Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

The interior was traditional, built in the form a cross, the altar facing east. Her eyes were drawn upward to the dome and a massive brass chandelier that dangled from its center. The distinctive smell of beeswax drifted from brass stands holding thick candles that flickered in the muted light, the mild scent softening a lingering presence of incense. Icons stared back from all around-on the walls, in the stained glass, and from the iconostasis that separated the altar from the congregation. In the church of her youth the barrier had been more open, offering a clear view of the priests beyond. But this was a solid wall filled with crimson and gold images of Christ and the Virgin Mary, only the open doorways offering glimpses beyond. There were no pews or benches anywhere. Apparently people here, as in Russia, worshipped standing.

She moved to a side altar, hoping perhaps God could help with her dilemma. She started to cry. She'd never been one for tears, but the thought of Miles Lord being tortured, perhaps to death, was overwhelming. She needed to go to the police, but something cautioned her that this might not be the right course. Government was not necessarily a salvation. That was a lesson her grandmother had hammered into her.

She crossed herself and started to pray, muttering lines taught to her as a child.

"Are you all right, my child?" a male voice asked in Russian.

She turned to face a middle-age priest dressed in black Orthodox robes. He did not wear the headdress common to Russian clergy, but a silver cross dangled from his neck, an accessory she vividly recalled from childhood. She quickly dried her eyes and tried to regain control.

"You speak Russian," she said.

"I was born there. I heard your prayer. It is odd to hear someone speak the language so well. Are you here for a visit?"

She nodded.

"What is the trouble that makes you so sad?" The man's calm voice was soothing.

"It is a friend. He is in danger."

"Can you help him?"

"I don't know how."

"You have come to the right place to seek guidance." The priest motioned to the wall of icons. "There is no better adviser than our Lord."

Her grandmother had been devoutly Orthodox and tried to teach her to trust in heaven. Not until this moment, though, had she ever really needed God. She realized the priest would never understand what was happening, and she did not want to say much more, so she asked, "Have you followed what is occurring in Russia, Father?"

"With great interest. I would have voted yes for restoration. It is the best thing for Russia."

"Why do you say that?"

"A great destruction of souls occurred in our homeland for many decades. The church was nearly destroyed. Maybe now Russians can return to the fold. The Soviets were terrified of God."

That was a strange observation, but she agreed. Anything that might have gelled the opposition was viewed as a threat. The Mother Church. Some poetry. An old woman.

The priest said, "I have lived here many years. This country is not the awful place we were taught it was. The Americans elect their president every four years with great fanfare. But at the same time, they remind him he is human and may be wrong in his decisions. I have learned that the less a government deifies itself, the more it should be respected. Our new tsar should take a lesson from that."

She nodded. Was this a message?

"Do you care for this friend who is in trouble?" the priest asked.

The question brought her attention into focus, and she answered truthfully. "He is a good person."

"You love him?"

"We have only recently met."

The priest motioned to the bag draped from her shoulder. "Are you going somewhere? Running away?"

She realized this holy man did not understand, nor would he ever. Lord said to talk to no one until after he failed to show at six PM. And she was determined to respect his wishes. "There is nowhere to run, Father. My troubles are here."

"I am afraid that I do not understand your situation. And the Gospel says that if the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch."

She smiled. "I don't really comprehend it myself. But I have an obligation to fulfill. One that is tormenting me at the moment."

"And it involves this man, whom you may or may not love?"

She nodded.

"Would you like for us to pray for him?"

What could it hurt? "That might help, Father. Then, after, could you tell me the way to the zoo?"

Lord opened his eyes, expecting either another jolt of electricity or another piece of duct tape to be pressed over his nose. He didn't know which was worse. But he realized that he was no longer strapped to the chair. He was sprawled on a hardwood floor, his bindings cut loose and dangling from the chair's legs and arms. None of his torturers were around, the office lit only by three lamps and pale sunlight filtering past opaque sheers that covered floor-to-ceiling windows.

The pain of raw electricity surging through his body had been excruciating. Orleg had delighted in varying the contact points, starting with his forehead, then his chest, and finally his crotch, his groin now aching both from Droopy's blow and the bare wires that had sent voltage surging through his genitals. It was like cold water doused on a raw toothache, intense enough to black him out. But he'd tried to hang on, stay tough, keep alert. He couldn't slip and let anything out about Akilina. Some mythical heir of the Romanovs was one thing. She was another.

He struggled to lift himself from the floor, but his right calf was numb and he was barely able to stand. The numerals on his watch blurred in and out. He was finally able to make out five fifteen PM. Only forty-five minutes left to meet Akilina.

He hoped they'd not found her. His still being alive was perhaps confirmation of their failure. Surely when she'd called at three thirty and he hadn't spoken with her, she'd followed his instructions.

He'd been a fool to trust Filip Vitenko, thinking thousands of miles between here and Moscow enough insulation. Apparently, whoever was interested in what he was doing had sufficient connections to transcend international borders, which meant high-level government involvement, and Lord resolved not to make that mistake again. From now on he would trust no one, except Akilina and Taylor Hayes. His boss had connections. Maybe enough to counteract what was happening.

But first things first. He needed to get out of the consulate.

Orleg and Droopy were surely nearby, probably just outside. He tried to remember what happened before he passed out. All he could recall was more electricity surging through his body, enough that his heart had fluttered. He'd stared hard into Orleg's bleak eyes and seen joy. The last thing he recalled before succumbing to unconsciousness was Droopy shoving the inspector aside, saying it was his turn.

He tried once more to push himself from the floor. A wave of vertigo swirled through his head.

The office door flew open. Droopy and Orleg strolled in.

"Good, Mr. Lord. You're awake," Orleg said in Russian.

The two Russians yanked him from the floor. Instantly the room spun and nausea invaded his stomach. His eyes rolled toward the ceiling and he thought he was about to black out when a sudden rush of cold water soaked his face. The initial feeling was like the electricity, but where voltage burned, the water soothed and his dizziness began to abate.

He focused on the two men.

Droopy was holding him upright from behind. Orleg stood before him, an empty pitcher in hand.

"Still thirsty?" the inspector asked with sarcasm.

"Fuck you," he managed to say.

The back of Orleg's hand slapped his wet jaw hard. The pain from the blow roused his senses. He tasted blood on the corner of his mouth and wanted to pull free and kill the sonovabitch.