by Steve Berry
Lord did not move.
The gorilla tossed the sweater aside and returned to rummaging the bag.
"You need to come on," the woman said.
"Not without that bag."
The ape tugged and pulled at the stitching, several times sinking long teeth into the exterior. The stiff green cloth held firm and, in obvious frustration, the gorilla slung the bag hard against the rock wall. Rushing over, King Arthur again flung the bundle into the stone.
Lord winced.
The Faberge egg could not withstand such abuse. Without thinking, he lunged forward as the bag fell to the ground from a third throw. King Arthur came with him, but Lord reached the bag first and snatched up the bundle. The female dashed over and moved between him and the male, reaching for the bag herself, but King Arthur wrenched her neck hair, eliciting a belch and grunt from the smaller gorilla. The male pulled her away, and Lord used the moment to dart for the open gateway.
But King Arthur cut him off only a few steps from safety.
The big ape stood not five feet away, his body odor nauseating. An intense stare accompanied a low growl. The animal's upper lip flared, displaying incisors as long as Lord's fingers. The gorilla slowly reached out and fingered the travel bag, caressing the cloth exterior.
Lord stood still.
The ape poked his right index finger into Lord's chest. Not enough to hurt, just enough to test the skin beneath his shirt. It was an almost human gesture, and for a moment Lord's fear abated. He stared deep into the animal's glowing eyes and sensed an acknowledgment that he was in no danger.
King Arthur withdrew his finger and stepped back.
The female had likewise withdrawn after her rebuke.
The big male continued to inch away until the path into the portal was clear. Lord crept inside and the iron gate closed after him.
"I've never seen King Arthur react like that before," said the woman, who locked the gate shut. "He's an aggressive ape."
Lord stared through the bars at the gorilla, who continued to watch him, the sweater now back in hand. Finally, the animal lost interest and headed for the pile of food.
"Now you want to tell me what you were doing in there?" the woman asked.
"Is there a way out?"
"Not so fast. We're going to wait for the police."
He could not do that. No telling how far the reach of those after him extended. He spied a closed exit door with a hallway beyond visible through wire-reinforced glass. He grabbed Akilina and headed that way.
The uniformed woman intercepted him. "I said we're going to wait for the police."
"Look, I've had a rough day. There are men trying to kill us and I just stared down a three-hundred-pound gorilla. I'm not in the mood to argue, if you get my meaning."
The attendant hesitated, then stepped out of the way.
"Good choice. Now, where's the key for that door?"
The woman reached into her pocket and tossed him a ring with a single key. He and Akilina left the chamber, and he closed and locked the door behind them.
They quickly found an exit that led beyond the public viewing areas, toward two large sheds filled with equipment. Farther on was an empty parking lot. A sign noted that the space was for employees only. He knew they could not return to the main entrance, so he headed toward the ocean and a road that paralleled the shore. He wanted to get out of the area immediately and was relieved when a cab appeared. He flagged the vehicle down and they climbed inside, the driver depositing them at Golden Gate Park ten minutes later.
He and Akilina walked inside the park.
A darkened soccer field spread before them, a small pond to the right. The grounds extended for miles in all directions, trees and meadows nothing but featureless shadows. They stopped at a bench and sat down. His nerves were shot, and he wondered how much more he could take. Akilina put her arm around him, then laid her head on his shoulder.
"That was amazing what you did with the ape," he said. "You're a hell of a climber."
"I don't think the animal would have hurt me."
"I know what you mean. The male could have attacked, but he didn't. He even prevented the female from charging."
He thought about the travel bag slamming into the rock wall. He lifted the bag from the damp grass. An overhead streetlight gave off an orange radiance. No one else was in sight. The air was chilly and he wished he still wore his sweater.
He unzipped the bag.
"When King Arthur slammed this thing, all I could think about was the egg."
He withdrew the velvet sack and slipped the egg out. Three of the legs were broken and many of the diamonds were loose. Akilina quickly cradled her hands underneath and caught the precious debris. The egg was cracked down the center of its oval, laid open like a grapefruit.
"It's ruined," he said. "That thing was priceless. Not to mention it may spell the end of our search."
He studied the gaping slit in the masterpiece, a sick feeling grew in his stomach. He dropped the velvet bag and, with his finger, gently probed what was inside the egg. White and fibrous. Like some sort of packing material. He squeezed a pinch and discovered it was cotton, stuffed so dense it was difficult to loosen even a sample. He continued to probe, expecting at some point to find the mechanism that controlled the rising of the three tiny portraits, but instead he struck something else.
The tip of his finger explored farther.
Definitely something hard.
And smooth.
He moved close to the ambient glow from the overhead light and continued to bore with his finger.
He caught a glint of gold with something etched on it.
Writing.
He grasped the sides of the egg with both hands and parted the divide, opening up the thin gold exterior as if it were a ripe pomegranate.
PART
THREE
FORTY
Hayes watched as Orleg and Droopy exited the zoo's main gate and hustled for the car. He and Khrushchev had been waiting patiently in the parking lot for the past ten minutes. The tracking device Hayes had placed on Lord had worked, a tiny dot no larger than a button. The consulate possessed a quantity of such equipment, holdovers from the Cold War when San Francisco was central to Soviet intelligence gathering in the important computer- and defense-oriented California region.
They'd allowed Lord to escape as a means of finding Akilina Petrovna, whom Hayes believed possessed whatever it was Lord found in Kolya Maks's grave and in the safe-deposit box. The ability to covertly track their prey had allowed them to stay back a discreet distance as Lord wove his way through evening traffic. He thought the meeting place odd, but reasoned that Lord had wanted a public locale. Public attention was one thing Hayes did not need.
"I don't like the looks on their faces," Khrushchev said.
Hayes didn't, either, but said nothing. He was still comforted by the fact the LCD screen before them beeped, signifying a lock on Lord. He pushed a button and the rear window of the Lincoln whined down. Orleg and Droopy stopped outside.
"He jumped into the gorilla pit," Orleg said. "We tried to follow, but one of the fucking beasts stopped us. I didn't think you wanted a lot of show, so we came out. We'll just track him again."
"That was wise," he said. "We still have a strong signal." He turned to Zubarev. "Shall we?" He opened the door and they climbed out into the night. Orleg grabbed the handheld LCD display and they all moved forward. In the distance, sirens could be heard approaching.
"Someone has called the police. We need to end this fast," he said. "This is not Moscow. The police here ask lots of questions."
The zoo's front gate was unattended and they quickly darted inside. A crowd had gathered at the gorilla expo. The tracking device Orleg carried continued to signify Lord's presence nearby. "Put that thing under your jacket," he said to Orleg, not wanting any questions from the curious.
They approached the primate exhibit and Hayes asked what was going on. A woman told him that a black
man and a white woman had jumped over the moat and the gorillas had gone after them. They eventually slipped into an open gate in the rock wall and disappeared. He moved back to Orleg and learned the signal was still active. But when he focused out into the lit habitat he immediately saw what a large silver-back gorilla held in his clenched hand.
A dark green sweater.
The same sweater into which the tracking device had been sewn. He shook his head and suddenly recalled what Rasputin had predicted to Alexandra. The innocence of beasts will guard and lead the way, being the final arbitor of success.
"The ape has the sweater," he told Zubarev, who moved close to the retaining wall and saw for himself.
The look on the wiry Russian's face conveyed that he, too, remembered the starets's prediction. "The beast certainly guarded the way. I wonder if he led it, as well."
"Good question," Hayes said.
Lord peeled back the golden edges of the egg. Diamonds popped off like drops of juice from a split orange. A small golden lump fell to the damp grass. Akilina reached down and lifted the object.
A bell.
The exterior shone bright in the glow from the lamp above, surely the first time that this gold had touched fresh air in decades. She stepped closer to the light and he spied tiny words etched on the bell's exterior.
"It's written in Cyrillic," she said, the bell close to her eyes.
"Can you read it?"
" 'To where the Princess tree grows and Genesis, a Thorn awaits. Use the words that brought you here. Success comes if your names are spoken and the bell is formed.' "
He was tiring of riddles. "What does that mean?
He grabbed the bell and studied it in detail. It was no more than three inches high and a couple of inches wide. No clapper hung inside. Its weight suggested that it was solid gold. Other than the etched letters encircling the outside, there were no words or symbols. Apparently, this was Yussoupov's last message.
He retreated to the bench and sat down.
Akilina followed.
He looked at the destroyed Faberge egg. For the better part of the twentieth century and into the twenty-first, descendants of Nicholas II had apparently survived. While communist premiers dominated the Russian people, heirs to the Romanov throne lived on, in obscurity, where the Princess tree grows--wherever that was. He wanted to find those descendants. Actually, he needed to find them. Stefan Baklanov was not the rightful heir to the Russian throne, and perhaps the reemergence of a direct Romanov might galvanize the Russian people in a way nothing else could. But at the moment he was too tired to do any more. He'd originally planned to leave town tonight, but now he decided against that. "Let's go back to the hotel you found and get some sleep. Maybe this will be clearer in the morning."
"Could we get something to eat along the way? I have not eaten since breakfast."
He looked at her, then reached up and lightly caressed her cheek. "You did good today," he said in Russian.
"I was wondering if I'd ever see you again."
"You weren't the only one."
Her hand came up to his. "I did not like the thought of that."
Nor did he.
He gently kissed her lips, then took her in his arms. They sat for a few minutes in the darkness, savoring the solitude. Finally he stuffed what was left of the egg back into its velvet sack, along with the bell. He shouldered the travel bag and they walked from the park to the boulevard beyond.
Ten minutes later a cab appeared and he told the driver the name of the hotel Akilina had selected. They sat together in the backseat as the cab made its way into the city. He was thinking about what was inscribed on Hell's Bell.
To where the Princess tree grows and Genesis, a Thorn awaits. Use the words that brought you here. Success comes if your names are spoken and the bell is formed.
Apparently another cryptic direction--enough to lead the way if you knew what to look for, but not enough to be a divining rod for intruders. Trouble was, he didn't know what they were looking for. Those words had been scripted sometime after 1918, when the imperial family was murdered, and before 1924, when Faberge himself had died. Perhaps their meaning was clearer then, time clouding what was once an unambiguous message. Through the cab's dingy windows he studied the parade of cafes and restaurants that rolled by. He recalled Akilina's request for food and, though he did not want to be exposed for long, he, too, was hungry.
A thought occurred to him.
He told the driver what he wanted and the man nodded in recognition, finding the appropriate establishment a few minutes later.
He led Akilina inside a building marked CYBERHOUSE, one of many places that combined Internet access with food and drink. Right now he needed both food and information.
The interior was half full and lined with shiny stainless-steel walls and lots of smoky glass panels with local scenes etched into them. A large-screen TV with a small crowd gathered around dominated one corner. Hefty draft beers seemed the specialty, along with thick deli sandwiches.
He darted into the bathroom, doused his face with cold water, and tried to make the bruises appear less threatening.
He and Akilina then grabbed a booth with a terminal and ordered, the waitress explaining how to use the keyboard and providing them a password. While they waited for the food, he found a search engine and typed: PRINCESS TREE. Some three thousand findings appeared. Many dealt with a jewelry line being peddled and known as the Princess Tree Collection. Others dealt with the rain forest, forestry, horticulture, and medicinal herbs. One, though, instantly drew his attention with the summary:
Paulownia Tomentosa--
Princess Tree, Karri Tree--
fragrant violet flowers. Aug./Sept.
He clicked on the site and the screen exploded with a narrative explaining that the princess tree originated in the Far East, but was imported to America in the 1830s. The species had spread all along the eastern United States thanks to seedpods used for packing material in crates shipped from China. Its wood was light and water-resistant, used by the Japanese for rice bowls, utensils, and coffins. The growth rate was fast--five to seven years to maturity--and its blooms were quite striking, with an elongated lavender flower that was mildly fragrant. A mention was made of utilizing the species in the timber and pulp industries due to its fast growth and low production cost. It was particularly prominent in the mountains of western North Carolina, where attempts at cultivation had occurred repeatedly through the years. But it was the explanation of the name that caught his attention. The text noted that the tree was named for Princess Anna Paulownia, daughter of Tsar Paul I, who ruled Russia from 1797 to 1801. Paul I was Nicholas II's great-great-grandfather.
He told Akilina what he read.
She was amazed. "To learn so much. So fast."
He realized Internet access was something only just beginning in Russia. Some of Pridgen & Woodworth's clients were working feverishly to better connect the country to the World Wide Web. Problem was, a single computer cost more than most Russians made in two years.
He scrolled down and checked a couple more sites. None provided any useful information. The waitress arrived with their food and two Pepsis. They ate and, for a few minutes, he forgot about their dire situation. He was finishing up the last of his baked chips when another thought hit him. He backtracked to the search engine. There he typed NORTH CAROLINA and found a site that contained a detailed state map. He focused on the mountainous western region and called up an enlarged portion.
"What is that?" Akilina asked.
"A hunch I'm playing," he said, eyes not leaving the screen.
In the center of the screen was Asheville, a cross of dark red lines emanating in four directions, signifying Interstates 40 and 26. To the north were towns like Boone, Green Mountain, and Bald Creek. To the south were Hendersonville and the South Carolina-Georgia border. Maggie Valley and Tennessee lay to the west, and Charlotte loomed off to the east. He studied the Blue Ridge Parkway snaking a path to the nor
theast from Asheville to the Virginia line. The towns carried interesting names. Sioux, Bay Book, Chimney Rock, Cedar Mountain. Then, just north of Asheville, south of Boone, near Grandfather Mountain, he saw it.
Genesis. On State Route 81.
To where the Princess tree grows and Genesis, a Thorn awaits.
He turned to Akilina and smiled.
FORTY-ONE
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 20
Lord and Akilina rose early and checked out of the hotel. The past week had been the first time in many years he'd slept with a woman. There'd been no sex, as they were both too exhausted and scared, but they'd lain in each other's arms, he dozing in and out, half expecting Droopy and Orleg to burst into the room any minute.
They'd awakened just after dawn and headed to an Avis rental agency in the financial district. Then, they'd driven ninety miles northeast to Sacramento, reasoning that the airport there might be safe from watchful eyes. After dropping off the car, they boarded an American Airlines nonstop to Dallas. On the plane, he took the time to read a USA Today. A front-page story recounted how the Tsarist Commission was nearly finished with its work. Defying all odds, the commission had completed its interviews and narrowed the field to three finalists, one of whom was Stefan Baklanov. A final vote, originally scheduled for the next day, had been changed to Friday because of a death in one commission member's family. Since unanimity was required on any final vote, there was no choice but to institute a one-day delay. Analysts were already predicting Baklanov's selection and heralding the choice as the best course for Russia. One historian was quoted as saying, "He is the closest we have to Nicholas II. The most Romanov of the Romanovs."
