the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (30 page)

He entered a foyer of golden oak paneling, elaborate statuary, and mosaic flooring. A uniformed guard directed him upstairs to the second floor, where Filip Vitenko waited.

Vitenko shook his hand and offered him a seat in one of two brocaded armchairs. “I am so glad you decided to cooperate with us, Mr. Lord. My government will be pleased.”

“I have to say, Mr. Vitenko, I’m uncomfortable with even being here. But I thought I’d do what I could.”

“I mentioned your reluctance to my superiors in Moscow, but they assured me nothing would be done to pressure your assistance. They understand fully what you’ve experienced and are sorry for your misfortunes while in Russia.”

Vitenko reached for a pack of cigarettes, surely the source of the bitter odor that permeated the room. His host offered one, but Lord declined.

“I, too, wish I didn’t enjoy the habit so much.” Vitenko balanced the filter end in a long silver holder and lit the tip. Thick smoke curled upward.

“Who is it I’ll be speaking with?” Lord asked.

“A representative of the government in the Justice Ministry. He knew Artemy Bely. Arrest warrants are being prepared for Feliks Orleg and several others. This man is spearheading that action. More facts, though, could help seal the case against these criminals.”

“Has the Tsarist Commission been warned?”

“The chairman is aware of what is happening, but no public announcement is to be made, as I am sure you can understand. This would do nothing but undermine the investigative process. Our political situation is most fragile, and the commission’s deliberations are at a critical juncture.”

He was starting to relax. The situation appeared nonthreatening, and he noticed nothing in Vitenko’s words or actions that caused alarm.

The phone on the desk sprang to life with a shrill ring. Vitenko answered in Russian and directed that the call be placed through. He replaced the receiver and pushed another button on the console. A voice came through the speakerphone.

“Mr. Lord. I am Maxim Zubarev. I work within the Justice Ministry in Moscow. I trust your day has been fine.”

He wondered how the caller knew he understood the language, but he assumed Vitenko had passed the information along. “So far, Mr. Zubarev. You’re up late.”

A chuckle crackled through the speaker. “It is the middle of the night here in Moscow. But this is most important. When you turned up in San Francisco, we breathed a sigh of relief. We were afraid the men who were after you may have succeeded.”

“I understand they were actually after Artemy.”

“Artemy was working for me, making discreet inquiries. I feel somewhat responsible. But he wanted to help. I failed to realize the reach of the men involved with this treason, and my heart aches over that failure.”

He decided to try to learn what he could. “Has the commission been compromised?”

“We are not sure at this point. But we suspect that is so. It is our hope the corruption has not run too deep and may be caught in time. The original belief was that unanimity would prevent this type of abuse, but I am afraid that the requirement only heightened the extent of any bribery that may have developed.”

“I work for Taylor Hayes. He is an American lawyer with extensive ties to foreign business investment in Russia—”

“I am familiar with Mr. Hayes.”

“Could you contact him and let him know my whereabouts.”

“Of course. But could you tell me why you are in San Francisco and why you accessed the safe-deposit box at the Commerce and Merchants Bank?”

He leaned back in the chair. “I’m not sure you would believe me if I told you.”

“Why not let me be the judge of your sanity?”

“I am looking for Alexie and Anastasia Romanov.”

There was a long pause from the other end. Vitenko gave him a surprised look.

“Could you explain, Mr. Lord?” the voice said through the speaker.

“It appears that two Romanov children escaped Yekaterinburg and were brought to this country by Felix Yussoupov. He was fulfilling a prophecy laid down by Rasputin in 1916. I found written confirmation of that in the Moscow archives.”

“What evidence do you have to support this?”

Before he could answer, the wail of a siren seeped in from outside as an emergency vehicle passed on the street below. Not something he usually paid much attention to, except that the same siren could be heard through the speakerphone.

The implications came in an instant.

He shot to his feet and bolted from the room.

Vitenko called out his name.

He yanked open the door and was met by Droopy’s smiling face. Standing behind him was Feliks Orleg. Droopy slammed a fist into his face. He staggered back toward Vitenko’s desk. Blood gushed out his nostrils. The room blinked in and out.

Orleg rushed forward and pounded him.

He slumped to the parquet floor. Somebody said something, but he could no longer register the words.

He fought the feeling, but blackness enveloped him.

THIRTY-SIX

Lord awoke. He was strapped to the same chair he’d been sitting in while talking to Vitenko, duct tape now holding his arms and legs, another piece slapped over his mouth. His nose ached, and blood stained his sweater and jeans. He could still see, but his right eye was swollen, and the images of the three men standing before him were blurred.

“Wake up, Mr. Lord.”

He focused hard on the man who was speaking. Orleg. Talking Russian.

“You certainly understand me. I would suggest you acknowledge whether you hear me or not.”

He lightly shook his head.

“Good. So nice to see you again here, in America, land of opportunity. Such a wonderful place, no?”

Droopy stepped forward and rammed a fist between Lord’s legs. The pain electrified his spine and brought tears to his eyes. The tape over his mouth deadened his scream. Each breath wheezed from a desperate attempt to suck air through his aching nostrils.

“Fucking
chornye,
” Droopy said.

He reared back to strike again, but Orleg grabbed his fist. “Enough. He’ll be no good to any of us.” Orleg pushed Droopy back toward the desk, then stepped closer. “Mr. Lord, this gentleman does not like you. On the train you sprayed his eyes with an aerosol, then in the woods you pounded his head. He would very much like to kill you and I really don’t care, except that the people I work for desire some information. They have authorized me to say that your life will be spared if you cooperate.”

Lord did not believe that for a second. His eyes apparently betrayed his mistrust.

“You don’t believe me? Excellent. It is a lie. You are going to die. Of that we are sure. What I will say is that you can affect the manner of that death.” Orleg was close and he caught the scent of cheap alcohol through the aroma of his own blood. “There are two options. A bullet to the head, which is quick and painless, or this.” Orleg displayed a piece of duct tape dangling from his outstretched index finger, which he yanked free and then crumpled over Lord’s broken nose.

The pain brought renewed tearing to his eyes, but it was the sudden loss of air that got his attention. With his nose and mouth sealed, his lungs quickly exhausted the remaining bits of oxygen. But not only couldn’t he inhale, he couldn’t exhale, either, and the skyrocketing carbon dioxide levels made consciousness strobe in and out. His eyes felt like they were about to explode. In the instant before darkness overcame him, Orleg yanked the tape from his nose.

He sucked in lungfuls of air.

Blood leaked down his throat with each breath. He couldn’t spit it out, so he swallowed. He continued to breathe through his nose, savoring what until now he’d taken for granted.

“Option two is not pleasant, is it?” Orleg said.

If it was possible, he would have killed Feliks Orleg with his bare hands. There would be no hesitation, no guilt. Again, his eyes betrayed his thoughts.

“Such hate. You would much like to kill me, would you not? Too bad you will never have the chance. As I said, you are going to die. The only question is whether it will be quick or slow. And whether Akilina Petrovna will join you.”

At the mention of her name, his gaze locked tight on Orleg.

“I thought that might get your attention.”

Filip Vitenko stepped up behind Orleg. “Is this not going a bit too far? There was no mention of murder when I relayed this information to Moscow.”

Orleg turned to face the envoy. “Sit down and shut up.”

“Who do you think you are talking to?” Vitenko barked. “I am the consul general of this station. No Moscow
militsya
gives me orders.”

“This one does.” Orleg motioned to Droopy. “Get this idiot out of my way.”

Vitenko was jerked back. The envoy quickly shrugged off Droopy’s grasp and retreated across the room, saying, “I am calling Moscow. I do not believe any of this is necessary. Something is not right here.”

The door leading out of the office opened and an older man with a long smashed face and crinkly eyes the color of burnished pennies stepped into the room. He wore a dark business suit.

“Consular Vitenko, there will be no calls to Moscow. Do I make myself clear?”

Vitenko hesitated a moment, considering the words. He also recognized the voice. It was the man from the speakerphone. Vitenko shrank to the corner of the office.

The new man stepped forward. “I am Maxim Zubarev. We spoke earlier. Apparently, our little ruse did not work.”

Orleg backed away. This older man was obviously in charge.

“The inspector was correct when he said you are going to die. That is unfortunate, but I have no choice. What I can promise is that Miss Petrovna will be spared. We have no reason to involve her, provided that she does not know anything of relevance or possess any information. Of course, we never learned what it is you know. I am going to have Inspector Orleg remove the tape from your mouth.” The older man motioned to Droopy, who promptly closed the door leading out of the office. “But there is no need to waste your voice screaming. This room is soundproof. Perhaps you and I can have an intelligent conversation. If I am convinced you are being truthful, Miss Petrovna will be left alone.”

Zubarev stepped back and Orleg yanked the tape from Lord’s mouth. He worked his jaw and loosened the stiffness.

“Better, Mr. Lord?” Zubarev asked.

He said nothing.

Zubarev pulled a chair over and sat down, facing him. “Now tell me what you failed to tell me on the phone. What evidence do you have to support a conclusion that Alexie and Anastasia Romanov survived the Bolsheviks?”

“You own Baklanov, don’t you?”

The older man heaved a long breath. “I see no reason why that is relevant, but in the hope that you will cooperate I will indulge you. Yes. The only thing that could stand in the way of his ascension is the reemergence of a direct bloodline to Nicholas II.”

“What’s the point to all this?

The older man laughed. “The point, Mr. Lord, is stability. The reinstitution of a tsar could greatly affect not only my interests, but a great deal of other individuals’ interests as well. Was that not your purpose for being in Moscow?”

“I had no idea Baklanov was a puppet.”

“He is a willing puppet. And we are clever puppeteers. Russia will thrive under his rule, and so will we.”

Zubarev casually examined the fingernails of his right hand, then looked at Lord. “We know that Miss Petrovna is here in San Francisco. She is no longer at your hotel, though. I have men looking for her now. If I find her before you tell me what I want to know, there will be no mercy. I will let them enjoy her and do as they please.”

“This is not Russia,” he said.

“True. But that is where she will be when all that occurs. A plane is waiting at the airport to return her. She is wanted for questioning and we have already cleared that with your customs authorities. Your FBI has even offered to assist in locating both you and her. International cooperation is such a wonderful thing, is it not?”

He knew what he had to do. He could only hope that after he failed to show at the zoo, Akilina would leave town. He was sad he would never see her again. “I’m not going to tell you a damn thing.”

Zubarev stood. “Have it your way.”

As the older man left the room, Orleg slapped another strip of tape over his mouth.

Droopy stepped close and smiled.

He hoped the end would be quick, but knew that it wouldn’t.

Hayes looked up from the speaker as Maxim Zubarev entered the room. He’d listened to the entire exchange with Lord from down the hall, courtesy of a room microphone.

He, Khrushchev, Droopy, and Orleg had left Moscow the previous night within hours after the call verifying Lord’s location. An eleven-hour time difference had allowed them to travel nine thousand miles and arrive by the time Lord was having lunch in San Francisco. Thanks to Zubarev’s government connections, police visas had been arranged for Orleg and Droopy. What Khrushchev had just told Lord was true. A call had secured the help of the FBI and customs in locating Lord and Akilina Petrovna if needed, but Hayes had declined American intervention, hoping to keep the situation confined. An easy exit from California and back to Russia for Lord and Petrovna was arranged through the State Department, few questions to be asked by Immigration at the San Francisco airport, a Russian warrant for murder the means of securing unquestioned American assistance. The idea was to contain exposure and stop whatever it was Lord was intent on finding. The problem was they still did not really know what
that
was, beyond some incredible assertion that perhaps somewhere in the United States was a direct descendant of Nicholas II.