The Romanov Prophecy

by Steve Berry

  Yurovsky did not hesitate. "Not a damn thing. We report that nine went down into the shaft, two were burned. We'll try to find them when we're through. Is that clear to everyone?"

  Maks realized none of the men present, especially Yurovsky, wanted to report that two bodies were unaccounted for. No explanation would spare them the committee's wrath. A collective silence confirmed that they were all in agreement.

  More bloodied clothing was tossed into the fire, then nine naked corpses were laid prone beside a dark square in the earth. Maks noticed how the corset laces had left a line of running knots in the dead flesh. The grand duchesses also wore amulets around their necks with a picture of Rasputin and a prayer sewn in. These were yanked off and tossed into the cache pile. He recalled the beauty each of these women had projected in life and was saddened by how none remained in death.

  One of the men reached down and fondled Alexandra's breasts.

  A couple of the other men followed suit.

  "I can rest in peace now that I have squeezed the empress' tits," one of them proclaimed, and the others joined his laughter.

  Maks turned away and watched the fire crackle as cloth turned to ash.

  "Toss the bodies down," Yurovsky said.

  Each man dragged a corpse to the mine and dropped it over the edge. Several seconds of silence passed before a splash of water could be heard far below.

  In less than a minute, all nine were gone.

  Vassily Maks paused, sucked in a few long breaths, then sipped from a vodka glass. "Yurovsky then sat on a tree stump and ate a breakfast of boiled eggs. Nuns from the monastery had delivered them the day before for the tsarevich, and Yurovsky had instructed them that they should pack the eggs well. He knew exactly what was coming. After he stuffed his belly, he tossed grenades down the shaft to collapse the mine."

  "You said something wonderful happened, too," Lord said.

  The old man savored another sip of vodka. "That I did."

  Maks left the burial site with the other men around ten A.M. A guard was posted to keep an eye on the site and Yurovsky headed off to report to the Ural Committee on the night's activity. Luckily, the commandant had not ordered a search for the other two bodies, informing them that he would report they were burned separately.

  Their instructions were to walk back to town and not attract attention. Maks thought the order strange considering how many men had been involved the previous night. There was no way the burial site would stay secret, particularly given the bitter feelings and a lure of wealth. Yurovsky specifically said they were not to speak to anyone about what happened and were to report for duty that afternoon at the Ipatiev house.

  Maks allowed the other four to go ahead. He told them he was going to take a different way back to town to clear his head. Cannon fire rumbled in the distance. His comrades warned that the White Army was within miles of Yekaterinburg, but he assured them no White would want to meet up with him.

  Maks left his companions and lingered a good half an hour before trotting down the trail the truck had used the night before. In daylight Maks noted the thick forest, heavy with underbrush. He found the railway watch station, but did not approach. Instead, he got his bearings and located the spot in the road where the boards had been laid over the mud.

  He glanced around. No one was in sight.

  He pushed his way into the woods.

  "Little One. Are you here?" He kept his voice to a low whisper. "It is me, Little One. Kolya. I have returned."

  Nothing.

  He moved deeper, shoving the prickly brush aside. "Alexie. I have come back. Reveal yourself. Time is short."

  Only the birds replied.

  He stopped in a clearing. The surrounding pines were old growth, their trunks wide with decades of life. One had succumbed to the ages and lay dead on its side, its exposed roots like the image of disjointed arms and legs he knew would never leave his mind. What a disgrace. Who were these demons who claim to be the people's representatives? Is what they propose for Russia any better than the supposed evil they rebelled against? How could it possibly be, considering this monstrous beginning.

  Bolsheviks usually executed their prisoners with a bullet to the base of the neck. Why such barbarism here? Perhaps the indiscriminate slaughter of innocents was a pronouncement of what was to follow. And why all the secrecy? If Nicholas II was an enemy of the state, why not publicize his execution? The answer to that was easy--no one would sanction butchering women and children.

  It was hideous.

  Something snapped behind him.

  His hand went to the pistol stuffed into his belt. He wrapped his fingers around the stock and whirled.

  Down the barrel he spied the soft, almost angelic, face of Alexie Romanov.

  His mother called him Wee One and Sunbeam. He was the focus of the entire family's attention. A bright, affectionate lad with a stubborn streak. Maks had heard the palace talk of his inattentiveness, his dislike of studies, his love of Russian peasant dress. He was spoiled and capricious, once ordering a band of the palace guards to march into the sea, and his father had many times joked about whether Russia would survive Alexie the Terrible.

  But he was now tsar. Alexie II. The anointed, divine successor Maks was sworn to protect.

  Beside Alexie stood his sister, who was in many ways like her brother. Her headstrong ways were legendary, her arrogance beyond the point of tolerance. Her forehead was bloodied, her dress shredded. Through rips in the clothing, he spied a corset. Both children were painted in blood, faces filthy, and they stank of death.

  But they were alive.

  Lord could not believe what he was hearing, but the old man spoke with such conviction that he could not doubt him. Two Romanovs survived the bloody massacre at Yekaterinburg and all because of one man's bravery. Many had postulated such an occurrence, relying on scant evidence and wild speculation.

  But here was the truth.

  "My father took them away from Yekaterinburg by nightfall. There were others waiting on the outskirts to help and they moved the children east. The farther from Moscow, the better."

  "Why not go to the White Army?" he asked.

  "For what? The Whites were not tsarists. They hated Romanovs as much as Reds. Nicholas falsely believed they were his salvation, but they would have probably killed the family. No one cared for Romanovs in 1918, except a precious few."

  "The ones your father worked for?"

  Maks nodded.

  "Who were they?"

  "I have no idea. That information was never passed to me."

  Akilina asked, "What happened to the children?"

  "My father took them away from the civil war that raged for two more years. Past the Urals, deep into Siberia. It was an easy matter to blend them in. No one beyond courtesans in St. Petersburg knew their faces, and most of those people were dead. Old clothes and filthy faces made a good disguise." Maks paused and sipped his drink. "They lived in Siberia with people who were part of the plan, and finally made it to Vladivostok on the Pacific. There, they were smuggled out. To where? I have no idea. That is another leg of your journey, to which I am not privy."

  "What was their condition when your father found them?" Lord asked.

  "Alexie was not hit by any bullet. The tsar's body had shielded him. Anastasia had wounds that healed. Both wore jeweled corsets. The family had sewn the stones into the fabric to be safe from thieves. Currency to be used later, they believed. But the move saved the children's lives."

  "Along with what your father did."

  Maks nodded. "He was a good man."

  "What happened to him?" Akilina asked.

  "He returned here and lived to old age. The purges spared him. He died thirty years ago."

  Lord thought about Yakov Yurovsky. There'd not been so peaceful a fate for the head executioner. He recalled that Yurovsky had died twenty years after Yekaterinburg, also in July, of a bleeding ulcer. But not before Stalin ordered his daughter to a labor camp. The old party
warrior tried to help her, but couldn't. Nobody cared that he'd been the one to kill the tsar. On his deathbed Yurovsky lamented at how fate had turned on him. But Lord understood how that could have happened. The Bible again. Romans 12:19. Vengeance is mine, I will repay.

  "What do we do now?" he asked.

  Maks shrugged. "That information will have to come from my father."

  "How is that possible?"

  "It is sealed in a metal box. I was never allowed to read or see what was inside. Only to convey this message to whoever came and spoke the words."

  Lord was confused. "Where is this box?"

  "On the day he died, I dressed him in his imperial uniform and buried the box with him. It has lain for thirty years on his chest."

  He didn't like the implications.

  "Yes, Raven. My father awaits you in the grave."

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  STARODUG, 4:30 PM

  Hayes watched Feliks Orleg force the wooden door, the burly Russian's breath clouding in the cold dry air. A sign affixed to the brick above read: KAFE SNEZHINKI--IOSIF MAKS, OWNER.

  The jam splintered as the door slammed inward. Orleg disappeared inside.

  The street was empty, all of the surrounding shops closed. Stalin followed Hayes in. Darkness had enveloped them an hour ago, the drive from Moscow to Starodug taking nearly five hours. The Secret Chancellory had thought Stalin's presence important since the mafiya was seen as the most efficient unit to handle the matter, its representative now charged with full responsibility to do whatever was necessary.

  They'd gone first to Iosif Maks's house on the outskirts of town. The local police had discreetly been monitoring the situation since morning and thought him at home, but Maks's wife informed them he'd gone into town to work for a while. A light in the rear of Maks's cafe breathed hope, and Stalin had sprung into action.

  Droopy and Cro-Magnon had been dispatched to the rear of the building. Hayes recalled the names Lord had given his two assailants and thought the descriptions apt. He'd been told about Droopy's abduction at gunpoint from the Moscow Circus and the death of his captor, the man as yet unidentified and unlinked to any Holy Band Semyon Pashenko may or may not head. This whole thing was turning strange, but the seriousness with which the Russians viewed everything was causing him concern. It wasn't often men like these became riled.

  Orleg appeared out of a doorway that led to the rear of the building and rounded a set of glass cases, another man with bushy red hair and mustache in his grasp. Droopy and Cro-Magnon followed.

  "He was on his way out the back door," Orleg said.

  Stalin pointed to an oak chair. "Sit him there."

  Hayes noticed a discreet signal Stalin gave Droopy and Cro-Magnon, both of whom seemed to instantly understand. The splintered front door was closed and positions were taken up at the windows, guns drawn. The local police had been warned off an hour ago by Orleg, an order from a Moscow inspector not something local militsya tended to ignore. Khrushchev had earlier used his government connections to advise the Starodug authorities that a police operation would be occurring in town, the effort linked to a Red Square killing, and there should be no interference.

  "Mr. Maks," Stalin said. "This is a serious matter. I want you to understand that."

  Hayes watched as Maks considered what was said. Not a shred of fear appeared in the man's face.

  Stalin stepped close to the chair. "Yesterday, a man and a woman came here. You recall?"

  "I have many visitors." The voice carried contempt.

  "I'm sure you do. But I would imagine few chornyes frequent your eatery."

  The stout Russian jutted his chin forward. "Fuck off."

  There was confidence in the tone, but Stalin did not react to the rebuke. He simply motioned and Droopy and Cro-Magnon moved in unison, pinning Maks facedown to the plank floor.

  "Find something we can amuse ourselves with," Stalin said.

  Droopy disappeared into the back room while Cro-Magnon maintained a grip. Orleg had been dispatched to the rear door as guard. The inspector thought it important he not be an active participant. Hayes considered this the wisest course as well. They might need militsya contacts in the weeks ahead, and Orleg was the best source they possessed inside the Moscow unit.

  Droopy returned with a roll of duct tape. He wrapped Maks's wrists together tightly. Cro-Magnon yanked the Russian up and plopped him into the rickety oak chair. More tape was wrapped around the chest and legs, securing Maks firmly. A final strip was slapped across his mouth.

  Stalin said, "Now, Mr. Maks, let me tell you what we know. An American by the name of Miles Lord and a Russian woman named Akilina Petrovna came here yesterday. They were asking about Kolya Maks, a person you claimed to have no knowledge about. I want to know who Kolya Maks is and why Lord and the woman are seeking him. You know the answer to my first inquiry, and I am certain you also have the answer to the second."

  Maks shook his head.

  "A foolish decision, Mr. Maks."

  Droopy ripped off a short strip of the gray tape and handed it to Stalin. The two seemed to have done this before. Stalin brushed the hair from his tanned brow and bent down. He loosely pressed the wad of tape over Maks's nose. "When I squeeze that tape tight, your nostrils will be sealed. There will be a bit of air remaining in your lungs, but only a few moments' worth. You will suffocate in a matter of seconds. How about a demonstration?" Stalin squeezed the tape tight to the skin.

  Hayes watched Maks's chest heave. But he knew the thick tape was used on ventilation ducts because it was airtight. The Russian's eyes started to bulge as blood cells searched for oxygen, the skin metamorphosing through a variety of colors, finally settling on ash white. The helpless man rocked in the chair, trying to breathe, but Cro-Magnon held him steady from behind.

  Stalin casually reached up and peeled the tape back from the mouth. Gulps of air were instantly sucked in.

  Color returned to Maks's face.

  "Please answer my two questions," Stalin said.

  All Maks did was breathe.

  "You are obviously a brave man, Mr. Maks. For what, I am not sure. But your courage is to be admired." Stalin paused, seemingly allowing Maks to recover. "I want you to know, while we were at your residence your lovely wife invited us inside. Such a charming woman. We visited and she informed us where you were."

  A wild look came onto Maks's face. Finally. Fear.

  "Not to worry," Stalin said. "She is fine. She believes we work with the government, here to perform an official inquiry. Nothing more. But I assure you this procedure works equally well with women."

  "Goddamn mafiya."

  "This has nothing to do with mafiya. This is much bigger, and I believe you understand that."

  "You will kill me no matter what I say."

  "But I give you my word your wife will not be involved, if you simply tell me what I want to know."

  The redheaded Russian seemed to consider the proposal.

  "You believe what I am telling you?" Stalin calmly asked.

  Maks said nothing.

  "If you continue to remain silent, there should be no doubt in your mind that I will direct these men to retrieve your wife. I will bind her to a chair beside you, and you will watch her suffocate. Then, I will probably let you live, so the memory can haunt you the rest of your life."

  Stalin spoke with a calm reserve, as if negotiating a business deal. Hayes was impressed with the ease in which this handsome man, crouched over in his Armani jeans and cashmere sweater, dished out misery.

  "Kolya Maks is dead," Maks finally said. "His son, Vassily, lives about ten kilometers south of town on the main highway. As to why Lord sought him, I do not know. Vassily is my great-uncle. Members of the family have always operated businesses here in town with a sign out front. That was what Vassily asked of us, and I did as he asked."

  "I believe you are lying, Mr. Maks. Are you of the Holy Band?"

  Maks said nothing. Apparently, there was a limit to his coo
peration.

  "No. You would not admit that, would you? Part of your oath to the tsar."

  Maks stared hard. "Ask Vassily."

  "I shall," Stalin said, as he motioned.

  Droopy slapped more tape over Maks's mouth.

  The Russian rocked in the chair, trying to breathe. His attempt to break free sent the chair careering to the floor.

  His struggle ended a minute later.

  "A good man who will protect his wife," Stalin said, staring down at the corpse. "One to be admired."

  "Will you honor your word?" Hayes asked.

  Stalin stared at him with a look of genuine hurt. "Of course. What kind of person do you take me for?"

  TWENTY-NINE

  6:40 PM

  Lord parked in the woods just off a muddy road. A chilly dusk had evolved into a cold, moonless night. He wasn't wild about the prospect of digging up a thirty-year-old coffin, but little choice remained. He was now convinced two Romanovs had walked away from Yekaterinburg. Whether they eventually made it to safety and ultimately survived to parent offspring was another matter, but there seemed only one way to find out.

  Vassily Maks had provided them with two shovels and a flashlight with weak batteries. He'd warned that the cemetery was deep into the forest, a good thirty kilometers from Starodug, nothing around but thick poplars and an old stone church used occasionally for funerals.

  "The cemetery should be just ahead, down that trail," he said, as they climbed out of the car.

  They were still using the vehicle Iosif Maks had provided that morning. Maks had said he would return by evening with their car. When he'd not arrived by six PM Vassily had told them to go on, he would explain to Iosif and they would both be waiting when they returned. The old man seemed as anxious as they were to learn what secret his father had harbored. He also noted that there was one other piece of information he needed to pass on, but only after they were privy to what his father knew. It was another safety device, one that he intended to pass to his nephew, Iosif, the man he was grooming to assume the duty of keeper once he was gone.