Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

She was a year shy of thirty and wondered if marriage would ever come. Her father had always hoped she'd settle down, give up performing, and start a family. But she'd watched what had happened to her friends who'd married. Laboring all day at a factory or store, only to come home and tend to the household, the process repeated interminably day after day. There had been no equality between men and women, though the Soviets had proudly proclaimed communist women the most liberated in the world. And little comfort came in marriage. Husbands and wives usually worked separately, at different times, even vacationing separately since rarely were both simultaneously excused from their jobs. She understood why one in three marriages ended in divorce. Why most couples birthed only one child. There was no time or money to cope with anything more. Such a life had never appealed to her. As her grandmother used to say, To know a person, you have to eat salt together.

She took her place before the mirror and squirted water into her hair, tightening the damp braids into a bun. She wore little makeup on stage, just enough to abate the harsh, blue-white floods. She was pale-skinned, having inherited an almost total lack of pigment, blond hair, and stark blue eyes from her Slavic mother. Her talent came from her father. He'd worked as an aerialist with the circus for decades. Luckily, his abilities had translated into a larger apartment, more food rations, and a better clothing allowance. Thank goodness the arts had always been an important element of communist propaganda. The circus, along with the ballet and opera, had been exported for decades-an attempt to show the world that Hollywood did not hold a monopoly on fun.

Now the entire troupe was a moneymaking proposition. The circus was owned by a Moscow conglomerate that continued to parade the spectacle across the globe, the difference being that profit was the goal instead of propaganda. She actually earned a decent salary for somebody living in post-Soviet Russia. But the minute she could no longer dazzle an audience from the balance beam she would most likely find herself among the millions of unemployed. Which was why she kept her body in excellent shape, watched her diet carefully, and regulated her sleep habits precisely. Last night had been the first night in quite a while she hadn't slept a full eight hours.

She thought again of Miles Lord.

Earlier, at her apartment, she'd opened the briefcase. She recalled him removing some papers, but was hoping there might be something that might shed insight into a man she found fascinating. There'd been nothing beyond a blank pad, three ballpoint pens, a few cards from the hotel Volkhov, and an Aeroflot ticket for yesterday from Moscow to St. Petersburg.

Miles Lord. American lawyer with the Tsarist Commission.

Maybe she'd see him again.

Lord sat patiently through the entire first half of the show. No militsya had followed him inside-at least no uniformed policemen-and he hoped no plainclothed men were around. The arena was impressive, an indoor amphitheater rising in a half circle around a colorful stage. Padded red benches accommodated what he estimated to be a couple of thousand people, mainly tourists and children, all sitting close, sharing in the emotion radiating from the performers' faces. The surroundings bordered on the surreal, and the trampolinists, trained dogs, trapeze artists, clowns, and jugglers had, at least for a while, taken his mind off the situation.

Intermission came and he decided to stay in his seat. The less moving around, the better. He was only a few rows from the main floor, in a direct line of sight with the ring, and he hoped that when Akilina Petrovna appeared she would see him.

A bell dinged and an announcer noted that the second half would start in five minutes. His gaze circled the expansive arena one more time.

A face registered.

The man was perched on the far side, dressed in a dark leather jacket and jeans. It was the man in the baggy beige suit from the St. Petersburg archives yesterday and the train last night. He was nestled amid a group of tourists who were busily grabbing a few last photos before the start of the show.

Lord's heart raced. His gut went hollow.

Then he saw Droopy.

The demon entered from the left, between Lord and his other problem. The dark hair shone with oily dressing, pulled tight in a ponytail. He wore a tan sweater over dark trousers.

As the lights came down and music blared for the second act, Lord stood to leave. But at the top of the aisle, no more than fifty feet away, stood Cro-Magnon, a smile on his pockmarked face.

Lord sat. Nowhere to go.

The first act was Akilina Petrovna, who bounded onto the stage barefoot, wearing a sequined blue leotard. She skipped to the lively beat of the music and quickly mounted the beam, starting her act to applause.

A wave of panic swelled inside him. He glanced back and saw that Cro-Magnon was still at the top of the aisle, but then he spotted the deeply lined gray slab face of Droopy, the demon now sitting about half way down. Coal-black eyes-Gypsy eyes, he concluded-focused with a look that signaled the end of a hunt. The man's right hand nestled inside his jacket, which he peeled back enough to exhibit the hilt of a gun.

He turned back toward the stage.

Akilina Petrovna was strutting across the beam in an amazing display of poise. The music softened and she kept step to the gentle beat with agile movements. He focused hard, willing her to glance his way.

And she did.

For an instant their eyes met and he caught a glint of recognition. Then he registered something else. Fear? Did she likewise recognize the men behind him? Or did she read the terror in his own gaze? If she realized any of that, she did not let it affect her concentration. She continued to impress the crowd with a slow, athletic dance while perched atop a four-inch oak beam.

She performed a one-handed pirouette, then leapt from the beam. The crowd applauded as clowns burst onto the stage riding tiny bicycles. As stagehands carted away the heavy balance beam, Lord decided he had no choice. He bolted from his seat and sprang onto the stage, just as one of the clowns rode by, honking a horn. The crowd roared with laughter, thinking him part of the show. He glanced left and saw both Droopy and the man from St. Petersburg rise. He slipped behind the curtain and ran straight into Akilina Petrovna.

"I've got to get out of here," he told her in Russian.

She grabbed his hand and yanked him deeper backstage, past two animal cages holding white poodles.

"I saw the men. You seem to stay in trouble, Miles Lord."

"Tell me about it."

They passed more performers busily going about their preparations. No one seemed to pay them any attention. "I need to duck in somewhere," he said. "We can't keep running."

She led him down a hallway crowded with old posters tacked to a dirty wall. A sour whiff of urine and wet fur tempered the air. Doors lined the narrow corridor on both sides.

She twisted one of the knobs. "In here."

It was a closet that contained mops and brooms, but there was enough room for him to squeeze inside.

"Stay here until I come back," she said.

The door closed.

In the blackness, he tried to catch his breath. Footsteps passed outside in both directions. He couldn't believe this was happening. The policeman outside must have alerted Feliks Orleg. Droopy, Cro-Magnon, and Orleg were all connected. No doubt about it. What was he going to do? Half the job of any good lawyer was telling his client what a damn fool he or she was being. He should take his own advice. He needed to get the hell out of Russia.

The door swung open.

In the hall light, he registered three male faces.

The first he did not recognize, but the man held a long silver blade tight against Droopy's neck. The other face belonged to the man from yesterday in St. Petersburg. He was clutching a revolver, its barrel aimed straight at him.