The Tsarina's Legacy (40 page)

As promised, Michael was released from jail within the hour. They agreed to meet at the lobby of Veronica's hotel, near the digital signs flashing the meetings scheduled for the day. Veronica exhaled loudly when she saw Michael walk through the lobby doors; Irina was in front of him.

Following them into the hotel were a pair of businessmen in fashionably trim gray suits. Veronica felt certain they were Anya's friends.

She backed up instinctively, knocking against one of the paintings on the lobby wall, a copy of a still life from the Hermitage with a fresh lemon, a sprawling crab, and a goblet of wine. One of the men nodded at Veronica as they headed toward the electronic board listing the day's conferences. Veronica glanced at Irina, but she was fussing with Michael's luggage.

“The Birch Room,” Veronica said softly, not looking at the men as they passed. “That's where they're meeting you. Dmitry Potemkin reserved the room last night.”

One of the men stopped and tilted his head in her direction, recognition suddenly glinting in his dark brown eyes. He smiled at her. “You are not joining us, tsarina?”

Veronica kept her gaze locked on Michael. She never wanted to let him out of her sight again. But she spared one more glance at Irina, who was taking in the hotel lobby with thinly concealed disdain. They were still safely out of earshot.

“Not this morning,” Veronica told him, voice low. “But I believe I will see you again very soon.”

The men nodded and moved on.

As she neared Michael, Veronica winced. His eye looked even worse than it had the day before. The bruise had turned dark yellow, which meant it was healing, but it also stood out more prominently. Exhaustion lined his face. At least he didn't appear to have any new injuries.

He looked up at her and his face lit up with a broad smile.

Veronica let out a little cry and ran to embrace him, trying not to press against the sensitive area near his eye.

He wrapped his arms around her, not saying anything, content merely to gently stroke her hair and feel her skin on his. After his time in the jail cell, the scent of his body was heavy, but she took it in, took all of him in. She had missed him so much. The time she had spent away seemed such a waste now, but then perhaps she had needed that time away to appreciate what she had.

He whispered in her ear: “I don't know what you needed to give up, but you didn't have to do it. I would have been all right.”

“You would not have been all right.” Veronica hugged him tighter and whispered: “Trust me. Follow my lead.”

Irina waited behind Michael, tapping her hands on her hip. She indicated Michael's luggage, the bag she had packed for him. “Sorry to break up this lovely scene, but I believe the two of you have a flight to catch.”

In that moment, Veronica truly wanted to leave. She missed her grandmother's cozy home in Bakersfield and comforting hugs. Most of all, she missed Los Angeles. She missed Michael's house. She missed his animals and the trucks rumbling by on Hyperion Boulevard and his vinyl records and the softness in her limbs when he pulled her body to his.

Stepping back, Veronica said: “I'm ready.”

Michael's fingers grazed hers and she squeezed them reassuringly.

*   *   *

Irina paid the cab driver and marched them through the howling wind, straight into the terminal at Pulkovo, all sleek lines and skylights that let in the weak sun. A sculpture of a white angel with jet-plane wings hovered over a circular information desk. The airport spoke to Russian aspirations to modernity, to wealth, to high class. But the attempt only made Veronica miss Los Angeles all the more.

They jostled through the bustle of passengers as polite announcements in Russian and English and several other languages boomed over loudspeakers.

“Do you really need to be here?” Michael asked Irina as they headed toward a ticket counter. “I mean, I'm sure you have better things to do with your time, lording it over the peasants and rabble and whatnot.”

Veronica smiled to herself, glad to hear the old sarcasm back in Michael's voice. Perhaps he wasn't too much worse for the wear.

“I want to make sure neither one of you has a last-minute change of heart.” Irina pulled her fur coat tighter to her chest. “And I have no intention of ‘lording it over' anyone. I only want what is best for this country. As any patriot would.”

Veronica did her best to look finished, completely depleted. It wasn't hard. She hadn't slept at all last night and sheer adrenaline kept her going at this point. “I just want to get on a plane and go home. That's it.”

They moved into line, haggard-looking families in bulging coats and well-dressed Russian, Asian, and Scandinavian businessmen ahead of them in the queue. Once they made it to the front of the line and Irina had engaged in all the proper pleasantries with the ticket agent, a computer spat out their boarding passes: one connection in Moscow and then home to Los Angeles.

The woman behind the counter, suit trim and scarf crisp, smiled. “Safe travels…”

Her voice faded and she hesitated, looking closely at Veronica. She tried to return the smile but only bit her lip, expecting a flood of questions.
Aren't you the tsarina? What happened? Why are you leaving?

But if the ticket agent behind the counter recognized Veronica or had any questions, she kept that to herself. She said nothing more.

“I'm sorry things didn't work out,” Irina said briskly, checking the gate information. “But really I wish Americans would learn they are not the policemen of the world.”

Once she was satisfied with the information on the boarding passes, she placed them in her purse, saying, “I'll just hold on to these for now.” She began to remove her coat and Veronica's shoulders tensed. She had hoped Irina would leave once they had their tickets. If she was taking her coat off, she intended to stick with them longer.

While her purse was open, Irina's phone pinged with a text alert. Her lips curled as she looked down to read the text. Veronica pretended to check her own phone, all the while listening intently for Irina's reaction.

“That boy has been given the greatest opportunity in the world,” she heard Irina mutter, “and still he manages to get himself in trouble.”

Veronica looked up, trying to keep her features neutral. “Trouble?” she asked innocently.

“What happened?” Michael asked.

“Something about gambling,” Irina said. “Something about Sasha and a fight … a broken jaw? Someone must have gotten him drunk. Perhaps I should have kept a closer eye on him. I suppose some of his Russian friends might be inclined to take advantage of his situation.”

“How so?” Michael asked, facing Irina but casting a curious glance in Veronica's direction.

Irina shook her head. “I don't know exactly, but Sasha has been arrested. He's in a temporary holding cell.”

“Does anyone else see the irony here?” Veronica asked.

“I fail to see any humor in this situation,” Irina snapped.

“You have connections in the prison system, right?” Veronica said, trying not to sound too eager for Irina to be gone. “You can get him out.”

Irina lowered her gaze and adjusted the diamond tennis bracelet on her slim wrist. “I do think at some point that boy needs to grow up and take care of himself.”

“You wouldn't want any bad publicity before you announce he's tsar,” Veronica said.

“Perhaps it's time he learned a lesson. He can't always rely on me to save him.”

“So you'll leave him in jail?” Michael asked.

“A few hours in a jail cell? Over some nonsense at a card table and a brawl with idiots?” Irina flashed Michael one of her arrogant smiles. “That will do nothing but bolster his claim, make him stronger in the eyes of the public, more of a man. You see, he has Russian blood. He can handle this.”

“I have Russian blood too.” Michael bowed his head but then cocked it slightly to gauge Irina's reaction. “I still got a black eye. I wouldn't wish time in a Russian jail cell on anyone.”

Irina appraised the damage on Michael's face. The corners of her lips tugged down, but the tone of her voice remained defiant. “No true Russian would see a black eye as anything other than a badge of honor.”

Veronica rolled her dry tongue over the roof of her mouth. “
I don't care how long Irina lived in America
,” Anya had told Veronica last night.
“Deep down she is still a Russian mama. They spoil their boys rotten. She'll act like a Russian mama if she thinks her boy is in any sort of trouble.”

“Perhaps.” Michael's hand moved subtly toward the bruising around his eye. “But you never know what else can happen.”

Irina's phone chimed once more and she checked the next message. Then she frowned and dropped her phone into her purse. “I must go. Sasha needs me. I only wish we could have seen eye to eye on things.” Reluctantly, she removed the boarding passes and handed them to Veronica. “I hope you have a safe trip back. No hard feelings.” She extended her hand primly in Veronica's direction.

“Right,” Veronica muttered. She accepted the boarding passes but then drew her hands to her sides. She didn't want to seem too anxious for Irina to go, only bitter and resigned. But she was not going to shake that woman's hand.

Irina pressed her lips together and pulled her purse closer to her side. Then she turned her back to Veronica and walked away, heels clacking.

It seemed to take Irina forever to get out of their line of vision. And even then Veronica waited, heart pumping rapidly. She wanted Irina out of the airport before they made their move.

Finally she felt a light tap on her back.

“It's okay,” Dmitry told her. “I watch her get in taxi. We can go now.”

“Thanks for coming.” Veronica gave Dmitry a quick hug and then took Michael's hand again. “Change of plans. We're not going directly back to the United States. I hope that's okay.”

Michael looked too tired to fight, even were he so inclined. “Where are we going?”

“Instead of boarding the connecting flight, you will stay in Moscow,” Dmitry told him. “For a little while. I am to make sure you make this flight. Anya will see to new tickets and that you board next flight safely.”

“Why are we going to Moscow?” Michael asked.

“A quick event for tsarina before you leave for California.”

Michael shook his head. “Why are you still calling her that?”

Veronica smiled at Dmitry. “Force of habit?”

“I meant grand duchess,” Dmitry replied. “Right title for daughter of tsar.”

“And while we're there,” Veronica told Michael, “we can watch the new tsar on TV.”

“I met him back in Irina's office, remember?” Michael said. “That kid who thinks French is Russian. I don't want to watch him on TV. And you're not his daughter…” Michael's voice trailed off and then he quietly added, “… you're Laurent Marchand's daughter.”

“Sasha found out what Irina did to you,” Veronica said. “He's helping us. He's distracting her.”

Michael rubbed his forehead. “So Laurent? Your father is calling himself the new tsar now?”

“We are calling him this as well,” Dmitry said. “He is the true heir.”

Veronica gave a quick nod. “I met with him yesterday. I asked him to do this.”

“Are you all right?” Michael touched her arm.

“Actually we have more in common than I expected.” Veronica reached down to unzip the side pocket of her carry-on bag. She withdrew her red binder and flipped it open to the letter from Prince Potemkin, still carefully tucked in the plastic sheeting for protection. “And I've been dying to show this to you. I found this the other night. It was hidden in the sketch of the mosque.”

Michael bent closer to see the signature. “Potemkin!” He looked at Dmitry. “Your man.”

Dmitry shrugged but looked a bit smug. “It is as though he speaks to grand duchess.”

“It's true. The letter inspired me,” Veronica said.

“And you just took it from Irina's office?”

“Is not
her
office,” Dmitry told him. “I already tell grand duchess to make sure letter gets to an archive in the United States. It is what Grisha would want.”

“I only wish I knew what this meant.” Veronica pointed to the arabesque symbols on the bottom of the page.

“What is that?” Michael asked.

Dmitry leaned in to take a look. And then he started to laugh. “Oh yes! I remember from last night. The mysterious secret code. This is what inspires you?”

“Well … yes … the letter.”

“I found information last night. You are right. Secret language between Grisha and the empress, but it was…” He flashed a smile. “Sexual in nature.”

“Oh!” Without thinking, Veronica shut the binder hard. Michael chuckled.

“This is all right,” Dmitry said. “Grisha inspired you to act. That is important.”

“You think he would be proud of us?” Veronica asked.

“I do,” Dmitry said.

“What are you going to do now?” Veronica said. “Wait for news on Reb obviously. But after that?”

Dmitry held her gaze. “I think I want Grisha to feel proud of me as well,” he said. “And I think even without tsarina at side there is still much I can do here. I will … come out.”

“To the public?” Michael said.

Dmitry nodded. “Is only way. Too many people are getting hurt. They need to see who is being hurt. They need to see us.”

Veronica's pulse quickened. She wanted to tell him not to do it. He would get hurt. He could get lynched. He was putting himself in danger and she wanted to protect him. But she also knew he was right. Russians were allowing laws to get passed that hurt people: Dmitry, Reb, the grandson of the floor attendant back at the hotel. If no one spoke out, the suffering remained abstract. As long as it remained abstract, it would continue.