The Romanov Prophecy

by Steve Berry

  Lord said nothing.

  "Maybe our new tsar will solve all?" Orleg asked.

  He stood and faced the inspector, their toes parallel, bodies close. "Anything is better than this."

  Orleg appraised him with a glare, and he wasn't sure if the policeman agreed with him or not. "You never answer me. Why men chase you?"

  He heard again what Droopy said as he slid out of the Volvo. The damn chornye survived. Should he tell Orleg anything? Something about the inspector didn't seem right. But his paranoia could simply be the aftereffect of what had happened. What he needed was to get back to the hotel and discuss all this with Taylor Hayes.

  "I have no idea--other than I got a good view of them. Look, you've seen my security clearance and know where to find me. I'm soaking wet, cold as hell, and what's left of my clothes has blood soaked into them. I'd like to change. Could one of your men drive me to the Volkhov?"

  The inspector did not immediately reply. He just stared with a measured mien Lord thought intentional.

  Orleg returned his security card.

  "Of course, Mr. Commission Lawyer. As you say. I have car made available."

  THREE

  Lord was driven to the Volkhov's main entrance in a police cruiser. The doorman let him inside without a word. Though his hotel identification was ruined, there was no need to show it. He was the only man of color staying there, instantly recognizable, though he was given a strange look at the tattered condition of his clothes.

  The Volkhov was a pre-revolutionary hotel built in the early 1900s. It sat near the center of Moscow, northwest of the Kremlin and Red Square, the Bolshoi Theater diagonally across a busy square. During Soviet times the massive Lenin Museum and monument to Karl Marx had been in full view from the street-side rooms. Both were now gone. Thanks to a coalition of American and European investors, over the last decade the hotel had been restored to its former glory. The opulent lobby and lounges, with their murals and crystal chandeliers, conveyed a tsarist atmosphere of pomp and privilege. But the paintings on the walls--all from Russian artists--reflected capitalism because each was marked for sale. Likewise, the addition of a modern business center, health club, and indoor pool brought the old facility further into the new millennium.

  He rushed straight to the main desk and inquired if Taylor Hayes was in his room. The clerk informed him that Hayes was in the business center. He debated whether or not he should change clothes first, but decided he could not wait. He bounded across the lobby and spotted Hayes through a glass wall, sitting before a computer terminal.

  Hayes was one of four senior managing partners at Pridgen & Woodworth. The firm employed nearly two hundred lawyers, making it one of the largest legal factories in the southeastern United States. Some of the world's biggest insurers, banks, and corporations paid the firm monthly retainers. Its offices in downtown Atlanta dominated two floors of an elegant blue-tinted skyscraper.

  Hayes possessed both a MBA and a law degree, his reputation that of a proficient practitioner in global economics and international law. He was blessed with a lean athletic body, and his maturity was reflected in brown hair streaked with gray. He was a regular on CNN as an on-camera commentator and cast a strong television presence, his gray-blue eyes flashing a personality Lord often thought a combination of showman, bully, and academician.

  Rarely did his mentor appear in court, and even less frequently did he participate in weekly meetings among the four dozen lawyers--Lord included--who manned the firm's International Division. Lord had worked directly with Hayes several times, accompanying him to Europe and Canada, handling research and drafting chores delegated his way. Only in the past few weeks had they spent any prolonged time together, their relationship along the way evolving from "Mr. Hayes" to "Taylor."

  Hayes stayed on the road, traveling at least three weeks every month, catering to the firm's wide array of international clients who didn't mind paying $450 an hour for their lawyer to make house calls. Twelve years before, when Lord joined the firm, Hayes had taken an instant liking to him. He later learned Hayes had specifically asked that he be assigned to International. Certainly an honors graduation from the University of Virginia Law School, a master's in Eastern European history from Emory University, and his language proficiency qualified him. Hayes started assigning him all over Europe, especially in the Eastern bloc. Pridgen & Woodworth represented a wide portfolio of clients heavily invested in the Czech Republic, Poland, Hungary, the Baltic states, and Russia. Satisfied clients meant a steady rise within the firm to senior associate--and soon, he hoped, junior partner. One day, maybe, he was going to be the head of International.

  Provided, of course, he lived to see that day.

  He yanked open the glass door to the business center and entered. Hayes peered up from the computer terminal. "What the hell happened to you?"

  "Not here."

  A dozen men dotted the room. His boss seemed to instantly understand and, without another word, they moved toward one of several lounges dotting the hotel's ground floor, this one adorned with an impressive stained-glass ceiling and pink marble fountain. Over the past few weeks its tables had become their official meeting place.

  They slid into a booth.

  Lord grabbed a waiter's attention and tapped his throat, the sign he wanted vodka. Actually, he needed vodka.

  "Talk to me, Miles," Hayes said.

  He told him what had happened. Everything. Including the comment he heard one of the gunmen utter and Inspector Orleg's speculation that the killing was directed at Bely and the Justice Ministry. Then he said, "Taylor, I think those guys were after me."

  Hayes shook his head. "You don't know that. It could be you got a good look at their faces, and they decided to eliminate a witness. You just happened to be the only black guy around."

  "There were hundreds of people on that street. Why single me out?"

  "Because you were with Bely. That police inspector's right. It could have been a hit on Bely. They could have been watching all day, waiting for the right time. From the sound of it, I think it was."

  "We don't know that."

  "Miles, you just met Bely a couple of days ago. You don't know beans about him. People die around here all the time, for a variety of unnatural reasons."

  Lord glanced down at the dark splotches on his clothes and thought again about AIDS. The waiter arrived with his drink. Hayes tossed the man a few rubles. Lord sucked a breath and gulped a long swallow, letting the fiery alcohol calm his nerves. He'd always liked Russian vodka. It truly was the best in the world. "I only hope to God he's HIV-negative. I'm still wearing his blood." He tabled the glass. "You think I ought to get out of the country?"

  "You want to?"

  "Shit, no. History is about to be made here. I don't want to cut and run. This is something I can tell my grandkids about. I was there when the tsar of all Russia was restored to the throne."

  "Then don't go."

  Another swig of vodka. "I also want to be around to see my grandchildren."

  "How did you get away?"

  "Ran like hell. It was strange, but I thought of my grandfather and 'coon hunting to keep me going."

  A curious look came to Hayes's face.

  "The sport of local rednecks back in the nineteen forties. Take a nigger out in the woods, let the dogs get a good whiff, then give him a thirty-minute head start." Another swallow of vodka. "Assholes never caught my granddaddy."

  "You want me to arrange protection?" Hayes asked. "A bodyguard?"

  "I think that'd be a good idea."

  "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.