The Romanov Prophecy Part 25

"They're older," he said. "They survived."

He reached for the newspaper and unfolded the yellowed bundle. He could read Swiss-German reasonably well and noticed a story on the bottom fold, apparently the reason why it had been included in the safe-deposit box. The article was headlined: GOLDSMITH FABERGe SUCc.u.mBS. GOLDSMITH FABERGe SUCc.u.mBS. The text reiterated the death of Carl Faberge the day before at the Hotel Bellevue in Lusanne. He'd only recently arrived from Germany, where he'd fled in exile after the Bolshevik takeover in October 1917. The story went on and noted that the House of Faberge, which Carl Faberge had headed for forty-seven years, ended with the demise of the Romanovs. The Soviets had seized everything and closed the business, though a vain attempt was made to keep the enterprise open for a short while under the more politically correct name of "Committee of the Employees of the Faberge Company." The reporter noted that the lack of imperial patronage was not the only reason for the business's decline. The First World War had tapped the resources of most of the rich clientele Faberge had served. The article concluded with an observation that privileged Russian society seemed gone forever. The photograph that accompanied the article showed Faberge as a broken man. The text reiterated the death of Carl Faberge the day before at the Hotel Bellevue in Lusanne. He'd only recently arrived from Germany, where he'd fled in exile after the Bolshevik takeover in October 1917. The story went on and noted that the House of Faberge, which Carl Faberge had headed for forty-seven years, ended with the demise of the Romanovs. The Soviets had seized everything and closed the business, though a vain attempt was made to keep the enterprise open for a short while under the more politically correct name of "Committee of the Employees of the Faberge Company." The reporter noted that the lack of imperial patronage was not the only reason for the business's decline. The First World War had tapped the resources of most of the rich clientele Faberge had served. The article concluded with an observation that privileged Russian society seemed gone forever. The photograph that accompanied the article showed Faberge as a broken man.

"This newspaper is here to prove authenticity," he said.

He rolled the egg over and found the goldsmith mark of the man who crafted it: HW HW. He thumbed through one of the volumes and came to a section that dealt with the various workmasters Faberge had employed. He knew that Faberge himself actually designed and made nothing. He was the presiding genius of a conglomerate that, at its height, produced some of the finest jewelry ever crafted, but it was the workmasters who actually conceived and a.s.sembled everything. The book noted that Michael Perchin, the head workmaster who created the Lilies of the Valley Egg, died in 1903. The text reflected that Henrik Wigstrom took over the managerial reigns until the House's demise, dying himself in 1923, a year before Faberge. The volume likewise contained a photograph of Wigstrom's mark-HW-and Lord compared the picture with the initials stamped into the bottom of the egg.

They were identical.

He saw that Akilina held the contents of the third velvet bag-another gold sheet with engraved writing in Cyrillic. He came close and had to strain to read it, but was able to translate: To the Raven and the Eagle: This country has proven the haven it claims to be. The blood of the imperial body is safe, awaiting your arrival. The tsar reigns but does not govern. You must remedy that. The rightful heirs will remain forever silent until you properly awaken their spirit. What I wish for the despots who destroyed our nation Radishchev said best more than a hundred years ago: "No you shan't be forgotten. d.a.m.ned for ages to come. Blood in your cradle, hymns and the battle roar. Ah, drenched in blood you tumble into the grave." See to it.F. Y.

"That's it?" he said. "This tells us nothing. What about h.e.l.l's Bell? The last engraving from Maks's grave said only h.e.l.l's Bell can point the way to the next portal. There's nothing here about any h.e.l.l's Bell." He lifted the egg and shook it. Solid. No sound from inside. He carefully studied the exterior and noticed no lines or openings. "Obviously, we're supposed to know more at this point than we do. Pashenko said parts of the secret had been lost with time. Maybe there was another step we missed, one that would tell us what h.e.l.l's Bell is."

He brought the egg closer and examined the three small photos extending from the top. "Alexie and Anastasia survived. They were here, in this country. Both are long dead, but maybe their descendants aren't. We're so close to finding them, but all we have is some gold and an egg worth a fortune." He shook his head. "Yussoupov went to a lot of trouble. Even involving Faberge, or at least his last workmaster, to craft this."

"What do we do now?" Akilina asked.

He sat back in the chair and considered her question. He wanted to offer some hope, an answer, but finally he spoke truthfully.

"I have no idea."

THIRTY-FOUR.

MOSCOW.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 19.

7:00 AM.

Hayes walked quickly toward the phone ringing beside his bed. He'd just finished showering and shaving, preparing for another day at the commission proceedings, a pivotal day when a decision would be made on the three candidates to be considered in the final voting. There was certainly no doubt Baklanov would be included, his final selection now a.s.sured since the Secret Chancellory had confirmed the previous night that all seventeen commission members were purchased. Even the pesky b.a.s.t.a.r.d who'd grilled Baklanov during his last appearance had named his price.

He answered the phone on the fourth ring and instantly recognized Khrushchev's voice.

"A call came in about half an hour ago from the Russian consulate in San Francisco, California. Your Mr. Lord is there with Miss Petrovna."

Hayes was shocked. "What's he doing there?"

"He appeared at a local bank with a safe-deposit key. Apparently that was what he retrieved from Kolya Maks's grave. The Commerce and Merchant's Bank is one of several inst.i.tutions worldwide the Soviets monitored through the years. The KGB was obsessed with finding tsarist wealth. They were convinced gold bullion was sitting in bank vaults, hidden away before the revolution. Actually, there was some truth to that, because millions were found in accounts after 1917."

"You're telling me that your people still monitor banks for money that's almost a hundred years old? No wonder your government is broke. You need to give it up and move on."

"Do we? Look what's happening. Perhaps we are not as foolish as you think. Some of what you say, though, is correct. After the communist fall, endeavors such as this were deemed unaffordable. But I had the foresight to recultivate past contacts when our secret a.s.sociation was formed. Our consulate in San Francisco has maintained a discreet relationship with two banks there for decades. They were both depositories used before the revolution by tsarist agents. Luckily, one of our sources reported access to a safe-deposit box we suspected of a tsarist connection."

"What happened?"

"Lord and Miss Petrovna appeared with a cover story of representing some deceased person's estate. The clerk thought nothing of it until they produced a key for one of the oldest boxes the bank still maintains. It is one of the boxes we have watched. Lord left the bank with three velvet bags, contents unknown."

"We know where they are now?"

"Mr. Lord signed in for access to the safe-deposit boxes and left a local hotel address. We have confirmed he and Miss Petrovna are there. He apparently feels safe back in America."

His mind raced. He checked his watch. A little after seven AM AM on a Tuesday in Moscow meant it was still eight on a Tuesday in Moscow meant it was still eight PM PM. Monday in California.

Twelve hours before Lord started another day.

"I have an idea," he told Khrushchev.

"I thought you might."

[image]

Lord and Akilina exited the elevator in the lobby of the Marriott, the contents from the safe-deposit box stored in their room's floor safe. The San Francisco Public Library opened at nine AM AM and he wanted to be there first thing to do more research and try and determine what they were missing, or at least develop an avenue down which they could head for answers. and he wanted to be there first thing to do more research and try and determine what they were missing, or at least develop an avenue down which they could head for answers.

This search, which at first seemed only a way to get out of Moscow, had turned interesting. Originally, he'd planned on seeing what was in Starodug, then catching the first plane back to Georgia. But after what happened to the Makses, and what he'd found both in Starodug and the bank, he realized that there was much more here than first contemplated. He was now determined to see it through. Where that might lead he had no idea. But the quest was being made even more interesting by what was happening between him and Akilina.

He'd booked only one room in the Marriott. They'd slept separately, but their talks last night revealed an intimacy he'd not felt in a long while. They'd watched a movie, a romantic comedy, and he'd translated the dialogue. With his commentary she'd enjoyed the film, and he'd enjoyed sharing it with her.

There'd only been one major romance in his life, a fellow law student at the University of Virginia whom he'd ultimately learned was far more interested in furthering her career than developing a relationship. She'd abruptly left him right after graduation, taking an offer with a Washington, DC, firm, where he a.s.sumed she was still inching her way up the hierarchy to full partnership. He'd moved to Georgia and been hired at Pridgen & Woodworth, dating some, but nothing serious and no one as interesting as Akilina Petrovna. He'd never been a believer in fate-the concept always seemed more suitable to the faithful who'd worshipped his father-but what was happening could not be denied, both the search they'd accepted and the attraction they shared.

"Mr. Lord."

The use of his name, called out across the expansive hotel atrium, caught him by surprise. No one in San Francisco should know who he was.

He and Akilina stopped walking and turned.

A sprightly gnome of a man with black hair and matching mustache approached. He was dressed in a double-breasted suit with wide lapels cut in a European style. He walked with an even gait aided by a cane and did not hurry his step as he came close.

"I am Filip Vitenko, from the Russian consulate," the man said in English.

Lord's back stiffened. "How did you know where to find me?"

"Could we sit down somewhere? I have some things to discuss with you."

He had no intention of venturing far with this man, so he motioned to an ensemble of chairs nearby.

As they sat, Vitenko said, "I am aware of the incident in Red Square last Friday-"

"Could you speak Russian so Miss Petrovna can understand? Her English is not nearly as good as yours."

"Of course," Vitenko said in Russian, throwing a smile at Akilina.

"As I said, I am aware of what happened in Red Square last Friday. A policeman was killed. A bulletin has been issued by the Moscow police for your detention. It states that you are wanted for questioning."

Now he was concerned.

"I am also aware of your contact with an Inspector Feliks Orleg. I realize, Mr. Lord, that you have no complicity in the Red Square affair. Rather, it is Inspector Orleg who is under suspicion. I have been directed to make contact and secure your cooperation."

He was not convinced. "You still haven't said how you located us."

"Our consulate has, for a number of years, maintained a watch on two financial inst.i.tutions in this city. Both existed in tsarist times and were used as depositories by imperial agents. Nicholas II was said to have secreted away gold before the revolution. When you appeared yesterday, at both inst.i.tutions, and wanted access to a safe-deposit box we have long suspected as having an imperial connection, we were notified."

"That would be against the law," he said. "This isn't Russia. There is bank confidentiality in this country."

The envoy seemed unperturbed. "I am aware of your laws. Perhaps they likewise cover the use of false court papers to gain access to a safe-deposit box owned by someone else?"

He got the message. "What do you want?"

"Inspector Orleg has been under investigation for some time. He is connected to some sort of organization that is intent on influencing the outcome of the Tsarist Commission. Artemy Bely, the young lawyer who was gunned down, was killed because he was asking questions about Orleg and this a.s.sociation. You, unfortunately, happened to be present. The individuals who murdered Bely thought perhaps he confided in you, which explains their interest in you. I am aware of the chases in Moscow and Red Square-"

"And also on a train from St. Petersburg."

"I was unaware of that."

"What kind of organization is attempting to influence the commission?"

"That, we were hoping you might know. My government is only aware that individuals are working together and large sums of money have changed hands. Orleg is connected to them. Their purpose seems an attempt to a.s.sure that Stefan Baklanov is selected tsar."

The man's words were making sense, but he wanted to know, "Are any American businessmen suspected of being involved? My firm represents a large number of them."

"We believe so. In fact, that appears to be the cash source. We were hoping you could help us there, too."

"Have you talked with my boss, Taylor Hayes?"

Vitenko shook his head. "My government has tried to confine its inquiries to keep their knowledge secret. Arrests are about to be made, but I have been asked to question you and see if you could add more. In addition, a representative from Moscow would like to speak with you, if possible."

Lord was now extremely concerned. He didn't like the idea that anyone from Moscow knew where he was.

His apprehension must have seeped through his expression. Vitenko said, "There is nothing to fear, Mr. Lord. Your conversation will be by phone. I a.s.sure you, I represent a government that is interested in everything that has happened over the past few days. We need your a.s.sistance. The commission will take a final vote in two days' time. If there has been a corruption of the process, we must know."

He said nothing.

"We cannot begin a new Russia with vestiges of the old. If commission members are being bribed, perhaps Stefan Baklanov himself has been compromised. That cannot be allowed."

He shot a quick glance at Akilina, who signaled her concern with a lingering gaze. As long as the envoy was talking, he wanted to know some things. "Why does your government continue to be concerned with tsarist wealth? It seems ridiculous. So much time has pa.s.sed."

Vitenko settled back in his chair. "Nicholas II hid millions in imperial gold prior to 1917. The Soviets thought it their duty to find every last bit of that wealth. San Francis...o...b..came the hub of all Allied support for the White Army. Much tsarist gold was deposited here for the London and New York banks, which were financing rifle and ammunition purchases. Russian emigres followed that gold into San Francisco. Many were merely refugees, but some came for a purpose." The envoy sat straight in his chair, a ramrod back matching his stuffy personality. "The Russian consul general here at the time openly declared himself anti-Bolshevik and was actively involved with American intervention in the Russian civil war. That man personally profited from the many gold-for-arms deals that flowed through local banks. The Soviets became convinced large amounts of what they regarded as their their gold was still here. Then there is the matter of Colonel Nicholas F. Romanov." gold was still here. Then there is the matter of Colonel Nicholas F. Romanov."

The pitch and tone of the man's voice signaled something important. Vitenko reached into his jacket pocket and removed a copy of a news article from the San Francisco Examiner San Francisco Examiner dated October 16, 1919. The story told of the arrival of a Russian colonel with the same last name as the deposed imperial family. He was supposedly on his way to Washington to secure American aid for White Army efforts. dated October 16, 1919. The story told of the arrival of a Russian colonel with the same last name as the deposed imperial family. He was supposedly on his way to Washington to secure American aid for White Army efforts.

"His arrival caused quite a stir. The consulate here monitored his activities. We still have the files, in fact. Whether this man was a Romanov or not, no one knows. Most likely, he was not, the name simply a way to arouse interest. He managed to shed the surveillance placed on him, and we really have no idea what he did while here or where he disappeared to. We do know that several accounts were open at the time, one at the Commerce and Merchants Bank, along with four safe-deposit boxes, one of which was number seven sixteen, which you accessed yesterday."

He began to realize this man's interest. A few too many coincidences for events to be random.

"Care to tell me what was in the box, Mr. Lord?"

He did not trust the envoy enough to part with that information. "Not right now."

"Perhaps you could tell the representative from Moscow?"

He wasn't sure about that, either, so he said nothing. Vitenko again seemed to sense his hesitancy. "Mr. Lord, I have been straightforward with you. There is no reason to doubt my intentions. Surely you can see my government's interest in all that has happened."

"Surely you can see why I'm being cautious. I've been running for my life the past few days. And by the way, you never did say how you located us."

"You listed this hotel on the sign-in sheet at the bank."

Good answer, he thought.

Vitenko reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. "I understand your reluctance, Mr. Lord. Here is how to contact me. Any taxi driver can deliver you to the Russian consulate. The representative from Moscow will call at two thirty this afternoon, our time. If you want to talk with him, please be at my office. If not, you will not be hearing from us again."

He accepted the card and stared hard at the envoy's face, unsure what he was going to do.

[image]

Akilina watched Lord as he paced the hotel room. They'd spent the morning in the public library reading old newspapers, finding a couple of articles on Colonel Nicholas F. Romanov's visit to San Francisco in the fall of 1919. There wasn't much, more gossip and social news than anything else, and she could tell that Lord was becoming frustrated. They'd also verified that the Lilies of the Valley Egg was still in a private collection, which did little to explain how they possessed a duplicate, exact in every way save for the photos.

After a light lunch in one of the street cafes, they'd returned to the room. Lord had yet to mention Filip Vitenko and his offer to appear at the Russian consulate later. She'd carefully watched the envoy while he and Lord talked, trying to gauge for herself his sincerity, but it was hard to ascertain.

She glanced over at Lord. He was a handsome man. The fact that he was "of color," as she'd been taught to think, meant nothing to her. He seemed a genuine and sincere individual thrust into something extraordinary. They'd so far spent five nights together and never once had he even intimated anything improper. That was unusual for her, since the men in the circus, and the few she a.s.sociated with outside work, seemed fixated on s.e.x.

"Akilina."

She looked at Lord.

"Where were you?" he asked.

She didn't want to tell him what she was really pondering, so she said, "Filip Vitenko seemed sincere."

"He did. But that doesn't necessarily mean anything."

Lord sat on the edge of the bed. He was holding the Faberge egg. "We must be missing something. A part of the secret has been lost. Clearly, we're at a dead end."

She knew what he really meant. "You are going to the consulate?"

He stared at her. "I don't think I have a choice. If somebody is trying to manipulate the commission, I have to help where I can."

"But there's nothing you know."

"I'm curious to see what I can learn from the Moscow representative. The information might be helpful to the man I work for. Don't forget, my original purpose was to ensure Stefan Baklanov's selection. I have to do my job."

"We'll go together, then."

"No. I may be taking a chance, but I'm not going to be foolish. I want you to take all this stuff and check into another hotel. Leave through the parking garage. Don't use the front or the lobby. This place could be watched. You never know, you might be followed, so take a roundabout path to the new hotel. Use the subway, a bus, maybe a taxi, too. Take a couple of hours to move around. I'll go to the consulate at two thirty. You call at three thirty. Use a pay phone somewhere. If I don't answer or they say I'm unavailable or I've already gone, go to ground. Stay low."