Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

"Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from Stolypin's fate?" Hayes said.

Baklanov did not reply, but his bearded face conveyed that he understood the threat. "How will the state council be chosen?"

Lenin said, "Half elected, half selected by you."

"An attempt," Hayes said, "to interject an element of democracy into the process for public relations. But we'll make sure the council is controllable. In matters of policy you will listen to us exclusively. It's taken an enormous amount of work to bring everyone together on this project. You are the centerpiece. We understand that. Discretion is to everyone's advantage, so you won't get any public flak from us. But your obedience cannot, and will not, be in question."

"And if I refuse, once the mantle of power is mine?"

"Then your fate," Lenin said, "will be the same as your ancestors'. Let's see. Ivan VI spent his life in solitary confinement. Peter II was beaten to death. Paul I strangled. Alexander II bombed. Nicholas II shot. You Romanovs have not fared well when it comes to assassination. A death suitable to your station can be easily arranged. Then we'll see if the next Romanov will be more cooperative."

Baklanov said nothing. He merely turned back toward the graying woods and slammed the breech on his gun shut. He motioned to the target attendant.

A disk launched into the air.

He fired and missed.

"Oh, dear," Khrushchev said. "I see we're going to have to work on your aim."

MOSCOW, 8:30 PM

Lord was disturbed that Hayes had suddenly left the city. He felt better with his boss nearby. He was still nervous from the day before, and Ilya Zivon had gone home for the night, promising to be waiting in the Volkhov's lobby at seven AM tomorrow. Lord had pledged to stay in his room, but he was restless and decided to descend to the ground floor for a drink.

As usual, an older woman was perched behind a simulated wood desk at the end of the hotel's third-floor corridor-no way to get to or from the elevators without passing her. She was a dezhurnaya. Another holdover from the Soviet time when every floor of every hotel was staffed with one, all on the KGB payroll, providing a method for monitoring foreign guests. Now they were nothing more than elaborate stewards.

"Going out, Mr. Lord?"

"Just down to the bar."

"Were you at the commission proceedings today?"

He'd made no secret of his commission activities, arriving and leaving each day with his credentials clipped to his suit.

He nodded.

"Will they find us a new tsar?"

"Do you want them to?"

"Very much. This country needs a return to its roots. That is our problem."

He was curious.

"We are a huge place that forgets its past easily. The tsar, a Romanov, will give us back our roots." She sounded proud.

"What if the chosen one is not a Romanov?"

"Then it will not work," she declared. "Tell them not to even consider such. The people want a Romanov. The closest there is to Nicholas II."

They chatted a little longer, and before he headed for the elevator he promised to pass the woman's thoughts along.

Downstairs, he walked toward the same lounge he and Hayes had taken refuge in yesterday after the shooting. He was passing one of the restaurants when a familiar face emerged. It was the older man from the archives, with three others.

"Good evening, Professor Pashenko," Lord said in Russian, getting the man's attention.

"Mr. Lord. What a coincidence. You here for dinner?"

"This is my hotel."

"I am with friends. We often dine here. The restaurant is quite good." Pashenko introduced his companions.

After some small talk, Lord excused himself. "It was good to see you again, Professor." He motioned ahead. "I was on my way for a quick drink before bed."

"Might I join you?" Pashenko asked. "I so enjoyed our talk."

He hesitated a moment, then said, "If you like. Some company would be welcome."

Pashenko bid his friends good night and followed him into the lounge. A light piano medley floated across the darkened room. Only about half the tables were occupied. They sat and Lord asked a waiter to bring a carafe of vodka. "You disappeared quickly yesterday," he said.

"I could see that you were busy. And I had taken up enough of your time."

The waiter arrived with drinks, and his guest graciously paid before he had a chance to get out his money. He thought about what the woman upstairs had said. "Professor, might I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"If the commission chose someone other than a Romanov, what would be the effect?"

Pashenko poured a drink for them both. "It would be a mistake. The throne belonged to the Romanov family at the time of the revolution."

"Some would argue that Nicholas gave up the throne when he abdicated in March 1917."

Pashenko chuckled. "With a gun to his head. I hardly think anyone would seriously say he freely abandoned his throne and his son's birthright."

"Who do you believe has the best claim?"

The Russian lifted one eyebrow. "A difficult question. Are you familiar with the Russian law of succession?"

He nodded. "The Emperor Paul established the act in 1797. Five criteria were set. Any pretender must be male, as long as there is an eligible male. He must be Orthodox. His mother and wife must have been Orthodox. Any marriage must be to a woman of equal rank from a ruling house. And he can only marry with permission of the ruling tsar. Lose any one of the five and you're out of the running."

Pashenko grinned. "You do know our history. And divorce?"

"The Russians never cared about that. Divorced women married routinely into the royal family. I always found that interesting. An almost fanatical devotion to Orthodox doctrine, yet a practical bending in the name of politics."

"You understand there is no guarantee the Tsarist Commission will adhere to the Succession Act."

"I believe they'll have to. That law has never been repealed, except by communist manifesto, which no one recognizes as valid."

Pashenko cocked his head to one side. "But would not the five criteria literally rule out all pretenders?"

It was a point he and Hayes had discussed. The man was right-the succession law was a problem. And the few Romanovs who survived the revolution weren't making things any easier. They'd divided themselves into five distinct clans, only two of which-the Mikhailovichi and the Vladimirovichi-possessed strong enough genetic ties to vie for the throne.

"It is a dilemma," the professor said. "But we have an unusual situation here. An entire ruling family was eliminated. It is easy to see why there would be confusion over succession. The commission will have to unravel this puzzle and select a suitable tsar the people will accept."

"I'm concerned about the process. Baklanov claims that several of the Vladimirovichi are traitors. I've been told he plans to produce evidence to support his allegations, if any of their names are placed in nomination."

"And you worry about him?"

"Very much."

"Have you found anything that could jeopardize his claim?"

Lord shook his head. "Nothing that relates to him. He's Mikhailovichi, the closest by blood to Nicholas II. His grandmother was Xenia, Nicholas's sister. They fled Russia to Denmark in 1917, after the Bolsheviks came to power. Their seven children grew up in the West and subsequently scattered. Baklanov's parents lived in Germany and France. He went to the best schools, but he'd not been in direct line until the premature deaths of his cousins. Now he's the eldest male. I haven't found anything, as yet, that could hurt him."

Except, he thought, the possibility that a direct descendant of Nicholas and Alexandra may be walking around somewhere. But that was too fanciful an idea to merit consideration.