Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

They were led outside, across a courtyard, to a semi-basement room with one arched window. Dingy striped wallpaper covered the plaster walls. There was no furniture.

"Wait here for the cars to arrive," Yurovsky said.

"Where are we going?" Nicholas asked.

"Away," was all their jailer said.

"No chairs?" Alexandra said. "May we not sit?"

Yurovsky shrugged and instructed one of his men. Two chairs appeared. Alexandra took one, Maria positioning the pillow she held behind her mother's back. Nicholas sat Alexie in the other. Tatiana placed her pillow behind her brother and made the boy comfortable. Demidova continued to clutch her pillow close with crossed arms.

More artillery rumbled in the distance. The sound brought Nicholas hope.

Yurovsky said, "It is necessary that we photograph you. There are people who believe you have already escaped. So I need you to stand here."

Yurovsky positioned everyone. When he finished, the daughters stood behind their seated mother, Nicholas stood beside Alexie, the four non-family members behind him. Over the course of sixteen months they'd been ordered to do many strange things. This one, being awakened in the middle of the night for a picture and then being whisked away, was no exception. When Yurovsky left the room and closed the door, no one said a word.

A moment later the door reopened.

But no photographer with a tripod camera entered. Instead, eleven armed men paraded in. Yurovsky came last. The Russian's right hand was stuffed into his trouser pocket. He was holding a sheet of paper in the other.

He started reading.

"In view of the fact that your relatives are continuing their attack on the Soviet Russia, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you."

Nicholas was having trouble hearing. A vehicle engine was revving outside, loud and clamorous. Strange. He looked at his family, then faced Yurovsky and said, "What? What?"

The Russian's expression never broke. He simply repeated the declaration in the same monotone. Then his right hand came from his pocket.

Nicholas saw the gun.

A Colt pistol.

The barrel approached his head.

A weak feeling always came to Lord's stomach when he read about that night. He tried to imagine what it must have been like when the shooting started. The terror they must have felt. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do but die horribly.

He'd been drawn back to the event because of what he'd found in the Protective Papers. He'd stumbled onto the note ten days back, scrawled on a plain brittle sheet in outdated Russian script, the black ink barely legible. It was inside a crimson leather bag that had been sewn shut. A label on the outside indicated: ACQUIRED JULY 10, 1925. NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL JANUARY 1, 1950. It was impossible to determine if that instruction had been heeded.

He reached into his briefcase and found the copy he'd carefully translated. The date at the top read April 10, 1922:

The situation with Yurovsky is troubling. I do not believe the reports filed from Yekaterinburg were accurate and the information concerning Felix Yussoupov corroborates that. It is unfortunate the White Guardsman you persuaded to talk was not more forthcoming. Perhaps too much pain can be counterproductive. The mention of Kolya Maks is interesting. I have heard this name before. The village of Starodug has likewise been noted by two other similarly persuaded White Guardsmen. There is something occurring, of that I am certain, but I fear my body will not endure for me to learn what. I greatly worry about the future of all our endeavors after I am gone. Stalin is frightening. There is a rigidness about him that insulates all emotion from his decision making. If the leadership of our new nation falls to him, I fear the dream may die.

I wonder if one or more of the imperials may have escaped Yekaterinburg. It certainly appears that way. Comrade Yussoupov apparently believes so. Perhaps he thinks he can offer the next generation a reprieve. Perhaps the tsarina was not as foolish as we all believed. Maybe the starets's ramblings have more meaning than we first thought. Over the past few weeks, thinking of the Romanovs, I have found myself recalling the words of an old Russian poem: The knights are dust and their good swords rust. Their souls are with the saints we trust.

He and Artemy Bely both believed the document was penned in Lenin's own hand. It wouldn't be unusual. The communists had preserved thousands of Lenin's writings. But this particular document had not been found where it should have been. Instead, Lord had located it among papers repatriated from the Nazis after World War II. Hitler's invading armies had stolen not only Russian art, but also archival material by the tons. Document depositories in Leningrad, Stalingrad, Kiev, and Moscow were stripped clean. Only after the war, when Stalin sent his Extraordinary Commission to reclaim the country's heritage, had many of these caches found their way back to the Motherland.

There was, though, one other relevant paper within the crimson leather bag. A single sheet of parchment with a frilly border of flowers and leaves. The handwriting was in English, the script distinctly feminine:

October 28, 1916.

Dear beloved Soul of my Soul, my own Wee One, Sweet Angel, oh, me loves you so, always together, night and day, I feel what you are going through and your poor heart. God have mercy, give you strength and wisdom. He won't forsake you. He will help, recompense this mad suffering and end this separation at such a time when one needs being together.

Our Friend has just left. He saved Baby once again. Oh merciful Jesus thank the Lord we have him. The pain was immense, my heart torn apart from witnessing, but Baby now sleeps peacefully. I am assured that tomorrow he will be well.

Such sunny weather, no clouds. That means, trust and hope, yet all is pitch black around, but God is above all; we know not His way, nor how He will help, but He will hark unto all prayers. Our Friend is most insistent on that.

I must tell you that just before he left our Friend went into a strange convulsion. I was most frightened thinking he may be ill. What would Baby do without him. He fell to the floor and began muttering about leaving this world before the new year and seeing masses of corpses, several grand dukes and hundreds of counts. The Neva will be all red with blood, he said. His words terrified me.

Looking toward heaven, he told me that if he be murdered by boyars their hands will remain soiled by blood for twenty-five years. They will leave Russia. Brother will rise against brother, they will kill each other in hate, and there will be no nobles in the country. Most disturbing, he said that if one of our relatives carries out his murder, none of our family will live more than two years. We will all be killed by the Russian people.

He made me rise and immediately write this down. Then he said not to despair. There would be salvation. The one with the most guilt will see the error of his way. He will assure that the blood of our body resurrects itself. His rantings bordered on nonsense and I wondered, for the first time, if the stench of alcohol upon him had affected his brain. He kept saying that only a raven and an eagle can succeed where all fail and that the innocence of beasts will guard and lead the way, being the final arbitor of success. He said God will provide a way to be sure of righteousness. Most troubling was his statement that twelve must die before the resurrection can be complete.

I tried to question him but he went silent, insisting that I write the prophecy down exactly and convey the vision to you. He talked as if something might happen to us, but I assured him that Papa has the country well in hand. He was not comforted and his words troubled me all night. Oh my precious one, I hold you tight in my arms and will never let anyone touch your shining soul. I kiss, kiss, kiss and bless you and you always understand. I hope you come to me soon.