the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (28 page)

Inside a study room with the door locked, he spread the contents from the safe-deposit box on a table. He then opened one of the books and learned that fifty-six eggs had been created, starting in 1885 when Tsar Alexander III commissioned Carl Fabergé to fashion for his wife, Empress Marie, a gift for Easter. That holy day was the most important feast of the Russian Orthodox Church, traditionally celebrated with an exchange of eggs and three kisses. The trinket was so well received that the tsar commissioned one every Easter thereafter. Nicholas II, Alexander’s son who assumed the throne in 1894, continued the tradition, except that two were now crafted—one for his wife, Alexandra, and one for his mother.

Each of the unique creations, all of enameled gold and jewels, contained a surprise—a tiny coronation coach, a replica of the royal yacht, a train, windup animals, or some other intricate mechanical miniature. Forty-seven of the original fifty-six eggs were known to exist, their locations noted in captions beneath the photos. The remaining nine had never been located after the Bolshevik revolution.

He found a full-page photo of the Lilies of the Valley Egg. The caption beneath read:

Workmaster Michael Perchin of the Fabergé workshop created this marvel. Its surprise is three miniature portraits of the tsar and Grand Duchesses Olga and Tatiana, the first two imperial children. Presently part of a private collection, New York.

The volume showed a color photo of the egg in nearly full size. A trefoil of portrait miniatures fanned from the top, the diamond crown with ruby above. Each photographic oval was gold-backed and framed in rose diamonds. The center photo showed Nicholas II in uniform, his bearded face, shoulders, and upper chest clearly visible. To his left was Olga, the firstborn, her angelic three-year-old face surrounded by curly blond hair. To the right was the infant Tatiana, not yet a year old. The back of each photo was engraved:
APRIL 5, 1898.

He held up the egg from the safe-deposit box beside the picture. “These two are identical.”

“But ours has no photos,” Akilina said.

He glanced back at the book and read a little of the text, learning that a geared mechanism allowed the picture fan to rise. A gold-mounted pearl button on the side, when turned, supposedly activated the crank.

He studied the egg from the safe-deposit box and saw a gold-mounted pearl button. He tabled the legs and held the egg steady as he turned the tiny knob. Slowly, the diamond-studded crown rose. Beneath, a photo of Nicholas II appeared, the image identical to the one from the other Lilies of the Valley Egg pictured in the book. Then two more tiny oval photos fanned out, the left face male, the right female.

The knob would turn no farther and he stopped.

He stared at the pictures and recognized both faces. One was Alexie—the other, Anastasia. He reached over to one of the books and thumbed through it until he located a photo taken of the imperial children in 1916, before their captivity. He was right on their identity, but the faces from the egg were definitely older, both dressed in distinctive Western clothes, the tsarevich in what appeared to be a flannel shirt, Anastasia in a light-colored blouse. Behind each gold-and-diamond oval was the engraving:
APRIL 5, 1920.

“They’re older,” he said. “They survived.”

He reached for the newspaper and unfolded the yellowed bundle. He could read Swiss-German reasonably well and noticed a story on the bottom fold, apparently the reason why it had been included in the safe-deposit box. The article was headlined:
GOLDSMITH FABERGÉ SUCCUMBS.
The text reiterated the death of Carl Fabergé the day before at the Hotel Bellevue in Lusanne. He’d only recently arrived from Germany, where he’d fled in exile after the Bolshevik takeover in October 1917. The story went on and noted that the House of Fabergé, which Carl Fabergé had headed for forty-seven years, ended with the demise of the Romanovs. The Soviets had seized everything and closed the business, though a vain attempt was made to keep the enterprise open for a short while under the more politically correct name of “Committee of the Employees of the Fabergé Company.” The reporter noted that the lack of imperial patronage was not the only reason for the business’s decline. The First World War had tapped the resources of most of the rich clientele Fabergé had served. The article concluded with an observation that privileged Russian society seemed gone forever. The photograph that accompanied the article showed Fabergé as a broken man.

“This newspaper is here to prove authenticity,” he said.

He rolled the egg over and found the goldsmith mark of the man who crafted it:
HW
. He thumbed through one of the volumes and came to a section that dealt with the various workmasters Fabergé had employed. He knew that Fabergé himself actually designed and made nothing. He was the presiding genius of a conglomerate that, at its height, produced some of the finest jewelry ever crafted, but it was the workmasters who actually conceived and assembled everything. The book noted that Michael Perchin, the head workmaster who created the Lilies of the Valley Egg, died in 1903. The text reflected that Henrik Wigström took over the managerial reigns until the House’s demise, dying himself in 1923, a year before Fabergé. The volume likewise contained a photograph of Wigström’s mark—
HW—
and Lord compared the picture with the initials stamped into the bottom of the egg.

They were identical.

He saw that Akilina held the contents of the third velvet bag—another gold sheet with engraved writing in Cyrillic. He came close and had to strain to read it, but was able to translate:

To the Raven and the Eagle: This country has proven the haven it claims to be. The blood of the imperial body is safe, awaiting your arrival. The tsar reigns but does not govern. You must remedy that. The rightful heirs will remain forever silent until you properly awaken their spirit. What I wish for the despots who destroyed our nation Radishchev said best more than a hundred years ago: “No you shan’t be forgotten. Damned for ages to come. Blood in your cradle, hymns and the battle roar. Ah, drenched in blood you tumble into the grave.” See to it.

F. Y.

“That’s it?” he said. “This tells us nothing. What about Hell’s Bell? The last engraving from Maks’s grave said only Hell’s Bell can point the way to the next portal. There’s nothing here about any Hell’s Bell.” He lifted the egg and shook it. Solid. No sound from inside. He carefully studied the exterior and noticed no lines or openings. “Obviously, we’re supposed to know more at this point than we do. Pashenko said parts of the secret had been lost with time. Maybe there was another step we missed, one that would tell us what Hell’s Bell is.”

He brought the egg closer and examined the three small photos extending from the top. “Alexie and Anastasia survived. They were here, in this country. Both are long dead, but maybe their descendants aren’t. We’re so close to finding them, but all we have is some gold and an egg worth a fortune.” He shook his head. “Yussoupov went to a lot of trouble. Even involving Fabergé, or at least his last workmaster, to craft this.”

“What do we do now?” Akilina asked.

He sat back in the chair and considered her question. He wanted to offer some hope, an answer, but finally he spoke truthfully.

“I have no idea.”

THIRTY-FOUR

MOSCOW
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 19
7:00 AM

Hayes walked quickly toward the phone ringing beside his bed. He’d just finished showering and shaving, preparing for another day at the commission proceedings, a pivotal day when a decision would be made on the three candidates to be considered in the final voting. There was certainly no doubt Baklanov would be included, his final selection now assured since the Secret Chancellory had confirmed the previous night that all seventeen commission members were purchased. Even the pesky bastard who’d grilled Baklanov during his last appearance had named his price.

He answered the phone on the fourth ring and instantly recognized Khrushchev’s voice.

“A call came in about half an hour ago from the Russian consulate in San Francisco, California. Your Mr. Lord is there with Miss Petrovna.”

Hayes was shocked. “What’s he doing there?”

“He appeared at a local bank with a safe-deposit key. Apparently that was what he retrieved from Kolya Maks’s grave. The Commerce and Merchant’s Bank is one of several institutions worldwide the Soviets monitored through the years. The KGB was obsessed with finding tsarist wealth. They were convinced gold bullion was sitting in bank vaults, hidden away before the revolution. Actually, there was some truth to that, because millions were found in accounts after 1917.”

“You’re telling me that your people still monitor banks for money that’s almost a hundred years old? No wonder your government is broke. You need to give it up and move on.”

“Do we? Look what’s happening. Perhaps we are not as foolish as you think. Some of what you say, though, is correct. After the communist fall, endeavors such as this were deemed unaffordable. But I had the foresight to recultivate past contacts when our secret association was formed. Our consulate in San Francisco has maintained a discreet relationship with two banks there for decades. They were both depositories used before the revolution by tsarist agents. Luckily, one of our sources reported access to a safe-deposit box we suspected of a tsarist connection.”

“What happened?”

“Lord and Miss Petrovna appeared with a cover story of representing some deceased person’s estate. The clerk thought nothing of it until they produced a key for one of the oldest boxes the bank still maintains. It is one of the boxes we have watched. Lord left the bank with three velvet bags, contents unknown.”

“We know where they are now?”

“Mr. Lord signed in for access to the safe-deposit boxes and left a local hotel address. We have confirmed he and Miss Petrovna are there. He apparently feels safe back in America.”

His mind raced. He checked his watch. A little after seven
AM
on a Tuesday in Moscow meant it was still eight
PM
. Monday in California.

Twelve hours before Lord started another day.

“I have an idea,” he told Khrushchev.

“I thought you might.”

Lord and Akilina exited the elevator in the lobby of the Marriott, the contents from the safe-deposit box stored in their room’s floor safe. The San Francisco Public Library opened at nine
AM
and he wanted to be there first thing to do more research and try and determine what they were missing, or at least develop an avenue down which they could head for answers.

This search, which at first seemed only a way to get out of Moscow, had turned interesting. Originally, he’d planned on seeing what was in Starodug, then catching the first plane back to Georgia. But after what happened to the Makses, and what he’d found both in Starodug and the bank, he realized that there was much more here than first contemplated. He was now determined to see it through. Where that might lead he had no idea. But the quest was being made even more interesting by what was happening between him and Akilina.

He’d booked only one room in the Marriott. They’d slept separately, but their talks last night revealed an intimacy he’d not felt in a long while. They’d watched a movie, a romantic comedy, and he’d translated the dialogue. With his commentary she’d enjoyed the film, and he’d enjoyed sharing it with her.

There’d only been one major romance in his life, a fellow law student at the University of Virginia whom he’d ultimately learned was far more interested in furthering her career than developing a relationship. She’d abruptly left him right after graduation, taking an offer with a Washington, DC, firm, where he assumed she was still inching her way up the hierarchy to full partnership. He’d moved to Georgia and been hired at Pridgen & Woodworth, dating some, but nothing serious and no one as interesting as Akilina Petrovna. He’d never been a believer in fate—the concept always seemed more suitable to the faithful who’d worshipped his father—but what was happening could not be denied, both the search they’d accepted and the attraction they shared.

“Mr. Lord.”

The use of his name, called out across the expansive hotel atrium, caught him by surprise. No one in San Francisco should know who he was.

He and Akilina stopped walking and turned.

A sprightly gnome of a man with black hair and matching mustache approached. He was dressed in a double-breasted suit with wide lapels cut in a European style. He walked with an even gait aided by a cane and did not hurry his step as he came close.

“I am Filip Vitenko, from the Russian consulate,” the man said in English.

Lord’s back stiffened. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Could we sit down somewhere? I have some things to discuss with you.”

He had no intention of venturing far with this man, so he motioned to an ensemble of chairs nearby.

As they sat, Vitenko said, “I am aware of the incident in Red Square last Friday—”

“Could you speak Russian so Miss Petrovna can understand? Her English is not nearly as good as yours.”