The Romanov Prophecy Part 9

Zinov was gone.

He slammed the door shut. Perhaps his bodyguard was in the lavatory. He rushed down the narrow aisle and rounded a slight angle in the corridor that led to the far exit. The lavatory door was closed, its OCCUPIED OCCUPIED notice not engaged. notice not engaged.

He slid open the door.

Empty.

Where the h.e.l.l was Zinov?

He stepped inside the lavatory. But before he did, he cracked open the exit door to give the appearance that someone had pa.s.sed through to the next car. He slid the lavatory door shut, but did not engage the lock so the OCCUPIED OCCUPIED wouldn't show from the outside. wouldn't show from the outside.

He stood motionless, pressed tight against the stainless-steel door, breathing hard. His heart pounded. Footsteps approached and he braced himself, ready to use his briefcase as a weapon. From the door's other side, the exit for the sleeper car slid open with a dull sc.r.a.pe.

A second later it closed.

He waited a full minute.

Hearing nothing, he inched open the lavatory door. No one was in the hall. He slammed the door shut and engaged the lock. It was the second time in two days he'd successfully run for his life. He laid his briefcase on the toilet and took a moment to rinse sweat from his face in the washbasin. A can of disinfectant rested on the sink. He used the spray to cleanse the bar of soap, then washed his hands and face, careful not to swallow the water, a laminated sign warning in Cyrillic that nothing was potable. He used his handkerchief to dry his face. No paper towels had been provided.

He stared at himself in the mirror.

His brown eyes were weary, the angular features of his face drawn, and his hair needed a cut. What was going on? And where was Zinov? Some bodyguard. He splashed more water on his face and rinsed out his mouth, careful again not to swallow. A strange irony, he thought. G.o.dd.a.m.n superpower with the ability to blow up the world a thousand times over, but can't manage clean water on a train.

He tried to regain his composure. Through an oval window the night raced past. Another train whizzed by in the opposite direction, the rush of cars lasting what seemed minutes.

He took a deep breath, grabbed his briefcase, and slid open the door.

The way was blocked by a tall, stocky man with a pockmarked face, his shiny black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Lord stared into the eyes and instantly noticed the wide s.p.a.ce between the right pupil and brow.

Droopy.

A fist slammed into Lord's stomach.

He doubled over, air strangling in his throat, a wave of nausea gripping him. The force of the blow drove him into the outer wall, his head popping hard against the window, winking the scene before him in and out.

He settled onto the toilet.

Droopy stepped into the lavatory and shut the door. "Now, Mr. Lord, we finish."

He'd managed to retain a grip on his briefcase and momentarily thought of swinging it upward, but in the tight confines the blow would be meaningless. Air started to grab in his lungs. The initial shock was replaced by fear. A cold, shivering terror.

A knife snapped open in Droopy's hand.

There'd only be a moment.

His gaze cut to the disinfectant. He lunged forward, grabbed the can, pointed, and sprayed his a.s.sailant's face. The caustic mist soaked into the eyes and the man shrieked. Lord brought his right knee up into the groin. Droopy doubled over, the knife clattering to the tile floor. With both hands Lord crashed the briefcase down and Droopy crumpled forward.

Lord pounded again. Then again.

He leapt over the body and slid the metal door open, bolting into the corridor. Waiting for him was Cro-Magnon, the same sloped forehead, bushy hair, and bulbous nose from two days ago.

"In a hurry, Mr. Lord?"

He kicked the Russian's left knee with the toe of his loafer, knocking the man down. To his right, a silver samovar steamed with hot water, a gla.s.s decanter ready for patrons looking for coffee. He slung the scalding liquid at Cro-Magnon.

The man cried out in pain.

Lord spun in the opposite direction and shot for the exit adjacent to the lavatory. He could hear Droopy getting to his feet, calling out to Cro-Magnon.

He raced out of the sleeper into the next car and hustled down the narrow hall as fast as the confined s.p.a.ce would allow. He was hoping a steward would appear. Anyone. He maintained a grasp on his briefcase and found the exit into the next car. Behind, he heard the door at the far end open and caught a glimpse of his two a.s.sailants starting after him.

He kept moving, then decided this was pointless. Eventually he was going to run out of train.

He shot a glance back.

The angle of the car gave him a moment of privacy. The hall before him was lined with more sleeping compartments. He figured he was still in the first-cla.s.s section. He needed to duck into one, if only for a moment, enough time to let the pursuers pa.s.s. Maybe then he could backtrack and find Zinov.

He tried the next paneled door.

Locked.

The one after was locked, too.

There'd only be another second.

He grasped a latch handle and looked back. Shadows of approaching figures dimmed the hall in the forward car. As the shoulder of one man came into view, he yanked on the panel.

It opened.

He slipped in and slammed the door shut.

"Who are you?" a female voice asked in Russian.

He spun around.

Perched on the bed, not three feet away, was a woman. She was thin as a figure skater, with shoulder-length blond hair. He took in her oval face, her milky white skin, the blunt tip of her upturned nose. She was a curious mixture of tomboyishness and femininity. And her blue eyes carried not a hint of concern.

"Don't be afraid," he said in Russian. "My name is Miles Lord. I have a big problem."

"That still does not explain why you barged into my compartment."

"Two men are after me."

She stood and stepped close. She was short, rising only to his shoulders, and wore a pair of dark jeans that seemed made only for her. A curvy jacket with padded shoulders covered a blue turtleneck sweater. A faint smell of sweet perfume blossomed from her.

"Are you mafiya mafiya?" she asked.

He shook his head. "But the men after me may be. They killed a man two days ago and tried to kill me."

"Step back," she said.

He brushed past toward the compartment's solitary window. She slid open the door, glanced out casually, then shut it.

"There are three men at the far end."

"Three?"

"Yes. One has a black ponytail. The other is craggy with a wide nose, like a Tatar."

Droopy and Cro-Magnon.

"The third is muscular. No neck. Blond hair."

It sounded like Zinov. His mind raced at the possibilities. "Are the three talking?"

She nodded. "They are also knocking on compartment doors, headed this way."

The concern that immediately filled his eyes was apparently evident. She pointed to the bin above the door. "Climb up there and stay quiet."

The recess was large enough for two good-sized pieces of luggage, more than enough room to accommodate him in the fetal position. He sprang onto one of the berths and hauled himself up. She handed him his briefcase. He'd just settled in when a knock came on the compartment door.

She answered the call.

"We are looking for a black man, dressed in a suit, carrying a briefcase." The voice was Zinov's.

"I have seen no such man," she said.

"Do not lie to us," Cro-Magnon said. "We are not to be misled. Have you seen him?" The tone was harsh.

"I have seen no such man. I want no trouble from you."

"Your face is familiar," Droopy said.

"I am Akilina Petrovna of the Moscow Circus."

A moment pa.s.sed.

"That is it. I have seen you perform."

"How wonderful. Perhaps you should continue your search elsewhere. I need some sleep. I have a performance in the evening."

She slammed the compartment door shut.

He heard the lock engage.

And for the third time in two days, he heaved a deep sigh of relief.

He waited a full minute before climbing down. A cold sweat drenched his chest. His hostess sat on the opposite berth.

"Why do these men want to kill you?" The tone of her voice was soft. Still not a hint of concern.

"I have no idea. I'm a lawyer from America, here working with the Tsarist Commission. Until two days ago, I didn't think anybody even knew I was alive, other than my boss."

He sat on the opposite bed. The adrenaline was receding, replaced by a throbbing in every muscle of his body. Fatigue was setting in. But he still had a major problem. "One of those men, the first who spoke to you, was supposed to be my bodyguard. Apparently there's a lot more to him than I thought."

The features on her compact face wrinkled. "I would not recommend turning to him for help. The three appeared to be working together."

He asked, "Is this an everyday thing in Russia? Strange men slipping into your compartment? Mobsters at your door. You seem to have no fear."

"Should I?"

"I'm not saying you should. G.o.d knows, I'm harmless. But in America this could be construed as a dangerous situation."

She shrugged. "You don't appear dangerous. Actually, when I saw you, I thought of my grandmother."

He waited for her to explain.

"She grew up in the time of Khrushchev and Brezhnev. The Americans used to send spies to test the soil for radioactivity, trying to find the missile silos. Everyone was warned about them, told they were dangerous, told to be on the lookout. Once, my grandmother was out in the woods and met a strange man gathering mushrooms. He was dressed as a peasant and carried a wicker basket like people do in the woods. She was completely unafraid and walked straight up to him and said, 'h.e.l.lo, spy.' He stared at her, shocked, but didn't deny the allegation. Instead, he said, 'I was trained so well. I learned everything about Russia I could. How did you know I was a spy?' 'That's easy,' my grandmother said. 'I've lived here all my life and you're the first black man I've ever seen in these woods.' The same is true for you, Miles Lord. You're the first black man I've ever seen on this train."

He smiled. "Your grandmother sounds like a practical woman."

"She was. Until the communists took her one night. Somehow, a seventy-year-old woman threatened an empire."

He'd read about how Stalin slaughtered twenty million in the name of the Motherland, and how the party secretaries and Soviet presidents who came after him weren't any better. What had Lenin said? Better to arrest a hundred innocent people than run the risk of one enemy of the regime remaining free. Better to arrest a hundred innocent people than run the risk of one enemy of the regime remaining free.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Why should you be?"

"I don't know. It's the appropriate thing to say. What do you want me to say? Too bad your grandmother was butchered by a bunch of fanatics?"

"That's what they were."

"That why you covered for me?"

She shrugged. "I hate the government and the mafiya. mafiya. One and the same." One and the same."

"Do you think those men were mafiya mafiya?"

"No doubt."

"I need to find a steward and talk to the conductor."

She smiled. "That would be foolish. Everyone is for sale in this land. If those men seek you, they will buy influence on this train."

She was right. The police weren't much better than the mafiya. mafiya. He thought of Inspector Orleg. He had disliked the burly Russian from the moment they'd met. "What do you suggest?" He thought of Inspector Orleg. He had disliked the burly Russian from the moment they'd met. "What do you suggest?"