Steve Berry: The Romanov Prophecy

"See, Mama. I've always told you horses could speak."

Tears welled in her eyes at the miracle before her. "You are so right. So right."

"And you will tell me everything you heard from the horses, won't you?" Alexie asked.

Rasputin smiled approvingly. "Tomorrow. I'll tell you more tomorrow. Now you must rest." He stroked the boy until the tsarevich dozed back to sleep.

Rasputin stood. "The Little One will survive."

"How can you be sure?"

"How can you not?"

His tone was indignant and she instantly regretted her doubting. She'd many times thought her own lack of faith was the cause of Alexie's pain. God was perhaps testing her through the curse of hemophilia to see the strength of her beliefs.

Rasputin stepped around the bed. He knelt before her chair and grasped her hand. "Mama, you must not forsake our Lord. Do not doubt His power."

Only the starets was allowed to address her with such informality. She was the Matushka, Little Mother; her husband, Nicholas II, the Batiushka, Little Father. It was how the peasantry viewed them-as stern parents. Everyone around her said Rasputin was a mere peasant himself. Perhaps so. But he alone could relieve Alexie's suffering. This peasant from Siberia with his tangled beard, stinking body, and long greasy hair was heaven's emissary.

"God has refused to listen to my prayers, Father. He has forsaken me."

Rasputin sprang to his feet. "Why do you speak this way?" He grasped her face and twisted her toward the bed. "Look at the Little One. He suffers horribly because you do not believe."

No one other than her husband would dare touch her without permission. But she did not resist. In fact, she welcomed it. He whipped her head back and bore a gaze deep into her eyes. The full expression of his personality seemed concentrated in those pale blue irises. They were unavoidable, like phosphorescent flames at once piercing and caressing, far off, yet intent. They could see directly into her soul, and she'd never been able to resist them.

"Matushka, you must not speak of our Lord this way. The Little One needs you to believe. He needs you to put your faith in God."

"My faith is in you."

He released her. "I am nothing. Merely the instrument through which God acts. I do nothing." He pointed skyward. "He does it all."

Tears sprang in her eyes and she slumped from the chair in shame. Her hair was unkempt, the once beautiful face sallow and wizened from years of worry. Her eyes ached from crying. She hoped no one entered the room. Only with the starets could she openly express herself as a woman and mother. She started to cry and wrapped her arms around his legs, her cheeks pressed tight to clothes that stank of horses and mud.

"You are the only one who can help him," she said.

Rasputin stood rigid. Like a tree trunk, she thought. Trees were able to withstand the harshest Russian winter, then bloom anew every spring. This holy man, whom God had certainly sent, was her tree.

"Mama, this solves nothing. God wants your devotion, not your tears. He is not impressed with emotion. He demands faith. The kind of faith that never doubts-"

She felt Rasputin tremble. She released her hold and stared up. His face had gone blank, his eyes rolled to the top of his head. A shiver quaked through him. His legs went limp and he crumpled to the floor.

"What is it?" she asked.

He did not reply.

She grabbed him by his shirt and shook him. "Speak to me, starets."

Slowly he opened his eyes. "I see heaps, masses of corpses, several grand dukes and hundreds of counts. The Neva will be all red with blood."

"What do you mean, Father?"

"A vision, Mama. It has come again. Do you realize before long I shall die in terrible agony?"

What was he saying?

He grabbed her arms and pulled her close. Fear filled his face, but he wasn't really looking at her. He was focused far off, beyond her.

"I shall leave this life before the new year. Remember, Mama, if I be killed by common assassins the tsar has nothing to fear. He will remain on his throne with nothing to fear for your children. They will reign for hundreds of years. But, Mama, if I am murdered by boyars, their hands will remain soiled by my blood for twenty-five years. They will leave Russia. Brother will rise against brother, and they will kill each other in hate. Then there will be no nobles in the country."

She was frightened. "Father, why are you speaking like this?"

His eyes came back from beyond and focused on her. "If one of the tsar's relatives carries out my murder, none of your family will live more than two years. They will all be killed by the Russian people. Be concerned for your salvation and tell your relatives I paid for them with my life."

"Father, this is nonsense."

"It is a vision, and I have had it more than once. The night is dark with the suffering that is before us. I shall not see it. My hour is near, but though it is bitter, I do not fear it."

He started to tremble again.

"Oh, Lord. The evil is so great that the Earth will tremble with famine and sickness. Mother Russia will be lost."

She shook him again. "Father, you must not talk like this. Alexie needs you."

A calm overtook him.

"Fear not, Mama. There is another vision. Salvation. This is the first time it has come to me. Oh, what a prophecy. I see it clearly."

In fifteen seconds Miles Lord's life changed forever.

He first saw the sedan. A dark blue Volvo station wagon, the tint so deep that it appeared black in the bright midday sun. He next noticed the front tires cutting right, weaving a path around traffic on busy Nikolskaya Prospekt. Then the rear window, reflective as a mirror, descended, and a distorted reflection of the surrounding buildings was replaced by a dark rectangle pierced by the barrel of a gun.

Bullets exploded from the gun.

He dived flat. Screams arose around him as he slammed onto the oily pavement. The sidewalk was packed with afternoon shoppers, tourists, and workers, all now lunging for cover as lead raked a trail across the weathered stone of Stalinist-era buildings.

He rolled over and looked up at Artemy Bely, his lunch companion. He'd met the Russian two days back and taken him to be an amicable young lawyer with the Justice Ministry. Lawyer to lawyer they'd eaten dinner last night and breakfast this morning, talking of the new Russia and the great changes coming, both marveling at being part of history. His mouth opened to shout a warning, but before he could utter a sound Bely's chest erupted and blood and sinew splattered on the plate-glass window beyond.

The automatic fire came with a constant rat-tat-tat that reminded him of old gangster movies. The plate glass gave way and jagged shards crashed to the sidewalk. Bely's body crumpled on top of him. A coppery stench rose from the gaping wounds. He shoved the lifeless Russian off, worried about the red tide soaking into his suit and dripping from his hands. He hardly knew Bely. Was he HIV-positive?

The Volvo screeched to a stop.

He looked to his left.

Car doors popped open and two men sprang out, both armed with automatic weapons. They wore the blue-and-gray uniforms with red lapels of the militsya-the police. Neither, though, sported the regulation gray caps with red brim. The man from the front seat had the sloped forehead, bushy hair, and bulbous nose of a Cro-Magnon. The man who slid from the rear was stocky with a pockmarked face and dark, slicked-back hair. The man's right eye caught Lord's attention. The space between the pupil and eyebrow was wide, creating a noticeable droop-as if one eye was closed, the other open-and provided the only indication of emotion on an otherwise expressionless face.