the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (17 page)

He pointed to the papers. “There’s another sheet there, Professor. From one of the guards. I didn’t show you. You may want to read it.”

Pashenko shuffled through and read.

“This is consistent with other testimony,” Pashenko said when he finished. “Great sympathy developed for the imperial family. Many of the guards hated them, stole what they could, but others felt differently. The Originator made use of that sympathy.”

“Who is the Originator?” Akilina asked.

“Felix Yussoupov.”

Lord was shocked. “The man who killed Rasputin?”

“The same.” Pashenko shifted in the chair. “My father and uncle told me a story once. Something that happened at the Alexander Palace, in Tsarskoe Selo. It was passed down through the Holy Band, from the Originator himself. The date of the event is October 28, 1916.”

Lord motioned to the letter Pashenko held. “That’s the same date of that letter from Alexandra to Nicholas.”

“Precisely. Alexie had suffered another hemophilic bout. The empress sent for Rasputin, and he came and eased the boy’s suffering. Afterward, Alexandra broke down, and the
starets
berated her for not believing in both God and him. It was then that Rasputin prophesied that the one with most guilt would see the error of his way and assure that the blood of the imperial family resurrected itself. He also said only a raven and an eagle could succeed where all fail—”

“—and that the innocence of beasts will guard and lead the way, being the final arbitor of success,” Lord said.

“The letter confirms the story I was told years ago. A letter you found hidden away in the state archives.”

“So what does all this have to do with us?” he asked.

“Mr. Lord, you are the raven.”

“Because I’m black?”

“In part. You are a rarity in this nation. But there is something more.” Pashenko motioned to Akilina. “This beautiful lady. Your name, my dear, means ‘eagle’ in old Russian.”

There was surprise on her face.

“Now you see why we are so curious. Only a raven and an eagle can succeed where all fail. The raven connects himself with the eagle. I am afraid, Miss Petrovna, you are a part of this whether you realize or not. That is why I had the circus watched. I was sure the two of you would reconnect. Your doing that is further confirmation of Rasputin’s prophecy.”

Lord almost laughed. “Rasputin was an opportunist. A corrupt peasant who manipulated the grief of a guilt-ridden tsarina. If not for the tsarevich’s hemophilia, the
starets
could have never wormed his way into the imperial household.”

“The fact remains Alexie was severely stricken and Rasputin could quell the attacks.”

“We
know
now that a lowering of emotional stress can affect bleeding. Hypnosis has been used for some time on hemophiliacs. Stress affects blood flow and vascular wall strength. From everything I’ve read, Rasputin would simply calm the boy. He’d speak to him, tell him tales about Siberia, tell him everything was going to be fine. Alexie would usually drift off to sleep, which also helped.”

“I, too, have read those explanations. But the fact remains Rasputin could affect the tsarevich. And he apparently foretold his own death weeks in advance, along with what would happen if royalty killed him. He also prophesied a resurrection. The one Felix Yussoupov implemented. Something the two of you are now part of completing.”

Lord glanced over at Akilina. Her name and its linkage to him could be pure coincidence. Yet that coincidence was apparently decades in the making.
Only a raven and an eagle can succeed where all fail.
What was going on?

“Stefan Baklanov is unfit to rule this nation,” Pashenko said. “He is a pompous fool with no ability to govern. It is only by a fluke of death that he is eligible. He will be easily manipulated, and I fear the Tsarist Commission will vest him with sweeping power—a gift the Duma will have no choice but to confirm. The people want a tsar, not a figurehead.” Pashenko leveled his gaze. “Mr. Lord, I realize it is your task to support Baklanov’s claim. But I believe there is a direct blood heir of Nicholas II out there. Precisely where, I have no idea. Only you and Miss Petrovna can learn that.”

He sighed. “This is too much, Professor. Way too much.”

A slight smile came onto the older man’s face. “Understandable. But before I tell either of you any more, I am going into the kitchen to see about dinner. Why don’t you talk in private. You have a decision to make.”

“About what?” Akilina asked.

Pashenko rose from the chair. “Your future. And Russia’s.”

TWENTY-TWO

8:40 PM

Hayes lay back and gripped the iron bar above his head. He shoved the weights up from their cradle and sweated through ten presses, his biceps and shoulders aching from the stress. He was glad the Volkhov was equipped with a health club. Though pushing sixty, he was determined to surrender nothing to time. There was no reason he couldn’t live another forty years. And he needed that time. There was so much to do, and only now was he in a position to succeed. After Stefan Baklanov’s coronation, he’d be able to work at will and do what he wanted. He was already eyeing a lovely chalet in the Austrian Alps, a place where he could enjoy the outdoors, hunt, fish, and be the lord of his own manor. The thought was intoxicating. More than enough motivation to keep him moving forward, no matter what the task.

He finished another set of presses, grabbed a towel and patted moisture from his brow. He then left the exercise room and headed for the elevators.

Where was Lord? Why hadn’t he called in? He’d told Orleg earlier that Lord may now doubt him. But he was not convinced. It could be that Lord assumed the hotel phones were being monitored. Lord knew enough about Russian paranoia to know how easy it would be for either the government or a private group to accomplish that task. That might explain why he hadn’t heard from Lord since his abrupt departure from Felix Orleg’s office. But he could have called the firm in Atlanta and arranged for contact. Yet a check there not an hour before had revealed no calls had come through.

What a mess.

Miles Lord was becoming a real problem.

He stepped off the elevator into a wood-paneled lobby on the sixth floor. Every floor had one, a sitting area with magazines and newspapers. Filling two leather chairs were Brezhnev and Stalin. He was scheduled to meet with them and the rest of the Secret Chancellory in two hours at a villa south of town, so he wondered about their presence here and now.

“Gentlemen. To what do I owe this honor?”

Stalin stood. “There is a problem that requires action. We must talk, and you could not be located by telephone.”

“As you can see, I was working up a sweat.”

“Might we go to your room?” Brezhnev asked.

He led the way past the
dezhurnaya,
who did not look up from her magazine. When they were inside his room with the door locked, Stalin said, “Mr. Lord was located earlier at the circus. Our men tried to intercept him. One was disabled by Lord, the other by men who were apparently likewise searching. Our man had to kill his captor to escape.”

“Who interfered?” Hayes asked.

“That is the problem. It is time you learn some things.” Brezhnev sat forward in the chair. “There has long been speculation that some of the imperial family may have survived the death sentence the Soviets imposed in 1918. Your Mr. Lord came across some interesting material in the Protective Papers, information that we had not been privy to. We thought the matter at first serious, but containable. Now, such is not the case. The man Mr. Lord made contact with in Moscow is Semyon Pashenko. He is a professor of history at the university. But he also heads a group dedicated to tsarist restoration.”

“How could that threaten what we have in motion?” Hayes asked.

Brezhnev sat back and Hayes took him in.

Vladimir Kulikov represented a large coalition of the country’s new rich, the lucky few who’d managed to turn a tremendous profit since the fall of the Soviet Union. A short and serious man, his face was weather-beaten—like a peasant’s, Hayes had often thought—his nose beaklike, the hair short, sparse, and gray. He gave off an air of superiority that often infuriated the other three in the Secret Chancellory.

The new rich were not particularly liked by the military or the government. Most were ex-party officials blessed with a web of connections—clever men who manipulated a chaotic system to their personal advantage. None of them worked hard. And many of the American businessmen Hayes represented financed them.

“Until his death,” Brezhnev said, “Lenin was quite interested in what happened at Yekaterinburg. Stalin likewise was consumed, so much so that he sealed every piece of paper dealing with the Romanovs in the state archives. He then killed or banished to the camps anyone with knowledge. His fanaticism is one reason that learning anything firsthand is now so difficult. Stalin worried about a Romanov survivor, but twenty million deaths can stir up a lot of chaos, and no opposition to him ever collated. Pashenko’s group is somehow connected with the possibility of one or more Romanov survivors. How, we’re not sure. But there have been rumors for decades that a Romanov was hidden until the time was right to reveal his or her whereabouts.”

Stalin said, “We now know that only two of the children could have survived, Alexie and Anastasia, since their bodies were never found. Of course, even if either or both survived the massacre they would have died long ago, the boy especially because of his hemophilia. So we’re talking about their children or grandchildren, if there were any. And they would be direct Romanov. Stefan Baklanov’s claim would be meaningless.”

Hayes saw concern on Stalin’s face, but he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “There’s no way any of those people survived. They were shot at close range, then bayoneted.”

Stalin ran a hand along the armchair, tracing the wood carvings. “I told you at our last meeting, Americans have a hard time understanding the Russian sensitivity to fate. Here is an example. There are Soviet documents I have seen where the KGB conducted interrogations. Rasputin predicted that Romanov blood would be resurrected. He supposedly said that an eagle and a raven would accomplish the resurrection. Your Mr. Lord found a writing that confirms this prediction.” He leaned forward. “Would not Mr. Lord qualify as that raven?”

“Because he’s black?”

Stalin shrugged. “As good a reason as any.”

He couldn’t believe a man with Stalin’s reputation was trying to convince him that a scoundrel peasant from the early part of the twentieth century had somehow predicted the reemergence of the Romanov dynasty. And, even more, an African American from South Carolina was somehow a part of all that. “I may not understand your sensitivity to fate, but I fully understand common sense. This is crap.”

“Semyon Pashenko doesn’t think so,” Brezhnev was quick to say. “He stationed men at the circus for a reason, and he was right. Lord showed up. Our men reported that a circus performer was on the train last night. A woman. Akilina Petrovna. They even talked with her and thought nothing of it at the time, but she was led from the theater with Lord and driven off by Pashenko’s men. Why, if there is nothing to this but fiction?”

A good question, Hayes silently admitted.

Stalin’s face was severe. “
Akilina
means ‘eagle’ in old Russian. You speak our language. Did you know that?”

He shook his head.

“This is serious,” Stalin said. “There are things at work we really do not fully understand. Until a few months ago, when the referendum passed, no one seriously thought a tsarist return possible, much less one that could be used for political advantage. But now both are possible. We must stop whatever is happening immediately, before it can gestate into something more. Use the telephone number we provided, assemble the men, and find your Mr. Lord.”

“It’s already being done.”

“Do more.”

“Why not do it yourself?”

“Because you have freedom of movement none of us enjoys. This task is yours to handle. It might even move beyond our borders.”

“Orleg is looking for Lord right now.”

“Perhaps a police bulletin regarding the Red Square shooting could multiply the number of eyes,” Brezhnev said. “A policeman was killed. The
militsya
would be anxious to find the gunman. They might even solve our problem with a well-placed shot.”

TWENTY-THREE

Lord said, “I’m sorry about what happened to your parents.”

Akilina had been sitting still, eyes down, since Pashenko had left the room.

“My father wanted to be with his son. He intended on marrying the mother, but to emigrate you must secure permission of your parents—an absurd Soviet rule that stopped anyone from leaving. My grandmother, of course, gave her consent, but my grandfather had been missing since World War Two.”

“Yet your father still had to have his okay?”

She nodded. “He was never declared dead. None of the missing ever were. No father, no permission, no visa. The repercussions came fast. My father was dropped from the circus and not allowed to perform anywhere. It was all he knew how to do.”

“Why didn’t you see them the last few years?”

“Neither could be tolerated. All my mother could see was another woman who’d birthed her ex-husband’s baby. All he could see was somebody who’d left him for another man. Their duty was to endure the situation for the collective good.” The resentment was clear now. “They sent me to my grandmother. I hated them at first for doing it, but as I got older I simply could not stand to be around either of them, so I stayed away. They died within a few months of each other. Simple flu that became pneumonia. I often wonder if my fate will be the same. When I can no longer please the crowds, where will I end up?”

He didn’t know what to say.

“It is hard for Americans to understand how things were. How they still are, to some extent. You could not live where you wanted, do what you wanted. Our choices were made for us early in life.”

He knew what she was referring to, the
raspredeleniye.
Distribution. A decision made at age sixteen as to what a person was to do with the rest of his or her life. Those with clout possessed a choice. Those without took what was available. Those in disfavor did what they were told.