The Romanov Conspiracy (32 page)

In her bedroom, Anastasia sat on her narrow cot.

Next to her sat her sister Maria. In one hand she held a pair of worn underwear. In her other she clutched a needle and darning thread. On a square piece of linen that lay between them was nestled a collection of small precious stones: diamonds, rubies, emeralds.

Her dog Jimmy asleep at her feet, Anastasia finished stitching a ruby into the corset: the thread roll was empty.

Maria’s voice was filled with excitement. “Are you
sure
he said Philip? I mean, could it
really
be the same Philip?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“But he was your
piano
teacher.”

“Remember, you said yourself that you wondered if he might be a spy.”

Maria gave a nervous laugh. “I … I was only joking, Anastasia. Really I was. What did you tell Papa?”

“Nothing yet. I don’t know if I should tell him anything.”

“Why?”

“He has enough on his mind. Besides, I’m not really sure. All I have is a suspicion. But it’s a strong one. I always felt that there was more to Philip than met the eye. I suppose that’s why I found him so interesting.”

Maria giggled and covered her mouth with a hand. “Try to be sensible, Anastasia, and not just a silly romantic.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t really think that your
piano
teacher followed us all the
way to Siberia and means to help rescue us. Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? I’m glad you didn’t tell Papa; he’d think you’ve gone crazy. It has to be someone else with the same name.”

Anastasia considered, then put down her needle and stood. “Perhaps you’re right. I’m being silly.”

“Where are you going? We still have work to do.” Maria indicated the gems. “Mama said we have to finish sewing these into our underclothes.”

“We need more thread. The novices will be arriving soon. I’ll go and get some. Promise me you’ll tell no one about this.”

“About what?”

“What I told you. That I thought it might be the piano teacher.”

Maria giggled again.

“I mean it, Maria.
No one
. Keep it our secret.”

In the hallway, Anastasia encountered two young guards. They glared at her. She made a face. The guards laughed. They always seemed to get fun out of her. “Where are you going, Anastasia Romanov?”

“To get more sewing thread.”

“Don’t be long.”

“I’ll be as long as it takes, you pair of idiots,” Anastasia whispered under her breath.

“
What
did you say?” One of the guards frowned.

“I said I won’t be, and thank you for allowing me.” Anastasia smiled charmingly and skipped downstairs.

Once in the hallway, she waited by the exit door—she was not allowed go outside except when the
komendant
ordered. She saw the novices arrive; Antonina and Maria approached the palisade entrance. They carried two wicker baskets containing food and supplies.

Sometimes the two young women carried secret messages for her father, hidden in the fresh loaves of bread or in the milk containers they brought, but that happened less and less of late.

The novices saw her, smiled, and waved as the guards checked their baskets.

Anastasia waved back.

As she waited there, she saw no one in the hallway.

Her heart was beating as she slipped a hand in her skirt pocket and removed the photograph.

It was the one of her and Philip she’d taken with the Kodak at Tsarskoye Selo, the two of them smiling for the lens.

It wasn’t the best of photographs, their features a little blurry, but she treasured the image. She had taken it from her collection the moment her interview with Yakov was over.

“Be strong. Help is near. Philip.”

She felt her face flush and her heart race as she stared at Philip’s image.

Could he
really
have sent the note?

It made absolutely no sense. And yet some ridiculous instinct told her it was he.

She heard a door creak somewhere in the house and slipped the photograph back in her pocket.

Even though Maria didn’t care to admit it, her younger sister was the boss in the relationship. She would do as she was told.

For now, any suspicion she had would remain a secret.

40

IRELAND

It was a glorious June day and Boyle drove the Ford T on the inland road, Lydia in the passenger seat. They passed rolling countryside, the road dipping steeply as they entered Collon village.

It was all quaint stone houses and whitewashed cottages, with a handful of grocery stores and pubs, the village dominated by a magnificent Presbyterian church built of red granite.

A cattle market was in progress and the streets thronged with farmers and stank of livestock. Boyle steered out of the village through the herds of cattle and drove for another twenty minutes, until they came to a pair of granite gate pillars, each topped with a carved stone lion.

The lions guarded an eighteenth-century estate with a handsome manor house, its vast lawns dotted with ancient oaks. Boyle drove through the open gates. They left the main gravel driveway for a dirt road. It led past thick woodland to a thatched white cottage, another Ford T parked outside.

A black-painted iron sign by the front door was inscribed Briar Cottage.

Fragrant roses and honeysuckle scented the air, the site protected from the winds by rolling hills of thick yellow gorse, and there was a commanding view of the distant sea. Boyle hooted the horn but no one appeared.

“The others ought to be around somewhere. Well, what do you think?”

Lydia glimpsed a white lighthouse in the distance and to the north saw the Mountains of Mourne. “It looks familiar. Isn’t that Clougher Head way over there? Where exactly are we?”

Boyle grabbed her bag from the backseat. “It’s called Briar Cottage. It belongs to the widow of an old friend of mine named Volkov.”

“
Vasily
Volkov?”

“You’ve heard of him?”

“He used to do business with my father in St. Petersburg. He’s a horse breeder and businessman. And a gambler and womanizer if I recall correctly.”

Boyle tipped back his hat and laughed. “That sounds like poor Vasily all right. He was certainly a boyo for the women in his day, until his wife, Hanna, put manners in him. After he died she inherited the estate.”

“What happened to him?”

Boyle’s humor faded. “Murdered by Lenin’s secret police, and a brutal end it was, too. Come on, let me introduce you to Hanna and to Uri Andrev.”

At that same moment, three hundred yards away, Hanna Volkov was climbing up a rock-strewn slope covered in yellow gorse. She wore a long skirt and a waisted coat that emphasized her figure—unsuitable clothes for climbing, which was why she was struggling.

As she neared the top, scattered with boulders, Andrev climbed on ahead with ease and then turned to hold out his hand. “Here, get a grip of my arm.”

Hanna did so, and he pulled her up. The cottage lay far below the ridge, hidden by some woods. On the other side the land sloped down to a river, crossed by an old stone bridge. From there the landscape was flat like a pancake, the river flowing all the way to the coast, the view superb.

Hanna said breathlessly, “Well, I promised you a spectacle, Mr. Andrev.”

“It’s certainly that.” Andrev studied the scenery and pointed to a distant scattering of ancient-looking granite ruins. “What’s that?”

“The remains of Mellifont Abbey. It dates from the sixth century, when Ireland had a reputation as an island of saints and scholars. Christian monks came to the rugged coast from as far away as Egypt
and Syria. They claimed Ireland was the one place where they felt closest to God.”

“And those mountains?”

“They’re called the Mountains of Mourne. They say the Celts who settled this land buried their kings and queens near the peaks and that the ghosts still linger.”

Andrev half-smiled and sat on a boulder. “That sounds like just the kind of romantic myth that appeals to sentimental Russians.”

She joined him. “We’re certainly alike in many ways, the Russians and the Celts. Tough yet sentimental, a strange combination.”

“Do you know this country well?”

“My husband, Vasily, and I first came here six years ago when he bought the estate to breed horses. We traveled all over the country, from Rathlin Island and the Giant’s Causeway, all the way down to the rugged Kerry coast. We had fond memories of our time here.”

“You still miss him, don’t you?”

“Terribly.”

“I know why
I’m
doing this, but what about you?”

Hanna’s face darkened. “Before the Cheka beasts finished him in the cellars of the Lubyanka Prison, he was trying to rally international help to rescue the tsar. I promised myself I’d finish his work.”

“Why’s Boyle involved?”

“He and Vasily were friends. Boyle hates the Reds and all they stand for.”

“Tell me more about this woman I’m supposed to be traveling with.”

“She’s American-born, of Irish extraction. She speaks Russian like a native. In fact, her father ran a business in St. Petersburg.”

“To be honest, I’m not exactly happy at the thought of a woman accompanying me.”

“Why?”

“We both know that Lenin’s secret police are capable of rape and torture if we’re caught.”

“She knows the challenges and the dangers. And you certainly won’t have to worry about her abilities, Mr. Andrev.”

“Then unless she’s a complete fool, why did she volunteer?”

Hanna rose from the boulder and smoothed her skirt. “That’s a question for another day. And now, we better get back. Boyle ought to be here. Are you coming?”

The sun beat down, the afternoon glorious, and the river below looked cool and inviting. Andrev said, “I’ll catch up, if you don’t mind. On a warm summer’s day like this, I think I’ll make the most of it and take a swim.”

“Don’t be fooled by that water. It’s always icy cold.”

“It couldn’t be colder than in Russia. Can you make your own way back?”

“Of course.”

Without another word Andrev turned and moved down the hill, like a boy off on an adventure.