Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

When the printer spat out a hard copy, he showed it to Akilina. "You're the daughter of one Zaneta Ludmilla. Your mother has recently died and left you this key to her safe-deposit box. The probate court of Fulton County, Georgia, has appointed you her personal representative, and I'm your lawyer. Since you speak little English, I'm here to handle things for you. As the personal representative, you must inventory everything your mother possessed, including whatever is in this box."

She smiled. "Just like in Russia. Fake papers. The only way to succeed."

Unlike the perception left by its advertisement, the Credit amp; Mercantile Bank was not located in some granite, neoclassical building, but inside one of the newer steel structures within the city's financial district. Lord knew the names of the high-rises surrounding it. The Embarcadero Center, the Russ Building, and the distinctive Transamerica Tower. He was familiar with the district's history. Banks and insurance companies predominated, giving the area the label Wall Street of the West. But oil companies, communications giants, engineering firms, and clothing conglomerates were also heavily represented. California gold had originally fueled the district's creation, but Nevada silver secured its place in the American financial world.

The interior of the Credit amp; Mercantile Bank was a trendy combination of laminated wood, terrazzo, and glass. The safe-deposit boxes were located on the third floor, and there a woman with sun-yellow hair waited behind a desk. Lord produced his key, phony letters of administration and state bar of Georgia identification card. He smiled and was pleasant, hoping there would be few questions. But the curious look on the woman's face was not encouraging.

"We have no box with that number," she coolly informed them.

He motioned to the key she held. "C.M.B. That's your bank, right?"

"It's our initials," was all she seemed willing to concede.

He decided to try firmness. "Ma'am, Miss Ludmilla here is anxious to settle her mother's affairs. This death has been particularly painful for her. We have reason to believe this box would be quite old. Doesn't the bank maintain boxes for long periods of time? According to your advertisements, this institution has been here since 1884."

"Mr. Lord, maybe I can speak a little slower and you'll understand." He was liking her tone less and less. "This bank has no box numbered seven sixteen. Our numbering system is different. We use a letter-and-number combination. Always have."

He turned to Akilina and spoke in Russian. "She isn't going to tell us anything. She says the bank has no box numbered seven sixteen."

"What are you saying?" the woman asked.

He turned back toward her. "I'm telling her that she'll have to control her pain a bit longer because there are no answers here."

He looked back at Akilina. "Give her a sad look. Maybe some tears if you can."

"I'm an acrobat, not an actress."

He gently clasped her hands and threw her an understanding look. He kept his face animated and said in Russian, "Try. It'll help."

Akilina glanced over at the woman and for a moment showed concern.

"Look," the woman said, handing the key back to him. "Why don't you try the Commerce and Merchants Bank. It's down the street about three blocks."

"Did it work?" Akilina asked.

"What's she saying?" the woman wanted to know.

"She wants me to explain what you said." He turned to Akilina and said in Russian, "Maybe this bitch has a heart after all." He switched to English and asked the woman, "Do you know how long that bank has been around?"

"They're like us. Old as dirt. Eighteen nineties. I believe."

The Commerce amp; Merchants Bank was a broad-shouldered monolith with a rusticated granite base, marble exterior, and a Corinthian-columned front. It offered a stark contrast to the Credit amp; Mercantile Bank and the other skyscrapers that flanked it on all sides, their reflective silvery glass and geometric metal grids demonstrative of a more recent time.

Entering, Lord was immediately impressed. The look and feel was of an old-style banking hall. Faux marble columns, inlaid stone floor, and teller cages-all remnants of an era when decorative iron bars did the job high-tech security cameras performed today.

They were directed to an office that controlled access to the safe-deposit vault located, as a uniformed guard informed them, one floor below in the basement.

A middle-aged black man with gray-flecked hair waited in the office. He wore a tie and vest, the gold fob of a pocket watch dangling across the beginnings of a potbelly. Their host introduced himself as Randall Maddox James, and he seemed proud of the fact that his name contained three parts.

Lord showed James his letters testamentary and the key. There were no negative remarks or questions beyond a few perfunctory inquiries, and James promptly led them through the main hall and down into an elaborate basement. The safe-deposit boxes comprised several spacious rooms, each lined with row after row of rectangular stainless-steel doors. Beyond one, they were led to a row of old boxes, the green metal exteriors tarnished, the locks black dots.

"These are the oldest the bank maintains," James said. "They were here when the 1906 earthquake struck. There are only a few of these dinosaurs left. We often wonder when the contents will all be claimed."

"You don't check after a time?" he asked.

"The law doesn't allow it. As long as the rent is paid each year."

He held up the key. "You're telling me the rental on this box has been paid since the twenties?"

"That's right. Otherwise we would have declared it dormant and drilled the lock. Surely your decedent made sure that happened."

He caught himself. "Of course. Who else?"

James pointed out the box marked 716. It was halfway up the wall, the access door about a foot across and ten inches high.

"If you need anything, Mr. Lord, I'll be in my office."

Lord waited until he heard the grille gate close, signaling that they were alone. Then he slid the key into the lock.

He opened the slot and saw another metal container. He slid the rectangle out, noticing the weight of whatever was inside, and deposited the inner box on a nearby walnut table.

Inside were three purple velvet bags, all in much better condition than the one Kolya Maks had harbored in death. There was also a newspaper, folded once, from Bern, Switzerland, dated September 25, 1920. The paper was brittle but still intact. He gently massaged the outside of the longest bag and discerned distinct outlines. He quickly opened the bag and withdrew two gold bars, both identical to the one waiting in the Kiev airport, NR and a double-headed eagle stamped on top. He then reached for another bag, this one fatter, almost round. He loosened the leather straps.

What he withdrew shocked him.

The egg was an enameled translucent rose on a guilloche field, supported by green cabriolet legs that, on close inspection, were actually overlapping leaves veined with what appeared to be rose diamonds. On top was a tiny imperial crown set with two bows, dotted with more rose diamonds and what appeared to be an exquisite ruby. The entire oval was quartered by four lines of diamonds and lilies in pearls and diamonds, more leaves enameled translucent green on gold. The whole egg was about six inches tall from leg to crown.

And he'd seen it before.

"This is Faberge," he said. "It's an imperial Easter egg."

"I know," Akilina said. "I have seen them in the Kremlin Armory."

"This one was known as the Lilies of the Valley Egg. It was presented to the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna, Nicholas II's mother, in 1898. There's just one problem, though. This egg was in a private collection. Malcolm Forbes, an American millionaire, bought twelve of the fifty-four known to have existed. His collection was larger than the Kremlin Armory's. I saw this exact egg on display in New York-"