the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (4 page)

“I’d like to keep you here in Moscow. This could get real sticky, and I need you.”

And Lord wanted to stay. So he kept telling himself Droopy and Cro-Magnon went after him because he saw them kill Bely. A witness, nothing more. That had to be it. What else could it be? “I left all my stuff in the archives. I thought I’d only be gone for a quick lunch.”

“I’ll call and have it brought over.”

“No. I think I’ll take a shower and go get it myself. I have more work to do anyway.”

“Onto something?”

“Not really. Just tying up loose ends. I’ll let you know if anything pans out. Work will take my mind off this.”

“What about tomorrow? Can you still do the briefing?”

The waiter returned with a fresh vodka glass.

“Damn right.”

Hayes smiled. “Now that’s the attitude. I knew you were a tough sonovabitch.”

FOUR

2:30 pm

Hayes shouldered through the throng of commuters streaming out of the Metro train. Platforms that a moment ago were deserted now teemed with thousands of Muscovites, all shoving toward four escalators that reached six hundred feet up to street level. An impressive sight, but it was the silence that caught his attention. It always did. Nothing but soles to stone and the scrape of one coat against another. Occasionally a voice would carry, but, overall, the procession of eight million people that paraded in every morning and then out every evening on the busiest subway system in the world was somber.

The Metro was Stalin’s showcase. A vain attempt in the 1930s to openly celebrate socialist achievement with the largest and longest tunneling ever completed by humankind. The stations dotting the city became works of art adorned with florid stucco, neoclassical marble piers, elaborate chandeliers, gold, and glass. Not one person ever questioned the initial cost or subsequent upkeep. Now the price for that foolishness was an indispensable transportation system that demanded billions of rubles each year for maintenance, but brought in only a few kopecks a ride.

Yeltsin and his successors had tried to raise the fare, but the public furor was so great they’d all backed down. That had been their problem, Hayes thought. Too much populism for a nation as fickle as Russia. Be right. Be wrong. But don’t be indecisive. Hayes firmly believed Russians would have respected their leaders more if they’d raised the fares, then shot anybody who openly protested. That was a lesson many Russian tsars and communist premiers had failed to learn—Nicholas II and Mikhail Gorbachev particularly.

He stepped off the escalator and followed the crowd out narrow doors into a brisk afternoon. He was north of Moscow center, beyond the overloaded four-lane motorway that encircled the city and was curiously called the Garden Ring. This particular Metro station was a dilapidated tile-and-glass oval with a flat roof, not one of Stalin’s finest. In fact, the entire part of town would not find its way into any travel brochures. The station entrance was lined with a procession of haggard men and women, their skin drawn, hair matted, clothes a stinking mess, hocking everything—from toiletries to bootleg cassettes to dried fish—trying to raise a few rubles or, even better, U.S. dollars. He often wondered if anyone actually bought the shriveled salty fish carcasses, which looked even worse than they smelled. The only source of fish nearby was the Moskva River and, based on what he knew of Soviet and Russian waste disposal, there would be no telling what extras came with the meal.

He buttoned his overcoat and pushed his way down a buckled sidewalk, trying to fit in. He’d changed out of his suit into a pair of olive corduroys, a dark twill shirt, and black sneakers. Any hints of Western fashion were nothing but requests for trouble.

He found the club to which he’d been directed. It sat in the middle of a run-down block among a bakery, a grocery, a record store, and an ice-cream parlor. No placard announced its presence, only a small sign that beckoned visitors with a promise written in Cyrillic of exciting entertainment.

The interior was a dimly lit rectangle. Some vain attempt at ambience radiated from cheap walnut paneling. A blue fog laced the warm air. The room’s center was dominated by an enormous plywood maze. He’d seen this novelty before, downtown, in the swankier haunts of the new rich. Those were neon monstrosities, molded out of tile and marble. This was a poor man’s version, fashioned of bare boards and illuminated by fluorescent fixtures that threw down harsh blue rays.

A crowd encircled the display. These were not the type of men who tended to congregate in the more elaborate places munching salmon, herring, and beetroot salad, while armed lieutenants guarded the front door and roulette and blackjack were played for thousands of dollars in an adjoining room. It could cost two hundred rubles just to walk through the door at those places. For the men here—surely blue-collar workers from nearby factories and foundries—two hundred dollars was six months’ wages.

“About time,” Feliks Orleg said in Russian.

Hayes had not noticed the police inspector’s approach. His attention had been on the maze. He motioned to the crowd and asked in Russian, “What’s the attraction?”

“You’ll see.”

He stepped close and noticed that what appeared as one unit was actually three separate mazes intertwined. From small doors at the far end, three rats sprang. The rodents seemed to understand what was expected of them and raced forward undaunted while men howled and screamed. One of the spectators reached out to bang the side and a burly man with prizefighter forearms appeared from nowhere and restrained him.

“Moscow’s version of the Kentucky Derby,” Orleg said.

“This go on all day?”

The rats scooted around the twists and turns.

“All fucking day. They piss away what little they earn.”

One of the rats found the finish line and a portion of the crowd erupted in cheers. He wondered what it paid, but decided to get down to business. “I want to know what happened today.”

“The
chornye
was like a rat. Very fast through the streets.”

“He should never have had the chance to run.”

Orleg downed a swallow of the clear drink in his hand. “Apparently, the shooters missed.”

The crowd was starting to quiet down, preparing for the next race. Hayes led Orleg to an empty table in a far corner. “I’m not in the mood for smart-ass, Orleg. The idea was to kill him. How hard could that have been?”

Orleg savored another sip before swallowing. “Like I said, the fools missed. When they chased him, your Mr. Lord escaped. Quite inventive, I was told. It took a lot for me to clear that area of police patrols for those few minutes. They should have had an easy opportunity. Instead, they killed three Russian citizens.”

“I thought these men were professionals.”

Orleg laughed. “Mean bastards, yes. Professionals? I don’t think so. They’re gangsters. What did you expect?” Orleg emptied the glass. “You want another hit made on him?”

“Fuck, no. In fact, I don’t want one hair on Lord’s head touched.”

Orleg said nothing, but his eyes made clear that he didn’t like being ordered by a foreigner.

“Leave it alone. It was a bad idea to start with. Lord thinks it was a hit on Bely. Good. Let him think that. We can’t afford any more attention.”

“The shooters said your lawyer handled himself like a pro.”

“He was an athlete in college. Football and track. But two Kalashnikovs should have compensated.”

Orleg sat back in the chair. “Maybe you should handle things yourself.”

“Maybe I will. But for now, you make sure those idiots back off. They had their chance. I don’t want another hit. And if they don’t follow this order, assure them they will not like the people their bosses send for a visit.”

The inspector shook his head. “When I was a boy we hunted down rich people and tortured them. Now we are paid to protect them.” He spat on the floor. “Whole thing makes me sick.”

“Who said anything about rich?”

“You think I do not know what is happening here?”

Hayes leaned close. “You don’t know shit, Orleg. Do yourself a favor and don’t ask too many questions. Follow orders and it’ll be far better for your health.”

“Fucking American. The whole world is completely upside down. I remember a time when you people worried whether we would even let you leave this country. Now you own us.”

“Get with the program. Times are changing. Either keep up or get out of the way. You wanted to be a player? Be one. That requires obedience.”

“Don’t you worry about me, lawyer. But what of your Lord problem?”

“You don’t worry about that. I’ll handle him.”

FIVE

3:35 PM

Lord was back in the Russian archives, a gloomy granite building that once had served as the Institute of Marxism-Leninism. Now it was the Center for the Preservation and Study of Documents of Contemporary History—more evidence of the Russian penchant for superfluous titles.

He’d been surprised on his first visit to find images of Marx, Engels, and Lenin still on the pediment outside the main entrance, along with the call
FORWARD TO THE VICTORY OF COMMUNISM.
Nearly all reminders of the Soviet era had been stripped from every town, street, and building across the country, replaced by the double-headed eagle the Romanov dynasty had displayed for three hundred years. He’d been told that the red granite statue of Lenin was one of the few left standing in Russia.

He’d calmed down after a hot shower and more vodka. He was dressed in the only other suit he’d brought from Atlanta, a charcoal gray with a faint chalk stripe. He was going to have to visit one of the Moscow shops during the next couple of days and purchase another, since one suit would not be enough for the busy weeks ahead.

Before the communist fall, the archives had been considered too heretical for the general public, inaccessible to all but the most stalwart communists, and that distinction partially remained. Why, Lord had yet to understand. The shelves were stocked mainly with nonsensical personal papers—books, letters, diaries, government records, and other unpublished material—innocuous writings that possessed no historical significance. To make matters more of a challenge there was no indexing system, just a random organization by year, person, or geographic region. Totally haphazard, certainly designed more to confuse than enlighten. As if no one wanted the past found, which was most likely the case.

And there was little help.

The staff archivists were leftovers from the Soviet regime, part of the party hierarchy who had once enjoyed benefits not available to ordinary Muscovites. Though the party was gone, a cadre of loyal elderly women remained, many of whom, Lord believed, firmly wished for a return to totalitarian order. The lack of help was why he’d requested Artemy Bely’s assistance, and he’d accomplished more in the past few days than in the weeks before.

Only a few idlers milled among the metal shelves. Most of the records, particularly those on Lenin, had once been locked away behind steel doors in underground vaults. Yeltsin had ended that secrecy and ordered everything moved aboveground, opening the building to academicians and journalists.

But not entirely.

A large section remained closed—the so-called Protective Papers—similar to what a
TOP SECRET
stamp did to any Freedom of Information request back home. Lord’s Tsarist Commission credentials, however, overrode any supposed former state secrets. His pass, arranged by Hayes, was authority from the government to look wherever he desired, including through the Protective Papers.

He sat down at his reserved table and forced his mind to concentrate on the pages spread before him. His job was to bolster Stefan Baklanov’s claim to the Russian throne. Baklanov, a Romanov by birth, was the leading contender for selection by the Tsarist Commission. He was also heavily entrenched with Western businesses, many of which were Pridgen & Woodworth clients, so Hayes had sent Lord into the archives to make sure there was nothing that might impugn Baklanov’s claim to power. The last thing anyone needed was for there to have been a state investigation, or implications Baklanov’s family had been German sympathizers during World War II—anything that might cause the people to doubt his commitment to them or to Russia.

Lord’s assignment had led him to the last Romanov to occupy the Russian throne—Nicholas II—and what happened in Siberia on July 16, 1918. He’d read many published accounts and several unpublished ones during the past few weeks. All were, at best, contradictory. It took a detailed study of each report, culling out obvious falsehoods and combining facts, to glean any useful information. His growing notes now formed a cumulative narrative of that fateful night in Russian history.

Nicholas rustled from a sound sleep. A soldier stood over him. It wasn’t often over the course of the past few months that he’d been able to actually sleep, and he resented the intrusion. But there was little he could do. He’d once been the Tsar of All Russia, Nicholas II, the embodiment of the Almighty on Earth. But a year ago last March he’d been forced to do the unthinkable for a divine monarch—abdicate in the face of violence. The provisional government that followed him was mainly liberals from the
Duma
and a coalition of radical socialists. It was to be a caretaker body until a constituent assembly could be elected, but the Germans had allowed Lenin to cross their territory and reenter Russia, hoping he’d wreak political havoc.