The Romanov Prophecy

THIRTY-SEVEN

4:30 PM

Akilina was forcing back tears. ShE stood at a pay phone, the surrounding sidewalk busy with shoppers and pedestrians. She could still hear Lord's scream. What was she going to do? Lord had expressly forbidden her to call the police. He'd also made it clear that she was not to go to the Russian consulate. Instead, she was to find a new hotel, check in, and go to the zoo at six PM. Only when he failed to show was she to go to the American authorities, preferably somebody with the U.S. State Department.

Her heart ached. What had the man on the phone said? Electricity is being passed through his body. I doubt his heart can take much more. The words were delivered as if killing meant nothing to him. His Russian was good but she detected an American twist, which was curious. Were American authorities likewise compromised? Were they working with the same Russians who seemed intent on discovering what she and Lord were doing?

Her hand continued to grasp the phone, her gaze down to the sidewalk, and she failed to notice anyone until a hand touched her right shoulder. She turned and an elderly woman said something. The only words she caught were you and over. Tears were now dripping from her eyes. The woman noticed the crying and her face softened. She caught herself and quickly swiped the moisture from her eyes and mouthed a spasibo, hoping the woman understood Russian for "thank you."

She stepped from the phone and merged into the sidewalk rush. She'd already checked into another hotel using the money Lord had provided. She'd not stashed the egg, gold bars, and newspaper in the hotel's safe-deposit box, though, as he recommended. Instead, she carried them in one of the bags that had originally held Lord's toiletries and change of clothes. She did not want to trust their safety to anyone or anything.

She'd wandered the sidewalks the past two hours, darting in and out of cafes and shops, making sure no one was following. She was fairly sure she was alone. But where was she? Definitely west of the Commerce amp; Merchants Bank, beyond the city's main financial district. Antiques stores, art galleries, jewelers, gift shops, bookstores, and restaurants abounded. Her drifting had led her in no particular direction. The only thing important was to know the way back to her new hotel, but she'd brought one of the brochures and could always show it to a taxi driver.

What had drawn her to this spot was the bell tower she'd noticed a few blocks back. The architecture was Russian with gilded crosses and a distinctive dome. The design was a breath of home, but there were clearly foreign influences in the pedimented main door, rusticated surfaces, and a balustrade she'd never seen on any Orthodox church. She could read the sign out front, thanks to a Cyrillic translation beneath the English-HOLY TRINITY CATHEDRAL-and concluded this was a local Russian Orthodox church. The structure harked of safety, and she quickly crossed the street and entered.

The interior was traditional, built in the form a cross, the altar facing east. Her eyes were drawn upward to the dome and a massive brass chandelier that dangled from its center. The distinctive smell of beeswax drifted from brass stands holding thick candles that flickered in the muted light, the mild scent softening a lingering presence of incense. Icons stared back from all around-on the walls, in the stained glass, and from the iconostasis that separated the altar from the congregation. In the church of her youth the barrier had been more open, offering a clear view of the priests beyond. But this was a solid wall filled with crimson and gold images of Christ and the Virgin Mary, only the open doorways offering glimpses beyond. There were no pews or benches anywhere. Apparently people here, as in Russia, worshipped standing.

She moved to a side altar, hoping perhaps God could help with her dilemma. She started to cry. She'd never been one for tears, but the thought of Miles Lord being tortured, perhaps to death, was overwhelming. She needed to go to the police, but something cautioned her that this might not be the right course. Government was not necessarily a salvation. That was a lesson her grandmother had hammered into her.

She crossed herself and started to pray, muttering lines taught to her as a child.

"Are you all right, my child?" a male voice asked in Russian.

She turned to face a middle-age priest dressed in black Orthodox robes. He did not wear the headdress common to Russian clergy, but a silver cross dangled from his neck, an accessory she vividly recalled from childhood. She quickly dried her eyes and tried to regain control.

"You speak Russian," she said.

"I was born there. I heard your prayer. It is odd to hear someone speak the language so well. Are you here for a visit?"

She nodded.

"What is the trouble that makes you so sad?" The man's calm voice was soothing.

"It is a friend. He is in danger."

"Can you help him?"

"I don't know how."

"You have come to the right place to seek guidance." The priest motioned to the wall of icons. "There is no better adviser than our Lord."

Her grandmother had been devoutly Orthodox and tried to teach her to trust in heaven. Not until this moment, though, had she ever really needed God. She realized the priest would never understand what was happening, and she did not want to say much more, so she asked, "Have you followed what is occurring in Russia, Father?"

"With great interest. I would have voted yes for restoration. It is the best thing for Russia."

"Why do you say that?"

"A great destruction of souls occurred in our homeland for many decades. The church was nearly destroyed. Maybe now Russians can return to the fold. The Soviets were terrified of God."

That was a strange observation, but she agreed. Anything that might have gelled the opposition was viewed as a threat. The Mother Church. Some poetry. An old woman.

The priest said, "I have lived here many years. This country is not the awful place we were taught it was. The Americans elect their president every four years with great fanfare. But at the same time, they remind him he is human and may be wrong in his decisions. I have learned that the less a government deifies itself, the more it should be respected. Our new tsar should take a lesson from that."

She nodded. Was this a message?

"Do you care for this friend who is in trouble?" the priest asked.

The question brought her attention into focus, and she answered truthfully. "He is a good person."

"You love him?"

"We have only recently met."

The priest motioned to the bag draped from her shoulder. "Are you going somewhere? Running away?"

She realized this holy man did not understand, nor would he ever. Lord said to talk to no one until after he failed to show at six PM. And she was determined to respect his wishes. "There is nowhere to run, Father. My troubles are here."

"I am afraid that I do not understand your situation. And the Gospel says that if the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch."

She smiled. "I don't really comprehend it myself. But I have an obligation to fulfill. One that is tormenting me at the moment."

"And it involves this man, whom you may or may not love?"

She nodded.

"Would you like for us to pray for him?"

What could it hurt? "That might help, Father. Then, after, could you tell me the way to the zoo?"