In the beginning, May and he had sold hardly any of it, no more than a small bag or two of insignificant diamonds. They’d used that money not only to escape Russia, but to launch their lives in America. Later on, of course, Misha had sold more of the loose gems, none of them of historical value, using the cash to buy sundry Fabergé items that the cash-poor Soviets – not to mention the defrocked Russian princes – were selling all across Europe.
Oh, yes, thought Misha, reaching for a box on the fourth shelf. He quite liked this one, and he pulled the cardboard box halfway out, opened the lid, and revealed a gray jewelers’ bag inside. Flipping that open, he gazed upon a Fabergé box some twelve inches long and four inches deep that was covered with lapis and diamonds. Before it was hidden away here it had sat for several decades on Tsar Nikolai’s desk. Fabergé had been a master of combining styles from different periods, turning objets d’art into functional things of beauty, what he termed objets de fantaisie.
Oh, and this one, thought Misha as he closed up that box and reached for another. This one was May’s favorite. Lifting another jewelers’ bag into his hands, he felt something heavy and egg-shaped, which he slid into his palm. It was a large gold egg encrusted with a multitude of double-headed eagles – the emblem of Imperial Russia – that were fashioned out of platinum and hundreds of diamonds. And like all of the fifty-six eggs Fabergé had created for the Imperial Family, this one too contained a surprise: Misha tipped back the top of the egg and a diamond encrusted Orthodox cross popped up. It made him laugh, just like it always did. Created as an Easter present to mark Aleksandra’s conversion to Russian Orthodoxy, the egg had the year 1896 drawn in rubies on the back.
Upward of twelve Fabergé eggs had vanished during the flames of the revolution, and yet Misha and May had secretly managed to obtain seven of those. And all seven of them were in here. Reaching for the box to his right, Misha opened it, revealing another egg, this one in green enamel atop a solid gold pedestal. Flowers fashioned from gold and platinum, rubies, sapphires and, of course, diamonds, covered the egg. When Misha tipped back its lid he found a gold perfume bottle inside, its cupola top encrusted with a frosting of tiny diamonds. He gently laid it down, then quickly opened the lids of the next two boxes. Opening the inner boxes of each, Misha reached in and felt the shapes of two more eggs swathed in jewelers’ bags. Without even opening them, he turned his attention to the smaller box on the next shelf down. Opening the cotton bag inside, Misha slipped a diamond some two inches in diameter into his palm. He slid the diamond back in its bag and surveyed the wall of shelves. Five shelves, to be exact, all lined with similar boxes, some sixty or seventy. It was all here, the contents of the entire suitcase he and May had carried out of Russia, all of the gems carefully catalogued and packed. Many, he knew, dated back to the time of Peter the Great. One piece of jewelry, an emerald the size of a silver dollar that was in turn surrounded by a halo of 20-carat diamonds, had been a gift to Ivan the Terrible.
Incomparable treasures, all of them. Collecting and guarding them had occupied nearly his entire life, and now that he had succeeded in his duties he felt, surprisingly, a sense of pride. He had pledged to bury these things away not only until the fall of communism, but until his Nikolai and Aleksandra received a proper Orthodox burial. And now that these both had happened – what miracles! – he could rest with a degree of peace. His beloved Kate would have to oversee the final step, returning all of this to Russia, and he had every confidence that she would execute the transfer in a timely manner.
This room held the climax of his story and his life, thought Misha. Everything he recorded on that tape was to prepare his granddaughter for this room and its priceless contents. How much was all this worth, three, four, five hundred million dollars? A billion? Certainly somewhere in that range. And that was his reason for telling Kate his version of the final days of the Tsar – simply so that she could and would understand the meaning, the purpose, and the true value of all these jewels in this room. Misha was laying at Kate’s feet not unfathomable wealth, but overwhelming, mind-boggling responsibility, and he had to make sure she understood every ramification.
As much as he wanted to go through every box and admire every gem, there just wasn’t time. It had taken years for May and him to catalog it all, examining and weighing every stone, describing every objet, and then recording it all in a jewel book. May even insisted on drawing a facsimile of every piece, which she carefully did, and that log was there, right over there on the shelf. Oi, so many memories, mused Misha as he closed the boxes one after the other.
He even started laughing.
Turning, he looked at the rack of old clothes and chuckled aloud. May and he had been so very afraid, not just in the twenties and thirties, but especially right after World War II and into the fifties. Accordingly, they had taken every precaution, and Misha reached for his raincoat, finding it oddly heavy. Squishing the material between his fingertips, he sensed a band of small, hard objects running all the way around the neck. Stones. And not mere stones, but diamonds. Similarly, May’s dress over there held an entire panel of secret brillianty and the hem a great circle of them. Scattered through these clothes were some ten pounds of gems, hidden away like this in case May and he had suddenly needed to flee. In a separate codicil to his will he’d left note of this too, so Kate wouldn’t simply throw these clothes in a bag and drop them at the Goodwill.
But enough of this. He had to be going, his end was imminent. There were but two things Misha wanted from this room, and he reached for a bankers’ box on the floor and pushed aside its cardboard lid. Inside, carefully wrapped in cotton towels, he found a small red tin box, a bit rusty at the edges, its cover embossed with the imperial double-headed eagle and lettering that read TOVARISCHESTVO A. I. ABRIKOSOVA V MOSKVYE – The Goods of the A. I. Abrikosova Company, Moscow. Opening the old candy box, Misha gazed down upon its contents – some bits of wire, a tiny chain, two small rocks, a flattened coin, and some rusty nails – and his eyes blistered with tears. It had been terribly stupid of him back then, but he hadn’t been able to flee Yekaterinburg without these things, so priceless were they to him. Odd, mused Misha, how all of that seemed just like yesterday. He so clearly remembered sneaking late one night into The House of Special Purpose – then deserted by the Reds – and snatching this bric-a-brac, the treasures of a little boy, from its hiding place behind the mopboard.
He closed up the old candy box, bent slowly over, and reached for something else. This time his gnarled fingers wrapped around a dark brown glass vial, small and corked tightly, and he carefully held it and the tin box as he closed up the vault. What a job, what a task, he mused as he glanced about the room one last time. Now there was just one more thing he had to do: commit a fantastically great sin, the greatest of all.
Moving with determination, Misha flicked off the single light and swung shut the vault door and secured it tight. He then stepped into his office and pushed the bookcase back in place. Once it was locked, once he’d positioned the books so that they covered the lock, he slipped the brass key back in his trousers.
If only he could whisk through time and return to that night. If only he could reverse the flow of time and make the right choices, the right decisions, then perhaps he could change the outcome of it all. Like a mad river, however, time rushed in only one direction, and there was no turning back to the dark events of July 16-17, 1918, just as there was no turning back his decision now. No, thought Misha. He knew what he had to do, what must be done. He’d felt so guilty, so awful ever since that heinous night, but eighty years of suffering were not enough. He was not ready yet for forgiveness, for holy deliverance. He must sin again so that he would suffer not just in this life, but in the life hereafter and forevermore.
Misha, feeling every creak in his weary body, sat back down at his desk. He placed the old red candy box before him, opened it once again and admired the bits of bent and rusty things. Picking out a flattened coin, he was instantly transpo
rted – “Just look at what Papa’s locomotive did to this kopek!” – and instantly saw that bed, that room. But it was like torture, this memory of his. He could remember it all, see it all like a movie, but he couldn’t return and participate in the actual events.
He had so long ago decided just what must be done and how, and for so many years had been so determined, that his actions now were nearly automatic. The time had finally come. May had died. And he’d fulfilled a pledge he’d made long ago in a Siberian wood. Da, da, da, he’d accomplished everything that he possibly could, including, of course, telling a thousand truths just so he could get away with one singular, gross lie. Sure, that was exactly what the audiotape was: one enormous lie. From now and hopefully forevermore his Kate would believe that he, Misha, had been none other than the young Leonid Sednyov, when in fact nothing could have been further from the truth. Of course he’d been there, but not as the little kitchen boy. It was May herself who’d come up with the idea of supplanting one lie with another, of crafting a story so close to the truth that no one would ever doubt that it was in fact the truth. And Misha had told the tale perfectly, doled it out so convincingly that neither his granddaughter nor the world would ever know what really happened on that awful, awful night. Now there was nothing left for him here in this life except, perhaps, forgiveness, which is the last thing he desired or felt he deserved.
With that, Misha uncorked the small vial of cyanide. He swirled it a bit, then poured its contents into his glass of water, and saw the life and death therein whirl into eternity, his own.
“Please, Father,” he muttered in near silent prayer, “do not forgive my sins.”
Not wasting another second, Misha lifted the glass to his lips and drank it down in two bitter gulps. Almost instantly he was blinded by an atomic-like flash of blazing red light and his weary body slumped forward onto his desk.
EPILOGUE
Saint Petersburg, Russia
Summer 2001
As she sat in the Winter Garden of the Astoria Hotel, Kate Semyonov barely noticed the extravagant lunch of caviar and blini, smoked sturgeon and champagne laid before her. Likewise, she barely paid attention to the conversation of the three other people at the table even though they spoke exclusively in English.
Suddenly she realized they were all looking at her, waiting for a reply of some sort. Kate blotted her mouth with her napkin, tried to think of something to say, and then simply confessed.
“I’m sorry, I think I’m a little jet-lagged,” she said with her trademark broad smile, which happened to be her best defense. “What did you say?”
Dr. Kostrovsky, the director general of the Hermitage Museum, replied, “We just wanted to go over your schedule for the next few days.”
“Oh. Sure, of course.”
Her mind was anywhere but here in this spacious, elegant dining room with its glass ceiling, marble floor, and arcing palms. Rather, all she was thinking was how she could possibly escape. She looked from Dr. Kostrovsky, a heavy man with gray hair and a goatee, to his deputy director, an elegant blond woman by the name of Dr. Vera Tarlova, to Mark Betts, the head curator from the Art Institute of Chicago. No, thought Kate, I can’t do this right now. There’s something much more important that can wait no longer. I’ve come all this way, and I’ve got to take care of it now.
Mark, a tall, trim, balding man who’d accompanied Kate from Chicago, said, “Doctor Kostrovsky was just saying that tomorrow morning we’ll have a private tour of the exhibition, followed by a luncheon with the city mayor, and then-”
“You know what, Mark? I have a splitting headache right now,” lied Kate. “I don’t know if it’s because of the long trip over or because all this is just a little bit overwhelming – you know, being here in Russia – but I think I need to go lie down for a while.”
“If that’s what you want, of course.”
Kate turned to the two Russians. “I’m sorry Doctor Kostrovsky and Doctor Tarlova, but would you excuse me?”
“Absolutely. But are you in need of a physician?”
“Just a little rest, that’s all. I’ll leave all the planning to Mark. Anything that’s okay with him is perfect for me.”
“Then we’ll see you tonight for the performance at the Mariinsky?”
Oh, shit, thought Kate, how she wished she could get out of that one. There was no way, however, she could opt out, for not only had they reserved the tsar’s box for her, not only had they called in their best performers to dance Swan Lake, but the entire performance was in her honor. Yes, she was being feted as a hero for precisely following her grandparents’ last will and testament. Changed in the 1980s upon the death of their only son, Kate’s father, Mikhail and May Semyonov did not simply name Kate as their sole heir, but also instructed her to return the fortune of Romanov gems to the Russian people, designating Saint Petersburg over Moscow for the site of their permanent exhibition.
In light of the recent death of our cherished son, we hereby bequeath to our beloved granddaughter, Katherine Semyonov, our home in Lake Forest and all its contents except those items manufactured in Russia by the jeweler Carl Fabergé. All of the Fabergé pieces and sundry gems in our home vault, we bequeath to the Russian people; these items are to be held for safekeeping at the Hermitage Museum, the Winter Palace, St. Petersburg, Russia. This transfer shall take place only when and if both of the following two criteria are met: 1) the Communist government of Russia is no more, 2) the family of Tsar Nikolai and Tsaritsa Aleksandra have been given a proper Orthodox burial. These items are to be considered as an inviolate gift from the last royal family to its people and are for display and collection purposes only; they are not to be sold at any time. Until these requirements are fully met these items will be on temporary loan to the Art Institute of Chicago.
As for our financial resources, including all stocks, savings accounts, bonds of any sort, etc…”
“I can’t wait,” said Kate, her smile as broad as ever.
A few more pleasantries passed amongst them, and then Kate escaped, passing from the elegant dining room into the gilded marble lobby of the hotel itself. The past three years had been nothing but a whirlwind, beginning with the death of her grandparents and the revelation of the Romanov fortune stashed in Misha’s office. There’d been so much publicity – Dateline, Larry King Live, and others – followed by the exhibit The Secret Jewels of Nicholas & Alexandra at the Art Institute of Chicago. And now this, the opening of the permanent exhibit of the gems in a hall specially renovated in the Winter Palace.
As she neared the front entrance, she was tempted to bolt right then and there. It was, however, the sight outside of the limousine and bodyguard assigned to her that stopped her dead cold. If she went out there, they’d not only insist on driving and accompanying her, but they’d also make a full report to her host, Dr. Kostrovsky. And she couldn’t risk that. She’d have to sneak out a side door. But first she had to change, get out of her navy linen dress and fine leather heels.
Entering the small elevator near the front desk, she rode the lift to the fifth floor, the top. Her room was the best in the hotel, arranged by Dr. Kostrovsky himself, and consisted of a suite with an entry hall, living room, spacious bedroom, and an enormous bathroom, all of it filled with antiques, all of it overlooking Cathedral Square. Before the revolution this chamber had been used by various princes and counts; later Hitler himself had planned to stay in this very corner suite after his victory over Russia, which had never materialized.
Kate was a beautiful woman of thirty-five, five foot eight inches tall, and noticeably thin. She wasted no time changing from her fine clothes into her typical garb of well-worn jeans, brown leather clogs, and a beige cotton twinset. She had rich, thick brown hair, brown eyes, and a nose that she could and did scrunch up at a moment’s notice. Her upper lip was straight, even flat, just like her grandfather’s, and she grabbed a tissue and blotted off most of her lipstick. Wearing only a simple pair of sterling hoop earrings, her gold
wedding band, and the gold bracelet always worn by her grandmother, she headed out, convinced that she looked less like an heiress and philanthropist – she’d inherited well over $100 million – and more like a student. Well, she granted as she slung her black purse over her shoulder, maybe a graduate student.
Rather than return to the main lobby and risk running into Mark and the others, not to mention the bodyguard, Kate wove through a series of corridors. She passed into the adjoining Hotel d’Angleterre, and a few minutes later emerged onto a side street that jutted off from the enormous St. Isaac’s Cathedral. Flagging down one of the small, pale-green taxis took but moments.
“Vam kooda?” Where to? said the burly, baby-faced driver.
“Vot zdes addres.” Here’s the address, replied Kate, handing him a slip of paper.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Vyi otkooda?” Where are you from?
“Ya Amerikanka.” I’m American.
For the next ten minutes Kate carried on a reasonable conversation in Russian, which she’d learned not only from her grandparents but in a series of college courses. And while she spoke little more than excellent kitchen Russian, her accent was nearly perfect, or so said the driver two or three times.
Bouncing around in the small taxi, Kate was driven down Nevsky Prospekt, the city’s main avenue. The sky was clear and blue, the sun bright through its rays soft in the northern sky, and Kate kept her eyes on the apple green Winter Palace and ensuing Hermitage as they drove around the front of the extensive, regal complex. Passing neighboring palace after palace – once the glittering homes of the richest of the grand dukes but now housing such centers as The House of Scientists – the driver turned left across the Troitsky Bridge. As they reached the other side of the Neva River, Kate’s eyes focused on the Peter and Paul Fortress, where Nicholas and Alexandra had been reburied nearly three years earlier. Dear God, she thought. I have to go there. I have to visit and pray and light a candle. Or was there already an official ceremony planned? Yes, if she remembered correctly the patriarch of the Orthodox Church was coming from Moscow to lead a service to commemorate the wondrous deeds of Kate’s grandparents.
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