by Steve Berry
"I keep thinking of my ancestor," Baklanov said into the microphone, his voice low, but strong. "In this chamber of the Facets Palace, boyars convened in January 1613 to choose a new tsar. The country was in turmoil from a dozen years of having no one on the throne. That group set precise conditions, just as you have done. After much debate, and many rejections, they unanimously chose a gentle sixteen-year-old--Michael Romanov. Interesting that he was found in the Ipatiev Monastery, the place where Romanov rule began and that--three hundred years later--another Ipatiev house, the House of Special Purpose, was where Romanov rule ended." Baklanov paused. "At least for a time."
"But was not Michael selected," one of commissioners asked, "because he agreed to consult with the boyars before any decisions would be made? In essence making the boyar Duma a national assembly? Is that your plan?"
Baklanov shifted in his chair, but his face remained open and friendly. "That is not the only reason my ancestor was selected. Before voting, the assembly took a crude poll and found that there was widespread popular support for Michael Romanov's selection. The same is true here, Commissioner. All of the national polls indicate the people support my restoration. But to answer your question directly, Michael Romanov lived in different times.
"Russia has tried democracy and we can see each day the results. We are not a nation accustomed to distrusting its government. Democracy breeds constant challenge, and our history has not prepared us for that. Here, the people expect government to involve itself in their lives. Western society preaches the opposite.
"This country has seen no greatness since 1917. Our empire was once the largest on Earth, but now our existence is conditioned on the generosity of foreign nations. That sickens me. We spent nearly eighty years building bombs and equipping armies while our nation crumbled. It is time to reverse that."
Hayes knew that Baklanov was playing to the cameras. The sessions were being fed live nationwide and worldwide--CNN, CNBC, BBC, and Fox all were providing Western feeds. The answer was nearly perfect. Baklanov had dodged the real inquiry, but used the opportunity to make a global point. This man may not know how to govern, but he sure as hell knew how to pander.
Another commissioner asked, "Michael's father, Filaret, if I recall my history, actually ran the country for much of his son's reign. Michael was nothing more than a puppet. Is that a worry this nation should have from you? Will others control your decisions?"
Baklanov shook his head. "I assure you, Commissioner, I will require no one to make my decisions. But that is not to say that I will not utilize my state council for advice and wisdom. I fully recognize that an autocrat must have the support of both his government and his people to survive."
Another excellent answer, Hayes thought.
"And what of your sons? Are they prepared for the responsibility?" the same commissioner asked.
The man was pressing. He was one of the remaining three who had not been fully purchased, the price of his loyalty still being negotiated. But Hayes had been assured only a few hours ago that, by tomorrow, unanimity would be a certainty.
"My sons are ready. The oldest understands his responsibility and is prepared to become tsarevich. I have trained him for that since birth."
"You were sure of restoration?"
"My heart always told me that, one day, the Russian people would want their tsar returned. He was yanked from them in violence, his throne stolen at gunpoint. An ill deed cannot bring honor. Never has good grown from evil. This nation goes in search of yesterday, and we can only hope and pray that failure will teach us success. None of us is born to ourselves. This is particularly true of those blessed with imperial roots. The throne of this nation is a Romanov throne, and I am the closest male Romanov to Nicholas II still alive. Great honors beget great burdens. I am prepared to shoulder those for my people."
Baklanov savored a sip of water from the glass before him. No commissioner interrupted the moment. He tabled the glass and said, "Michael Romanov was a reluctant tsar in 1613, but I make no apologies for the fact that I wish to rule this nation. Russia is my Motherland. I believe all nations have a gender, and ours is distinctly feminine. It is this strong femininity that accounts for our fertility. One of Faberge's biographers, though an Englishman, put it best: Give her the start, the seed, and she mothers it in her own peculiar way to quite astonishing results. It is my destiny to see those results mature. Every seed knows its time. I know mine. The people can be forced to fear, but not to love. I understand that. I do not wish for Russia to fear me. I desire no imperial conquest or world domination. Our greatness, in the years ahead, will come from providing our people with a way of life that assures health and prosperity. It matters not that we can annihilate the world a thousand times over. What should matter is that we can feed our people, cure their sickness, provide for their comfort, and assure a prosperous nation for generations."
The words were delivered with the kind of emotion that translated easily in both audio and video. Hayes was even more impressed.
"I will not say that Nicholas II was without fault. He was a stubborn autocrat who lost sight of his purpose. We know now that his wife clouded his judgment and that the tragedy with his son made them both vulnerable. Alexandra was a blessed woman in many ways, but she was foolish, too. She allowed herself to be influenced by Rasputin, a man nearly all despised as an opportunist. History is a good teacher. I will not repeat those mistakes. This nation cannot afford weak leadership. Our streets must be safe, our legal and governmental institutions stocked with truth and confidence. Only then can this country move forward."
"It sounds, sir," one of the commissioners said, "as if you have already chosen yourself tsar."
The question came from the same aggravating commissioner.
"My birth made that choice, Commissioner. I have no say in the matter. The throne of Russia is a Romanov throne. That is an indisputable fact."
"But did not Nicholas renounce the throne for himself and his son, Alexie?" came a question from the panel.
"He did for himself. But I doubt any legal scholar would conclude that he had the right to also renounce for Alexie. At the moment Nicholas abdicated in March 1917, his son became Alexie II. He possessed no right to take that throne away from Alexie. The throne is Romanov, from the bloodline of Nicholas II, and I am the nearest living male."
Hayes was pleased with the performance. Baklanov knew exactly what to say and when. He delivered his pronouncements with enough inflection to make his point without offending.
Stefan I would make an excellent tsar.
Provided, of course, that he followed orders as well as he wanted to give them.
THIRTY-THREE
1:10 PM
Lord glanced over at Akilina. They were sitting on the port side of a United Airlines L1011, forty thousand feet over the Arizona desert. They'd left Atlanta at five minutes after noon and, thanks to a five-hour flight and a three-hour time difference, they would arrive in San Francisco a little after two PM. Over the past twenty-four hours Lord had traveled three-quarters of the way around the globe, but he was glad to be back on U.S. soil--or over it--even if he wasn't sure what they were going to do in California.
"Are you always so restless?" Akilina quietly asked in Russian.
"Not usually. But this isn't usual."
"I want to say something."
He heard the edge in her voice.
"I was not totally honest with you earlier . . . in the apartment."
He was perplexed.
"You asked if there had ever been anyone special in my life, and I said no. Actually, there was."
Apprehension clouded her face and he felt compelled to say, "You don't have to explain anything to me."
"I want to."
He settled back into the seat.
"His name was Tusya. I met him in the performers' school where I was sent after secondary education. It was never assumed I would attend university. My father was a performer and it was expected I would be o
ne as well. Tusya was an acrobat. He was good, but not quite good enough. He was not elevated beyond the school. But he still wanted us to marry."
"What happened?"
"Tusya's family lived in the north, near the frozen plains. Since he was not of Moscow, we would have been forced to live with my parents until securing permission for an apartment of our own. That meant obtaining their permission for the marriage and for Tusya to live in Moscow. My mother refused."
He was surprised. "Why?"
"By then she was a bitter woman. My father was still in the labor camp. She resented him for that, and for the fact that he wished to leave the country. She saw happiness in my eyes and quelled that to satisfy her own pain."
"Why not just live somewhere else?" he asked.
"Tusya wouldn't allow it. He wanted to be a Muscovite. Everyone who wasn't wanted to be. Without consulting me, he joined the army. It was either that or be banished to factory work somewhere. He told me that once he earned the right to live where he desired, he'd be back."
"What happened to him?"
She hesitated before saying, "He died in Chechnya. For nothing, since, in the end, everything was as before. I never forgave my mother for what she did."
He heard the bitterness. "Did you love him?"
"As much as any young girl could. But what is love? For me it was a temporary respite from reality. You asked me before if I thought things would be different with a tsar. How could they get any worse?"
He did not argue with her.
"You and I are different," she said.
He didn't understand.
"In many ways my father and I are much alike. Both of us were refused love thanks to the harshness of our Motherland. You, on the other hand, hate your father, but profited from the opportunity of your homeland. Interesting how life creates such extremes."
Yes, it was, he thought.
San Francisco International Airport was crowded. They'd both packed light, toting only the shoulder bags Semyon Pashenko had provided. If nothing was learned after a couple of days, Lord intended on returning to Atlanta and contacting Taylor Hayes--Pashenko and Rasputin be damned. He'd almost called the office before they left Georgia, but decided against it. He wanted to respect Pashenko's wishes as long as possible, giving at least partial credence to a prophecy he once thought complete malarkey.
They passed baggage claim, crowded with a crush of travelers, and headed outside. Beyond a wall of glass, the West Coast afternoon loomed bright in clear sunshine.
"What now?" Akilina asked him in Russian.
He did not answer her. Instead, his attention was riveted on something across the crowded terminal.
"Come on," he said, grabbing Akilina's hand and leading her through the phalanx of people.
On the far wall beyond an American Airlines baggage claim area was a lit placard, one of hundreds that lined the terminal walls. The colorful signs advertised everything from condo developments to long-distance calling plans. He stared at the words superimposed over a templelike building:
CREDIT & MERCANTILE BANK OF SAN FRANCISCO
A LOCAL TRADITION SINCE 1884
"What does it say?" Akilina asked in Russian.
He told her, then found the key in his pocket, staring again at the initials etched into brass.
c.m.b.
"I think we have a key to a box in the Credit and Mercantile Bank. It was here during the reign of Nicholas II."
"How can you be sure that is the correct place?"
"I can't."
"How do we find out?"
"Good question. We need a convincing story to gain access. I doubt if the bank is just going to let us waltz in with a key that's decades old and open the box for us. There'll be questions." His lawyer mind started working again. "But I think I know a way around that."
The taxi ride from the airport downtown took thirty minutes. He had selected a Marriott just beyond the financial district. The gigantic mirrored building looked like a jukebox. He picked the hotel not only for location but for its well-equipped business center.
After depositing their bags in the room, he led Akilina downstairs. On one of the word processors he typed out an order headed PROBATE COURT OF FULTON COUNTY. He'd clerked in the probate division of a firm during his last year of law school and was familiar with letters testamentary--the formal order from a probate court that authorized an individual to act on behalf of a deceased. He'd written several, but to be sure he accessed the Internet. The Web was littered with legal addresses that offered everything from the latest appellate opinions to templates that could be used to draft even the most obscure documents. There was one site, hosted by Emory University in Atlanta, he routinely used. There he found the right language from which to fashion fake letters of testamentary.
When the printer spat out a hard copy, he showed it to Akilina. "You're the daughter of one Zaneta Ludmilla. Your mother has recently died and left you this key to her safe-deposit box. The probate court of Fulton County, Georgia, has appointed you her personal representative, and I'm your lawyer. Since you speak little English, I'm here to handle things for you. As the personal representative, you must inventory everything your mother possessed, including whatever is in this box."
She smiled. "Just like in Russia. Fake papers. The only way to succeed."
Unlike the perception left by its advertisement, the Credit & Mercantile Bank was not located in some granite, neoclassical building, but inside one of the newer steel structures within the city's financial district. Lord knew the names of the high-rises surrounding it. The Embarcadero Center, the Russ Building, and the distinctive Transamerica Tower. He was familiar with the district's history. Banks and insurance companies predominated, giving the area the label Wall Street of the West. But oil companies, communications giants, engineering firms, and clothing conglomerates were also heavily represented. California gold had originally fueled the district's creation, but Nevada silver secured its place in the American financial world.
The interior of the Credit & Mercantile Bank was a trendy combination of laminated wood, terrazzo, and glass. The safe-deposit boxes were located on the third floor, and there a woman with sun-yellow hair waited behind a desk. Lord produced his key, phony letters of administration and state bar of Georgia identification card. He smiled and was pleasant, hoping there would be few questions. But the curious look on the woman's face was not encouraging.
"We have no box with that number," she coolly informed them.
He motioned to the key she held. "C.M.B. That's your bank, right?"
"It's our initials," was all she seemed willing to concede.
He decided to try firmness. "Ma'am, Miss Ludmilla here is anxious to settle her mother's affairs. This death has been particularly painful for her. We have reason to believe this box would be quite old. Doesn't the bank maintain boxes for long periods of time? According to your advertisements, this institution has been here since 1884."
"Mr. Lord, maybe I can speak a little slower and you'll understand." He was liking her tone less and less. "This bank has no box numbered seven sixteen. Our numbering system is different. We use a letter-and-number combination. Always have."
He turned to Akilina and spoke in Russian. "She isn't going to tell us anything. She says the bank has no box numbered seven sixteen."
"What are you saying?" the woman asked.
He turned back toward her. "I'm telling her that she'll have to control her pain a bit longer because there are no answers here."
He looked back at Akilina. "Give her a sad look. Maybe some tears if you can."
"I'm an acrobat, not an actress."
He gently clasped her hands and threw her an understanding look. He kept his face animated and said in Russian, "Try. It'll help."
Akilina glanced over at the woman and for a moment showed concern.
"Look," the woman said, handing the key back to him. "Why don't you try the Commerce and Merchants Bank. It's down the street about three blocks."
"Did it work?" Akilina asked.
"What's she saying?" the woman wanted to know.
"She wants me to explain what you said." He turned to Akilina and said in Russian, "Maybe this bitch has a heart after all." He switched to English and asked the woman, "Do you know how long that bank has been around?"
"They're like us. Old as dirt. Eighteen nineties. I believe."
The Commerce & Merchants Bank was a broad-shouldered monolith with a rusticated granite base, marble exterior, and a Corinthian-columned front. It offered a stark contrast to the Credit & Mercantile Bank and the other skyscrapers that flanked it on all sides, their reflective silvery glass and geometric metal grids demonstrative of a more recent time.
Entering, Lord was immediately impressed. The look and feel was of an old-style banking hall. Faux marble columns, inlaid stone floor, and teller cages--all remnants of an era when decorative iron bars did the job high-tech security cameras performed today.
They were directed to an office that controlled access to the safe-deposit vault located, as a uniformed guard informed them, one floor below in the basement.
A middle-aged black man with gray-flecked hair waited in the office. He wore a tie and vest, the gold fob of a pocket watch dangling across the beginnings of a potbelly. Their host introduced himself as Randall Maddox James, and he seemed proud of the fact that his name contained three parts.
