by Steve Berry
The dog was intent on them.
Thorn bent down. "Somebody's been hit," he quietly mouthed. "Alexie. Scent. Take."
The dog sucked another noseful of one of the stains. Then the animal's head raised, as if to say he was ready.
"Find," Thorn said.
The dog charged out the door.
FIFTY
Lord heard Hayes's words and thought about the conversation they'd had in the Volkhov nine days before.
Damn, it seemed longer.
His grandfather had told him all about the times when southern rednecks vented their anger on blacks. One of his friend's granduncles had even been snatched from his home and hanged because somebody suspected him of thievery. No arrest, no charges, no trial. He'd often wondered what it took to hate that much. One thing his father had always done was make sure both blacks and whites never forgot that past. Some called it populism. Others pandering. Grover Lord said it was a friendly reminder from the Man-Up-Top's representative. Now he was the one racing through the Carolina mountains with a man following, determined that he never see dawn.
The dish towel he'd jammed onto the shoulder wound helped, but the steady brush of limbs and shrubs was doing damage. He had no idea where he was going. He remembered Thorn saying the nearest neighbors were miles away. With Hayes, Droopy, and Orleg behind him, he figured his chances weren't all that good. In his mind he could still hear the shot just before he'd made his move on Hayes. He wanted to double back and find Akilina and Thorn, but realized the futility of that effort. In all likelihood they were both dead. He was better off losing himself in the night--making it out to tell the world what he knew. He owed that to Semyon Pashenko and the Holy Band, especially to all who'd died. Like Iosif and Vassily Maks.
He stopped his advance. Each breath came in short gulps and evaporated before his eyes. His throat was parched and he was having trouble orienting himself. His face and chest were covered in perspiration. He wanted to peel off his sweater, but there was no way his shoulder could take the effort. He was light-headed. The blood loss was affecting him, and the altitude wasn't helping, either.
He heard thrashing behind him.
He brushed back a low-hanging limb and slipped into thick brush. The ground began to harden. Rocky outcrops appeared. The elevation was likewise rising and he started up a short incline. Gravel crunched, the sound amplified in the stillness.
A wide panorama opened ahead.
He stopped at the end of a cliff overlooking a blackened gorge. A fast-moving stream rambled below. But he wasn't trapped. He could go left or right, back into the woods, but decided to use the spot to his advantage. If they found him, perhaps the element of surprise might give him an edge. He couldn't keep running. Not with three armed men after him. Besides, he didn't want to be gunned down like some animal. He'd take a stand and fight. So he pulled himself up the rocks, onto a ledge that overlooked the precipice. Open sky stretched for what seemed an eternity. He now possessed a vantage point from which he could see anyone who approached.
He groped in the dark and found three rocks the size of softballs. He extended the muscles in his right arm and determined he could throw, but not far. He tested the weight of each rock and readied himself for anybody who might approach.
Hayes had tracked enough animals to know how to follow a trail and Lord had thrashed the woods with no regard for the broken branches he was leaving behind. There were even footprints in places where the thatched floor gave way to moist earth. In the bright moonlight the path was easy to decipher. Not to mention the bloodstains, which came with predictable regularity.
Then the trail stopped.
He stopped, too.
His eyes darted left and right. Nothing. No more branches pointing the way. He tested the foliage all around and found no blood, either. Strange. He readied a shot, just in case this was the place Lord had chosen for a showdown. He was certain the fool would fight at some point.
Maybe here was the place.
He inched forward. No instinct told him he was being watched. He was about to change directions when he noticed a dark smear on a fern ahead. He crept ahead, one step at a time, gun out front. The ground turned to stone and forest was replaced with granite outcroppings that rose all around him in myriad misshapen shadows. He didn't like the look or feel of the situation, but continued forward.
His eyes searched for clues--perhaps a bloodstain on the rocks--but it was hard to distinguish splotches from shadows. He slowed his pace to one step every few seconds, trying to minimize the crackle of rock beneath his soles.
He stopped at the edge of a cliff, water below, trees left and right. Beyond was a vast velvet sky dotted with a billion stars. No time for aesthetics. He turned and was just about to reenter the woods when he heard something whoosh through the air.
Akilina followed Thorn as he headed out the kitchen door. She noticed a bloodstained handprint and thought of Lord. The borzoi had already disappeared, but a low whistle from Thorn caused the animal to bolt from the trees.
"He won't venture far. Just enough to find the trail," Thorn whispered.
The dog heeled at his feet and Thorn stroked his forehead.
"Find, Alexie. Move."
The animal disappeared into the trees.
Thorn moved in the same direction.
She was worried about Lord. He'd most likely been shot. The voice she'd heard earlier was Taylor Hayes's. Lord probably thought both she and Thorn were dead, the chances of them escaping two professional killers slim. But they had an edge with the borzoi. The animal was remarkable, showing a loyalty that was to be admired. Michael Thorn had a way about him, too. This man had royal blood coursing through his veins. Maybe that was what gave him such presence. She'd heard her grandmother speak of imperial times. The people had worshipped the tsar for his strength and will. They looked to him as the embodiment of God on Earth and sought his protection in times of need.
He was Russia.
Perhaps Michael Thorn understood that responsibility. Perhaps he also felt enough of a connection with the past to be unafraid of what lay ahead.
Yet she was afraid. And not only for herself, but for Miles Lord as well.
Thorn stopped and whistled softly. Alexie appeared a few moments later, panting hard. He knelt down and stared the dog in the eyes.
"You have the trail, don't you?"
She almost expected the animal to answer back, but he simply rested on his hindquarters and caught his breath.
"Find. Move."
The dog ran off.
They headed in pursuit.
A shot exploded in the distance.
Lord arched the rock into the air just as Hayes turned. He felt something tear in his shoulder, then a blinding pain reverberated down his spine. He'd torn open the flesh wound again.
He saw the rock slam into Hayes's chest and heard the gun fire. He leapt from his position, crashing into his employer. The two men collapsed to the ground, electrified pain surging through his right shoulder.
He ignored the pain and slammed his fist into Hayes's face, but Hayes used his legs and thighs to send Lord up and over, onto his back. Sharp stones wedged into Lord's spine and added more agony.
In the next instant, Hayes was on him.
Akilina started to run. Thorn did, too. Both in the direction of the gunshot. The ground began to harden and she noticed rocks all around. Ahead, she could hear heavy breathing and bodies rolling.
The forest ended.
Before them Taylor Hayes and Miles Lord were fighting.
She halted beside Thorn. The borzoi stopped, too, watching the battle thirty feet away.
"End it," she said to Thorn.
But the lawyer did not use his weapon.
Lord watched Hayes spring to his feet and pounce. Amazingly, he still possessed some strength and managed to swing with his left fist, catching Hayes square on the jaw. The blow momentarily stunned his attacker. He needed to find the gun he'd seen. It had fallen from Hayes's g
rip when the rock had made contact.
He kicked with his right knee and forced Hayes up. He rolled once before regaining his balance and crouching to his knees. He was tired of rocks grinding his already sore body. His shoulder was definitely bleeding. But he was not about to be cowed at this point. The sonovabitch had to be stopped here and now.
He searched the blackened earth for the gun, but could not distinguish its outline. He thought he sensed two forms beyond the outcroppings, toward the trees, but it was hard to focus. Probably Orleg and Droopy, watching the fight with amusement, able to decide the winner with a single shot.
He tackled Hayes around the waist. They slammed into a pile of granite and he felt something in the other man give way, perhaps a rib. Hayes cried out, but managed to wedge two thumbs deep into Lord's neck and twist, the pressure affecting his windpipe. He struggled for breath and, in the instant his grip relaxed, Hayes brought a knee into his midsection, then punched hard, sending Lord reeling toward the cliff's edge.
He readied himself for the next volley as Hayes leapt forward, pivoting himself off the ground and kicking hard. But Hayes had somehow sensed the move and stopped his advance.
So his feet found only air.
Akilina watched as Lord rolled once after a missed kick, coming to his knees and turning toward Hayes.
Thorn knelt down in front of the borzoi. She knelt, too. The animal growled low in his throat, his eyes never leaving the shadowy scene before them. The jaws snapped a couple of times and she spied sharp fangs.
"He's deciding," Thorn said. "He can see much better than we can."
"Use the gun," she said.
Thorn's gaze leveled on her. "We must see the prophecy through."
"Don't be foolish. Stop it now."
The borzoi took a step forward.
"Use the gun, or I'll use the rifle," she said.
The lawyer gently placed a hand on her arm. "Have faith." His voice and manner exuded something that was not easily explained.
She said nothing.
Thorn turned back to the dog.
"Easy, Alexie. Easy."
Lord managed to scramble to his feet and move away from the cliff's edge. Hayes had stopped his attack, seemingly trying to regain his breath.
He stared at his boss.
"Come on, Miles," Hayes said. "We've got to finish this. Just you and me. No way out of here, except through me."
They circled around each other like cats, Lord moving right toward the trees, Hayes coming left toward the edge.
Then Lord saw it. The gun. Lying on the rocks not six feet away. But Hayes seemed to spot it, too, pouncing and grasping the stock before he could muster the strength.
In an instant the barrel was palmed, Hayes's finger on the trigger, the barrel aimed directly at him.
Akilina watched as the borzoi rushed forward. No command was given by Thorn. The animal simply moved on his own, somehow knowing this was the moment and likewise knowing exactly where to strike. Perhaps the dog was able to distinguish the scents and was familiar with Lord's from the blood. Perhaps he was being influenced by the spirit of Rasputin. Who knew? Hayes never saw the animal until the moment before they made contact, the rushing weight of the borzoi enough to stagger him backward.
Lord seized the moment and lunged forward, pushing Hayes and the dog over the edge. A scream pierced the night, slowly fading as the two bodies dissolved into blackness. A second later he heard a distant thud as flesh met stone, accompanied by a yelp that made his heart ache. He could not see the chasm's bottom.
But there was no need to.
Footsteps came from behind.
He whirled, expecting to see Droopy and Orleg, but instead Akilina appeared, followed by Thorn.
She hugged him hard.
"Easy," he said, reacting to the pain in his shoulder.
She relaxed her grip.
Thorn stood at the edge and stared down.
"A shame about the dog," Lord said.
"I loved that animal." Thorn turned toward him. "But it's over now. The choice has been made."
And in that moment, illuminated in the glow of a quarter moon, within a hardened face and unblinking eyes, Miles Lord saw the future of Russia.
FIFTY-ONE
MOSCOW
SUNDAY, APRIL 10
11:00 AM
The interior of the Cathedral of the Dormition glowed with radiance from hundreds of lights and candles. The vast interior had been specially illuminated to accommodate the television cameras that were transmitting the ceremony live to the world. Lord stood near the altar, in a place of prominence, Akilina beside him. Above them four tiers of icons dotted with jewels twinkled in the glow, signaling that all was well.
Two coronation chairs sat at the front of the cathedral. One was the throne of the second Romanov tsar, Alexie. Nearly nine thousand diamonds were embedded in it, along with rubies and pearls. It was 350 years old, a museum curiosity for the last 100. Yesterday the chair had been transported from the Kremlin Armory, and Michael Thorn now sat upright in it.
Beside him, in the Ivory Throne, sat his wife, Margaret. Her chair had been brought to Russia by Ivan the Great's Byzantine bride, Sophia, in 1472. It had been Ivan who had proclaimed, Two Romes have fallen, but the third now stands, and a fourth there will not be. Yet today, on a glorious April morning, a fourth Rome was about to be born. A merger of the secular and sacred in one entity--the tsar.
Russia once again ruled by Romanovs.
Thoughts of Taylor Hayes flashed through Lord's mind. Even now, six months after Hayes's death, the full extent of the conspiracy was still unknown. There was talk that the patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church, Adrian, had himself been a party. But he'd steadfastly denied any involvement, and nothing had yet materialized to the contrary. The only for-certain accomplice was Maxim Zubarev, the man who'd tortured Lord in San Francisco. But before authorities could question him, his body had been found in a shallow grave outside Moscow, two bullet holes in the skull. The government suspected a widespread conspiracy, one even involving the mafiya, but as yet no witnesses had been found to substantiate anything.
The threat these unknowns posed to the emerging monarchy was real, and Lord was worried about Michael Thorn. But the lawyer from North Carolina had shown remarkable courage. He'd charmed the Russian people with a sincerity they found compelling, even his American ancestry was seen as a positive factor, world leaders expressing relief that a nuclear superpower would be ruled by somebody with an international outlook. Yet Thorn had made clear he was a Romanov--Russian blood coursed through his veins--and he intended to reassert Romanov control over a nation his family had once ruled for three hundred years.
Thorn had early on announced that a cabinet ministry would be appointed to help rule. He'd enlisted Semyon Pashenko as an advisor and charged the leader of the Holy Band with structuring a government. There would also be an elected Duma, one with enough of a voice to ensure that no monarch would have absolute power. The rule of law would be honored. Russia must force itself into the new century. Isolationism was no longer possible.
Now this simple man was sitting on the Diamond Throne, his wife beside him, both looking cognizant of their responsibilities.
The church was filled with dignitaries from around the world. The English monarch had come, along with the president of the United States and prime ministers and heads of state from every major nation.
There'd been a great debate over whether the new tsar would be II or III. Nicholas II's brother had been named Michael and supposedly ruled for a day, before himself abdicating. But the Tsarist Commission had silenced any argument when it decided that Nicholas had been able to renounce the throne only for himself, not for his son, Alexie. At his abdication, therefore, his son and not his brother had become tsar. Which meant that Nicholas's direct descendants retained the sole claim to throne. Michael Thorn, as the nearest male in line, would be known as Mikhail II.
It had been Thorn's friend in the No
rth Carolina Attorney General's office who'd summoned a representative of the State Department to Genesis the day after Taylor Hayes died. The U.S. ambassador to Russia was called, and he immediately appeared before the Tsarist Commission to reveal what had transpired seven thousand miles away. A final vote was delayed pending the heir's arrival before the commission, which occurred three days later to much fanfare and worldwide attention.
DNA testing positively confirmed Michael Thorn as a direct descendant of Nicholas and Alexandra. His mitochondrial genetic structure matched Nicholas's exactly, even containing the same mutation scientists had found when Nicholas's bones were identified in 1994. The probability of error was less than a thousandth of 1 percent.
Again, Rasputin had been right. God will provide a way to be sure of righteousness.
Rasputin had also been right about another prediction. Twelve must die before the resurrection can be complete. First four in Moscow, including Artemy Bely, then the guard in Red Square, Pashenko's associate in the Holy Band, then Iosif and Vassily Maks, finally Feliks Orleg, Droopy, and Taylor Hayes. A procession of eleven corpses from Russia to the United States.
But one more must be added to the casualty list to make twelve.
Alexie, a six-year-old borzoi.
They'd buried the dog in the cemetery only paces away from his namesake, Thorn believing the animal had earned the right to dwell eternally with Romanov ancestors.
Lord's attention was drawn to the altar as Michael Thorn rose from the throne. Everyone else in the church was already standing. Thorn was wearing a silk robe that had been draped across his shoulders two hours before in the first act of the coronation ceremony. He adjusted the folds and gently knelt, while everyone else remained standing.
Patriarch Adrian approached.
