The Romanov Prophecy

by Steve Berry

  "The grave was Kolya Maks'. Vassily Maks was his son," Stalin said. "Kolya was a member of the palace guard in Nicholas' time. He traded sides at the revolution and was in Yekaterinburg at the time of the imperial executions. He is not listed as having been on the death squad, but that means nothing, considering the accuracy of that era's record keeping. No statement was ever taken from him. He was buried in some sort of uniform that was not Soviet. I assume it was imperial."

  Brezhnev shifted in the chair and turned to Hayes. "Your Mr. Lord obviously needed something from that grave. Something he now has."

  Hayes and Stalin had personally gone to the grave late last night, after the men had returned with news of what happened. There was nothing to find, and the two Makses were left with their ancestor.

  "Vassily Maks took us there so he could get that message to Lord," Hayes said. "It is the only reason he agreed to go."

  "Why do you say that?" Lenin asked.

  "He is a man who apparently took his duty to heart. He would not have revealed the grave's location, save for the fact he needed Lord to know something. He knew he was going to die. He just needed to complete his duty before that happened." His patience with his Russian associates was running thin. "Could you please tell me what this is all about? You have me parading across this country killing people, yet I have no idea why. What are Lord and the woman after? Are there Romanovs who survived Yekaterinburg?"

  "I agree," Rasputin said. "I want to know what is happening. I was told the situation with succession was under control. There were no problems. Yet there is this sense of urgency."

  Brezhnev banged his vodka glass onto a small table beside him. "For decades there have been rumors that some of the imperial family were not murdered. Grand duchesses and tsarevichs have appeared all over the world. After our civil war ended in 1920, Lenin became convinced that a Romanov survivor existed. He learned that Felix Yussoupov had perhaps spirited away at least one Romanov. But he could never verify the fact, and his health failed before he could determine more."

  Hayes was still skeptical. "Yussoupov murdered Rasputin. Nicholas and Alexandra hated him for that. Why in the world would he be involved with the imperial family?"

  Khrushchev answered him. "Yussoupov was a unique individual. He suffered from the malady of sudden ideas. He murdered the starets on an impulse, thinking he was freeing the imperial family from a devil's grasp. Interestingly, his punishment was merely banishment to one of his estates in central Russia. That move saved his life, since he was not around when the February and October Revolutions occurred. A lot of Romanovs and nobles died then."

  Hayes was something of a student of Russian history, the fate of the imperial family having served as fascinating reading on a long plane ride. He recalled that Grand Duke Michael, Nicholas's younger brother, was shot six days before Yekaterinburg. Alexandra's sister, Nicholas's cousin Serge, and four other grand dukes were all murdered the day after, thrown down a mine shaft in the Urals. More grand dukes and duchesses died in the months that followed. By 1919 the Romanov family was devastated. Only a precious few escaped to the West.

  Khrushchev said, "Rasputin predicted that if he was murdered by boyars, their hands would remain soiled by blood. He also said that if an imperial relative carried out his murder none of the family would live more than two years, and they would be killed by the Russian people. Rasputin was murdered in December 1916 by the husband of a royal niece. The imperial family was wiped from the face of the Earth by August 1918."

  Hayes was not impressed. "We have no proof that this prediction actually occurred."

  Brezhnev leveled a tight gaze at him. "We do now. The writing your Mr. Lord found, in Alexandra's own hand, confirms that Rasputin told the tsarina his prediction in October 1916, two months before he died. This country's great founder"--Brezhnev's sarcasm was clear--"our beloved Lenin, evidently thought the matter quite serious. And Stalin was petrified enough to seal everything and kill anyone with knowledge."

  Hayes had not realized the significance of what Lord had found until this moment.

  Lenin said, "The provisional government offered Yussoupov the throne in March 1917, after both Nicholas and his brother, Michael, abdicated. The Romanov family was finished. So the government thought the Yussoupov family could take over. Felix was widely respected for killing Rasputin. The people thought him a savior. But he refused the offer. After the Soviets took full control, Yussoupov finally fled the nation."

  "If Yussoupov was anything, he was a patriot," Khrushchev said. "Hitler offered him the governorship of Russia, once Germany had conquered, and he absolutely refused. The communists offered him a job as curator of several museums, and he said no. He loved Mother Russia and apparently never realized, until it was far too late, that murdering Rasputin was a mistake. He could never have intended for the imperial family to be killed. He apparently harbored enormous guilt over the tsar's death. So he formulated a plan."

  "How do you know this?" Hayes asked.

  Stalin smiled. "The archives have yielded their secrets since the communist fall. It's like a matryoshky doll--each layer peeled away to reveal the next. No one wanted this to happen, but we all believed now would be the time of revelation."

  "You suspected all along a Romanov survived?"

  "We suspected nothing," Brezhnev said. "We simply feared that whatever was put into place decades ago might come to fruition with the reemergence of imperial rule. It seems we were right. The involvement of your Mr. Lord was not expected, but perhaps it is fortunate the situation has developed as it has."

  Stalin said, "Our state archives are full of reports from people who participated in the executions at Yekaterinburg. But Yussoupov was clever. He involved the fewest individuals possible with his plan. Lenin and Stalin's secret police learned only minor details. Nothing was ever confirmed."

  Hayes sipped his coffee, then asked, "From what I recall, Yussoupov lived a modest life after fleeing Russia."

  "He followed the tsar's lead and repatriated most of his foreign investments when World War I broke out," Brezhnev said. "Which meant his cash and stocks were here. The Bolsheviks seized all his Russian property, which included the art and jewels the Yussoupov family had amassed. But Felix was smarter than he appeared. He'd invested in Europe, especially Switzerland and France. He projected a modest lifestyle, but he always had money. Documents indicate that he traded in American railway stock in the nineteen twenties and converted his investment into gold before your Depression. The Soviets searched for the vault where that gold was deposited, but found nothing."

  Lenin shifted in his chair. "He may also have managed tsarist investments that escaped Bolshevik reach. Many believed Nicholas II secreted millions of rubles away in foreign banks, and Yussoupov made many trips to the United States until his death in the late nineteen sixties."

  Hayes was tired, but there was adrenaline flowing through his veins. "So what do we do now?"

  "We must find Miles Lord and the woman," Khrushchev said. "I passed an alert to all border stations, but I am afraid it is too late. We don't maintain checks at the Ukrainian border any longer, and that was the nearest exit point. Mr. Hayes, you have the capacity to travel wherever and whenever it is necessary. We need you to be ready. Lord will most likely make contact. There is no reason for him to mistrust you. When he does, act quickly. I think you now understand the gravity of the situation."

  "Oh, yes," he said. "I see the picture real clear."

  THIRTY-ONE

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  7:15 AM

  Akilina watched as Lord slid the key into the lock and opened the door to his apartment. She followed him inside.

  They'd slept in the Kiev airport Saturday night, catching an Aeroflot shuttle Sunday morning to Frankfurt, Germany. All of the afternoon and early-evening flights were booked, so they'd waited in the terminal for a late-night Delta nonstop to Atlanta, two seats available in coach, which Lord bought with half the money Semyon Pashenko had pro
vided.

  They'd stashed the gold bar in an airport locker in Kiev, worried the whole time how secure it would be, but Akilina agreed with Lord's conclusion--there was no way to bring the ingot out with them.

  They'd both slept on the plane, but the time difference was taking its toll and they weren't through chasing the sun. In the Atlanta terminal Lord booked two seats on a flight to San Francisco, leaving at noon. They needed a shower and a change of clothes, so a twenty-minute taxi ride brought them to where Lord lived.

  She was impressed with the apartment, which was far better than what Semyon Pashenko possessed, but probably common for an American, she concluded. The carpets were soft and clean, the furniture, to her way of thinking, elegant and expensive. It was a little chilly inside until Lord adjusted a wall thermostat and central heat warmed the rooms. A far cry from the radiators in her Moscow apartment, which tended to run either wide open or not at all. She noticed the overall neatness and decided that wasn't surprising. Miles Lord had appeared from the start as a person in control of himself.

  "There are towels in the hall bathroom. Help yourself," he told her in Russian. "You can use that bedroom there to clean up."

  Her English was okay, but limited. She'd had trouble understanding conversations at the airport, particularly what the customs officer had asked. Luckily, her performer's visa provided access into the country, no questions asked.

  "I have a bath in my bedroom. I'll see you in a bit."

  Lord left her to a shower and she took her time, letting the warm water caress her tired muscles. It was still the middle of the night to her body. In the bedroom she found a terry-cloth robe waiting on the bed and wrapped it around herself. Lord explained that they had an hour until they needed to head back to the airport for the flight west. She toweled her hair dry and let the tangled curls fall loose to her shoulders. Water running from the back bedroom confirmed that Lord was still in the shower.

  She strolled into the den and took a moment to admire photographs framed on the wall and angled on two wood tables. Miles Lord had obviously come from a large family. There were several shots of him with an assortment of younger men and women at various stages in life. He was apparently the oldest, one picture of the entire family showed him in his late teens, four brothers and sisters not far behind.

  A couple of shots revealed him in athletic gear, his face obstructed by a helmet and face guard, his shoulders padded beneath a numbered jersey. There was one image of his father, framed solo, standing off to the side. It showed a man of about forty with earnest, deep brown eyes and hair a close-cropped black that matched his skin. His brow glistened from sweat, and he stood before a pulpit, mouth open, ivory teeth glittering, right index finger pointed skyward. He wore a suit that seemed to fit well, and she noticed a glint of gold from cufflinks exposed on his outstretched arm. In the bottom right corner was some writing in black marker. She lifted the frame and tried to read the words, but her ability with Western alphabet was strained.

  "It says, 'Son, come join me,' " Lord said in Russian.

  She turned.

  Lord stood in the open doorway, a maroon robe encasing his dark frame, bare feet protruding from the bottom. In the V formed by the collar she noticed a muscular chest dusted with a light brush of curly gray-brown hair.

  "He gave me that picture trying to get me to become a part of his ministry."

  "Why didn't you?"

  He stepped close, smelling of soap and shampoo. She noticed he'd shaved, a two-day stubble on his neck and jaw gone, his cocoa complexion unmarred by the ridges of time and tragedy all so common in her homeland.

  "My father cheated on my mother and left us penniless. I had no desire to follow in those footsteps."

  She recalled his bitterness from Friday night in Semyon Pashenko's apartment. "And your mother?"

  "She loved him. Still does. Never will she hear a foul word about him. His followers were the same. Grover Lord was a saint to all of them."

  "No one knew?"

  "No one would believe. He would have simply screamed discrimination and roared from the pulpit how hard it was for a successful black man to survive."

  "We were taught in school about prejudice in this country. How blacks have no chance in a white society. Is that true?"

  "It was, and some say it still is. But I don't think so. I'm not saying this country is perfect; it's far from that. But it is a land of opportunity, if you take advantage of the chances."

  "Did you, Miles Lord?"

  He smiled. "Why do you do that?"

  A curious look came to her face.

  "Use my whole name," he explained.

  "A habit. I meant no offense."

  "Call me Miles. And to answer your question, I'd like to think I took advantage of every opportunity. I studied hard, earned everything I ever achieved."

  "Your interest in my land. Did that come early in life?"

  He motioned to a row of bookcases across the sunlit room. "I was always fascinated by Russia. Your history makes for great reading. A country of extremes in size, politics, weather. Attitudes."

  She watched him carefully as he spoke, listening to the emotion in his voice and watching his eyes.

  "What happened in 1917 was so sad. The country was on the verge of a social renaissance. Poets, writers, painters, playwrights were at their peak. The press was free. Then it all died. Overnight."

  "You want to be a part of our revival, don't you?"

  He smiled. "Who would have ever thought a kid from South Carolina would be in this position?"

  "Are you close with your brothers and sisters?"

  He shrugged. "We're all scattered across the country. Too busy to take the time for a visit."

  "Are they successful?"

  "One's a doctor, two are schoolteachers, another's an accountant."

  "Sounds like your father did not do so bad."

  "He did nothing. My mother pushed us all."

  Though she knew little about Grover Lord, she thought she understood. "Maybe his life was the example each of you needed."

  He scoffed. "An example I could live without."

  "Is he why you never married?"

  He moved to one of the windows and glanced out at the sunny morning. "Not really. Just too busy to take the time."

  The rumble of traffic could be heard in the distance. "I never married, either. I wanted to perform. Marriage in Russia can be difficult. We are not the land of opportunity."

  "No one special in your life?"

  For a moment she debated telling him about Tusya, but decided against it, saying only, "No one of importance."

  "Do you really believe that restoring a tsar is the answer to all your country's troubles?"

  She was glad he didn't press the point. Maybe he'd sensed her hesitancy. "Russians have always been led by somebody. If not a tsar, then a premier. What does it matter who leads, as long as the leadership is wise?"

  "Apparently somebody wants to stop whatever it is we've become involved with. Perhaps they see a restored monarchy as a way to seize control?"

  "They are thousands of miles away now."

  "Thank God for that."

  She said, "I keep thinking about the Makses. That old man and his nephew died for what they believed. Can it be that important?"

  He stepped to the bookshelves and slid down one of the volumes. She noticed the photograph of Rasputin on the cover, a menancing shot of a bearded face and piercing eyes. "This opportunist may well hold the key to the future of your nation. I always thought him a fraud who had the good fortune to be in the right place at the right time. That shelf is lined with books about him. I've read about him for years, never believing him anything more than what my own father was."

  "And now?"

  He heaved a deep breath. "I don't know what to think. This whole thing is incredible. Felix Yussoupov somehow secreted away two Romanov children to America." He motioned to another shelf. "I have several biographies of Yussoupov. The portrait they pai
nt is not one of a clever manipulator. More an idealistic bungler who couldn't even murder a man right."

  She stepped close and took the book from his hands, staring deep into Rasputin's eyes on the cover. "They haunt, even now."

  "My father used to say that divine mystery is impossible to decipher. I used to think that was simply a clever way to keep the faithful loyal--keep them coming back to hear more. Now I'm hoping he was wrong."

  Her gaze caught his. "It's not good to hate your father."

  "I never said I hated him."

  "You didn't have to."

  "I resent what he did. The mess he left behind. The hypocrisy."

  "But maybe, like Rasputin, your father's legacy is more than you realize. Perhaps you are that legacy. The raven."

  "You really believe all this, don't you?"

  In the quiet of the warm apartment she was beginning to relax. "I only know that from the moment you entered my compartment on the train I have felt different. It's hard to explain. I am a woman from a simple family. My grandmother was murdered, my parents' lives destroyed. I have watched suffering all my life and wondered what could I do about it? Now maybe I can help change it all."

  Lord reached into his pocket and withdrew the brass key that had come from the metal box in the grave. The initials C.M.B. 716 were clear. "That's provided we find Hell's Bell and figure out what this key opens."

  "I have confidence we will do both."

  He shook his head. "I'm glad one of us does."

  THIRTY-TWO

  MOSCOW, 4:20 PM

  Hayes studied Stefan Baklanov. The Heir Apparent was perched at a silk-draped table facing the seventeen members of the Tsarist Commission. The Grand Hall in the Palace of Facets was full of spectators and press, the still air laced by a blue fog from commissioners who seemed to continually enjoy tobacco in one form or another.

  Baklanov was dressed in a dark suit and appeared unfazed by either the length or breadth of the commission's questions. This was his last appearance before a vote on the three finalists was taken in the morning. Nine names had been placed in nomination. Three were given no chance. Two were questionable. Four were serious contenders based on blood affiliation and compliance with the Succession Act of 1797. The initial round of debate had centered on marriages since 1918 and the dilution of bloodlines that may have once been strong. Each of the nine candidates had been given time before the commission to plead his respective case and answer questions. Hayes had arranged for Baklanov to go last.