed?”

“The hotel’s swarming with Cheka; it’s their headquarters. And trying to get their prize prisoner out would be impossible. Who knows what state he’s in.”

Boyle removed a Colt .45 pistol from his pocket, slid out the magazine, and made sure it was fully loaded. He slammed it home again. “Then we may have only one other option if we’re to keep his lips sealed.”

“And what’s that?”

“We kill him.”

85

Mersk dragged Lydia by the arm across a yard.

The stinking cluster of outbuildings at the back of the garage looked as if they had once been part of a farm, complete with a barn and milking sheds.

Mersk laughed. “Now it’s time to have a little fun. Don’t think your friend Andrev will avoid his due. Yakov can have him, but not before I have my pound of flesh.”

Two armed guards followed closely. Lydia tried to struggle free but Mersk wrenched her back, grinning. “You’ve got spark, I’ll give you that. Which ought to make this all the more interesting.”

His fingers groped at the hem of her skirt and Lydia struggled to keep him away. “You animal!”

Mersk laughed, grabbing her savagely by the hair. “We can do this the hard way or the easy way. But either way, you’re going to give me what I want.”

Lydia continued to struggle, Mersk’s grip tightening like a vise. She cried out.

He seemed to take delight in her pain. “After I’ve taken my pleasure, the men here will want to have theirs. So I hope you’re fit, woman.”

He opened the door to one of the barns. A Fiat truck was parked off to one side, and on the back was mounted a Maxim gun with an armor-plated surround.

A stench of cow dung wafted out of the barn, a couple of ladders rising to lofts on either side, hay stacked all around. Lying on one of the hay bales was a pair of scruffy boots and some filthy-looking clothes.

“My quarters,” Mersk announced, and with his free hand he went to unbuckle his trousers. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

Lydia wrenched free and ran across the barn, past the Fiat truck. One of the guards went to raise his rifle but Mersk pushed the man away. “Leave her. Get out, both of you. I’ll call you when it’s your turn.”

The men left and Mersk watched, amused, as Lydia tried desperately to climb one of the loft ladders. She was halfway up when he walked over, grabbed the ladder, and yanked it. Lydia fell through the air and landed in the hay with a groan. Mersk grabbed a handful of her hair.

Lydia kicked furiously. “Let go of me!”

“You don’t know when to stop, do you?” Mersk dragged her to her feet, pulling her close. “Keep this up and you might get hurt badly.”

His stale breath stank of alcohol, and he began groping again at her skirt.

This time Lydia leaned down and bit his wrist savagely. He screamed in pain, releasing his grip, but grabbed at her with his other hand as she turned, her skirt ripping, revealing her underwear and bare legs. She ran for the other loft ladder.

Mersk gave a cry of rage and ran after her.

Yakov swayed as he moved through the carriages, the engine powering through the night. When he reached Nina’s carriage, Zoba was outside, smoking a cigarette.

“How is she?”

“Sleeping. The child, too.” Zoba tossed his finished cigarette with his boot.

Yakov peered in through the bare glass of the sleeper cabin, the blinds up. Nina and her son lay asleep on the lower cot; she had one hand under her head, the other protectively around her son.

Zoba said, “We’re making good time. We’ll be there soon. Do you think it’s wise to trust these bandits, Leonid?”

“We’ll scout the town first, on horseback, to make sure we’re not walking into a trap. Have the horses made ready.”

“How do you want to handle it?”

From his pocket, Yakov took a Trans-Siberian Railway route map and held it under the flickering carriage light. “We’ll halt here, about
half a mile from the village. Take a dozen men and enter on horseback. I’ll wait for your signal that it’s safe to proceed.”

“What’s the routine?”

Yakov handed over a green canvas pouch containing a British Verey flare gun and flares. “Just like the trenches. A green flare means we’re to come as fast as we can. A red signals danger and we’re to advance with caution. Two reds and we retreat. Prepare the men.”

“What about the ransom? We haven’t got ten thousand rubles to pay.”

“No, but we’ve got supplies. I’m betting these bandits will negotiate.”

Zoba went to go.

Yakov gripped his arm, held him with a stare. “Andrev is mine. Make sure the men know that.”

86

Andrev was shoved across a barnyard toward a cluster of wooden outbuildings crammed with milking stalls. The place stank of manure. The guards forced him inside one of the stalls and locked the half door with a slide bolt.

One of them laughed as he stoked the charcoal embers of a samovar. It lay on top of a tin drum in a corner rest area, a couple of coarse gray blankets tossed on top of some loose straw. “I’d start saying your prayers if I was you. There’s nowhere to run in that stall once Mersk goes to work on you.”

The second guard pulled up a three-legged wooden stool and sat, his rifle trained on the half door to Andrev’s stall. He plucked a vodka bottle from his pocket, swallowed a mouthful, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You were an officer, I hear?”

Andrev nodded. “How about a drink, comrade? Help deaden the pain to come?”

The man put down the bottle and crossed to a zinc bucket. He lifted out a wooden ladle filled with water, and flung the liquid at Andrev, drenching him.

“That’s the only drink you’ll get from me, you tsarist-commissioned muck,” he snorted and tossed the ladle back in the bucket.

Andrev wiped water from his face.

A second later came a woman’s scream. He felt a surge of rage.

The guard sat down again and cradled his rifle. “Knowing Mersk he’ll take his time, so it’ll be a while before we get our share. Likes the ladies, he does. And the bigger the fight in them the more he likes it.”

Andrev rattled the stall gate helplessly, his hands bound, his face very white.

The guard smirked. “I’d forget about your lady friend, if I were you. Worry about your own skin. Once Mersk gets done with her and starts on you, you’re going to wish he’d put a bullet in you.”

In the barn, Lydia reached a few steps up the ladder before Mersk came after her. This time he jerked her ankle and she rolled into the hay.

For a big man, Mersk moved fast and in seconds he was scrambling on top of her. She struggled, but the Ukrainian was stronger, and as he knelt he pinned her arms. He went to kiss her and Lydia screamed.

Mersk laughed madly, then suddenly her face rose up to meet him and she bit him again, this time on the cheek, drawing blood.

Mersk roared with pain, blood streaming from his face, and then he seemed to lose all control, pummeling her head with his fists until she passed out.

Rabid now, like a wild animal, he tore at her clothes.

In the stall, Andrev heard another scream from Lydia, followed by a roar from Mersk. Then everything went terribly silent. His face was deathly, the skin stretched tight over his cheekbones.

He said aloud to the guards, “In my right boot there are three hundred rubles. They’re yours for that vodka.”

The two guards looked at each other, greedy but still wary.

The one at the samovar finished drawing boiling water into a small kettle he filled with tea and stirred it with a spoon. “Is that a fact? What do you take us for, fools?”

“It’s the truth. If Mersk’s going to beat me half to death, I may as well be drunk as sober.”

The man licked his lips, then put down his tea and picked up his rifle. He said to the other guard. “Get him out here where I can see him. If he tries anything, shoot him.”

The guard opened the stall. He kept his rifle trained on Andrev.

“Step out here and remove your right boot.”

Andrev stepped out, leaned his back against the stall, and pulled off his leather boot.

“Toss the boot here.”

Andrev did so. The first guard rummaged inside and found the wad of money at the bottom. Greed lit his face. “He’s telling the bloody truth …”

Andrev punched him in the throat and the guard let out a gasp and went down, his face contorted with pain, eyes bulging as he fought for air through his shattered windpipe.

The second guard raised his rifle, but Andrev was already narrowing the distance between them. There was a moment of indecision as the guard panicked, not knowing whether to shoot or use his bayonet.

He thrust with the bayonet.

Andrev sidestepped and grabbed the boiling samovar by the handle. He swung it through the air, the metal smashing into the guard’s face, lit charcoal and boiling water spraying his flesh, and he screamed.

Andrev stepped in, one hand going over the man’s mouth to kill his scream and the other on his throat.