Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

"Don't be afraid," he said in Russian. "My name is Miles Lord. I have a big problem."

"That still does not explain why you barged into my compartment."

"Two men are after me."

She stood and stepped close. She was short, rising only to his shoulders, and wore a pair of dark jeans that seemed made only for her. A curvy jacket with padded shoulders covered a blue turtleneck sweater. A faint smell of sweet perfume blossomed from her.

"Are you mafiya?" she asked.

He shook his head. "But the men after me may be. They killed a man two days ago and tried to kill me."

"Step back," she said.

He brushed past toward the compartment's solitary window. She slid open the door, glanced out casually, then shut it.

"There are three men at the far end."

"Three?"

"Yes. One has a black ponytail. The other is craggy with a wide nose, like a Tatar."

Droopy and Cro-Magnon.

"The third is muscular. No neck. Blond hair."

It sounded like Zinov. His mind raced at the possibilities. "Are the three talking?"

She nodded. "They are also knocking on compartment doors, headed this way."

The concern that immediately filled his eyes was apparently evident. She pointed to the bin above the door. "Climb up there and stay quiet."

The recess was large enough for two good-sized pieces of luggage, more than enough room to accommodate him in the fetal position. He sprang onto one of the berths and hauled himself up. She handed him his briefcase. He'd just settled in when a knock came on the compartment door.

She answered the call.

"We are looking for a black man, dressed in a suit, carrying a briefcase." The voice was Zinov's.

"I have seen no such man," she said.

"Do not lie to us," Cro-Magnon said. "We are not to be misled. Have you seen him?" The tone was harsh.

"I have seen no such man. I want no trouble from you."

"Your face is familiar," Droopy said.

"I am Akilina Petrovna of the Moscow Circus."

A moment passed.

"That is it. I have seen you perform."

"How wonderful. Perhaps you should continue your search elsewhere. I need some sleep. I have a performance in the evening."

She slammed the compartment door shut.

He heard the lock engage.

And for the third time in two days, he heaved a deep sigh of relief.

He waited a full minute before climbing down. A cold sweat drenched his chest. His hostess sat on the opposite berth.

"Why do these men want to kill you?" The tone of her voice was soft. Still not a hint of concern.

"I have no idea. I'm a lawyer from America, here working with the Tsarist Commission. Until two days ago, I didn't think anybody even knew I was alive, other than my boss."

He sat on the opposite bed. The adrenaline was receding, replaced by a throbbing in every muscle of his body. Fatigue was setting in. But he still had a major problem. "One of those men, the first who spoke to you, was supposed to be my bodyguard. Apparently there's a lot more to him than I thought."

The features on her compact face wrinkled. "I would not recommend turning to him for help. The three appeared to be working together."

He asked, "Is this an everyday thing in Russia? Strange men slipping into your compartment? Mobsters at your door. You seem to have no fear."

"Should I?"

"I'm not saying you should. God knows, I'm harmless. But in America this could be construed as a dangerous situation."

She shrugged. "You don't appear dangerous. Actually, when I saw you, I thought of my grandmother."

He waited for her to explain.

"She grew up in the time of Khrushchev and Brezhnev. The Americans used to send spies to test the soil for radioactivity, trying to find the missile silos. Everyone was warned about them, told they were dangerous, told to be on the lookout. Once, my grandmother was out in the woods and met a strange man gathering mushrooms. He was dressed as a peasant and carried a wicker basket like people do in the woods. She was completely unafraid and walked straight up to him and said, 'Hello, spy.' He stared at her, shocked, but didn't deny the allegation. Instead, he said, 'I was trained so well. I learned everything about Russia I could. How did you know I was a spy?' 'That's easy,' my grandmother said. 'I've lived here all my life and you're the first black man I've ever seen in these woods.' The same is true for you, Miles Lord. You're the first black man I've ever seen on this train."

He smiled. "Your grandmother sounds like a practical woman."

"She was. Until the communists took her one night. Somehow, a seventy-year-old woman threatened an empire."

He'd read about how Stalin slaughtered twenty million in the name of the Motherland, and how the party secretaries and Soviet presidents who came after him weren't any better. What had Lenin said? Better to arrest a hundred innocent people than run the risk of one enemy of the regime remaining free.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Why should you be?"

"I don't know. It's the appropriate thing to say. What do you want me to say? Too bad your grandmother was butchered by a bunch of fanatics?"

"That's what they were."

"That why you covered for me?"

She shrugged. "I hate the government and the mafiya. One and the same."

"Do you think those men were mafiya?"

"No doubt."

"I need to find a steward and talk to the conductor."

She smiled. "That would be foolish. Everyone is for sale in this land. If those men seek you, they will buy influence on this train."

She was right. The police weren't much better than the mafiya. He thought of Inspector Orleg. He had disliked the burly Russian from the moment they'd met. "What do you suggest?"

"I have no suggestions. You are the lawyer for the Tsarist Commission. You think of what to do."

He noticed her overnight bag on the bed, a MOSCOW CIRCUS emblem embroidered on its side. "You told them you performed in the circus. That true?"

"Of course."

"What's your talent?"

"You tell me. What do you believe I could do?"

"Your petite size would make you an ideal tumbler." He stared at her dark tennis shoes. "Your feet are tight and compact. I'd wager long toes. Your arms are short, but muscular. I'd say an acrobat, maybe the balance beam."

She smiled. "You're quite good. Have you ever seen me perform?"

"I haven't been to the circus in many years."

He wondered about her age. She appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties.

"How did you come to speak our language so well?" she asked.

"I've studied it for years." His mind turned to the more immediate problem. "I need to get out of here and leave you be. You've done more than anyone could ask."

"Where would you go?"

"I'll find an empty compartment somewhere. Then try to get off this train tomorrow without anyone seeing me."

"Don't be foolish. Those men will search this train all night. The only safe place is here."

She tossed her travel bag to the floor between them and stretched out on her bunk. Then she reached up and switched off the light above the pillow. "Go to sleep, Miles Lord. You're safe here. They will not come back."

He was too tired to argue. And there was no sense arguing since she was right. So he loosened his tie and slipped off his suit jacket, then lay on his bunk and did what she said.

Lord opened his eyes.

Wheels still clanged on steel rails beneath him. He glanced at the luminous dial on his watch. Five twenty AM. He'd been asleep five hours.

He'd dreamed of his father. The Misunderstood Son sermon he'd heard so many times. Grover Lord loved to mix politics and religion, communists and atheists his main targets, his eldest son the example he liked to parade before the faithful. The concept played well to southern congregations, and the reverend was great at screaming fear, passing the plate, then pocketing his 80 percent before moving on to the next town.