the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (31 page)

“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.”

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
spasíbo,
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 cafés and shops, making sure no one was following. She was fairly sure she was alone. But where was she? Definitely west of the Commerce & 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?”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Lord opened his eyes, expecting either another jolt of electricity or another piece of duct tape to be pressed over his nose. He didn’t know which was worse. But he realized that he was no longer strapped to the chair. He was sprawled on a hardwood floor, his bindings cut loose and dangling from the chair’s legs and arms. None of his torturers were around, the office lit only by three lamps and pale sunlight filtering past opaque sheers that covered floor-to-ceiling windows.

The pain of raw electricity surging through his body had been excruciating. Orleg had delighted in varying the contact points, starting with his forehead, then his chest, and finally his crotch, his groin now aching both from Droopy’s blow and the bare wires that had sent voltage surging through his genitals. It was like cold water doused on a raw toothache, intense enough to black him out. But he’d tried to hang on, stay tough, keep alert. He couldn’t slip and let anything out about Akilina. Some mythical heir of the Romanovs was one thing. She was another.

He struggled to lift himself from the floor, but his right calf was numb and he was barely able to stand. The numerals on his watch blurred in and out. He was finally able to make out five fifteen
PM.
Only forty-five minutes left to meet Akilina.

He hoped they’d not found her. His still being alive was perhaps confirmation of their failure. Surely when she’d called at three thirty and he hadn’t spoken with her, she’d followed his instructions.

He’d been a fool to trust Filip Vitenko, thinking thousands of miles between here and Moscow enough insulation. Apparently, whoever was interested in what he was doing had sufficient connections to transcend international borders, which meant high-level government involvement, and Lord resolved not to make that mistake again. From now on he would trust no one, except Akilina and Taylor Hayes. His boss had connections. Maybe enough to counteract what was happening.

But first things first. He needed to get out of the consulate.

Orleg and Droopy were surely nearby, probably just outside. He tried to remember what happened before he passed out. All he could recall was more electricity surging through his body, enough that his heart had fluttered. He’d stared hard into Orleg’s bleak eyes and seen joy. The last thing he recalled before succumbing to unconsciousness was Droopy shoving the inspector aside, saying it was his turn.

He tried once more to push himself from the floor. A wave of vertigo swirled through his head.

The office door flew open. Droopy and Orleg strolled in.

“Good, Mr. Lord. You’re awake,” Orleg said in Russian.

The two Russians yanked him from the floor. Instantly the room spun and nausea invaded his stomach. His eyes rolled toward the ceiling and he thought he was about to black out when a sudden rush of cold water soaked his face. The initial feeling was like the electricity, but where voltage burned, the water soothed and his dizziness began to abate.

He focused on the two men.

Droopy was holding him upright from behind. Orleg stood before him, an empty pitcher in hand.

“Still thirsty?” the inspector asked with sarcasm.

“Fuck you,” he managed to say.

The back of Orleg’s hand slapped his wet jaw hard. The pain from the blow roused his senses. He tasted blood on the corner of his mouth and wanted to pull free and kill the sonovabitch.

“Unfortunately,” Orleg said, “the consul general is concerned about a murder taking place here. So we have arranged a little journey for you. They tell me a desert lies not far away. A perfect place to bury a body. I live in the cold. Some warm, dry air would be nice.” Orleg stepped close. “There is a car waiting in the rear of this building. You will go quietly. There is no one present to hear any cry for help, and if you make one sound outside, I will slit your throat. I personally would kill you here. Right now. But orders do need to be followed, would you not agree?”