Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

Stalin said, "Now, Mr. Maks, let me tell you what we know. An American by the name of Miles Lord and a Russian woman named Akilina Petrovna came here yesterday. They were asking about Kolya Maks, a person you claimed to have no knowledge about. I want to know who Kolya Maks is and why Lord and the woman are seeking him. You know the answer to my first inquiry, and I am certain you also have the answer to the second."

Maks shook his head.

"A foolish decision, Mr. Maks."

Droopy ripped off a short strip of the gray tape and handed it to Stalin. The two seemed to have done this before. Stalin brushed the hair from his tanned brow and bent down. He loosely pressed the wad of tape over Maks's nose. "When I squeeze that tape tight, your nostrils will be sealed. There will be a bit of air remaining in your lungs, but only a few moments' worth. You will suffocate in a matter of seconds. How about a demonstration?" Stalin squeezed the tape tight to the skin.

Hayes watched Maks's chest heave. But he knew the thick tape was used on ventilation ducts because it was airtight. The Russian's eyes started to bulge as blood cells searched for oxygen, the skin metamorphosing through a variety of colors, finally settling on ash white. The helpless man rocked in the chair, trying to breathe, but Cro-Magnon held him steady from behind.

Stalin casually reached up and peeled the tape back from the mouth. Gulps of air were instantly sucked in.

Color returned to Maks's face.

"Please answer my two questions," Stalin said.

All Maks did was breathe.

"You are obviously a brave man, Mr. Maks. For what, I am not sure. But your courage is to be admired." Stalin paused, seemingly allowing Maks to recover. "I want you to know, while we were at your residence your lovely wife invited us inside. Such a charming woman. We visited and she informed us where you were."

A wild look came onto Maks's face. Finally. Fear.

"Not to worry," Stalin said. "She is fine. She believes we work with the government, here to perform an official inquiry. Nothing more. But I assure you this procedure works equally well with women."

"Goddamn mafiya."

"This has nothing to do with mafiya. This is much bigger, and I believe you understand that."

"You will kill me no matter what I say."

"But I give you my word your wife will not be involved, if you simply tell me what I want to know."

The redheaded Russian seemed to consider the proposal.

"You believe what I am telling you?" Stalin calmly asked.

Maks said nothing.

"If you continue to remain silent, there should be no doubt in your mind that I will direct these men to retrieve your wife. I will bind her to a chair beside you, and you will watch her suffocate. Then, I will probably let you live, so the memory can haunt you the rest of your life."

Stalin spoke with a calm reserve, as if negotiating a business deal. Hayes was impressed with the ease in which this handsome man, crouched over in his Armani jeans and cashmere sweater, dished out misery.

"Kolya Maks is dead," Maks finally said. "His son, Vassily, lives about ten kilometers south of town on the main highway. As to why Lord sought him, I do not know. Vassily is my great-uncle. Members of the family have always operated businesses here in town with a sign out front. That was what Vassily asked of us, and I did as he asked."

"I believe you are lying, Mr. Maks. Are you of the Holy Band?"

Maks said nothing. Apparently, there was a limit to his cooperation.

"No. You would not admit that, would you? Part of your oath to the tsar."

Maks stared hard. "Ask Vassily."

"I shall," Stalin said, as he motioned.

Droopy slapped more tape over Maks's mouth.

The Russian rocked in the chair, trying to breathe. His attempt to break free sent the chair careering to the floor.

His struggle ended a minute later.

"A good man who will protect his wife," Stalin said, staring down at the corpse. "One to be admired."

"Will you honor your word?" Hayes asked.

Stalin stared at him with a look of genuine hurt. "Of course. What kind of person do you take me for?"

6:40 PM

Lord parked in the woods just off a muddy road. A chilly dusk had evolved into a cold, moonless night. He wasn't wild about the prospect of digging up a thirty-year-old coffin, but little choice remained. He was now convinced two Romanovs had walked away from Yekaterinburg. Whether they eventually made it to safety and ultimately survived to parent offspring was another matter, but there seemed only one way to find out.

Vassily Maks had provided them with two shovels and a flashlight with weak batteries. He'd warned that the cemetery was deep into the forest, a good thirty kilometers from Starodug, nothing around but thick poplars and an old stone church used occasionally for funerals.

"The cemetery should be just ahead, down that trail," he said, as they climbed out of the car.

They were still using the vehicle Iosif Maks had provided that morning. Maks had said he would return by evening with their car. When he'd not arrived by six PM Vassily had told them to go on, he would explain to Iosif and they would both be waiting when they returned. The old man seemed as anxious as they were to learn what secret his father had harbored. He also noted that there was one other piece of information he needed to pass on, but only after they were privy to what his father knew. It was another safety device, one that he intended to pass to his nephew, Iosif, the man he was grooming to assume the duty of keeper once he was gone.

Lord wore a jacket and a pair of leather gloves brought from Atlanta, along with thick woolen socks. His jeans were the only pair of casual wear he'd packed before leaving for Russia. The sweater was bought in Moscow a couple of weeks back. His world should have been one of suits and ties, casual clothes simply for a Sunday afternoon, but events had taken a dramatic shift in the past few days.

Maks had also provided a little protection, an old bolt-action rifle that could easily be characterized as antique. But the weapon appeared well oiled, and Maks demonstrated how to load and fire. He warned them about bears that roamed at night, especially this time of year as they prepared for a winter's hibernation. Lord knew little about guns, having fired one only a couple of times while in Afghanistan. He wasn't necessarily comfortable with the idea of being armed, but he was even more uncomfortable with the prospect of encountering a hungry bear. It was Akilina who surprised him. She readily shouldered the rifle and popped off three shots into a tree fifty yards away. Another of her grandmother's lessons, she said. And he was glad. At least one of them knew what they were doing.

He grabbed the shovels and flashlight from the backseat. Their clothes bags were there, too. As soon as they were through, after a quick trip back to Vassily Maks, they intended to leave. Where they would go was unclear, but he'd already decided that if this journey proved a dead end, he was going to drive southwest to Kiev and catch a flight to the United States. He'd call Taylor Hayes from the safety of his Atlanta apartment.

"Let's go," he said. "Might as well get this over with."

Black columns of trees rose all around, their boughs rustled by a frigid breeze that chapped his skin. He used the flashlight sparingly, conserving the batteries for the dig.

The muted image of tombstones appeared in a clearing ahead. They were high in the Old World style, and even through the darkness it was obvious the plots had not been maintained. A layer of frost iced everything. The blackness of the sky above hinted that more rain might be on the way. No fence of any kind delineated boundaries and no gate signified an entrance, the trail leading from the road simply dissolving into the first line of markers. He could imagine a cortege of mourners led by a solemn, black-robed priest making their way down the path, a simple wooden coffin part of the procession, a rectangle in the black earth waiting.