The Romanov Prophecy

FIVE
3:35 PM

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The shelves were stocked mainly with nonsensical personal papers-books, letters, diaries, government records, and other unpublished material-innocuous writings that possessed no historical significance.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.

And he had.

Toppling the weak provisional government ten months back in what the guards proudly called the October Revolution.

Why was his cousin the kaiser doing this to him? Did he hate him that much? Was winning the World War important enough to sacrifice a ruling dynasty?

Apparently so.

Just two months after seizing power, to no one's surprise, Lenin signed a cease-fire with the Germans, and Russia abandoned the Great War, leaving the Allies without an eastern front to occupy the advancing Germans. Britain, France, and the United States could not be happy. He understood the dangerous game Lenin was playing. Promising the people peace to gain their confidence, but needing to delay its implementation in order to placate the Allies, while at the same time not offending his real ally, the kaiser. The Treaty of Brest-Litovsk, signed five months back, was nothing short of devastating. Germany gained a quarter of Russia's territory and nearly a third of its people. That action, he'd been told, had generated great resentment. The talk among the guards was that all of the Bolshevik enemies had finally coalesced under a unified White banner, chosen in startling contrast to the communist Red flag. A mass of recruits had already gravitated to the Whites. Peasants particularly were drawn, since land was still denied them.

A civil war now raged.

White versus Red.

And he was merely Citizen Romanov, prisoner of the Red Bolsheviks.

Ruler of no one.

He and his family had first been held in the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoe Selo, not far from Petrograd. Then they were moved west to Tobolsk, in central Russia, a river town full of whitewashed churches and log cabins. The people there had been openly loyal, showing great respect to their fallen tsar and his family. They'd daily gathered in large numbers outside the confinement house, removing their hats and crossing themselves. Hardly a day went by without a delivery of cakes, candles, and icons. The guards themselves, members of the honored Rifle Regiment, had been friendly and had taken the time to talk and play cards. They'd been allowed books and newspapers, even correspondence. The food had been excellent and every comfort was shown them.

All in all, not a bad prison.

Then, seventy-eight days ago, another move.

This time here, to Yekaterinburg, on the eastern slope of the Ural Mountains, deep in the heart of Mother Russia where Bolsheviks dominated. Ten thousand Red Army troops wandered the streets. The local population was bitterly opposed to anything tsarist. The house of a wealthy merchant, a man named Ipatiev, had been commandeered and converted into a makeshift prison. The House of Special Purpose, Nicholas had heard it called. A high wooden fence had been erected, the glass in all the windows smeared with lime and iron-barred, none to be opened on pain of being shot. All the doors had been removed from the bedrooms and lavatories. He'd been forced to listen while his family was jeered with insults, compelled to view without comment lewd pictures of his wife and Rasputin scrawled on the walls. Yesterday he'd almost come to blows with one of the impertinent bastards. The guard had written on his daughters' bedroom wall: OUR RUSSIAN TSAR CALLED NICK. PULLED OFF HIS THRONE BY HIS PRICK.

Enough of that, he thought.

"What time is it?" he finally asked the guard standing over him.

"Two AM."

"What is wrong?"

"It is necessary that your family be moved. The White Army is approaching the city. An attack is imminent. It would be dangerous to be in the upper rooms, if there was shooting in the streets."

The words excited Nicholas. He'd heard the guards' whispers. The White Army had stormed across Siberia, taking town after town, regaining territory from the Reds. Over the past few days the rumble of artillery could be heard in the distance. That sound had given him hope. Perhaps his generals were finally coming and things would be put right again.

"Rise and dress," the guard said.

The man withdrew and Nicholas roused his wife. His son, Alexie, slept in a bed on the far side of the modest bedroom.

He and Alexie quietly dressed in their military field shirts, trousers, boots, and forage caps, while Alexandra withdrew to their daughters' room. Unfortunately, Alexie could not walk. Yet another hemophilic hemorrhage two days before had crippled him, so Nicholas gently carried the thin thirteen-year-old into the hall.

His four daughters appeared.

Each was dressed in a plain black skirt and white blouse, their mother following, limping with her cane. His precious Sunshine was barely able to walk anymore-sciatica from her childhood had progressively worsened. The almost constant worry she endured for Alexie had destroyed her health, graying her once chestnut hair and fading the loving glow in eyes that had captivated him since the first day they'd met as teenagers. Her breath seemed to come quick, many times in painful gasps, her lips occasionally turning blue. She complained about her heart and back, but he wondered if the afflictions were real or just side effects of the unutterable grief she experienced, wondering if today was the day death would snatch her son.

"What is this, Papa?" Olga asked.

She was twenty-two, his firstborn. Thoughtful and intelligent, she was in many ways like her mother, occasionally brooding and sulky.

"Perhaps our salvation," he mouthed.

A look of excitement crept across her pretty face. Her sister Tatiana, one year her junior, and Maria, two years younger, came close, carrying pillows. Tatiana was tall and stately, the leader of the girls-Governess, they all called her-and she was her mother's favorite. Maria was pretty and gentle-eyes like saucers-and flirtatious. Her desire was to marry a Russian soldier and have twenty children. His two middle daughters had heard what he said.

He motioned for silence.

Anastasia, seventeen, lingered with her mother, carrying King Charles, the cocker spaniel their jailers had allowed her to retain. She was short and plump with the reputation of a rebel-a monkey for jokes, her sisters would say-but her deep blue eyes were charming and he'd never been able to resist them.

The remaining four captives quickly joined them.

Dr. Botkin, Alexie's physician. Trupp, Nicholas's valet. Demidova, Alexandra's maid. And Kharitonov, the cook. Demidova likewise clutched a pillow, but Nicholas knew this one was special. Sewn deep within its feathers was a box containing jewels, and Demidova's task was never to allow the pillow from her sight. Alexandra and the girls likewise harbored treasure, their corsets concealing diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and ropes of pearl.

Alexandra limped close and asked him, "Do you know what's happening?"

"The Whites are nearby."

Her tired face showed wonderment. "Could this be?"

"This way, please," a familiar voice said from the stairway.

Nicholas turned and faced Yurovsky.

The man had arrived twelve days before with a squad from the Bolshevik Secret Police, replacing the previous commandant and his undisciplined factory-worker guards. At first the change seemed positive, but Nicholas quickly determined that these new men were professionals. Perhaps even Magyars, prisoners of war from the Austro-Hungarian army, hired by the Bolsheviks for jobs native Russians abhorred. Yurovsky was their leader. A dark man with black hair, black beard, and an unhurried way in his manner and speech. He gave orders calmly and expected them to be obeyed. Ox Command was the name with which they'd christened him, and Nicholas had quickly concluded that this demon enjoyed oppressing people.

"We must hurry," Yurovsky said. "Time is short."

Nicholas signaled for quiet and the entourage followed a wooden staircase down to the ground floor. Alexie slept soundly on his shoulder. Anastasia released the dog, which scurried away.

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.