The Romanov Prophecy

EIGHTEEN

12:30 PM

Hayes exited the cab at Sparrow Hills and paid the driver. The midday sky was a burnished platinum, the sun straining hard, as if through frosted glass, to compensate for a frigid breeze. The Moskva River looped sharply below him, forming a peninsula that supported the Luzhniki sports stadium. In the distance, toward the northeast, the bulbous gold and silver cupolas of the Kremlin cathedrals peaked through a cold haze like tombstones in a fog. It was from the hills around him that both Napoleon and Hitler had been thwarted. In 1917 revolutionary groups had held clandestine meetings among its trees, safe from the secret police, plotting an eventual downfall of the tsar. Now a new generation seemed intent on reversing their efforts.

To his right, Moscow State University rose above the trees in an overpowering array of capricious spires, ornate wings, and elaborate curlicues. It was another of Stalin's grandiose wedding-cake skyscrapers erected to impress the world. This one was the largest, built by German prisoners of war. He recalled a story about one prisoner who supposedly fashioned a pair of wings from scrap lumber and tried to fly home from the top. Like his nation and fuhrer, he failed.

Feliks Orleg waited on a bench under a canopy of beech trees. Hayes was still fuming from what had happened two hours before, but cautioned himself to watch his words. This wasn't Atlanta. Or even America. He was just one part of an extensive team. Unfortunately, at the moment, the point man.

He sat on the bench and asked in Russian, "Have you found Lord?"

"Not yet. Has he called?"

"Would you? Obviously he doesn't trust me anymore, either. I tell him I'll be there to help and two killers show up. Now, thanks to you, he's not going to trust anybody. The idea was to eliminate the problem. Now the problem is wandering around Moscow."

"What is so important about killing this one man? We are wasting energy."

"That's not for you or me to question, Orleg. The only saving grace is he eluded their killers, not yours or mine."

A breeze moved past and leaves trickled from the trees. Hayes had worn his heavy wool coat and gloves, but a chill still crept through to him.

"Did you report what happened?" Orleg asked.

He caught the edge in the inspector's voice. "Not yet. I'll do what I can. But they will not be pleased. That was stupid talking to me on the phone in front of him."

"How would I know he speaks Russian?"

Hayes was trying hard to keep control, but this arrogant policeman had placed him in a difficult situation. He faced Orleg. "Listen to me. Find him. Do you understand? Find him and kill him. And do it fast. No mistakes. No excuses. Just do it."

Orleg's face was tight. "I've taken enough orders from you."

He stood. "You can take that up with the people we both work for. I'll be glad to send a representative so you can lodge a complaint."

The Russian got the message. Though an American was his immediate supervisor, Russians were running the operation. Dangerous Russians. Men who murdered businessmen, government ministers, military officers, foreigners. Anybody who became a problem.

Like incompetent police inspectors.

Orleg stood. "I'll find the damn chornye and I'll kill him. Then I might just kill you."

Hayes wasn't impressed with the Russian's bravado. "Take a number, Orleg. There are plenty in line ahead of you."

Lord took refuge in a cafe. After fleeing police headquarters he'd descended into the first Metro station he passed and boarded a train, changing routes several times. Then he left the Metro and dissolved into the evening crowds high above. He'd walked for an hour before concluding that no one was following.

The cafe was busy, filled with young people dressed in faded denim and dark leather jackets. A strong scent of espresso mellowed a thick nicotine cloud. He sat at a wall table and tried to eat something, having skipped breakfast and lunch, but a plate of stroganoff did nothing but sour his already churning stomach.

He'd been right about Inspector Orleg. It made sense the authorities were somehow involved. The telephone lines at the Volkhov were surely being monitored. But who had Orleg been talking with on the phone? And was all of this related to the Tsarist Commission? It had to be. But how? Perhaps the backing of Stefan Baklanov by the consortium of Western investors he and Hayes represented was viewed as a threat. But wasn't their effort supposed to be secret? And didn't a sizable bloc of Russians recognize Baklanov as the closest surviving Romanov? A recent poll gave him better than 50 percent of the popular support. That could be seen as a threat. Certainly the mafiya was involved. Droopy and Cro-Magnon were without a doubt members. What had Orleg said? No more gangsters. I will kill him myself.

The mob possessed deep ties within the government. Russian politics was as jagged as the exterior of the Facets Palace. Alliances changed by the hour. The only true allegiance was to the ruble. Or, more accurately, the dollar. This was all too much. He needed to get out of the country.

But how?

Thankfully, he still carried his passport, credit cards, and some cash. He also still possessed the information he'd been able to locate in the archives. But that wasn't of major concern any longer. Staying alive was his priority-and getting help.

But what to do?

He couldn't go to the police.

Maybe the American embassy? But that would be the first place they would stake out. Damn right. So far the bastards had appeared on a train from St. Petersburg and in Red Square, both places where he should have been the only person who knew he'd be there.

Except for Hayes.

What about him? His boss surely must be worried after hearing what had happened. Maybe Hayes could get to him? He had lots of contacts in the Russian government, but he would not realize the phones in the Volkhov were under scrutiny. Or maybe by now he did.

He sipped hot tea, which calmed his gut, and wondered what the reverend would do in the same situation. Strange that he thought of his father, but Grover Lord was a master of the tight spot. His blazing tongue had constantly bred trouble, but he'd laced every other word with God and Jesus, and never backed down. No. Fast talk wasn't going to be much help here.

But what would be?

He glanced at the table beside him. A young couple was huddled close reading one of the day's newspapers. He noticed the front-page article about the Tsarist Commission and read what he could.

During the third day of the initial session, five names had emerged as possible contenders. Baklanov was mentioned as the leading candidate, but relatives from two other branches of the Romanov family were vigorously arguing a closer blood connection with Nicholas II. The formal nominating process would not start for two more days, and anticipation was building over the debate that would ensue among the various men and their defenders.

Over the past couple of hours he'd overheard conversations from the tables around him about the pending selection. There seemed a genuine appreciation of the unfolding events-and surprisingly, the young Russians supported the creation of a modern-day monarchy. Perhaps they'd heard their grandparents speak of the tsar. The typical Russian seemed to want the nation to have grand goals. But he wondered whether an autocracy could effectively function in the twenty-first century. The only solace, he concluded, was that Russia was perhaps one of the last places left on Earth where a monarchy might actually have a chance at working.

But his problem was more immediate.

He couldn't check into a hotel. Registrations were still reported nightly by every licensed establishment. He couldn't catch a plane or train-the debarkation points would surely be watched. Nor could he rent a car without a Russian driver's license. He also couldn't just walk into the Volkhov. He was essentially trapped, the whole country his prison. He needed to get to the American embassy. There he could find people who'd listen. But he couldn't pick up a phone and dial. Surely, whoever was monitoring the Volkhov's phones would keep a close ear to the lines into the embassy. He needed somebody else to make contact and somewhere to lay low until that contact was made.

He glanced again at the newspaper and noticed an advertisement. It was for the circus and announced shows nightly at six, the ad beckoning visitors with promises of lively family entertainment.

He glanced at his watch. Five fifteen PM.

He thought of Akilina Petrovna. Her tousled blond hair and pixie face. She'd impressed him with her courage and patience. He actually owed her his life. She still had his briefcase and had told him to come get it whenever.

So why not?

He stood from the table and started to leave. But a sobering thought suddenly occurred to him. He was heading for a woman to help ease him out of a tight spot.

Just like his father.