the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (20 page)

They climbed the dimly lit oak steps as feet pounded up from below. They turned on the landing and tiptoed to the top floor. Footsteps thumped down the third-floor hall. Lord studied the seven rooms by the light of an exposed incandescent bulb. Three rooms faced the street, three were at the rear of the building, one was at the end of the hall. The doors to all of them were open, signifying that they were unoccupied.

The rapping of fists on wood echoed from below.

He signaled for quiet and pointed to the last room, the one that faced the rear of the building.

Akilina headed for it.

Along the way, Lord gently closed the doors on either side of the hall. Then he followed her inside and quietly locked the door.

More pounding came from below.

The room was dark and he dared not switch on the bedside lamp. He moved to the window and stared out. Thirty or so feet down was an alley filled with parked cars. He yanked up the glass and stuck his head out into the cold. No policemen were in sight. Perhaps they thought a surprise visit enough to ensure success. To the right of the window a gutter pipe snaked a path from the roof to the cobbles below.

He straightened. “We’re trapped.”

Akilina brushed past and crouched out the window. He heard heavy steps on the staircase coming their way. The policemen surely had learned that the third-floor room was empty. The closed doors should slow them down, but not for long.

Akilina unshouldered her bag and tossed it out the window. “Give me yours.”

He did, but asked, “What are you doing?”

She tossed the bag out. “Watch what I do and follow.”

She swung herself out the window and clung to the sill. He stared as she grabbed hold of the drainpipe and angled her weight, legs planted on the brick facade, hands wrapped around the moist iron. Deftly, she maneuvered down, using her legs for leverage, alternately grabbing and releasing as gravity worked her to the ground. In a few seconds, she hopped off the wall to the street.

He heard doors opening out in the hall. He didn’t really think he could do what Akilina had just done, but there was little choice. In a few more seconds the room would be full of police.

He swung out the window and grabbed hold of the pipe. The metal chilled his hands and the dampness caused his grip to slip, but he clenched tight. He planted his feet against the brick and started down.

He heard pounding on the room door.

He dropped himself faster and passed the second-floor windows. Wood splintered from above as the locked door was apparently forced. He continued down but lost his grip as one of the wall braces appeared. He started to fall just as a head popped out the open window above. He braced himself for impact as he scraped the rough brick on the way down and his body pounded to the concrete.

He rolled once and slammed into the tire of one of the parked cars.

Glancing up, he saw a gun appear in the policeman’s hand. He ignored the pain in his thigh and sprang to his feet, grabbing Akilina and shoving her to the other side of the car.

Two shots cracked in the night.

One bullet ricocheted off the hood. The other shattered the windshield.

“Come on, and stay down,” he said.

They clung to their bags and crawled forward down the alley, using the parked cars for protection. A trail of bullets followed them, but the fourth-floor window did not afford the best firing angle. Glass shattered and metal screamed as bullets raked past. The end of the alley was just ahead and he wondered if more policemen would be waiting.

They left the alley.

Lord whirled his head in both directions. Shops on both sides were dark. No street lamps. He quickly shouldered his bag, grabbed Akilina’s hand, and raced with her to the other side of the street.

A car slid around the corner to their right. Headlights blinded him. The vehicle raced straight toward them.

They froze in the middle of the street.

Brakes screeched as tires grabbed damp pavement.

The car skidded to a stop.

He noticed the vehicle was not official. No lights or markings. The face through the windshield, though, was recognizable.

Iosif Maks.

The Russian stuck his head out the driver’s-side window and said, “Get in.”

They climbed inside and Maks slammed the accelerator to the floor.

“Good timing,” Lord said, glancing through the rear window.

The big Russian kept his eyes on the road but said, “Kolya Maks is dead. But his son will see you tomorrow.”

TWENTY-FIVE

MOSCOW
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 17
7:00 AM

Hayes sat down to breakfast in the Volkhov’s main dining room. The hotel offered an exquisite morning buffet. He especially loved the sweet
blinys
the chef prepared with powdered sugar and a fresh fruit topping. The day’s
Izvestia
was delivered by the waiter and he settled back to read the morning news.

A front-page article recapped the Tsarist Commission’s activities of the past week. After the opening session Wednesday, nominations had started on Thursday. Stefan Baklanov’s had been the first name placed forward, his candidacy proffered, as arranged, by the popular mayor of Moscow. The Secret Chancellory thought using someone the people respected would give further credibility to Baklanov, and the ploy had apparently worked as the
Izvestia
reporter editorialized about the support growing for Baklanov’s selection.

Two rival clans of surviving Romanovs quickly nominated their senior members, asserting a closer blood and marital tie to Nicholas II. Three more names had been offered, but the reporter gave none a serious chance, the three all distant Romanovs. A boxed story off to the right noted that there actually might be a lot of Russians with Romanov blood. Laboratories in St. Petersburg, Novosibirsk, and Moscow were offering, for fifty rubles, to test a person’s blood and compare genetic markers to those of the imperial family. Apparently, a lot of people had paid the fee and taken the test.

The initial debate among commission members on the nominees had been intense, but Hayes knew it was just for show since, at last report, fourteen of seventeen members were bought. Debate had been his idea. Better to let the members appear in disagreement and be slowly swayed than for a quick decision to be made.

The story ended with a note that the nomination process would conclude the next day, an initial vote on narrowing the field to three candidates was scheduled for Tuesday, and then two more days of debate would be held before a final vote on Thursday.

By the coming Friday it should all be over.

Stefan Baklanov would become Stefan I, Tsar of All Russia. Hayes’s clients would be happy, the Secret Chancellory would be satisfied, and he’d be several million dollars richer.

He finished the article, marveling at the Russian penchant for public shows. They even had coined a name for such spectacles:
pokazukha.
The best example he could recall was when Gerald Ford visited in the 1970s, his route from the airport made more picturesque by the fir trees that had been cut from a nearby forest and stuck upright in the snow.

The waiter brought his steaming
blinys
and coffee. He thumbed through the rest of the paper, glancing at stories here and there. One in particular caught his eye.
ANASTASIA ALIVE AND LIVING WITH HER BROTHER THE TSAR.
Shock slid down his spine until he read further and noted the article was a review of a play that had recently opened in Moscow:

Inspired by a cheesy conspiracy book found in a secondhand store, English playwright Lorna Gant became intrigued by stories surrounding the alleged incomplete execution of the royal family. “I was fascinated with the Anastasia/Anna Anderson thing,” Gant said, referring to the most famous Anastasia wannabe.

The play suggests that Anastasia and her brother Alexie managed to escape death at Yekaterinburg in 1918. Their bodies have never been found and speculation has abounded for decades over what really happened. All fertile grist for the playwright’s imagination.

“It has an Elvis-is-alive-and-living-in-Alaska-with-Marilyn ring to it,” Gant says. “There’s a dark humor and irony to the message.”

He read on and saw that the play seemed more a farce of the idea than a serious rendition on possible Romanov survivors, the reviewer comparing it to “Chekhov meets Carol Burnett.” In the end the reviewer recommended no one bother with the performance.

A chair sliding from the table interrupted his reading.

He glanced up from the paper as Feliks Orleg sat down.

“Your breakfast looks good,” the inspector said.

“I’d order you some, but this is a bit too public a place for you.” He made no attempt to hide his contempt.

Orleg slid the plate close and reached for the fork. Hayes decided to leave the bastard alone. Orleg draped syrup over the thin pancakes and eagerly devoured them.

He folded and tabled the newspaper. “Some coffee?” he asked, his sarcasm clear.

“Juice would be fine,” the Russian muttered through a full mouth.

He hesitated, then signaled the waiter and told him to bring a tumbler of orange juice. Orleg finished the
blinys
and wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “I’ve heard this hotel prepares a fine breakfast, but I can hardly afford an appetizer.”

“Luckily you might soon come into some wealth.”

A smile creased the inspector’s chapped lips. “I’m not doing this for the pleasure of the company, I assure you.”

“And the purpose of this lovely Sunday-morning visit?”

“The police bulletin on Lord worked. He has been located.”

His interest was piqued.

“In Starodug. About five hours south.”

He instantly recalled the town from the materials Lord had found in the archives. Lenin mentioned it along with a name: Kolya Maks. What had the Soviet leader said?
The village of Starodug has likewise been noted by two other similarly persuaded White Guardsmen. There is something occurring, of that I am now certain.

Now, so was he. Too many coincidences.

Lord had obviously gotten himself into something.

Sometime during Friday night, Lord’s room had been mysteriously emptied. Members of the Secret Chancellory were clearly upset, and if they were worried, he was worried. They’d told him to handle the situation, and he intended to do just that.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Lord and a woman were found at a hotel.”

He waited for more. Orleg was apparently enjoying the moment.

“What the local
militsya
lack in knowledge, they make up for in stupidity. They raided the hotel, but neglected to cover the rear. Lord and the woman escaped through a window. They tried to shoot him, but he managed to get away.”

“Did they learn why he was there?”

“He was asking questions in a local eatery about a Kolya Maks.”

Confirmation. “What orders did you give the locals?”

“I told them to do nothing until they hear from me.”

“We need to leave immediately.”

“I thought as much. That’s why I’m here. And I’ve even had my breakfast now.”

The waiter brought the orange juice.

Hayes stood from the table. “Drink up. I have to make a call before we go.”

TWENTY-SIX

STARODUG, 10:00 AM

Akilina watched as Lord slowed the car. A cold rain smacked the windshield. Last night, Iosif Maks had stashed them in a house west of Starodug. It was owned by another Maks family member who’d provided two pallets before an open hearth.

Maks had returned a couple of hours ago and explained that the police had come to his house late last night inquiring about a black man and Russian woman who’d visited his eatery earlier. He’d told them exactly what had happened, most of which was witnessed by the
militsya
officer. They apparently believed what he said, since they had not returned. Thankfully, no one witnessed the escape from the Okatyabrsky.

Maks also left them a vehicle, a banged-up, cream-colored Mercedes coupe caked in black mud, its leather seats brittle from exposure. And he provided directions to where the son of Kolya Maks lived.

The farmhouse was single-story and built of double planks caulked with a thick layer of oakum, the roof’s bark shingles darkened by mildew. A stone chimney puffed a thick column of gray vapor into the cold air. An open field spread in the distance, plows and harrows stored under a lean-to.

The entire scene reminded Akilina of the cabin her grandmother had once occupied, a similar grove of white birch rising to one side. She’d always thought autumn such a sad time of year. The season arrived without warning, then evaporated overnight into winter. Its presence meant the end of green forests and grassy meadows—more reminders of her childhood, the village near the Urals where she was raised, and the school where they all wore matching dresses with pinafores and red ribbons. Between lessons they’d been drilled about the oppression workers suffered during tsarist times, how Lenin had changed all that, why capitalism was evil, and what the collective expected from each of its members. Lenin’s portrait had hung in every classroom, in every home. Any challenge to him was wrong. Comfort was derived in knowing that ideas were shared by everyone.

The individual did not exist.

But her father had been an individual.

All he’d wanted was to live with his new wife and child in Romania. But the
kollektiv
would not allow such a simple thing. Good parents were expected to be party members. They had to be. Those who did not possess “revolutionary ideals” should be reported. One famous story was of a son who informed on his father for selling documents to rebellious farmers. The son testified against the father and was later murdered by the farmers. Songs and poems were subsequently written about him, and all children were taught to idealize such dedication to the Motherland.

But why?

What was admirable about being a traitor to your own family?

“I’ve only been into rural Russia twice,” Lord said, interrupting her thoughts. “Both under controlled circumstances. But this is quite different. It’s another world.”