Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

Stalin said, "We now know that only two of the children could have survived, Alexie and Anastasia, since their bodies were never found. Of course, even if either or both survived the massacre they would have died long ago, the boy especially because of his hemophilia. So we're talking about their children or grandchildren, if there were any. And they would be direct Romanov. Stefan Baklanov's claim would be meaningless."

Hayes saw concern on Stalin's face, but he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "There's no way any of those people survived. They were shot at close range, then bayoneted."

Stalin ran a hand along the armchair, tracing the wood carvings. "I told you at our last meeting, Americans have a hard time understanding the Russian sensitivity to fate. Here is an example. There are Soviet documents I have seen where the KGB conducted interrogations. Rasputin predicted that Romanov blood would be resurrected. He supposedly said that an eagle and a raven would accomplish the resurrection. Your Mr. Lord found a writing that confirms this prediction." He leaned forward. "Would not Mr. Lord qualify as that raven?"

"Because he's black?"

Stalin shrugged. "As good a reason as any."

He couldn't believe a man with Stalin's reputation was trying to convince him that a scoundrel peasant from the early part of the twentieth century had somehow predicted the reemergence of the Romanov dynasty. And, even more, an African American from South Carolina was somehow a part of all that. "I may not understand your sensitivity to fate, but I fully understand common sense. This is crap."

"Semyon Pashenko doesn't think so," Brezhnev was quick to say. "He stationed men at the circus for a reason, and he was right. Lord showed up. Our men reported that a circus performer was on the train last night. A woman. Akilina Petrovna. They even talked with her and thought nothing of it at the time, but she was led from the theater with Lord and driven off by Pashenko's men. Why, if there is nothing to this but fiction?"

A good question, Hayes silently admitted.

Stalin's face was severe. "Akilina means 'eagle' in old Russian. You speak our language. Did you know that?"

He shook his head.

"This is serious," Stalin said. "There are things at work we really do not fully understand. Until a few months ago, when the referendum passed, no one seriously thought a tsarist return possible, much less one that could be used for political advantage. But now both are possible. We must stop whatever is happening immediately, before it can gestate into something more. Use the telephone number we provided, assemble the men, and find your Mr. Lord."

"It's already being done."

"Do more."

"Why not do it yourself?"

"Because you have freedom of movement none of us enjoys. This task is yours to handle. It might even move beyond our borders."

"Orleg is looking for Lord right now."

"Perhaps a police bulletin regarding the Red Square shooting could multiply the number of eyes," Brezhnev said. "A policeman was killed. The militsya would be anxious to find the gunman. They might even solve our problem with a well-placed shot."

Lord said, "I'm sorry about what happened to your parents."

Akilina had been sitting still, eyes down, since Pashenko had left the room.

"My father wanted to be with his son. He intended on marrying the mother, but to emigrate you must secure permission of your parents-an absurd Soviet rule that stopped anyone from leaving. My grandmother, of course, gave her consent, but my grandfather had been missing since World War Two."

"Yet your father still had to have his okay?"

She nodded. "He was never declared dead. None of the missing ever were. No father, no permission, no visa. The repercussions came fast. My father was dropped from the circus and not allowed to perform anywhere. It was all he knew how to do."

"Why didn't you see them the last few years?"

"Neither could be tolerated. All my mother could see was another woman who'd birthed her ex-husband's baby. All he could see was somebody who'd left him for another man. Their duty was to endure the situation for the collective good." The resentment was clear now. "They sent me to my grandmother. I hated them at first for doing it, but as I got older I simply could not stand to be around either of them, so I stayed away. They died within a few months of each other. Simple flu that became pneumonia. I often wonder if my fate will be the same. When I can no longer please the crowds, where will I end up?"

He didn't know what to say.

"It is hard for Americans to understand how things were. How they still are, to some extent. You could not live where you wanted, do what you wanted. Our choices were made for us early in life."

He knew what she was referring to, the raspredeleniye. Distribution. A decision made at age sixteen as to what a person was to do with the rest of his or her life. Those with clout possessed a choice. Those without took what was available. Those in disfavor did what they were told.

"Party members' children were always looked after," she said. "They got the best assignments in Moscow. That was where everyone wanted to be."

"Except you?"

"I hated it. There was nothing but misery here for me. But I was compelled to return. My talents were needed by the state."

"You didn't want to perform?"

"Did you know what you wanted to do for the rest of your life at age sixteen?"

He silently conceded her point.

"Several of my friends chose suicide. Far preferable to spending the rest of your life at the Arctic Circle or in some remote Siberian village doing something you despise. I had a friend from school who wanted to be a doctor. She was an excellent student, but lacked the requisite party affiliation to be selected for university. Others of far less ability were allowed to attend over her. She ended up working in a toy factory." She stared at him hard. "You are lucky, Miles Lord. When you get old or disabled, there are government benefits to help. We have no such thing. The communists spoke of the tsar and his extravagance. They were no better."

He was beginning to understand even more the Russian preference for the distant past.

"I told you on the train about my grandmother. It was all true. She was taken off one night and never seen again. She worked in a state store and watched while managers pilfered the shelves, blaming the thefts on others. She finally wrote a letter to Moscow, complaining. She was fired, her pension canceled, her work papers stamped with the badge of an informant. No one would hire her. So she took up verse. Her crime was poetry."

He tilted his head to one side. "What do you mean?"

"She liked to write about the Russian winter, hunger, and the cries of children. How the government was indifferent to common people. The local party soviet considered that a threat to national order. She became noticed-an individual rising above the community. That was her crime. She might become a rallying point for opposition. Someone who could galvanize support. So she was made to disappear. We are perhaps the only country in the world that executed its poets."

"Akilina, I can understand the hatred all of you have for the communists. But there needs to be an element of reality here. Before 1917 the tsar was a fairly inept leader who didn't necessarily care if his police killed civilians. Hundreds died on Bloody Sunday in 1905 merely for protesting his policies. It was a brutal regime that used force to survive, just like the communists."

"The tsar represents a link with our heritage. One that stretches back hundreds of years. He is the embodiment of Russia."

He sat back in the chair and took a few deep breaths. He studied the fire in the hearth and listened as the wood crackled into flames. "Akilina, he wants us to go after this supposed heir, who may or may not be alive. And all because some faith-healing idiot, nearly a century ago, predicted we would."