The Romanov Prophecy

ELEVEN

GREEN GLADE ESTATE 4:30 PM

Hayes admired the shotgun, a fox side-by-side with a turkish walnut stock, hand-rubbed to an oil finish. The pistol grip was lean and straight with a beavertail fore-end and hard rubber butt plate. He tested the action, boxlike, with automatic ejectors. He knew the price ranged from seven thousand dollars for a basic model to twenty-five thousand for an exhibition-grade. Truly, an impressive weapon.

"Your shot," Lenin said.

Hayes shouldered the gun and took aim into a cloudy afternoon sky. He steadied the barrel with a feather-light touch.

"Pull," he yelled.

A clay pigeon shot from the thrower. He followed the black dot in the sight, moved ahead, and fired.

The target disintegrated in a shower of debris.

"You're a good shot," Khrushchev said.

"Hunting is my passion."

He spent at least nine weeks a year traveling the world on expeditions. Canadian caribou and geese. Asian pheasant and wild sheep. European red stag and fox. African Cape buffalo and antelope. Not to mention the duck, deer, grouse, and wild turkey he routinely sought in the woods of northern Georgia and the mountains of western North Carolina. His office in Atlanta was littered with trophies. The past couple of months had been so intense that he'd not had a chance to shoot, so he was grateful for this outing.

He'd left Moscow right after his meeting with Stalin, a car and driver delivering him to an estate thirty miles south of town. The manor house was a lovely red brick veined with ivy. It was owned by another member of the Secret Chancellory-Georgy Ostanovich, better known to Hayes as Lenin.

Ostanovich came from the military. He was a thin, cadaverous man with steel-gray eyes encircled by thick-lensed glasses. He was a general, though he never wore a uniform, a line officer who'd led troops in the assault of Grozny at the outset of the Chechen war. That conflict had deprived him of one lung, which was why he now labored with each breath. After the war he'd become an outspoken critic of Yeltsin and his weak military policies, and only Yeltsin's fall from power had prevented him from losing his rank and commission. Top officers were worried about their future under a tsar, so the army's presence in any conspiracy was deemed critical, and Ostanovich had been chosen its collective representative.

Lenin stood up to the mark and prepared to shoot.

"Pull," the Russian yelled.

A second later, he scored a direct hit.

"Excellent," Hayes said. "With the sun going down, the shots are getting difficult."

Stefan Baklanov, the Heir Apparent, stood off to one side, his single-action shotgun open. Baklanov was a short man, balding and barrel-chested, with light green eyes and a thick Hemingway beard. He was nearing fifty, his face seemingly devoid of emotion and that worried Hayes. In the realm of politics, whether a candidate could actually govern was often immaterial. The question was whether or not it appeared he could lead. Though Hayes had no doubt that all seventeen members of the Tsarist Commission would eventually be bribed, their votes assured, a suitable candidate must still be presented for their perusal and, even more important, the damn fool had to be able to lead afterward-or at least effectively implement orders from the men who'd put him there.

Baklanov stepped up to the mark. Lenin and Khrushchev moved back.

"I am curious," Baklanov said in his baritone voice. "Will the monarchy be absolute?"

"No other way will work," Lenin said.

Hayes broke his gun and extracted the spent cartridge. Only the four men stood on the elevated brick terrace. The fir and beech groves beyond were dotted with autumn's copper. Past a pavilion, in the far distance, a herd of bison mingled on an open plain.

"Will I be given full command of the military?" Baklanov asked.

"Within reason," Lenin said. "This is not Nicholas's time. We have… modern considerations."

"And will I control the army?"

"What would be your policies concerning the military?" Lenin asked.

"I was unaware I would be allowed my own policies."

The sarcasm was clear and Hayes saw Lenin did not appreciate it. Baklanov seemed to notice. "I realize, General, you believe the military is vastly underfunded and our defensive capabilities have been hampered by political instability. But I do not believe our destiny lies in a strong military. The Soviets bankrupted this nation by building bombs while our roads crumbled and people went hungry. Our destiny is to fulfill those basic needs."

Hayes knew this wasn't what Lenin wanted to hear. Russian line officers earned less each month than street merchants. Military housing had become no more than slum tenements. Hardware had not been maintained in years, the most sophisticated equipment outmoded to the point of obsolescence.

"Of course, General, certain funding allowances will have to be made to correct past deficiencies. We do need a strong military… for defense capability." It was a clear signal that Baklanov was willing to compromise. "But I am wondering, will the royal property be restored?"

Hayes almost smiled. The Heir Apparent seemed to enjoy his hosts' predicament. The word tsar was an ancient Russian corruption of the Latin caesar, and he thought the analogy quite appropriate. This man might just make an excellent Caesar. He possessed an unbridled arrogance that bordered on foolishness. Perhaps Baklanov had forgotten that the patience of Caesar's colleagues in ancient Rome eventually ran out.

"What did you have in mind?" Khrushchev asked.

Khrushchev-Maxim Zubarev-came from the government. He had a brash, swaggering way about him. Perhaps, Hayes often thought, it was compensation for a horse face and crinkly brown eyes, neither of which was flattering. He represented a sizable bloc of officials in the Moscow central bureaucracy concerned about their influence under a restored monarchy. Zubarev realized, and had expressed many times, that national order existed only because the people were tolerating governmental authority until the Tsarist Commission finished its work. Ministers wanting to survive that metamorphosis would have to adapt, and fast. Hence their need for a voice in a surreptitious manipulation of the system.

Baklanov faced Khrushchev. "I would require that ownership of the palaces possessed by my family at the time of the revolution be restored. They were Romanov property, stolen by thieves."

Lenin sighed. "How do you plan to maintain them?"

"I don't. The state will, of course. But perhaps we could enter into some sort of arrangement similar to the English monarchy. Most will remain accessible to the public, entrance fees used for maintenance. But all Crown property and images will belong to the Crown, to be licensed to the world for a fee. The English royals raise millions each year that way."

Lenin shrugged. "I see no problem. The people certainly can't afford those monstrosities."

"Of course," Baklanov said, "I would reconvert the Catherine Palace at Tsarskoe Selo into a summer residence again. In Moscow, I would want exclusive control of the Kremlin Palaces, the Facets being the center of my court there."

"Do you realize the cost of such extravagance?" Lenin said.

Baklanov stared at the man. "The people will not want their tsar living in a cottage. Cost is your problem, gentlemen. Pomp and circumstance is essential for the ability to rule."

Hayes admired the man's daring. It made him think of Jimmy Walker bucking the bosses of Tammany Hall in the New York of the 1920s. But such a course came with risks. Walker ended up resigning, the public thinking him a crook, the Hall abandoning him for not taking orders.

Baklanov rested the gun butt on his shiny right boot. Hayes took a moment and admired the wool suit-Savile Row if he wasn't mistaken-Charvet cotton shirt, Canali tie, and felt hat with a chamois tuft. If nothing else, the Russian knew how to present himself.

"The Soviets spent decades indoctrinating us on the evils of the Romanovs. Lies, every last word," Baklanov said. "The people want a monarchy with all the trappings. Something the rest of the world will take notice of. That can only be done with great spectacle and circumstance. We shall start with an elaborate coronation, then a gesture of allegiance from the people to their new ruler-say, a million souls in Red Square. After that, palaces will be expected."

"And what of your court?" Lenin asked. "Will St. Petersburg be your capital?"

"Without a doubt. The communists chose Moscow. A move back will symbolize change."

"And will you have an assortment of grand dukes and duchesses?" Lenin inquired, the general's disgust undisguised.

"Of course. Succession must be preserved."

"But you despise your family," Lenin said.

"My sons will receive their birthright. Beyond that, I will create a new ruling class. What better way to reward the patriots who made all this possible?"

Khrushchev spoke up. "There are those among us who want a boyar class created from the ranks of the new rich and gangs. The people expect the tsar to put a stop to the mafiya, not reward it."

Hayes wondered if Khrushchev would be as bold if Stalin were here. Stalin and Brezhnev had been left out of the meeting intentionally. The division had been Hayes's idea, a variation on the good cop-bad cop scenario.

"I agree," Baklanov said. "A slow evolution will be beneficial to all concerned. I am more interested that the heirs of my body inherit and the Romanov dynasty continue."

Baklanov's three children, all sons, ranged in age from twenty-five to thirty-three. To a man, they hated their father, but the prospect of the oldest becoming tsarevich and the other two grand dukes had enticed a family truce. Baklanov's wife was a hopeless alcoholic, but she was Orthodox by birth, Russian, with some royal blood. She'd spent the last thirty days in an Austrian spa drying out and had repeatedly assured everyone she would gladly forgo the bottle in return for becoming the next Tsarina of All Russia.

"The continuation of the dynasty is something we are all interested in," Lenin said. "Your firstborn seems a reasonable man. He promises that your policies will be continued."

"And what will be my policies?"

Hayes had been waiting for an opening. "To do exactly as we say." He was tired of tiptoeing around this bastard.

Baklanov openly bristled at the bluntness. Good, Hayes thought. He needs to get used to it.

"I was unaware an American would be playing a role in this transition."

Hayes zeroed in a tight gaze. "This American is the one funding your lifestyle."

Baklanov looked at Lenin. "Is that true?"

"We have no desire to spend our rubles on you. The foreigners offered. We accepted. They have much to lose, or gain, from the years ahead."

Hayes went on, "We'll ensure that you will be the next tsar. You'll also get absolute power. There will be a Duma, but it will be as impotent as a castrated bull. All proposals for law would have to be approved by you and the state council."

Baklanov nodded in approval. "Stolypin's philosophy. Make the Duma an appendage of the state to endorse government policy, not to check or administer it. Sovereignty to the monarch."

Petr Stolypin had been one of Nicholas II's last prime ministers. So much a bloody defender of tsarist order that the hangman's noose used to quell peasant revolts was tagged the Stolypin Necktie, and railway cars to Siberia for political exiles named Stolypin Carriages. But he'd been assassinated, shot at the Kiev opera by a revolutionary while Nicholas II watched.

"Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from Stolypin's fate?" Hayes said.

Baklanov did not reply, but his bearded face conveyed that he understood the threat. "How will the state council be chosen?"

Lenin said, "Half elected, half selected by you."

"An attempt," Hayes said, "to interject an element of democracy into the process for public relations. But we'll make sure the council is controllable. In matters of policy you will listen to us exclusively. It's taken an enormous amount of work to bring everyone together on this project. You are the centerpiece. We understand that. Discretion is to everyone's advantage, so you won't get any public flak from us. But your obedience cannot, and will not, be in question."

"And if I refuse, once the mantle of power is mine?"

"Then your fate," Lenin said, "will be the same as your ancestors'. Let's see. Ivan VI spent his life in solitary confinement. Peter II was beaten to death. Paul I strangled. Alexander II bombed. Nicholas II shot. You Romanovs have not fared well when it comes to assassination. A death suitable to your station can be easily arranged. Then we'll see if the next Romanov will be more cooperative."

Baklanov said nothing. He merely turned back toward the graying woods and slammed the breech on his gun shut. He motioned to the target attendant.

A disk launched into the air.

He fired and missed.

"Oh, dear," Khrushchev said. "I see we're going to have to work on your aim."