the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (35 page)

Thorn casually inspected the bell, inside and out. “Impressive. Solid gold?”

“I think so. Can you read what’s on it?”

Thorn reached for a pair of eyeglasses on the chest-high table and carefully studied the exterior. “Small letters, aren’t they?”

Lord said nothing, but glanced at Akilina, who was watching Thorn intently.

“I’m sorry this is some sort of foreign language. I’m not sure what. But I can’t read it. I’m afraid English is my only means of communication, and some say I’m not real good at that.”

“He that endureth to the end shall be saved,” Akilina said in Russian.

Thorn stared at her for a moment. Lord could not decide if the reaction was surprise, or the fact that he did not understand her. He caught Thorn’s gaze with his own.

“What did she say?” Thorn asked.

“He that endureth to the end shall be saved.”

“From the Gospel of Matthew,” Thorn said. “But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Do those words have any meaning to you?” he asked.

Thorn handed the bell back. “Mr. Lord, what is it you want?”

“I know this must seem strange, but I need to ask a few more questions. Would you indulge me?”

Thorn removed his glasses. “Go ahead.”

“Are there many Thorns living here in Genesis?”

“I have two sisters, but they don’t live here. There are a few other families with that name, one quite large, but we’re not related.”

“Would they be easy to find?”

“Just look in the phone book. Does your estate involve a Thorn?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

He was trying hard not to stare, but was equally intent on discerning any sort of family resemblance to Nicholas II. Which was nuts, he realized. He’d only seen Romanovs in grainy black-and-white movies and photographs. What did he know of any family resemblance? The only thing he could say for certain was Thorn was short, like Nicholas, but beyond that he was merely imagining anything else. What had he expected? The supposed heir to read the words and suddenly be transformed into the Tsar of All Russia? This wasn’t a fairy tale. It was life and death. And if any supposed heir knew what he did, the fool would keep his or her mouth shut and blend back into the woodwork that had served as sanctuary for all these years.

He pocketed the bell. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Thorn. You must think us a little odd, and I don’t blame you.”

Thorn’s expression softened and a smile crept onto his face. “Not at all, Mr. Lord. Obviously you are on some sort of mission that involves client confidences. I understand that. It’s quite okay. So, if that’s all, I’d like to finish this title search before the clerk shoos me out of here.”

They shook hands.

“It was nice to meet you,” Lord said.

“If you require any assistance finding those other Thorns, my office is just down the street. I’ll be there all day tomorrow.”

He smiled. “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind. You could, though, recommend somewhere to stay for the night.”

“That may be tough. This is prime tourist season and most places are booked. But with it being a Wednesday, there’s probably a room for a night or two. The weekends are the real problem. Let me make a quick call.”

From his suit jacket Thorn withdrew a cellular phone and dialed a number. He spoke a moment, then beeped off. “I know the owner of a bed-and-breakfast who was telling me this morning that he was a little slow right now. It’s called the Azalea Inn. Let me draw you a map. It’s not far.”

The Azalea Inn was a lovely Queen Anne–style building on the outskirts of town. Beech trees dominated the landscaping and a white picket fence encircled the property. The front porch accommodated a row of green rockers. The interior was an old-fashioned decor of quilts, cracked-beam ceilings, and wood-burning fireplaces.

Lord rented a single room, the request meeting with a strange stare from the elderly woman who operated the front desk. He recalled the reaction of the clerk in Starodug when he refused a room to what he thought was a foreigner. But then he realized this lady’s attitude was different. A black man and white woman. Hard to believe color still mattered, but he certainly wasn’t naÏve enough to think that it didn’t.

“What was the concern downstairs?” Akilina asked, after they were in the room.

The second-floor space was airy and light, with fresh flowers and a fluffy comforter on a sleigh bed. The bath contained a claw-foot tub and white eyelet window lace.

“Some here still think the races shouldn’t mix.”

He tossed their travel bags on the bed, the same two that Semyon Pashenko had provided what seemed an eternity ago. He’d stashed the gold bars in a locker at the Sacramento airport. That made three pieces of imperial bullion awaiting his return.

“Laws can make people change,” he said, “but more than that is needed to adjust attitudes. Don’t take it wrong, though.”

She shrugged. “We have prejudice in Russia. Foreigners, anyone dark-skinned, Mongols. They are all treated badly.”

“They’re also going to have to adjust to a tsar who was born and raised in America. I don’t think anyone ever figured on that contingency.” He sat on the edge of the bed.

“The lawyer seemed genuine. He did not know what we were talking about.”

He agreed. “I looked at him carefully when he was studying the bell and when you said the words.”

“He said there were others?”

He stood and walked to the phone and the directory that lay beneath. He opened to the Ts and found six Thorns and two Thornes. “Tomorrow, we’ll see about these people. We’ll visit each one if we have to. Maybe we can take Thorn up on his offer and enlist his help. Some local talent might make the difference.” He looked over at Akilina. “In the meantime, let’s get some dinner, then a little rest.”

They ate at a quiet restaurant two blocks from the Azalea Inn that came with the unique characteristic of being adjacent to a pumpkin patch. Lord introduced Akilina to fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and iced tea. At first he found her unfamiliarity amazing, but then he’d never eaten leavened buckwheat pancakes, beetroot soup, or Siberian meat dumplings until visiting Russia.

The evening weather was perfect. There was not a cloud in the sky and the Milky Way streaked overhead.

Genesis was definitely a day place—none of the businesses, beyond a few restaurants, lingered open after dark. After a brief walk they made it back to the inn and entered the downstairs foyer.

Michael Thorn was perched on a settee next to the staircase.

The lawyer was dressed casually in a tan sweater and blue slacks. He rose as Lord closed the front door and calmly said, “Do you still have that bell?”

He reached into his pocket and handed it to Thorn. He watched as Thorn fitted a gold clapper inside and, with a slight waggle of his wrist, tried to ring it. Only a dull
tap
came where a ding would be expected.

“Gold is too soft,” Thorn said. “But I imagine you need something else to confirm who I am.”

He said nothing.

Thorn faced him.
“To where the Princess tree grows and Genesis, a Thorn awaits. Use the words that brought you here. Success comes if your names are spoken and the bell is formed.”
He paused. “You are the raven and the eagle. And I’m who you seek.”

Thorn’s words came in a whisper, but were delivered in flawless Russian.

FORTY-THREE

Lord stared in disbelief.

“Could we go to your room?” Thorn said.

They walked upstairs in silence. Once inside with the door locked, Thorn said in Russian, “I never thought I would ever see that bell or hear those words. I kept the clapper safe for decades, knowing what I had to do if ever presented with the opportunity. My father warned me the day would come. He waited sixty years and never got his chance. Before he died he told me that it would happen in my lifetime. I didn’t believe him.”

Lord was still stunned, but he motioned to the bell and asked, “Why is it called Hell’s Bell?”

Thorn stepped to the window and gazed out. “It’s from Radishchev.”

Lord recognized the name. “He was also quoted on a gold sheet left in the San Francisco bank.”

“Yussoupov was a fan. A great lover of Russian poetry. One of Radishchev’s verses read:
God’s angels shall proclaim heaven’s triumph with three peals of Hell’s Bell. Once for the Father, once for the Son, a final for the Holy Virgin.
Quite apt, I’d say.”

Lord was regaining his composure and, after a moment of silence, asked, “Have you been following what’s happening in Russia? Why haven’t you come forward?”

Thorn turned back. “My father and I many times argued the point. He was an ardent imperialist, truly of the old school. He knew Felix Yussoupov personally. Talked with him many times. I always believed the time for monarchy had long passed. No room in modern society for such antiquated concepts. But he was convinced Romanov blood would be resurrected. Now that is happening. Still, I was always told not to reveal myself unless the raven and eagle appeared and the words were uttered. Anything less was a trap laid down by our enemies.”

“The Russian people want your return,” Akilina said.

“Stefan Baklanov will be disappointed,” Thorn said.

Lord thought he sensed a twinge of humor in the observation. He told Thorn about his interest in the Tsarist Commission and all that had happened over the past week.

“That was precisely why Yussoupov kept us hidden. Lenin wanted every remnant of Romanov blood extinguished. He wanted no possibility of a restoration. Only later, when he realized Stalin was going to be worse than any tsar ever could have been, did he realize the mistake he made in killing the imperial family.”

“Mr. Thorn,” Lord began.

“Michael, please.”

“Perhaps Your Imperial Majesty is more in order?”

Thorn frowned. “That’s a title I will definitely have trouble adjusting to.”

“Your life is in real danger. I assume you have a family?”

“A wife and two sons who are both in college. I have yet to discuss this with any of them. That was one condition Yussoupov insisted upon. Total anonymity.”

“They need to be told, along with the two sisters you mentioned earlier.”

“I plan to tell them. But I’m not sure how my wife’s going to react at being elevated to tsarina. My oldest son is going to have some adjusting to do. He’s the tsarevich now, his brother a grand duke.”

Lord had so many questions, but there was one thing he really wanted to know. “Can you tell us how Alexie and Anastasia made it to North Carolina?”

For the next few minutes, Thorn spoke, telling a tale that made Lord’s spine tingle.

It started on the evening of December 16, 1916, when Felix Yussoupov fed cyanide-laced cakes and wine to Gregorii Rasputin. After the poison failed to kill his victim, Yussoupov shot the
starets
once in the back. When that bullet did not finish the task, others chased the fleeing holy man into a snow-covered courtyard and shot him repeatedly. Then they tossed the body into the frozen Neva River, pleased with their night’s work.

After the murder, Yussoupov openly basked in his glory. He saw a political future that might even include a change in the ruling house of Russia from Romanov to Yussoupov. Talk of revolution was spreading throughout the nation. It seemed only a matter of time before the fall of Nicholas II. Yussoupov was already the wealthiest man in Russia. His holdings were vast and wielded considerable political influence. But a man named Lenin was riding a wave of resentment toward ultimate power, and no nobles, regardless of their name, would survive.

The effect of Rasputin’s murder on the imperial family was profound. Nicholas and Alexandra retreated more into themselves, and Alexandra began to exercise even greater influence over her husband. The tsar presided over a huge clan who were simply indifferent to their public reputation. They spoke French better than Russian. They stayed abroad more than at home. They were jealous of name and rank, but casual about public obligations. Divorce and bad marriages sent a wrong message to the masses.

All the Romanov relatives hated Rasputin. None lamented his death and some were so bold as to tell the tsar how they felt. The murder drove a wedge into the imperial house. Some of the grand dukes and duchesses even began to openly talk of change. Ultimately, the Bolsheviks exploited that imperial rift by deposing the provisional government that succeeded Nicholas II and forcibly seizing power, murdering as many Romanovs along the way as possible.

Yussoupov, though, continued to publicly state that killing Rasputin was right. Banished by the tsar to one of his estates in central Russia as punishment for the murder, he was conveniently out of reach during the February and October Revolutions of 1917. He’d at first been somewhat supportive of change, even offering his assistance, but once the Soviets seized all his family assets and threatened to arrest him, he realized the mistake he’d made. Rasputin’s death had come far too late to alter the course of events. By his misguided attempt to save the realm, Yussoupov actually dealt the Russian monarchy a fatal blow.