Steve Berry: The Romanov Prophecy

"Moscow's version of the Kentucky Derby," Orleg said.

"This go on all day?"

The rats scooted around the twists and turns.

"All fucking day. They piss away what little they earn."

One of the rats found the finish line and a portion of the crowd erupted in cheers. He wondered what it paid, but decided to get down to business. "I want to know what happened today."

"The chornye was like a rat. Very fast through the streets."

"He should never have had the chance to run."

Orleg downed a swallow of the clear drink in his hand. "Apparently, the shooters missed."

The crowd was starting to quiet down, preparing for the next race. Hayes led Orleg to an empty table in a far corner. "I'm not in the mood for smart-ass, Orleg. The idea was to kill him. How hard could that have been?"

Orleg savored another sip before swallowing. "Like I said, the fools missed. When they chased him, your Mr. Lord escaped. Quite inventive, I was told. It took a lot for me to clear that area of police patrols for those few minutes. They should have had an easy opportunity. Instead, they killed three Russian citizens."

"I thought these men were professionals."

Orleg laughed. "Mean bastards, yes. Professionals? I don't think so. They're gangsters. What did you expect?" Orleg emptied the glass. "You want another hit made on him?"

"Fuck, no. In fact, I don't want one hair on Lord's head touched."

Orleg said nothing, but his eyes made clear that he didn't like being ordered by a foreigner.

"Leave it alone. It was a bad idea to start with. Lord thinks it was a hit on Bely. Good. Let him think that. We can't afford any more attention."

"The shooters said your lawyer handled himself like a pro."

"He was an athlete in college. Football and track. But two Kalashnikovs should have compensated."

Orleg sat back in the chair. "Maybe you should handle things yourself."

"Maybe I will. But for now, you make sure those idiots back off. They had their chance. I don't want another hit. And if they don't follow this order, assure them they will not like the people their bosses send for a visit."

The inspector shook his head. "When I was a boy we hunted down rich people and tortured them. Now we are paid to protect them." He spat on the floor. "Whole thing makes me sick."

"Who said anything about rich?"

"You think I do not know what is happening here?"

Hayes leaned close. "You don't know shit, Orleg. Do yourself a favor and don't ask too many questions. Follow orders and it'll be far better for your health."

"Fucking American. The whole world is completely upside down. I remember a time when you people worried whether we would even let you leave this country. Now you own us."

"Get with the program. Times are changing. Either keep up or get out of the way. You wanted to be a player? Be one. That requires obedience."

"Don't you worry about me, lawyer. But what of your Lord problem?"

"You don't worry about that. I'll handle him."

Lord was back in the russian archives, a gloomy granite building that once had served as the Institute of Marxism-Leninism. Now it was the Center for the Preservation and Study of Documents of Contemporary History-more evidence of the Russian penchant for superfluous titles.

He'd been surprised on his first visit to find images of Marx, Engels, and Lenin still on the pediment outside the main entrance, along with the call FORWARD TO THE VICTORY OF COMMUNISM. Nearly all reminders of the Soviet era had been stripped from every town, street, and building across the country, replaced by the double-headed eagle the Romanov dynasty had displayed for three hundred years. He'd been told that the red granite statue of Lenin was one of the few left standing in Russia.

He'd calmed down after a hot shower and more vodka. He was dressed in the only other suit he'd brought from Atlanta, a charcoal gray with a faint chalk stripe. He was going to have to visit one of the Moscow shops during the next couple of days and purchase another, since one suit would not be enough for the busy weeks ahead.

Before the communist fall, the archives had been considered too heretical for the general public, inaccessible to all but the most stalwart communists, and that distinction partially remained. Why, Lord had yet to understand. The shelves were stocked mainly with nonsensical personal papers-books, letters, diaries, government records, and other unpublished material-innocuous writings that possessed no historical significance. To make matters more of a challenge there was no indexing system, just a random organization by year, person, or geographic region. Totally haphazard, certainly designed more to confuse than enlighten. As if no one wanted the past found, which was most likely the case.

And there was little help.

The staff archivists were leftovers from the Soviet regime, part of the party hierarchy who had once enjoyed benefits not available to ordinary Muscovites. Though the party was gone, a cadre of loyal elderly women remained, many of whom, Lord believed, firmly wished for a return to totalitarian order. The lack of help was why he'd requested Artemy Bely's assistance, and he'd accomplished more in the past few days than in the weeks before.

Only a few idlers milled among the metal shelves. Most of the records, particularly those on Lenin, had once been locked away behind steel doors in underground vaults. Yeltsin had ended that secrecy and ordered everything moved aboveground, opening the building to academicians and journalists.

But not entirely.

A large section remained closed-the so-called Protective Papers-similar to what a TOP SECRET stamp did to any Freedom of Information request back home. Lord's Tsarist Commission credentials, however, overrode any supposed former state secrets. His pass, arranged by Hayes, was authority from the government to look wherever he desired, including through the Protective Papers.

He sat down at his reserved table and forced his mind to concentrate on the pages spread before him. His job was to bolster Stefan Baklanov's claim to the Russian throne. Baklanov, a Romanov by birth, was the leading contender for selection by the Tsarist Commission. He was also heavily entrenched with Western businesses, many of which were Pridgen amp; Woodworth clients, so Hayes had sent Lord into the archives to make sure there was nothing that might impugn Baklanov's claim to power. The last thing anyone needed was for there to have been a state investigation, or implications Baklanov's family had been German sympathizers during World War II-anything that might cause the people to doubt his commitment to them or to Russia.

Lord's assignment had led him to the last Romanov to occupy the Russian throne-Nicholas II-and what happened in Siberia on July 16, 1918. He'd read many published accounts and several unpublished ones during the past few weeks. All were, at best, contradictory. It took a detailed study of each report, culling out obvious falsehoods and combining facts, to glean any useful information. His growing notes now formed a cumulative narrative of that fateful night in Russian history.

Nicholas rustled from a sound sleep. A soldier stood over him. It wasn't often over the course of the past few months that he'd been able to actually sleep, and he resented the intrusion. But there was little he could do. He'd once been the Tsar of All Russia, Nicholas II, the embodiment of the Almighty on Earth. But a year ago last March he'd been forced to do the unthinkable for a divine monarch-abdicate in the face of violence. The provisional government that followed him was mainly liberals from the Duma and a coalition of radical socialists. It was to be a caretaker body until a constituent assembly could be elected, but the Germans had allowed Lenin to cross their territory and reenter Russia, hoping he'd wreak political havoc.