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“Yes.”

“If Komarov and his thugs knew you were here, what would he do?”

“Have me killed. His men are all over the city looking for me now.”

“You’ve got a nerve.”

“I agreed to do a job. After reading the manifesto, it seemed worth doing.”

Bernstein held out his hand.

“Show me.”

Monk gave him the verification report first. The banker was accustomed to reading complex documents at great speed. He finished it in ten minutes.

“Three men, eh?”

“The old cleaner, the secretary Akopov who foolishly left it out on his desk to be stolen, and Jefferson, the journalist who Komarov wrongly thought had read it.”

Bernstein punched a button on his intercom.

“Ludmilla, get into the agency clipping files for late July and early August. See if the local papers carried anything on Akopov, a Russian, and an English reporter called Jefferson. On the first name, try the obituaries as well.”

He stared at his desktop screen as the microfiches were flashed up. Then he grunted.

“They’re dead all right. And now you, Mr. Monk, if they catch you.”

“I’m hoping they won’t.”

“Well, since you’ve taken the risk, I’ll look at Mr. Komarov’s private intentions for us all.”

He held out his hand again. Monk gave him the slim black file. Bernstein began to read. One page he read several times, flicking back and forward as he reread the text. Without looking up, he said:

“Ilya, leave us. It’s all right, lad, go.”

Monk heard the door close behind the aide. The banker looked up at last and stared at Monk.

“He can’t mean this.”

“Complete extermination? It’s been tried before.”

“There are a million Jews in Russia, Mr. Monk.”

“I know. Ten percent can afford to get out.”

Bernstein arose and walked to the windows that looked across the whitescape of the roofs of Moscow. The glass had a slight greenish tint; it was five inches thick and would stop an antitank shell.

“He can’t be serious.”

“We believe he is.”

“We?”

“The people who sent me, powerful, influential people. But frightened of this man.”

“Are you Jewish, Mr. Monk?”

“No, sir.”

“Lucky you. He’s going to win, isn’t he? The polls say he’s unstoppable.”

“Things may be changing. He was denounced by General Nikolayev the other day. That might have an effect. I hope the Orthodox Church may play a role. Perhaps he could be stopped.”

“Huh, the church. No friend of the Jews, Mr. Monk.”

“No, but he has plans for the church too.”

“So it’s an alliance you’re after?”

“Something like that. Church, army, banks, ethnic minorities. Every little bit helps. Have you seen the reports of the wandering priest? Calling for a return of the czar?

“Yes. Foolishness, my personal view. But better a czar than a Nazi. What do you want of me, Mr. Monk?”

“I? Nothing. The choice is yours. You are the chairman of the four-bank consortium that controls the two independent TV channels. You have your Grumman at the airport?”

“Yes.”

“It is only two hours by air to Kiev.”

“Why Kiev?”

“You could visit Babi Yar.”

Leonid Bernstein spun round from the windows.

“You may leave now, Mr. Monk.”

Monk retrieved his two files from the desk and slipped them into the slim leather case in which he had brought them.

He knew he had gone too far. Babi Yar is a ravine outside Kiev. Between 1941 and 1943 one hundred thousand civilians were machine-gunned on the edge of the ravine so that their corpses fell inside. Some were commissars and Communist officials, but ninety-five percent were the Jews of Ukraine. Monk had reached the door when Leonid Bernstein spoke again.

“Have you been there, Mr. Monk?”

‘‘No, sir.’’

“And what have you heard of it?”

“I have heard that it is a bleak place.”

“I have been to Babi Yar. It is a terrible place. Good-day to you, Mr. Monk.”

¯

DR. Lancelot Probyn’s office in the headquarters of the College in Queen Victoria Street was small and cluttered. Every horizontal space was occupied by bundles of paper that seemed to be in no particular order, yet presumably made some sense to the genealogist.

When Sir Nigel Irvine was shown in, Dr. Probyn leaped to his feet, swept the entire House of Grimaldi onto the floor, and bade his visitor take the chair thus liberated.

“So, how goes the succession?” asked Irvine.

“To the throne of Romanov? Not well. As I thought. There’s one who might have a claim but doesn’t want it, one who lusts after it but is excluded on two counts, and an American who hasn’t been approached and hasn’t a chance anyway.”

“Bad as that, eh?” said Irvine. Dr. Probyn bounced and twinkled. He was in his element, his own world of bloodlines, intermarriages, and strange rules.

“Let’s start with the fraudsters,” he said. “You remember Anna Andersen? She was the one who all her life claimed she was Grand Duchess Anastasia, who had survived the massacre at Yekaterinburg. All lies. She’s dead now, but DNA tests have finally proved she was an impostor.

“A few years ago another died in Madrid, self-styled Grand Duke Alexei. He turned out to be a con man from Luxembourg. That leaves three who are occasionally mentioned in the press, usually inaccurately. Ever heard of Prince Georgi?”

“Forgive me, no, Dr. Probyn.”

“Well, no matter. He’s a young man who has been hawked around Europe and Russia for years by his avidly ambitious mother, Grand Duchess Maria, the daughter of the late Grand Duke Vladimir.

“Vladimir himself might have had a claim as the great grandson of a reigning emperor, though it would have been a thin one because his mother was not a member of the Orthodox Church at the time of his birth, which is one of the conditions.

“Anyway, his daughter Maria was not eligible to be his successor, even though he kept claiming she was. The Pauline Law, you see.”

“And that is ... ?”

“Czar Paul the First laid it down. Succession, save in exceptional circumstances, is by the male line only. No daughters count. Very sexist, but that’s the way it was and is. So Grand Duchess Maria is really Princess Maria, and her son Georgi is not in line. The Pauline Law also specified that not even the sons of daughters count.”

“So they are just hoping for the best?”

“Exactly. Very ambitious, but no true claim.”

“You mentioned an American, Dr. Probyn?”

“Now there’s an odd story. Before the Revolution Czar Nicholas had an uncle called Grand Duke Paul, youngest brother of his father.

“When the Bolsheviks came, they murdered the czar, his brother, and his uncle Paul. But Paul had a son, cousin of the czar. By chance this wild young man, Grand Duke Dmitri, had been involved in the murder of Rasputin. Because of that he was in exile in Siberia when the Bolsheviks struck. It saved his life. He fled via Shanghai and ended up in America.”

“Never heard of that,” said Irvine. “Go on.”

“Well, Dmitri lived, married, and had a son, Paul, who fought as a major in the U.S. Army in Korea. He also married, and had two sons.”

“That looks like a pretty straight male line to me. Are you saying the true czar might be an American?” asked Irvine.

“Some do, but they delude themselves,” said Probyn. “You see, Dmitri married an American commoner, and so did his son Paul. Under Rule 188 of the Imperial House, you can’t marry someone not of equal rank and expect your offspring to succeed. This rule was later relaxed a bit, but not for grand dukes. So Dmitri’s marriage was morganatic. His son who fought in Korea cannot succeed and neither can either of the two grandchildren by yet a second marriage to a commoner.”

“So they’re out.”

“ ‘Fraid so. Not that they have ever shown much interest, actually. Live in Florida, I think.”

“Who does that leave?”

“The last, with the strongest claim by blood. This is Prince Semyon Romanov.”

“He is related to the murdered czar? No daughters, no commoners?” asked Irvine.

“True, but it’s a long way back. You have to imagine four czars. Nicholas the Second came after his father Alexander the Third.
He
came after his father Alexander the Second and his father was Nicholas the First. Now, Nicholas the First had a junior son, Grand Duke Nicholas, who of course never became czar. His son was Peter, his son was Kyrill, and
his
son is Semyon.”

“So from the murdered Czar you have to go back three generations to Great-Granddad, then sideways to a junior son, then down four generations to reach Semyon.”

“Exactly.”

“Seems pretty well-stretched elastic to me, Dr. Probyn.”

“It is a long way, but that’s family trees for you. Technically, Semyon is the nearest we can get to direct bloodline. However, that’s academic. There are practical difficulties.’’

“Such as?”

“For one thing he’s over seventy. So even if he were restored, he wouldn’t last long. Second, he has no children, so the line would die with him and Russia would be back to square one. Third, he has repeatedly said he has no interest and would refuse the office even if it were offered.”

“Not very helpful,” admitted Sir Nigel.

“There’s worse. He’s always been a bit of a rake, interested in fast cars, the Riviera, and taking his pleasures with young girls, usually servants. That habit has led to three broken marriages. And worst of all, I have heard it whispered, he cheats at backgammon.”

“Good God.”

Sir Nigel Irvine was genuinely shocked. Humping the staff one might overlook, but cheating at backgammon …”

“Where does he live?”

“On an apple farm in Normandy. Grows apples to make Calvados.”

Sir Nigel Irvine was pensive for a while. Dr. Probyn gazed at him sympathetically.

“If Semyon has stated publicly that he renounces any part in a restoration, would that count as a legal disclaimer?”

Dr. Probyn puffed out his cheeks.

“I should think so. Unless a restoration actually came about. Then he might change his mind. Think of all those fast cars and serving wenches.”

“But without Semyon, what’s the picture? What, as our American friends say, is the bottom line?”

“My dear chap, the bottom line is that if the Russian people want, they can choose any damn person they like to become their monarch. It’s as simple as that.”

“It’s precedented, choosing a foreigner?”

“Oh, massively. It’s been done time and again. Look, we English have done it three times. When Elizabeth the First died single, if not a virgin, we invited James the Sixth of Scotland down to become James the First of England. Four kings later, we threw out James the Second and invited the Dutchman William of Orange to take the throne. When Queen Anne died without surviving issue, we asked George of Hannover to come across as George the First. And he hardly spoke a word of English.”

“The Europeans have done the same?”

“Of course. The Greeks twice. In 1833 after winning their freedom from the Turks, they invited Otto of Bavaria to become King of Greece. He wasn’t up to much, so they deposed him in 1862 and asked Prince William of Denmark to take over. He became King George the First. Then they proclaimed a republic in 1924, restored the monarchy in 1935, and abolished it again in 1973. Can’t make up their minds.

“The Swedes a couple of hundred years ago were at a loss, so they looked round and invited the Napoleonic General Bernadotte to become their king. Worked pretty well; his descendants are still there.

“And, finally, in 1905 Prince Charles of Denmark was asked to become Haakon the Seventh of Norway, and his descendants are still there too. If you’ve got an empty throne, and you want a monarch, it’s not always a bad thing to pick a good outsider rather than a useless local boy.”

Sir Nigel was silent again, lost in thought. By now Dr. Probyn had suspected his inquiries were not entirely academic.

“May I ask something?” said the herald.

“Certainly.”

“If the question of restoration ever did occur in Russia, what would be the American reaction? I mean, they control the purse strings, the only superpower left.”

“The Americans are traditionally anti-monarchist admitted Irvine, “but they’re no fools either. In 1918, America was instrumental in exiling the German Kaiser. That led to the chaotic vacuum of the Weimar Republic, and into that vacuum stepped Adolf Hitler with results we all know. In 1945, Uncle Sam specifically did not terminate the Japanese imperial house. The result? For fifty years Japan has been the most stable democracy in Asia, anti-communist and a friend of America. I think Washington would take the view if the Russians choose to go that road, it’s their choice.”

“But it would have to be the entire Russian people, by plebiscite?”

Sir Nigel nodded.

“Yes, I think it would. The Duma alone wouldn’t suffice. Too many allegations of corruption. It would have to be the nation’s decision.”

“Then whom have you in mind?”

“That’s the problem, Dr. Probyn. No one. From what you’ve told me, a playboy or an itinerant pretender won’t work. Look, let’s think what qualities a restored czar would need to have. Do you mind?”

The herald’s eyes sparkled.

“Much more fun than my usual job. What about age?”

“Forty to sixty, wouldn’t you say? No job for a teenager, nor a geriatric. Mature but not elderly. What next?”

“Have to be born a prince of a reigning house, look and behave the part,” said Probyn.

“A European house?”

“Oh, surely yes. I don’t suppose the Russians want an African, Arab, or Asian.”

“No. Caucasian then, Doctor.”

“He’d need a living legitimate son and they’d both have to convert to the Orthodox Church.”

“That’s not insuperable.”

“But there is a real stinker,” said Probyn. “His mother would have to have been a member of the Orthodox Church at the time of his birth.”

“Ow. Anything else?”

“Royal blood on both sides of his parentage, preferably Russian on one side at least.”

“And a senior or former army officer. The support of the Russian officer corps would be vital. I don’t know what they’d think of an accountant.”