Turning off the main highway, he drove briskly along meandering narrow roads, some no wider than cow paths, doing his best to stay to the left. The picturesque landscape looked like pictures from a calendar. The rolling hills and pastures were almost unnatural in their greenness. Sturdy houses of honey-brown stone clustered in the villages and dotted the unspoiled countryside.
Lord Dodson lived in a tiny hamlet that looked like a village in one of those British mysteries, the ones in which everyone is suspected of the vicar's murder. Dodson's house stood off by itself on a winding lane slightly wider than the car. Zavala followed a gravel drive hemmed in by hedgerows and pulled up next to a vintage Morris Minor pickup truck. The truck was parked in front of a substantial two-story structure of warm brown stone and dark tile roof. The cottage was nothing like the manor Zavala had imagined an English lord would live in. A stone wall ringed the house, enclosing colorful flower gardens. A man dressed in patched cotton slacks and a faded work shirt was knee-deep in blossoms.
Assuming the man was the gardener, Zavala got out of the car and said, "Excuse me. I'm looking for Sir Nigel Dodson."
A white stubble covered the man's chin. He removed his soiled cotton work gloves and extended his hand in a firm grip. "I'm Dodson," he said, to Zavala's surprise. "You must be the American gentleman who called yesterday."
Zavala hoped Dodson didn't see his embarrassment. After hearing the upper-class accent on the phone, Zavala had pictured a craggy-chinned Englishman in tweeds with a bushy upturned mustache decorating a stiff upper lip. Dodson was actually a small, slim, balding man. He was probably in his seventies, but he looked as fit as a man twenty years his junior.
"Are those orchids?" Zavala asked. His family's adobe house in Santa Fe was surrounded by flower beds.
“That's right. These are frog orchids. Spotted here, pyramidal there." Dodson raised an eyebrow in a hint that his own stereotype of Americans had been shattered. "I'm surprised you recognized them. They don't look like those big meaty plants everybody thinks about when you mention orchids."
"My father was crazy about flowers. Some of those blossoms looked familiar."
"Well, I'll have to show you around after we're done. Now, you must be thirsty after your trip, Mr. Zavala. You said you were in Istanbul? Haven't been there in years. Fascinating city." He invited Zavala to follow him around behind the house to an expansive flagstone patio. Dodson called in through the open French doors to his housekeeper, a stout ruddy-faced woman named Jenna. She eyed Zavala as if he were an insect her employer had picked off one of his orchids and brought them tall glasses of iced tea. They sat under an oriental pergola laced with ivy. The broad lawn, as well manicured as a golf course, sloped down to a slow- flowing river and extensive marshes. A boat was tied up at a small dock.
Dodson sipped his tea and gazed out at the vista. "Paradise. Sheer paradise." His piercing blue eyes turned to his guest. "Well, Mr. Zavala. Has this something to do with the telephone call I received a few days ago from Mr. Perlmutter?"
"Indirectly."
"Hmm. I've made some inquiries. It seems Mr. Perlmutter is highly respected in marine-history circles. How may I help you?"
"Perlmutter was doing some research for NUMA when he came across a reference to your grandfather. He was puzzled about why you were reluctant to talk about Lord Dodson's papers. And so am I."
"I'm afraid I was abrupt with Mr. Perlmutter. Please offer him my apology if you see him. His query caught me off-guard." He paused and let his eyes sweep over the roof of his cottage. "Do you have any idea how old this house is?”
Zavala studied the weathered stones and massive chimneys. "I'll take a stab at it," he said with a smile. "Old?"
"I see you're a man of caution. I like that. Yes, it is very old. This village dates back to the Iron Age. The original Dodson manor, beyond those trees where you can't see goes back to the seventeenth century. I have no children to pass the property along to and couldn't afford to maintain the old ark in any case, so I turned it over to the National Trust and retained this cottage. It rests on a foundation placed here at the time of Augustus Caesar; I could show you the Roman numerals carved in the cellar stones. The house itself is one of four that have occupied the site for over two thousand years. The present structure dates back to the fourteen hundreds, just about the time your country was being discovered."
"I'm not sure I understand what this has to do with my question."
Dodson leaned forward like an Oxford don instructing a dim student. "This country doesn't think in terms of decades or even centuries, as in America, but in millennia. Eighty years is a mere tick of the clock. There are powerful families who could still be embarrassed by the revelations in my grandfather's papers."
Zavala nodded. "I respect your wishes and won't press you, but is there anything that you can tell me?"
Dodson's eyes twinkled with merriment. "I'm prepared I to tell you everything you want to know, young man."
"Pardon?" Zavala had hoped to excavate a few nuggets and hadn't expected Dodson to offer him the whole gold mine.
After Mr. Perlmutter called, I gave this matter a great deal of thought. In my grandfather's will, he left his papers to Guildhall, to be made available to the public at the end of the century. Even I had never seen them. They were in my father's possession and became my responsibility after his death. They were being held by the law firm that handled my grandfather's will, and I didn't get around to actually reading them until they were at the library. I pulled them back after I came across my grandfather's narrative explaining his part in all this. Now, however, I've decided to honor his wishes, despite the consequences. Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead."
“Admiral Farragut at the battle of Mobile Bay."
"You're something of a naval historian yourself."
"It's hard not to be in my business."
"Which brings up a question of my own. Exactly what is NUMA's interest in this matter?"
"One of our survey ships found the wreck of an old freighter named the Odessa Star in the Black Sea."
Dodson sat back in his chair and shook his head. "The Odessa Star. So that’s what happened to her. Father thought she was caught in one of the dreadful storms that can plague those bloody waters."
"Not exactly. She was sunk by gunfire." Dodson couldn't have looked more startled if Zavala had thrown the glass of iced tea in his face. He composed himself. "Excuse me. I'll give you some material to read." He disappeared into the house and came back with what looked like a thick manuscript. "I'm going into the village to pick up some heirloom plantings for my garden. You should have plenty of time to absorb this. We can talk about it on my return. Jenna will keep you well supplied with tea or something stronger if you wish. Just ring this little bell."
Zavala watched Dodson's battered truck jounce down the driveway. He was surprised Dodson had entrusted the manuscript to a complete stranger. On second thought, Jenna looked capable of restraining him if he made one step toward his rental car with packet in hand. He untied the thick black ribbon that bound the pages of lined pale yellow paper and riffled through the manuscript. The letters were gracefully executed by someone who had studied penmanship, but the strokes were thick and wild, slanting forward, as if the writer was in a great hurry. Attached was evidently an English translation of the transcript.
The first page contained a short paragraph: "This is the journal of Major Peter Yakelev, captain in the tsar's Royal Cossacks Guard. I swear to God on my oath as an officer that all I'm about to tell you is true. " Zavala turned a page. "Odessa, 1918. As I sit in my humble room writing with fingers crippled by frostbite, I think of all I have endured in the past weeks. Bolshevik treachery, unspeakable cold and starvation have killed most of my sontia, the band of loyal Cossacks originally one hundred strong, only a handful of brave men remain. But the history of this valiant band will be written in blood, as saviors of Mother Russia, guardians of the flame of Peter the Great. Our own privations are nothing c
ompared to those suffered by the gracious lady and her four daughters who, by the grace of God, have come into our care. God save the tsar! Within hours we leave our country forever and will set sail across the sea to Constantinople. This is the end of one story and the beginning of anothr:… "
Zavala became totally engrossed in the pages. The captain tended toward rhetorical flourishes, but he told a compelling story that took Zavala away from the sunlight playing on the English countryside to the bleak Russian winter. Blizzards howled across the steppes, death lurked in the dark forest, and treachery lay in wait in the humblest shack. He almost shivered with cold as he read of the hardships the captain and his men endured as they traveled through a dangerous and unforgiving land toward the sea. A shadow fell across the pages. Zavala looked up and saw Dodson standing there, a bemused smile on his face.
"Fascinating, isn't it?"
Zavala rubbed his eyes, then checked his watch. Two hours had passed. "It's incredible. What does it all mean?"
The Englishman picked up the bell and rang it. “Teatime."
The housekeeper brought out a steaming teapot and a tray of cucumber sandwiches and scones. Dodson poured their cups full, then leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers.
"My grandfather was undersecretary in King George's Foreign Office in 1917. He and the king had been drinking and womanizing companions in their youth. He was well acquainted with all the royal heads of Europe, including Tsar Nicholas, who was George's cousin. Nicholas was a short, slight man, although his ancestors had been a race of giants, and his limitations went beyond the physical. My father used to say that Nick wasn't a bad sort but a bit of a dim bulb."
“That description could fit half the political leaders in the world today."
"No argument there. Nicholas was even more inept than most, totally unsuited by intelligence and temperament for the job. Yet he had absolute authority over a hundred and thirty million people. He was entitled to the revenue from a million square miles of Crown lands and gold mines. Technically speaking, he was the richest man in the world. He owned eight magnificent palaces and was worth an estimated eight to ten billion dollars. In addition, he was the head of the church and, in the eyes of the peasantry, one step removed from God."
"That would have been a crushing responsibility for anyone."
"Quite so. He couldn't govern worth a damn, hated being tsar except for the chance to play soldier, and would have preferred living out his days in an English country house like this one. Unfortunately, it wasn't to be."
"The Russian Revolution came along."
"Precisely. You probably know much of what I'm about to say, but let me pull it all together for you. The conservatives in his court wanted him out even before the revolution. They worried that Russia's battering in World War I would trigger an uprising, and they hated the mad monk Rasputin because he had his hooks into the tsarina. There were demonstrations, food shortages, rampant inflation, strikes, refugees and anger over the millions of young Russians killed in this senseless war. Like the autocrat he was, Nicholas overreacted to the protests, his troops turned against him and he abdicated after being told it was in the best interests of the country. The Provisional Government arrested him, and he and his family were kept prisoner in their palace outside Saint Petersburg. The Provisional Government was overthrown by the well-organized Bolsheviks under Lenin, and Russia began its long, tragic experiment with Marxism."
"So Lenin and the communists inherited the tsar and his family."
"That's a good way of putting it. Lenin had the royal family and some servants and retainers moved to a mansion in Ekaterinburg, a gold-mining center in the Urals. And there, in July of 1918, they were supposedly all shot and bayoneted. Lenin was under pressure from his hard-liners, who wanted the entire family eliminated, and his people were talking to the Germans, who insisted on the safety of the women, but regarded the death of the tsar as an internal Russian affair. Lenin ordered the limited killings, then shifted the blame from his people to leftist revolutionaries. The story was generally accepted."
"What was your father's role at the time?"
"The king had ordered him to keep a close watch on events. King George and the tsar were cousins, after all. My father dispatched a trusted Russian-speaking agent named Albert Grimley to determine what had happened. You might say Grimley was the James Bond of his day. He arrived in Ekaterinburg shortly after the White Army chased the communists out and talked to the army officer investigating the murders. He found bullet holes and blood – but no bodies. The officer confided to Grimley that at most only two of the Romanovs had been murdered: the tsar and his son, who was heir to the throne. The officer's superiors suppressed his findings."
"Why would they do that?"
"The Whites were commanded by a reactionary monarchist general on a divine mission to save Russia from ruin.
He wanted the public to believe that the Bolsheviks murdered women and children. The family were more valuable to his cause as martyrs than as living people."
"What happened to the women?"
"It's all in Grimley's report. He suggested that the Bolsheviks moved the tsarina and the four girls before the male Romanovs were disposed of. The communists were in military trouble, and Lenin may have wanted the family as bargaining chips in case he got himself into a hash. Some researchers think the tsarina and her daughters were taken to a city called Perm, and stayed there until Perm came under attack by the Whites. Witnesses say the family was moved out with treasure and gold bullion that the communists had accumulated, and they and their treasure supposedly vanished from the official record on a train trip to Moscow. The Soviets clamped the lid down on all further information. It would have tarnished Lenin's halo if it got out that he was dealing with the Germans over the fate of the Romanovs."
"What happened to the Romanov treasure?"
"Only a small fraction of it was ever found."
"Your father reported his agent's findings to the king?"
"He filed a report saying that the mother and girls were probably alive and asked for help in putting together a rescue scheme. King George washed his hands of the affair, although he and Nicholas were related. Remember that the hated kaiser was cousin to George and Nicholas as well. Family loyalty only went so far among the royals. The king was afraid that he'd stir up the British left if he gave the women asylum. The tsarina was German by birth, and Germany was the enemy."
"So no attempt was made to rescue them."
"A rescue scheme was hatched by some Englishmen, but it didn't go anywhere because the family was moved. There were a couple of attempts by Cossacks, supported by Germans who wanted a restoration of Russia's imperial house. The kaiser may have felt guilty about inflicting Lenin on the tsar to take pressure off the Eastern Front. The most interesting plot was a scheme to kidnap the family and spirit them through German-occupied Ukraine, then across the Black Sea in a neutral ship."
"Why did it fail?"
"It didn't, actually."
"They were rescued?"
"Yes, but not by the Germans. The Cossacks didn't trust Germany. Somewhere along the way, possibly during that trek to Moscow, the intrepid band of Cossacks who had failed to save them once before managed to kidnap the family and fought their way to the Black Sea."
Zavala picked up the manuscript. "Major Yakelev?"
Dodson smiled. "The Cossack officer must have been extremely resourceful and determined. Yakelev is vague about exactly how the women came under his protection. He was saving that for when he got out of Russia. The journal was to be published when the Romanovs made their appearance in Europe. This manuscript was to go to Europe by a neutral ship and would garner them the instant sympathy of the world. It came into the possession of my grandfather, and when the family failed to arrive, he kept it for want of anything better to do."
"Do you have any idea who might have sunk the ship?"
"This is where it gets dicey," Dodson said, with a frown.
&nb
sp; "Especially in light of what you said about the ship having been sunk by gunfire." He took a deep breath. "As my father recounts it in his papers, the family were to be taken secretly to Turkey, where a German U-boat would be waiting to spirit them out of the country. Turkey was allied with Germany. Britain was told of the plan and agreed not to attack the V-boat on its way to Europe."
"That was generous of the British." Dodson guffawed. "Oh, they were a wily bunch in the good old days. Their generosity was based on the assumption that the family would be captured by the Bolsheviks."
"That was quite a gamble."
"Not really. England told Lenin and his thugs that the family were escaping on the Odessa Star."
"Your grandfather knew of this?"
"He argued strenuously against it, but was overruled."
"By whom?"
"By King George."
Zavala's eyes narrowed. "I see why you were reluctant to make this information public. Some people might not like learning that the king was a traitorous informant and accessory to a multiple murder."
"I don't know if I'd go so far as to identify the king as a criminal, though what he did was morally reprehensible. It was naivete on his part, but George never dreamed that Lenin would be so ruthless as to order them assassinated. My father said the king assumed the women would be kept in a convent. The Bolsheviks may have given the impression that no harm would come to them."
They sat in silence for a few moments, alone with their thoughts, listening to the trill of the birds.
Zavala shook his head in puzzlement. "There's something I don't get. A few years ago, the Russians dug up some bones that were supposedly identified as those of the Romanov family."
"The Soviet government was masterful at fabricating evidence. I would assume that they passed along that skill to their successors. There may be some truth to the story of the tsar's bones, but even so, the remains of the boy, Alexis, and his sister the Grand Duchess Maria were never found."
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