Submerged

by Dani Pettrey

  “Historians are quite confident his murder was orchestrated by his wife, who took over the throne as Catherine the Great. She—a German princess suspected of murdering her husband, with her son known in court circles to be the illegitimate child of her lover, Serge Saltykov—feared Ivan all the more.”

  “So Ivan languished in prison?”

  “In Shlisselburg Fortress, where he was kept in solitary confinement and, under Catherine’s orders, only referred to as the Nameless One.”

  “But he escaped?”

  “According to the history books, no. He died during the attempt. But, according to this”—she tapped the book—“the attempt was successful.”

  “And then what?”

  “According to this, they traveled to Alaska.”

  “Why Alaska?” Cole asked, stretching.

  Bailey glanced at the clock—a quarter of eleven. She blinked, trying to jar the sleepiness from her eyes. “Apparently they believed they needed to leave Russia to keep Ivan safe until a large enough force could be organized to stage an effective coup.”

  “But that never happened.”

  She shook her head.

  “What went wrong?”

  “The lieutenant who rescued Ivan died on the journey. Ivan was left to travel with a Russian Orthodoxy missionary priest and the lieutenant’s wife, Olga.”

  “The one who wrote this diary?” he asked.

  Bailey ran her hand reverently over the leather-bound journal. “Yes.”

  She turned to the last page, skimming the faded parchment.

  My dearest Natalia,

  I fear my time is fading and there is much to say before I go to your father’s arms. We have been entrusted with a great charge, an honorable duty bestowed upon me by your father with his dying breath while you were still in my belly. I became Ivan’s caretaker in this rugged, foreign land. The keeper of the truth and the protector of the items of proof.

  Ivan chose to remain in this land, to turn from his past, to marry and make a new life. To protect his new bride and his children from the horrors he suffered as a result of his birthright.

  He made the choice, but we must continue to bear the secret, to protect the treasures, to keep the truth alive in the hearts of his children and grandchildren in whatever way we can. We must honor your father’s charge as well as Ivan’s wish. This is your duty now. To keep the legacy, passing it on to your daughter, and she on to hers. We must never allow the legacy to die, even if it remains forever hidden, tucked in the truth of a bedtime story.

  All my love,

  Mother

  Cole sat with his back against the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him, his head a mere inch from her knee. “He chose not to go back. To give up his throne . . .”

  “It makes me think of Edward VIII of England, who gave up the throne in 1936 to marry American divorcée Wallis Simpson. He did it for love, just as it says Ivan did.”

  “To protect his family. If he’d attempted a coup and it failed . . .” Cole began.

  “They’d all have been executed or imprisoned. Ivan spent twenty-two years of his life in prison. He watched his family be ripped apart. Spent years in solitary confinement. It’s a wonder it didn’t destroy him. He wanted to avoid that fate for his children at all cost.”

  “So he started a new life. Brave man.”

  She wished she could be brave like that. Brave enough to face her past. Brave enough to sacrifice for love, lay her pride on the altar and tell Cole how she really felt about him. That she loved him. That she’d been a fool. And that if he’d let her, she wanted to spend the rest of her life making it up to him. If only she were that brave. “I wonder what he did here? What name he took? How he spent his years?”

  “It’d be fun to find out. Maybe we could track it down together.” He wiggled her knee.

  “Maybe, but let’s focus on one puzzle at a time.” One step at a time. It was all her heart could take.

  “Time to read Agnes’s letter.” He handed her the envelope.

  With shaking hands, she took it.

  “It’ll be all right.”

  She nodded with a weak smile. He thought she was trembling because of the letter. If only he knew it was because of him. She unfolded the sheet.

  My dearest Bailey,

  This diary has been passed down to the women in our family from generation to generation since our ancestor Olga traveled with Ivan VI from Russia to Alaska. First to the St. Stephen settlement, and then to the location that is now Yancey. Where, you may find it interesting to note, she took up residence in the very building I call home. I never could resist an added bit of history.

  My great-aunt Mildred bestowed this calling onto me and when my time is near, I shall pass it on to you along with all the responsibilities inherent with it.

  We are caretakers, each one of us, since Olga’s daughter, Natalia, pledged to keep the secret safe, to keep the legacy alive. The location of the items of proof has seemingly faded with time, but the legacy and our job remain. We must preserve the truth and the lineage. I pass this charge into your capable hands with utmost confidence.

  Of particular importance to all of this is a diary written by one of Ivan’s relatives, Princess Sofia Maksutov. She was the wife of the last governor of Russian Alaska and a direct descendant of Ivan’s sister Elizaveta.

  In 1780 Catherine the Great, believing Ivan dead and her hold on the throne secure, released Ivan’s remaining siblings from prison and allowed them to live in exile in Denmark. It appears Princess Maksutov had some knowledge of Ivan’s escape, and when she moved to Alaska with her husband, she hoped to seek out Ivan’s descendants. It’s a fascinating chronicle that I know you will enjoy. I’ve lent it to the historical society for the time being, so others may enjoy her vivid description of daily life in Russian Alaska, but they have agreed that you may retrieve it any time you wish.

  I hope to be sharing all of this with you in person, but as Great Aunt Mildred insisted, “Always be prepared for the unexpected,” so I draft this in case the unexpected occurs. Fortunately nothing is unexpected with God, and so if I am not with you, know I am with Him and I will see you again one day.

  Be blessed, my dear Bailey. Be loved. Be open to all God has in store for you. And don’t be afraid to enjoy His gifts.

  Agnes

  Bailey sank back, tears streaming down her face. “No wonder Agnes strove so hard to teach me about Russian history, why she was so passionate about it. It wasn’t history to her.” Sniffing, she pulled out the first of two folded papers and laid it open. “It’s the Romanov family tree.” She examined it, Cole looking on as she traced the line from Michael to Ivan V to Ivan VI, below which sat the names of two children—Peter and Anna, and off to the side was scribbled the notation—orb in the image.

  “What do you think that means?” he asked.

  “I have no idea.” She turned back to the lineage, to Peter’s and Anna’s children, and on to their children’s children, and then it ended at the next generation.

  “What happened then?”

  She flipped it over and started at the blank back. “It just stops.” She spread it across her lap and scanned the lineage with a more critical eye. “The information begins to fade with Ivan’s grandkids. See, up until then everyone’s birth and death dates are recorded, along with marriages. With Ivan’s grandkids, only the birth dates and locations are recorded. By the great-grandkids, it’s only the year of birth.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “Maybe the caretaker lost track of his descendants. Perhaps the family started to spread out, as families do, and the caretaker lost touch, or neglected to keep the information up to date.”

  Bailey reached for the second document, noting the difference. The first was parchment, tanned with age, the second, modern. She unfolded it and could barely believe her eyes. “This is what Agnes must have been working on when she died. She’s completed the Romanov line from Ivan’s great-grandchildren until now.�
��

  “Now?” Cole’s brows shot up as he leaned in to read the document. “Are you saying there are living heirs?”

  “According to this, there are at least three.”

  Bailey moved to the computer and typed in the first heir’s name, Vasilli Alexandrovich, and hit Enter, her heart racing while Google searched. It was almost too amazing to believe. History being revealed before their eyes.

  She clicked on the first link that popped up—a news article from July.

  Her breath caught. “He was murdered. A week before Agnes flew to Russia.”

  Cole rested his hands on the back of her chair. “Check heir number two.”

  She typed in his name, Feodor Alexandrovich, and waited. Her heart nearly fainting as she scanned the page. “He was injured in a horse-riding accident but is recuperating at his home in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, Russia. Wait.” She dragged the mouse down. “There’s an updated story.” She clicked on the link and felt the blood drain from her face. “He was dead a week later.”

  “As a result of his injuries?”

  “No. In a plane crash.” She swallowed. “Agnes’s crash.”

  “What?”

  “Fedyna is a variant of Feodor.”

  “The Russian couple on the plane?”

  Bailey nodded somberly.

  “Somebody is killing off heirs.”

  She swiveled to face him. “Question is . . . does the killer know they’re heirs?”

  Cole exhaled. “If I were a betting man . . .”

  “I’m right there with you.”

  “But why?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “We better warn whoever is next on the list.”

  “According to this, there’s only one heir left, Grigor Ivanov.” She turned and Googled his name, sighing with relief when nothing turned up. “We need to find him and warn him.”

  “Let’s go see Slidell.”

  Cole hung his slicker on the coatrack beside Bailey’s. The station was quiet, the stark overhead lighting giving way to the muted glow of desk lamps.

  “Slidell in?” Cole asked.

  Earl thumbed over his shoulder. “Back in his office.”

  Nearly midnight. The man really didn’t have a life outside work.

  Cole knocked on the closed door.

  “Yeah, come in.”

  Dressed in a pair of faded jeans and white undershirt, Slidell reclined on the couch, his socked feet stretched out over the sofa’s edge. A slice of pizza in hand, his attention was fixed on the twenty-inch TV in the corner. “What’s up?”

  “Sorry to interrupt your game,” Cole said.

  Slidell paused the recording. “Panners are losing anyway.” He shifted to a seated position and dropped his slice back in the box. “What can I do for you?”

  Cole looked at Bailey. “Go ahead. It’s your discovery.”

  “Our discovery.” She smiled, and his heart warmed.

  Slidell cleared his throat. “One of you want to let me in on it?”

  “Right.” Bailey’s cheeks flushed. “Where to start? I guess Agnes’s safety deposit box . . .”

  She proceeded to bring him up to speed.

  “So you see, we’ve got to find—”

  Landon bolted through the door. “I got him!”

  Slidell straightened. “Got who?”

  “Greg Stevens. I finally got a hit on Interpol. Apparently it’s only one of a number of aliases this guy uses—Greg Stevens, Stephen Gregory, Greg Stanford . . . You get the idea.”

  “You get his real name?” Slidell asked with arched brow.

  Landon smiled. “Yep. Grigor Ivanov.”

  40

  Slidell rocked forward in his chair, his fingers steepled. “So you’re saying this Grigor Ivanov and Greg Stevens are one and the same?”

  Landon slipped into a chair. “Yep.”

  “And he’s our killer?”

  “The best and only suspect we’ve got.”

  Slidell sat back with an exhale. “Motive?”

  Landon shrugged. “Not a clue.”

  “Tell them what we found in the diary, in the letters,” Cole said.

  “Right.” Bailey began relaying all they’d discovered, and when she was finished, she sighed. “Of course . . . ” It’s all so clear. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.”

  Cole’s brows dipped. “Think of what?”

  “Grigor’s motive.” Before she and Cole discovered Agnes’s safety deposit box and its contents, they’d had no idea they were dealing with a living Romanov heir. Up to that point they’d assumed the search and resulting killings had been about treasure, and in a way it still was, just treasure of a different kind. “Whoever’s head of the Romanov Trust controls the Trust’s vast holdings.”

  “What is the Romanov Trust?”

  “The Trust’s stated purpose is to strengthen the links between the Romanov family and protect it from impostors. Its not so public function is to maintain its immense holdings.”

  Landon angled his head in her direction. “What kind of holdings?”

  “I’m not positive. No one is. It’s all based on the supposition that large amounts of the Romanov treasure were smuggled out of Russia during the Bolshevik revolt and protected by Nicholas I’s various relatives that escaped. Whoever is head of the Trust controls the treasure, along with anything added to it over the years.”

  “Who is currently in charge of the Trust?”

  “Prince Nicholas Romanovich.”

  “Then wouldn’t Grigor have to get rid of him too?”

  “Not necessarily. If Grigor is in fact a direct descendant of Ivan VI, he would have a much stronger claim for headship than Prince Nicholas.”

  “Why?”

  “Because all known Romanovs alive today trace their ancestry through Paul I. It was believed in court circles that Paul was the illegitimate son of Catherine the Great, a German princess, and her lover, Serge Saltykov—which means no true Romanov blood. Grigor, on the other hand, is directly descended from Nicholas I, the founder of the Romanov dynasty.”

  “So if Grigor is who you think he is, he’d have claim to the headship of the Romanov family?” Landon said.

  “Absolutely.”

  Slidell rubbed his forehead. “Crazy as it sounds, I think you’re on the right track. Grigor links to all our victims. He was the last person Nikolai texted before he died. Grigor also links to the two heirs as they were what he believed stood between him and his inheritance. Now that we know what we’re looking for, I bet we’ll find that Grigor was in Denmark when Vasilli was killed. And, of course, he links to Agnes.”

  “Agnes?” Bailey blanched. “How?”

  Slidell reached in his drawer, pulled out a file, and slid it to her. “Your aunt’s phone records. The highlighted calls are to, or from, the 1-800 number for the bogus Pentrinium Oil.”

  Bailey scanned the page. They went as far back as the end of June, and stopped the day Agnes left for Russia. She swallowed. “He knew she wasn’t coming back.”

  Cole squeezed her shoulder.

  “What if Greg or Grigor, whatever his name is”—she scrambled to put the pieces in place—“is the one who hired Agnes to trace the family line in the first place?”

  “Maybe Agnes found out he killed Vasilli and flew to Russia to warn Feodor,” Cole said. “Maybe his riding accident was no accident.”

  “Grigor must have figured out what she was up to and sabotaged Henry’s plane.”

  “Killing two birds with one stone.” Landon sat back with a solemn expression. “Both the heir in his way and the one person who could expose him.”

  Oh, Agnes. Bailey squeezed her eyes shut.

  “So, what . . . Now he’s after the proof he thinks he needs to claim his inheritance?” Slidell said.

  “Exactly,” Bailey said.

  “So the icon’s the proof?” Landon asked.

  “One of them.” Bailey nodded. “According to the diaries, both Princess Maksutov�
��s and Olga’s, there are two items of proof. The second isn’t mentioned. . . .” She stood, pacing the length of the crowded room as she thought. “There has to be a clue in one of the diaries. . . .” She turned to Cole. “The notation.”

  Landon arched a brow. “What?”

  “The notation on the bottom of the family tree. Cole, remember . . . it said ‘orb in the image.’ ”

  He leaned forward, a smile gracing his lips. “The second item is an orb.”

  Slidell frowned. “What does ‘orb in the image’ mean?”

  “I don’t know.” Bailey retook her seat, her heart pounding. They were so close. “I am sure it was written by Agnes. Maybe she wanted me to find an orb that is pictured in the icon painting.”

  “But there wasn’t an orb in the painting,” Cole said, rubbing Bailey’s tense shoulders.

  “We’ve only seen a small portion of the painting—just their faces. Perhaps one of them is holding an orb. If so, then we’ll know what the orb looks like.”

  “Okay, but how does that help us?” Slidell asked.

  “It’s a lot easier to find something if we know what it looks like,” Bailey continued. “It seems logical that the orb would have been in the church with the painting, but it’s possible it was kept somewhere else.”

  “Maybe Grigor already has it. Either way, we need to get back down to the church,” Landon said. “If he reaches the icon before we do and flees the country, we’ll have no recourse.”

  “How can you say that? We’ve tied him to all the murders.” They couldn’t let her aunt’s killer go free.

  “Unfortunately, it’s all circumstantial evidence. We’ve got no fingerprints or DNA on the victims, or at the scenes of the crimes. No eyewitnesses . . .”

  “So we’ve got to keep him here until we either build our case, or get a confession from him. We have to charge him with the murders before he claims his inheritance. Russia is not just going to hand over the long-lost heir of the Romanov dynasty to stand trial for murder when all the evidence is circumstantial.”