the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (24 page)

The jam splintered as the door slammed inward. Orleg disappeared inside.

The street was empty, all of the surrounding shops closed. Stalin followed Hayes in. Darkness had enveloped them an hour ago, the drive from Moscow to Starodug taking nearly five hours. The Secret Chancellory had thought Stalin’s presence important since the
mafiya
was seen as the most efficient unit to handle the matter, its representative now charged with full responsibility to do whatever was necessary.

They’d gone first to Iosif Maks’s house on the outskirts of town. The local police had discreetly been monitoring the situation since morning and thought him at home, but Maks’s wife informed them he’d gone into town to work for a while. A light in the rear of Maks’s café breathed hope, and Stalin had sprung into action.

Droopy and Cro-Magnon had been dispatched to the rear of the building. Hayes recalled the names Lord had given his two assailants and thought the descriptions apt. He’d been told about Droopy’s abduction at gunpoint from the Moscow Circus and the death of his captor, the man as yet unidentified and unlinked to any Holy Band Semyon Pashenko may or may not head. This whole thing was turning strange, but the seriousness with which the Russians viewed everything was causing him concern. It wasn’t often men like these became riled.

Orleg appeared out of a doorway that led to the rear of the building and rounded a set of glass cases, another man with bushy red hair and mustache in his grasp. Droopy and Cro-Magnon followed.

“He was on his way out the back door,” Orleg said.

Stalin pointed to an oak chair. “Sit him there.”

Hayes noticed a discreet signal Stalin gave Droopy and Cro-Magnon, both of whom seemed to instantly understand. The splintered front door was closed and positions were taken up at the windows, guns drawn. The local police had been warned off an hour ago by Orleg, an order from a Moscow inspector not something local
militsya
tended to ignore. Khrushchev had earlier used his government connections to advise the Starodug authorities that a police operation would be occurring in town, the effort linked to a Red Square killing, and there should be no interference.

“Mr. Maks,” Stalin said. “This is a serious matter. I want you to understand that.”

Hayes watched as Maks considered what was said. Not a shred of fear appeared in the man’s face.

Stalin stepped close to the chair. “Yesterday, a man and a woman came here. You recall?”

“I have many visitors.” The voice carried contempt.

“I’m sure you do. But I would imagine few
chornyes
frequent your eatery.”

The stout Russian jutted his chin forward. “Fuck off.”

There was confidence in the tone, but Stalin did not react to the rebuke. He simply motioned and Droopy and Cro-Magnon moved in unison, pinning Maks facedown to the plank floor.

“Find something we can amuse ourselves with,” Stalin said.

Droopy disappeared into the back room while Cro-Magnon maintained a grip. Orleg had been dispatched to the rear door as guard. The inspector thought it important he not be an active participant. Hayes considered this the wisest course as well. They might need
militsya
contacts in the weeks ahead, and Orleg was the best source they possessed inside the Moscow unit.

Droopy returned with a roll of duct tape. He wrapped Maks’s wrists together tightly. Cro-Magnon yanked the Russian up and plopped him into the rickety oak chair. More tape was wrapped around the chest and legs, securing Maks firmly. A final strip was slapped across his mouth.

Stalin said, “Now, Mr. Maks, let me tell you what we know. An American by the name of Miles Lord and a Russian woman named Akilina Petrovna came here yesterday. They were asking about Kolya Maks, a person you claimed to have no knowledge about. I want to know who Kolya Maks is and why Lord and the woman are seeking him. You know the answer to my first inquiry, and I am certain you also have the answer to the second.”

Maks shook his head.

“A foolish decision, Mr. Maks.”

Droopy ripped off a short strip of the gray tape and handed it to Stalin. The two seemed to have done this before. Stalin brushed the hair from his tanned brow and bent down. He loosely pressed the wad of tape over Maks’s nose. “When I squeeze that tape tight, your nostrils will be sealed. There will be a bit of air remaining in your lungs, but only a few moments’ worth. You will suffocate in a matter of seconds. How about a demonstration?” Stalin squeezed the tape tight to the skin.

Hayes watched Maks’s chest heave. But he knew the thick tape was used on ventilation ducts because it was airtight. The Russian’s eyes started to bulge as blood cells searched for oxygen, the skin metamorphosing through a variety of colors, finally settling on ash white. The helpless man rocked in the chair, trying to breathe, but Cro-Magnon held him steady from behind.

Stalin casually reached up and peeled the tape back from the mouth. Gulps of air were instantly sucked in.

Color returned to Maks’s face.

“Please answer my two questions,” Stalin said.

All Maks did was breathe.

“You are obviously a brave man, Mr. Maks. For what, I am not sure. But your courage is to be admired.” Stalin paused, seemingly allowing Maks to recover. “I want you to know, while we were at your residence your lovely wife invited us inside. Such a charming woman. We visited and she informed us where you were.”

A wild look came onto Maks’s face. Finally. Fear.

“Not to worry,” Stalin said. “She is fine. She believes we work with the government, here to perform an official inquiry. Nothing more. But I assure you this procedure works equally well with women.”

“Goddamn
mafiya.
”

“This has nothing to do with
mafiya.
This is much bigger, and I believe you understand that.”

“You will kill me no matter what I say.”

“But I give you my word your wife will not be involved, if you simply tell me what I want to know.”

The redheaded Russian seemed to consider the proposal.

“You believe what I am telling you?” Stalin calmly asked.

Maks said nothing.

“If you continue to remain silent, there should be no doubt in your mind that I will direct these men to retrieve your wife. I will bind her to a chair beside you, and you will watch her suffocate. Then, I will probably let you live, so the memory can haunt you the rest of your life.”

Stalin spoke with a calm reserve, as if negotiating a business deal. Hayes was impressed with the ease in which this handsome man, crouched over in his Armani jeans and cashmere sweater, dished out misery.

“Kolya Maks is dead,” Maks finally said. “His son, Vassily, lives about ten kilometers south of town on the main highway. As to why Lord sought him, I do not know. Vassily is my great-uncle. Members of the family have always operated businesses here in town with a sign out front. That was what Vassily asked of us, and I did as he asked.”

“I believe you are lying, Mr. Maks. Are you of the Holy Band?”

Maks said nothing. Apparently, there was a limit to his cooperation.

“No. You would not admit that, would you? Part of your oath to the tsar.”

Maks stared hard. “Ask Vassily.”

“I shall,” Stalin said, as he motioned.

Droopy slapped more tape over Maks’s mouth.

The Russian rocked in the chair, trying to breathe. His attempt to break free sent the chair careering to the floor.

His struggle ended a minute later.

“A good man who will protect his wife,” Stalin said, staring down at the corpse. “One to be admired.”

“Will you honor your word?” Hayes asked.

Stalin stared at him with a look of genuine hurt. “Of course. What kind of person do you take me for?”

TWENTY-NINE

6:40 PM

Lord parked in the woods just off a muddy road. A chilly dusk had evolved into a cold, moonless night. He wasn’t wild about the prospect of digging up a thirty-year-old coffin, but little choice remained. He was now convinced two Romanovs had walked away from Yekaterinburg. Whether they eventually made it to safety and ultimately survived to parent offspring was another matter, but there seemed only one way to find out.

Vassily Maks had provided them with two shovels and a flashlight with weak batteries. He’d warned that the cemetery was deep into the forest, a good thirty kilometers from Starodug, nothing around but thick poplars and an old stone church used occasionally for funerals.

“The cemetery should be just ahead, down that trail,” he said, as they climbed out of the car.

They were still using the vehicle Iosif Maks had provided that morning. Maks had said he would return by evening with their car. When he’d not arrived by six
PM
Vassily had told them to go on, he would explain to Iosif and they would both be waiting when they returned. The old man seemed as anxious as they were to learn what secret his father had harbored. He also noted that there was one other piece of information he needed to pass on, but only after they were privy to what his father knew. It was another safety device, one that he intended to pass to his nephew, Iosif, the man he was grooming to assume the duty of keeper once he was gone.

Lord wore a jacket and a pair of leather gloves brought from Atlanta, along with thick woolen socks. His jeans were the only pair of casual wear he’d packed before leaving for Russia. The sweater was bought in Moscow a couple of weeks back. His world should have been one of suits and ties, casual clothes simply for a Sunday afternoon, but events had taken a dramatic shift in the past few days.

Maks had also provided a little protection, an old bolt-action rifle that could easily be characterized as antique. But the weapon appeared well oiled, and Maks demonstrated how to load and fire. He warned them about bears that roamed at night, especially this time of year as they prepared for a winter’s hibernation. Lord knew little about guns, having fired one only a couple of times while in Afghanistan. He wasn’t necessarily comfortable with the idea of being armed, but he was even more uncomfortable with the prospect of encountering a hungry bear. It was Akilina who surprised him. She readily shouldered the rifle and popped off three shots into a tree fifty yards away. Another of her grandmother’s lessons, she said. And he was glad. At least one of them knew what they were doing.

He grabbed the shovels and flashlight from the backseat. Their clothes bags were there, too. As soon as they were through, after a quick trip back to Vassily Maks, they intended to leave. Where they would go was unclear, but he’d already decided that if this journey proved a dead end, he was going to drive southwest to Kiev and catch a flight to the United States. He’d call Taylor Hayes from the safety of his Atlanta apartment.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Might as well get this over with.”

Black columns of trees rose all around, their boughs rustled by a frigid breeze that chapped his skin. He used the flashlight sparingly, conserving the batteries for the dig.

The muted image of tombstones appeared in a clearing ahead. They were high in the Old World style, and even through the darkness it was obvious the plots had not been maintained. A layer of frost iced everything. The blackness of the sky above hinted that more rain might be on the way. No fence of any kind delineated boundaries and no gate signified an entrance, the trail leading from the road simply dissolving into the first line of markers. He could imagine a cortege of mourners led by a solemn, black-robed priest making their way down the path, a simple wooden coffin part of the procession, a rectangle in the black earth waiting.

A scan with the flashlight revealed that all the graves were overgrown with underbrush. A few cairns were scattered throughout, and most of the heaps of memorial stones sprouted bushy weeds and thorny vines. He shone the light on the markers. Some of the dates reached back two hundred years.

“Maks said the grave was farthest from the road in,” he said, leading Akilina deeper into the cemetery.

The burial ground was spongy from rain that hadn’t let up until midafternoon. Which should help with digging, he thought.

They found the grave.

He read the words chiseled beneath
KOLYA MAKS
.

HE THAT ENDURETH TO THE END SHALL BE SAVED.

Akilina slid the rifle off her shoulder. “Seems this may be the right path.”

He handed her one of the shovels. “Let’s find out.”

The ground peeled up soft and clumpy and carried a sharp scent of peat. Vassily had said the oak coffin should be shallow. Russians tended to bury their dead that way, and he hoped the old man was right.

Akilina worked near the stone marker while he burrowed at the other end. He decided to dig straight down to see how far they needed to go. About three feet in he struck something hard. He cleared away the wet dirt, revealing wood, rotting and splintered.

“That coffin is probably not going to come out,” he said.

“Which doesn’t speak well of the body.”

They continued digging, clearing away layers of mud and, after twenty minutes, a dark rectangle was opened.

He shone the flashlight down.

Through gashes in the wood he saw the body. He used the shovel, pried off the remaining splinters, and exposed Kolya Maks.

The Russian wore the uniform of a palace guard. Occasional bursts of color flashed in the weak beam. Muted reds, dark blue, and what was once surely white, now charcoal from the black earth. Brass buttons and a gold belt buckle had survived, but little remained of the trousers and jacket beyond shreds, leather straps, and a belt.

Time had not been kind to the body, either. The flesh was gone from the face and hands. No features were left except the eye and nose sockets, an exposed jaw, and teeth clenched tight in death. Just as the son had said, the father cradled a metal box on what was left of his chest, rib bones protruding at odd angles, limp remnants of arms still crossed.

Lord had expected a smell, but none drifted up other than the musty odor of wet dirt and lichens. He used the shovel to peel back what was left of the arms. The little bit of coat sleeve crumbled away. A couple of sod worms scampered across the box lid. Akilina lifted the box out and set it gently on the ground. The exterior was dirty, but still intact. Bronze perhaps, he thought, to survive the moisture. He noticed a padlock on the front.