Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

"I was thinking of the men who are after you," Thorn said. "My wife. I need to make sure she's going to be all right. She didn't ask for any of this."

Lord asked, "Was the marriage arranged?"

Thorn nodded. "My father and Yussoupov found her. She comes from a devout Orthodox family with a vestige of royal blood. Enough, under the circumstances, to satisfy any objectors. Her family came here in the nineteen fifties from Germany. They fled Russia after the revolution. I love her dearly. Our life has been good."

There was something else Lord wanted to know. "Did Yussoupov ever relate what happened with the bodies? Iosif Maks told us what happened up until the point where his father found Alexie and Anastasia in the woods the morning after the murders. But Kolya left that day-"

"That's not true."

"That's what his son said."

"He left, but not after finding Alexie and Anastasia. He returned to the House of Special Purpose. It was three days later that he left with the two children."

"Was he involved with the ultimate disposal of the bodies?"

Thorn nodded.

"I've read a lot of speculation and the spurious firsthand accounts. Did Yussoupov say what actually happened?"

Thorn nodded. "Oh, yes. He related it all."

Kolya Maks returned to Yekaterinburg around noon. He'd taken Alexie and Anastasia to the safe house outside town and managed to hike back without anyone knowing where he'd gone. He learned that Yurovsky had returned to Yekaterinburg also and dutifully reported to the Ural Regional Soviet that the executions had been accomplished. The committee was pleased, and a dispatch had been sent to Moscow detailing their success.

But the men Yurovsky chased from the Four Brothers mine the night before, the men led by Peter Ermakov, were telling anyone who would listen where the tsar and his family lay. There was talk of jewel-encased bodies and men who wanted to venture back into the woods. None of which was surprising. Too many had been involved in the disposal to even hope secrecy could be maintained.

It was midafternoon when Maks met up with Yurovsky. He, along with three others, had been ordered to appear in town and assist the commandant.

"They're going back out there," Yurovsky told them. "Ermakov is determined to win this fight."

Artillery could be heard booming in the distance.

"The Whites are within days of here. Maybe even hours. We have to get those bodies out of that mine." Yurovsky's black eyes narrowed. "Particularly given our numerical problem."

Maks and the others knew what he meant. Nine corpses, instead of the required eleven.

Yurovsky directed two men to requisition kerosene and sulfuric acid from whatever merchant had a stock available. Maks was told to get into the car and he and Yurovsky left town on the Moscow highway. The afternoon had turned cool and dingy, the morning sun gone behind a thick bank of gunmetal-gray clouds.

"I've been told there are deep mines filled with water west of here," Yurovsky said along the way. "We will drop them in there with stones tied around them. But first they will be burned and disfigured with acid. Even if found, no one will recognize who they are. Every hole in the ground around here has a body or two."

Maks did not relish the thought of retrieving nine bloodied corpses from the bottom of the Four Brothers mine. He recalled Yurovsky tossing hand grenades down the shaft, and his spine shivered at the prospects that lay ahead.

Fifteen miles west of Yekaterinburg, the car broke down. Yurovsky cursed the engine, then led the way on foot. They discovered three deep mines about five miles away filled with water. It was eight PM when they finally returned to town, the journey made partly by foot, the rest on a horse commandeered from a peasant. Not until shortly after midnight on July 18, twenty-four hours after the debacle of the night before, did they finally return to the Four Brothers mine.

It took several hours to light the deep shaft and prepare. Maks listened as each of the three who came with Yurovsky hoped not to be the one chosen for the descent. When all the preparations were in order Yurovsky said, "Kolya, climb down and find them."

Maks thought of objecting but it would show weakness, and that was the last thing he wanted to demonstrate before these men. He had their confidence. Most important, he had Yurovsky's confidence, and that was something he would need in the days ahead. Without saying a word, he tied a rope around his waist and two men slowly lowered him into the shaft. The black clay was oily to the touch. A bituminous stench mixed with mildew and lichens permeated the cold air. But there was also another odor, one more pungent and sickly sweet. One he'd smelled before. The scent of decaying flesh.

Fifty feet down, his torch illuminated a pool. In the flickering light he saw an arm, a leg, the back of a head. He called up for the lowering to stop. He hovered just above the surface.

"Down. Slow," he yelled.

His right boot touched, then submerged. The water was icy. A chill swept through him as his legs were soaked. Luckily, the water was only waist-deep. He stood shivering and called out that they should stop lowering.

Another rope suddenly fell from above. He knew what it was for. He reached over and grabbed its end. Yurovsky's grenades had apparently done little damage. He reached out for the closest body part and pulled naked flesh toward him. It was Nicholas. Maks stared down at the mutilated tsar, the face barely recognizable. He remembered the man as he was. Slender body, square face, impressive beard, expressive eyes.

He tied the rope around the corpse and signaled that it should be raised. But the earth seemed not to want to yield its charge. Water gushed from the lifeless shell. Limp muscles and flesh gave way, and Nicholas II crashed back into the pool.

Frigid water drenched Maks's face and hair.

The rope dropped back down. He waded to the corpse and this time tied the noose tighter, pinching the torso and tearing flesh.

It took three more attempts to lift the tsar from the shaft.

Fighting back nausea, he repeated the task eight more times. It took hours to finish, the cold, darkness, and decay complicating everything. He'd gone back up three times to warm himself by a fire, the water chilling him to the bone. When he was lifted out the final time, the sun was high in the sky and nine mutilated corpses lay on the wet grass.

One of the men produced a blanket for Maks. The dry wool smelled of ox, but felt good.

"Let's just bury them here," one of the men said.

Yurovsky shook his head. "Not in this mud. The grave would be easily discovered. We need to transport them to a new site. These demons need to be covered forever. I'm tired of seeing their cursed faces. Bring the carts forward. We'll take them to a new place."

Three flimsy wooden carts were rolled from where the cars were parked. The wheels bucked on the rough, muddy ground. Maks stood with the blanket wrapped around him, near Yurovsky, waiting for men and carts to draw near.

Yurovsky stood rigid, staring down at the bloated bodies. "Where could the other two be?"

"Not here," Maks answered.

The burly Jew's glare came with the speed and accuracy of a bullet. "I wonder if that might one day be a problem."

Maks considered whether the short-necked man in the black leather jacket standing before him knew more than he should. Then he dismissed the thought. Those two missing corpses could mean Yurovsky's life. No way he'd let that pass.

"How could it be?" Maks asked. "They are dead. Is that not all that matters? A body is just confirmation."

The commandant stepped close to one of the females. "I fear we have not heard the last of these Romanovs."