The Romanov Prophecy

by Steve Berry

  "Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from Stolypin's fate?" Hayes said.

  Baklanov did not reply, but his bearded face conveyed that he understood the threat. "How will the state council be chosen?"

  Lenin said, "Half elected, half selected by you."

  "An attempt," Hayes said, "to interject an element of democracy into the process for public relations. But we'll make sure the council is controllable. In matters of policy you will listen to us exclusively. It's taken an enormous amount of work to bring everyone together on this project. You are the centerpiece. We understand that. Discretion is to everyone's advantage, so you won't get any public flak from us. But your obedience cannot, and will not, be in question."

  "And if I refuse, once the mantle of power is mine?"

  "Then your fate," Lenin said, "will be the same as your ancestors'. Let's see. Ivan VI spent his life in solitary confinement. Peter II was beaten to death. Paul I strangled. Alexander II bombed. Nicholas II shot. You Romanovs have not fared well when it comes to assassination. A death suitable to your station can be easily arranged. Then we'll see if the next Romanov will be more cooperative."

  Baklanov said nothing. He merely turned back toward the graying woods and slammed the breech on his gun shut. He motioned to the target attendant.

  A disk launched into the air.

  He fired and missed.

  "Oh, dear," Khrushchev said. "I see we're going to have to work on your aim."

  TWELVE

  MOSCOW, 8:30 PM

  Lord was disturbed that Hayes had suddenly left the city. He felt better with his boss nearby. He was still nervous from the day before, and Ilya Zivon had gone home for the night, promising to be waiting in the Volkhov's lobby at seven AM tomorrow. Lord had pledged to stay in his room, but he was restless and decided to descend to the ground floor for a drink.

  As usual, an older woman was perched behind a simulated wood desk at the end of the hotel's third-floor corridor--no way to get to or from the elevators without passing her. She was a dezhurnaya. Another holdover from the Soviet time when every floor of every hotel was staffed with one, all on the KGB payroll, providing a method for monitoring foreign guests. Now they were nothing more than elaborate stewards.

  "Going out, Mr. Lord?"

  "Just down to the bar."

  "Were you at the commission proceedings today?"

  He'd made no secret of his commission activities, arriving and leaving each day with his credentials clipped to his suit.

  He nodded.

  "Will they find us a new tsar?"

  "Do you want them to?"

  "Very much. This country needs a return to its roots. That is our problem."

  He was curious.

  "We are a huge place that forgets its past easily. The tsar, a Romanov, will give us back our roots." She sounded proud.

  "What if the chosen one is not a Romanov?"

  "Then it will not work," she declared. "Tell them not to even consider such. The people want a Romanov. The closest there is to Nicholas II."

  They chatted a little longer, and before he headed for the elevator he promised to pass the woman's thoughts along.

  Downstairs, he walked toward the same lounge he and Hayes had taken refuge in yesterday after the shooting. He was passing one of the restaurants when a familiar face emerged. It was the older man from the archives, with three others.

  "Good evening, Professor Pashenko," Lord said in Russian, getting the man's attention.

  "Mr. Lord. What a coincidence. You here for dinner?"

  "This is my hotel."

  "I am with friends. We often dine here. The restaurant is quite good." Pashenko introduced his companions.

  After some small talk, Lord excused himself. "It was good to see you again, Professor." He motioned ahead. "I was on my way for a quick drink before bed."

  "Might I join you?" Pashenko asked. "I so enjoyed our talk."

  He hesitated a moment, then said, "If you like. Some company would be welcome."

  Pashenko bid his friends good night and followed him into the lounge. A light piano medley floated across the darkened room. Only about half the tables were occupied. They sat and Lord asked a waiter to bring a carafe of vodka. "You disappeared quickly yesterday," he said.

  "I could see that you were busy. And I had taken up enough of your time."

  The waiter arrived with drinks, and his guest graciously paid before he had a chance to get out his money. He thought about what the woman upstairs had said. "Professor, might I ask you something?"

  "Of course."

  "If the commission chose someone other than a Romanov, what would be the effect?"

  Pashenko poured a drink for them both. "It would be a mistake. The throne belonged to the Romanov family at the time of the revolution."

  "Some would argue that Nicholas gave up the throne when he abdicated in March 1917."

  Pashenko chuckled. "With a gun to his head. I hardly think anyone would seriously say he freely abandoned his throne and his son's birthright."

  "Who do you believe has the best claim?"

  The Russian lifted one eyebrow. "A difficult question. Are you familiar with the Russian law of succession?"

  He nodded. "The Emperor Paul established the act in 1797. Five criteria were set. Any pretender must be male, as long as there is an eligible male. He must be Orthodox. His mother and wife must have been Orthodox. Any marriage must be to a woman of equal rank from a ruling house. And he can only marry with permission of the ruling tsar. Lose any one of the five and you're out of the running."

  Pashenko grinned. "You do know our history. And divorce?"

  "The Russians never cared about that. Divorced women married routinely into the royal family. I always found that interesting. An almost fanatical devotion to Orthodox doctrine, yet a practical bending in the name of politics."

  "You understand there is no guarantee the Tsarist Commission will adhere to the Succession Act."

  "I believe they'll have to. That law has never been repealed, except by communist manifesto, which no one recognizes as valid."

  Pashenko cocked his head to one side. "But would not the five criteria literally rule out all pretenders?"

  It was a point he and Hayes had discussed. The man was right--the succession law was a problem. And the few Romanovs who survived the revolution weren't making things any easier. They'd divided themselves into five distinct clans, only two of which--the Mikhailovichi and the Vladimirovichi--possessed strong enough genetic ties to vie for the throne.

  "It is a dilemma," the professor said. "But we have an unusual situation here. An entire ruling family was eliminated. It is easy to see why there would be confusion over succession. The commission will have to unravel this puzzle and select a suitable tsar the people will accept."

  "I'm concerned about the process. Baklanov claims that several of the Vladimirovichi are traitors. I've been told he plans to produce evidence to support his allegations, if any of their names are placed in nomination."

  "And you worry about him?"

  "Very much."

  "Have you found anything that could jeopardize his claim?"

  Lord shook his head. "Nothing that relates to him. He's Mikhailovichi, the closest by blood to Nicholas II. His grandmother was Xenia, Nicholas's sister. They fled Russia to Denmark in 1917, after the Bolsheviks came to power. Their seven children grew up in the West and subsequently scattered. Baklanov's parents lived in Germany and France. He went to the best schools, but he'd not been in direct line until the premature deaths of his cousins. Now he's the eldest male. I haven't found anything, as yet, that could hurt him."

  Except, he thought, the possibility that a direct descendant of Nicholas and Alexandra may be walking around somewhere. But that was too fanciful an idea to merit consideration.

  Or, at least, until yesterday it seemed that way.

  Pashenko held his vodka glass close to his aged face. "I am familiar with Baklanov. His only problem may be
his wife. She's Orthodox with a touch of royal blood. But, of course, not a member of any ruling house. Yet how could she be? There are so few left. Surely the Vladimirovichi will claim this a disqualification, but in my opinion the commission will be forced to ignore that requirement. I fear no one can meet it. And certainly none of the surviving descendants can claim permission of the tsar to marry, since there has been no tsar for decades."

  Lord had already come to that conclusion himself.

  "I don't think the Russian people will care about marriage," Pashenko went on. "It's what the new tsar and tsarina do after that will count far more. These surviving Romanovs can be petty. They have a history of infighting. That cannot be tolerated, especially publicly at the commission."

  Recalling again Lenin's note and Alexandra's message, he decided to see what Pashenko knew. "Have you given any more thought to what I showed you yesterday in the archives?"

  The older man grinned. "I understand your worry. What if there is a direct descendant from Nicholas II still alive? That would negate every claim from every Romanov, save that one. Surely, Mr. Lord, you cannot believe anyone survived the massacre at Yekaterinburg?"

  "I don't know what to believe. But, no, if the accounts of the massacre are accurate, no one survived. Still, Lenin seemed to doubt the reports. I mean, there's no way Yurovsky was going to tell Moscow he was two bodies short."

  "I agree. Though there is now indisputable evidence that was precisely the case. The bones of Alexie and Anastasia are gone."

  Lord recalled 1979, when a retired geologist, Alexander Audonin, and a Russian filmmaker, Geli Ryabov, found where Yurovsky and his henchmen had buried the murdered Imperial family. They spent months talking with relatives of guards and members of the Ural Soviet, and scouring suppressed papers and books, one of which was a handwritten account by Yurovsky himself, given to them by the chief executioner's eldest son, which filled in many gaps and detailed precisely where the bodies had been hidden. But the Soviet political climate had made all those who'd possessed the account fearful of revealing its existence, let alone searching for the bodies. It was not until 1991, after the communist fall, that Audonin and Ryabov followed the clues and exhumed the bones, which were positively identified through DNA analysis. Pashenko was correct. Only nine skeletons came from the ground. And though there had been a thorough search of the grave site, the remains of Nicholas II's two youngest children were never found.

  "They could simply be buried at another spot," Pashenko noted.

  "But what did Lenin mean when he said that the reports on what happened in Yekaterinburg weren't entirely accurate?"

  "Hard to say. Lenin was a complex man. There's no doubt he alone ordered the entire family shot. Records clearly demonstrate the orders came from Moscow and were personally approved by Lenin. The last thing he wanted was the White Army to liberate the tsar. The Whites weren't royalists, but the act could have been a rallying point that would have spelled the end of the revolution."

  "What do you think he meant when he wrote, The information concerning Felix Yussoupov corroborates the apparently false reports from Yekaterinburg?"

  "Now that is interesting. I've thought about that, along with Alexandra's account of what Rasputin told her. That is new information, Mr. Lord. I consider myself quite schooled in tsarist history, but I have never read anything connecting Yussoupov and the royal family after 1918."

  He refilled his vodka glass. "Yussoupov murdered Rasputin. Many say that act hastened the monarchy's downfall. Both Nicholas and Alexandra hated Yussoupov for what he did."

  "Which adds to the mystery. Why would the royal family have anything to do with him?"

  "If I recall, most of the grand dukes and duchesses applauded the decision to kill the starets."

  "Quite true. And that was, perhaps, Rasputin's greatest damage. He divided the Romanov family. It was Nicholas and Alexandra versus everyone else."

  "Rasputin was such an enigma," Lord said. "A Siberian peasant who could directly influence the Tsar of All Russia. A charlatan with imperial power."

  "Many would debate that he was a charlatan. A large number of his prophecies came true. He said the tsarevich would not die of hemophilia, and he didn't. He foretold that the Empress Alexandra would see his birthplace in Siberia, and she did--on the way to Tobolsk as a prisoner. He also said that if a member of the royal family killed him, the tsar's family would not survive two years. Yussoupov married a royal niece, murdered the starets in December 1916, and the Romanov family was slaughtered nineteen months later. Not bad for a charlatan."

  Lord was not impressed by holy men with a supposed conduit to God. His father had claimed to be one. Thousands had flocked to revivals to hear him shout the word and heal the sick. Of course, all that was forgotten hours later when one of the choir women arrived at his room. He'd read a lot about Rasputin and how he had seduced women the same way.

  He flushed the thoughts of his father away and said, "It's never been proven that any of Rasputin's predictions were memorialized while he was alive. Most came later from his daughter, who seemed to believe it was her life's destiny to vindicate her father's image. I've read her book."

  "That may be true, until today."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Alexandra's note talks about the royal family dying within two years. The sheet was dated in her own hand, October 28, 1916. That was two months before Rasputin was murdered. Apparently, he told her something. A prophecy, she said. And she memorialized it. So you have a historically important document in your possession, Mr. Lord."

  He'd not considered the full implications of his discovery, but the professor was right.

  "Do you intend to go to St. Petersburg?" Pashenko asked.

  "I didn't before. But I think I will now."

  "A good decision. Your credentials can gain you access to parts of the archives none of us have been able to see. Maybe there will be more to find, especially since now you know what to look for."

  "That's the whole problem, Professor. I really don't know what I'm looking for."

  The academician seemed unconcerned. "Not to worry. I have a feeling you will do just fine."

  THIRTEEN

  ST. PETERSBURG

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 14

  12:30 PM

  Lord settled into the archive, located on the fourth floor of a post-revolutionary building that faced busy Nevsky Prospekt. He'd managed to book two seats on a nine AM Aeroflot shuttle from Moscow. The flight, though smooth, was nerve-racking, budget cuts and a lack of trained personnel taking their toll on the Russian national airline. But he was in a hurry and didn't have time to drive or take the train for the eight-hundred-mile round trip.

  Ilya Zivon had been waiting in the Volkhov's lobby at seven AM as promised, ready for another day of escorting. The Russian had been surprised when Lord told him to drive to the airport and had wanted to call Taylor Hayes for instructions. But Lord informed him that Hayes was out of town and had left no telephone number. Unfortunately, the return flight for the afternoon was full, so he'd reserved two tickets on the overnight train from St. Petersburg back to Moscow.

  Whereas Moscow projected an air of reality, with dirty streets and unimaginative structures, St. Petersburg was a fairy-tale city of baroque palaces, cathedrals, and canals. While the rest of the nation slept under a dull gray sameness, here pink granite and yellow and green stucco facades thrilled the eyes. He recalled how the Russian novelist Nikolai Gogol had described the city: Everything in it breathed falsehood. Then and now the city seemed busy with itself, its great architects all Italian, the layout reflecting a distinctive European air. It had served as the capital until the communists took over in 1917, and there was serious discussion of moving the center of power back once the new tsar was coronated.

  The traffic from the airport south of town had been light for a weekday morning in a city of five million. His commission credentials had at first been questioned, but a call to Moscow had verified his identity, a
nd he was given access to the archive's entire collection, including the Protective Papers.

  The St. Petersburg depository, though small, contained a wealth of firsthand writings from Nicholas, Alexandra, and Lenin. And just as Semyon Pashenko had said, the tsar and tsarina's diaries and letters were all there, taken from Tsarskoe Selo and Yekaterinburg after the royal family was murdered.

  What sprang from the pages was a portrait of two people clearly in love. Alexandra wrote with the flair of a romantic poet, her writings strewn with expressions of physical passion. Lord spent two hours thumbing through boxes of her correspondence, more to get a feel as to how this complex and intense woman composed her thoughts than to find anything.

  It was midafternoon when he came across a set of diaries from 1916. The bound volumes were stuffed into a musty cardboard container labeled N & A. He was always amazed at how Russians stored records. So meticulous about their creation, yet so careless in their preservation. The diaries were stacked in chronological order, inscriptions in the front of each clothbound book revealing most to be gifts from Alexandra's daughters. A few had swastikas embroidered on the cover. A little strange to see the image, but he knew that before Hitler adopted the design it was an ancient mark of well-being that Alexandra used liberally.

  He thumbed through several volumes and found nothing beyond the usual rants of two love-torn mates. Then he came upon two stacks of correspondence. From his briefcase he obtained the photocopy of Alexandra's letter to Nicholas dated October 28, 1916. Comparing the copy to the originals, he discovered that the handwriting, along with the frilly border of flowers and leaves, was identical.

  Why had this one letter had been secreted away in Moscow?

  Perhaps more of the Soviet purge of tsarist history, he assumed. Or simple paranoia. But what made this single letter so important that it was sealed in a pouch with instructions not to open for twenty-five years? One thing was certain. Semyon Pashenko was right. He clearly possessed a historically important document.