The Romanov Legacy

by Jenni Wiltz

  Outside Harbin he’d camped with deserters from the Bolshevik army. They told him that the ambitious admiral had confiscated the tsarist gold reserves then stored in Omsk. Filipp feigned outrage to please the deserters, but in his heart, he understood Kolchak’s reasoning. The murdering Bolsheviks could not be allowed to fill their coffers with the Great Father’s gold. Still, he did not feel Kolchak could be trusted—the man printed his own money and seemed more interested in creating his own empire than in finding out what had happened to the Tsar and his family.

  Throughout northern China, he encountered impoverished White Russian refugees. Some pressed onward without knowing why while others built tin shacks near the border with Russia and waited for a future that would never come. He stayed with one such family for a month while he recuperated from an illness, after which they confessed to owning pieces of porcelain and jewelry stolen from the Tsar’s palace at Tsarskoe Selo. He’d excused himself and gone for a walk, wondering how he could get the money to buy the artifacts from them. Surely, he thought, I cannot leave the Great Father’s things scattered all over China. I will collect them for his family and keep them safe, just like the letters.

  But when he returned to the family’s hut later that evening, he found it in disarray. Every member of the family had been shot in the back of the head. Okhrana, he thought. The Bolshevik secret police were everywhere, hunting down émigrés and reclaiming what they believed to be state property. He’d gathered his meager possessions and fled into the night.

  Filipp swallowed heavily at the memory. People meant danger. Those three words had kept him alive for nearly two years. But now, without food or salve for his cracked and bloody feet, the time had come. He trudged down the hill into Shenyang and stumbled down its side streets, searching for an open shop or restaurant. Night had fallen an hour ago and he did not know whether local custom permitted the types of evening amusements available in larger cities. Finally, a mile down the high street, he found it. Tucked beneath a layered canopy of red and green tiles, he saw a weathered sign with Russian characters carved beneath the Chinese ones.

  Years ago, Russia had leased parts of this area from the Chinese, only to lose them in the disastrous Russo-Japanese War. Perhaps the man who owned this shop would remember those days and look upon him kindly. Or, Filipp thought, perhaps he will sell the description of yet another fleeing Russian émigré to the Okhrana.

  His belly rumbled again and he knocked on the door. Almost immediately, a black-bearded Chinese man appeared. “Jiǔyǎng,” Filipp said, bowing his shoulders. Then he continued in Russian. “Blessings be upon you, sir.”

  Short and stout, the merchant had a round face offset by a long moustache. “And you also, stranger,” he replied. “I see you are in need of a place to rest. Please come inside.”

  Filipp thanked him and obeyed gratefully. Inside, the small store held shelves filled with boots, hats, gloves, outerwear, blankets and saddles. It smelled of leather and incense. Behind a linen curtain, he could see the shadow of a woman and a small boy. “Have you come here to shop?” the man asked.

  “I have no money,” Filipp said slowly. “Would you be willing to trade?”

  “Let me see what you have.”

  Filipp set his knapsack on the merchant’s counter and opened it up. The merchant nodded, his sharp black eyes inspecting Filipp’s hat. “That hat is beaver fur, is it not?”

  “You have a good eye.” Filipp forced a smile to his lips and a lie through his teeth. “I am from Perm, where the animals are trapped and skinned.”

  “Perm,” the merchant said. “I have heard rumors about that city.”

  “I am but a traveler. No one speaks to me of such things.”

  “They say your empress and her daughters may be held captive there. Perhaps your emperor, too.” The merchant tapped his long yellow fingernails together. “After all, no one knows what happened to them. Have you heard this rumor?”

  Filipp wiped sweaty palms against his trousers. “N—no,” he said. “The only rumor I have heard is that they are all dead.”

  “Then where are the bodies?” the merchant asked. “Many travelers I’ve spoken to believe they are all still alive. Do you know anything about this?”

  “I know nothing. I have been away from home for nearly two years now.”

  The merchant’s eyes glimmered with greed. “But that is precisely when they disappeared. Surely you must have heard something. Or been given something.”

  I knew it, Filipp thought. It happened everywhere along his route—Russian émigrés frantically selling their possessions as they fled from the Bolsheviks. Some of them sold stolen goods they claimed were the Great Father’s. Merchants and pawnbrokers had become used to acquiring jewels and gold for a pittance. They were never pleased with travelers who had no such treasures to give.

  Travelers like me, he thought. The warmth of the bamboo floor had finally begun to penetrate his feet. He wiggled his toes and realized that for the first time in weeks, his heels didn’t hurt. He closed his eyes. “It has been a terrible journey.”

  “You are much the worse for wear,” the merchant agreed. “You need a hot meal and a new pair of slippers.”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “There is a fresh pot of soup with dumplings in my kitchen. My wife has made too much. She always does, even though I tell her we are expecting no one. Can you smell it?”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  The merchant pointed at Filipp’s feet. “I also have a pair of slippers that might fit you. They have an otterskin bottom, lined on the inside with soft fur. Very good for walking. Do you do much walking, traveler?”

  Filipp touched his coat pocket and felt his heart knock in his chest. What if the rumors were true and the Great Father and all his family were dead? He did not want to believe anyone could murder such beautiful, helpless girls…but if they lived, why had they not been seen since that terrible summer? He had comforted himself with the fact that no bodies had been found, yet he knew there were ways of making bodies disappear. Surely, if the Tsar and his daughters were in heaven, they would not begrudge him a bowl of soup, a cup of tea, and a new pair of shoes. Would they not want him to be cared for, after all he had been through on their behalf? He felt his eyes moisten as he looked up helplessly at the merchant. “F—food,” he mumbled.

  “Yes?” the man prodded. “Have you something you can offer me?”

  “I h-have one thing,” Filipp said, swaying on his feet. The incense was fogging his brain and he fought the urge to lose consciousness.

  “Yes? What is it? I promise I will give you a fair price.”

  He ordered his hand to reach for his knife and slit the lining of his coat. But his hand did not obey; instead, it reached into his breast pocket for his great-grandfather’s watch. “I have this,” he whispered, placing it on the counter.

  The watch had been made in St. Petersburg by the same old man who made watches for Tsar Alexander I. It had been passed down in his family beginning with his great-grandfather, who died over a hundred years ago. He’d promised his father to keep it safe forever—those were the last words his father heard and he’d died with a smile on his lips. Tears slipped down Filipp’s cheeks. I’m sorry, Father, he prayed. But the Great Father’s children have no one else. Please understand.

  The merchant picked up the watch and turned it over, inspecting the craftsmanship.

  “It was made by the watchmaker for Tsar Alexander I,” Filipp offered weakly, knowing his desperation would reduce the watch’s value.

  “I see,” the merchant said. “Yes, it is very finely made. But are you sure it is all you have to give?”

  God help me, Filipp prayed. “Yes.”

  The merchant curled his upper lip and snatched the watch off the counter. “Very well,” he snapped. “Come with me and claim those slippers before you fall down.”

  Filipp did not even ask how much he would receive for the watch. He followed the merchant into hi
s storeroom, heart heavy with loneliness, fear, and hunger.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  July 2012

  San Francisco, California

  Natalie’s ears rang with the echo of machine gun fire. Pressed to the floor beneath Constantine’s body, she fought the impulse to claw her way free from the claustrophobic tangle of limbs. She wanted to turn her head but couldn’t. Her current line of sight went straight to Yuri’s forehead, dotted with a smoking red-black hole.

  “Pull him in!” Constantine yelled. “He’s blocking the door!”

  Suddenly, Yuri’s body slid out of her view and the front door slammed shut. Constantine’s weight vanished as he rolled toward the front window and punched through it with his elbow. Palming the Walther, he squeezed off six shots before a return volley sent him back to floor level.

  Natalie gasped for air and held Yuri’s metal box to her chest.

  “Any more bright ideas?” Viktor asked as he dropped Yuri’s legs.

  Constantine pointed toward the kitchen’s back door. “Run like hell.”

  “What if they’ve already got it covered?”

  A second round of machine gun fire knocked the rest of the glass from the front window. “We don’t have a choice,” he said. “Get her out of here. I’ll cover you.”

  “No!” Natalie shrieked.

  “Come on, love. He’ll be fine,” Viktor said, reaching for her hand.

  She jerked it back and looked to Constantine. “I’m not leaving without you!”

  “Go,” Constantine growled. His gaze was locked on the street outside, pistol aimed through shards of broken glass. A single drop of sweat trickled from his hairline to his jaw. “Now.” He squeezed the trigger and let loose a second barrage.

  “That’s our cue, lamb chop.” Viktor grabbed her wrist and dragged her to the back door. He flung it open and pointed across the cement patio. “Head for the fence.”

  She turned to glance at Constantine but Viktor jerked her forward. She stumbled along behind him as a spray of bullets tore past her, catapulting bits of grass and dirt into the air. At the fence, Viktor knelt and cupped his hands. Natalie tossed the box over the fence and stepped into the boost, using her weight to roll herself over the top.

  Viktor vaulted over the fence with ease, landing in a deep crouch. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, reaching for the box and peeking through the gaps in the fence boards. “Why isn’t Constantine following us?”

  “He will.”

  “Go back for him,” she whispered. “Don’t leave him.”

  “I can’t. Those bullets came from less than a hundred meters away. They’ll tear us to pieces if we go back.” He pulled her down the side yard but held her back at the gate facing the street. He flipped the latch and slipped through alone, pivoting to cover all directions with his gun before he motioned her forward. “It’s clear,” he called. “Time to organize some transportation.”

  She followed him onto the driveway, squinting in the sunlight. Belial shifted his feet, setting off an electrical shower of sparks in her head. You mustn’t linger, little one. They’re coming for you. You don’t want to die, do you?

  “No,” she said, gritting her teeth.

  Viktor raised his head from the window of a Reagan-era Monte Carlo parked on the street. “No what?” he asked. “This one’s perfect. It has no class whatsoever. We’ll blend right in.” He bashed in the driver’s side window and opened the doors. “Hop in.”

  She obeyed and latched her seatbelt, fighting a rising tide of nausea.

  “I see someone’s done this already,” Viktor said, pointing at the naked steering column. “Darling, I need you to look beneath your seat and find me a screwdriver. I’m sure that’s what they used.”

  Natalie set the box down on the floor and felt beneath the seat, ignoring everything sticky or furry. “Something died down here,” she said as her fingers closed over a long metal rod.

  “As long as we don’t follow suit.” He snatched the screwdriver and jammed it into the steering column. With a few quick jerks, the car’s engine sprang to life.

  Natalie leaned her forehead against the window and stared back toward Yuri’s house. “Where is he?” she asked.

  “He’s coming.” Viktor stepped on the brake and put the car in gear. “He has to be.”

  The tingling in Natalie’s skull sharpened—Belial was shaking his head. You can’t let them have that box. You know that, don’t you?

  “No,” she moaned, rocking in her seat.

  It’s mine. It belongs to me.

  “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

  “Who the devil are you talking to?”

  “Not the devil,” she moaned. Not quite.

  A burst of gunfire erupted from the house behind them. Natalie sat up straight, gripping the edge of her seat. “Please be him,” she whispered. “Belial, please let it be him.”

  “Who’s Belial?”

  The side gate flew open, banging against the garage wall. A suited figure flew through it, sprinting for their car. “It’s Constantine!” Natalie cried, scrambling to open the rear passenger door. She flung it open just in time for Constantine to dive through headfirst.

  “Go, go, go!” he shouted. Viktor stomped on the gas and the car rocketed down Polk Street. He ran the stoplight at the end of the block and spun left onto Bay.

  “Are you all right?” Natalie asked, leaning into the back seat. She pointed at a small, dark, wet patch on Constantine’s left shoulder. His face, drenched in sweat, had already gone pale and waxen.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “It went through.”

  “Jesus Christ, could you go any slower, you old cow?” Viktor swore and swerved to the right to pass a slow-moving Toyota Prius lingering in the fast lane. He cut the Prius off to get in the left hand turn lane, angling toward Van Ness. He glanced at the traffic signal just as it turned green and stomped on the gas pedal. He stomped on the brake just as quickly as a horde of pedestrians stormed the crosswalk, moving against a DO NOT WALK sign. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, glancing down the street at the endless row of suited businessmen and skinny-jean-wearing hipsters. “Is every one of them blind?”

  “It’s San Francisco,” Natalie said. “It’s our civic duty to jaywalk.”

  “Go,” Constantine ordered. “They’ll move.”

  Viktor inched forward until one of the passing men pounded a fist on the hood of the car. “Watch it, asshole!” His amber eyes glared at Viktor and then Natalie. Belial shuddered, the tips of his wings tapping Natalie like exploding mortar shells. I see the mark of death upon him.

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  Viktor turned his head towards her. “What did who mean?”

  An angel played a trick on him, hiding the cancer behind a benign cyst. I believe you call it “hide and seek.”

  “And you can see it? It leaves a mark?”

  Of course. I can see everything the angels do. Including Lucifer.

  “Oh, Jesus.” Natalie felt sick to her stomach. She swallowed thickly and tasted bile.

  Viktor snorted. “This whole time, you’ve been talking to Jesus?”

  “No,” she said. “To Belial.”

  “There’s that word again. What the hell does it mean?”

  Constantine struggled to sit up. “Not now, Viktor. Where are you going?”

  Viktor pointed at a passenger plane rapidly dropping in altitude. “We’ve got the letters and we’ve got the girl. We can get the hell out of here if we make it to the airport before Vympel.”

  “We need a place to hide.”

  Viktor curled his lip. “Are you saying you want to fly coach?”

  “Wait!” Natalie said, turning to face Constantine. “What about the letters? I need you to translate them for me first.”

  “Darling, you’re the professor of Russian history,” Viktor argued. “You’re the one we need to decipher the letters, not the other way around.”

  “I’m
not—” Before she could finish, Belial tapped her with his wing. Look left, little one.

  She turned her head and saw a motorcycle cop watching the flow of traffic. The stoplight above flickered from yellow to red but Viktor hadn’t stepped on the brake yet. “Viktor, stop!” she cried. “There’s a cop!”

  Viktor slammed on the brakes where Van Ness met Market, swinging his head between the litany of signs prohibiting various turns from various lanes at various times of day. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck is a HOV? And why can’t I make a left turn in the morning?” He waited for the light to turn green and sped through. “I want out of this hell-hole, Con. For the love of God, tell me we’re going to the airport.”

  “She’s right. We need to read those letters first.”

  “My orders were to get you out of that house. I did it and now I want to go home.”

  “My orders are to retrieve the letters and find the password. I can’t do that until I know what they say. What if they’re fakes?”

  “It doesn’t bloody matter, does it? Voloshin’s dead. Besides, isn’t that her job?”

  “Leave her out of it, Viktor.”

  “I can’t. Apparently, neither can you.”

  “She isn’t what she seems.”

  “Not daft, you mean?”

  Natalie sighed, exasperated. “I can hear you, you know.”

  “That’s the whole problem, isn’t it, love? I bet you can hear the voices in your head, too, can’t you?”

  Natalie frowned at him. “Did Belial tell you to say that? I hate it when he cheats.” She watched Viktor’s Adam’s apple bob up and down and bit her lip to hold back a smile.

  Constantine pressed a hand to his wounded shoulder and groaned. “Viktor, just find us a place to stay and I’ll explain everything.”