The Romanov Legacy

by Jenni Wiltz

  “Oh my God,” she said. “It’s really going to happen. We’re really doing this, aren’t we?” Her hand stayed on his arm, squeezing slightly.

  “Wait a sec,” Beth said. “The account really exists? Are you sure?”

  Natalie nodded. “There are pencil markings on both girls’ letters that say ‘Bank of England’ and ‘Soloviev.’”

  Beth wrinkled her nose. “Soloviev? What does that douchebag have to do with it?”

  “I don’t understand,” Constantine said, swerving past a clunking, smoke-spewing Lada. “Who is this Soloviev?”

  “Boris Soloviev is Rasputin’s son-in-law,” Natalie explained. “I never would have picked him, Beth, but it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “No, it doesn’t. Soloviev’s the one who fucked it all up. He took money, promised to set up an escape for that poor family, and absolutely nothing happened. Hell, some of the sources even claim he’s a double agent.”

  Constantine cleared his throat. “I’m confused. He was a double agent for the Soviets?”

  “I don’t think anyone knows that for sure,” Beth said. “The guy was a liar, and official records from that time are so spotty that it’s impossible to prove it one way or the other.”

  “Look,” Natalie added, “we know Boris Soloviev married Rasputin’s daughter, Maria—that’s his Romanov connection. We also know he was a dick. Maria wrote that she didn’t trust him, even though she was married to him. That doesn’t mean he didn’t do one good deed.”

  Constantine frowned. “But how did he get the money?”

  “He followed the Romanovs to Tobolsk and then Ekaterinburg, the two places they were imprisoned after they left St. Petersburg. That’s when their friends and employees tried to slip them money.”

  “What did they need money for? I thought the tsar was richer than God.”

  “Before World War I, he might have been. But the war drained most of the treasury and his personal fortune. When Nicholas abdicated in 1917, most of the things he considered his personal property became the property of the state.”

  Beth leaned forward. “It’s like a divorce. Imagine being married to the richest man in the world for, oh, 300 years, and then having to go through and separate your stuff, his stuff, and the community property. It’s a pain in the ass.”

  “So his assets were frozen and he was short on cash,” Constantine said.

  “Exactly,” Natalie agreed. “And once the Soviets took over the government, they eventually decided Nicholas and his family should pay for their own upkeep during exile. So they barely had enough money to eat, let alone plan an escape or a more comfortable exile in another country.”

  “And this Soloviev guy, possibly a double agent, followed them into exile. Then what?”

  “He acted as a go-between between the Romanovs and the people who wanted to give them money. But he was also a world-class dickweed who ended up pocketing most of the money…or so we all thought.” She stopped to take a breath. “Beth, what if Soloviev didn’t steal anything? What if he put that money in the bank, anticipating the day the imperial family was rescued and needed money to support themselves?”

  Beth bit her lip. “It’s vaguely possible. Soloviev’s father was the treasurer of the Holy Synod. He might have been able to make contact with bankers and financiers by dropping his father’s name.”

  “Plus, if the account isn’t under a Romanov name, the bank holding the money can deny it has any Romanov property without telling a lie.”

  “But when did Soloviev do it? And how?”

  “I don’t know,” Natalie said, shaking her head. “It must have been after Tobolsk. Remember Yaroshinksy?”

  “You’re losing me again,” Constantine said. “Who is Yaroshinsky?”

  “A businessman who gave the Romanovs 175,000 rubles in 1917, but they never got all the money. That must be what Soloviev started the account with.”

  Beth grabbed the backs of his and Natalie’s seats. “But Soloviev didn’t go to England, you guys. He never left Russia. He even got arrested at one point, didn’t he?”

  Natalie nodded. “In early 1918. It doesn’t mean he didn’t sneak out of the country before that or send someone else, pretending to be him.”

  “This still doesn’t make sense,” Beth said. “Even if we tally up all the money Soloviev collected from royalists, we’re not talking that much. Maybe half a million rubles total? Why are we being hunted down by lunatics and murderers over half a million defunct tsarist rubles?”

  “There must be more,” Constantine said. “Starinov wouldn’t care about half a million rubles. What happened to the rest of Nicholas’s money?”

  “It evaporated,” Beth replied. “Whatever survived the war effort got destroyed by post-war inflation or confiscated by the Soviets.”

  Natalie pressed her fingers to her temples. “There’s more,” she said. “There has to be.”

  “Wait,” Beth continued. “Even if there are hundreds of millions of rubles we’re missing, how does a Russian walk into the Bank of England in 1918 with boatloads of cash and not end up in front of Lloyd George? The Russian government owed England big time—they were behind on war supply payments. Wouldn’t someone have raised a red flag?”

  “They must have got around it.”

  “How?” Beth chided. “With a hall pass?”

  Natalie sat up straight and clutched the seat bottom. “The Romanov girls passed notes to their friends on the outside whenever they could. Why couldn’t Nicholas or Alexandra slip something out to Soloviev? Something he or his representative took to England to set up the account.”

  Beth snorted. “This is hairy, Nat.”

  “Not if there’s an inside man who can connect the bank, the king, and the tsar. Think, Beth.”

  Constantine felt their eyes on him and sighed. “Don’t look at me. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Natalie turned to face her sister. “You know who I’m talking about, right?”

  “Jesus, Nat, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  The sisters looked at each other, the same tentative smile playing on their lips. “Bark,” they said in unison.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  July 2012

  Moscow, Russia

  Starinov slammed the phone down and swore, anger radiating throughout his body. What was wrong with the world? Why was there no one in it who could follow simple orders? Viktor had failed him badly; the American women and Dashkov were gone. Primakov’s niece was dead, as were three Vympel men. Viktor hadn’t been able to give chase and now the letters and the captives were loose in Moscow. Even if he marshaled every man and woman in the FSB office, it could be days before they were found.

  Still, there was only one way they could get out of the country. Whether the women fled back to the U.S. or they went after the tsar’s money in London, Primakov was the only agency head not loyal to him who had the authority and reach to get them out of Russia. Stopping their escape was as simple as stopping Vadim from helping them.

  It will be my word against theirs, he thought. Who will he believe?

  Starinov looked up at his portrait of Ivan the Terrible and smiled. Ivan, he remembered, was the one who had commissioned St. Basil’s Cathedral. When the glorious cathedral was finished, Ivan summoned the architect and asked him to describe his achievement. The proud architect called it the most beautiful cathedral ever built. Ivan agreed, showered the man with praise, and ordered the man’s eyes put out. If the architect capable of such greatness were blinded, he would never build another, more glorious cathedral for a local boyar. Ivan knew how to possess and keep beauty. I, too, know how to keep what’s mine, Starinov thought.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Primakov’s number. “Vadim Petrovich,” he said. “I have a problem you must help me to solve.”

  “What is it?” the older man rasped. “What has happened? Is it Marya?”

  “It is your agent, Constantine Dashkov. He broke into
the Ussov building, where I was entertaining your granddaughter, the American women, and your agent, Viktor Igorovich.”

  “What happened? Are they alive?”

  He could hear the hope in Primakov’s voice. The man wanted only one response and he would question nothing if he were rewarded with it. Starinov smiled to think how easily even men bred in the old Soviet system still believed the lies their betters told them. “Yes,” he lied. “But instead of surrendering, Dashkov escaped with the Romanov letters and the women.”

  “Then where is Marya?”

  Starinov did not respond. Instead, he listened to the heavy, panting breaths at the other end of the line. He pictured Vadim, red-eyed and shaggy-haired in a wrinkled tweed jacket. He would be crying or cursing or praying, none of which were of any use to a man of action. That was always your problem, Vadim. Too much thought; too little action.

  “Please tell me,” Primakov begged. “Where is she, Maxim?”

  Starinov got up from his desk and went to stand beside the portrait of Ivan. With the tip of his pen, he counted the jewels visible in Ivan’s collar as the older man languished at the other end of the line. Twenty-six in total, he counted. He stood back to admire the painting’s gold leaf border, glinting even in the dim, curtain-shrouded lamplight of his office.

  “Maxim!” Primakov barked. “Tell me!”

  “All right,” he said softly. “If you truly wish to know.”

  “So help me God, Maxim, if you don’t tell me where she is—”

  “She is in my care, but only because Dashkov left her behind. Viktor was wounded in the fight and Dashkov left him behind, too.”

  He could hear the confusion in Vadim’s voice. “Constantine wouldn’t do that. Why are you telling me this?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I want the letters. You want your granddaughter. I propose an exchange.”

  “I don’t have the letters, Maxim.”

  “But you will. Dashkov will bring them to you. He will ask you to arrange his transportation—it’s the only way he can flee the country without alerting me. I want you to agree with whatever he asks, but deliver him to me. When I have the women and the letters, you will get your granddaughter back.”

  “What will you do with Constantine?”

  “That is not your concern.”

  “I don’t believe you, Maxim. Constantine would never leave Marya and I know you would lie to God in order to get what you wanted.”

  “Your belief in your employee is touching, Vadim, it truly is. But consider the facts: he left his own partner and a four-year-old girl behind. His judgment is obviously impaired.”

  “He’s the best agent I have, Maxim.”

  “It’s a question of honor, then.” Starinov leaned in closer to study the thin, cruel eyebrows the artist had painted over Ivan’s Mongol eyes. Fascinating, he thought, how a simple line can turn a man’s visage from a source of comfort to a source of terror. “I will pose the question to you like this—do you trust Constantine more than you love your granddaughter? If the answer is yes, I will tie your granddaughter into a pillowcase full of bricks and drop her into the Moskva. If the answer is no, you will deliver Dashkov to me and I will return her to you unharmed. The choice is yours.”

  Starinov looked up at Ivan. He imagined the ancient tsar’s rosy lips curling into a smile of approval.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  July 2012

  Moscow, Russia

  “Who the hell is Bark?” Constantine asked, exiting the Kransportnoye Koltso and heading southbound on Tulskaya. He looked over his shoulder and did an illegal u-turn, watching for any trailing cars parting the swath of traffic behind him. Viktor was out there somewhere, and so were more of Starinov’s goons.

  “Sir Peter Bark,” Natalie explained. “Last finance minister for Tsar Nicholas II. During World War I, he made several trips to London to carry messages between Nicholas and his cousin, King George V of England. He fled to London in 1919 to escape the Soviets and eventually landed a job managing a subsidiary of the Bank of England.”

  Constantine tried to process the information and monitor the surrounding traffic at the same time. “So Bark is the one who set up the account for Soloviev?”

  “I don’t think so,” Natalie said. “The timing is off. But I’d put money on it that Bark knew about the account. He must have gotten pretty nervous when news of the tsar’s death started making the rounds, especially when Nicholas’s relatives and so-called massacre survivors like Anna Anderson started clamoring about foreign deposits that should now belong to them. But he was in the ideal position to lock that account down. He was already in England, employed in finance, and handling money for Nicholas’s sisters who escaped the revolution.”

  “We’re never going to be able to prove this,” Beth said.

  “The proof doesn’t matter if we decipher the password.” Natalie turned sideways in her seat to face him, eyebrows lifted anxiously. “Vadim will help us get to England, won’t he?”

  “He gave me his word.”

  “Are you sure we can still trust him?” Beth asked. “After all, how would you feel if three out of four captives show up, none of whom are the one related to you by blood?”

  Her words had the effect of a sledgehammer hitting him in the ribs. “You’re right,” she said. “This is going to kill him. I have to look him in the eye and tell him I failed him.”

  “But Viktor’s the one who betrayed us,” Natalie said. “He’s the one to blame.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Blaming Viktor won’t bring Marya back and it won’t make Vadim any more likely to help us.”

  “God, I could feel that bullet go through her.” Beth clasped her arms around herself and started to rock back and forth. “How could they do it?”

  “They’re trained killers,” he said. “They weren’t thinking of her as a person.”

  Beth shook her head and wiped away a tear. “How are we going to tell him?”

  He looked sideways and saw Natalie’s chin quiver, too. Then she took a deep breath and reached into her purse. She handed one of the small vodka bottles to her sister. “First you rinse her blood off your face,” she said. “And then you drink whatever’s left.”

  Constantine took one hand off the steering wheel and rested it gently on Natalie’s thigh. He wanted to tell her he understood, that he was proud of her for giving her sister the luxury of breaking down. Without looking at him, she clasped his hand in hers.

  They drove the rest of the way without speaking, Beth crying quietly in the back seat and Natalie squeezing his hand every time her sister sobbed. Eventually the gentle drone of the car lulled both of them into a fitful doze. He was grateful; they needed the rest, but their sleep also left him free to scan the roads for an ambush. The early afternoon traffic had begun to pick up and delivery trucks clogged the right-hand lanes. He knew each one might be a decoy filled with Vympel assassins.

  He followed the Leninsky Prospekt to the MKAD ring road and headed for Vnukovo Airport and the bureau’s private runway. He dreaded the moment when he had to shape the words that would destroy Vadim’s future. He knew Vadim believed in God and wondered whether such a belief could help soften the blow. To him, it seemed far more comforting to believe in randomness than in a deity who targeted the innocent and the helpless. At least in a godless universe, only the perpetrator could be blamed for a crime.

  Finally he reached the winding access road that led past Vnukovo’s commercial runways. He stopped once at a mandatory checkpoint to flash his bureau identification. The guard waved him through to the circular ring of private airstrips all leased to government entities, each of which came with a hangar and single-room administrative trailer.

  A Challenger sat immobile in the bureau’s open hangar with its hatch closed and lights off. Constantine pulled past the hangar to the aluminum-shingle office trailer. He couldn’t see anything through the window blinds and there was no car parked beside the trailer. This doesn’t feel r
ight, he thought. No car for Vadim? No car for the pilot or maintenance crew?

  He parked the Volga and touched Natalie’s shoulder gently. “We’re here,” he said. She blinked sleepily, nodded, and reached into the back seat to wake her sister.

  Beth woke quickly, sitting up straight and looking around. “It looks deserted,” she said. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  “It feels wrong to me, too,” he said. “Keep your eyes open.” He’d already divided up the cache from the Ussov guard booth. He’d given the women the pistols, leaving the assault rifle for himself. If the worst happened, at least they could defend themselves and try to escape.

  “Could this be a trap?” Natalie asked him.

  “It might be, but we have no choice. We leave here with Vadim’s help, or we don’t leave at all. You two stay here.”

  He got out of the car, rifle in hand, and walked up to the trailer door. He flung it open and sprang sideways, but no spray of gunfire rocketed outward from the doorway. Holding the rifle cocked and ready, he jumped into the doorway and scanned all four corners of the room.

  There was only one person inside. Vadim sat slumped in a folding chair beside the single window. A lit cigarette dangled from his lips, ashing into a pyramid on the floor. His hair, long and lank, hung like gray straw around his head, as if he hadn’t washed it in days.

  “Vadim?” Constantine asked. “Are you all right?”

  “Come inside.” Low and scratchy, the older man’s voice lay buried beneath a thick layer of grief and nicotine. Constantine lowered his gun and waved the women inside, closing the door behind them. “The pilot is waiting for my signal,” Vadim continued, leaving the cigarette clenched between his lips.

  “Thank you,” he said. Then he met Vadim’s eyes and recoiled from the raw grief in their smoke-reddened depths. “About Marya—”

  “None of that,” Vadim said, waving the words away like a fly.

  He knows, Constantine thought. Starinov must have called him to gloat. “You should be at home with Liliya. She needs you.”