Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

People he wanted to impress.

Like his father.

He could still see Grover Lord lying in the open casket, the mouth that had hollered the word of God closed in death, the lips and face ashen. They'd dressed him in one of his best suits and tied the tie with a dimple the reverend had always liked. The gold cufflinks were there, along with his watch. Lord remembered thinking how those three pieces of jewelry could have paid for a good slice of his education. Nearly a thousand of the faithful had turned out for the service. There'd been fainting and crying and singing. His mother had wanted him to speak. But what would he say? He couldn't proclaim the man a charlatan, a hypocrite, a lousy father. So he'd refused to say anything, and his mother never forgave him. Even now, their relationship remained chilly. She was Mrs. Grover Lord, and proud of the fact.

He rubbed his eyes again as sleep started to take hold.

His gaze drifted down the long car to the faces of others up for a late refreshment. One man caught his attention. Young, blond, stocky. He sat alone sipping a clear drink, and the man's presence sent a chill down Lord's spine. Was he a threat? But the inquiry was answered when a young woman with a small child appeared. Both sat with the man and all three of them started chatting.

He told himself to get a grip.

But then he noticed at the far end of the car a middle-age man nursing a beer, the face gaunt, lips thin, the same anxious watery eyes he'd seen that afternoon.

The man from the archives, still dressed in the same baggy beige suit.

Lord came alert.

Too much of a coincidence.

He needed to get back to Zinov, but didn't want to make his concern obvious. So he tipped back the rest of his Pepsi, then slowly snapped his briefcase shut. He stood and tossed a few rubles on the table. He hoped his actions signaled calm, but on the way out, in the glass door, he saw the man's reflection stand and head toward him.

He yanked open the sliding door and darted from the saloon, slamming the door shut. As he turned into the next car, he saw the man hustling his way.

Shit.

He made his way forward and entered the car with his compartment. A quick glance back through the glass and he saw the man enter the car behind, still coming his way.

He slid open his compartment door.

Zinov was gone.

He slammed the door shut. Perhaps his bodyguard was in the lavatory. He rushed down the narrow aisle and rounded a slight angle in the corridor that led to the far exit. The lavatory door was closed, its OCCUPIED notice not engaged.

He slid open the door.

Empty.

Where the hell was Zinov?

He stepped inside the lavatory. But before he did, he cracked open the exit door to give the appearance that someone had passed through to the next car. He slid the lavatory door shut, but did not engage the lock so the OCCUPIED wouldn't show from the outside.

He stood motionless, pressed tight against the stainless-steel door, breathing hard. His heart pounded. Footsteps approached and he braced himself, ready to use his briefcase as a weapon. From the door's other side, the exit for the sleeper car slid open with a dull scrape.

A second later it closed.

He waited a full minute.

Hearing nothing, he inched open the lavatory door. No one was in the hall. He slammed the door shut and engaged the lock. It was the second time in two days he'd successfully run for his life. He laid his briefcase on the toilet and took a moment to rinse sweat from his face in the washbasin. A can of disinfectant rested on the sink. He used the spray to cleanse the bar of soap, then washed his hands and face, careful not to swallow the water, a laminated sign warning in Cyrillic that nothing was potable. He used his handkerchief to dry his face. No paper towels had been provided.

He stared at himself in the mirror.

His brown eyes were weary, the angular features of his face drawn, and his hair needed a cut. What was going on? And where was Zinov? Some bodyguard. He splashed more water on his face and rinsed out his mouth, careful again not to swallow. A strange irony, he thought. Goddamn superpower with the ability to blow up the world a thousand times over, but can't manage clean water on a train.

He tried to regain his composure. Through an oval window the night raced past. Another train whizzed by in the opposite direction, the rush of cars lasting what seemed minutes.

He took a deep breath, grabbed his briefcase, and slid open the door.

The way was blocked by a tall, stocky man with a pockmarked face, his shiny black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Lord stared into the eyes and instantly noticed the wide space between the right pupil and brow.

Droopy.

A fist slammed into Lord's stomach.

He doubled over, air strangling in his throat, a wave of nausea gripping him. The force of the blow drove him into the outer wall, his head popping hard against the window, winking the scene before him in and out.

He settled onto the toilet.

Droopy stepped into the lavatory and shut the door. "Now, Mr. Lord, we finish."

He'd managed to retain a grip on his briefcase and momentarily thought of swinging it upward, but in the tight confines the blow would be meaningless. Air started to grab in his lungs. The initial shock was replaced by fear. A cold, shivering terror.

A knife snapped open in Droopy's hand.

There'd only be a moment.

His gaze cut to the disinfectant. He lunged forward, grabbed the can, pointed, and sprayed his assailant's face. The caustic mist soaked into the eyes and the man shrieked. Lord brought his right knee up into the groin. Droopy doubled over, the knife clattering to the tile floor. With both hands Lord crashed the briefcase down and Droopy crumpled forward.

Lord pounded again. Then again.

He leapt over the body and slid the metal door open, bolting into the corridor. Waiting for him was Cro-Magnon, the same sloped forehead, bushy hair, and bulbous nose from two days ago.

"In a hurry, Mr. Lord?"

He kicked the Russian's left knee with the toe of his loafer, knocking the man down. To his right, a silver samovar steamed with hot water, a glass decanter ready for patrons looking for coffee. He slung the scalding liquid at Cro-Magnon.

The man cried out in pain.

Lord spun in the opposite direction and shot for the exit adjacent to the lavatory. He could hear Droopy getting to his feet, calling out to Cro-Magnon.

He raced out of the sleeper into the next car and hustled down the narrow hall as fast as the confined space would allow. He was hoping a steward would appear. Anyone. He maintained a grasp on his briefcase and found the exit into the next car. Behind, he heard the door at the far end open and caught a glimpse of his two assailants starting after him.

He kept moving, then decided this was pointless. Eventually he was going to run out of train.

He shot a glance back.

The angle of the car gave him a moment of privacy. The hall before him was lined with more sleeping compartments. He figured he was still in the first-class section. He needed to duck into one, if only for a moment, enough time to let the pursuers pass. Maybe then he could backtrack and find Zinov.

He tried the next paneled door.

Locked.

The one after was locked, too.

There'd only be another second.

He grasped a latch handle and looked back. Shadows of approaching figures dimmed the hall in the forward car. As the shoulder of one man came into view, he yanked on the panel.

It opened.

He slipped in and slammed the door shut.

"Who are you?" a female voice asked in Russian.

He spun around.

Perched on the bed, not three feet away, was a woman. She was thin as a figure skater, with shoulder-length blond hair. He took in her oval face, her milky white skin, the blunt tip of her upturned nose. She was a curious mixture of tomboyishness and femininity. And her blue eyes carried not a hint of concern.