the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (23 page)

Dawn was breaking over the surrounding poplars.

“You are all dismissed,” Yurovsky loudly said. “Except the men who came with me.”

“You can’t do that,” Ermakov yelled.

“Either leave, or I will have you shot.”

Rifles clicked to one side as guns were shouldered. The four from the execution squad had once again heeded the call of their commandant. The remaining group of men seemed to know that resisting would be foolish. Perhaps they might overpower these few, but the Ural Committee would not allow their transgression to go unpunished. Maks was not surprised when the drunken crowd disappeared down the trail.

When they were gone, Yurovsky stuffed his pistol under his belt. “Finish undressing the bodies.”

Maks and two others accomplished the task while two men stood guard. It was hard to tell identities any longer, except for the tsarina, whose size and age helped distinguish her even in death. Maks felt a sickening in his stomach for these people he’d once served.

Two more corsets were found full of jewels. From the tsarina came the most surprising find, an entire pearl belt sewn into the lining of her underwear.

“There are only nine bodies,” Yurovsky suddenly said. “Where is the tsarevich and another of the women?”

No one said a word.

“Bastards. Those filthy stinking bastards,” the commandant said. “They must have hidden them away on the way in, surely thinking something of value could be found. They’re probably searching them right now.”

Maks silently heaved a sigh of relief.

“What do we do?” one of the guards asked.

Yurovsky did not hesitate. “Not a damn thing. We report that nine went down into the shaft, two were burned. We’ll try to find them when we’re through. Is that clear to everyone?”

Maks realized none of the men present, especially Yurovsky, wanted to report that two bodies were unaccounted for. No explanation would spare them the committee’s wrath. A collective silence confirmed that they were all in agreement.

More bloodied clothing was tossed into the fire, then nine naked corpses were laid prone beside a dark square in the earth. Maks noticed how the corset laces had left a line of running knots in the dead flesh. The grand duchesses also wore amulets around their necks with a picture of Rasputin and a prayer sewn in. These were yanked off and tossed into the cache pile. He recalled the beauty each of these women had projected in life and was saddened by how none remained in death.

One of the men reached down and fondled Alexandra’s breasts.

A couple of the other men followed suit.

“I can rest in peace now that I have squeezed the empress’ tits,” one of them proclaimed, and the others joined his laughter.

Maks turned away and watched the fire crackle as cloth turned to ash.

“Toss the bodies down,” Yurovsky said.

Each man dragged a corpse to the mine and dropped it over the edge. Several seconds of silence passed before a splash of water could be heard far below.

In less than a minute, all nine were gone.

Vassily Maks paused, sucked in a few long breaths, then sipped from a vodka glass. “Yurovsky then sat on a tree stump and ate a breakfast of boiled eggs. Nuns from the monastery had delivered them the day before for the tsarevich, and Yurovsky had instructed them that they should pack the eggs well. He knew exactly what was coming. After he stuffed his belly, he tossed grenades down the shaft to collapse the mine.”

“You said something wonderful happened, too,” Lord said.

The old man savored another sip of vodka. “That I did.”

Maks left the burial site with the other men around ten
A.M.
A guard was posted to keep an eye on the site and Yurovsky headed off to report to the Ural Committee on the night’s activity. Luckily, the commandant had not ordered a search for the other two bodies, informing them that he would report they were burned separately.

Their instructions were to walk back to town and not attract attention. Maks thought the order strange considering how many men had been involved the previous night. There was no way the burial site would stay secret, particularly given the bitter feelings and a lure of wealth. Yurovsky specifically said they were not to speak to anyone about what happened and were to report for duty that afternoon at the Ipatiev house.

Maks allowed the other four to go ahead. He told them he was going to take a different way back to town to clear his head. Cannon fire rumbled in the distance. His comrades warned that the White Army was within miles of Yekaterinburg, but he assured them no White would want to meet up with him.

Maks left his companions and lingered a good half an hour before trotting down the trail the truck had used the night before. In daylight Maks noted the thick forest, heavy with underbrush. He found the railway watch station, but did not approach. Instead, he got his bearings and located the spot in the road where the boards had been laid over the mud.

He glanced around. No one was in sight.

He pushed his way into the woods.

“Little One. Are you here?” He kept his voice to a low whisper. “It is me, Little One. Kolya. I have returned.”

Nothing.

He moved deeper, shoving the prickly brush aside. “Alexie. I have come back. Reveal yourself. Time is short.”

Only the birds replied.

He stopped in a clearing. The surrounding pines were old growth, their trunks wide with decades of life. One had succumbed to the ages and lay dead on its side, its exposed roots like the image of disjointed arms and legs he knew would never leave his mind. What a disgrace. Who were these demons who claim to be the people’s representatives? Is what they propose for Russia any better than the supposed evil they rebelled against? How could it possibly be, considering this monstrous beginning.

Bolsheviks usually executed their prisoners with a bullet to the base of the neck. Why such barbarism here? Perhaps the indiscriminate slaughter of innocents was a pronouncement of what was to follow. And why all the secrecy? If Nicholas II was an enemy of the state, why not publicize his execution? The answer to that was easy—no one would sanction butchering women and children.

It was hideous.

Something snapped behind him.

His hand went to the pistol stuffed into his belt. He wrapped his fingers around the stock and whirled.

Down the barrel he spied the soft, almost angelic, face of Alexie Romanov.

His mother called him Wee One and Sunbeam. He was the focus of the entire family’s attention. A bright, affectionate lad with a stubborn streak. Maks had heard the palace talk of his inattentiveness, his dislike of studies, his love of Russian peasant dress. He was spoiled and capricious, once ordering a band of the palace guards to march into the sea, and his father had many times joked about whether Russia would survive Alexie the Terrible.

But he was now tsar. Alexie II. The anointed, divine successor Maks was sworn to protect.

Beside Alexie stood his sister, who was in many ways like her brother. Her headstrong ways were legendary, her arrogance beyond the point of tolerance. Her forehead was bloodied, her dress shredded. Through rips in the clothing, he spied a corset. Both children were painted in blood, faces filthy, and they stank of death.

But they were alive.

Lord could not believe what he was hearing, but the old man spoke with such conviction that he could not doubt him. Two Romanovs survived the bloody massacre at Yekaterinburg and all because of one man’s bravery. Many had postulated such an occurrence, relying on scant evidence and wild speculation.

But here was the truth.

“My father took them away from Yekaterinburg by nightfall. There were others waiting on the outskirts to help and they moved the children east. The farther from Moscow, the better.”

“Why not go to the White Army?” he asked.

“For what? The Whites were not tsarists. They hated Romanovs as much as Reds. Nicholas falsely believed they were his salvation, but they would have probably killed the family. No one cared for Romanovs in 1918, except a precious few.”

“The ones your father worked for?”

Maks nodded.

“Who were they?”

“I have no idea. That information was never passed to me.”

Akilina asked, “What happened to the children?”

“My father took them away from the civil war that raged for two more years. Past the Urals, deep into Siberia. It was an easy matter to blend them in. No one beyond courtesans in St. Petersburg knew their faces, and most of those people were dead. Old clothes and filthy faces made a good disguise.” Maks paused and sipped his drink. “They lived in Siberia with people who were part of the plan, and finally made it to Vladivostok on the Pacific. There, they were smuggled out. To where? I have no idea. That is another leg of your journey, to which I am not privy.”

“What was their condition when your father found them?” Lord asked.

“Alexie was not hit by any bullet. The tsar’s body had shielded him. Anastasia had wounds that healed. Both wore jeweled corsets. The family had sewn the stones into the fabric to be safe from thieves. Currency to be used later, they believed. But the move saved the children’s lives.”

“Along with what your father did.”

Maks nodded. “He was a good man.”

“What happened to him?” Akilina asked.

“He returned here and lived to old age. The purges spared him. He died thirty years ago.”

Lord thought about Yakov Yurovsky. There’d not been so peaceful a fate for the head executioner. He recalled that Yurovsky had died twenty years after Yekaterinburg, also in July, of a bleeding ulcer. But not before Stalin ordered his daughter to a labor camp. The old party warrior tried to help her, but couldn’t. Nobody cared that he’d been the one to kill the tsar. On his deathbed Yurovsky lamented at how fate had turned on him. But Lord understood how that could have happened. The Bible again. Romans 12:19.
Vengeance is mine, I will repay.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

Maks shrugged. “That information will have to come from my father.”

“How is that possible?”

“It is sealed in a metal box. I was never allowed to read or see what was inside. Only to convey this message to whoever came and spoke the words.”

Lord was confused. “Where is this box?”

“On the day he died, I dressed him in his imperial uniform and buried the box with him. It has lain for thirty years on his chest.”

He didn’t like the implications.

“Yes, Raven. My father awaits you in the grave.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

STARODUG, 4:30 PM

Hayes watched Feliks Orleg force the wooden door, the burly Russian’s breath clouding in the cold dry air. A sign affixed to the brick above read:
KAFE SNEZHINKI
—
IOSIF MAKS, OWNER
.