The Tsarina's Legacy (8 page)

When she turned away from the window, she caught Michael's gaze, the corners of his eyes creased with concern.

“Charlotte never made that claim for herself,” Veronica said quickly, raising her voice above the chattering Russians. She caught herself clawing the armrests and tried to relax her hands. “We call her Grand Duchess because she was the fifth daughter of Nicholas and Alexandra. But she never used the title.”

“This is concern,” Dmitry said.

“According to your society's own bylaws and regulations, the claimant's position vis-à-vis a previous claimant or lack thereof doesn't matter,” Michael said. “Section three, article five. You have read the bylaws, right?”

Dmitry remained calm. Even being squished into the middle seat didn't seem to faze him. “Of course we attempt to contact Laurent Marchand since he would claim throne before you. But he has been … not cooperative.”

“He's a hermit. At least that's how I picture him.”

“Also, why would any Russian want American on throne?” Dmitry said.

“I'm a Romanov,” Veronica said. “I happen to be American by birth.”

“What did Romanovs ever do for Russia? The gap between rich and poor was so wide we could not bear it. Royal family did nothing. Is it any wonder they are all murdered?”

The horrific images came rushing back to Veronica's mind: the daughters of Nicholas and Alexandra bleeding to death in the basement, bayonets puncturing their chests when bullets wouldn't work, gunpowder clinging to the stale air, feathers from their pillows drifting to the hard floor. The last violent moments of the family's life had always been vivid and disturbing, almost like a personal memory. Now that she knew those girls had been her great-aunts, the thought of it was even more devastating.

“Is this really necessary?” Michael asked.

“It's okay.” Veronica repositioned herself in the narrow seat, hardly a throne, but she tried to project a regal air, even when a bump of turbulence made her stomach pitch.

“If the current Russian government made move to provoke Americans,” Dmitry asked her, “whose side would you take?”

She opened her mouth to reply and then snapped it shut again. “Shit.”

“We struggle with how you answer question. Just consider.”

Veronica raised her hand. “No. I can answer now. I am not a part of either the Russian government or the American government. When I'm in Russia, I follow their laws. When I'm in America, I follow theirs. But I won't be the mouthpiece for either.”

“So you remain out of politics?” Dmitry said. “How so? Reb Volkov broke Russian law.”

“Hooliganism? That's a ridiculous law. It could mean anything.”

“Who are you to say this is ridiculous law? Is not your country.”

“I … I just know because … it isn't right.”

Dmitry frowned. “My apologies, but you will need to do better when you discuss Reb. I think you should speak of Russia as adopted homeland. It will sound pleasing to Russian audience.”

Michael turned a page in the magazine roughly, ripping it. “I think she did well enough with your trick questions.”

Dmitry frowned. “Trick questions? What is this?”

“You were the one who asked her to come to Russia. You knew she was American.”

“I only want her prepared for questions journalists will ask. We will ready to make strong case. Otherwise will anything matter?”

Veronica felt as though her heart had dropped to the pit of her stomach. All of this might come to nothing after all. Perhaps this had all been a mistake and she was meant to stay in a cubicle in Bakersfield her entire life. At least it had been a steady paycheck.
Stop it. You are meant to be here.

Dmitry leaned over to retrieve a canvas messenger bag from under the seat in front of him. “I have everything saved electronically but thought you might want copy of itinerary.”

He withdrew a red leather binder with an imperial double-headed eagle embossed on the cover. Heads opposite. Beaks angrily agape. He handed it to her. Veronica traced the outline with her finger. It wasn't so different from the American eagle on her passport.

“I compile schedule, reporters who ask for interview, biographical information—please check accuracy—and background on Society and members.”

As Veronica thumbed through the laminated pages, Michael peeked over Dmitry's shoulder. “This looks thorough,” he said. “And overwhelming. I'm not sure Veronica's schedule is realistic. Will she even get a chance to sleep?”

That finally drew a scowl from Dmitry. “So where is this you will stay, Mr. Karstadt?”

“The same hotel as me,” Veronica said without thinking. “Right?”

“Yes,” Michael assured her.

“Actually, I think he should find other accommodations,” Dmitry said.

Veronica had a sudden picture in her mind of Michael on a corner of Nevsky Prospect, curled into a sleeping bag while Russian gangsters swaggered past, kicking the cardboard box he used for shelter. “Why?”

Dmitry turned to Michael. “I know now why name familiar. I have seen in our records.”

“Your records?” Michael said.

Dmitry shifted his weight. He actually looked uncomfortable, even in his crisp white shirt. “You sought claim on own behalf, were discredited. You are not even Romanov.”

Michael's shoulders sagged. “No,” he admitted.

“He only registered his claim to keep me safe,” Veronica said quickly.

“Even so, Russians lied to for many years by own government. If Mr. Karstadt is exposed as fraud, it could damage your reputation.”

“Someone should stay in the hotel with Veronica.”

“No worry,” Dmitry said. “I've arranged to stay in room on same floor as Dr. Herrera for duration of stay in St. Petersburg.”

“How convenient.”

“I did not realize Dr. Herrera was to bring guest.” Dmitry gestured toward the red binder. “Not part of plan.”

“Sorry to have burst your bubble,” Michael said.

“What bubble? If you wanted to help, you should have let us know.”

An elegant flight attendant approached their row, holding the seats on either side of the aisle to steady herself on her heels. Thank God. Maybe she would offer them all a drink.

“Does this mean you don't want me near Veronica at all?” Michael asked.

“Of course you are still allowed to see her—under my supervision.”

“Your supervision?” Michael said. “I told her grandmother I would keep an eye on her. How am I supposed to explain a different hotel?”

The flight attendant stopped at their row, gaze fixed on Veronica.

“I'm not an idiot,” Michael said. “I'm not going to do anything stupid.”

“I saw picture in paper,” the flight attendant said to Veronica. Her voice was gentle, like she had once taught kindergarten. “And Lyudmilla said you would be here. You are Romanov heiress. This is honor.”

“Thank you,” Veronica said.

The attendant's attention flicked to Michael, then Dmitry, and back to Veronica again. “I am told we have a space for you in our President Class. Would you like to move?”

“Absolutely.” Veronica grabbed her purse. Apparently, fame had its perks.

“And your friends…?”

“Oh, don't worry about them,” Veronica told her. She stood up and worked her way to the aisle, briskly—if awkwardly—climbing over Dmitry and then Michael.

“Wait … what?” Michael said.

The flight attendant smiled and clasped her hands together. “We are moving Romanov heiress to President Class.”

Veronica opened the overhead bin. “The three of us are going to spend the next week together in Russia, and I'm already sick of this pissing match.” She grabbed her coat and the flight attendant helped her with her suitcase. “Figure it out.”

*   *   *

President Class was nearly empty, blissfully silent, and smelled vaguely of a musky floral perfume. Veronica sank back into the enormous seat, her feet in fuzzy slippers, a knitted blanket tucked over her lap, and a glass of Bordeaux on her tray. The flight attendant assured her the seat reclined all the way back, helped her settle in, and then scurried off to find pajamas.

Veronica opened Dmitry's binder. She'd been sent a rough draft of her itinerary via e-mail, and the finalized version looked much the same: interview with Irina, press conference … no, wait, they'd added some sort of photo shoot. She flipped past a few more pages to read the first sentence of her bio:

It is with tremendous honor that the Russian Monarchist Society welcomes acclaimed historian Veronica Herrera (Romanov) to St. Petersburg …

Acclaimed historian? Try disgraced academic. The biography would need some work.

Veronica turned to the back of the binder, to a list Dmitry had labeled “action items.” She found a picture of Reb Volkov grinning roguishly at the camera, his giant ginger-colored cat, Caravaggio, draped around his shoulders, facing the world with a guileless teddy bear face. The same picture had been used in last year's
People
's “50 Most Beautiful People” issue. She lingered on the page a moment. Reb always brought the pretty.

She flipped the page again and saw a small charcoal drawing of a building with a domed center edged by four slender minarets reaching toward the sky, all topped with tiny crescent moons. Absently she traced its lines. It was a mosque, beautiful in its simplicity.

“Lovely, isn't it?”

Veronica turned in the direction of the perfume and inclined forward to see around the large sides of her seat. The woman who spoke sat in the aisle across from her. She was perhaps five to ten years older than Veronica, with a professional air. Her blond hair was gathered into a side sweep, clipped by an onyx pendant with a picture of a Firebird, eyes glowing, soaring over the Russian countryside like a dragon.

“Has Dmitry mentioned the mosque yet?” the woman asked.

Veronica shook her head, confused.

“I was the one who asked to include it in your itinerary. From what I understand, Moscow is in need of new mosques for guest workers coming to the city. The construction could become a part of your legacy.”

“I'm sorry, do I know you?” Veronica finally asked.

The woman extended her hand. A diamond tennis bracelet encircled her slim wrist. Her English was fluent with no trace of a Russian accent, only the affected tone of an American who wished she had been born a Brit. “I'm Irina Yusupova. Pleased to meet you, Dr. Herrera. I'm glad you finally made it up to the front of the plane where you belong.”

“Dmitry said you were meeting us in St. Petersburg.”

“I wanted to meet with one of our donors in Westwood myself. Don't tell Dmitry. I felt he didn't have the right level of”—she fluttered her hands in the air—“sophistication for this particular gentleman. Fundraising is an art. We need all the support we can muster.”

“We didn't even know you were on board.”

“Of course not! I always get on right before the gates close. Why would I want to sit on an airplane any longer than necessary?”

Irina kept smiling and nodding. Veronica felt another jolt of turbulence, weaker here than in the back of the cabin, and steadied herself. “So this mosque is important to you?”

“Not just to me but to Russia. It was a pet project of Dmitry's ancestor Prince Potemkin. I think it would be wonderful for you and Dmitry to work together to realize his dream. After all, we are a charitable organization. Our goal is to proudly serve all Russians.”

“I appreciate that, I do,” Veronica said. “But right now I think there is a more pressing issue—Reb Volkov.”

Irina fingered her bracelet and gave a tight smile. “You've let Dmitry influence you. He has let himself get distracted by that boy Nikolai Volkov. The blasphemer artist who calls himself Reb. It's a divisive issue.”

Veronica's head was spinning. She tried to remember what Dmitry had told her about Irina Yusupova, the head of the Society. Irina had no claim to the throne herself, though one of her ex-husbands came from a noble and once vastly wealthy family, the Yusupovs, who had a vague connection to Prince Potemkin.

“But never mind all that. This is a momentous occasion! You're a celebrity. I knew they would let you up front. It was only a matter of time.” Irina gave Veronica's arm a gentle shake. “It's all about
glamur
. Who has more
glamur
than the heiress to the Romanov throne? You are going to have a marvelous time in Petersburg. We should celebrate.” Irina waved at Veronica's binder. “I see you have one of Dmitry's agendas. He's too rigid. If your story is true, you must learn to improvise.”

Veronica's heart skipped a beat. “If?”

“I didn't mean it that way,” Irina said quickly. “We asked you to come, did we not? Your evidence is compelling. At least Empress Alexandra's letter is compelling enough. Dmitry included a copy on page eight. Alexandra seems to suggest she gave birth to a secret fifth daughter.”

“But you don't believe me?”

“I only meant if you want the part, you've got to play the part.” Irina frowned suddenly and grabbed ahold of Veronica's hand.

“Hey!” Veronica tried to pull her hand away, but Irina held it fast, examining Veronica's unmanicured fingers and clicking her tongue against her teeth.

“Do you always wear your nails naturally?” Irina said. “We have so much work to do.”

“I'm not traveling all this way for a spa day,” Veronica said, trying to keep her voice calm and measured. “I want to help Reb Volkov.”

Irina released Veronica's hand. “I see. You are a true believer. Perhaps even a patriot of some sort. But you have so much you can accomplish. Let me show you something.”

She reached into a sleek tote bag and withdrew a phone in a sparkling pink case. “I've mentioned I've been fund-raising, yes? I know Dmitry tried a bit of that himself, but the poor thing is useless when it comes to monetizing our organization. Thankfully I have a talent.” She punched some buttons on her phone. “I met with the owners of a vegetarian Russian restaurant chain based in West Hollywood. They want to expand into Petersburg. Vegetarian! Can you imagine?”