the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (7 page)

“Came to my firm right out of law school. Phi Beta Kappa at the University of Virginia. Always been interested in Russia, took a master’s degree in Eastern European studies. Good with languages. Damn hard to find a lawyer who can speak Russian. I thought he’d be an asset, and I was right. Many of our clients rely on him exclusively.”

“Personal information?” Khrushchev asked.

“Born and raised in South Carolina, somewhat affluent. His father was a preacher. One of those tent revivalists who traveled from town to town healing people. From what Lord tells me, he and his father didn’t get along. Miles is thirty-eight or thirty-nine, never been married. Lives a fairly basic life, from all I see. Works hard. One of our top producers. Has never given me any trouble.”

Lenin leaned back in the chair. “Why the interest in Russia?”

“Beats the shit out of me. From conversations he seems genuinely fascinated. Always has been. He’s a history buff, his office is full of books and treatises. He’s even done some lecturing at a couple of our local universities and at a few state bar meetings. Now let
me
ask something. Why is all this important?”

Stalin sat back. “That is immaterial, given what happened today. The problem of Mr. Lord will have to wait. What should concern us now is what happens tomorrow.”

Hayes wasn’t ready to change subjects. “For the record, I wasn’t in favor of killing Lord. I told you I could handle him, whatever your apprehensions may have been.”

“As you will,” Brezhnev said. “We have decided that Mr. Lord is to be your concern.”

“I’m glad we agree. He won’t be a problem. But no one has yet to explain how he
was
a problem.”

Khrushchev said, “Your assistant has been intent in the archives.”

“That’s what I sent him there to do. On your instructions, I might add.”

The assigned task was simple. Find anything that could affect Stefan Baklanov’s claim to the throne. And Lord had searched nearly ten hours a day for the past six weeks and reported everything he’d found. Hayes suspected something he’d passed on to the group had piqued these men’s interest.

“It is not necessary,” Stalin said, “that you know everything. Nor do I believe you really want to. Suffice it to say that we deemed the elimination of Mr. Lord the most economical way to handle the matter. That effort failed, so we are willing to take your advice. For now.”

A grin accompanied the statement. Hayes didn’t particularly like the condescending way these four treated him. He wasn’t some errand boy. He was the fifth member of what he’d privately dubbed the Secret Chancellory. But he decided to keep his irritation to himself and changed the subject. “I assume the decision has been made that the new monarch will be absolute?”

“The question of the tsar’s power is still a matter of debate,” Lenin said.

He understood that some aspects of what they were doing were uniquely Russian, to be decided solely by Russians. And as long as those decisions did nothing to jeopardize the enormous financial contribution his clients were making and the sizable return he stood to enjoy, he didn’t care. “What is the status of our influence with the commission?”

“We have nine who will vote as we say, no matter what,” Lenin said. “The other eight are being approached.”

“The rules will require unanimity,” Brezhnev said.

Lenin sighed. “I wonder how we ever let that pass.”

Unanimity had been an integral part of the resolution that created the Tsarist Commission. The people had approved both the idea of a tsar and a commission, with the check and balance that all seventeen commissioners must vote yes. One vote was enough to derail any attempt at stacking the deck.

“The other eight will be secure by the time a vote is taken,” Stalin made clear.

“Are your people working on the matter?” Hayes asked.

“As we speak.” Stalin sipped from his drink. “But we will need more funds, Mr. Hayes. These men are proving expensive to purchase.”

Western currency was financing nearly everything the Secret Chancellory was doing, and that bothered Hayes. He paid all the bills, but possessed only a limited voice.

“How much?” he asked.

“Twenty million dollars.”

He held his emotions in check. That was on top of another ten million provided thirty days ago. He wondered how much of the money was actually making its way to commission members and how much was staying with the men around him, but he dared not ask.

Stalin handed him two laminated badges. “Here are your commission credentials. They will allow you, and your Mr. Lord, access to the Kremlin. They also authorize entrance into the Facets Palace. You have the same privileges as commission staff members.”

He was impressed. He’d not expected to be actually present at the sessions.

Khrushchev smiled. “We thought it better that you be there in person. There will be a lot of American press. You should be able the blend into the surroundings and keep us informed. None of the commission members know you or the extent of your connections. Your observations should be helpful in our coming discussions.”

“We have also decided that we wish your role to expand,” Stalin said.

“In what way?” he asked.

“It is important the commission encounter no distractions during its deliberations. We will ensure that its session is brief, but there is a danger from outside influences.”

He’d sensed during their last meeting that something was bothering these four men. Something Stalin had said earlier when he questioned him about Lord.
Americans have such a hard time understanding Russian sensitivity to fate.

“What would you have me do?”

“Whatever becomes necessary. Granted, any one of us could get the people we represent to handle a problem, but we need a certain element of deniability. Unfortunately, unlike the old Soviet Union, the new Russia does not hold its secrets closely. Our records are open, our press aggressive, foreign influence great. You, on the other hand, have international credibility. And, besides, who would suspect you of any nefarious activity?” Stalin curled his thin lips into a wiry smile.

“And how would I handle any situation that might arise?”

Stalin reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a card. On it was written a telephone number. “There are men waiting at that number. If you were to instruct that they plunge themselves into the Moskva River and never surface, they would. We suggest you use that loyalty wisely.”

EIGHT

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 13

Lord stared through the Mercedes’s tinted window at the Kremlin’s crimson walls. Bells in the clock tower high above pealed loud for eight
AM.
He and Taylor Hayes were being driven across Red Square. The driver was a bushy-headed Russian whom Lord might otherwise have found frightening, had Hayes not arranged the transportation himself.

Red Square was devoid of people. Out of respect to the communists, a few of whom still lingered in the Duma, the cobbled expanse remained cordoned off until one
PM
each day, when Lenin’s tomb closed to visitors. He thought the gesture ridiculous, but it seemed enough to satisfy the egos of those who once dominated this nation of 150 million.

A uniformed guard reacted to a bright orange sticker on the car’s windshield and waved the vehicle through Savior’s Gate. He felt excitement at entering the Kremlin through this portal. The Spasskaya Tower above him had been erected in 1491 by Ivan III, part of his massive reconstruction of the Kremlin, and the gate had admitted every new tsar and tsarina to the ancestral seat of power. Today it was designated the official entrance for the Tsarist Commission and its staff.

He was still shaky. Thoughts of his chase yesterday not far from this site kept racing through his mind. Hayes had assured him over breakfast that no chances would be taken, his safety would be guaranteed, and he was relying on his boss to make good on that assurance. He trusted Hayes. Respected him. He desperately wanted to be a part of what was happening, but he wondered if perhaps he was being foolish.

What would his father say if he could see him now?

The Reverend Grover Lord didn’t much care for lawyers. He liked to describe them as
locusts on the landscape of society.
His father once visited the White House, part of a contingent of southern ministers invited for a photo op when the president signed off on a vain attempt at restoring prayer to the public schools. Less than a year later the Supreme Court struck down the law as unconstitutional.
Godless locusts,
his father had raved from the pulpit.

Grover Lord didn’t approve of his son becoming a lawyer and demonstrated his disgust by not providing one dime for law school, though he could have easily paid the entire bill. That had forced Lord to finance his own way with student loans and night jobs. He’d earned good grades and graduated with honors. He’d secured an excellent job and risen through the ranks. Now he was about to witness history.

So screw Grover Lord, he thought.

The car motored into the Kremlin yard.

He admired what was once the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet, a compact neoclassical rectangle. The red banner of the Bolsheviks no longer flew overhead. Instead, an imperial double-headed eagle flapped in the morning breeze. He also noticed the absence of Lenin’s monument that had once sat off to the right, and remembered the uproar that had accompanied its removal. For once Yeltsin had ignored popular dissent and ordered the iron image melted for scrap.

He marveled at the construction that surrounded him. The Kremlin epitomized the Russian penchant for big things. They’d always been impressed with city squares that could accommodate missile launchers, bells so large they could never be hoisted into their towers, and rockets so powerful as to be uncontrollable. Bigger was not only better, it was glorious.

The car slowed and veered right.

The Cathedrals of the Archangel Michael and Annunciation rose to the left, those of the Dormition and Twelve Apostles to the right. More unnecessarily obese buildings. Ivan III had commissioned them all, an extravagance that earned him the label “Great.” Lord knew that many chapters in Russian history had opened and closed within those ancient edifices, each topped with gilded onion domes and elaborate Byzantine crosses. He’d visited them, but never dreamed that he’d be chauffeured into Cathedral Square in an official limousine, part of a national effort to restore the Russian monarchy. Not bad for a South Carolina preacher’s son.

“Some shit,” Hayes said.

Lord smiled. “You got that right.”

The car rolled to a stop.

They stepped out into a frosty morning, the sky bright blue and cloud-free, unusual for a Russian autumn. Perhaps an omen of good things, Lord hoped.

He’d never been inside the Palace of Facets. Tourists weren’t allowed. It was one of the few structures within the Kremlin that endured in its original form. Ivan the Great had erected it in 1491, naming his masterpiece for the diamond-patterned limestone blocks that covered its exterior.

He buttoned his overcoat and followed Hayes up the ceremonial Red Staircase. The original stairs had been destroyed by Stalin, this reincarnation fashioned a few years back from ancient paintings. From here, tsars had once made their way to the adjacent Cathedral of the Dormition to be crowned. And it was from this exact spot Napoléon had watched the fires that destroyed Moscow in 1812.

They headed for the Great Hall.

He’d only seen pictures of that ancient room and, as he followed Hayes inside, he quickly concluded none of those images did the space justice. He knew its size was fifty-four hundred square feet, the largest room in fifteenth-century Moscow, designed solely to impress foreign dignitaries. Today iron chandeliers burned bright and cast the massive center pillar and rich murals in sparkling gold, the scenes illustrating biblical subjects and the wisdom of the tsars.

Lord imagined the scene before him as it would have been in 1613.

The House of Ruirik, which for seven hundred years had ruled—Ivan the Great and Ivan the Terrible its most notable rulers—had died out. Subsequently, three men had tried to be tsar, but none succeeded. The Time of Troubles then ensued, twelve years of anguish while many sought to establish a new dynasty. Finally, the boyars, tired of chaos, came to Moscow—within the walls that surrounded him now—and selected a new ruling family. The Romanovs. But Mikhail, the first Romanov tsar, found a nation in utter turmoil. Brigands and thieves roamed the forests. Widespread hunger and disease wreaked havoc. Trade and commerce had nearly ceased. Taxes remained uncollected, the treasury nearly empty.

Not all that dissimilar to now, Lord concluded.

Seventy years of communism leaving the same stain as twelve years with no tsar.

For a moment he visualized himself as a boyar who’d participated in that selection, clad in fine garments of velvet and brocade, wearing a sable hat, perched at one of the oak benches that lined the gilded walls.

What a moment that must have been.

“Amazing,” Hayes whispered. “Through the centuries these fools couldn’t get a wheat field to harvest more than one season, but they could build this.”

He agreed.

A U-shaped row of tables draped in red velvet dominated one end of the room. He counted seventeen high-backed chairs and watched as each was filled with a male delegate. No women had made the top seventeen. There’d been no regional elections. Just a thirty-day qualifying period, then one nationwide vote, the seventeen people garnering a plurality becoming the commissioners. In essence, a gigantic popularity contest, but perhaps the simplest means to ensure that no one faction dominated the voting.

He followed Hayes to a row of chairs and sat with the rest of the staff and reporters. Television cameras had been installed to broadcast the sessions live.

The meeting was called to order by a delegate selected yesterday to act as chair. The man cleared his throat and started reading from a prepared statement.

“On July 16, 1918, our most noble tsar, Nicholas II, and all the heirs of his body were taken from this life. Our mandate is to rectify the ensuing years and restore to this nation its tsar. The people have selected this commission to choose the person who will rule this country. That decision is not without precedent. Another group of men met here, in this same room, in 1613 and chose the first Romanov ruler, Mikhail. His issue ruled this nation until the second decade of the twentieth century. We have gathered here to right the wrong that was done at that time.