The Romanov Conspiracy (40 page)

Her hair was tousled and she looked strained. “Thank you.”

“Can’t you sleep?” He sat opposite and left the mug and plate by her bed.

“No. You?”

“I’ll try later. Flying bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“Sean was an observer with the Royal Flying Corps. He went missing over France. Every time I see an aircraft, it makes me shudder.”

Andrev took the pewter hip flask from his pocket, unscrewed it, and poured a generous measure of amber liquid into Lydia’s mug.

“What are you doing?”

“Some whiskey, thanks to Boyle. It might settle your nerves.”

“In that case, I won’t say no. How is he?”

“Angry, I’d say. What happened to Hanna has shaken him, but it’s made him even more determined.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“There’s no going back now, I’m afraid. But the Reds can’t know our exact plans, Boyle assured me of that.”

Beyond the windows, Lydia saw only watery twilight. “Where are we?”

“Over the North Sea.”

Lydia sipped from her mug. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Boyle said you broke out of a Bolshevik prison.”

“My corporal and I managed to escape. There was a blizzard and we got delayed reaching Perm. By the time we made it to our lines our troops had retreated, and I was too late.”

“For what?”

“To save my men.” Andrev explained as best he could. “The Reds meant to force-march them to another camp. Most wouldn’t have survived the weather. If I’d reached Perm in time maybe it could have made a difference.”

“And that makes you feel guilty?”

“Something like that.”

“And the youth’s death, Stanislas?”

His face was bleak, and his shoulders slumped, as if he was carrying
a terrible weight. “It haunts me every day. He was barely sixteen. Just a boy, and I loved him like family.”

“What did Yakov do to your comrades?”

“I’ve no idea. I made it to Moscow with my corporal, where we parted company, and I managed to reach St. Petersburg. I was desperate to see Nina and my son. But Yakov was hunting me for a crime I didn’t commit. I couldn’t stay or I would have put their lives in danger.”

“How did Nina seem?”

“Different. We’d been apart almost three years. She wasn’t the woman I once knew, no more than I was the same man. The strain of war and separation made us like strangers.”

“That must have been difficult, with a child involved.”

“It tore my heart out. I don’t know if I can convince her to leave Russia. But I have to try. If I lose Sergey, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Lydia saw the remorse in his face. It seemed to almost crush him.

“For your sake I hope they join you, Uri Andrev. I truly do.”

She touched his hand. Their eyes met. Lydia was aware of her heart beating like a drum and the faint tremor in her voice. “Good night. I—I hope you sleep.”

His gaze lingered on her face.

She saw it then, a look in his eyes that told her there was more to this, so much more.

“Good night.” He held her stare a moment, then he left, closing the door softly after him.

She lay there, her breast still pounding, a warm feeling coursing through her body, and not from the alcohol. She emptied her mug and put it down. “Oh, you poor idiot, Lydia Ryan. Won’t you ever learn? You’re only asking to get your heart broken.”

And with that she flicked out the small electric night-light and the cabin plunged into near darkness.

55

Andrev went up to the dimly lit cockpit where Pozner was at the controls, sipping cold tea from an enamel mug. Despite the rumbling engine noise the copilot was asleep on the cabin floor, under a coarse woolen blanket.

The faint electric light was just enough light to see by, and it was pleasantly warm. The sky was a silvery blue, the moon appearing from behind clouds. “What’s the matter, can’t sleep?” Pozner asked.

“I’m afraid not.” Andrev rubbed his eyes.

“What about your lady friend? Did she manage to get some shut-eye?”

“She wasn’t having much luck.”

“Nerves?”

“I thought so, but you never can tell.”

Pozner grinned. “That’s women for you. One of life’s great mysteries.” He turned back to the controls, studied his charts, and pointed ahead. “See those lights in the far distance? That’s northern Germany. About two hours from now we’ll be attempting our landing to refuel.”

“Attempting? That doesn’t exactly sound reassuring.”

“Flying isn’t a business with absolute guarantees, my friend. Landing in twilight or darkness is always tricky.”

The aircraft buffeted a little but otherwise the flight was going surprisingly smoothly, and Andrev said, “So where’s this bad weather you predicted?”

Pozner sipped from his mug. “Not for a while yet. But weather forecasting is as much an art as a science, so hopefully I’ll get it wrong for your sakes. Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“That depends on the question.”

“Do you like the woman?”

Andrev frowned. “What’s it to you?”

“Back in the hangar, her eyes were on you like a searchlight the moment your back was turned.”

“Do you usually make a habit of watching people?”

Pozner smiled. “It’s a pastime of mine, observing human nature. Speaking of which, she might seem like the kind who’s well able to take care of herself, but they’re always the ones with the glass hearts, easily broken.”

“You sound like an expert in such matters, Captain.”

“Let’s just say that after three marriages and a lady friend in every port I’m quick to recognize when a woman’s attracted to a man. You mark my words, that lady’s smitten with you.”

Andrev came out of a doze. The aircraft cabin shuddered and the engines changed pitch and then came a sharp bump. He came awake and rubbed his eyes.

Lydia was fast asleep, curled up on her side, and he got up and left the cabin.

To his amazement the aircraft had already landed in a meadow, the first slivers of burnt orange tinting the dawn. The aircraft door was open, the crew outside along with Boyle, and Andrev went down the stepladder, the air smelling salty fresh mixed with the aroma of oil fumes from the engines.

By now they were shut down and the cold morning air fell eerily silent, his eardrums aching from the constant noise of the V-8s. Andrev heard seagulls overhead and guessed they were somewhere near a coast.

Pozner was busy supervising the copilot and the mechanics as they hooked up two hand pumps and began pumping fuel from the cans into the tanks. Boyle was helping unload the cans. “So, you’re back in the land of the living. How’d you sleep?”

“Well enough. Where are we?”

“Near a place called Birken. We managed to find the landing field without too much difficulty. Smooth as glass as it turned out.”

“Are we safe here?”

Pozner grinned. “Far from it. The locals are bound to have heard our engines. Give us a hand. The sooner we get refueled, the sooner we can get under way again before anyone comes to investigate.”

They worked eagerly, transferring the fuel from the cans to the tanks, and ten minutes later when they finished Pozner tossed the fuel cans across the meadow. “Leave them. We’ve no more use for them.”

They all helped maneuver the aircraft to face the direction they had landed. Pozner took a few deep breaths of salty air, then climbed back up the stepladder. Andrev followed. The copilot and mechanic restarted the engines, and then they all climbed back inside and pulled shut the door.

“No German air patrols in sight. So far, we’re blessed.”

Pozner wasted no time applying power, but the Ilya Muromets struggled to get traction on the dewy meadow before the propellers bit the air and the plane trundled down the field, building up speed. It ascended smoothly into the still air and Pozner climbed to five thousand feet, then gradually edged up to eight.

Below them in the slowly rising dawn a few stray sparkling lights betrayed German coastal villages and towns.

Pozner consulted his charts. “How’s your lady friend?”

“Still asleep the last time I saw her. How much longer?”

“If these winds stay with us, maybe another six or seven hours. A new record, I’d say.” Pozner winked, and put away the charts. “From here on, start saying your prayers that the Baltic weather doesn’t turn nasty.”

56

EKATERINBURG

Sister Agnes dabbed Sorg’s face with a cold, damp cloth. He was still in the basement room and felt groggy when he woke up.

“Did you rest well?” she asked.

He rubbed his eyes. “Well enough. How long was I asleep?”

“Twelve hours. You must have been exhausted.” She dressed his wound with gray, tattered-looking bandages. “While you were out cold, I managed to stitch your wound.”

Sorg stared at the frayed cotton and the nun said, “I’m sorry. There’s a severe shortage of medical supplies, so we have to make do with boiling used bandages and sterilizing them. Lean forward if you can. I need to finish your dressing.”

Sorg shifted, the movement an effort even with the nun’s help. She wrapped the cotton around his stomach and finished tying it.

His side began to throb. He winced in agony and collapsed back on the bed. By the bed was a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches, and an empty coffee mug. The ashtray was stuffed with the ends of a half dozen cigarettes he’d smoked before falling asleep, and the room smelled of stale tobacco.

She said, “You need to make sure you don’t open that wound again. To do so could be fatal. You wanted to know about the family?”

“Tell me everything you can. Leave nothing out.”

The Fiat truck laden with Red Guards trundled to a halt outside the convent. It looked an impressive complex with gilded church cupolas, outbuildings, and a massive bell tower. Yakov observed the scene from the Fiat’s front seat. “Where are we?”

Next to him, Kazan consulted a handwritten list. “The Convent of Novo-Tikhvinsky. Over a thousand nuns and there’s a hospital in the grounds, as well as a bakery, a children’s asylum, and workshops.” He put down the list, eyes glinting. “I know of these nuns. They deliver fresh eggs and milk to the Romanovs most mornings.”