Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

Then Lord saw Akilina Petrovna.

She stood calmly beside the man with the gun.

"Who are you?" Lord asked.

The man standing beside Akilina said, "There is no time to explain, Mr. Lord. We need to leave here quickly."

He was not persuaded.

"We do not know how many more are here. We are not your enemy, Mr. Lord. He is." The man motioned toward Droopy.

"A bit hard to believe with a gun pointed at me."

The man lowered the revolver. "Quite right. Now, we must go. My associate will deal with this man while we take our leave."

He stared at Akilina and asked, "You with him?"

She shook her head.

"We must go, Mr. Lord," the man said.

His expression telegraphed to her, Should we?

"I think so," she said.

He decided to trust her instincts. His hadn't been so good lately. "All right."

The man turned to his associate and spat out something in a dialect Lord did not recognize. Droopy was forcibly led down the hall toward a door at the far end.

"This way," the man said.

"Why does she have to come?" he asked, motioning to Akilina. "She has no involvement."

"I was instructed to bring her."

"By whom?"

"We can talk about this on the way. Right now we have to leave."

He decided not to argue any further.

They followed the man outside into the cold night, stopping only to allow Akilina to retrieve a pair of shoes and a coat. The exit opened into an alley behind the theater. Droopy was being stuffed into the backseat of a black Ford near the alley's end. Their host walked to a light-colored Mercedes, opened the rear door, and invited them inside. Then he climbed into the front seat. Another man was already behind the wheel, the engine idling. A light rain started to fall as they left the theater.

"Who are you?" Lord asked again.

The man did not reply. Instead he handed him a business card.

SEMYON PASHENKO

Professor of History

Moscow State University

He was beginning to understand. "So my meeting him was not coincidental?"

"Hardly. Professor Pashenko realized the great danger both of you were in and directed us to keep watch. That was what I was doing in St. Petersburg. Apparently, I did not do a good job."

"I thought you were with the others."

The man nodded. "I can see that, but the professor instructed me only to make contact when forced. What was about to happen back in the theater, I think, would qualify."

The car wove through heavy evening traffic, its windshield wipers clunking back and forth, not doing much good. They were headed south, past the Kremlin, toward Gorky Park and the river. Lord noticed the driver's interest in cars around him and surmised that the many turns were designed to avoid any tails that might be lurking.

"You think we're safe?" Akilina whispered.

"I hope so."

"You know this Pashenko?"

He nodded. "But that means nothing. Hard to know anybody around here." Then he added with a weak smile, "Present company excepted, of course."

Their route had taken them away from the blocks of anonymous high-rises and neoclassical oddities, the hundreds of apartment buildings little more than trushchoba-slums-and life there, he knew, was a tense daily grind, noisy and crowded. But not everyone lived that way, and he noticed they'd turned onto one of the unobtrusive, tree-lined streets that radiated from the busy boulevard. This one ran north toward the Kremlin, linking two of the ring roads.

The Mercedes veered right into a lighted asphalt lot. A guard watched the entrance from a glass booth. The three-story apartment building beyond was unusual, fashioned not of concrete but of honey-colored bricks laid straight and true, a rarity for Russian masons. The few cars in the lined spaces were foreign and expensive. The man in the passenger's seat pointed a controller and commanded a garage door to rise. The driver steered the Mercedes inside, and the paneled door rolled shut.

They were led into a spacious lobby lit by a crystal chandelier. The smell was pine, not the horrid scent of mud and urine most apartment lobbies wafted-The smell of cats, one Moscow journalist had called it. A carpeted stairway led up to a third-floor apartment.

Semyon Pashenko answered a light knock on a white paneled door and invited them inside.

Lord quickly took in the parquet floor, Oriental rugs, brick fireplace, and Scandinavian furniture. Luxuries in both the Soviet Union and new Russia. The walls were a soothing beige, broken periodically by elegantly framed prints depicting Siberian wildlife. The air smelled of boiled cabbage and potatoes. "You live well, Professor."

"A gift from my father. To my dismay, he was a devoted communist and afforded the privilege of rank. I inherited the amenity and was allowed to purchase it when the government starting divesting. Thankfully, I had the rubles."

Lord turned in the center of the room and faced his host. "I guess we should thank you."

Pashenko raised his hands. "No need. In fact, it is us who owe you thanks."

Lord was puzzled, but said nothing.

Pashenko motioned to upholstered chairs. "Why don't we sit. I have dinner warming in the kitchen. Some wine, perhaps?"

He glanced at Akilina, who shook her head. "No, thank you."

Pashenko noticed Akilina's costume and told one of the men to fetch her a bathrobe. They sat before a fire and Lord removed his jacket.

"I chop the wood at my dacha north of Moscow," Pashenko said. "I so like a fire, though this apartment is centrally heated."

Another Russian rarity, he thought. He also noticed the driver of the Mercedes take up a position at one of the windows, periodically peeking out through the closed curtains. The man peeled off his coat, exposing a handgun nestled in a shoulder harness.

"Who are you, Professor?" Lord asked.

"I am a Russian who is glad for the future."

"Could we dispense with the riddles? I'm tired, and it's been a long three days."

Pashenko bowed his head in an apparent apology. "From all reports, I agree. The incident in Red Square made the news. Curious there was no mention of you in the official reports, but Vitaly"-Pashenko motioned to the man from yesterday in St. Petersburg-"saw it all. The police arrived just in time."

"Your man was there?"

"He went to St. Petersburg to make sure your train ride was uneventful. But the same two gentlemen with whom you are, by now, intimately familiar interfered."

"How did he find me?"

"He saw you and Miss Petrovna together and watched while you jumped from the train. Another man with him followed your actions farther down the tracks and found you at the grocery using the telephone."

"What about my bodyguard?"

"We thought he might work for the mafiya. Now we are sure."

"Could I ask why I am involved?" Akilina said.

Pashenko leveled a gaze at her. "You involved yourself, my dear."

"I involved nothing. Mr. Lord happened into my compartment on the train last night. That's all."

Pashenko straightened in the chair. "I, too, was curious of your involvement. So I took the liberty of checking on you today. We have extensive contacts in the government."

Akilina's face tightened. "I don't appreciate you invading my privacy."

Pashenko gave a short laugh. "That is a concept we Russians know little of, my dear. Let's see. You were born here in Moscow. Your parents divorced when you were twelve. Since neither one of them could receive Soviet permission for another apartment, they were forced to live together afterward. Granted, their accommodations were a bit better than most, given your father's usefulness to the state as a performer, but it was nonetheless a stressful situation. By the way, I saw your father perform several times. He was a marvelous acrobat."