the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (6 page)

Such sunny weather, no clouds. That means, trust and hope, yet all is pitch black around, but God is above all; we know not His way, nor how He will help, but He will hark unto all prayers. Our Friend is most insistent on that.

I must tell you that just before he left our Friend went into a strange convulsion. I was most frightened thinking he may be ill. What would Baby do without him. He fell to the floor and began muttering about leaving this world before the new year and seeing masses of corpses, several grand dukes and hundreds of counts. The Neva will be all red with blood, he said. His words terrified me.

Looking toward heaven, he told me that if he be murdered by boyars their hands will remain soiled by blood for twenty-five years. They will leave Russia. Brother will rise against brother, they will kill each other in hate, and there will be no nobles in the country. Most disturbing, he said that if one of our relatives carries out his murder, none of our family will live more than two years. We will all be killed by the Russian people.

He made me rise and immediately write this down. Then he said not to despair. There would be salvation. The one with the most guilt will see the error of his way. He will assure that the blood of our body resurrects itself. His rantings bordered on nonsense and I wondered, for the first time, if the stench of alcohol upon him had affected his brain. He kept saying that only a raven and an eagle can succeed where all fail and that the innocence of beasts will guard and lead the way, being the final arbitor of success. He said God will provide a way to be sure of righteousness. Most troubling was his statement that twelve must die before the resurrection can be complete.

I tried to question him but he went silent, insisting that I write the prophecy down exactly and convey the vision to you. He talked as if something might happen to us, but I assured him that Papa has the country well in hand. He was not comforted and his words troubled me all night. Oh my precious one, I hold you tight in my arms and will never let anyone touch your shining soul. I kiss, kiss, kiss and bless you and you always understand. I hope you come to me soon.

Your Wify

Lord knew that the writer was Alexandra, the last tsarina of Russia. She had kept a diary for decades. So had her husband, Nicholas, and both journals subsequently provided an unprecedented look into the royal court. Nearly seven hundred of their letters were found in Yekaterinburg after the execution. He’d read other diary excerpts and most of the letters. Several recent books had published them verbatim. He knew the reference to “our Friend” was their way of describing Rasputin, since both Alexandra and Nicholas thought their letters were being scrutinized by others. Unfortunately, their unfettered confidence in Rasputin was not shared by anyone else.

“So deep in thought,” a voice said in Russian.

He glanced up.

An older man stood on the opposite side of the table. He was fair-skinned with pale blue eyes, a thin chest, and freckled wrists. His head was half bald and graying fuzz dusted the sallow skin on his neck from ear to ear. He wore steel-rimmed glasses and a bow tie. Lord immediately recalled that he’d seen the man poring through the records, one of several individuals who seemed to be working as hard as he was.

“Actually, I was back in 1916 for an instant. Reading this stuff is like time travel,” Lord said in Russian.

The older man smiled. Lord estimated his age to be nearing, if not more than, sixty.

“I quite agree. It is one of the reasons I like coming here. A reminder of something that once was.”

He instantly warmed to the congenial manner and stood from the table. “I’m Miles Lord.”

“I know who you are.”

A wave of suspicion swept over him and his gaze unconsciously darted around the room.

His visitor seemed to sense the fear. “I assure you, Mr. Lord, I am no threat. Just a tired historian looking for a little conversation with someone of similar interests.”

He relaxed. “How do you know me?”

The man smiled. “You are not a favorite of the women who staff this depository. They resent being ordered about by an American—”

“And a black?”

The man smiled. “Unfortunately, this country is not progressively minded on the issue of race. We are a fair-skinned nation. But your commission credentials cannot be ignored.”

“And who are you?”

“Semyon Pashenko, professor of history, Moscow State University.” The older man offered his hand and Lord accepted. “Where is the other gentleman who accompanied you in days past? A lawyer, I believe. We talked for a few moments among the stacks.”

He debated whether to lie, but decided the truth would be better. “He was killed this morning on Nikolskaya Prospekt. In a shooting.”

Shock filled the older man’s face. “I saw something on the television about that earlier. So terrible.” He shook his head. “This country will be the ruin of itself if something is not done soon.”

Lord sat and offered a seat.

“Were you involved?” Pashenko asked, settling into a chair.

“I was there.” He decided to keep the rest of what happened to himself.

Pashenko shook his head. “That sort of display says nothing for who or what we are. Westerners, like yourself, must think us barbarians.”

“Not at all. Every nation goes through periods like this. We had our own during the western expansion and in the nineteen twenties and thirties.”

“But I believe our situation is more than merely growing pains.”

“The past few years have been difficult for Russia. It was hard enough when there was a government. Yeltsin and Putin tried to keep order. But now, with little semblance of authority, it’s nothing short of anarchy.”

Pashenko nodded. “Unfortunately, this is nothing new for our nation.”

“Are you an academician?”

“A historian. I have devoted my life to the study of our beloved Mother Rus.”

He grinned at the ancient term. “I would imagine there hasn’t been much use for your specialty in some time.”

“Regretfully. The communists had their own version of history.”

He recalled something he’d read once.
Russia is a country with an unpredictable past.
“Did you teach, then?”

“For thirty years. I saw them all. Stalin, Khrushchev, Brezhnev. Each one inflicted his own peculiar damage. It is sinful what happened. But even now, we find it hard to let go. People still line up each day to walk past Lenin’s body.” Pashenko lowered his voice. “A butcher, revered as a saint. Did you notice the flowers around his statue out front.” He shook his head. “Disgusting.”

Lord decided to be careful with his words. Though this was the postcommunist era, soon to be new tsarist era, he was still an American working under credentials granted by a shaky Russian government. “Something tells me that if tanks rolled through Red Square tomorrow, everyone who works in this archive would be there to cheer them on.”

“They are no better than street beggars,” Pashenko said. “They enjoyed privilege, kept the leaders’ secrets, and in return received a choice apartment, some extra bread, a few more days off in summer. You must work and earn what you get, is that not what America stands for?”

Lord didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “What do you think of the Tsarist Commission?”

“I voted yes. How could a tsar do any worse?”

He’d found that attitude quite prevalent.

“It is unusual to find an American able to speak our language so well.”

He shrugged. “You have a fascinating country.”

“Have you always had an interest?”

“Since childhood. I started reading about Peter the Great and Ivan the Terrible.”

“And now you are a part of our Tsarist Commission. About to make history.” Pashenko motioned to the sheets on the table. “Those are quite old. Do they come from the Protective Papers?”

“I found both a couple of weeks ago.”

“I recognize the script. Alexandra herself penned that one. She wrote all her letters and diaries in English. The Russians hated her because she was born a German princess. I always thought that an unfair criticism. Alexandra was a most misunderstood woman.”

He offered the sheet, deciding that this Russian’s brain might be worth picking. Pashenko read the letter, then said when he finished, “She was colorful in her prose, but this is mild. She and Nicholas wrote many romantic letters.”

“It’s sad handling them. I feel like an intruder. I was reading earlier about the execution. Yurovsky must have been one devil of a man.”

“Yurovsky’s son said that his father always regretted his involvement. But who knows? For twenty years after he gave lectures to Bolshevik groups about the murders, proud of what he did.”

He handed Pashenko the note penned by Lenin. “Take a look at this.”

The Russian read the page slowly, then said, “Definitely Lenin. I am familiar with his writing style, too. Curious.”

“My thought exactly.”

Pashenko’s eyes lit up. “Surely you do not believe those stories that two of the royal family survived the execution at Yekaterinburg?”

He shrugged. “To this day the bodies of Alexie and Anastasia have never been found. Now this.”

Pashenko grinned. “Americans really are conspiratorialists. A plot into everything.”

“It’s my job at the moment.”

“You must support Stefan Baklanov’s claim, correct?”

He was a little surprised and wondered about his transparency.

Pashenko motioned to the surroundings. “The women, again, Mr. Lord. They know all. Your document inquiries are recorded and, believe me, they pay attention. Have you met our so-called Heir Apparent?”

He shook his head. “But the man I work for has.”

“Baklanov is no better fit to rule than Mikhail Romanov was four hundred years ago. Too weak. Unlike poor Mikhail, who had his father to make decisions for him, Baklanov will be on his own, and many would revel in his failure.”

This Russian academician had a point. From all he’d read about Baklanov, the man seemed more concerned with a return of tsarist prestige than with actually governing the nation.

“May I make a suggestion, Mr. Lord?”

“Certainly.”

“Have you been to the archives in St. Petersburg?”

He shook his head.

“A look there might be productive. They house many of Lenin’s writings. Most of the tsar and tsarina’s diaries and letters are stored there, too.” He pointed to the sheets. “It might help discover the meaning of what you have found.”

The suggestion seemed a good one. “Thank you, I just might do that.” He glanced at his watch. “If you’ll excuse me, I have more to read before this place closes. But I enjoyed talking. I’ll be around for a few more days. Maybe we can chat again.”

“I, too, will be in and out. If you don’t mind, I think I might just sit here a little while. May I read those two sheets again?”

“Of course.”

Ten minutes later when he returned, the writings by Alexandra and Lenin lay on the table, but Semyon Pashenko was gone.

SEVEN

5:25 PM

A dark BMW picked Hayes up in front of the Volkhov. After a fifteen-minute trek through surprisingly light traffic, the driver wheeled into a gated courtyard. The house beyond was late classical, built in the early part of the nineteenth century, then and now one of Moscow’s showpieces. During the communist tenure it had been the Center for State Literature and Arts, but after the fall, like most things, the building went on the auction block and was eventually snapped up by one of the country’s new rich.

Hayes stepped from the car and told the driver to wait.

As usual, two men armed with Kalashnikovs patrolled the courtyard. The house’s blue stucco facade appeared gray in the dimming afternoon light. He sucked in a breath, bitter with carbon fumes, and stepped resolutely down a brick walk through a lovely autumn garden. He entered the house through an unlocked pine door.

The interior was characteristic for a dwelling built nearly two hundred years ago. The floor plan was an irregular hodgepodge, the formal reception areas knotted toward the front facing the street, various private living quarters in the rear. The decor was period and he assumed original, though he’d never asked the owner. He wound his way through a maze of tight corridors and found the paneled salon where the meeting always occurred.

Four men waited, each sipping drinks and smoking cigars.

He’d met them a year ago, and all of their subsequent communication had been through code names. Hayes was known as Lincoln, the other four by their chosen labels—Stalin, Lenin, Khrushchev, and Brezhnev. The idea had come from a popular print Moscow gift shops peddled. It depicted various Russian tsars, empresses, and Soviet premiers gathered around a table, drinking and smoking, with Mother Russia the single topic of discussion. Of course, no such meeting had ever occurred, but the artist graphically fantasized how each individual personality might have reacted given such an event. The four men had chosen their designated label carefully, reveling in the prospect that their meetings were not unlike the painting—and that the fate of the Motherland now rested in their hands.

The four extended a welcome and Lenin poured Hayes a vodka from a carafe chilling in a sterling ice bucket. A plate of smoked salmon and marinated mushrooms was offered. He declined. “I’m afraid I have bad news,” he said in Russian, then told them about Miles Lord surviving.

“There is another matter,” Brezhnev said. “We did not know until today this lawyer was an African.”

Hayes thought the observation curious. “He’s not. He’s American. But if you mean his color, what does it matter?”

Stalin leaned forward. Unlike his namesake, he seemed always to be the voice of reason. “Americans have such a hard time understanding the Russian sensitivity to fate.”

“And where exactly does fate tie in here?”

“Tell us about Mr. Lord,” Brezhnev asked.

The entire subject bothered Hayes. He’d thought it strange they’d so nonchalantly ordered Lord’s murder without knowing anything at all about him. At their last meeting Lenin had given him Inspector Orleg’s telephone number and told him to arrange the murder through him. The instruction had bothered him at first—such a valuable assistant would be difficult to replace—but too much was at stake to be concerned about one lawyer. So he’d done as they asked. Now more questions. Ones that made little sense.