Finally, she asked, “How do you know this?”
“How could I not know? Your secret has been entrusted to my family for generations. Beyond a handful of people, however, the Romanov Stone’s existence was virtually unknown. The Empress herself never catalogued it—she never even mentioned it. The reason, of course, is that Nicholas made certain she never knew of its existence. The alexandrite remained vaulted and uncut until the tsar decided to present it to your great grandmother. My own grandfather risked his life to protect her treasure.”
He rose and stepped closer, glancing around to make certain no one could overhear. “Your mother was very clever in concealing your identity. But I knew as soon as I learned of your visit who you were and exactly”—he spoke the word as if cutting the air with a knife—“why you were here.”
Kate began to feel more than slightly uncomfortable. Had Anya or Irina ever met this man? Would they have told her if they had?
“How do I know you are who you say you are?”
“You can easily verify that I am the descendant of Grigori Rasputin. Go to any library. Look me up in the Moscow Times. Google me if you want to. It is public record, along with the fact that I am a political prisoner. As for your family’s property, I can show you something that no one else but your great grandmother’s original collaborator could possess.”
He reached in his pocket, and withdrew a small leather satchel. Searching inside, Novyck produced a tattered black and white photograph, yellow with age. “Your mother sent this to me. It was taken in late 1916,” he said, handing it to her. “Just after the alexandrite was polished.”
Though faded, the photo depicted a large, perfectly shaped gem, resting inside a half-opened, potato-sized Faberge egg. Scrawled on the back was the name, “Mikhail.”
Novyck tapped his finger beneath the signature. “I believe a monk named Mikhail was the last person to possess the Romanov Stone.”
A new wave of dizziness swept Kate. She stretched out her palm and touched a cold, slimy wall. Pulling her hand away, she wiped it on her trousers. Again, Kate thought of Irina’s note. Her mother said Nicholas hadn’t trusted this man’s ancestor. The source of Novyck’s knowledge—obviously extensive—had to come from someone other than Russia’s last tsar. But who? And when?
“Why do you say this?” she asked.
“My great grandfather was born in Siberia in a village near Irkutsk. He knew the archbishop as a young boy and the pair saw each other in Moscow. They were close, although His Holiness knew nothing of Grigori Rasputin’s excesses. In 1917, in the spring after Grigori was assassinated, the archbishop visited my family in Siberia to offer condolences. He had a young woman and her daughter with him and they were leaving for Kiev. One evening—after a bit too much sacramental wine—he confided that he’d been given a treasure for safekeeping. He showed them the photograph I just showed you. But he also told them he’d become convinced that his prominence was actually a detriment and was almost certain to lead to discovery. Anyhow, the archbishop had decided Lydia’s fortune would be safer in the hands of a simple priest. He said he planned to pass it on to a monsignor he knew, a monk named Mikhail, presumably either there in Siberia or on his way through Kazakhstan.”
Kate’s brain stumbled as if she were in the middle of a bad dive. Novyck’s story confirmed what Anya had surmised. That the archbishop had given the treasure to someone, probably a priest, named “Mikhail.” But how had Novyck gained this knowledge, which she’d assumed to be known only by Irina and Anya?
“The archbishop’s premonition turned out to be tragically correct,” Novyck continued. “My own father tried to find the stone, as have I.” Novyck paused. “To return to your mother, of course.”
Briefly, Novyck sketched a history of his own quest for the alexandrite, egg and bank papers. His words seemed to drone over her, lulling Kate with their slow rhythm. They told of his journeys to Siberia and St. Petersburg, and of his fruitless search from abbey to abbey for a mysterious Father “Mikhail.”
“Finally, I grew so desperate I ran an ad in the newspaper. Amazingly, a village priest came forward that said he had known this priest Mikhail in Russia. Regrettably, it was at this precise time that my life was interrupted by these unfortunate and bogus charges.” He cast his eyes around the dismal cell in disgust.
“You really must let me help you,” he said, again taking her hands and staring deeply into her eyes. Kate sensed a powerful pull toward this man. Was it witchery or sex? The prison’s gray walls seemed to creep closer, and she felt out of breath. “I know what your mother was trying to do,” he went on, “the good she was trying to bring Russia from the ashes of her own family’s tragedy. The Romanov cause is my family’s cause too, as it always has been.”
Kate thought of her mother’s note again. Clearly, she must remain cautious, but Imre Novyck just might prove useful. He certainly knew the terrain better than she.
Novyck glanced furtively around the dreary room. “Whatever you do, keep the stone’s existence a secret,” he warned. “You could be in great danger from criminal elements. Besides, if anyone in the Russian government should find out, your birthright will be confiscated immediately. This is what I propose: When you have located the items, return to me here. I can help arrange safe passage out of the country for you and your property.”
Kate had no way of knowing that Imre Novyck had put his own counsel of secrecy to practice. He did not tell her of forging bank documents, fabricating a fake egg or manufacturing a synthetic Romanov alexandrite. The replicas had been good enough to fool a Russian geologist who worked for the Moscow mafiya.
Another carefully concealed detail Kate would learn later. Three years before, in a little noticed decision by its board of governors, the Bank of England had changed its rules regarding claims for dormant accounts. Henceforth, on all such holdings of more than one hundred thousand pounds, authentication would require that claimants produce, along with other proof, confirming DNA samples. This critical evidence Novyck did not possess and could not fake. Only Kate Gavrill could give it to him.
Chapter 15
The Ukrainian Boeing 737 made the trip from Moscow to Kiev in just over ninety minutes. The flight included lunch, a quarter of a boiled chicken—not a breast or leg, but a sawed-off fourth portion of a whole chicken. The brutalized poultry lay under a clear plastic wrap, like a corpse.
“The food on domestic flights is to be wondered at, but never eaten,” the concierge at her Moscow hotel had warned. Kate took his advice.
At Kiev’s airport, peeling paint and drooping ceiling tiles testified to a public spirit grown weary and poor. Like Russia itself, Kate thought, the Ukrainian Republic seemed stuck in some economic purgatory between socialism and capitalism.
Even so, Kiev offered a friendly contrast to Moscow. Kate’s taxi slowed in traffic on Kreschatik, the main thoroughfare, and she watched the sidewalks widen into a relaxed parade of fountains, street boutiques, al fresco cafes and teenagers on skate boards.
Her hotel was a former Octoberskia, or October Hotel, built for Communist Party members in most Soviet cities. Her room’s furnishings were comfortable enough, but the carpet had been sewn unevenly. She found an empty toilet paper dispenser in the bathroom, but for this emergency Kate had come prepared. Remembering childhood tales of Russian toilet paper as stiff as twenty-pound writing bond, she’d stuffed three rolls in her suitcase before leaving New York.
Nonetheless, the place had its charms. From her balcony, Kate could see the Dneiper River, a broad blue band that wound through the city under ornate pre-1917 bridges.
Kate sat on the narrow bed’s hard, horse hair-stuffed mattress. Taking Imre’s photograph from her briefcase, she placed it face up on the spread.
Even in an ancient, tattered rendering, the alexandrite was captivating.
Kate slipped out of her clothes and into bed. As her eyes closed, s
he pictured Blake when he saw the stone. His reaction would be measured and restrained—that of a connoisseur in the presence of a masterwork.
In sleep, Kate tossed and turned. Again and again, she made the same high-board dive. On the bottom of the pool, she saw the face of Simon Blake. His lips were moving—he was calling to her—but his words were unintelligible, muffled as if they were being uttered underwater. Then Blake’s face dissolved into that of Imre Novyck. They both seemed to want to help her. But why?
Once before, Kate had trusted a man. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
* * *
“Expulsion, Miss Gavrill, and banned from sports competition—that is your well-deserved punishment.” His office’s book-lined walls seemed to slow the frowning, white-haired dean’s cadence, magnifying the gravity of his words. His lips turned down in disgust and he stared at her feet as if fervently hoping they would remove an unclean presence as quickly as possible.
Kate hung her head and sobbed.
Dr. Borshel came to her defense, pleading before conference authorities that she’d used a legally prescribed, cognitive enhancing medication unrelated to physical performance. The panel peppered him with skeptical questions, but the physician did succeed in getting Kate’s ban limited to a single season.
That, however, was only the beginning.
Just as school and athletic officials had wished, the doping inquiry, held in a university library conference room, drew light attendance and little media interest. Sitting in a sparsely populated gallery of journalists, interested parties and potential witnesses, Kate mused that if she’d been a football player, the New York Times would have sent a reporter. As it was, only two local weeklies and a single country radio station showed up.
Taylor Mathews, a willowy blonde, was the first of Kate’s teammates to testify.
Interrogator: “And, Miss Mathews, how long did your, er, romantic relationship with coach Nars continue?”
Kate’s head snapped back as if she’d been stung by an insect. A low murmur swept the audience. A dozing, heavy-set reporter for the Germantown Gazette blinked, his pencil moving rapidly over a pad of yellow notepaper. Jack Nars’ attorney was on his feet.
“Objection your honor, move to strike. Miss Mathews’ testimony has no bearing on the case.”
“Over-ruled. First, this panel is not a court of law. Second, the university has strict rules governing faculty-student relationships. This goes to the heart of the question of character, and to a pattern of behavior by Coach Nars that is central to the matter before us.”
Kate sat forward, her lips trembling.
Interrogator: “Will the witness please answer the question.”
“Well, it was-is still continuing,” Taylor replied, blushing. “As of last week, anyway.”
Around her, Kate heard uncomfortable laughter.
Interrogator: “Where did your, er, liasons, take place?”
Taylor Mathews: “I live off campus, so in my apartment, usually. Or his car.”
Again, muted chuckles.
Interrogator: “Were you aware of Coach Nars’ marital status?”
Taylor Mathews: “No sir.”
Kate’s stomach churned and stomach acid flooded her saliva. The room seemed to wobble, like a top ending its spin.
Interrogator: “At no time did Coach Nars inform you that he had a wife and children?”
Before Taylor could answer, Kate bolted from her wooden chair, brushed past two other potential witnesses, and headed for the chamber door. Outside, she paced back and forth. An all-enveloping anger surged up from the center of her being.
The door opened and Jack emerged, followed by his attorney.
“Married? Taylor Mathews?” Kate screamed. “You lying scum!” Her voice echoed shrilly in the high-ceilinged hall. Carrying a stack of books, a passing library clerk lowered her head, her feet making soft padding sounds as she scurried by.
“You had balls in the air alright!” Kate yelled. “Your own damn balls!” Bent at the waist, she hurled the invectives as if shooting arrows into a target. “How many of us did you fuck, Jack? Besides me, and Taylor, and the whole damn diving team, I suppose? And, of course, the little Mrs. Nars. So we were going to build a life together? All you were building were conquests in the sack!”
Head down, looking neither right nor left, Jack kept walking.
Kate never took the stand. After the devastating testimony by Mathews—who also admitted drug use—the investigators rested their case. Barred from coaching at the college level, Jack Nars eventually found a job in another state, teaching gymnastics at a private junior high. Kate never saw or spoke to him again. The only thing that survived was her love of diving; she continued to practice, though she did not return to active competition.
The most severe damage was to her relationship with Irina. Although local coverage of the scandal had been mercifully brief, Kate found an open newspaper beside her coffee on her first morning home. Scandal Engulfs College Divers, read the local sports page headline. The story quoted Taylor’s testimony, and Kate was included in a list of named divers.
“It’s bad enough that you cheat in your sport,” Irina shouted, slamming a kitchen cupboard with her small fist. “Now you also cheat with a man against his wife. So you reject your heritage, you reject our art, and now you reject our morality too?”
“I didn’t know he was married, mother. I thought I loved him.”
“You foolish, foolish girl. What do you know about love? You have destroyed our future as a family, Katya. And your behavior has endangered both of us in ways you do not even know. Thank the Holy Father that Henri and Anya aren’t here to see this.”
Their estrangement left deep scars. Kate transferred to Penn State, a huge school where she could vanish in an anonymous sea of undergraduates. With quiet determination, she rebuilt her academic standing, graduated with honors, and even returned to Princeton for her Phd. Although Irina still fretted over Kate’s safety, contact between the two women remained stilted and infrequent.
Kate strove sporadically to repair their relationship; her attempts were uniformly rebuffed. “You are still my daughter, Katya, but you have dishonored your family and yourself.”
Her emotions seared, Kate shrank from further romantic involvement, steadfastly avoiding risks in her personal life. She might have been guilty of making poor choices, but Jack had coldly manipulated and deceived her. Could she trust another man? Now—nearly a decade later—the question still festered. Irina’s deathbed revelations and her desperate plea to find and reclaim their mutual birthright had given Kate more than a last chance to make amends to her mother. Besides absolving years of guilt, and restoring her own and her family’s name, the Romanov Stone also held the key to restoring Kate’s inner courage and sense of self-respect. All she had to do was find it.
Chapter 16
Kiev’s Monastery of the Caves, a centuries-old compound of churches, libraries, bell towers, fortified walls and underground Catacombs, stood outside the city on the banks of the Dneiper River, not far from Kate’s hotel.
Kate had agreed to Novyck’s plan because she had little choice, but also because she believed she knew at least one important fact he didn’t. When the archbishop transferred the stone, egg and documents to Father Mikhail, neither man was in Siberia or Kazakhstan. Both had been here in Kiev, hundreds of miles away. At least that was the gist of Anya’s letter, and the conversation Kate overheard as a girl between Irina and her great grandmother. A priest named Mikhail, in fact, served at St. Sophia’s Cathedral, part of the Monastery’s ensemble of structures. This information Kate had not shared with Novyck, nor had she mentioned her plans to fly to the Ukrainian Republic.
At first, finding Father Mikhail had seemed easy. Kate simply went to the Hall of Records in Kiev and asked for him by name and order. Unfortunately, Father Mikhail had
died nearly twenty years before.
“In the old times, he might have been buried right here,” a kindly monk reported in broken English as they stood near the Bell Tower. At three hundred eighteen feet, the tower was the monastery’s most famous structure. The diminutive old prelate angled his head in the afternoon sun. In his spectacles, Kate saw a reflected blackbird cross from one lens to another in flight.
“The most saintly monks went into the caves,” the priest said. “It was a high honor. They also buried some notable lay people here.”
His white goatee bobbed with each word.
Occupying some fifty acres and including more than 80 buildings, the Caves Monastery had served for centuries as a spiritual and intellectual center for the Orthodox Church. The earliest monks held services in the caves, which later became a burial grounds. Due to a fortuitous combination of temperature and humidity, bodies in the caves became naturally mummified and did not decay.
Not all of St. Sophia’s corpses were so fortunate. “Peter Arkadievich was shot in 1911,” the monk related. “It happened right before the tsar and tsarina’s eyes at the Kiev Opera House, only a short distance from here. But you can’t see him. They buried him and then disguised the grave, so the Bolsheviks wouldn’t find the body. Even then, they were desecrating Romanov cadavers.”
As the monastery developed, the Catacombs closest to the surface became known as the “Near Caves,” those at deeper elevation the “Far Caves.” Contained in glass-covered coffins, the monks’ well-preserved remains clustered in groups of two and three in alcoves hewn from the walls.
The old cleric shook his head when Kate asked about Father Mikhail. “So many from that time are gone now. Even I am too young to have known the period as an adult. You should talk to Father Timothy. He’s younger than I am, but Mikhail was his—as the Italians say—mentore.”
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