the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (34 page)

This was incredible. And he was a part of it. An integral part. The raven to Akilina’s eagle. Their job was clear. Finish this quest and locate a Thorn. But somebody else was also looking. People who were trying to influence the commission’s outcome. Men who’d used money and power to dominate what was supposedly a neutral process. Was it all a lie concocted by the people who controlled Filip Vitenko, simply to lure him to the Russian consulate? He didn’t believe so. Maxim Zubarev had shown a callousness that gave credence to his words. Stefan Baklanov was owned. Nothing more than a
willing puppet.
And, as Zubarev had said, they were
clever puppeteers.
What else had Zubarev said?
The only thing that could stand in the way is the reemergence of a direct bloodline to Nicholas II.
But who were
they
? And had they really managed to stack the commission? If so, what did it matter since Stefan Baklanov was the man he’d traveled to Moscow to champion? His clients wanted that result. Taylor Hayes wanted that to happen. It would be good for everybody.

Or would it?

Apparently the very factions, both political and criminal, that had brought Russia to its knees now controlled its absolute-monarch-to-be. And this wasn’t some eighteenth-century ruler with cannons and guns. This autocrat would have access to nuclear weapons, some small enough to fit into a suitcase. No single person should ever have that kind of authority, but Russians would never consider anything less. To them, the tsar was sacred, a link to God and a glorious past they’d been denied for a century. They wanted a return to that time, and a return was what they were about to get. But would they be better off? Or simply trading one set of problems for another? Something else Rasputin had said occurred to him.

Twelve must die before the resurrection can be complete.

He mentally tallied the dead. Four the first day, including Artemy Bely. The guard in Red Square. Pashenko’s associate. Iosif and Vassily Maks. So far everything else the
starets
said had come to pass.

Would three more die?

Hayes watched Khrushchev squirm in the chair. This former communist and long-standing government minister, highly placed and highly connected, was nervous. He realized that Russians tended to wear their emotions on their sleeves. When happy, there was an exuberance that could sometimes be frightening. When sad, their despair ran deep. They naturally gravitated to either extreme, rarely set in a middle ground, and he’d come to learn from nearly two decades of dealing with them that trust and loyalty were indeed important attributes. Problem was, it could take years before one Russian actually trusted another, even longer before a foreigner was accepted.

Khrushchev was, at the moment, acting particularly Russian. Twenty-four hours ago he’d been confident and assured, knowing Lord would soon be in his hands. Now he was quiet and detached, saying little since the previous night at the zoo when they realized there was no way to track their quarry, and he would have to explain to the other members of the Secret Chancellory that he’d approved the idea of deliberately letting Lord escape.

They were on the second floor of the consulate, alone in Vitenko’s office with the door locked. On the other end of the speakerphone were the Chancellory members, all gathered in the study of the Moscow house. No one was happy with the present predicament, but no one openly criticized the course of action.

“It is not a problem,” Lenin said through the phone. “Who could have predicted the intervention of a gorilla?”

“Rasputin,” Hayes said.

“Ah, Mr. Lincoln, you are beginning to understand our concern,” Brezhnev said.

“I’m beginning to think Lord is definitely after a survivor to Alexie and Anastasia.
The
heir to the Romanov throne.”

“Apparently,” Stalin said, “our worst fear has become a reality.”

“Any thoughts on where he might go?” Lenin asked.

Hayes had been thinking about just that for the past few hours. “I have his apartment in Atlanta being watched by a private investigative firm. If he returns there we’ll have him, and this time we won’t let him go.”

“That’s all well and good,” Brezhnev said. “But what if he ventures straight to wherever this supposed heir is waiting?”

That was the other possibility he’d been pondering. He knew people in law enforcement. FBI. Customs. DEA. Those contacts could be utilized to covertly track Lord, especially if he was using credit or bank cards to finance his journey. They would have access to information trails he could never duplicate. But bringing them into the loop would entangle him with folks he preferred to keep at arm’s length. His millions were safely tucked away under a mountain of Swiss protection, and he intended to enjoy those dollars—and several more million he planned to acquire—over the coming years. Then he would retire from the firm, taking the seven-figure buyout the partnership agreement guaranteed him. The remaining senior partners would surely want him to stay on in some capacity, enough that his name would continue to appear on the letterhead and assure the loyalty of clients he’d cultivated. He would, of course, agree. Provided a reasonable annual stipend was paid—enough to cover modest living expenses for a man residing in a European château. It was all going to be perfect. He sure as hell was not going to give anyone the opportunity to screw the whole thing up. So, in answer to Brezhnev’s query, he lied.

“I have some avenues available that I can pursue. There are men here, as you provided to me there.” He’d really never had any need for such men before, and did not know where to secure them, but his Russian pals didn’t need to know that. “I really don’t think it’s going to be a problem.”

Khrushchev’s eyes met his. The speakerphone was silent, his Moscow listeners apparently waiting for more.

“I believe Lord will contact me,” he declared.

“Why would you say that?” Khrushchev asked.

“He has no reason not to trust me. I’m his employer, and I have contacts in the Russian government. He’s got to call me, especially if he actually finds somebody. I’d be the first person he’d want to tell. He knows what our clients have at stake and what that would mean to them and him. He’ll contact me.”

“So far he has not,” Lenin said.

“But he’s been under fire and on the move. And as of now, he doesn’t have anything to show for his efforts. He’s still looking. Let him. Then he’ll contact me. I’m positive.”

“We have only two days left to contain this,” Stalin said. “Luckily, after Baklanov is selected it will be hard to undo his ascension, especially if public relations are handled carefully. If any of this comes to light, we could simply paint the matter as another conspiracy hoax. No one will seriously believe any of it.”

“Not necessarily,” Hayes said. “DNA testing could demonstrate a conclusive connection to Nicholas and Alexandra since the Romanov genetic code is now cataloged. I agree, the situation can be contained, but we need corpses for heirs, not living human beings, and those corpses should never be found. They must be cremated into oblivion.”

“Can that be handled?” Khrushchev wanted to know.

He wasn’t sure how he’d do it, but knew what was at stake, both for him and for the other men. So he gave them the correct answer.

“Of course.”

FORTY-TWO

GENESIS, NORTH CAROLINA
4:15 PM

Lord stared out the windshield and admired with renewed interest the thick stands of tall trees rising on both sides of the steeply graded highway. Their bark was a patchy dark gray, the long leaves a verdant green. He’d visited the area several times on weekend getaways and recognized the more common sycamore, beech, and oak. But he’d always thought the bushy trees just another form of poplar. Now he knew them for what they were.

“Those are princess trees,” he said, pointing. “I read last night that this time of the year is when the big ones release their seeds. One tree sends out twenty million seeds. Easy to see why the things are everywhere.”

“Have you visited here before?” Akilina asked.

“I’ve been to Asheville, which we passed a while back, and Boone, which is farther north. This is a big ski area in winter and wonderful during summer.”

“It reminds me of Siberia. Near where my grandmother lived. There were low mountains and forests just like this. The air there was cool and fresh, too. I loved it.”

All around autumn had grabbed hold, the peaks and valleys ablaze with red, gold, and orange, a smoky mist curling out of the deepest valleys. Only the pines and princess trees retained a lively summer facade.

They’d changed planes in Dallas and caught a flight to Nashville. From there, a half-full commuter shuttle had brought them to Asheville about an hour ago. He’d run out of cash in Nashville and had been forced to use his credit card, a move he hoped they would not regret, knowing full well how credit card receipts could be traced. But airline ticket purchases could likewise be monitored. He could only hope that Maxim Zubarev’s boast that the FBI and customs were helping was only talk. Why, he could not say for sure, but he believed the Russians were working independent of the U.S. government—maybe there was some peripheral cooperation, minor and covert, but nothing reaching a full-scale effort to locate one American lawyer and a Russian acrobat. That, he reasoned, would require some in-depth explanation. And there was simply too much risk that he would tell the Americans everything before the Russians could contain the situation. No. The Russians were working alone—at least for the moment.

The drive north from Asheville had been pleasant, across the Blue Ridge Parkway, then onto State Route 81 for the final trek through rolling hills and stunted mountains. Genesis itself was a picture-book town of brick, wood, and fieldstone buildings filled with quaint art galleries, gift shops, and antiques stores. Benches lined Main Street, roofed by bushy sycamore trees. An ice-cream parlor dominated one corner at the central intersection, two banks and a drugstore the others. Franchise operations, condominiums, and vacation homes were zoned to the outskirts. As they cruised into town, the sun was already low, transforming the sky from a bright blue to a pale salmon as the trees and peaks faded to a deep violet. Evening apparently came early here.

“This is it,” he told Akilina. “Now we have to find out who or what Thorn is.”

He was just about to pull into a convenience store and check the local telephone directory when a sign caught his eye. The wrought-iron display hung from the side of a two-story redbrick building. The county courthouse was a block beyond on a tree-filled square. The words announced in black lettering:
OFFICE OF MICHAEL THORN, LAWYER.
He pointed and translated for Akilina.

“Just like Starodug,” she said.

He’d already thought the same thing.

He parked close to the curb a block down. They quickly made their way into the law office where a secretary informed them that Mr. Thorn was at the courthouse, finishing up some deed work, and should be back shortly. He expressed a desire to talk with Thorn immediately and the woman told them where to find him.

They walked to the Dillsboro County Courthouse, a neoclassical brick-and-stone building with the pedimented portico and tall cupola customary for legal buildings in the South. A bronze plaque near the front door noted that the structure had been completed in 1898. Lord had rarely visited courthouses, his practice confined to the boardrooms and financial institutions of America’s largest cities or Eastern European capitals. He’d never actually appeared in court for anything. Pridgen & Woodworth employed hundreds of litigators who handled that chore. He was a deal maker. The behind-the-scenes man. Until one week ago, when he’d been catapulted to the forefront.

They found Michael Thorn in the deed vault, hunched above an oversized volume. In the harsh fluorescent light Lord saw that Thorn was a balding, middle-aged man. Short and stocky, but not overweight, the thin bridge of his nose was prominent, his cheekbones high, the face certainly more youthful than his age.

“Michael Thorn?” he asked.

The man looked up and smiled. “That’s right.”

He introduced himself and Akilina. There was no one else in the windowless room.

“We’ve just arrived from Atlanta.” Lord showed him his state bar of Georgia card and used the same line that had worked at the San Francisco bank. “I’m here working on an estate that involves a relative of Miss Petrovna.”

“Looks like you do a bit more than practice law,” Thorn said, motioning to his bruised face.

He thought quickly. “I do a little amateur boxing on the weekends. Got a bit more than I gave the other day.”

Thorn smiled. “How can I help you, Mr. Lord?”

“Have you practiced here long?”

“All my life,” Thorn said, a touch of pride in his voice.

“This town is beautiful. My first time up here. You’re a local-bred guy, then?”

A curious look came onto Thorn’s face. “Why all the questions, Mr. Lord? I thought you were here working on an estate. Who is your deceased? I’m sure I know them.”

Lord reached into his pocket and removed Hell’s Bell. He handed it to Thorn and carefully watched the lawyer for some reaction.