the Romanov Prophecy (2004)

by Steve Berry

  "That would be against the law," he said. "This isn't Russia. There is bank confidentiality in this country."

  The envoy seemed unperturbed. "I am aware of your laws. Perhaps they likewise cover the use of false court papers to gain access to a safe-deposit box owned by someone else?"

  He got the message. "What do you want?"

  "Inspector Orleg has been under investigation for some time. He is connected to some sort of organization that is intent on influencing the outcome of the Tsarist Commission. Artemy Bely, the young lawyer who was gunned down, was killed because he was asking questions about Orleg and this association. You, unfortunately, happened to be present. The individuals who murdered Bely thought perhaps he confided in you, which explains their interest in you. I am aware of the chases in Moscow and Red Square--"

  "And also on a train from St. Petersburg."

  "I was unaware of that."

  "What kind of organization is attempting to influence the commission?"

  "That, we were hoping you might know. My government is only aware that individuals are working together and large sums of money have changed hands. Orleg is connected to them. Their purpose seems an attempt to assure that Stefan Baklanov is selected tsar."

  The man's words were making sense, but he wanted to know, "Are any American businessmen suspected of being involved? My firm represents a large number of them."

  "We believe so. In fact, that appears to be the cash source. We were hoping you could help us there, too."

  "Have you talked with my boss, Taylor Hayes?"

  Vitenko shook his head. "My government has tried to confine its inquiries to keep their knowledge secret. Arrests are about to be made, but I have been asked to question you and see if you could add more. In addition, a representative from Moscow would like to speak with you, if possible."

  Lord was now extremely concerned. He didn't like the idea that anyone from Moscow knew where he was.

  His apprehension must have seeped through his expression. Vitenko said, "There is nothing to fear, Mr. Lord. Your conversation will be by phone. I assure you, I represent a government that is interested in everything that has happened over the past few days. We need your assistance. The commission will take a final vote in two days' time. If there has been a corruption of the process, we must know."

  He said nothing.

  "We cannot begin a new Russia with vestiges of the old. If commission members are being bribed, perhaps Stefan Baklanov himself has been compromised. That cannot be allowed."

  He shot a quick glance at Akilina, who signaled her concern with a lingering gaze. As long as the envoy was talking, he wanted to know some things. "Why does your government continue to be concerned with tsarist wealth? It seems ridiculous. So much time has passed."

  Vitenko settled back in his chair. "Nicholas II hid millions in imperial gold prior to 1917. The Soviets thought it their duty to find every last bit of that wealth. San Francisco became the hub of all Allied support for the White Army. Much tsarist gold was deposited here for the London and New York banks, which were financing rifle and ammunition purchases. Russian emigres followed that gold into San Francisco. Many were merely refugees, but some came for a purpose." The envoy sat straight in his chair, a ramrod back matching his stuffy personality. "The Russian consul general here at the time openly declared himself anti-Bolshevik and was actively involved with American intervention in the Russian civil war. That man personally profited from the many gold-for-arms deals that flowed through local banks. The Soviets became convinced large amounts of what they regarded as their gold was still here. Then there is the matter of Colonel Nicholas F. Romanov."

  The pitch and tone of the man's voice signaled something important. Vitenko reached into his jacket pocket and removed a copy of a news article from the San Francisco Examiner dated October 16, 1919. The story told of the arrival of a Russian colonel with the same last name as the deposed imperial family. He was supposedly on his way to Washington to secure American aid for White Army efforts.

  "His arrival caused quite a stir. The consulate here monitored his activities. We still have the files, in fact. Whether this man was a Romanov or not, no one knows. Most likely, he was not, the name simply a way to arouse interest. He managed to shed the surveillance placed on him, and we really have no idea what he did while here or where he disappeared to. We do know that several accounts were open at the time, one at the Commerce and Merchants Bank, along with four safe-deposit boxes, one of which was number seven sixteen, which you accessed yesterday."

  He began to realize this man's interest. A few too many coincidences for events to be random.

  "Care to tell me what was in the box, Mr. Lord?"

  He did not trust the envoy enough to part with that information. "Not right now."

  "Perhaps you could tell the representative from Moscow?"

  He wasn't sure about that, either, so he said nothing. Vitenko again seemed to sense his hesitancy. "Mr. Lord, I have been straightforward with you. There is no reason to doubt my intentions. Surely you can see my government's interest in all that has happened."

  "Surely you can see why I'm being cautious. I've been running for my life the past few days. And by the way, you never did say how you located us."

  "You listed this hotel on the sign-in sheet at the bank."

  Good answer, he thought.

  Vitenko reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. "I understand your reluctance, Mr. Lord. Here is how to contact me. Any taxi driver can deliver you to the Russian consulate. The representative from Moscow will call at two thirty this afternoon, our time. If you want to talk with him, please be at my office. If not, you will not be hearing from us again."

  He accepted the card and stared hard at the envoy's face, unsure what he was going to do.

  Akilina watched Lord as he paced the hotel room. They'd spent the morning in the public library reading old newspapers, finding a couple of articles on Colonel Nicholas F. Romanov's visit to San Francisco in the fall of 1919. There wasn't much, more gossip and social news than anything else, and she could tell that Lord was becoming frustrated. They'd also verified that the Lilies of the Valley Egg was still in a private collection, which did little to explain how they possessed a duplicate, exact in every way save for the photos.

  After a light lunch in one of the street cafes, they'd returned to the room. Lord had yet to mention Filip Vitenko and his offer to appear at the Russian consulate later. She'd carefully watched the envoy while he and Lord talked, trying to gauge for herself his sincerity, but it was hard to ascertain.

  She glanced over at Lord. He was a handsome man. The fact that he was "of color," as she'd been taught to think, meant nothing to her. He seemed a genuine and sincere individual thrust into something extraordinary. They'd so far spent five nights together and never once had he even intimated anything improper. That was unusual for her, since the men in the circus, and the few she associated with outside work, seemed fixated on sex.

  "Akilina."

  She looked at Lord.

  "Where were you?" he asked.

  She didn't want to tell him what she was really pondering, so she said, "Filip Vitenko seemed sincere."

  "He did. But that doesn't necessarily mean anything."

  Lord sat on the edge of the bed. He was holding the Faberge egg. "We must be missing something. A part of the secret has been lost. Clearly, we're at a dead end."

  She knew what he really meant. "You are going to the consulate?"

  He stared at her. "I don't think I have a choice. If somebody is trying to manipulate the commission, I have to help where I can."

  "But there's nothing you know."

  "I'm curious to see what I can learn from the Moscow representative. The information might be helpful to the man I work for. Don't forget, my original purpose was to ensure Stefan Baklanov's selection. I have to do my job."

  "We'll go together, then."

  "No. I may be taking a chance, but I'm no
t going to be foolish. I want you to take all this stuff and check into another hotel. Leave through the parking garage. Don't use the front or the lobby. This place could be watched. You never know, you might be followed, so take a roundabout path to the new hotel. Use the subway, a bus, maybe a taxi, too. Take a couple of hours to move around. I'll go to the consulate at two thirty. You call at three thirty. Use a pay phone somewhere. If I don't answer or they say I'm unavailable or I've already gone, go to ground. Stay low."

  "I don't like this."

  Lord stood and walked to the wall table where the velvet bag lay. He slid the egg inside. "I don't either, Akilina. But we have no choice. If there are direct Romanov heirs still alive, the Russian government needs to know that. We can't govern our lives with what Rasputin said decades ago."

  "But we have no idea where to look."

  "Publicity might bring any descendants of Alexie and Anastasia out into the open. DNA testing can easily weed the real thing from frauds."

  "We were told to do this alone."

  "We're the eagle and the raven, right? So we can set the rules."

  "I don't think we can. I believe that we must find the tsar's heirs as the starets predicted."

  Lord leaned against the table. "The Russian people need the truth. Why is openness and honesty so foreign a concept to you folks? I think we should let your government and the U.S. State Department handle this. I'm going to tell the guy from Moscow everything."

  She was uneasy about the course Lord was about to take. She preferred anonymity, the protection that a city of hundreds of thousands could provide. But maybe he was right. Perhaps the proper authorities should be alerted and something done before the Tsarist Commission selected Stefan Baklanov, or anyone else, as the next Tsar of All Russia.

  "My job was to find anything that might affect Baklanov's claim. I think this definitely qualifies. The man I work for needs to know what we know. There's a lot at stake here, Akilina."

  "Perhaps your career?"

  Lord went silent for a moment. "Perhaps."

  She wanted to ask more, but decided not to. It was obvious he'd made up his mind and he did not look the sort to change it. She would just have to trust that he knew what he was doing.

  "How will you find me after you leave the consulate?" she asked.

  He lifted one of a brochures stacked with several others. It was a colorful pamphlet with pictures of a zebra and tiger on the front.

  "The zoo stays open till seven PM. I'll meet you there. At the Lion House. Your English is good enough to get you there. If I'm not there by six, go to the police and tell them everything. Ask for a U.S. State Department representative to be called. The man I work for is Taylor Hayes. He's in Moscow with the commission. Have the American representatives get in touch with him. Explain it all. When you call at three thirty, unless I personally come on the phone and speak with you, don't believe a word you are being told. Assume the worst and do as I say. All right?"

  She didn't like what she was hearing and told him so.

  "I understand," Lord said. "Vitenko seemed okay. And we are in San Francisco, not Moscow. But we have to be realistic. If this is something more than we've been led to believe, I doubt we'll see each other again."

  THIRTY-FIVE

  2:30 PM

  The Russian consulate was located on a trendy street west of the financial district, not far from Chinatown and the opulence of Nob Hill. The consulate, a red-brown sandstone two-story with an end turret, sat on the corner of a busy intersection. Balconies lined with richly scrolled metal balustrades adorned the upper floor. The roof was trimmed in a cast-iron cresting.

  Lord was deposited out front by a taxi. A cool fog ebbed inland from the nearby ocean and sent a shiver down his spine. He paid the driver, then followed a brick path to a granite stoop. Twin marble lions guarded the entrance. A bronze placard attached to the stone announced, CONSULATE OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION.

  He entered a foyer of golden oak paneling, elaborate statuary, and mosaic flooring. A uniformed guard directed him upstairs to the second floor, where Filip Vitenko waited.

  Vitenko shook his hand and offered him a seat in one of two brocaded armchairs. "I am so glad you decided to cooperate with us, Mr. Lord. My government will be pleased."

  "I have to say, Mr. Vitenko, I'm uncomfortable with even being here. But I thought I'd do what I could."

  "I mentioned your reluctance to my superiors in Moscow, but they assured me nothing would be done to pressure your assistance. They understand fully what you've experienced and are sorry for your misfortunes while in Russia."

  Vitenko reached for a pack of cigarettes, surely the source of the bitter odor that permeated the room. His host offered one, but Lord declined.

  "I, too, wish I didn't enjoy the habit so much." Vitenko balanced the filter end in a long silver holder and lit the tip. Thick smoke curled upward.

  "Who is it I'll be speaking with?" Lord asked.

  "A representative of the government in the Justice Ministry. He knew Artemy Bely. Arrest warrants are being prepared for Feliks Orleg and several others. This man is spearheading that action. More facts, though, could help seal the case against these criminals."

  "Has the Tsarist Commission been warned?"

  "The chairman is aware of what is happening, but no public announcement is to be made, as I am sure you can understand. This would do nothing but undermine the investigative process. Our political situation is most fragile, and the commission's deliberations are at a critical juncture."

  He was starting to relax. The situation appeared nonthreatening, and he noticed nothing in Vitenko's words or actions that caused alarm.

  The phone on the desk sprang to life with a shrill ring. Vitenko answered in Russian and directed that the call be placed through. He replaced the receiver and pushed another button on the console. A voice came through the speakerphone.

  "Mr. Lord. I am Maxim Zubarev. I work within the Justice Ministry in Moscow. I trust your day has been fine."

  He wondered how the caller knew he understood the language, but he assumed Vitenko had passed the information along. "So far, Mr. Zubarev. You're up late."

  A chuckle crackled through the speaker. "It is the middle of the night here in Moscow. But this is most important. When you turned up in San Francisco, we breathed a sigh of relief. We were afraid the men who were after you may have succeeded."

  "I understand they were actually after Artemy."

  "Artemy was working for me, making discreet inquiries. I feel somewhat responsible. But he wanted to help. I failed to realize the reach of the men involved with this treason, and my heart aches over that failure."

  He decided to try to learn what he could. "Has the commission been compromised?"

  "We are not sure at this point. But we suspect that is so. It is our hope the corruption has not run too deep and may be caught in time. The original belief was that unanimity would prevent this type of abuse, but I am afraid that the requirement only heightened the extent of any bribery that may have developed."

  "I work for Taylor Hayes. He is an American lawyer with extensive ties to foreign business investment in Russia--"

  "I am familiar with Mr. Hayes."

  "Could you contact him and let him know my whereabouts."

  "Of course. But could you tell me why you are in San Francisco and why you accessed the safe-deposit box at the Commerce and Merchants Bank?"

  He leaned back in the chair. "I'm not sure you would believe me if I told you."

  "Why not let me be the judge of your sanity?"

  "I am looking for Alexie and Anastasia Romanov."

  There was a long pause from the other end. Vitenko gave him a surprised look.

  "Could you explain, Mr. Lord?" the voice said through the speaker.

  "It appears that two Romanov children escaped Yekaterinburg and were brought to this country by Felix Yussoupov. He was fulfilling a prophecy laid down by Rasputin in 1916. I found written confirmation of that
in the Moscow archives."

  "What evidence do you have to support this?"

  Before he could answer, the wail of a siren seeped in from outside as an emergency vehicle passed on the street below. Not something he usually paid much attention to, except that the same siren could be heard through the speakerphone.

  The implications came in an instant.

  He shot to his feet and bolted from the room.

  Vitenko called out his name.

  He yanked open the door and was met by Droopy's smiling face. Standing behind him was Feliks Orleg. Droopy slammed a fist into his face. He staggered back toward Vitenko's desk. Blood gushed out his nostrils. The room blinked in and out.

  Orleg rushed forward and pounded him.

  He slumped to the parquet floor. Somebody said something, but he could no longer register the words.

  He fought the feeling, but blackness enveloped him.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Lord awoke. He was strapped to the same chair he'd been sitting in while talking to Vitenko, duct tape now holding his arms and legs, another piece slapped over his mouth. His nose ached, and blood stained his sweater and jeans. He could still see, but his right eye was swollen, and the images of the three men standing before him were blurred.

  "Wake up, Mr. Lord."

  He focused hard on the man who was speaking. Orleg. Talking Russian.

  "You certainly understand me. I would suggest you acknowledge whether you hear me or not."

  He lightly shook his head.

  "Good. So nice to see you again here, in America, land of opportunity. Such a wonderful place, no?"

  Droopy stepped forward and rammed a fist between Lord's legs. The pain electrified his spine and brought tears to his eyes. The tape over his mouth deadened his scream. Each breath wheezed from a desperate attempt to suck air through his aching nostrils.