the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (29 page)

“Of course,” Vitenko said in Russian, throwing a smile at Akilina.

“As I said, I am aware of what happened in Red Square last Friday. A policeman was killed. A bulletin has been issued by the Moscow police for your detention. It states that you are wanted for questioning.”

Now he was concerned.

“I am also aware of your contact with an Inspector Feliks Orleg. I realize, Mr. Lord, that you have no complicity in the Red Square affair. Rather, it is Inspector Orleg who is under suspicion. I have been directed to make contact and secure your cooperation.”

He was not convinced. “You still haven’t said how you located us.”

“Our consulate has, for a number of years, maintained a watch on two financial institutions in this city. Both existed in tsarist times and were used as depositories by imperial agents. Nicholas II was said to have secreted away gold before the revolution. When you appeared yesterday, at both institutions, and wanted access to a safe-deposit box we have long suspected as having an imperial connection, we were notified.”

“That would be against the law,” he said. “This isn’t Russia. There is bank confidentiality in this country.”

The envoy seemed unperturbed. “I am aware of your laws. Perhaps they likewise cover the use of false court papers to gain access to a safe-deposit box owned by someone else?”

He got the message. “What do you want?”

“Inspector Orleg has been under investigation for some time. He is connected to some sort of organization that is intent on influencing the outcome of the Tsarist Commission. Artemy Bely, the young lawyer who was gunned down, was killed because he was asking questions about Orleg and this association. You, unfortunately, happened to be present. The individuals who murdered Bely thought perhaps he confided in you, which explains their interest in you. I am aware of the chases in Moscow and Red Square—”

“And also on a train from St. Petersburg.”

“I was unaware of that.”

“What kind of organization is attempting to influence the commission?”

“That, we were hoping you might know. My government is only aware that individuals are working together and large sums of money have changed hands. Orleg is connected to them. Their purpose seems an attempt to assure that Stefan Baklanov is selected tsar.”

The man’s words were making sense, but he wanted to know, “Are any American businessmen suspected of being involved? My firm represents a large number of them.”

“We believe so. In fact, that appears to be the cash source. We were hoping you could help us there, too.”

“Have you talked with my boss, Taylor Hayes?”

Vitenko shook his head. “My government has tried to confine its inquiries to keep their knowledge secret. Arrests are about to be made, but I have been asked to question you and see if you could add more. In addition, a representative from Moscow would like to speak with you, if possible.”

Lord was now extremely concerned. He didn’t like the idea that anyone from Moscow knew where he was.

His apprehension must have seeped through his expression. Vitenko said, “There is nothing to fear, Mr. Lord. Your conversation will be by phone. I assure you, I represent a government that is interested in everything that has happened over the past few days. We need your assistance. The commission will take a final vote in two days’ time. If there has been a corruption of the process, we must know.”

He said nothing.

“We cannot begin a new Russia with vestiges of the old. If commission members are being bribed, perhaps Stefan Baklanov himself has been compromised. That cannot be allowed.”

He shot a quick glance at Akilina, who signaled her concern with a lingering gaze. As long as the envoy was talking, he wanted to know some things. “Why does your government continue to be concerned with tsarist wealth? It seems ridiculous. So much time has passed.”

Vitenko settled back in his chair. “Nicholas II hid millions in imperial gold prior to 1917. The Soviets thought it their duty to find every last bit of that wealth. San Francisco became the hub of all Allied support for the White Army. Much tsarist gold was deposited here for the London and New York banks, which were financing rifle and ammunition purchases. Russian émigrés followed that gold into San Francisco. Many were merely refugees, but some came for a purpose.” The envoy sat straight in his chair, a ramrod back matching his stuffy personality. “The Russian consul general here at the time openly declared himself anti-Bolshevik and was actively involved with American intervention in the Russian civil war. That man personally profited from the many gold-for-arms deals that flowed through local banks. The Soviets became convinced large amounts of what they regarded as
their
gold was still here. Then there is the matter of Colonel Nicholas F. Romanov.”

The pitch and tone of the man’s voice signaled something important. Vitenko reached into his jacket pocket and removed a copy of a news article from the
San Francisco Examiner
dated October 16, 1919. The story told of the arrival of a Russian colonel with the same last name as the deposed imperial family. He was supposedly on his way to Washington to secure American aid for White Army efforts.

“His arrival caused quite a stir. The consulate here monitored his activities. We still have the files, in fact. Whether this man was a Romanov or not, no one knows. Most likely, he was not, the name simply a way to arouse interest. He managed to shed the surveillance placed on him, and we really have no idea what he did while here or where he disappeared to. We do know that several accounts were open at the time, one at the Commerce and Merchants Bank, along with four safe-deposit boxes, one of which was number seven sixteen, which you accessed yesterday.”

He began to realize this man’s interest. A few too many coincidences for events to be random.

“Care to tell me what was in the box, Mr. Lord?”

He did not trust the envoy enough to part with that information. “Not right now.”

“Perhaps you could tell the representative from Moscow?”

He wasn’t sure about that, either, so he said nothing. Vitenko again seemed to sense his hesitancy. “Mr. Lord, I have been straightforward with you. There is no reason to doubt my intentions. Surely you can see my government’s interest in all that has happened.”

“Surely you can see why I’m being cautious. I’ve been running for my life the past few days. And by the way, you never did say how you located us.”

“You listed this hotel on the sign-in sheet at the bank.”

Good answer, he thought.

Vitenko reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “I understand your reluctance, Mr. Lord. Here is how to contact me. Any taxi driver can deliver you to the Russian consulate. The representative from Moscow will call at two thirty this afternoon, our time. If you want to talk with him, please be at my office. If not, you will not be hearing from us again.”

He accepted the card and stared hard at the envoy’s face, unsure what he was going to do.

Akilina watched Lord as he paced the hotel room. They’d spent the morning in the public library reading old newspapers, finding a couple of articles on Colonel Nicholas F. Romanov’s visit to San Francisco in the fall of 1919. There wasn’t much, more gossip and social news than anything else, and she could tell that Lord was becoming frustrated. They’d also verified that the Lilies of the Valley Egg was still in a private collection, which did little to explain how they possessed a duplicate, exact in every way save for the photos.

After a light lunch in one of the street cafés, they’d returned to the room. Lord had yet to mention Filip Vitenko and his offer to appear at the Russian consulate later. She’d carefully watched the envoy while he and Lord talked, trying to gauge for herself his sincerity, but it was hard to ascertain.

She glanced over at Lord. He was a handsome man. The fact that he was “of color,” as she’d been taught to think, meant nothing to her. He seemed a genuine and sincere individual thrust into something extraordinary. They’d so far spent five nights together and never once had he even intimated anything improper. That was unusual for her, since the men in the circus, and the few she associated with outside work, seemed fixated on sex.

“Akilina.”

She looked at Lord.

“Where were you?” he asked.

She didn’t want to tell him what she was really pondering, so she said, “Filip Vitenko seemed sincere.”

“He did. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

Lord sat on the edge of the bed. He was holding the Fabergé egg. “We must be missing something. A part of the secret has been lost. Clearly, we’re at a dead end.”

She knew what he really meant. “You are going to the consulate?”

He stared at her. “I don’t think I have a choice. If somebody is trying to manipulate the commission, I have to help where I can.”

“But there’s nothing you know.”

“I’m curious to see what I can learn from the Moscow representative. The information might be helpful to the man I work for. Don’t forget, my original purpose was to ensure Stefan Baklanov’s selection. I have to do my job.”

“We’ll go together, then.”

“No. I may be taking a chance, but I’m not going to be foolish. I want you to take all this stuff and check into another hotel. Leave through the parking garage. Don’t use the front or the lobby. This place could be watched. You never know, you might be followed, so take a roundabout path to the new hotel. Use the subway, a bus, maybe a taxi, too. Take a couple of hours to move around. I’ll go to the consulate at two thirty. You call at three thirty. Use a pay phone somewhere. If I don’t answer or they say I’m unavailable or I’ve already gone, go to ground. Stay low.”

“I don’t like this.”

Lord stood and walked to the wall table where the velvet bag lay. He slid the egg inside. “I don’t either, Akilina. But we have no choice. If there are direct Romanov heirs still alive, the Russian government needs to know that. We can’t govern our lives with what Rasputin said decades ago.”

“But we have no idea where to look.”

“Publicity might bring any descendants of Alexie and Anastasia out into the open. DNA testing can easily weed the real thing from frauds.”

“We were told to do this alone.”

“We’re the eagle and the raven, right? So we can set the rules.”

“I don’t think we can. I believe that we must find the tsar’s heirs as the
starets
predicted.”

Lord leaned against the table. “The Russian people need the truth. Why is openness and honesty so foreign a concept to you folks? I think we should let your government and the U.S. State Department handle this. I’m going to tell the guy from Moscow everything.”

She was uneasy about the course Lord was about to take. She preferred anonymity, the protection that a city of hundreds of thousands could provide. But maybe he was right. Perhaps the proper authorities should be alerted and something done before the Tsarist Commission selected Stefan Baklanov, or anyone else, as the next Tsar of All Russia.

“My job was to find anything that might affect Baklanov’s claim. I think this definitely qualifies. The man I work for needs to know what we know. There’s a lot at stake here, Akilina.”

“Perhaps your career?”

Lord went silent for a moment. “Perhaps.”

She wanted to ask more, but decided not to. It was obvious he’d made up his mind and he did not look the sort to change it. She would just have to trust that he knew what he was doing.

“How will you find me after you leave the consulate?” she asked.

He lifted one of a brochures stacked with several others. It was a colorful pamphlet with pictures of a zebra and tiger on the front.

“The zoo stays open till seven
PM.
I’ll meet you there. At the Lion House. Your English is good enough to get you there. If I’m not there by six, go to the police and tell them everything. Ask for a U.S. State Department representative to be called. The man I work for is Taylor Hayes. He’s in Moscow with the commission. Have the American representatives get in touch with him. Explain it all. When you call at three thirty, unless I personally come on the phone and speak with you, don’t believe a word you are being told. Assume the worst and do as I say. All right?”

She didn’t like what she was hearing and told him so.

“I understand,” Lord said. “Vitenko seemed okay. And we are in San Francisco, not Moscow. But we have to be realistic. If this is something more than we’ve been led to believe, I doubt we’ll see each other again.”

THIRTY-FIVE

2:30 PM

The Russian consulate was located on a trendy street west of the financial district, not far from Chinatown and the opulence of Nob Hill. The consulate, a red-brown sandstone two-story with an end turret, sat on the corner of a busy intersection. Balconies lined with richly scrolled metal balustrades adorned the upper floor. The roof was trimmed in a cast-iron cresting.

Lord was deposited out front by a taxi. A cool fog ebbed inland from the nearby ocean and sent a shiver down his spine. He paid the driver, then followed a brick path to a granite stoop. Twin marble lions guarded the entrance. A bronze placard attached to the stone announced,
CONSULATE OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION
.