the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (19 page)

“Until DNA testing came along and proved her a fraud.”

“But that was only recently. My guess is, Yussoupov taught her all the details she would need. The rest was her own magnificent performance.”

“That was all part of this?”

“And much more, Mr. Lord. Yussoupov lived until 1967 and personally assured that his plan worked. The misinformation was not only to keep the Soviets off guard, but also to keep the surviving Romanovs in line. They could never be sure if a direct heir survived, so no one faction ever had complete control over the family. Anna Anderson played her role so well that even a lot of the Romanovs swore under oath she was Anastasia. Yussoupov was brilliant in what he conceived. After a while, pretenders emerged everywhere. There were books, movies, court fights. The deception took on a life of its own.”

“All to guard the real secret.”

“Correct. Since Yussoupov’s death the responsibility has fallen to others, myself included, but because of Soviet travel restrictions it was difficult to assure success. Maybe God shines upon us with your appearance.” Pashenko stared hard. “I am glad you decided to do this, Mr. Lord. This nation needs your service.”

“I’m not sure how much service I’ll be.”

The older man looked at Akilina. “And you, too, my dear.” Pashenko sat back in the chair. “Now, a few more details. Rasputin’s prophecy foretells that beasts will be involved—how, I could not begin to say. And that God will provide a way to ensure the righteousness of the claim. This could be a reference to DNA testing. It can surely be used here to verify the authenticity of any person you locate. This is not Lenin’s or Yussoupov’s day. Science can help.”

The apartment’s serenity had calmed his nerves, and Lord was becoming too tired to think. Also, the aroma of cabbage and potatoes was inviting. “Professor, I’m starved.”

“Of course. The men who brought you are preparing everything.” Pashenko turned toward Akilina. “While we eat, I will send them to your apartment to retrieve what you might need. I would recommend securing your passport, because there is no indication where this quest might lead. Also, we have contacts within the organization that owns the circus. I will arrange a leave that will not jeopardize your career. If this turns out to be nothing, at least your job will be waiting.”

“Thank you.”

“What about your things, Mr. Lord?”

“I’ll give the men my hotel key. They can bring my suitcase. I also need to get a message to my boss, Taylor Hayes.”

“I would not recommend that. The prophecy speaks of secrecy and I believe we should respect that.”

“But Taylor might be able to help.”

“You require no help.”

He was too tired to argue. Besides, Pashenko was probably right. The fewer who knew his destination, the better. He could always call Hayes later.

“You can sleep here tonight in safety,” Pashenko said, “and start your quest tomorrow.”

TWENTY-FOUR

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 16
4:45 PM

Lord drove the battered Lada down a stretch of twolane highway. Pashenko had provided the vehicle along with a full tank of gas and five thousand U.S. dollars. Lord had asked for American currency rather than rubles since Pashenko had been right last night—there was no telling where this journey would lead. He still thought the entire venture a waste of time, but he felt 1,000 percent better now that he was five hours south of Moscow, motoring through the wooded terrain of southwestern Russia.

He was dressed in jeans and a sweater, Pashenko’s men having retrieved his suitcase from the Volkhov without a problem. He was rested, and a hot shower and shave had done wonders. Akilina looked refreshed as well. Pashenko’s men had obtained her clothes along with her passport and exit visa. To facilitate their extensive travel schedule, all of the circus performers were issued visas with no expiration date.

She’d sat quiet for most of the trip. She wore an olive mock turtleneck shirt, jeans, and suede pea coat—an outfit, she explained, bought in Munich the year before. Dark colors and a conservative tone fit her well. High lapels accented her thin shoulders and threw off an Annie Hall look that Lord liked.

Through the windshield he saw fields and forests. The soil was black, nothing like the red clay of northern Georgia. Potatoes were the region’s claim to fame. He recalled with amusement the tale of Peter the Great, who’d decreed that the strange plant be grown by peasants of the area.
Apples of the earth,
Peter had called them. But potatoes were foreign to Russia and the tsar failed to say which part of the plant needed to be harvested. When, in desperation, they tried to eat every part except the root, the peasants became ill. Angry and disappointed, they burned the entire crop. It was only when someone tasted the charred inside of the root that the plant acquired a home.

Their route took them through several dismal unhealthy meccas for metal smelting and tractor production. The air was a bitter smog of carbon and acid, everything filthy with soot. The whole area had once been a battleground. Pagans resisting Christians, princes vying for power, Tatars seeking conquest. A place where, as one writer had said,
Russian earth drank Russian blood.

Starodug was a slender strip of a town oozing an imperial feel from colonnaded shops and wood and brick buildings. White-barked birch trees lined the streets, its center dominated by a three-spired church topped with midnight-blue onion domes and gold stars that glistened in the last rays of a setting sun. A sickening feeling of decay permeated the place—clear from structures teetering in disrepair, pavement crumbling, and green space in need of attention.

“Any suggestions on finding Kolya Maks?” he asked Akilina as they idled down one of the streets.

She motioned ahead. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

He stared out the dirty windshield and saw a sign for the Kafe Snezhinki—cakes, meat pies, and ice cream noted as specialties on the storefront sign. The establishment consumed the ground floor of a three-story brick building with gaily carved window frames. Also on the sign he saw—
IOSIF MAKS, OWNER.

“That’s unusual,” he said.

Russians didn’t generally advertise ownership. He glanced around and noticed few other store signs, none with names. He recalled Nevsky Prospekt in St. Petersburg and the Arabat section of Moscow. Both trendy spots where hundreds of high-priced boutiques lined the street for miles in a commercial can-can. Only a few of those shops displayed prices, much less ownership.

“An omen of the times, perhaps,” Akilina said. “Capitalism creeping upon us. Even here, in rural Russia.” A smile noted that she was kidding.

He parked the Lada and they climbed out into fading darkness. He led the way back to the Kafe Snezhinki. The sidewalk was empty except for a dog chasing a fleeing magpie. Few retail shops were lit. Outside of metropolitan regions Russian stores were only rarely open on the weekend. More remnants, he knew, of a Bolshevik past.

The café was sparsely decorated. Four rows of tables dotted the center. Glass cases held the day’s food assortment. An aroma of bitter coffee filled the air. Three people sat at one table, a solo at another. No one seemed to pay them any attention, though he wondered how many black men appeared here on a given day.

The man behind the glass cases was short and stout with bushy copper hair and a shaggy mustache and beard to match. He wore an apron smeared with an assortment of stains and, as he approached, a smell of feta cheese came with him. He was wringing his hands dry with a dirty towel.

“You Iosif Maks?” Lord asked in Russian.

A strange look came back.

“Where are you from?” the man said in Russian.

He decided the less information the better. “Why does that matter?”

“Because you’re in my store asking questions. Talking like a Russian.”

“Then I assume you’re Iosif Maks?”

“State your business.”

The tone was gruff and unfriendly, and he wondered if the reason was prejudice or ignorance. “Look, Mr. Maks, we’re not here to cause trouble. We’re looking for a man named Kolya Maks. He’s probably long dead, but would you know if any of his relatives still live here?”

The man’s gaze was tight. “Who are you?”

“My name is Miles Lord. This is Akilina Petrovna. We’ve come from Moscow looking for Kolya Maks.”

The big man tossed the towel aside and clasped his arms around his chest. “There are a lot of Makses living around here. I know of no Kolya.”

“He would have lived here in Stalin’s day, but his children or grandchildren might still be around.”

“I am a Maks by my mother and have never been close with any of them.”

“Then why is your last name Maks?” he quickly asked.

A flustered look crept onto the Russian’s face. “I have no time for this. I have customers.”

Akilina moved close to the glass counter. “Mr. Maks, this is important. We are in need of Kolya Maks’s relatives. Could you not tell us if they live here?”

“What makes you think they live here?”

Lord heard footsteps behind him and turned as a tall policeman entered the café, dressed in the rural uniform of the
militsya,
his head covered with a blue fur
shlapa.
He unbuttoned and removed his greatcoat, then sat at one of the tables, waving at Iosif Maks. The proprietor understood and busily went about preparing a coffee. Lord moved close to the counter. The policeman made him nervous. He kept his voice low as he spoke to Maks’s back.

“He that endureth to the end shall be saved.”

Maks’s head swiveled around. “What does that mean?”

“You tell me.”

The Russian shook his head. “Crazy American. Are you all nuts?”

“Who said I’m American?”

Maks looked at Akilina. “Why are you with this
chornye
?”

He did not react to the derogatory remark. They needed to leave the café with minimal disruption. Yet there was something in Maks’s eyes that contradicted his words. He wasn’t sure, but the man might be sending him a message that now was not the time or the place. He decided to take a chance. “We’re leaving, Mr. Maks. Any suggestions where to stay for the night?”

The proprietor finished preparing the coffee and headed around the far end for the policeman’s table. He deposited the drink, then returned.

“Try the Okatyabrsky Hotel. Turn left at the corner, then three blocks toward the center of town.”

“Thanks,” he said.

But Maks did not return the pleasantry and retreated back behind the glass cases without saying another word. Lord and Akilina started for the exit but were forced to walk right by the policeman, who sat sipping his steaming coffee. He noticed the man’s gaze linger far longer than it should have. Turning back toward the glass counter at the other side of the room, Lord saw that Iosif Maks noticed, too.

They found the Okatyabrsky. The hotel filled a four-story building, the street-side rooms all with rickety balconies. The lobby’s floor was dusted with black dirt, the air heavy with the sulfur scent of bad plumbing. The clerk behind the desk was cantankerous, promptly declaring that the hotel did not accept foreigners. Akilina took charge of the situation and angrily informed him that Lord was her husband and she expected him to be treated with respect. After some haggling, one room was let at a higher-than-usual rate, and they trudged upstairs to the third floor.

The rooms were spacious but timeworn, the decor something out of a 1940s movie. The one concession to modern times was a small refrigerator that churned intermittently in one corner. The attached bath wasn’t much better—no toilet seat or paper, and when Lord went to rinse his face, he learned that the hot and cold water ran, but not at the same time.

“I imagine not many tourists come this far south,” he said, stepping out of the bath toweling his face dry.

Akilina was sitting on the edge of the bed. “This area was forbidden during communist times. Only recently have foreigners been allowed.”

“I appreciate what you did down there with the clerk.”

“I am sorry also for what Maks said to you. He had no right.”

“I’m not so sure he meant it.” He then explained what he’d gleaned from the Russian’s eyes. “I think he was as nervous about that policeman as we were.”

“Why? He said he knew nothing of Kolya Maks.”

“I think he lied.”

She smiled. “You are an optimistic raven.”

“I don’t know about optimistic. I’m assuming there’s at least a grain of truth to this whole thing.”

“I hope there is.”

He was curious.

“What you said last night is true. Russians want to remember only the good in the tsarist government. But you were right. It was an autocracy, repressive and cruel. Still . . . this time it could be different.” A smile creased her lips. “What we are doing may be a way to cheat the Soviets one last time. They thought themselves so clever. But the Romanovs may have survived. Would that not be fitting?”

Yes, it would, he thought.

“Are you hungry?” Akilina asked.

He was. “I think we ought to stay out of sight. I’ll go downstairs and buy some food from the kiosk in the lobby. Her bread and cheese looked good. We can have a quiet dinner here.”

She smiled. “That would be good.”

Downstairs, Lord approached the old woman operating a small kiosk and selected a loaf of black bread, some cheese, a couple of sausages, and two beers. He paid with a five-dollar bill, which she eagerly accepted. He was heading back toward the staircase when he heard cars approach outside. Blue and red lights swirled in the darkness and strobed the lobby through street-side windows. He glanced out and saw three police cars wheel to a stop, car doors pop open.

He knew where they were headed.

He bounded up the stairs and into the room. “Get your stuff. Police are downstairs.”

Akilina moved fast. She yanked up her shoulder bag and slipped on her coat.

He grabbed his bag and coat. “It won’t take them long to learn this room number.”

“Where are we going?”

He knew there was only one way to go—up to the fourth floor. “Come on.” He headed out the door, which he gently closed.