The Romanov Prophecy

THIRTY-THREE

1:10 PM

Lord glanced over at Akilina. they were sitting on the port side of a United Airlines L1011, forty thousand feet over the Arizona desert. They'd left Atlanta at five minutes after noon and, thanks to a five-hour flight and a three-hour time difference, they would arrive in San Francisco a little after two PM. Over the past twenty-four hours Lord had traveled three-quarters of the way around the globe, but he was glad to be back on U.S. soil-or over it-even if he wasn't sure what they were going to do in California.

"Are you always so restless?" Akilina quietly asked in Russian.

"Not usually. But this isn't usual."

"I want to say something."

He heard the edge in her voice.

"I was not totally honest with you earlier… in the apartment."

He was perplexed.

"You asked if there had ever been anyone special in my life, and I said no. Actually, there was."

Apprehension clouded her face and he felt compelled to say, "You don't have to explain anything to me."

"I want to."

He settled back into the seat.

"His name was Tusya. I met him in the performers' school where I was sent after secondary education. It was never assumed I would attend university. My father was a performer and it was expected I would be one as well. Tusya was an acrobat. He was good, but not quite good enough. He was not elevated beyond the school. But he still wanted us to marry."

"What happened?"

"Tusya's family lived in the north, near the frozen plains. Since he was not of Moscow, we would have been forced to live with my parents until securing permission for an apartment of our own. That meant obtaining their permission for the marriage and for Tusya to live in Moscow. My mother refused."

He was surprised. "Why?"

"By then she was a bitter woman. My father was still in the labor camp. She resented him for that, and for the fact that he wished to leave the country. She saw happiness in my eyes and quelled that to satisfy her own pain."

"Why not just live somewhere else?" he asked.

"Tusya wouldn't allow it. He wanted to be a Muscovite. Everyone who wasn't wanted to be. Without consulting me, he joined the army. It was either that or be banished to factory work somewhere. He told me that once he earned the right to live where he desired, he'd be back."

"What happened to him?"

She hesitated before saying, "He died in Chechnya. For nothing, since, in the end, everything was as before. I never forgave my mother for what she did."

He heard the bitterness. "Did you love him?"

"As much as any young girl could. But what is love? For me it was a temporary respite from reality. You asked me before if I thought things would be different with a tsar. How could they get any worse?"

He did not argue with her.

"You and I are different," she said.

He didn't understand.

"In many ways my father and I are much alike. Both of us were refused love thanks to the harshness of our Motherland. You, on the other hand, hate your father, but profited from the opportunity of your homeland. Interesting how life creates such extremes."

Yes, it was, he thought.

San Francisco International Airport was crowded. They'd both packed light, toting only the shoulder bags Semyon Pashenko had provided. If nothing was learned after a couple of days, Lord intended on returning to Atlanta and contacting Taylor Hayes-Pashenko and Rasputin be damned. He'd almost called the office before they left Georgia, but decided against it. He wanted to respect Pashenko's wishes as long as possible, giving at least partial credence to a prophecy he once thought complete malarkey.

They passed baggage claim, crowded with a crush of travelers, and headed outside. Beyond a wall of glass, the West Coast afternoon loomed bright in clear sunshine.

"What now?" Akilina asked him in Russian.

He did not answer her. Instead, his attention was riveted on something across the crowded terminal.

"Come on," he said, grabbing Akilina's hand and leading her through the phalanx of people.

On the far wall beyond an American Airlines baggage claim area was a lit placard, one of hundreds that lined the terminal walls. The colorful signs advertised everything from condo developments to long-distance calling plans. He stared at the words superimposed over a templelike building:

CREDIT amp; MERCANTILE BANK OF SAN FRANCISCO A LOCAL TRADITION SINCE 1884

"What does it say?" Akilina asked in Russian.

He told her, then found the key in his pocket, staring again at the initials etched into brass.

c.m.b.

"I think we have a key to a box in the Credit and Mercantile Bank. It was here during the reign of Nicholas II."

"How can you be sure that is the correct place?"

"I can't."

"How do we find out?"

"Good question. We need a convincing story to gain access. I doubt if the bank is just going to let us waltz in with a key that's decades old and open the box for us. There'll be questions." His lawyer mind started working again. "But I think I know a way around that."

The taxi ride from the airport downtown took thirty minutes. He had selected a Marriott just beyond the financial district. The gigantic mirrored building looked like a jukebox. He picked the hotel not only for location but for its well-equipped business center.

After depositing their bags in the room, he led Akilina downstairs. On one of the word processors he typed out an order headed PROBATE COURT OF FULTON COUNTY. He'd clerked in the probate division of a firm during his last year of law school and was familiar with letters testamentary-the formal order from a probate court that authorized an individual to act on behalf of a deceased. He'd written several, but to be sure he accessed the Internet. The Web was littered with legal addresses that offered everything from the latest appellate opinions to templates that could be used to draft even the most obscure documents. There was one site, hosted by Emory University in Atlanta, he routinely used. There he found the right language from which to fashion fake letters of testamentary.

When the printer spat out a hard copy, he showed it to Akilina. "You're the daughter of one Zaneta Ludmilla. Your mother has recently died and left you this key to her safe-deposit box. The probate court of Fulton County, Georgia, has appointed you her personal representative, and I'm your lawyer. Since you speak little English, I'm here to handle things for you. As the personal representative, you must inventory everything your mother possessed, including whatever is in this box."

She smiled. "Just like in Russia. Fake papers. The only way to succeed."

Unlike the perception left by its advertisement, the Credit amp; Mercantile Bank was not located in some granite, neoclassical building, but inside one of the newer steel structures within the city's financial district. Lord knew the names of the high-rises surrounding it. The Embarcadero Center, the Russ Building, and the distinctive Transamerica Tower. He was familiar with the district's history. Banks and insurance companies predominated, giving the area the label Wall Street of the West. But oil companies, communications giants, engineering firms, and clothing conglomerates were also heavily represented. California gold had originally fueled the district's creation, but Nevada silver secured its place in the American financial world.

The interior of the Credit amp; Mercantile Bank was a trendy combination of laminated wood, terrazzo, and glass. The safe-deposit boxes were located on the third floor, and there a woman with sun-yellow hair waited behind a desk. Lord produced his key, phony letters of administration and state bar of Georgia identification card. He smiled and was pleasant, hoping there would be few questions. But the curious look on the woman's face was not encouraging.

"We have no box with that number," she coolly informed them.

He motioned to the key she held. "C.M.B. That's your bank, right?"

"It's our initials," was all she seemed willing to concede.

He decided to try firmness. "Ma'am, Miss Ludmilla here is anxious to settle her mother's affairs. This death has been particularly painful for her. We have reason to believe this box would be quite old. Doesn't the bank maintain boxes for long periods of time? According to your advertisements, this institution has been here since 1884."

"Mr. Lord, maybe I can speak a little slower and you'll understand." He was liking her tone less and less. "This bank has no box numbered seven sixteen. Our numbering system is different. We use a letter-and-number combination. Always have."

He turned to Akilina and spoke in Russian. "She isn't going to tell us anything. She says the bank has no box numbered seven sixteen."

"What are you saying?" the woman asked.

He turned back toward her. "I'm telling her that she'll have to control her pain a bit longer because there are no answers here."

He looked back at Akilina. "Give her a sad look. Maybe some tears if you can."

"I'm an acrobat, not an actress."

He gently clasped her hands and threw her an understanding look. He kept his face animated and said in Russian, "Try. It'll help."

Akilina glanced over at the woman and for a moment showed concern.

"Look," the woman said, handing the key back to him. "Why don't you try the Commerce and Merchants Bank. It's down the street about three blocks."

"Did it work?" Akilina asked.

"What's she saying?" the woman wanted to know.

"She wants me to explain what you said." He turned to Akilina and said in Russian, "Maybe this bitch has a heart after all." He switched to English and asked the woman, "Do you know how long that bank has been around?"

"They're like us. Old as dirt. Eighteen nineties. I believe."

The Commerce amp; Merchants Bank was a broad-shouldered monolith with a rusticated granite base, marble exterior, and a Corinthian-columned front. It offered a stark contrast to the Credit amp; Mercantile Bank and the other skyscrapers that flanked it on all sides, their reflective silvery glass and geometric metal grids demonstrative of a more recent time.

Entering, Lord was immediately impressed. The look and feel was of an old-style banking hall. Faux marble columns, inlaid stone floor, and teller cages-all remnants of an era when decorative iron bars did the job high-tech security cameras performed today.

They were directed to an office that controlled access to the safe-deposit vault located, as a uniformed guard informed them, one floor below in the basement.

A middle-aged black man with gray-flecked hair waited in the office. He wore a tie and vest, the gold fob of a pocket watch dangling across the beginnings of a potbelly. Their host introduced himself as Randall Maddox James, and he seemed proud of the fact that his name contained three parts.

Lord showed James his letters testamentary and the key. There were no negative remarks or questions beyond a few perfunctory inquiries, and James promptly led them through the main hall and down into an elaborate basement. The safe-deposit boxes comprised several spacious rooms, each lined with row after row of rectangular stainless-steel doors. Beyond one, they were led to a row of old boxes, the green metal exteriors tarnished, the locks black dots.

"These are the oldest the bank maintains," James said. "They were here when the 1906 earthquake struck. There are only a few of these dinosaurs left. We often wonder when the contents will all be claimed."

"You don't check after a time?" he asked.

"The law doesn't allow it. As long as the rent is paid each year."

He held up the key. "You're telling me the rental on this box has been paid since the twenties?"

"That's right. Otherwise we would have declared it dormant and drilled the lock. Surely your decedent made sure that happened."

He caught himself. "Of course. Who else?"

James pointed out the box marked 716. It was halfway up the wall, the access door about a foot across and ten inches high.

"If you need anything, Mr. Lord, I'll be in my office."

Lord waited until he heard the grille gate close, signaling that they were alone. Then he slid the key into the lock.

He opened the slot and saw another metal container. He slid the rectangle out, noticing the weight of whatever was inside, and deposited the inner box on a nearby walnut table.

Inside were three purple velvet bags, all in much better condition than the one Kolya Maks had harbored in death. There was also a newspaper, folded once, from Bern, Switzerland, dated September 25, 1920. The paper was brittle but still intact. He gently massaged the outside of the longest bag and discerned distinct outlines. He quickly opened the bag and withdrew two gold bars, both identical to the one waiting in the Kiev airport, NR and a double-headed eagle stamped on top. He then reached for another bag, this one fatter, almost round. He loosened the leather straps.

What he withdrew shocked him.

The egg was an enameled translucent rose on a guilloche field, supported by green cabriolet legs that, on close inspection, were actually overlapping leaves veined with what appeared to be rose diamonds. On top was a tiny imperial crown set with two bows, dotted with more rose diamonds and what appeared to be an exquisite ruby. The entire oval was quartered by four lines of diamonds and lilies in pearls and diamonds, more leaves enameled translucent green on gold. The whole egg was about six inches tall from leg to crown.

And he'd seen it before.

"This is Faberge," he said. "It's an imperial Easter egg."

"I know," Akilina said. "I have seen them in the Kremlin Armory."

"This one was known as the Lilies of the Valley Egg. It was presented to the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna, Nicholas II's mother, in 1898. There's just one problem, though. This egg was in a private collection. Malcolm Forbes, an American millionaire, bought twelve of the fifty-four known to have existed. His collection was larger than the Kremlin Armory's. I saw this exact egg on display in New York-"

Metal clanked as the iron grille at the far end of the chamber opened. He glanced around a row of silver boxes and saw James strolling toward them. He quickly rebagged the egg and pulled the leather straps tight. The gold bars were still in their bag.

"Everything okay?" the man asked as he approached.

"Just fine," he said. "Would you perhaps have a cardboard box or paper bag we could use to transport these items?"

The man gave the table a quick perusal. "Of course, Mr. Lord. The bank is at your disposal."

Lord wanted to examine the rest of the box's contents but thought it wise to first leave the bank. Randall Maddox James was a bit too inquisitive for his current paranoid personality. But it was an understandable paranoia, he kept telling himself, considering what he'd endured the past few days.

He carried their new possessions in a Commerce amp; Merchants Bank paper bag with rope handles and led Akilina outside, where they took a cab to the public library. He recalled the building from a previous visit, a regal three-story structure of late-nineteenth-century design that had survived both the 1906 and 1989 earthquakes. A newer building stood next door, and they were directed there by a woman at an information desk. Before turning his attention back to the items in the bag, Lord located some books on Faberge, including one that cataloged all known imperial Easter eggs.

Inside a study room with the door locked, he spread the contents from the safe-deposit box on a table. He then opened one of the books and learned that fifty-six eggs had been created, starting in 1885 when Tsar Alexander III commissioned Carl Faberge to fashion for his wife, Empress Marie, a gift for Easter. That holy day was the most important feast of the Russian Orthodox Church, traditionally celebrated with an exchange of eggs and three kisses. The trinket was so well received that the tsar commissioned one every Easter thereafter. Nicholas II, Alexander's son who assumed the throne in 1894, continued the tradition, except that two were now crafted-one for his wife, Alexandra, and one for his mother.

Each of the unique creations, all of enameled gold and jewels, contained a surprise-a tiny coronation coach, a replica of the royal yacht, a train, windup animals, or some other intricate mechanical miniature. Forty-seven of the original fifty-six eggs were known to exist, their locations noted in captions beneath the photos. The remaining nine had never been located after the Bolshevik revolution.

He found a full-page photo of the Lilies of the Valley Egg. The caption beneath read:

Workmaster Michael Perchin of the Faberge workshop created this marvel. Its surprise is three miniature portraits of the tsar and Grand Duchesses Olga and Tatiana, the first two imperial children. Presently part of a private collection, New York.

The volume showed a color photo of the egg in nearly full size. A trefoil of portrait miniatures fanned from the top, the diamond crown with ruby above. Each photographic oval was gold-backed and framed in rose diamonds. The center photo showed Nicholas II in uniform, his bearded face, shoulders, and upper chest clearly visible. To his left was Olga, the firstborn, her angelic three-year-old face surrounded by curly blond hair. To the right was the infant Tatiana, not yet a year old. The back of each photo was engraved: APRIL 5, 1898.

He held up the egg from the safe-deposit box beside the picture. "These two are identical."

"But ours has no photos," Akilina said.

He glanced back at the book and read a little of the text, learning that a geared mechanism allowed the picture fan to rise. A gold-mounted pearl button on the side, when turned, supposedly activated the crank.

He studied the egg from the safe-deposit box and saw a gold-mounted pearl button. He tabled the legs and held the egg steady as he turned the tiny knob. Slowly, the diamond-studded crown rose. Beneath, a photo of Nicholas II appeared, the image identical to the one from the other Lilies of the Valley Egg pictured in the book. Then two more tiny oval photos fanned out, the left face male, the right female.

The knob would turn no farther and he stopped.

He stared at the pictures and recognized both faces. One was Alexie-the other, Anastasia. He reached over to one of the books and thumbed through it until he located a photo taken of the imperial children in 1916, before their captivity. He was right on their identity, but the faces from the egg were definitely older, both dressed in distinctive Western clothes, the tsarevich in what appeared to be a flannel shirt, Anastasia in a light-colored blouse. Behind each gold-and-diamond oval was the engraving: APRIL 5, 1920.

"They're older," he said. "They survived."

He reached for the newspaper and unfolded the yellowed bundle. He could read Swiss-German reasonably well and noticed a story on the bottom fold, apparently the reason why it had been included in the safe-deposit box. The article was headlined: GOLDSMITH FABERGE SUCCUMBS. The text reiterated the death of Carl Faberge the day before at the Hotel Bellevue in Lusanne. He'd only recently arrived from Germany, where he'd fled in exile after the Bolshevik takeover in October 1917. The story went on and noted that the House of Faberge, which Carl Faberge had headed for forty-seven years, ended with the demise of the Romanovs. The Soviets had seized everything and closed the business, though a vain attempt was made to keep the enterprise open for a short while under the more politically correct name of "Committee of the Employees of the Faberge Company." The reporter noted that the lack of imperial patronage was not the only reason for the business's decline. The First World War had tapped the resources of most of the rich clientele Faberge had served. The article concluded with an observation that privileged Russian society seemed gone forever. The photograph that accompanied the article showed Faberge as a broken man.

"This newspaper is here to prove authenticity," he said.

He rolled the egg over and found the goldsmith mark of the man who crafted it: HW. He thumbed through one of the volumes and came to a section that dealt with the various workmasters Faberge had employed. He knew that Faberge himself actually designed and made nothing. He was the presiding genius of a conglomerate that, at its height, produced some of the finest jewelry ever crafted, but it was the workmasters who actually conceived and assembled everything. The book noted that Michael Perchin, the head workmaster who created the Lilies of the Valley Egg, died in 1903. The text reflected that Henrik Wigstrom took over the managerial reigns until the House's demise, dying himself in 1923, a year before Faberge. The volume likewise contained a photograph of Wigstrom's mark-HW-and Lord compared the picture with the initials stamped into the bottom of the egg.

They were identical.

He saw that Akilina held the contents of the third velvet bag-another gold sheet with engraved writing in Cyrillic. He came close and had to strain to read it, but was able to translate:

To the Raven and the Eagle: This country has proven the haven it claims to be. The blood of the imperial body is safe, awaiting your arrival. The tsar reigns but does not govern. You must remedy that. The rightful heirs will remain forever silent until you properly awaken their spirit. What I wish for the despots who destroyed our nation Radishchev said best more than a hundred years ago: "No you shan't be forgotten. Damned for ages to come. Blood in your cradle, hymns and the battle roar. Ah, drenched in blood you tumble into the grave." See to it.

F. Y.

"That's it?" he said. "This tells us nothing. What about Hell's Bell? The last engraving from Maks's grave said only Hell's Bell can point the way to the next portal. There's nothing here about any Hell's Bell." He lifted the egg and shook it. Solid. No sound from inside. He carefully studied the exterior and noticed no lines or openings. "Obviously, we're supposed to know more at this point than we do. Pashenko said parts of the secret had been lost with time. Maybe there was another step we missed, one that would tell us what Hell's Bell is."

He brought the egg closer and examined the three small photos extending from the top. "Alexie and Anastasia survived. They were here, in this country. Both are long dead, but maybe their descendants aren't. We're so close to finding them, but all we have is some gold and an egg worth a fortune." He shook his head. "Yussoupov went to a lot of trouble. Even involving Faberge, or at least his last workmaster, to craft this."

"What do we do now?" Akilina asked.

He sat back in the chair and considered her question. He wanted to offer some hope, an answer, but finally he spoke truthfully.

"I have no idea."