The Romanov Prophecy

THIRTY-ONE

ATLANTA, GEORGIA 7:15 AM

Akilina watched as Lord slid the key into the lock and opened the door to his apartment. She followed him inside.

They'd slept in the Kiev airport Saturday night, catching an Aeroflot shuttle Sunday morning to Frankfurt, Germany. All of the afternoon and early-evening flights were booked, so they'd waited in the terminal for a late-night Delta nonstop to Atlanta, two seats available in coach, which Lord bought with half the money Semyon Pashenko had provided.

They'd stashed the gold bar in an airport locker in Kiev, worried the whole time how secure it would be, but Akilina agreed with Lord's conclusion-there was no way to bring the ingot out with them.

They'd both slept on the plane, but the time difference was taking its toll and they weren't through chasing the sun. In the Atlanta terminal Lord booked two seats on a flight to San Francisco, leaving at noon. They needed a shower and a change of clothes, so a twenty-minute taxi ride brought them to where Lord lived.

She was impressed with the apartment, which was far better than what Semyon Pashenko possessed, but probably common for an American, she concluded. The carpets were soft and clean, the furniture, to her way of thinking, elegant and expensive. It was a little chilly inside until Lord adjusted a wall thermostat and central heat warmed the rooms. A far cry from the radiators in her Moscow apartment, which tended to run either wide open or not at all. She noticed the overall neatness and decided that wasn't surprising. Miles Lord had appeared from the start as a person in control of himself.

"There are towels in the hall bathroom. Help yourself," he told her in Russian. "You can use that bedroom there to clean up."

Her English was okay, but limited. She'd had trouble understanding conversations at the airport, particularly what the customs officer had asked. Luckily, her performer's visa provided access into the country, no questions asked.

"I have a bath in my bedroom. I'll see you in a bit."

Lord left her to a shower and she took her time, letting the warm water caress her tired muscles. It was still the middle of the night to her body. In the bedroom she found a terry-cloth robe waiting on the bed and wrapped it around herself. Lord explained that they had an hour until they needed to head back to the airport for the flight west. She toweled her hair dry and let the tangled curls fall loose to her shoulders. Water running from the back bedroom confirmed that Lord was still in the shower.

She strolled into the den and took a moment to admire photographs framed on the wall and angled on two wood tables. Miles Lord had obviously come from a large family. There were several shots of him with an assortment of younger men and women at various stages in life. He was apparently the oldest, one picture of the entire family showed him in his late teens, four brothers and sisters not far behind.

A couple of shots revealed him in athletic gear, his face obstructed by a helmet and face guard, his shoulders padded beneath a numbered jersey. There was one image of his father, framed solo, standing off to the side. It showed a man of about forty with earnest, deep brown eyes and hair a close-cropped black that matched his skin. His brow glistened from sweat, and he stood before a pulpit, mouth open, ivory teeth glittering, right index finger pointed skyward. He wore a suit that seemed to fit well, and she noticed a glint of gold from cufflinks exposed on his outstretched arm. In the bottom right corner was some writing in black marker. She lifted the frame and tried to read the words, but her ability with Western alphabet was strained.

"It says, 'Son, come join me,' " Lord said in Russian.

She turned.

Lord stood in the open doorway, a maroon robe encasing his dark frame, bare feet protruding from the bottom. In the V formed by the collar she noticed a muscular chest dusted with a light brush of curly gray-brown hair.

"He gave me that picture trying to get me to become a part of his ministry."

"Why didn't you?"

He stepped close, smelling of soap and shampoo. She noticed he'd shaved, a two-day stubble on his neck and jaw gone, his cocoa complexion unmarred by the ridges of time and tragedy all so common in her homeland.

"My father cheated on my mother and left us penniless. I had no desire to follow in those footsteps."

She recalled his bitterness from Friday night in Semyon Pashenko's apartment. "And your mother?"

"She loved him. Still does. Never will she hear a foul word about him. His followers were the same. Grover Lord was a saint to all of them."

"No one knew?"

"No one would believe. He would have simply screamed discrimination and roared from the pulpit how hard it was for a successful black man to survive."

"We were taught in school about prejudice in this country. How blacks have no chance in a white society. Is that true?"

"It was, and some say it still is. But I don't think so. I'm not saying this country is perfect; it's far from that. But it is a land of opportunity, if you take advantage of the chances."

"Did you, Miles Lord?"

He smiled. "Why do you do that?"

A curious look came to her face.

"Use my whole name," he explained.

"A habit. I meant no offense."

"Call me Miles. And to answer your question, I'd like to think I took advantage of every opportunity. I studied hard, earned everything I ever achieved."

"Your interest in my land. Did that come early in life?"

He motioned to a row of bookcases across the sunlit room. "I was always fascinated by Russia. Your history makes for great reading. A country of extremes in size, politics, weather. Attitudes."

She watched him carefully as he spoke, listening to the emotion in his voice and watching his eyes.

"What happened in 1917 was so sad. The country was on the verge of a social renaissance. Poets, writers, painters, playwrights were at their peak. The press was free. Then it all died. Overnight."

"You want to be a part of our revival, don't you?"

He smiled. "Who would have ever thought a kid from South Carolina would be in this position?"

"Are you close with your brothers and sisters?"

He shrugged. "We're all scattered across the country. Too busy to take the time for a visit."

"Are they successful?"

"One's a doctor, two are schoolteachers, another's an accountant."

"Sounds like your father did not do so bad."

"He did nothing. My mother pushed us all."

Though she knew little about Grover Lord, she thought she understood. "Maybe his life was the example each of you needed."

He scoffed. "An example I could live without."

"Is he why you never married?"

He moved to one of the windows and glanced out at the sunny morning. "Not really. Just too busy to take the time."

The rumble of traffic could be heard in the distance. "I never married, either. I wanted to perform. Marriage in Russia can be difficult. We are not the land of opportunity."

"No one special in your life?"

For a moment she debated telling him about Tusya, but decided against it, saying only, "No one of importance."

"Do you really believe that restoring a tsar is the answer to all your country's troubles?"

She was glad he didn't press the point. Maybe he'd sensed her hesitancy. "Russians have always been led by somebody. If not a tsar, then a premier. What does it matter who leads, as long as the leadership is wise?"

"Apparently somebody wants to stop whatever it is we've become involved with. Perhaps they see a restored monarchy as a way to seize control?"

"They are thousands of miles away now."

"Thank God for that."

She said, "I keep thinking about the Makses. That old man and his nephew died for what they believed. Can it be that important?"

He stepped to the bookshelves and slid down one of the volumes. She noticed the photograph of Rasputin on the cover, a menancing shot of a bearded face and piercing eyes. "This opportunist may well hold the key to the future of your nation. I always thought him a fraud who had the good fortune to be in the right place at the right time. That shelf is lined with books about him. I've read about him for years, never believing him anything more than what my own father was."

"And now?"

He heaved a deep breath. "I don't know what to think. This whole thing is incredible. Felix Yussoupov somehow secreted away two Romanov children to America." He motioned to another shelf. "I have several biographies of Yussoupov. The portrait they paint is not one of a clever manipulator. More an idealistic bungler who couldn't even murder a man right."

She stepped close and took the book from his hands, staring deep into Rasputin's eyes on the cover. "They haunt, even now."

"My father used to say that divine mystery is impossible to decipher. I used to think that was simply a clever way to keep the faithful loyal-keep them coming back to hear more. Now I'm hoping he was wrong."

Her gaze caught his. "It's not good to hate your father."

"I never said I hated him."

"You didn't have to."

"I resent what he did. The mess he left behind. The hypocrisy."

"But maybe, like Rasputin, your father's legacy is more than you realize. Perhaps you are that legacy. The raven."

"You really believe all this, don't you?"

In the quiet of the warm apartment she was beginning to relax. "I only know that from the moment you entered my compartment on the train I have felt different. It's hard to explain. I am a woman from a simple family. My grandmother was murdered, my parents' lives destroyed. I have watched suffering all my life and wondered what could I do about it? Now maybe I can help change it all."

Lord reached into his pocket and withdrew the brass key that had come from the metal box in the grave. The initials C.M.B. 716 were clear. "That's provided we find Hell's Bell and figure out what this key opens."

"I have confidence we will do both."

He shook his head. "I'm glad one of us does."