Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

Droopy and Cro-Magnon looked back toward GUM's roof. The gunman high above signaled, then disappeared. They apparently took his cue and beat a retreat to the Volvo.

Police cars roared into the square, one obliterating a freestanding barricade. Uniformed militsya poured out, weapons in hand. Lord looked left, back from where he had come. More militsya were running toward him down the narrow path parallel to the wall, their greatcoats unbuttoned, breath condensing in the cool, dry air.

And they were armed.

There was nowhere for him to go.

He raised his hands above his head and stood.

The first policeman to approach slammed him to the ground and burrowed the barrel of a gun into the nape of his neck.

11:00 AM

Lord was handcuffed and transported from Red Square in a police cruiser. The militsya were anything but courteous, and he reminded himself that he wasn't in the United States. So he kept silent and spoke English when acknowledging his name and American citizenship. There was no sign of Taylor Hayes anywhere.

From the little bit of conversation he overheard, the guard had been shot dead. Two other guards were wounded, one seriously. The gunman had fled the rooftop. No trace of him had been found. Apparently, none of the guards or militsya noticed the dark Volvo station wagon and its two occupants. He decided to offer nothing until he was able to talk face-to-face with Hayes. There seemed little doubt now that the phones at the Volkhov were being monitored. How else would anyone have known where he was? That would imply, perhaps, some faction of the government was involved with whatever was occurring.

Yet Droopy and Cro-Magnon had fled at the approach of the police.

He needed to get to Hayes. His employer would know what to do. Perhaps some element of the police could help? But he doubted it. He had little trust left for any Russian.

He was whisked through the streets in a wailing squad car directly to central headquarters. The modern, multistory building faced the Moskva River, the former Russian White House on the opposite bank. He was taken to the third floor and led down a dismal corridor lined with rows of empty chairs to an office where Inspector Feliks Orleg greeted him. The pudgy Russian was dressed in the same dark suit from three days before, when they had first met on Nikolskaya Prospekt before the bleeding body of Artemy Bely.

"Mr. Lord. Come in. Sit," Orleg said in English.

The office was a claustrophobic cubicle with grimy plaster walls. There was a black metal desk, file cabinet, and two chairs. The floor was a gritty tile, the ceiling nicotine-stained, and Lord could see why-Orleg puffed hard on a black Turkish cigarette. The blue fog was intense, but at least it tempered the body odor blossoming from the inspector.

Orleg ordered the handcuffs removed. The door was closed and they were left alone.

"No need for restraints. Correct, Mr. Lord?"

"Why am I being treated like a criminal?"

Orleg sat behind the desk in a rickety oak chair that squealed. The inspector's tie hung loose, a yellowed collar unbuttoned. "Twice you were where somebody died. This time, policeman."

"I didn't shoot anyone."

"But violence follows you. Why?"

He liked the obstinate inspector less today than at their first meeting. The Russian had liquid eyes that screwed up when he spoke. Disdain filled his face, and Lord wondered what was actually moving through the bastard's mind while the face maintained an icy facade. He didn't like the odd flutter in his chest. Was that fear? Or apprehension?

"I want to make a phone call," he said.

Orleg puffed on his cigarette. "To?"

"That's not your concern."

A thin smile accompanied a vacuous stare. "We are not America, Mr. Lord. No rights for people in custody."

"I want to call the American embassy."

"You diplomat?"

"I work for the Tsarist Commission. You know that."

Another irritating smile. "That confer privilege?"

"I didn't say that it did. But I am here in this country on a pass from the government."

Orleg laughed. "Government, Mr. Lord? No government. We wait for tsar to return." No effort was made to conceal the sarcasm.

"I assume you voted no?"

Orleg's face turned serious. "Assume nothing. Much safer that way."

He didn't like the implications. But before he could respond, the phone on the desk rang. The shrill startled him. Orleg lifted the handset while still fingering the cigarette with his other hand. He answered in Russian and instructed the person on the other end to put the call through.

"What may I do for you?" Orleg said into the mouthpiece, still in Russian.

There was a pause while Orleg listened.

"I have the chornye here," the inspector said.

Lord's interest perked, but he did nothing that revealed he understood what Orleg was saying. The policeman apparently felt safe behind the language barrier.

"A guard is dead. The men you sent were not successful. No contact was made. I told you the situation could have been handled better. I agree. Yes. He does have great luck."

The caller was apparently the source of all his problems. And he'd been right about Orleg. The sonovabitch was not to be trusted.

"I will keep him here until your people arrive. This time it will be done correctly. No more gangsters. I will kill him myself."

Chilly fingers danced down Lord's spine.

"Do not worry. I have him under personal watch. He is here, sitting right before me." A smile formed on the Russian's face. "He doesn't understand a word I'm saying."

There was a pause, then Orleg bolted upright in the chair. The inspector's gaze met Lord's.

"What?" Orleg said. "He speaks-"

Lord brought both legs up and slammed the heavy desk across the tile floor into Orleg. The inspector's chair rolled back and kissed the wall, pinning him tight. Lord then yanked the phone cord from the wall and leapt from the room. He slammed the door, then followed the empty hall, bounding down the staircase three steps at a time, retracing his route to the ground floor and the street.

Once out in the chilly midmorning air, he plunged into the sidewalk crowd.

12:30 PM

Hayes exited the cab at Sparrow Hills and paid the driver. The midday sky was a burnished platinum, the sun straining hard, as if through frosted glass, to compensate for a frigid breeze. The Moskva River looped sharply below him, forming a peninsula that supported the Luzhniki sports stadium. In the distance, toward the northeast, the bulbous gold and silver cupolas of the Kremlin cathedrals peaked through a cold haze like tombstones in a fog. It was from the hills around him that both Napoleon and Hitler had been thwarted. In 1917 revolutionary groups had held clandestine meetings among its trees, safe from the secret police, plotting an eventual downfall of the tsar. Now a new generation seemed intent on reversing their efforts.

To his right, Moscow State University rose above the trees in an overpowering array of capricious spires, ornate wings, and elaborate curlicues. It was another of Stalin's grandiose wedding-cake skyscrapers erected to impress the world. This one was the largest, built by German prisoners of war. He recalled a story about one prisoner who supposedly fashioned a pair of wings from scrap lumber and tried to fly home from the top. Like his nation and fuhrer, he failed.

Feliks Orleg waited on a bench under a canopy of beech trees. Hayes was still fuming from what had happened two hours before, but cautioned himself to watch his words. This wasn't Atlanta. Or even America. He was just one part of an extensive team. Unfortunately, at the moment, the point man.

He sat on the bench and asked in Russian, "Have you found Lord?"