Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

His mother called him Wee One and Sunbeam. He was the focus of the entire family's attention. A bright, affectionate lad with a stubborn streak. Maks had heard the palace talk of his inattentiveness, his dislike of studies, his love of Russian peasant dress. He was spoiled and capricious, once ordering a band of the palace guards to march into the sea, and his father had many times joked about whether Russia would survive Alexie the Terrible.

But he was now tsar. Alexie II. The anointed, divine successor Maks was sworn to protect.

Beside Alexie stood his sister, who was in many ways like her brother. Her headstrong ways were legendary, her arrogance beyond the point of tolerance. Her forehead was bloodied, her dress shredded. Through rips in the clothing, he spied a corset. Both children were painted in blood, faces filthy, and they stank of death.

But they were alive.

Lord could not believe what he was hearing, but the old man spoke with such conviction that he could not doubt him. Two Romanovs survived the bloody massacre at Yekaterinburg and all because of one man's bravery. Many had postulated such an occurrence, relying on scant evidence and wild speculation.

But here was the truth.

"My father took them away from Yekaterinburg by nightfall. There were others waiting on the outskirts to help and they moved the children east. The farther from Moscow, the better."

"Why not go to the White Army?" he asked.

"For what? The Whites were not tsarists. They hated Romanovs as much as Reds. Nicholas falsely believed they were his salvation, but they would have probably killed the family. No one cared for Romanovs in 1918, except a precious few."

"The ones your father worked for?"

Maks nodded.

"Who were they?"

"I have no idea. That information was never passed to me."

Akilina asked, "What happened to the children?"

"My father took them away from the civil war that raged for two more years. Past the Urals, deep into Siberia. It was an easy matter to blend them in. No one beyond courtesans in St. Petersburg knew their faces, and most of those people were dead. Old clothes and filthy faces made a good disguise." Maks paused and sipped his drink. "They lived in Siberia with people who were part of the plan, and finally made it to Vladivostok on the Pacific. There, they were smuggled out. To where? I have no idea. That is another leg of your journey, to which I am not privy."

"What was their condition when your father found them?" Lord asked.

"Alexie was not hit by any bullet. The tsar's body had shielded him. Anastasia had wounds that healed. Both wore jeweled corsets. The family had sewn the stones into the fabric to be safe from thieves. Currency to be used later, they believed. But the move saved the children's lives."

"Along with what your father did."

Maks nodded. "He was a good man."

"What happened to him?" Akilina asked.

"He returned here and lived to old age. The purges spared him. He died thirty years ago."

Lord thought about Yakov Yurovsky. There'd not been so peaceful a fate for the head executioner. He recalled that Yurovsky had died twenty years after Yekaterinburg, also in July, of a bleeding ulcer. But not before Stalin ordered his daughter to a labor camp. The old party warrior tried to help her, but couldn't. Nobody cared that he'd been the one to kill the tsar. On his deathbed Yurovsky lamented at how fate had turned on him. But Lord understood how that could have happened. The Bible again. Romans 12:19. Vengeance is mine, I will repay.

"What do we do now?" he asked.

Maks shrugged. "That information will have to come from my father."

"How is that possible?"

"It is sealed in a metal box. I was never allowed to read or see what was inside. Only to convey this message to whoever came and spoke the words."

Lord was confused. "Where is this box?"

"On the day he died, I dressed him in his imperial uniform and buried the box with him. It has lain for thirty years on his chest."

He didn't like the implications.

"Yes, Raven. My father awaits you in the grave."

STARODUG, 4:30 PM

Hayes watched Feliks Orleg force the wooden door, The burly Russian's breath clouding in the cold dry air. A sign affixed to the brick above read: KAFE SNEZHINKI-IOSIF MAKS, OWNER.

The jam splintered as the door slammed inward. Orleg disappeared inside.

The street was empty, all of the surrounding shops closed. Stalin followed Hayes in. Darkness had enveloped them an hour ago, the drive from Moscow to Starodug taking nearly five hours. The Secret Chancellory had thought Stalin's presence important since the mafiya was seen as the most efficient unit to handle the matter, its representative now charged with full responsibility to do whatever was necessary.

They'd gone first to Iosif Maks's house on the outskirts of town. The local police had discreetly been monitoring the situation since morning and thought him at home, but Maks's wife informed them he'd gone into town to work for a while. A light in the rear of Maks's cafe breathed hope, and Stalin had sprung into action.

Droopy and Cro-Magnon had been dispatched to the rear of the building. Hayes recalled the names Lord had given his two assailants and thought the descriptions apt. He'd been told about Droopy's abduction at gunpoint from the Moscow Circus and the death of his captor, the man as yet unidentified and unlinked to any Holy Band Semyon Pashenko may or may not head. This whole thing was turning strange, but the seriousness with which the Russians viewed everything was causing him concern. It wasn't often men like these became riled.

Orleg appeared out of a doorway that led to the rear of the building and rounded a set of glass cases, another man with bushy red hair and mustache in his grasp. Droopy and Cro-Magnon followed.

"He was on his way out the back door," Orleg said.

Stalin pointed to an oak chair. "Sit him there."

Hayes noticed a discreet signal Stalin gave Droopy and Cro-Magnon, both of whom seemed to instantly understand. The splintered front door was closed and positions were taken up at the windows, guns drawn. The local police had been warned off an hour ago by Orleg, an order from a Moscow inspector not something local militsya tended to ignore. Khrushchev had earlier used his government connections to advise the Starodug authorities that a police operation would be occurring in town, the effort linked to a Red Square killing, and there should be no interference.

"Mr. Maks," Stalin said. "This is a serious matter. I want you to understand that."

Hayes watched as Maks considered what was said. Not a shred of fear appeared in the man's face.

Stalin stepped close to the chair. "Yesterday, a man and a woman came here. You recall?"

"I have many visitors." The voice carried contempt.

"I'm sure you do. But I would imagine few chornyes frequent your eatery."

The stout Russian jutted his chin forward. "Fuck off."

There was confidence in the tone, but Stalin did not react to the rebuke. He simply motioned and Droopy and Cro-Magnon moved in unison, pinning Maks facedown to the plank floor.

"Find something we can amuse ourselves with," Stalin said.

Droopy disappeared into the back room while Cro-Magnon maintained a grip. Orleg had been dispatched to the rear door as guard. The inspector thought it important he not be an active participant. Hayes considered this the wisest course as well. They might need militsya contacts in the weeks ahead, and Orleg was the best source they possessed inside the Moscow unit.

Droopy returned with a roll of duct tape. He wrapped Maks's wrists together tightly. Cro-Magnon yanked the Russian up and plopped him into the rickety oak chair. More tape was wrapped around the chest and legs, securing Maks firmly. A final strip was slapped across his mouth.