Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

His mother defended the bastard till the end, refusing to believe what she must have known. It had fallen to him, as the oldest, to retrieve his father's body from an Alabama motel. The woman with whom he'd spent the night had been whisked away, hysterical, after awakening to find herself naked with the corpse of the Reverend Grover Lord. Only then had he discovered what he'd long suspected-two half brothers the good reverend had supported out of the collection plate for years. Why the five children back home weren't enough, he assumed only God and Grover Lord knew. Apparently the Adultery and Evils of the Flesh sermon had gone unheeded.

He glanced across the darkened compartment. Akilina Petrovna rested quietly under a white quilt. He could barely discern her rhythmic breathing over the monotonous rattle of the tracks. He'd gotten himself into something bad, and no matter how much history was about to be made, he needed to get the hell out of Russia. Thank goodness he'd brought his passport with him. Tomorrow he'd leave for Atlanta on the first flight he could book. But right now, the sway of the compartment and the click of wheels, along with the darkness that surrounded him, allowed sleep to once again take hold.

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 15

"Miles Lord."

He opened his eyes to find Akilina Petrovna staring down at him.

"We are approaching Moscow."

"What time is it?"

"A little past seven."

He shoved away the blanket and sat up. Akilina sat back on the edge of her berth a couple of feet away. His mouth felt like it'd been rinsed with Elmer's glue. He needed a shower and a shave, but there was no time. He also needed to contact Taylor Hayes, but there was a problem. A big problem. And his hostess seemed to know.

"Those men will be waiting at the station."

He licked the film off his teeth. "Don't I know."

"There is a way off."

"How?"

"We will cross the Garden Ring in a few minutes and the train will slow. There is a speed limit beyond. When I was small we would hop on and off the Petersburg express. It was an easy way to and from downtown."

He didn't particularly relish the idea of jumping from a moving train, but he couldn't risk a reunion with Droopy and Cro-Magnon.

The train started to slow.

"See," she said.

"You know where we are?"

She glanced out the window. "About twenty kilometers from the station. I would suggest you leave quickly."

He reached for his briefcase and snapped open the locks. There wasn't much there-just the few copies of what he'd found in the Moscow and St. Petersburg archives and some other unimportant papers. He folded all of them and stuffed them into his jacket. He felt for his passport and wallet. Both were still in his pockets. "This briefcase would just be in the way."

She took the leather case from him. "I will hold on to it for you. If you want it back, come to the circus."

He smiled. "Thanks. I might just do that." But on another trip at another time, he thought.

He stood and slipped on his jacket.

She moved toward the door. "I will check the hall to see if all is clear."

He lightly grasped her arm. "Thanks. For everything."

"You are welcome, Miles Lord. You brought interest to an otherwise boring ride."

They were close and he savored the same flowery scent from last night. Akilina Petrovna was attractive, though her face bore hint of life's harsh effects. Soviet propaganda once proclaimed communist women the most liberated in the world. No factory could run without them. Service industries would literally collapse if not for their contribution. But time was never kind to them. He'd long admired the beauty of young Russian women, but pitied the inevitable effects society would wreak. And he wondered what this lovely woman would look like in twenty years.

He stepped back, out of the doorway, as she slid open the panel and left.

A minute later it reopened.

"Come," she said.

The corridor in both directions was empty. They were about three-quarters of the way back in the long car. To the left, beyond another steaming samovar, was an exit door. Through its glass the stark reality of urban Moscow whizzed past. Unlike American or European trains, the portal was not alarmed or locked.

Akilina wrenched the handle down and pulled the steel door inward. The clatter of wheel to rail increased.

"Good luck, Miles Lord," she said as he passed.

He took one last look into her blue eyes, then leapt out to the hard earth. He pounded the cold ground and rolled away.

The last car passed and the morning lapsed into an eerie quiet as the train roared southward.

He'd landed in a weedy lot between blocks of dingy apartment buildings. He was glad he'd jumped when he had. Any farther and there may not have been anything but concrete to greet him. Sounds of morning traffic filled the air from beyond the buildings, a pungent scent of carbon exhaust filling his nostrils.

He stood and brushed off his clothes. Another suit destroyed. But what the hell. He was leaving Russia today, anyway.

He needed a telephone, so he made his way to a boulevard lined with shops and businesses opening for the day. Buses deposited passengers, then steamed away with a belch of black exhaust. He spied two militsya across the street in their blue-and-gray uniforms. Unlike Droopy and Cro-Magnon, these wore regulation gray caps with red brims. He decided to avoid them.

He spotted a grocery a few yards down the sidewalk and ducked inside. The man tending the shelves was thin and old. "You have a telephone I might use?" he asked in Russian.

The man tossed him a grave look and did not reply. Lord reached into his pocket and brought out ten rubles. The man accepted the money and pointed to the counter. He stepped over, dialed the Volkhov, and told the hotel operator to connect him with Taylor Hayes's room. The phone rang a dozen times. When the hotel operator came back on, he told her to try the restaurant. Two minutes later Hayes was on the line.

"Miles, where the hell are you?"

"Taylor, we have a big problem."

He told Hayes what had happened. A few times he let his gaze drift to the man tending his shelves, wondering if he could understand English, but the traffic noise spilling in from outside helped mask the conversation.

"They're after me, Taylor. Not Bely or anybody else. Me."

"All right. Calm down."

"Calm down? That bodyguard you gave me is in with them."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he joined up with the other two looking for me."

"I understand-"

"No, you don't, Taylor. Until you've been chased by Russian mobsters, you can't understand."

"Miles, listen to me. Panic is not going to get you out of this. Go to the nearest police."

"Shit, no. I don't trust anybody in this rat hole. The whole goddamn country is on the take. You got to help me, Taylor. You're the only one I trust."

"What did you go to St. Petersburg for? I told you to stay low."

He explained about Semyon Pashenko and what the older man had told him. "And he was right, Taylor. There was stuff there."

"Does it affect Baklanov's claim to throne?"

"It might."

"You're telling me Lenin thought some of the tsar's family survived the massacre at Yekaterinburg?"

"He was sure interested in the subject. There are enough written references to make you wonder."

"Jesus. Just what we need."

"Look, it's probably nothing at all. Come on, it's been almost a hundred years since Nicholas II was murdered. Surely somebody would have surfaced by now." At the mention of the tsar's name, the store clerk perked up. He lowered his voice. "But that's not my real worry at the moment. Getting out of here alive is."

"Where are the papers?"

"On me."