by Jenni Wiltz
Perry nodded. “The charter and the password are separate entities. Her Majesty has custody of the charter but no access to the password.”
“Yet she’s helped keep the secret,” Beth said. “Why?”
“Her grandfather, George V, wanted it that way. Nicholas II wished the account to be kept secret and His Majesty honored his cousin’s wishes. So has every reigning monarch since.”
“That makes sense,” Constantine said. “The brief I read said that Nicholas repatriated all his money in 1914 and ordered his family to do the same. He wouldn’t want anyone knowing he was secretly hedging his bets.”
Natalie nodded and looked Perry in the eye. Soft and rheumy, they were the color or cornflowers. They had once been the color of cold steel. “So you’re the only person on earth who knows the password. What if you died without telling the next director what it is?”
“Then it all dies with me.”
“What a waste,” Beth said.
“I prefer to think of it as a tradition and an honor,” he said dryly. He pulled a sealed envelope from his pocket. “While I waited for you to arrive, I wrote the password on a card and sealed it in this envelope. You tell me the password, and I’ll open the envelope. If you’re right, I will give you the key.” He held up the slim piece of metal.
She slipped her hand in Constantine’s and felt his strong fingers wrap around hers. She thought of Nicholas and Alexandra, how they had stood by each other to their deaths, in love until the very end. She thought of poor Marie, how all she’d wanted was the chance to do what her parents had done—find the love of her life. Everything about this family hurts, she thought. Even their love aches. I’m just a nobody with voices in my head. Why should I get to touch things that they touched?
“I don’t think I can do this,” she said. “It’s too much.”
Constantine tilted her chin and kissed her gently on the forehead, cheeks, and finally, on her lips. “The stars aligned for this,” he said. “The letters made their way to you. I made my way to you. If not for this, then what was it all for?”
“Nat, you should do this,” Beth added. “It’s time for this to end. All their bones have been found. This is the one thing they can’t get away from. End it for them and let them rest.”
Yes, please, Marie’s voice echoed in her head. We’re all so tired. Just make it go away.
Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked them away. “All right,” she said. “Let it end. The password is Theodore.”
Chapter Seventy-One
July 2012
London, England
“Theodore?” Beth echoed softly. “Are you sure?”
Natalie nodded. “That part of what I told Starinov was the truth. The clue in Marie’s letter really did reference President Roosevelt.”
“I don’t get it,” Constantine said. “Why would the tsar use the name of the American president as his password?”
“It’s more than a name. If you break it up into its original Greek components, it means ‘gift of God.’ It’s what they called Alexei, their miracle baby. The only thing the tsar’s money couldn’t buy him.”
Perry opened the envelope and pulled out the card inside.
Told you so, Belial said.
Constantine looked to Perry. “What happens now? Does she get the key?”
“This?” he said, holding it up. “This is worthless. This isn’t even the vault. This is where we store the rubbish.”
“You tricked us?” Natalie asked.
Perry stood stiffly and straightened his bow tie. “My bank has kept this secret for almost a hundred years. Did you really think I would lead you to its very door and hold out the very key you needed to unlock it, when all you had to do was knock me down and take it?”
Natalie felt her cheeks burn. “It does sound stupid when you say it like that.”
“Come now,” Perry said softly. “I’ll take you to the real thing.”
He led them back to the elevator and used his passkey to access the same hidden panel in the elevator. This time, he pressed a different button and the elevator took them two floors up, to another long and dim hallway. It looked just like the hall they’d come from, with one exception—Natalie noticed one door had plastic casings around it and a metal keypad.
“That’s it,” she said, pointing at it.
“Yes, it is,” Perry said, typing in a long string of numbers. Finally, the keypad beeped and flashed a green light. “Go ahead, now, miss.”
Natalie reached out and grasped the doorknob. It felt cold beneath her hand. I can’t believe I’m doing this, she thought. This isn’t real.
She turned the knob and opened the door. Two walls of the small, windowless room were stacked floor to ceiling with gold bars. The dim hall light bounced off them, producing an amber halo. The third wall held a metal shelf with several shoebox-sized strongboxes.
“Jesus,” Beth said. “What is all this?”
“Kolchak’s gold,” she breathed. “Beth, Soloviev stole it from him! Soloviev stole it from Kolchak, who stole it from the Soviets, who stole it from Nicholas!”
“Good God, how much did he steal?”
“They took over $330 million from the reserve in Kazan. No one ever found the last hundred million or so.”
“Unbelievable,” Perry breathed. “It was always here, and I never knew it.”
“No one did,” Natalie said. “This is what the Soviets were looking for all along.”
“Rumkowski wasn’t looking for the Tsar’s secret account,” Constantine said, staring at the gold in wonder. “He was looking for Kolchak’s gold. He knew they were connected.”
“What’s in the boxes?” Beth asked.
“Let’s find out,” Natalie said.
Constantine reached up and grabbed them. He set them on the floor and Natalie sank to her knees. She undid the clasp of the first box and lifted back the lid. Dark velvet pouches lay huddled amongst each other. She picked one up and pulled it open, revealing a small sea of rough, uncut diamonds. The second revealed a diamond-encrusted tiara, emerald brooch, ruby necklace, and diamond earrings. “This is the jewelry they smuggled out through Soloviev,” she said. “They thought he would sell it and use the money to rescue them, but he deposited it.”
“They’ll be worth millions,” Perry whispered.
Instantly, she put a hand over the brooch on her shoulder. The pieces from Grigori’s cache were hers. She would never let anyone take them from her. But the treasures in this box belonged in a museum, somewhere they could be seen by everyone. They had nothing to do with her or Beth or Constantine. They had not been stained with her blood. They were still pure. “They aren’t mine,” she said.
She set the box of jewelry aside and reached for the second, flipping the latch and opening the lid. Stuffed inside there were thick stacks of tsarist rubles, tied together with string, and stacks of British World War I bond certificates, with denominations from £100 to £1,000. She thumbed through the piles, scanning the zeroes.
The tsarist currency was worthless now, but it would have meant life and freedom to someone who’d escaped Bolshevik captivity. “This is money Soloviev collected,” she said, holding her hand over the rubles tied up in string. “The money people said he stole from them.”
The sight of those crumpled bills took her breath away. Real people had given money to try and save the tsar and his family. Those rubles were hope and good wishes and prayers, none of which came true. If they hadn’t been locked inside a box, would they have made a difference?
She gulped and set them aside. “Perry, are these bonds worth anything?”
“Let me see them.”
She handed him one stack and he pulled a note loose, inspecting it on both sides. “These aren’t the typical war bonds we see in the collections of investors. Those were all issued in late 1917. This…this looks to be a sort of pre-issue designed on the same principle as the public bonds. The king may have had these privately printed for the Tsar. I’
ve never seen anything like it.”
“I have a kid to put through college,” Beth said. “How much are they worth?”
“I can’t give you a firm answer without calculating things like inflation, deflation, and the interest rate. But the public war bonds are being sold and redeemed at around 75 percent of their face value.”
“Harvard it is,” Natalie said, handing Beth an inch-thick stack of £1,000 bonds. “I think Nicholas would approve of a boy getting a good education.”
There was one box left and she twisted its latch slowly, almost afraid of what she would find inside. It was nearly empty. There were several yellowed sheets of paper tucked beneath two jewel-encrusted photo frames.
She picked up the first frame, encasing a snapshot of Nicholas and Alexandra as newlyweds. Alexandra smiled at the camera, while Nicholas stared at her in wonder. “Alix never smiled,” she said, reaching out to the glass, wanting to touch the image and feel the warmth it conveyed. Then she pulled her hand back, afraid to touch something the subjects of the photo had themselves had one touched. She felt like a voyeur, or a thief. She set the frame on the floor and picked up the next.
It was a photo of the children, all five of them. From their ages, Natalie guessed it had been taken in 1912 or 1913. “They’re all so young,” she said, looking at Anastasia’s chubby cheeks and the ruddy circles of Alexei’s cheeks. She looked at Marie, with her thick, dark hair spilling over her shoulders and radiant eyes. “You can’t even dream of what will happen to you, can you?”
Natalie put the picture down, afraid to look at it with such terrible knowledge—as if Marie would look back out at her from the photo, asking her why she looked so unhappy.
All that remained in the box were a few pieces of paper. She lifted them out and shuffled through them. Two of them were in Russian. “I can’t read this,” she said, passing them off to Constantine. “What do they say?”
He scanned them quickly. “They’re deeds. To gold mines. One in Nertchinsk and one in Altai. What are the ones in your hand?”
“More property deeds. One in France, one in England. I don’t suppose any of these will still be valid. Lenin nationalized all Nicholas’s property, at home and abroad, a few days before he killed them.”
“It’s heartbreaking,” Beth said. “To think this is all that’s left of them. A few crumpled papers that don’t mean anything anymore.”
“What about the gold?” Perry asked. “That’s worth something.”
“I don’t care about the gold,” Natalie said. “It didn’t help them.”
“No,” Beth said, “but it can help lots of other people. Nat, think about what you can do with all this. Charities, scholarships, medical research…this makes the university’s endowment look like chump change.”
Natalie lifted the last piece of paper from the box. It was covered with spiky writing, in English. It had rested on top of a slim envelope. She glanced down at the signature. “This one’s from Peter Bark.”
She read the letter through. “This is all that’s left of the primary account, the one opened in 1916,” she said, grasping the envelope. “Bark ordered it cashed it out in 1920 because by then, the news of the tsar’s death was widespread. He writes that the money came from a diversion of proceeds of gold bars sold to the English to aid the war effort. He says he’s leaving it in this master account in case any of the survival rumors are true and a child of the tsar’s can come and claim it.”
Natalie opened the envelope. Tucked inside was a single folded piece of paper. She unfolded it and started to choke. It was a cashier’s check for £15 million. Her hands began to shake and Constantine took the paper from her. He looked at the amount and whistled.
“I don’t even know what these numbers mean,” she said. “What do I do?”
“I can’t tell you that, sweetie,” Beth answered.
She felt her head begin to throb. “I’m not the right person for this. None of this belongs to me. It should have gone to them…to save them.” She imagined a rescue effort, purchased with the millions lodged in this room and it overwhelmed her. Why should anyone’s survival be so dependent on pieces of pressed metal and paper?
She turned into Constantine’s arms. “It isn’t fair. They could have survived if someone had used this all to rescue them! If I take it, it’s like I’m helping to kill them all over again.”
“No one said it would be fair, lastochka,” he said, kissing her forehead gently. “You have to understand that.”
Perry stared at the ground awkwardly. “If I may make a suggestion,” he said.
“Go ahead,” she said, turning to look at him from the protection of Constantine’s arms.
“The Bank of England can buy the gold bars from you. The less attention this matter receives, the better. If you were seen carting gold bars from the bank, or repatriating them, where would you say you acquired them? Far better that they stay here and become a part of our reserve.”
She nodded. “What about the rest of this?”
“It is yours,” he said softly. “The deeds and tsarist bonds are worth little more than a memory. The British bonds will be honored at the current interest rate and the cashier’s check at face value, of course, and I can handle that for you as well.”
“I don’t believe it,” Natalie said. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“But think of what you might do,” Constantine said. “You can find things that are unfair and try to settle the score. Your money, your way.”
“We’ll start a charity or a trust,” Beth said. “Think of the people you can help, Nat.”
She nodded, feeling as if the world was spinning too fast for her to hold on. It was frightening and exhilarating, like the carnival rides she remembered as a child. She’d always been the one to close her eyes and beg for mercy, while Beth raised her arms and screamed for more. At the end of the ride, she always promised herself she’d behave more like Beth next time—and never did. That changes now, she thought.
“It’s settled,” Perry said. “I’ll complete the transactions myself first thing in the morning. Shall I call the prime minister and tell him you will be staying until morning?”
Natalie looked from Beth to Constantine. Even if it felt like sliding off a cliff, this was her chance to do something good for the people she loved. This was her chance to grow up, open her eyes, and throw up her arms. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll stay.”
Perry reached out to shake her hand and clasped it warmly between his. “I can’t believe I’ve lived to see this. But you do know the bank must continue to deny the existence of this account?”
“I understand,” she said. “And I’m not eager to talk about it, either, believe me. Speaking of which…Perry, I need you to tell Davies something for me.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“I might have…um…said some stuff about Queen Mary. You know, to convince him to rescue us. I want you to tell him it’s not true. He got pretty upset over the phone.”
Perry’s eyes twinkled. “Then are you sure you want me to tell him? He’s never been my favorite person.”
“Please,” Natalie said. “I just want this to be over. I want to go back to real life.”
“Real life?” Constantine recaptured her in his arms, pulling her close. “And what might that include?”
“You, of course,” she said, breaking into a smile. “Maybe not the broom closet this time, though.”
“Definitely not.” Constantine leaned over her and kissed her. She opened her mouth to him and his tongue swept hers gently. Then he pulled away and touched the tip of her nose with his finger. “I have an idea,” he said, reaching for the first box. He pulled out the velvet bag with loose diamonds in it, and tumbled a few into his palm.
“What’s that for?”
“I’m going to need something to put in your ring.”
“Hey, buddy,” Beth said, smacking him in the arm. “Don’t you need my permission first?”
Constantine cle
ared his throat. “Actually, there is something I want to ask of you. Both of you. How do you feel about stopping off in Russia, one more time?”
“Are you nuts?” Beth said.
Natalie saw him clench his jaw and realized what he wanted to ask them. She reached out for his hand. “It’s your sister, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “She needs someone like you, to show her a way out. And you,” he said to Beth. “My sister is a lot like Natalie. My parents are struggling with it. They don’t understand. Maybe if you talked to them, about how it can be...tell them how you do it and show them there’s hope.”
“Of course,” Beth said. “We’ll do whatever we can.”
“I’ll pay for anything she needs to get well,” Natalie said. “But are you sure you want to use me as an example?” She pointed to her ear. “I look like Vincent VanGogh over here.”
“There is no one else,” he said, holding her face in his hands. “It was always you.”
“Shit,” she said. “I knew you were going to say that.”
So did I, Belial said. His wings shuffled, tickling her brain, and she knew it right away—he was laughing.
The End
*
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Author photo by Ryan Donahue
Jenni Wiltz writes mysteries, thrillers, historical fiction, and romance. Before devoting herself to writing, she worked as an editor, an advertising copywriter, a grant coordinator, and an assistant to very busy investment bankers. She is thrilled to have won the 2011 RWA Kiss of Death Chapter’s Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Category Romantic Suspense, Unpublished Division. Her short stories have appeared in The Portland Review, the Sacramento News & Review, and The Copperfield Review. She lives in Pilot Hill with her husband.
