Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

The words were delivered with the kind of emotion that translated easily in both audio and video. Hayes was even more impressed.

"I will not say that Nicholas II was without fault. He was a stubborn autocrat who lost sight of his purpose. We know now that his wife clouded his judgment and that the tragedy with his son made them both vulnerable. Alexandra was a blessed woman in many ways, but she was foolish, too. She allowed herself to be influenced by Rasputin, a man nearly all despised as an opportunist. History is a good teacher. I will not repeat those mistakes. This nation cannot afford weak leadership. Our streets must be safe, our legal and governmental institutions stocked with truth and confidence. Only then can this country move forward."

"It sounds, sir," one of the commissioners said, "as if you have already chosen yourself tsar."

The question came from the same aggravating commissioner.

"My birth made that choice, Commissioner. I have no say in the matter. The throne of Russia is a Romanov throne. That is an indisputable fact."

"But did not Nicholas renounce the throne for himself and his son, Alexie?" came a question from the panel.

"He did for himself. But I doubt any legal scholar would conclude that he had the right to also renounce for Alexie. At the moment Nicholas abdicated in March 1917, his son became Alexie II. He possessed no right to take that throne away from Alexie. The throne is Romanov, from the bloodline of Nicholas II, and I am the nearest living male."

Hayes was pleased with the performance. Baklanov knew exactly what to say and when. He delivered his pronouncements with enough inflection to make his point without offending.

Stefan I would make an excellent tsar.

Provided, of course, that he followed orders as well as he wanted to give them.

1:10 PM

Lord glanced over at Akilina. they were sitting on the port side of a United Airlines L1011, forty thousand feet over the Arizona desert. They'd left Atlanta at five minutes after noon and, thanks to a five-hour flight and a three-hour time difference, they would arrive in San Francisco a little after two PM. Over the past twenty-four hours Lord had traveled three-quarters of the way around the globe, but he was glad to be back on U.S. soil-or over it-even if he wasn't sure what they were going to do in California.

"Are you always so restless?" Akilina quietly asked in Russian.

"Not usually. But this isn't usual."

"I want to say something."

He heard the edge in her voice.

"I was not totally honest with you earlier… in the apartment."

He was perplexed.

"You asked if there had ever been anyone special in my life, and I said no. Actually, there was."

Apprehension clouded her face and he felt compelled to say, "You don't have to explain anything to me."

"I want to."

He settled back into the seat.

"His name was Tusya. I met him in the performers' school where I was sent after secondary education. It was never assumed I would attend university. My father was a performer and it was expected I would be one as well. Tusya was an acrobat. He was good, but not quite good enough. He was not elevated beyond the school. But he still wanted us to marry."

"What happened?"

"Tusya's family lived in the north, near the frozen plains. Since he was not of Moscow, we would have been forced to live with my parents until securing permission for an apartment of our own. That meant obtaining their permission for the marriage and for Tusya to live in Moscow. My mother refused."

He was surprised. "Why?"

"By then she was a bitter woman. My father was still in the labor camp. She resented him for that, and for the fact that he wished to leave the country. She saw happiness in my eyes and quelled that to satisfy her own pain."

"Why not just live somewhere else?" he asked.

"Tusya wouldn't allow it. He wanted to be a Muscovite. Everyone who wasn't wanted to be. Without consulting me, he joined the army. It was either that or be banished to factory work somewhere. He told me that once he earned the right to live where he desired, he'd be back."

"What happened to him?"

She hesitated before saying, "He died in Chechnya. For nothing, since, in the end, everything was as before. I never forgave my mother for what she did."

He heard the bitterness. "Did you love him?"

"As much as any young girl could. But what is love? For me it was a temporary respite from reality. You asked me before if I thought things would be different with a tsar. How could they get any worse?"

He did not argue with her.

"You and I are different," she said.

He didn't understand.

"In many ways my father and I are much alike. Both of us were refused love thanks to the harshness of our Motherland. You, on the other hand, hate your father, but profited from the opportunity of your homeland. Interesting how life creates such extremes."

Yes, it was, he thought.

San Francisco International Airport was crowded. They'd both packed light, toting only the shoulder bags Semyon Pashenko had provided. If nothing was learned after a couple of days, Lord intended on returning to Atlanta and contacting Taylor Hayes-Pashenko and Rasputin be damned. He'd almost called the office before they left Georgia, but decided against it. He wanted to respect Pashenko's wishes as long as possible, giving at least partial credence to a prophecy he once thought complete malarkey.

They passed baggage claim, crowded with a crush of travelers, and headed outside. Beyond a wall of glass, the West Coast afternoon loomed bright in clear sunshine.

"What now?" Akilina asked him in Russian.

He did not answer her. Instead, his attention was riveted on something across the crowded terminal.

"Come on," he said, grabbing Akilina's hand and leading her through the phalanx of people.

On the far wall beyond an American Airlines baggage claim area was a lit placard, one of hundreds that lined the terminal walls. The colorful signs advertised everything from condo developments to long-distance calling plans. He stared at the words superimposed over a templelike building:

CREDIT amp; MERCANTILE BANK OF SAN FRANCISCO A LOCAL TRADITION SINCE 1884

"What does it say?" Akilina asked in Russian.

He told her, then found the key in his pocket, staring again at the initials etched into brass.

c.m.b.

"I think we have a key to a box in the Credit and Mercantile Bank. It was here during the reign of Nicholas II."

"How can you be sure that is the correct place?"

"I can't."

"How do we find out?"

"Good question. We need a convincing story to gain access. I doubt if the bank is just going to let us waltz in with a key that's decades old and open the box for us. There'll be questions." His lawyer mind started working again. "But I think I know a way around that."

The taxi ride from the airport downtown took thirty minutes. He had selected a Marriott just beyond the financial district. The gigantic mirrored building looked like a jukebox. He picked the hotel not only for location but for its well-equipped business center.

After depositing their bags in the room, he led Akilina downstairs. On one of the word processors he typed out an order headed PROBATE COURT OF FULTON COUNTY. He'd clerked in the probate division of a firm during his last year of law school and was familiar with letters testamentary-the formal order from a probate court that authorized an individual to act on behalf of a deceased. He'd written several, but to be sure he accessed the Internet. The Web was littered with legal addresses that offered everything from the latest appellate opinions to templates that could be used to draft even the most obscure documents. There was one site, hosted by Emory University in Atlanta, he routinely used. There he found the right language from which to fashion fake letters of testamentary.