The Romanov Legacy (35 page)

But nothing in Marie’s letter mentioned Alexei. 
Natalie remembered her references to each of the other sisters, but she said
nothing about her only brother.  Was that a sign in and of itself? 
The password is the only family member not mentioned? 
Too easy
,
she thought. 

Marie’s letter did mention running away to America with her
soldier, but that seemed unusual.  None of the girls had ever visited
America.  Was there a common factor linking Alexei and America? 
   

“Nat,” Beth said.  “What’s going on?”

“God’s gift,” she replied.

“Bleeding Christ,” Viktor groaned.  “I didn’t mean for
the name to stick!”

“Belial told me where to find the answer, Beth.”  She
reached out to touch her sister’s face.  What had Belial intended her to
see?  Beth was older, wiser, more beautiful, more capable…everything she
herself could never be.  She saw specks of Marya’s blood on the ridge of
Beth’s ear.  On her cheek, four parallel scratches were in the process of
healing.  The unevenly spaced scabs looked like Morse code.  “What
happened here?” she asked.

Beth reached up to her cheek and felt the scabs.  “That
was Roo.  It’s nothing.” 

Natalie held four of her fingers over the scratches, mimicking
the dog’s paw. 

The dog.

Then her heart began to pound.  Roosevelt had a Romanov
connection.  He’d brokered the peace deal between the Russians and the
Japanese following the Russo-Japanese War.  Embarrassed by a quick and
unequivocal defeat, the Russians should have had their asses handed to them on
a plate by the Japanese, but Roosevelt brokered a sweetheart deal that helped
them save face.  Marie’s letter even mentioned him, although not by name:
Papa
does so admire the American president and what he did for us
. 

“Oh my God,” she said.

Roosevelt’s first name was Theodore. 

In Greek, “theo” meant “god.”  And “dore” meant “gift.”

Of course the girls couldn’t tell their lovers the password
was Alexei’s nickname.  If the letters were intercepted, former servants
or courtiers could be consulted to get that information.  But how many of
those people shared Alexandra’s religious fervor?  How many would know the
Greek origin of the American president’s name? 

“I know what it is,” she said.

And in that instant, she knew what she had to do. 

July 2012

Moscow, Russia

Vadim gripped the phone so tightly he worried it might break
and disconnect the call.  Simple humanitarianism wasn’t working.  It
was time to try something more universal, more effective:  greed. 
Without his daughter’s password-cracking abilities, he would never have found
the necessary information. 
I thank God for you, Liliya
,
more
than you know.

“Your Excellency,” he said, addressing the British prime
minister directly.  “I don’t think you understand how serious this
is.  Have you stopped to consider that there might be more than money in
this account?”

Davies paused.  “What else could there be?”

Vadim pulled his copy of the Rumkowski file from his
briefcase.  Rumkowski’s infiltration of the Bank of England remained a
secret in the intelligence community, but the lies would end here, with
him.  “Gentlemen, let me tell you a story.”

One of the Americans on the line coughed to cover up a
click. 
All the better
, he thought. 
Let everyone hear the
truth.

“In 1921, a Cheka agent named Rumkowski recruited a small
team to help him infiltrate a number of prominent European banks, including the
Bank of England.  Lenin himself authorized the mission, hoping they would
be able to find what he had not—any remaining money belonging to the Tsar and
millions of dollars of missing Tsarist gold.”

“Gold?” snapped Rockwell Marshall.  “Jesus, Primakov,
you didn’t say anything about gold!”

“I shouldn’t have had to.  Tell your president to read
J. Edgar Hoover’s file on Admiral Kolchak’s missing gold.”

“Admiral Kit-Kat?  What the hell are you talking
about?”

“Kolchak was a former Tsarist naval officer.  He led
the anti-Bolshevik resistance in Siberia from 1918 to early 1920.  While
this area was under his control, he seized the Tsarist gold reserve in Kazan,
worth $332 million.  He used some of the gold to finance his fight against
the Bolsheviks, but he couldn’t hold the region.  The Red Army closed in
on him and he was eventually captured and executed.  The
counter-resistance fell apart and $120 million of the gold went missing. 
It vanished from a train headed to Irkutsk in December of 1919.”

“Vanished?” Davies asked.  “How can that much gold
simply vanish?”

“It can’t,” Vadim said.  “And Rumkowski knew it. 
He tracked down two of the soldiers who’d seen it last—the ones who loaded the
gold onto the train and traveled with Kolchak.  He found them in a gulag,
half-starved and near death.  They told him the gold vanished on the night
Kolchak heard the Red Army was near.  Kolchak fled for his life and left
the gold behind.  These two men remained at their post with the gold,
hoping to bribe their way to freedom when the Red Army found them.  Before
the Red Army got to them, however, a man dressed as a Tsarist officer came and
offered them a hundred thousand rubles to sneak him onto the train and bring
him a small list of items while on board.  The soldiers accepted. 
They hid him in one of the cars and brought him what he asked for—black paint,
white paint, and brushes.”

“What the hell did he want with paint?”

“I think I see where this is going,” Davies said.

“The missing $120 million in gold was nailed into the only
storage containers Kolchak had on hand—coffins.  The soldiers painted the
coffins black and the Tsarist officer labeled them with words in a language the
soldiers couldn’t read.  When they had finished, the officer shot all four
of the men.  Two survived, but they were unconscious while the Tsarist
officer made off with the gold.”

“Wait just a goddamned minute,” interrupted Rockwell
Marshall.  “How did one man lug that much gold off a train?  And
where did he put it?”

“Obviously it wasn’t one man,” Vadim snapped.  “Imagine
a guerilla warfare scenario, under the cover of darkness, with multiple armies
fleeing and fighting and no one truly in charge.  It was chaos.  It
would have been easy for a small band of men to cart off as much gold as would
fit into the available supply of coffins, load it into a few trucks, and make
their getaway before the Red Army stormed the train.”   

“But if the soldiers who survived couldn’t read what went on
the coffins, what did they tell Rumkowski about its destination?  Why
would Rumkowski assume the gold ended up in a bank instead of in the pockets of
whoever took it?”

“Where could someone have stored that many Tsarist gold bars
without fear of them being stolen?” Vadim said.  “Certainly not in
Russia.  They would have to go into a safe deposit box in a bank that
could be trusted.”

“More like a safe deposit room,” said Gordon Wilson. 
“How much space does it take to store $120 million worth of gold?”

Vadim continued.  “Russia’s allies in the war were
France and England.  Although Russia had signed a treaty with Germany and
exited the war, anti-German sentiment remained high.  Despite technically
being at peace, Rumkowski guessed that no Russian would have put money in a
German or Austrian bank.”

“But how did he know the money was in England and not in
France?”

“He didn’t.  He infiltrated Rothschilds and the Bank of
France to rule them out.”

Davies let out a long, low whistle. 

Vadim smiled, accepting the praise for his long-deceased
countryman.  “That’s not the last of it.  Rumkowski’s team was able
to place one operative inside the Bank of England, close to the governor, but
he was never able to find evidence of a Tsarist account.  There were no
written records of it anywhere.”

“That settles it, then,” Davies said.  “Any account
opened at the Bank of England would have a proper file, all of which are
scrupulously maintained.  If Rumkowski’s agent didn’t find the file, it’s
because it didn’t exist. The gold isn’t here, gentlemen, pure and simple.”

Vadim set his trap.  “Then why are you prepared to let
Starinov murder three more people over a treasure trove that doesn’t exist?”

July 2012

London, England

“Did I hear that correctly?” Starinov called.  “Are you
finally prepared to cooperate?”  His black shoes clicked on the polished
hardwood floor as he made his way towards her, followed by his last remaining
guard.  He pointed at Viktor and Constantine.  “Get her up.” 

Constantine shoved Viktor away and picked her up so gently
she felt like she was flying.  Still, the change in position made her
dizzy and she tried to remember the last time they’d eaten.  Constantine’s
cheeks looked dark and hollow and she felt a pang of guilt for what they’d all
had to endure. 

Starinov flicked back his sleeve to look at his watch. 
“We’re behind schedule, my dear.”  He held out his arm and aimed his
pistol at Beth’s forehead.  “Give me the password now or your sister
dies.”

Natalie looked up at the ceiling and did something she’d
never done before. 
Please God,
she prayed,
let me be doing the
right thing. 
“Roosevelt,” she said.  “The password is
Roosevelt.” 

Starinov blinked, his pale face frozen in disbelief. 
“Roosevelt?”

She nodded.  “Grand Duchess Marie’s letter mentions her
father’s great respect for the American president after all he did for them at
the end of the Russo-Japanese War.  That was Roosevelt.  The final
peace negotiations were held at his estate, Sagamore Hill, in 1906.  He
even won a Nobel Peace Prize for it.  The tsar always spoke fondly of
Roosevelt and America.  Where else would he send his children if things
got bad?”  She shrugged, as if she didn’t care anymore.  “The
password is Roosevelt.”

Starinov lowered his gun.  “If you are lying to me, you
will be the last to die.  I will skin your sister and your lover alive and
burn their bodies with gasoline while you watch.”

“I did everything you asked,” she said.  “I don’t have
anything else to say to you.” 

The prime minister’s red lips peeled back in a ghostly
smile.  “Surely it’s better that way.”  He reached for his phone and
barked rapid commands in Russian.  When he hung up, he pointed at the far
wall.  “This embassy is guarded by twelve men.  If you try to leave
this room, they will shoot on sight.”  He ordered his guard to strip the
bodies of their weapons, then headed for the door.  Viktor hurried to
follow. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Starinov snapped.

“With you.  Part of that money’s going to be mine,
after all.”

“A man who turns his coat once will never know when to
stop.”  He snapped his fingers and the last bodyguard patted Viktor down,
taking his pistol.  “I have no use for traitors like you.”  Then he
left the room, closing the door behind him.  They heard the shuffle of
feet as a new set of guards took their places on the other side of the
door. 

Viktor stood frozen, his back to her, staring at the closed
doors.  She felt no sympathy for him. 
Marya died because of him
,
she thought. 
He deserves everything he gets.
 

Suddenly, Beth’s angry voice exploded into the air. 
“What the fuck are you doing, Nat?  I know you prefer to live in your head
rather than the real world, but I have a son and I want to see him grow
up!  Why did you give him the name of my dog?”

“What?” Viktor asked, spinning on his heel.  “What the
fuck did you do, you fucking stupid girl?”  He charged her, holding out
his hands as if he were ready to wrap them around her throat and choke her.

Constantine jumped in front of her, pushing Viktor
back.  “Of course she gave him the right password.  Let him have the
money, right?  What do we care?”  He turned to face her. 
“That’s what you did, right?”

This was the only part she was afraid of.  Her body
ached with the pain of disappointing the only people who believed in her. 
But Constantine said he believed in her because she followed her heart. 
How could she give that up, now, at the most important moment of her
life?  She took a small step backward and braced herself.  “No.”

“Nat,” Beth whispered.  “Tell me that’s not true.”

Constantine stepped toward her and took her face in his
hands.  She held herself still, willing herself not to flinch. 
“Natalia,” he repeated.  “You
did
give him the right password,
didn’t you?”

“No,” she repeated.  “I didn’t.” 

July 2012

London, England

Maxim Starinov slid into the backseat of the waiting
limousine and barked at the driver to get moving.  The man slammed the
passenger door and hurried up to the driver’s seat.  He started the car,
switched on the headlights, and turned onto Palace Avenue.  “Where do you
wish to go, Your Excellency?”

“The Bank of England,” Starinov replied.  “Threadneedle
Street.”  

“Right away, Your Excellency.”

Two Russian flags mounted on the front corners of the hood
flapped in the wind.  Starinov watched them, feeling a surge of pride in
his chest. 
Russia will rise again
, he thought. 
I will
make her great.  The Tsar’s fortune will rebuild my army, strengthen my
borders, and crush anyone who stands in my way.  I will be another Ivan,
another Peter.  They will write that I am Nicholas’s true heir, the only
one who could give Russia back to herself.
 

Nothing could stop him now.