the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (11 page)

“Totally. I thought he was working in Moscow. Zivon said that Lord told him to drive to the airport this morning. They’re taking the Red Arrow back to Moscow tonight.”

Khrushchev was openly agitated. Rare for him, Hayes thought. Of the five, the government representative stayed the coolest, rarely raising his voice. He was also careful with his vodka, perhaps thinking sobriety gave him an edge.

Stefan Baklanov was gone from Green Glade, driven the previous day to another property not far away where he could be kept secluded until his first appearance before the commission in two days. It was a little past seven
PM
and Hayes should have been headed back to Moscow. He was just about to leave when the call came from St. Petersburg.

“Zivon slipped away at dinner and called his employers. They directed him here,” Hayes said. “He also said that Lord talked to a man at the archives yesterday in Moscow. Semyon Pashenko was the name. The hotel concierge told Zivon this morning that Lord had drinks with a man of the same description last evening.”

“And the description?” Khrushchev asked.

“Late fifties, early sixties. Thin. Light blue eyes. Bald. Start of a beard on his face and neck.”

Hayes observed the look exchanged between Lenin and Khrushchev. He’d sensed all week they were keeping something from him, and he was liking the situation less and less. “Who is he? Since you obviously know.”

Lenin sighed. “A problem.”

“That much I gather. How about details?”

Khrushchev said, “Have you ever heard of the Holy Band?”

He shook his head.

“In the nineteenth century, Tsar Alexander II’s brother started a group that came to be known by that name. The fear of assassination was tremendous at the time. Alexander had freed the serfs and wasn’t popular. This Holy Band was something of a joke. Nothing but aristocrats who pledged themselves to defend the tsar’s life. In reality they could hardly defend themselves and, in the end, Alexander died from an assassin’s bomb. Pashenko heads a contemporary group made up of anything but amateurs. His Holy Band was formed sometime in the nineteen twenties, as best we can determine, and has survived to this day.”

“That’s after Nicholas II and his family were murdered,” Hayes said. “There was no tsar to protect.”

“But that is the problem,” Lenin said. “Rumors have persisted for decades that descendants of Nicholas survived the massacre.”

“Bullshit,” Hayes said. “I’ve read about all the pretenders. They’re nuts. Every one of them.”

“Perhaps. But the Holy Band survives.”

“Has this got something to do with what Lord found in the archives?”

“It has everything to do with it,” Lenin said. “And now that Pashenko has made repeated contact, Lord must be dealt with immediately.”

“Another hit?”

“Definitely. And tonight.”

He decided not to argue the merits. “How am I supposed to get men to St. Petersburg before midnight?”

“Air transportation can be arranged.”

“Care to tell me why this is so urgent?”

“Frankly,” Khrushchev said, “details are not important. Suffice it to say, the problem could jeopardize everything we are working to achieve. This Lord is apparently a free spirit. One you cannot control. No more chances can be taken. Use the phone number we provided and have men dispatched. That
chornye
cannot be allowed to return to Moscow alive.”

FOURTEEN

ST. PETERSBURG, 11:30 PM

Lord and his bodyguard arrived at the train station. The concrete platforms were clogged with people trudging past in heavy coats, some adorned with curly astrakhan wool collars, most clutching bulky suitcases or shopping bags. No one seemed to pay him any attention. And other than the man in the archives, whom he’d thought might be watching, he’d sensed no danger all day.

He and Zinov had enjoyed a leisurely dinner at the Grand Hotel Europe, then spent the rest of the evening in one of the lounges listening to a string quartet. He’d wanted to stroll Nevsky Prospekt, but Zinov had been hesitant about parading the streets at night. So they’d stayed inside and taken a taxi directly to the station, allowing just enough time to climb aboard.

The evening was cold and Uprising Square bustled with traffic. He imagined the bloody exchanges between tsarist police and demonstrators that had started the revolution in 1917, the battle for control of the square raging for two days. The train station itself was another Stalinist creation, the grandiose green-and-white facade more fitting for a palace than a rail terminal. Next door, construction continued on a new high-speed rail terminal for a line being built to Moscow. The multibillion-dollar project was designed by an Illinois architectural firm, working through a British engineering concern, and the head architect had been present at the Volkhov briefing yesterday, understandably jittery about his future.

Lord had booked a first-class sleeping compartment with two berths. He’d ridden the Red Arrow express several times and recalled the days when sheets and mattresses were filthy, the compartments less than clean. But things had noticeably changed, the ride now regarded as one of the more luxurious in Europe.

The train left on time at 11:55
PM,
which would put them in Moscow at 7:55 tomorrow morning. Four hundred and five miles in eight hours.

“I’m not all that sleepy,” he told Zinov. “I think I’ll go to the saloon car for a drink. You can wait here, if you like.”

Zinov nodded and said he would catch a quick nap. Lord left the compartment and moved forward through two more sleeping cars, down a narrow, one-person-wide corridor. A trace of coal smoke from a samovar at the far end of each car burned his eyes.

The saloon car was equipped with comfortable leather seats and oak adornments. He took a window table and, in the gloomy light, watched the countryside whiz past.

He ordered a Pepsi, his stomach not in the mood for vodka, and opened his briefcase, reviewing the notes made earlier on the documents he’d found. He was convinced that he’d stumbled onto something, and he wondered what effect any of it would have on Stefan Baklanov’s claim.

There was a lot at stake—to Russia, as well as to the corporations Pridgen & Woodworth represented. He didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize either’s future, or his own with the firm.

But there was no denying his lingering doubts.

He rubbed his eyes. Damn, he was tired. Late hours were nothing unusual, but the strain from the past few weeks was beginning to wear on him.

He settled back in the plush leather seat and sipped his drink. There certainly had been no class in law school on any of this. And twelve years of clawing his way up the firm had not prepared him, either. Lawyers like him were supposed to work in offices, courthouses, and libraries, the only intrigue being how to bill enough to make the effort worthwhile, and how to garner recognition from senior partners like Taylor Hayes—people who would ultimately make the decision on his future.

People he wanted to impress.

Like his father.

He could still see Grover Lord lying in the open casket, the mouth that had hollered the word of God closed in death, the lips and face ashen. They’d dressed him in one of his best suits and tied the tie with a dimple the reverend had always liked. The gold cufflinks were there, along with his watch. Lord remembered thinking how those three pieces of jewelry could have paid for a good slice of his education. Nearly a thousand of the faithful had turned out for the service. There’d been fainting and crying and singing. His mother had wanted him to speak. But what would he say? He couldn’t proclaim the man a charlatan, a hypocrite, a lousy father. So he’d refused to say anything, and his mother never forgave him. Even now, their relationship remained chilly. She was Mrs. Grover Lord, and proud of the fact.

He rubbed his eyes again as sleep started to take hold.

His gaze drifted down the long car to the faces of others up for a late refreshment. One man caught his attention. Young, blond, stocky. He sat alone sipping a clear drink, and the man’s presence sent a chill down Lord’s spine. Was he a threat? But the inquiry was answered when a young woman with a small child appeared. Both sat with the man and all three of them started chatting.

He told himself to get a grip.

But then he noticed at the far end of the car a middle-age man nursing a beer, the face gaunt, lips thin, the same anxious watery eyes he’d seen that afternoon.

The man from the archives, still dressed in the same baggy beige suit.

Lord came alert.

Too much of a coincidence.

He needed to get back to Zinov, but didn’t want to make his concern obvious. So he tipped back the rest of his Pepsi, then slowly snapped his briefcase shut. He stood and tossed a few rubles on the table. He hoped his actions signaled calm, but on the way out, in the glass door, he saw the man’s reflection stand and head toward him.

He yanked open the sliding door and darted from the saloon, slamming the door shut. As he turned into the next car, he saw the man hustling his way.

Shit.

He made his way forward and entered the car with his compartment. A quick glance back through the glass and he saw the man enter the car behind, still coming his way.

He slid open his compartment door.

Zinov was gone.

He slammed the door shut. Perhaps his bodyguard was in the lavatory. He rushed down the narrow aisle and rounded a slight angle in the corridor that led to the far exit. The lavatory door was closed, its
OCCUPIED
notice not engaged.

He slid open the door.

Empty.

Where the hell was Zinov?

He stepped inside the lavatory. But before he did, he cracked open the exit door to give the appearance that someone had passed through to the next car. He slid the lavatory door shut, but did not engage the lock so the
OCCUPIED
wouldn’t show from the outside.

He stood motionless, pressed tight against the stainless-steel door, breathing hard. His heart pounded. Footsteps approached and he braced himself, ready to use his briefcase as a weapon. From the door’s other side, the exit for the sleeper car slid open with a dull scrape.

A second later it closed.

He waited a full minute.

Hearing nothing, he inched open the lavatory door. No one was in the hall. He slammed the door shut and engaged the lock. It was the second time in two days he’d successfully run for his life. He laid his briefcase on the toilet and took a moment to rinse sweat from his face in the washbasin. A can of disinfectant rested on the sink. He used the spray to cleanse the bar of soap, then washed his hands and face, careful not to swallow the water, a laminated sign warning in Cyrillic that nothing was potable. He used his handkerchief to dry his face. No paper towels had been provided.

He stared at himself in the mirror.

His brown eyes were weary, the angular features of his face drawn, and his hair needed a cut. What was going on? And where was Zinov? Some bodyguard. He splashed more water on his face and rinsed out his mouth, careful again not to swallow. A strange irony, he thought. Goddamn superpower with the ability to blow up the world a thousand times over, but can’t manage clean water on a train.

He tried to regain his composure. Through an oval window the night raced past. Another train whizzed by in the opposite direction, the rush of cars lasting what seemed minutes.

He took a deep breath, grabbed his briefcase, and slid open the door.

The way was blocked by a tall, stocky man with a pockmarked face, his shiny black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Lord stared into the eyes and instantly noticed the wide space between the right pupil and brow.

Droopy.

A fist slammed into Lord’s stomach.

He doubled over, air strangling in his throat, a wave of nausea gripping him. The force of the blow drove him into the outer wall, his head popping hard against the window, winking the scene before him in and out.

He settled onto the toilet.

Droopy stepped into the lavatory and shut the door. “Now, Mr. Lord, we finish.”

He’d managed to retain a grip on his briefcase and momentarily thought of swinging it upward, but in the tight confines the blow would be meaningless. Air started to grab in his lungs. The initial shock was replaced by fear. A cold, shivering terror.

A knife snapped open in Droopy’s hand.

There’d only be a moment.

His gaze cut to the disinfectant. He lunged forward, grabbed the can, pointed, and sprayed his assailant’s face. The caustic mist soaked into the eyes and the man shrieked. Lord brought his right knee up into the groin. Droopy doubled over, the knife clattering to the tile floor. With both hands Lord crashed the briefcase down and Droopy crumpled forward.

Lord pounded again. Then again.

He leapt over the body and slid the metal door open, bolting into the corridor. Waiting for him was Cro-Magnon, the same sloped forehead, bushy hair, and bulbous nose from two days ago.

“In a hurry, Mr. Lord?”

He kicked the Russian’s left knee with the toe of his loafer, knocking the man down. To his right, a silver samovar steamed with hot water, a glass decanter ready for patrons looking for coffee. He slung the scalding liquid at Cro-Magnon.

The man cried out in pain.

Lord spun in the opposite direction and shot for the exit adjacent to the lavatory. He could hear Droopy getting to his feet, calling out to Cro-Magnon.

He raced out of the sleeper into the next car and hustled down the narrow hall as fast as the confined space would allow. He was hoping a steward would appear. Anyone. He maintained a grasp on his briefcase and found the exit into the next car. Behind, he heard the door at the far end open and caught a glimpse of his two assailants starting after him.

He kept moving, then decided this was pointless. Eventually he was going to run out of train.

He shot a glance back.

The angle of the car gave him a moment of privacy. The hall before him was lined with more sleeping compartments. He figured he was still in the first-class section. He needed to duck into one, if only for a moment, enough time to let the pursuers pass. Maybe then he could backtrack and find Zinov.