The Romanov Prophecy

by Steve Berry

  A front-page article recapped the Tsarist Commission's activities of the past week. After the opening session Wednesday, nominations had started on Thursday. Stefan Baklanov's had been the first name placed forward, his candidacy proffered, as arranged, by the popular mayor of Moscow. The Secret Chancellory thought using someone the people respected would give further credibility to Baklanov, and the ploy had apparently worked as the Izvestia reporter editorialized about the support growing for Baklanov's selection.

  Two rival clans of surviving Romanovs quickly nominated their senior members, asserting a closer blood and marital tie to Nicholas II. Three more names had been offered, but the reporter gave none a serious chance, the three all distant Romanovs. A boxed story off to the right noted that there actually might be a lot of Russians with Romanov blood. Laboratories in St. Petersburg, Novosibirsk, and Moscow were offering, for fifty rubles, to test a person's blood and compare genetic markers to those of the imperial family. Apparently, a lot of people had paid the fee and taken the test.

  The initial debate among commission members on the nominees had been intense, but Hayes knew it was just for show since, at last report, fourteen of seventeen members were bought. Debate had been his idea. Better to let the members appear in disagreement and be slowly swayed than for a quick decision to be made.

  The story ended with a note that the nomination process would conclude the next day, an initial vote on narrowing the field to three candidates was scheduled for Tuesday, and then two more days of debate would be held before a final vote on Thursday.

  By the coming Friday it should all be over.

  Stefan Baklanov would become Stefan I, Tsar of All Russia. Hayes's clients would be happy, the Secret Chancellory would be satisfied, and he'd be several million dollars richer.

  He finished the article, marveling at the Russian penchant for public shows. They even had coined a name for such spectacles: pokazukha. The best example he could recall was when Gerald Ford visited in the 1970s, his route from the airport made more picturesque by the fir trees that had been cut from a nearby forest and stuck upright in the snow.

  The waiter brought his steaming blinys and coffee. He thumbed through the rest of the paper, glancing at stories here and there. One in particular caught his eye. ANASTASIA ALIVE AND LIVING WITH HER BROTHER THE TSAR. Shock slid down his spine until he read further and noted the article was a review of a play that had recently opened in Moscow:

  Inspired by a cheesy conspiracy book found in a secondhand store, English playwright Lorna Gant became intrigued by stories surrounding the alleged incomplete execution of the royal family. "I was fascinated with the Anastasia/Anna Anderson thing," Gant said, referring to the most famous Anastasia wannabe.

  The play suggests that Anastasia and her brother Alexie managed to escape death at Yekaterinburg in 1918. Their bodies have never been found and speculation has abounded for decades over what really happened. All fertile grist for the playwright's imagination.

  "It has an Elvis-is-alive-and-living-in-Alaska-with-Marilyn ring to it," Gant says. "There's a dark humor and irony to the message."

  He read on and saw that the play seemed more a farce of the idea than a serious rendition on possible Romanov survivors, the reviewer comparing it to "Chekhov meets Carol Burnett." In the end the reviewer recommended no one bother with the performance.

  A chair sliding from the table interrupted his reading.

  He glanced up from the paper as Feliks Orleg sat down.

  "Your breakfast looks good," the inspector said.

  "I'd order you some, but this is a bit too public a place for you." He made no attempt to hide his contempt.

  Orleg slid the plate close and reached for the fork. Hayes decided to leave the bastard alone. Orleg draped syrup over the thin pancakes and eagerly devoured them.

  He folded and tabled the newspaper. "Some coffee?" he asked, his sarcasm clear.

  "Juice would be fine," the Russian muttered through a full mouth.

  He hesitated, then signaled the waiter and told him to bring a tumbler of orange juice. Orleg finished the blinys and wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. "I've heard this hotel prepares a fine breakfast, but I can hardly afford an appetizer."

  "Luckily you might soon come into some wealth."

  A smile creased the inspector's chapped lips. "I'm not doing this for the pleasure of the company, I assure you."

  "And the purpose of this lovely Sunday-morning visit?"

  "The police bulletin on Lord worked. He has been located."

  His interest was piqued.

  "In Starodug. About five hours south."

  He instantly recalled the town from the materials Lord had found in the archives. Lenin mentioned it along with a name: Kolya Maks. What had the Soviet leader said? The village of Starodug has likewise been noted by two other similarly persuaded White Guardsmen. There is something occurring, of that I am now certain.

  Now, so was he. Too many coincidences.

  Lord had obviously gotten himself into something.

  Sometime during Friday night, Lord's room had been mysteriously emptied. Members of the Secret Chancellory were clearly upset, and if they were worried, he was worried. They'd told him to handle the situation, and he intended to do just that.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  "Lord and a woman were found at a hotel."

  He waited for more. Orleg was apparently enjoying the moment.

  "What the local militsya lack in knowledge, they make up for in stupidity. They raided the hotel, but neglected to cover the rear. Lord and the woman escaped through a window. They tried to shoot him, but he managed to get away."

  "Did they learn why he was there?"

  "He was asking questions in a local eatery about a Kolya Maks."

  Confirmation. "What orders did you give the locals?"

  "I told them to do nothing until they hear from me."

  "We need to leave immediately."

  "I thought as much. That's why I'm here. And I've even had my breakfast now."

  The waiter brought the orange juice.

  Hayes stood from the table. "Drink up. I have to make a call before we go."

  TWENTY-SIX

  STARODUG, 10:00 AM

  Akilina watched as Lord slowed the car. A cold rain smacked the windshield. Last night, Iosif Maks had stashed them in a house west of Starodug. It was owned by another Maks family member who'd provided two pallets before an open hearth.

  Maks had returned a couple of hours ago and explained that the police had come to his house late last night inquiring about a black man and Russian woman who'd visited his eatery earlier. He'd told them exactly what had happened, most of which was witnessed by the militsya officer. They apparently believed what he said, since they had not returned. Thankfully, no one witnessed the escape from the Okatyabrsky.

  Maks also left them a vehicle, a banged-up, cream-colored Mercedes coupe caked in black mud, its leather seats brittle from exposure. And he provided directions to where the son of Kolya Maks lived.

  The farmhouse was single-story and built of double planks caulked with a thick layer of oakum, the roof's bark shingles darkened by mildew. A stone chimney puffed a thick column of gray vapor into the cold air. An open field spread in the distance, plows and harrows stored under a lean-to.

  The entire scene reminded Akilina of the cabin her grandmother had once occupied, a similar grove of white birch rising to one side. She'd always thought autumn such a sad time of year. The season arrived without warning, then evaporated overnight into winter. Its presence meant the end of green forests and grassy meadows--more reminders of her childhood, the village near the Urals where she was raised, and the school where they all wore matching dresses with pinafores and red ribbons. Between lessons they'd been drilled about the oppression workers suffered during tsarist times, how Lenin had changed all that, why capitalism was evil, and what the collective expected from each of its members. Lenin's portrait had hung in every classr
oom, in every home. Any challenge to him was wrong. Comfort was derived in knowing that ideas were shared by everyone.

  The individual did not exist.

  But her father had been an individual.

  All he'd wanted was to live with his new wife and child in Romania. But the kollektiv would not allow such a simple thing. Good parents were expected to be party members. They had to be. Those who did not possess "revolutionary ideals" should be reported. One famous story was of a son who informed on his father for selling documents to rebellious farmers. The son testified against the father and was later murdered by the farmers. Songs and poems were subsequently written about him, and all children were taught to idealize such dedication to the Motherland.

  But why?

  What was admirable about being a traitor to your own family?

  "I've only been into rural Russia twice," Lord said, interrupting her thoughts. "Both under controlled circumstances. But this is quite different. It's another world."

  "In tsarist times they called the village mir. Peace. A good description since few ever left their village. It was their world. A place for peace."

  Outside, the factory smog of Starodug was gone, replaced with verdant trees, green hills, and hay fields that she imagined in summer were alive with meadowlarks.

  Lord parked the car in front of the cabin.

  The man who answered the door was short and sturdy with reddish brown hair and a face round and flush like a beet. He was, Akilina estimated, close to seventy, but moved with surprising agility. He studied them with scrutinizing eyes that she thought akin to those of a border guard, then invited them inside.

  The cabin was spacious with a single bedroom, kitchen, and a cozy den. The furniture was a mismatched decor of necessity and practicality. The floors were wide planks, sanded smooth, their varnish nearly gone. There were no electric lights. All the rooms were lit by smoky oil lamps and a fireplace.

  "I am Vassily Maks. Kolya was my father."

  They were seated at a kitchen table. A wood-burning stove was warming a pot of lapsha--the homemade noodles Akilina had always loved. The scent of roasted meat was strong, lamb if she wasn't mistaken, tempered by the musty smell of cheap tobacco. One corner of the room was devoted to an icon surrounded by candles. Her grandmother had maintained a holy corner until the day she disappeared.

  "I prepared lunch," Maks said. "I hope you're hungry."

  "A meal would be welcome," Lord said. "It smells good."

  "Cooking is one of the few pleasures I have left to enjoy." Maks stood and moved toward the stove. He stirred the simmering pot of noodles, his back to them. "My nephew said you had something to say."

  Lord seemed to understand. "He that endureth to the end shall be saved."

  The old man tabled the spoon, then sat back down. "I never believed I would hear those words. I thought them a figment of my father's imagination. And to be spoken by a man of color." Maks turned to Akilina. "Your name means 'eagle,' child."

  "So I'm told."

  "You are a lovely creature."

  She smiled.

  "I hope this quest does not endanger that beauty."

  "How would it?" she asked.

  The old man rubbed his bulbous nose. "When my father informed me of the duty expected, he warned that perhaps it might cost my life one day. I never took him seriously . . . until this moment."

  "What is it you know?" Lord asked.

  The old man let out a breath. "I think about what happened often. My father told me I would, but I didn't believe him. I can almost see them being awakened in the middle of night and hustled downstairs. They think the White Army is about to overrun the town and free them. Yurovsky, the mad Jew, tells them an evacuation is necessary, but first a photo needs to be taken for Moscow, to prove them alive and well. He tells everyone where to stand. But there is to be no photo. Instead, men with guns come into the room and the tsar is told that he and his family are to be executed. Then, Yurovsky points his gun."

  The old man paused and shook his head.

  "Let me prepare our lunch. Then I will tell you all about what happened in Yekaterinburg that July night."

  Yurovsky fired the Colt pistol and the head of Nicholas II, Tsar of All Russia, exploded in a shower of blood. The tsar fell back toward his son. Alexandra had just started to make the sign of the cross when the other gunmen opened fire. Bullets raked the tsarina and toppled her from the chair. Yurovsky had specifically assigned a victim for each gunman and instructed that the shots be to the heart to minimize bleeding. But Nicholas's body erupted in a fury of impacts as the other eleven executioners decided to take aim at their once divine ruler.

  The shooters were arrayed in rows of three. The second and third rows were firing over the shoulders of the first, so close that many on the first row were being burned by hot exhaust. Kolya Maks stood in the first row, his neck singed twice. He'd been instructed to shoot Olga, the oldest daughter, but could not bring himself to do it. He'd been sent to Yekaterinburg to orchestrate the family's escape, arriving three days earlier, but events had accelerated at lightning pace.

  The guards had been called into Yurovsky's office earlier. The commandant had told them, "Today, we are going to be killing the entire family and the doctor and servants living with them. Warn the detachment not to be alarmed if they hear shots." Eleven men, including Maks, were selected. It had been a stroke of luck that Maks was chosen, but he'd come highly recommended from the Ural Soviet--a man who could be trusted to follow orders--and apparently Yurovsky was in need of loyalty.

  Two Latvians immediately spoke up and said they would not shoot women. Maks had been impressed that such brutal men possessed a conscience. Yurovsky did not object to their refusal and replaced them with two more who eagerly stepped forward and expressed no reservations. The final regiment included six Latvians and five Russians, plus Yurovsky. Hardened men with the names of Nikulin, Ermakov, two Medvedevs, and Pavel. Names Kolya Maks would forever recall.

  A truck was parked outside, its engine revved to cover the gunfire, which came in a fusillade. The smoke from the barrels clothed the scene in a thick, eerie fog. It was becoming difficult to see, to tell who was shooting whom. Maks reasoned that several hours of hard drinking had dulled senses to the point that no one other than himself, and perhaps Yurovsky, was sober. Few would remember the details, only that they fired at anything that moved. He'd been careful with his alcohol consumption, knowing his head had to stay clear.

  Maks watched Olga's body crumple after a bullet to the head. The shooters were aiming at each victim's heart, but something strange was happening. The bullets simply ricocheted off the women's chests and darted around the room like hail. One of the Latvians muttered that God was protecting them. Another wondered aloud if all this was wise.

  Maks watched as Grand Duchesses Tatiana and Marie tried to cower in one corner, their arms raised for protection. Bullets raked their young bodies, some bouncing off, others penetrating. Two men broke formation and moved close, shooting both girls in the head.

  The valet, the cook, and the doctor were all shot where they stood, their bodies dropping like targets at an arcade. The maid was the crazy one. She flailed wildly around the room, screaming, shielding herself with a pillow. Several of the shooters adjusted and fired into the pillow. The bullets careered away. It was frightening. What protection did these people possess? The maid's head finally succumbed to a clean shot and her screams halted.

  "Stop firing," Yurovsky yelled.

  The room went silent.

  "The shots will be heard from the street. Finish them off with bayonets."

  The shooters tossed their revolvers aside and grabbed their American Winchester rifles, moving into the room.

  Somehow, the maid had survived the shot to the head. She bolted upright and started picking her way over the bleeding corpses, softly wailing. Two Latvians moved toward her and thrust their daggers into the pillow she still clutched. The blades were dull and did not penetrate
. She grabbed one of the bayonets and started shrieking. The men moved toward her. One crashed his rifle butt down on her head. The pitiful moan that came reminded Maks of a wounded animal. More rifle butts went down and her moans stopped. Men jabbed their bayonets into the body as if exorcizing a demon, too many thrusts for Maks to count.

  Maks moved toward the tsar. Thick rivulets of blood rushed over the field shirt and trousers. The others were concentrating their bayonets on the maid and one of the grand duchesses. Acrid smoke filled the air and stifled his breath. Yurovsky was examining the tsarina.

  Maks bent down and rolled Nicholas to one side. The tsarevich was underneath, dressed in the same military field shirt, trousers, boots, and forage cap he'd seen the boy wear many times. Just like his father. He knew they enjoyed dressing alike.

  The boy opened his eyes. The look was one of terror. Maks immediately clamped a hand over the boy's mouth. He then brought a finger to his lips.

  "Stay still. Be dead," he mouthed.

  The boy's eyes closed.

  Maks stood and aimed his pistol down at the floor just beside the boy's head and fired. The bullet ripped into the planking and Alexie jarred. Maks fired again on the other side and hoped no one noticed the body jerk, but everyone seemed consumed with the surrounding carnage. Eleven victims, twelve executioners, the space tight, time short.

  "Was the tsarevich still alive?" Yurovsky asked through the smoke.

  "Not anymore," Maks said.

  The answer seemed to satisfy the commandant.

  Maks rolled the bloodied body of Nicholas II back on top of the boy. He looked up as one of the Latvians moved toward the youngest daughter, Anastasia. She'd fallen in the initial volley and lay prostrate on the floor amid a thickening sea of blood. The girl was moaning, and Maks wondered if some of the bullets had found their mark. The Latvian was raising his rifle butt to finish the job when Maks stopped him.