the Romanov Prophecy (2004)
Page 35
Patriarch Adrian approached.
In the silence that followed, Thorn prayed.
Adrian then anointed the forehead with holy oil and administered an oath. In a building built by Romanovs, protected by Romanovs, and ultimately lost by Romanovs, a new Romanov assumed the mantle of power, one that had been stolen through murder and ambition.
The patriarch slowly placed a gold crown on Thorn's head. After a moment of prayer, the new tsar rose and approached his wife, who also wore a beautiful silk robe. She stood from her throne and knelt before him. Thorn placed the same crown on her head, then replaced it on his. Thorn then led his wife back to her throne, seated her, and sat beside her.
A steady procession of Russian dignitaries approached to swear allegiance to the new tsar--generals, government ministers, Thorn's two sons, and many of the surviving Romanov family, Stefan Baklanov included.
The would-be tsar had escaped the scandal by denying any involvement and challenging anyone to prove the contrary. He professed no knowledge of any conspiracy and proclaimed that he would have been a good ruler, if chosen. Lord thought the move smart. Who could have come forward implicating Baklanov in treason? Only fellow conspirators, and no one seriously believed they would ever say anything. The Russian people appreciated his candor and he remained popular. Lord knew without a doubt that Baklanov had been deeply involved. Maxim Zubarev had told him so. A willing puppet. He'd questioned whether to challenge Baklanov, but Thorn had vetoed the idea. There'd been enough dissension. Let it die. And Lord finally agreed. But he couldn't help wondering if they'd made the right decision.
He glanced at Akilina. She was watching the ceremony through damp eyes. He reached over and gently grasped her hand. She was radiant in a pearl-blue dress trimmed in gold. Thorn had arranged for the garment and she'd been grateful for his thoughtfulness.
He caught her gaze with his own. She returned his touch with a light squeeze of her hand. He saw affection and admiration reflecting from the eyes of a woman he'd come to perhaps love. Neither of them was sure what was going to happen. He'd stayed in Russia because Thorn wanted him and Akilina nearby. Lord had even been asked to remain on as a personal adviser. Though an American, he came with a stamp from the past. He was the raven. The one who had helped resurrect the blood of the Romanovs. In that capacity, his presence in what would otherwise be a devotedly Russian scene seemed fitting.
But Lord was undecided about staying in Russia. Pridgen & Woodworth had offered him a promotion. Head of the International Division. Taylor Hayes's replacement. He would vault ahead of others, but he'd earned the privilege, his name now known worldwide. He was considering that offer, but what stopped him was Akilina. He didn't particularly want to leave her, and she'd expressed a strong desire to stay and work with Thorn.
The ceremony ended and the newly crowned monarchs walked from the church, wearing, just as Nicholas and Alexandra had in 1896, brocaded mantles embroidered with the Romanov double-headed eagle.
Lord and Akilina followed them out into a brisk midday.
The gold onion domes of the four surrounding churches glistened in a bright sun. Cars awaited the tsar and tsarina, but Thorn declined. Instead he shed his mantle and robe and led his wife across the cobbles toward the Kremlin's northeast wall. Lord and Akilina accompanied them and he noticed the vibrant look sweeping Thorn's face. Lord, too, sucked in the brisk air and felt rejuvenation for both himself and a nation. The Kremlin was once again the fortress of the tsar--a people's citadel, as Thorn had come to call it.
At the base of the northeast wall a wooden staircase rose sixty feet to the ramparts. The tsar and tsarina slowly wound their way up, and Lord and Akilina climbed next. Beyond the wall was Red Square. Open cobblestones now spanned the spot where Lenin's tomb and the Tribunes of Honor had once stood. Thorn had ordered the mausoleum leveled. The towering silver firs had been allowed to remain, but the Soviet graves were no more. Sverdlov, Brezhnev, Kalinin, and all the others were dug up and reburied elsewhere. Only Yuri Gagarin was allowed to remain. The first man in space deserved a place of prominence. Others would follow. Good, decent people whose lives would be worth honoring.
Lord watched as Thorn and his wife approached another platform just below the merlons, high enough to elevate them above the wall. Thorn smoothed his suit and turned. "My father told me about this moment. How I would feel. I hope I'm up for this."
"You are," Lord said.
Akilina reached up and hugged Thorn. He returned the gesture.
"Thank you, my dear. In ancient times, you would now be killed. Touching the tsar like that in public." A smile crept onto his face.
Thorn turned to his wife. "Ready?"
She nodded, but Lord saw the apprehension in the woman's eyes. And who could blame her? A decades-old wrong was about to be righted. Peace made with history. Lord, too, had decided to make peace with his own conscience. When he returned home, he would visit his father's grave. It was time to say good-bye to Grover Lord. Akilina had been right when she told him that his father's legacy was more than he realized. Grover Lord had molded him into the man he'd become. Not by example, but by mistakes. Still, his mother loved the man dearly, and always would. Maybe it was time he stopped hating.
Thorn and his wife climbed three short steps onto the plywood platform.
He and Akilina stepped to one of the merlons.
Beyond the Kremlin wall, as far as the eye could see, people spread. Press reports had earlier put their number at two million. They'd flocked into Moscow over the past few days. In Nicholas's time there would have been pageantry and balls to celebrate a coronation. Thorn wanted none of that. His bankrupt nation could ill afford such luxury. So he'd ordered that the platform be built and it be known that at precisely noon he would appear. Lord noted the new tsar's punctuality as the tower clock banged its chimes.
Out of loudspeakers mounted all around Red Square, a voice proclaimed words that were surely reverberating throughout the nation. Lord, too, was caught in the enthusiasm. Moved by an announcement that for centuries had been a rallying cry for Russians searching for leadership. Four simple words that kept pouring from the speakers. Even he started to mouth them, his eyes misting at their meaning.
Long live the tsar.
WRITER'S NOTE
The idea for this novel came to me during a tour of the Kremlin. As with my first novel, The Amber Room, I wanted the information to be accurate. The subject of Nicholas II and his family is fascinating. In many ways, the truth of their ultimate fate is far more scintillating than fiction. Ever since 1991, when the royal remains were exhumed from their anonymous grave, there has existed a great debate as to which two children's bodies are actually missing. First a Russian expert examined the bones and concluded, from photographic superimposition, that Maria and Alexei were not there. Then an American expert analyzed dental and bone specimens and determined the missing to be Alexei and Anastasia. I chose Anastasia simply because of the fascination that has developed around her.
A few more items:
There is indeed a royalist movement in Russia, as described in chapter 21, but no contemporary Holy Band. That was my invention. Russians are likewise fascinated with the concept of a "national idea" (chapter 9), an ideology that the populace can rally behind. The one used in the story is mine, and simple--God, Tsar, and Country. Also, Russians clearly have a fondness for commissions and routinely assign important decisions to a collective resolution. It seemed only natural that a new tsar would be chosen that way.
The flashback sequences (chapters 5, 26, 27, 43, and 44), which describe what happened during the Romanov execution and thereafter, including the bizarre way in which the bodies were disposed of, are based on fact. I tried to re-create those events precisely as related by the participants. The task was complicated, though, by contradictory testimony. Of course, how Alexie and Anastasia escaped is purely my concoction.
The letter from Alexandra (chapter 6) is fictional, except that much of the prose was taken verbatim
from other correspondence Alexandra sent to Nicholas. Their relationship was truly one of love and passion.
The affidavit from a fictional guard at Yekaterinburg quoted in chapter 13 is from an actual account.
Rasputin's predictions are correctly reported, save for the one addition about a "Romanov resurrection," which I fashioned. Whether the predictions were actually Rasputin's, voiced during his life, or manufactured by his daughter after his death, remains a matter of debate. Clearly, though, Rasputin could affect Alexie's hemophilia and his efforts, as depicted in the prologue, are based on actual accounts.
The information on Felix Yussoupov is all true, except for his involvement with any plan to save Alexie and Anastasia. Sadly, unlike my Yussoupov, who ultimately is honorable, the real man never realized the folly of Rasputin's murder and the damage he inflicted on the royal family.
Yakov Yurovsky, the dark Bolshevik who murdered Nicholas II, is accurately portrayed, his own words used in most instances.
The accomplishments of Carl Faberge are all true, save for the duplicate Lilies of the Valley Egg. It was hard to resist including it. That masterpiece seemed the perfect repository in which to secrete photos of the surviving heirs.
The princess tree detailed in chapters 40 and 42 flourishes in western North Carolina. Its connection with the Russian royal family is likewise accurate. The lovely Blue Ridge Mountains would have, indeed, offered a perfect sanctuary for Russian refugees since (as mentioned by Akilina in chapter 42) the area is similar, in many ways, to parts of Siberia.
The borzoi (Russian wolfhound), which plays such an important part in the story (chapters 46, 47, 49, and 50), is a dynamic breed, and its link to the Russian nobility is all true.
Let it be clear that Nicholas II was in no way a benevolent and benign ruler. The negative observations Miles Lord makes about him in chapter 23 are accurate. But what happened to the Romanov family was nonetheless tragic. All the assorted Romanov family murders detailed throughout actually happened. There was, indeed, a systematic effort to eradicate that entire genetic line. Also, Stalin's paranoia with the Romanovs, and his sealing of all records relating to them (chapters 22, 23, and 30), occurred. To imagine a resurrection brings some meaning to their awful ending. Sadly, though, the actual fate of Nicholas II, his wife, and three of his daughters was not as romantic. As detailed in chapter 44, after the graves were exhumed in 1991, the Romanovs' bones remained on a shelf in a laboratory for more than seven years while two cities--Yekaterinburg and St. Petersburg--fought over possession. Finally, another infamous Russian commission chose St. Petersburg and the family members were entombed, with royal pomp and circumstance, alongside their ancestors.
They were buried togther. Which is perhaps fitting, since all observers agree that in life they were a close, loving family.
And in death, so shall they remain.
ONE
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
TUESDAY, MAY 15
12:40 PM
COTTON MALONE TYPED THE WEB ADDRESS WITH TREMBLING fingers. Like a phone that rings in the middle of the night, nothing about an anonymous message was ever good.
The note had arrived two hours ago, while he'd been out of his bookshop on an errand, but the employee who'd accepted the unmarked envelope forgot to give it to him until a few minutes ago.
"The woman didn't say it was urgent," she said in her defense.
"What woman?"
"Chinese lady, dressed in a gorgeous Burberry skirt. She said to give it only to you."
"She used my name?"
"Twice."
Inside had been a folded sheet of gray vellum upon which was printed a Web address with a dot-org suffix. He'd immediately climbed the four flights of stairs to his apartment above the bookshop and found his laptop.
He finished typing and waited while the screen blackened, then a new image appeared. A video display console indicated that a live feed was about to engage.
The communications link established.
A body appeared, lying on its back, arms above the head, ankles and wrists bound tight to what looked like a sheet of plywood. The person was angled so that the head was slightly beneath the feet. A towel wrapped the face, but it was clear the bound form was a woman.
"Mr. Malone." The voice was electronically altered, disguising every attribute of pitch and tone. "We've been waiting. Not in much of a hurry, are you? I have something for you to see."
A hooded figure appeared on the screen, holding a plastic bucket. He watched as water was poured onto the towel that wrapped the bound woman's face. Her body writhed as she struggled with her restraints.
He knew what was happening.
The liquid penetrated the towel and flowed unrestricted into her mouth and nose. At first a few gulps of air could be stolen--the throat constricted, inhaling little of the water--but that could be maintained only for a few seconds. Then the body's natural gag reflex would kick in and all control would be lost. The head was angled downward so gravity could prolong the agony. It was like drowning without ever being submerged.
The man stopped pouring.
The woman continued to struggle with her restraints.
The technique dated back to the Inquisition. Highly favored since it left no marks, its main drawback was harshness--so intense that the victim would immediately admit to anything. Malone had actually experienced it once, years ago, while training to become a Magellan Billet agent. All recruits had to take their turn as part of survival school. His agony had been amplified by his dislike of confinement. The bondage, combined with the soaked towel, had created an unbearable claustrophobia. He recalled the public debate a few years ago as to whether waterboarding was torture.
Damn right it was.
"Here's the purpose of my contact," the voice said.
The camera zoomed tight on the towel wrapping the woman's face. A hand entered the frame and wrenched the soaked cloth away, revealing Cassiopeia Vitt.
"Oh, no," Malone muttered.
Darts of fear pierced his skin. A light-headedness overtook him.
This can't be happening.
No.
She blinked water from her eyes, spit more from her mouth, and gained her breath. "Don't give them a damn thing, Cotton. Nothing."
The soaked towel was slapped back across her face.
"That would not be smart," the computerized voice said. "Certainly not for her."
"Can you hear me?" he said into the laptop's microphone.
"Of course."
"Is this necessary?"
"For you? I believe so. You're a man to be respected. Former Justice Department agent. Highly trained."
"I'm a bookseller."
The voice chuckled. "Don't insult my intelligence, or risk her life any further. I want you to clearly understand what's at stake."
"And you need to understand that I can kill you."
"By then, Ms. Vitt will be dead. So let's stop with the bravado. I want what she gave you."
He saw Cassiopeia renew her struggle against the restraints, her head whipping from side to side beneath the towel.
"Give him nothing, Cotton. I mean it. I gave that to you for safekeeping. Don't give it up."
More water was poured. Her protests stopped as she fought to breathe.
"Bring the item to Tivoli Gardens, at two pm, just outside the Chinese pagoda. You'll be contacted. If you don't show--" The voice paused. "--I think you can imagine the consequences."
The connection was severed.
He sat back in the chair.
He hadn't seen Cassiopeia in more than a month. Hadn't spoken to her for two weeks. She'd said that she was headed out on a trip but, characteristically, offered no details. Their relationship was hardly one at all. Just an attraction that they both tacitly acknowledged. Strangely, Henrik Thorvaldsen's death had drawn them closer, and they'd spent a lot of time together in the weeks after their friend's funeral.
She was tough, smart, and gutsy.
But wat
erboarding?
He doubted if she'd ever experienced anything like that.
Seeing her on the screen tore at his gut. He suddenly realized that if anything happened to this woman his life would never be the same.
He had to find her.
But there was a problem.
She'd obviously been forced to do whatever was necessary in order to survive. This time, however, she may have bitten off more than she could ever chew.
She'd left nothing with him for safekeeping.
He had no clue what she, or her captor, was talking about.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STEVE BERRY is the New York Times bestselling author of The Emperor's Tomb, The Paris Vendetta, The Charlemagne Pursuit, The Venetian Betrayal, The Alexandria Link, The Templar Legacy, The Third Secret, The Romanov Prophecy, The Amber Room, and the short story "The Balkan Escape." His books have been translated into thirty-seven languages and sold in fifty countries. He lives in the historic city of St. Augustine, Florida, and is at work on his next novel. He and his wife, Elizabeth, have founded History Matters, a nonprofit organization dedicated to preserving our heritage. To learn more about Steve Berry and the foundation, visit www.steveberry.org.
CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF COTTON MALONE?
Read all the Steve Berry novels in the Cotton Malone series:
THE TEMPLAR LEGACY
THE ALEXANDRIA LINK
THE VENETIAN BETRAYAL
THE CHARLEMAGNE PURSUIT
THE PARIS VENDETTA
THE EMPEROR'S TOMB
And don't miss Steve Berry's other novels of suspense:
THE AMBER ROOM
THE ROMANOV PROPHECY
THE THIRD SECRET
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