the Romanov Prophecy (2004)

by Steve Berry

  Lord showed James his letters testamentary and the key. There were no negative remarks or questions beyond a few perfunctory inquiries, and James promptly led them through the main hall and down into an elaborate basement. The safe-deposit boxes comprised several spacious rooms, each lined with row after row of rectangular stainless-steel doors. Beyond one, they were led to a row of old boxes, the green metal exteriors tarnished, the locks black dots.

  "These are the oldest the bank maintains," James said. "They were here when the 1906 earthquake struck. There are only a few of these dinosaurs left. We often wonder when the contents will all be claimed."

  "You don't check after a time?" he asked.

  "The law doesn't allow it. As long as the rent is paid each year."

  He held up the key. "You're telling me the rental on this box has been paid since the twenties?"

  "That's right. Otherwise we would have declared it dormant and drilled the lock. Surely your decedent made sure that happened."

  He caught himself. "Of course. Who else?"

  James pointed out the box marked 716. It was halfway up the wall, the access door about a foot across and ten inches high.

  "If you need anything, Mr. Lord, I'll be in my office."

  Lord waited until he heard the grille gate close, signaling that they were alone. Then he slid the key into the lock.

  He opened the slot and saw another metal container. He slid the rectangle out, noticing the weight of whatever was inside, and deposited the inner box on a nearby walnut table.

  Inside were three purple velvet bags, all in much better condition than the one Kolya Maks had harbored in death. There was also a newspaper, folded once, from Bern, Switzerland, dated September 25, 1920. The paper was brittle but still intact. He gently massaged the outside of the longest bag and discerned distinct outlines. He quickly opened the bag and withdrew two gold bars, both identical to the one waiting in the Kiev airport, NR and a double-headed eagle stamped on top. He then reached for another bag, this one fatter, almost round. He loosened the leather straps.

  What he withdrew shocked him.

  The egg was an enameled translucent rose on a guilloche field, supported by green cabriolet legs that, on close inspection, were actually overlapping leaves veined with what appeared to be rose diamonds. On top was a tiny imperial crown set with two bows, dotted with more rose diamonds and what appeared to be an exquisite ruby. The entire oval was quartered by four lines of diamonds and lilies in pearls and diamonds, more leaves enameled translucent green on gold. The whole egg was about six inches tall from leg to crown.

  And he'd seen it before.

  "This is Faberge," he said. "It's an imperial Easter egg."

  "I know," Akilina said. "I have seen them in the Kremlin Armory."

  "This one was known as the Lilies of the Valley Egg. It was presented to the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna, Nicholas II's mother, in 1898. There's just one problem, though. This egg was in a private collection. Malcolm Forbes, an American millionaire, bought twelve of the fifty-four known to have existed. His collection was larger than the Kremlin Armory's. I saw this exact egg on display in New York--"

  Metal clanked as the iron grille at the far end of the chamber opened. He glanced around a row of silver boxes and saw James strolling toward them. He quickly rebagged the egg and pulled the leather straps tight. The gold bars were still in their bag.

  "Everything okay?" the man asked as he approached.

  "Just fine," he said. "Would you perhaps have a cardboard box or paper bag we could use to transport these items?"

  The man gave the table a quick perusal. "Of course, Mr. Lord. The bank is at your disposal."

  Lord wanted to examine the rest of the box's contents but thought it wise to first leave the bank. Randall Maddox James was a bit too inquisitive for his current paranoid personality. But it was an understandable paranoia, he kept telling himself, considering what he'd endured the past few days.

  He carried their new possessions in a Commerce & Merchants Bank paper bag with rope handles and led Akilina outside, where they took a cab to the public library. He recalled the building from a previous visit, a regal three-story structure of late-nineteenth-century design that had survived both the 1906 and 1989 earthquakes. A newer building stood next door, and they were directed there by a woman at an information desk. Before turning his attention back to the items in the bag, Lord located some books on Faberge, including one that cataloged all known imperial Easter eggs.

  Inside a study room with the door locked, he spread the contents from the safe-deposit box on a table. He then opened one of the books and learned that fifty-six eggs had been created, starting in 1885 when Tsar Alexander III commissioned Carl Faberge to fashion for his wife, Empress Marie, a gift for Easter. That holy day was the most important feast of the Russian Orthodox Church, traditionally celebrated with an exchange of eggs and three kisses. The trinket was so well received that the tsar commissioned one every Easter thereafter. Nicholas II, Alexander's son who assumed the throne in 1894, continued the tradition, except that two were now crafted--one for his wife, Alexandra, and one for his mother.

  Each of the unique creations, all of enameled gold and jewels, contained a surprise--a tiny coronation coach, a replica of the royal yacht, a train, windup animals, or some other intricate mechanical miniature. Forty-seven of the original fifty-six eggs were known to exist, their locations noted in captions beneath the photos. The remaining nine had never been located after the Bolshevik revolution.

  He found a full-page photo of the Lilies of the Valley Egg. The caption beneath read:

  Workmaster Michael Perchin of the Faberge workshop created this marvel. Its surprise is three miniature portraits of the tsar and Grand Duchesses Olga and Tatiana, the first two imperial children. Presently part of a private collection, New York.

  The volume showed a color photo of the egg in nearly full size. A trefoil of portrait miniatures fanned from the top, the diamond crown with ruby above. Each photographic oval was gold-backed and framed in rose diamonds. The center photo showed Nicholas II in uniform, his bearded face, shoulders, and upper chest clearly visible. To his left was Olga, the firstborn, her angelic three-year-old face surrounded by curly blond hair. To the right was the infant Tatiana, not yet a year old. The back of each photo was engraved: APRIL 5, 1898.

  He held up the egg from the safe-deposit box beside the picture. "These two are identical."

  "But ours has no photos," Akilina said.

  He glanced back at the book and read a little of the text, learning that a geared mechanism allowed the picture fan to rise. A gold-mounted pearl button on the side, when turned, supposedly activated the crank.

  He studied the egg from the safe-deposit box and saw a gold-mounted pearl button. He tabled the legs and held the egg steady as he turned the tiny knob. Slowly, the diamond-studded crown rose. Beneath, a photo of Nicholas II appeared, the image identical to the one from the other Lilies of the Valley Egg pictured in the book. Then two more tiny oval photos fanned out, the left face male, the right female.

  The knob would turn no farther and he stopped.

  He stared at the pictures and recognized both faces. One was Alexie--the other, Anastasia. He reached over to one of the books and thumbed through it until he located a photo taken of the imperial children in 1916, before their captivity. He was right on their identity, but the faces from the egg were definitely older, both dressed in distinctive Western clothes, the tsarevich in what appeared to be a flannel shirt, Anastasia in a light-colored blouse. Behind each gold-and-diamond oval was the engraving: APRIL 5, 1920.

  "They're older," he said. "They survived."

  He reached for the newspaper and unfolded the yellowed bundle. He could read Swiss-German reasonably well and noticed a story on the bottom fold, apparently the reason why it had been included in the safe-deposit box. The article was headlined: GOLDSMITH FABERGE SUCCUMBS. The text reiterated the death of Carl Faberge the day before at t
he Hotel Bellevue in Lusanne. He'd only recently arrived from Germany, where he'd fled in exile after the Bolshevik takeover in October 1917. The story went on and noted that the House of Faberge, which Carl Faberge had headed for forty-seven years, ended with the demise of the Romanovs. The Soviets had seized everything and closed the business, though a vain attempt was made to keep the enterprise open for a short while under the more politically correct name of "Committee of the Employees of the Faberge Company." The reporter noted that the lack of imperial patronage was not the only reason for the business's decline. The First World War had tapped the resources of most of the rich clientele Faberge had served. The article concluded with an observation that privileged Russian society seemed gone forever. The photograph that accompanied the article showed Faberge as a broken man.

  "This newspaper is here to prove authenticity," he said.

  He rolled the egg over and found the goldsmith mark of the man who crafted it: HW. He thumbed through one of the volumes and came to a section that dealt with the various workmasters Faberge had employed. He knew that Faberge himself actually designed and made nothing. He was the presiding genius of a conglomerate that, at its height, produced some of the finest jewelry ever crafted, but it was the workmasters who actually conceived and assembled everything. The book noted that Michael Perchin, the head workmaster who created the Lilies of the Valley Egg, died in 1903. The text reflected that Henrik Wigstrom took over the managerial reigns until the House's demise, dying himself in 1923, a year before Faberge. The volume likewise contained a photograph of Wigstrom's mark--HW--and Lord compared the picture with the initials stamped into the bottom of the egg.

  They were identical.

  He saw that Akilina held the contents of the third velvet bag--another gold sheet with engraved writing in Cyrillic. He came close and had to strain to read it, but was able to translate:

  To the Raven and the Eagle: This country has proven the haven it claims to be. The blood of the imperial body is safe, awaiting your arrival. The tsar reigns but does not govern. You must remedy that. The rightful heirs will remain forever silent until you properly awaken their spirit. What I wish for the despots who destroyed our nation Radishchev said best more than a hundred years ago: "No you shan't be forgotten. Damned for ages to come. Blood in your cradle, hymns and the battle roar. Ah, drenched in blood you tumble into the grave." See to it.

  F. Y.

  "That's it?" he said. "This tells us nothing. What about Hell's Bell? The last engraving from Maks's grave said only Hell's Bell can point the way to the next portal. There's nothing here about any Hell's Bell." He lifted the egg and shook it. Solid. No sound from inside. He carefully studied the exterior and noticed no lines or openings. "Obviously, we're supposed to know more at this point than we do. Pashenko said parts of the secret had been lost with time. Maybe there was another step we missed, one that would tell us what Hell's Bell is."

  He brought the egg closer and examined the three small photos extending from the top. "Alexie and Anastasia survived. They were here, in this country. Both are long dead, but maybe their descendants aren't. We're so close to finding them, but all we have is some gold and an egg worth a fortune." He shook his head. "Yussoupov went to a lot of trouble. Even involving Faberge, or at least his last workmaster, to craft this."

  "What do we do now?" Akilina asked.

  He sat back in the chair and considered her question. He wanted to offer some hope, an answer, but finally he spoke truthfully.

  "I have no idea."

  THIRTY-FOUR

  MOSCOW

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 19

  7:00 AM

  Hayes walked quickly toward the phone ringing beside his bed. He'd just finished showering and shaving, preparing for another day at the commission proceedings, a pivotal day when a decision would be made on the three candidates to be considered in the final voting. There was certainly no doubt Baklanov would be included, his final selection now assured since the Secret Chancellory had confirmed the previous night that all seventeen commission members were purchased. Even the pesky bastard who'd grilled Baklanov during his last appearance had named his price.

  He answered the phone on the fourth ring and instantly recognized Khrushchev's voice.

  "A call came in about half an hour ago from the Russian consulate in San Francisco, California. Your Mr. Lord is there with Miss Petrovna."

  Hayes was shocked. "What's he doing there?"

  "He appeared at a local bank with a safe-deposit key. Apparently that was what he retrieved from Kolya Maks's grave. The Commerce and Merchant's Bank is one of several institutions worldwide the Soviets monitored through the years. The KGB was obsessed with finding tsarist wealth. They were convinced gold bullion was sitting in bank vaults, hidden away before the revolution. Actually, there was some truth to that, because millions were found in accounts after 1917."

  "You're telling me that your people still monitor banks for money that's almost a hundred years old? No wonder your government is broke. You need to give it up and move on."

  "Do we? Look what's happening. Perhaps we are not as foolish as you think. Some of what you say, though, is correct. After the communist fall, endeavors such as this were deemed unaffordable. But I had the foresight to recultivate past contacts when our secret association was formed. Our consulate in San Francisco has maintained a discreet relationship with two banks there for decades. They were both depositories used before the revolution by tsarist agents. Luckily, one of our sources reported access to a safe-deposit box we suspected of a tsarist connection."

  "What happened?"

  "Lord and Miss Petrovna appeared with a cover story of representing some deceased person's estate. The clerk thought nothing of it until they produced a key for one of the oldest boxes the bank still maintains. It is one of the boxes we have watched. Lord left the bank with three velvet bags, contents unknown."

  "We know where they are now?"

  "Mr. Lord signed in for access to the safe-deposit boxes and left a local hotel address. We have confirmed he and Miss Petrovna are there. He apparently feels safe back in America."

  His mind raced. He checked his watch. A little after seven AM on a Tuesday in Moscow meant it was still eight PM. Monday in California.

  Twelve hours before Lord started another day.

  "I have an idea," he told Khrushchev.

  "I thought you might."

  Lord and Akilina exited the elevator in the lobby of the Marriott, the contents from the safe-deposit box stored in their room's floor safe. The San Francisco Public Library opened at nine AM and he wanted to be there first thing to do more research and try and determine what they were missing, or at least develop an avenue down which they could head for answers.

  This search, which at first seemed only a way to get out of Moscow, had turned interesting. Originally, he'd planned on seeing what was in Starodug, then catching the first plane back to Georgia. But after what happened to the Makses, and what he'd found both in Starodug and the bank, he realized that there was much more here than first contemplated. He was now determined to see it through. Where that might lead he had no idea. But the quest was being made even more interesting by what was happening between him and Akilina.

  He'd booked only one room in the Marriott. They'd slept separately, but their talks last night revealed an intimacy he'd not felt in a long while. They'd watched a movie, a romantic comedy, and he'd translated the dialogue. With his commentary she'd enjoyed the film, and he'd enjoyed sharing it with her.

  There'd only been one major romance in his life, a fellow law student at the University of Virginia whom he'd ultimately learned was far more interested in furthering her career than developing a relationship. She'd abruptly left him right after graduation, taking an offer with a Washington, DC, firm, where he assumed she was still inching her way up the hierarchy to full partnership. He'd moved to Georgia and been hired at Pridgen & Woodworth, dating some, but nothing serious and no one as interesting as Akilina
Petrovna. He'd never been a believer in fate--the concept always seemed more suitable to the faithful who'd worshipped his father--but what was happening could not be denied, both the search they'd accepted and the attraction they shared.

  "Mr. Lord."

  The use of his name, called out across the expansive hotel atrium, caught him by surprise. No one in San Francisco should know who he was.

  He and Akilina stopped walking and turned.

  A sprightly gnome of a man with black hair and matching mustache approached. He was dressed in a double-breasted suit with wide lapels cut in a European style. He walked with an even gait aided by a cane and did not hurry his step as he came close.

  "I am Filip Vitenko, from the Russian consulate," the man said in English.

  Lord's back stiffened. "How did you know where to find me?"

  "Could we sit down somewhere? I have some things to discuss with you."

  He had no intention of venturing far with this man, so he motioned to an ensemble of chairs nearby.

  As they sat, Vitenko said, "I am aware of the incident in Red Square last Friday--"

  "Could you speak Russian so Miss Petrovna can understand? Her English is not nearly as good as yours."

  "Of course," Vitenko said in Russian, throwing a smile at Akilina.

  "As I said, I am aware of what happened in Red Square last Friday. A policeman was killed. A bulletin has been issued by the Moscow police for your detention. It states that you are wanted for questioning."

  Now he was concerned.

  "I am also aware of your contact with an Inspector Feliks Orleg. I realize, Mr. Lord, that you have no complicity in the Red Square affair. Rather, it is Inspector Orleg who is under suspicion. I have been directed to make contact and secure your cooperation."

  He was not convinced. "You still haven't said how you located us."

  "Our consulate has, for a number of years, maintained a watch on two financial institutions in this city. Both existed in tsarist times and were used as depositories by imperial agents. Nicholas II was said to have secreted away gold before the revolution. When you appeared yesterday, at both institutions, and wanted access to a safe-deposit box we have long suspected as having an imperial connection, we were notified."