The Romanov Prophecy

THIRTY-SIX

Lord awoke. He was strapped to the same chair he'd been sitting in while talking to Vitenko, duct tape now holding his arms and legs, another piece slapped over his mouth. His nose ached, and blood stained his sweater and jeans. He could still see, but his right eye was swollen, and the images of the three men standing before him were blurred.

"Wake up, Mr. Lord."

He focused hard on the man who was speaking. Orleg. Talking Russian.

"You certainly understand me. I would suggest you acknowledge whether you hear me or not."

He lightly shook his head.

"Good. So nice to see you again here, in America, land of opportunity. Such a wonderful place, no?"

Droopy stepped forward and rammed a fist between Lord's legs. The pain electrified his spine and brought tears to his eyes. The tape over his mouth deadened his scream. Each breath wheezed from a desperate attempt to suck air through his aching nostrils.

"Fucking chornye," Droopy said.

He reared back to strike again, but Orleg grabbed his fist. "Enough. He'll be no good to any of us." Orleg pushed Droopy back toward the desk, then stepped closer. "Mr. Lord, this gentleman does not like you. On the train you sprayed his eyes with an aerosol, then in the woods you pounded his head. He would very much like to kill you and I really don't care, except that the people I work for desire some information. They have authorized me to say that your life will be spared if you cooperate."

Lord did not believe that for a second. His eyes apparently betrayed his mistrust.

"You don't believe me? Excellent. It is a lie. You are going to die. Of that we are sure. What I will say is that you can affect the manner of that death." Orleg was close and he caught the scent of cheap alcohol through the aroma of his own blood. "There are two options. A bullet to the head, which is quick and painless, or this." Orleg displayed a piece of duct tape dangling from his outstretched index finger, which he yanked free and then crumpled over Lord's broken nose.

The pain brought renewed tearing to his eyes, but it was the sudden loss of air that got his attention. With his nose and mouth sealed, his lungs quickly exhausted the remaining bits of oxygen. But not only couldn't he inhale, he couldn't exhale, either, and the skyrocketing carbon dioxide levels made consciousness strobe in and out. His eyes felt like they were about to explode. In the instant before darkness overcame him, Orleg yanked the tape from his nose.

He sucked in lungfuls of air.

Blood leaked down his throat with each breath. He couldn't spit it out, so he swallowed. He continued to breathe through his nose, savoring what until now he'd taken for granted.

"Option two is not pleasant, is it?" Orleg said.

If it was possible, he would have killed Feliks Orleg with his bare hands. There would be no hesitation, no guilt. Again, his eyes betrayed his thoughts.

"Such hate. You would much like to kill me, would you not? Too bad you will never have the chance. As I said, you are going to die. The only question is whether it will be quick or slow. And whether Akilina Petrovna will join you."

At the mention of her name, his gaze locked tight on Orleg.

"I thought that might get your attention."

Filip Vitenko stepped up behind Orleg. "Is this not going a bit too far? There was no mention of murder when I relayed this information to Moscow."

Orleg turned to face the envoy. "Sit down and shut up."

"Who do you think you are talking to?" Vitenko barked. "I am the consul general of this station. No Moscow militsya gives me orders."

"This one does." Orleg motioned to Droopy. "Get this idiot out of my way."

Vitenko was jerked back. The envoy quickly shrugged off Droopy's grasp and retreated across the room, saying, "I am calling Moscow. I do not believe any of this is necessary. Something is not right here."

The door leading out of the office opened and an older man with a long smashed face and crinkly eyes the color of burnished pennies stepped into the room. He wore a dark business suit.

"Consular Vitenko, there will be no calls to Moscow. Do I make myself clear?"

Vitenko hesitated a moment, considering the words. He also recognized the voice. It was the man from the speakerphone. Vitenko shrank to the corner of the office.

The new man stepped forward. "I am Maxim Zubarev. We spoke earlier. Apparently, our little ruse did not work."

Orleg backed away. This older man was obviously in charge.

"The inspector was correct when he said you are going to die. That is unfortunate, but I have no choice. What I can promise is that Miss Petrovna will be spared. We have no reason to involve her, provided that she does not know anything of relevance or possess any information. Of course, we never learned what it is you know. I am going to have Inspector Orleg remove the tape from your mouth." The older man motioned to Droopy, who promptly closed the door leading out of the office. "But there is no need to waste your voice screaming. This room is soundproof. Perhaps you and I can have an intelligent conversation. If I am convinced you are being truthful, Miss Petrovna will be left alone."

Zubarev stepped back and Orleg yanked the tape from Lord's mouth. He worked his jaw and loosened the stiffness.

"Better, Mr. Lord?" Zubarev asked.

He said nothing.

Zubarev pulled a chair over and sat down, facing him. "Now tell me what you failed to tell me on the phone. What evidence do you have to support a conclusion that Alexie and Anastasia Romanov survived the Bolsheviks?"

"You own Baklanov, don't you?"

The older man heaved a long breath. "I see no reason why that is relevant, but in the hope that you will cooperate I will indulge you. Yes. The only thing that could stand in the way of his ascension is the reemergence of a direct bloodline to Nicholas II."

"What's the point to all this?

The older man laughed. "The point, Mr. Lord, is stability. The reinstitution of a tsar could greatly affect not only my interests, but a great deal of other individuals' interests as well. Was that not your purpose for being in Moscow?"

"I had no idea Baklanov was a puppet."

"He is a willing puppet. And we are clever puppeteers. Russia will thrive under his rule, and so will we."

Zubarev casually examined the fingernails of his right hand, then looked at Lord. "We know that Miss Petrovna is here in San Francisco. She is no longer at your hotel, though. I have men looking for her now. If I find her before you tell me what I want to know, there will be no mercy. I will let them enjoy her and do as they please."

"This is not Russia," he said.

"True. But that is where she will be when all that occurs. A plane is waiting at the airport to return her. She is wanted for questioning and we have already cleared that with your customs authorities. Your FBI has even offered to assist in locating both you and her. International cooperation is such a wonderful thing, is it not?"

He knew what he had to do. He could only hope that after he failed to show at the zoo, Akilina would leave town. He was sad he would never see her again. "I'm not going to tell you a damn thing."

Zubarev stood. "Have it your way."

As the older man left the room, Orleg slapped another strip of tape over his mouth.

Droopy stepped close and smiled.

He hoped the end would be quick, but knew that it wouldn't.

Hayes looked up from the speaker as Maxim Zubarev entered the room. He'd listened to the entire exchange with Lord from down the hall, courtesy of a room microphone.

He, Khrushchev, Droopy, and Orleg had left Moscow the previous night within hours after the call verifying Lord's location. An eleven-hour time difference had allowed them to travel nine thousand miles and arrive by the time Lord was having lunch in San Francisco. Thanks to Zubarev's government connections, police visas had been arranged for Orleg and Droopy. What Khrushchev had just told Lord was true. A call had secured the help of the FBI and customs in locating Lord and Akilina Petrovna if needed, but Hayes had declined American intervention, hoping to keep the situation confined. An easy exit from California and back to Russia for Lord and Petrovna was arranged through the State Department, few questions to be asked by Immigration at the San Francisco airport, a Russian warrant for murder the means of securing unquestioned American assistance. The idea was to contain exposure and stop whatever it was Lord was intent on finding. The problem was they still did not really know what that was, beyond some incredible assertion that perhaps somewhere in the United States was a direct descendant of Nicholas II.

"Your Mr. Lord is a defiant man," Khrushshev said, as he closed the door.

"But why?"

Khrushchev sat. "That is the question of the day. When I left, Orleg was stripping two wires from one of the lamps. Some electricity surging through his body might loosen his tongue before we kill him."

Through the speaker Hayes heard Droopy's voice as he told Orleg to cram the plug back in the wall socket. An amplified scream that lasted fifteen seconds pierced the room.

"Maybe you might reconsider telling us what we want to know," Orleg's voice said.

There was no reply.

Another scream. This one longer.

Khrushchev reached across the desk to a candy dish and fingered a chocolate ball. He unwrapped the gold foil and popped the morsel into his mouth. "They will continue lengthening the amount of electricity until his heart gives out. It will be a painful death."

The tone was cold, but Hayes had little sympathy for Lord. The fool had placed him in a difficult situation, his irrational actions jeopardizing a lot of planning and millions of dollars. He now wanted to know everything as badly as these Russians.

Another scream rattled the speaker.

The phone on the desk buzzed and he lifted the receiver. A voice on the other end informed him that a call had come in through the switchboard downstairs for Miles Lord. The receptionist thought it important and decided to see if Mr. Lord was available to take the call.

"No," Hayes said. "Mr. Lord is in a conference right now. Put the call through to here." He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. "Shut that speaker off."

A click in his ear and a female voice asked through the phone, "Miles. Are you all right?" She spoke Russian.

"Mr. Lord is not available at the moment. He asked me to speak with you," he said.

"Where is Miles? Who are you?"

"You must be Akilina Petrovna."

"How do you know that?"

"Miss Petrovna. It is important we speak."

"I've got nothing to say."

He motioned to switch the speaker back on. A crackled scream instantly blared.

"Did you hear that, Miss Petrovna? That is Miles Lord. He's being questioned at the moment by a determined Moscow militsya. You could end his pain by simply telling us where you are and waiting there."

Silence on the other end.

Another scream.

"Electricity is being passed through his body. I doubt his heart can take much more."

The phone clicked dead.

He stared at the receiver.

The screaming stopped.

"The bitch hung up." He looked at Khrushchev. "Determined people, aren't they?"

"Very. We must learn what they know. Your idea of tricking Lord was a good one, but it failed."

"I'm betting these two are more coordinated than we think. Lord was smart to hide her. But they had to have a way to reconnect, if this wasn't a trap."

Zubarev sighed. "I'm afraid there's no way to find her now."

He smiled. "I wouldn't say that."