Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

He told him what had happened. Everything. Including the comment he heard one of the gunmen utter and Inspector Orleg's speculation that the killing was directed at Bely and the Justice Ministry. Then he said, "Taylor, I think those guys were after me."

Hayes shook his head. "You don't know that. It could be you got a good look at their faces, and they decided to eliminate a witness. You just happened to be the only black guy around."

"There were hundreds of people on that street. Why single me out?"

"Because you were with Bely. That police inspector's right. It could have been a hit on Bely. They could have been watching all day, waiting for the right time. From the sound of it, I think it was."

"We don't know that."

"Miles, you just met Bely a couple of days ago. You don't know beans about him. People die around here all the time, for a variety of unnatural reasons."

Lord glanced down at the dark splotches on his clothes and thought again about AIDS. The waiter arrived with his drink. Hayes tossed the man a few rubles. Lord sucked a breath and gulped a long swallow, letting the fiery alcohol calm his nerves. He'd always liked Russian vodka. It truly was the best in the world. "I only hope to God he's HIV-negative. I'm still wearing his blood." He tabled the glass. "You think I ought to get out of the country?"

"You want to?"

"Shit, no. History is about to be made here. I don't want to cut and run. This is something I can tell my grandkids about. I was there when the tsar of all Russia was restored to the throne."

"Then don't go."

Another swig of vodka. "I also want to be around to see my grandchildren."

"How did you get away?"

"Ran like hell. It was strange, but I thought of my grandfather and 'coon hunting to keep me going."

A curious look came to Hayes's face.

"The sport of local rednecks back in the nineteen forties. Take a nigger out in the woods, let the dogs get a good whiff, then give him a thirty-minute head start." Another swallow of vodka. "Assholes never caught my granddaddy."

"You want me to arrange protection?" Hayes asked. "A bodyguard?"

"I think that'd be a good idea."

"I'd like to keep you here in Moscow. This could get real sticky, and I need you."

And Lord wanted to stay. So he kept telling himself Droopy and Cro-Magnon went after him because he saw them kill Bely. A witness, nothing more. That had to be it. What else could it be? "I left all my stuff in the archives. I thought I'd only be gone for a quick lunch."

"I'll call and have it brought over."

"No. I think I'll take a shower and go get it myself. I have more work to do anyway."

"Onto something?"

"Not really. Just tying up loose ends. I'll let you know if anything pans out. Work will take my mind off this."

"What about tomorrow? Can you still do the briefing?"

The waiter returned with a fresh vodka glass.

"Damn right."

Hayes smiled. "Now that's the attitude. I knew you were a tough sonovabitch."

2:30 pm

Hayes shouldered through the throng of commuters streaming out of the Metro train. Platforms that a moment ago were deserted now teemed with thousands of Muscovites, all shoving toward four escalators that reached six hundred feet up to street level. An impressive sight, but it was the silence that caught his attention. It always did. Nothing but soles to stone and the scrape of one coat against another. Occasionally a voice would carry, but, overall, the procession of eight million people that paraded in every morning and then out every evening on the busiest subway system in the world was somber.

The Metro was Stalin's showcase. A vain attempt in the 1930s to openly celebrate socialist achievement with the largest and longest tunneling ever completed by humankind. The stations dotting the city became works of art adorned with florid stucco, neoclassical marble piers, elaborate chandeliers, gold, and glass. Not one person ever questioned the initial cost or subsequent upkeep. Now the price for that foolishness was an indispensable transportation system that demanded billions of rubles each year for maintenance, but brought in only a few kopecks a ride.

Yeltsin and his successors had tried to raise the fare, but the public furor was so great they'd all backed down. That had been their problem, Hayes thought. Too much populism for a nation as fickle as Russia. Be right. Be wrong. But don't be indecisive. Hayes firmly believed Russians would have respected their leaders more if they'd raised the fares, then shot anybody who openly protested. That was a lesson many Russian tsars and communist premiers had failed to learn-Nicholas II and Mikhail Gorbachev particularly.

He stepped off the escalator and followed the crowd out narrow doors into a brisk afternoon. He was north of Moscow center, beyond the overloaded four-lane motorway that encircled the city and was curiously called the Garden Ring. This particular Metro station was a dilapidated tile-and-glass oval with a flat roof, not one of Stalin's finest. In fact, the entire part of town would not find its way into any travel brochures. The station entrance was lined with a procession of haggard men and women, their skin drawn, hair matted, clothes a stinking mess, hocking everything-from toiletries to bootleg cassettes to dried fish-trying to raise a few rubles or, even better, U.S. dollars. He often wondered if anyone actually bought the shriveled salty fish carcasses, which looked even worse than they smelled. The only source of fish nearby was the Moskva River and, based on what he knew of Soviet and Russian waste disposal, there would be no telling what extras came with the meal.

He buttoned his overcoat and pushed his way down a buckled sidewalk, trying to fit in. He'd changed out of his suit into a pair of olive corduroys, a dark twill shirt, and black sneakers. Any hints of Western fashion were nothing but requests for trouble.

He found the club to which he'd been directed. It sat in the middle of a run-down block among a bakery, a grocery, a record store, and an ice-cream parlor. No placard announced its presence, only a small sign that beckoned visitors with a promise written in Cyrillic of exciting entertainment.

The interior was a dimly lit rectangle. Some vain attempt at ambience radiated from cheap walnut paneling. A blue fog laced the warm air. The room's center was dominated by an enormous plywood maze. He'd seen this novelty before, downtown, in the swankier haunts of the new rich. Those were neon monstrosities, molded out of tile and marble. This was a poor man's version, fashioned of bare boards and illuminated by fluorescent fixtures that threw down harsh blue rays.

A crowd encircled the display. These were not the type of men who tended to congregate in the more elaborate places munching salmon, herring, and beetroot salad, while armed lieutenants guarded the front door and roulette and blackjack were played for thousands of dollars in an adjoining room. It could cost two hundred rubles just to walk through the door at those places. For the men here-surely blue-collar workers from nearby factories and foundries-two hundred dollars was six months' wages.

"About time," Feliks Orleg said in Russian.

Hayes had not noticed the police inspector's approach. His attention had been on the maze. He motioned to the crowd and asked in Russian, "What's the attraction?"

"You'll see."

He stepped close and noticed that what appeared as one unit was actually three separate mazes intertwined. From small doors at the far end, three rats sprang. The rodents seemed to understand what was expected of them and raced forward undaunted while men howled and screamed. One of the spectators reached out to bang the side and a burly man with prizefighter forearms appeared from nowhere and restrained him.