Steve Berry: The Romanov Prophecy

He stood and darted across the six-lane road. Traffic all came one way, from the north. He crisscrossed the lanes and made a point of staying perpendicular with the bus. Halfway, he was forced to pause and wait for a line of cars to pass. There'd only be a few moments more until the gunmen rounded the bus. He took advantage of a break in traffic and ran across the final two lanes, onto the sidewalk, jumping the curb.

Ahead was a busy construction site. Bare girders rose four stories into a rapidly clouding afternoon sky. He'd still not seen one policeman other than the two on his tail. Over the whirl of traffic came the roar of cranes and cement mixers. Unlike back home in Atlanta, no fences of any kind delineated the unsafe zone.

He trotted onto the work site and glanced back to see the gunmen starting their own bisection of the crowded boulevard, dodging cars, horns protesting their progress. Workers milled about the construction site, paying him little attention. He wondered how many black men dressed in bloody suits ran onto the job site every day. But it was all part of the new Moscow. The safest course was surely to stay out of the way.

Behind, the two gunmen found the sidewalk. They were now less than fifty yards away.

Ahead, a cement mixer churned gray mortar into a steel trough as a helmeted worker monitored the progress. The trough rested on a large wooden platform chained to a cable that ran four stories up to a roof crane. The worker tending the mixture backed away and the entire assembly rose.

Lord decided up was as good a place as any and raced for the ascending platform, leaping forward, gripping the platform's bottom edge. Crusted concrete caked on the surface made it difficult to maintain a hold, but thoughts of Droopy and his pal kept his fingers secure.

The platform rose, and he swung himself upward.

The unbalanced movement caused a sway, chains groaning from the added weight, but he managed to climb up and flatten his body against the trough. The added weight and movement tipped everything his way, and mortar sloshed onto him.

He glanced over the side.

The two gunmen had seen what he did. He was fifty feet in the air and climbing. They stopped their advance and took aim. He felt the mortar-encrusted wood beneath him and stared at the steel trough.

No choice.

He quickly rolled into the trough, sending wet mortar oozing over the side. Cold mud enveloped him and sent a chill through his already shaking body.

Gunfire started.

Bullets ripped the wooden underside and pelted the trough. He shrank into the cement and heard the recoil of lead off steel.

Suddenly, sirens.

Coming closer.

The shooting stopped.

He peered out toward the boulevard and saw three police cars speeding south, his way. Apparently the gunmen had heard the sirens, too, and hastily retreated. He then saw the dark blue Volvo that had started everything appear from the north and speed down the boulevard. The two gunmen backed toward it, but seemed unable to resist a few parting shots.

He watched as they finally climbed into the Volvo and roared away.

Only then did he raise up on his knees and release a sigh of relief.

LORD climbed out of the police car. He was back on Nikolskaya Prospekt, where the shooting had begun. At the construction site he'd been lowered to the ground and hosed down to cleanse away the mortar and blood. His suit jacket was gone, as was his tie. His white dress shirt and dark trousers were soaking wet and stained gray. In the chilly afternoon they felt like a cold compress. He was wrapped in a musty wool blanket one of the workers had produced that smelled of horses. He was calm. Amazing, considering.

The prospekt was filled with squad cars and ambulances, light bars flashing, a multitude of uniformed officers everywhere. Traffic was at a standstill. Officers had secured the street at both ends, all the way to the McDonald's.

Lord was led to a short, heavy-chested man with a bull neck and close-cropped reddish whiskers sprouting from fleshy cheeks. Deep lines streaked his brow. His nose was askew, as if from a break that had never healed, and his complexion carried the sallow pale all too common with Russians. He wore a loose-fitting gray suit and a dark shirt under a charcoal overcoat. His shoes were dog-eared and dirty.

"I am Inspector Orleg. Militsya." He offered a hand. Lord noticed liver spots freckling the wrist and forearm. "You one here when shots were fired?"

The inspector spoke in accented English, and Lord debated whether to answer in Russian. It would surely ease their communication. Most Russians assumed Americans were too arrogant or too lazy to master their language-particularly black Americans, whom he'd found they viewed as something of a circus oddity. He'd visited Moscow nearly a dozen times over the past decade and had learned to keep his linguistic talent to himself-garnering in the process an opportunity to listen in on comments between lawyers and businessmen who thought they were protected by a language barrier. At the moment, he was highly suspicious of everyone. His previous dealings with the police had been confined to a few disputes over parking and one incident where he was forced to pay fifty rubles to avoid a bogus traffic violation. It wasn't unusual for the Moscow police to shake down foreigners. What do you expect from somebody who earns a hundred rubles a month? an officer had asked while pocketing his fifty dollars.

"The shooters were police," he said in English.

The Russian shook his head. "They dress like police. Militsya not gun people down."

"These did." He glanced beyond the inspector at the bloodied remains of Artemy Bely. The young Russian was sprawled faceup on the sidewalk, his eyes open, brown-red ribbons seeping from holes in his chest. "How many were hit?"

"Pyat."

"Five? How many dead?"

"Chet?yre."

"You don't seem concerned. Four people shot dead in the middle of the day on a public street."

Orleg shrugged. "Little can be done. The roof is tough to control."

"The roof" was the common way to refer to the mafiya who populated Moscow and most of western Russia. He'd never learned how the term came into being. Maybe it was because that was how people paid-through the roof-or perhaps it was a metaphor for the odd pinnacle of Russian life. The nicest cars, largest dachas, and best clothes were owned by gang members. No effort was made to conceal their wealth. On the contrary, the mafiya tended to flaunt their prosperity to both the government and the people. It was a separate social class, one that had emerged with startling speed. His contacts within the business community considered protection payments just another facet of company overhead, as necessary to survival as a good workforce and steady inventory. More than one Russian acquaintance had told him that when the gentlemen in the Armani suits paid a visit and pronounced, Bog zaveshchaet delit'sia-God instructs us to share-they were to be taken seriously.

"My interest," Orleg said, "is why those men chase you."

Lord motioned to Bely. "Why don't you cover him up?"

"He not mind."

"I do. I knew him."

"How?"

He found his wallet. The laminated security badge he'd been given weeks ago had survived the cement bath. He handed it to Orleg.

"You part of Tsar Commission?"

The implied question seemed to ask why an American would be involved with something so Russian. He was liking the inspector less and less. Mocking him seemed the best way to show how he felt.

"I part of Tsar Commission."

"Your duties?"

"That confidential."

"May be important to this."

His attempt at sarcasm was going unnoticed. "Take it up with the commission."

Orleg pointed to the body. "And this one?"