The Romanov Conspiracy (25 page)

Boyle said with mild amusement, “Calling someone mad—why that’s almost a compliment in Ireland. And don’t you know that there’s a strange law of the universe that says fortune always favors the brave?”

“You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

“Too right I am.” Boyle placed a foot on the rain-soaked bench in front of Lydia and leaned on his knee. “It would mean a hostile journey to Russia and back. You’d travel in the company of a man and use the cover of husband and wife. Once you reached Ekaterinburg, you’d have specific tasks to perform to ensure the family’s safe rescue. It’s a solid, workable plan.”

Amusement sparked in Lydia’s eyes. “Have you got my funeral planned afterward, too, Boyle?”

“I know what you’re thinking. If you’re caught you’d be considered a spy, and spies are shot. But I’m confident our strategy will work. Otherwise I wouldn’t be throwing my own hat into the ring. I’d be going in with you.”

“Who
are
you, Boyle?”

“We may get to that in time, once I have your answer. There’s also another very special reason why I picked you, but we may get to that, too.”

Lydia said with fervor, “Do you really want to know what I think? You’re right, I have absolutely no interest in monarchies, or anyone connected to them. In fact, I’ve grown to despise them. Because of royals like the tsar, millions have perished in this and countless other wars. And for what? Some pompous idiot who believes he or she has a God-given right to rule?”

Boyle took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled. “I take it you met the tsar when you worked for his household.”

“Of course I met him. He’s a pleasant but not too bright man who should have given up power years ago. I also think he’s a fool for ignoring the warning signs. He made his own bed. Let him lie in it.”

“And his children?”

Lydia paled and stared silently back at him, as if a nerve was struck.

Boyle said, “I hear that you were particularly close to Anastasia. It was she you helped rescue at Peterhof, wasn’t it?”

“That was five years ago, Boyle. A lot has happened. I’m a different woman. We live in a different world.”

A wry smile curled Boyle’s lips. “Obviously, now that you’re smuggling German arms. But we’re still talking about five helpless children. Would you turn your back on them?”

Lydia said nothing.

Boyle said, “Our intelligence tells us the Reds intend to execute the entire family, which means we need to act with haste. There’d be a few days’ training before we’d send you on your way. You’re a woman who’s able to handle herself in a difficult situation and that kind of qualification is hard to come by, Miss Ryan.”

“I’m not the woman you need, Boyle, I’m really not.” Lydia met his
stare. “And don’t think it’s because I don’t have feelings for the children. I do. But this is not my battle. I already have a cause.”

Boyle tossed away his cigarette and sighed. “You’re not making this easy for me, are you?” He snapped the wheelchair round, facing Lydia in the opposite direction. “Let’s see if I can change your mind.”

28

Boyle maneuvered Lydia’s wheelchair through the hospital. He pushed her along a white-tiled corridor until they came to a room where two uniformed policemen stood guard. “What have they told you about your brother?”

“Nothing, except that he’s alive. Why?”

Anxiety showed in her face as Boyle nodded to one of the policemen, who opened the door.

Boyle wheeled her inside. Her heart almost stopped when she saw Finn lying unconscious in a metal bed, his head to one side, his arms bruised and bandaged, one of them manacled to a rail of the wrought-iron headboard. He looked so young and vulnerable.

And then Lydia noticed the hollow in the covers where her brother’s left leg had been. “Finn …,” she cried hoarsely.

Boyle wheeled her closer. “They had to amputate his limb this morning. The lad’s had a tough time of it. He’s still unconscious after the anesthetic.”

Fear spread on Lydia’s face. She went to speak but her words caught in her throat.

Boyle said, “He’s not out of the woods yet, but the doctors say he’ll live.”

Lydia struggled with her emotions. Boyle maneuvered her nearer Finn’s bed. She reached out and brushed hair from her brother’s forehead.

“Finn, can you hear me?” She squeezed his hand but he didn’t respond. She stroked his arm, her eyes wet as she said to Boyle, “What’s going to happen to him?”

He met her gaze. “That depends on you. Refuse to help me, and the
British will execute you both. Wasn’t it one of your republican leaders, James Connolly, who was carried to the firing squad on a stretcher? They’ll make no exception with Finn.”

“But he’s just a child.”

Boyle’s voice softened. “I’m not the executioner; I’m simply telling you how it is.”

Anger flared in her reply. “What exactly do you want of me, Boyle?”

“Your complete cooperation.”

“I want details.”

“We’re tight for time so we’ll need to get things under way smartly. We’ll have the use of a cottage on a private estate north of Dublin. It’s secluded and perfect for our needs. We’ll spend a few days going over your cover story to give it the ring of truth, while you and your traveling companion get acquainted. Then we’ll send you on your way. There’s a cargo ship leaving Belfast docks bound for the Baltic and St. Petersburg in six days’ time and we’ll be on it.”

“Who’s the companion?”

“A Russian army officer, a former member of the tsar’s bodyguard who escaped from a Bolshevik prison camp. And don’t worry, your brother will get the best of care in your absence. When you return you’ll both be free to sail home to America.”

“Assuming I return.”

“I’d be lying if I said that your journey won’t be dangerous.”

Lydia stared down at her brother’s sleeping face, at his shackled arm, then she looked up and said furiously, “You’re a callous, coldhearted brute, Boyle.”

“You want the truth? I was lucky to get the British to agree to this. Be grateful that you and Finn at least stand a chance.”

“You can go to the devil.”

She went to strike him across the cheek but Boyle had a boxer’s reflexes and he caught her arm. He met her stare, saw torment in her eyes, a terrible anguish, and something in him softened as he relaxed his grip. “I’ll give you an hour to think about my offer. After that, it’s out of my hands.”

29

LONDON

It was surprisingly chilly that morning in June, and Father Doneski was lighting another candle at the altar of St. Constantine’s.

He heard footsteps come down the aisle and turned. A thickset man with a coarse, peasant face full of cunning stood there. “Hello, priest,” he said in Russian.

“What do you want?” Doneski demanded, bristling.

The man smirked and tipped back his cap. “Just a quiet chat between friends.”

Doneski blew out the taper he was using to light the candles. “You and I will never be friends. And remove your cap in God’s house before I tear it off.”

The man’s smirk widened. “Getting very brave, aren’t you, priest?”

In an instant, Doneski crossed the gap between them and ripped the cloth cap from the man’s head. The visitor was no match for the priest’s powerful physique and could only watch as his cap was flung to the floor. “In my church, you will do as I say,” Doneski raged.

The man picked up his cap with a sullen look and dusted it in his hands. “I’d be more respectful if I was you, or someone’s liable to suffer.”

Doneski seemed at once in torment, his jaw twitching. “I told you everything I know.”

The visitor stuffed his cap in his pocket. “Not everything, priest. I followed Hanna Volkov all day yesterday. She’s staying at the Connaught Hotel. It turns out she met with the American ambassador. Before that, she met with a man, here in the church. I followed him to a printing works in Whitechapel. What’s going on? What’s that bourgeois witch up to?”

Doneski fell silent.

The man said, “Have you forgotten our agreement?”

Doneski’s fists balled in anger and he found it hard to keep himself from strangling the man. “I always said that you Reds were the devil incarnate.”

“You wouldn’t like your dear old mother or your relatives in Moscow to be harmed, would you? Tell me about Volkov before I change my mind and they’re left to rot in their cells.”

Doneski’s shoulders seemed to sag and he knew resistance was hopeless. “The man Hanna Volkov met with, his name is Andrev, he’s a Russian émigré. I’ve seen him before at our soup kitchen.”

The man grinned. “Excellent. Now scour that mind of yours and tell me every little thing you know. Don’t leave out a morsel.”

Just after six the following evening the thickset man boarded the overnight train for Edinburgh, leaving King’s Cross. He carried a sailor’s duffel bag and a third-class train ticket.

By early next morning the engine crossed the Scottish border and finally chugged into Edinburgh Station.

The Russian slept little and was exhausted, the information he memorized fueling his nervous excitement. He visited a telegraph office in the city and sent a brief coded cable to Paris, from where it would ultimately find its way to Moscow.

He stopped at a grocer’s and used his ration book to buy some jam, tinned ham, dried biscuits, and sardines for his long journey ahead. He also bought a bottle of buttermilk and some fresh bread and cheese for his breakfast and ate them ravenously as he walked to the docks.

The Russian presented his ticket and boarded the
Baltic Prince
just before noon, his Swedish passport in the name of Lars Westens checked and found in order.

It was a pleasant enough crossing, the North Sea like glass and the Northern Lights shimmering in the bright Arctic night sky. Four days later the Russian disembarked in Helsinki and took a tram to the Market District, where an elderly female party member ran a safe house.
She supplied him with a hot bath and a meal, a small sum of cash, fresh travel documents, and a train ticket for Moscow.

After several delays at the Russian border while the Red Army guards scrupulously checked every passenger’s papers, his train finally reached Moscow seventy-two hours later.

By 9:15 that morning the man presented himself at the Kremlin’s Troitsky Gate, a curious little white round tower connected to the main fortress by a bridge over an old moat. He handed over his papers and an arrogant-looking officer examined them. “What business do you have here?”

“Private business. Now telephone Comrade Lenin’s secretary and tell her that Semashko is here from London with urgent news. Be quick about it.”

The commander resented being spoken to by an unshaven, bleary-eyed vagabond in crumpled clothes carrying a sailor’s bag, but something about the man’s tone told him it might be wise to obey the request.

He made the call and soon a pretty little hunchbacked girl, wearing a thick gray woolen skirt and black cardigan and flat brown shoes, shuffled down the cobbled path from the Kremlin. Maria Glasser was Lenin’s private secretary. She shared the Red dictator’s innermost secrets and was totally trusted by him.