The Romanov Conspiracy (22 page)

He turned down a littered side street and dismounted his bicycle outside a ramshackle redbrick factory building: the office of the White-chapel Metal Printing Works. Some of the broken windows had been replaced with newspapers and wooden planks. A couple of scrawny-looking children played in the dirty street, skinny-ribbed dogs barking and yelping at their heels.

Andrev locked his bicycle in the hallway and climbed two flights of stairs. The office he stepped into was large and busy, a printing press clanking away noisily in a corner. A couple of printers were working at the press, their aprons covered in ink, and they waved to him as he took off his coat.

Ivan Shaskov stepped out of a nearby office. A ruddy, cheerful, middle-aged man with a broad Russian face, his boss always wore a fresh flower in his suit buttonhole. “Hello, Uri.”

“Ivan.”

Shaskov looked worried as he put an arm on Andrev’s shoulder. “I just want a quick word. Come into my office, take a seat.”

Andrev followed his employer into a cluttered room littered with files, old wooden boxes overflowing with assorted lead fonts, and stacks of newspaper pamphlets tied with waxed string.

The printing works published a weekly newspaper and dozens of anti-Bolshevik pamphlets aimed at the émigré White Russian community in London. An empty vodka bottle poked its head above the debris, testament to his boss’s occasional late-night binge when working into the small hours.

Shaskov anxiously twiddled a pencil with both hands. “I thought I’d ask how you’re settling in at Madame Bizenko’s.”

“Well enough, thanks. Is something the matter, Ivan?”

Shaskov forced a smile but it quickly faded, and he dropped the pencil on the desk and crossed to the window. London’s ocean of rooftops stretched beyond the glass. As Shaskov stood staring absently at a pair of pigeons floating like gray rags in an air pocket, Andrev was reminded of their first meeting.

It was April, his second month in London. He knew no one and slept on park benches and in alleyways. He slept with a blanket a kind old lady near Charring Cross gave him and on good days he managed to survive by scavenging scraps of bread and meat from restaurant bins.

On bad days he starved. On one of those occasions Andrev felt so weak from hunger he had to stop to sit on a park bench. A dapper little man with a goatee beard and a white carnation in his buttonhole stood feeding pigeons with thick crusts of bread left over from his sandwich. Andrev’s ears pricked up when he heard him call out to the birds in a Moscow dialect. “Excuse me, are you Russian?”

The man looked up warily at Andrev’s disheveled state. “Yes. From Moscow. And you?”

“St. Petersburg.” Andrev eyed the crusts the birds devoured.

The man’s eyes missed nothing. “Are you hungry?”

It was almost three days since he last ate and whether it was pride or fatigue, Andrev didn’t know, but he felt speechless. The man dusted crumbs from his hands. “My name’s Ivan Shaskov. I run a printing works nearby. Come.”

He led Andrev two streets away to an untidy redbrick terraced home in Friar Street, where the man’s elderly wife ran Andrev a hot bath and made him a hearty dinner of steak, fried potatoes, and eggs, which he wolfed down. Shaskov came back with a suit. “That ought to do you for now until you get yourself settled. Here, take this.”

Shaskov handed him a ten-shilling note. Andrev felt moved to tears. He hadn’t a penny in his pocket. “I—I don’t know what to say …”

“Say nothing. It’s a loan, not charity. Pay me back when you can.”

“But I have no job.”

“You do now.” Shaskov smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. “How’s your English? Is it good?”

“I believe so.”

“Don’t worry if you know nothing about printing, you’ll soon learn. You start work tomorrow.”

The little man was like a guardian angel to him, but now, on this morning, deep frown lines creased Shaskov’s face.

“What is it, Ivan? You seem troubled.”

“Did you hear the news in the club?”

“It’s full of new rumors every day. What news are you talking about?”

“That now Americans intend landing in north Russia and Siberia, just like the British, to threaten Lenin’s grip. And that the tsar and his family have been moved to Ekaterinburg.”

“Yes, I heard.”

Shaskov sighed and dug his fingers into his waistcoat pockets. “Speculation is wild that the tsar may be killed. Not only him but the whole family. I’m no lover of the tsar’s regime—it was corrupt and ineffective—but if they murder the family, Russia is lost, Uri. Those godless Bolsheviks will turn the country into a graveyard and there’ll be no going back for any of us. It seems this is a morning for bad news.”

“What do you mean?”

Shaskov opened a drawer and withdrew an addressed envelope with blue Finnish stamps. “The letter that you gave me. My brother Felix managed to reach St. Petersburg from Helsinki and make inquiries about some of my family still in Russia. I had Felix personally try to deliver your letter and money, as you asked.”

“Go on.”

“Felix wrote to me when he returned to Helsinki. He said that Nina and your son are not at the address anymore. They’ve gone, Uri.”

Andrev sat forward anxiously. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

Shaskov shrugged. “My brother said that Nina is no longer living there.”

“Did he speak with any of the neighbors?”

Shaskov nodded. “One of them claimed that she saw Nina leave the tenement building late one night, carrying a small suitcase. She never saw her since.”

“What about Sergey?”

“The neighbor didn’t mention a child; she only saw Nina.”

Andrev said worriedly, “What if something happened to him? He should have been with his mother.”

“Don’t torture yourself, Uri. It’s a mystery, I know, but there’s an explanation. Russia’s a mess, law and order have broken down, people are fleeing every day. My brother managed to locate Nina’s sister through one of the neighbors.”

Andrev said eagerly, “Tell me.”

“She gave him an address in Moscow. It’s an apartment house Nina’s father used to own on Kolinsky Prospect.”

“I know it. What else?”

Shaskov hesitated. “I don’t know how to say this, Uri.”

“Say it, for heaven’s sake.”

“She told my brother that Nina had divorced you.”

“What?”

Shaskov said sympathetically, “She said that Nina hardly saw you for most of the war. That you hadn’t been a proper husband and father.” He paused. “The woman may just have been venting spleen. I know none of that is your fault. That you’re a victim of war as much as anyone. But you know women, they’re emotional creatures. Besides, my brother seemed to think Nina may have had a different motive.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you heard? Lenin’s imprisoning the families of White officers, to instill even more terror. Perhaps divorce was a clever tactic to help her avoid arrest. At least they stand a chance of surviving.”

Andrev’s hand trembled as he held it out. “May I see the letter?”

Shaskov offered it across and Andrev devoured the contents.

Shaskov said, “Has Nina enough money? Will she be able to cope?”

Andrev barely managed to keep his emotions from spilling over. “We didn’t have much. Her father helps what little he can.”

Shaskov put a hand on Andrev’s shoulder to comfort him. “I’m sure that your family’s safe. That’s all that’s important right now. My brother left the letter and the money you gave him with Nina’s sister to forward
it to her. Please don’t worry. We’ll think of some way of contacting Nina again.”

Emotionally battered, Andrev couldn’t focus on that prospect. He needed answers
now
, but with Russia in chaos it took weeks for a letter to reach Moscow, and weeks more to get a reply. Most of the time mail wasn’t delivered at all, which was why he sought Shaskov’s help.

Andrev felt hollow. “It’s very kind of you, Ivan.”

“What are friends for?”

“I better get to work.” Andrev stood, trying to hide his emotions; he went to take off his coat but Shaskov shook his head.

“No, leave it on. Someone wants to meet you.”

“Who?”

“I believe a very nice lady would like to buy you lunch.”

24

LONDON

That same afternoon a carriage pulled up outside St. Constantine’s Greek Orthodox Church in Whitechapel.

The blackened oak entrance doors were firmly shut, but a judas gate set in one of them was ajar. Hanna Volkov climbed down out of the carriage. “Wait here, Francis, I won’t be long.”

The coachman tipped his hat. “Yes, ma’am.”

As she went up the granite steps she was moved by a pitiful sight—dozens of disheveled men and women lining up outside a soup kitchen at the church refectory. She entered through the judas gate, holding on to her hat as she ducked inside.

It was very peaceful in the church, London’s harsh bustle reduced to a hush. Incense scented the air, candles flickered. The walls were decorated with gilded icons, infused with rich colors: azure blue, crimson red, pale turquoise. There were no pews, just a few wooden chairs and benches set around the walls.

An Orthodox priest wearing a long black cassock and a greasy leather belt blessed himself in front of the altar. He turned, his features lit by sunlight that splintered through the stained glass windows. He was a tall, striking figure, powerfully built, his face half-hidden by a long beard.

Father Eugene Doneski smiled as he padded across the marbled floor in his sandaled feet. He grasped Hanna Volkov’s gloved hand and kissed it lightly. “Hanna, how good to see you again.”

“It’s just a brief visit, Father.”

“No matter, you are always welcome.”

Hanna produced an envelope with sterling banknotes from her
purse and pressed it into Doneski’s hands. “To help you with your work, Father.”

The priest protested. “But you give so much already. Our kitchens could barely exist without your charity.”

“Please, my husband would have wanted it so.”

“You are too kind.” Father Doneski slipped the envelope into his cassock and flicked a look toward the oak entrance doors at the back of the church. “You said you needed privacy. I’ll see to it that you’re not disturbed, Hanna.”

She sat in one of the benches facing the altar. A noise startled her and she turned.

A man stepped in through the judas gate. He wore a coarse woolen suit and carried a tweed cap in his hands, a scarf tied loosely around his neck. He genuflected before he walked down the center aisle, his footsteps echoing.

In the background Father Doneski padded toward the doors and bolted shut the judas, the noise booming like a gunshot.

The man startled and looked back in time to see the priest disappear into the shadows. When he reached Hanna and halted, she stood and offered her hand. “You must be Uri Andrev.”

He accepted her firm handshake and inclined his head before he moved onto the bench beside her.

Hanna studied Andrev. He was reasonably handsome, his manner pleasant. He appeared calm and in control, but a steely look glinted in his restless dark eyes. “My name is Hanna Volkov. Have you ever visited St. Constantine’s before, Mr. Andrev?”

He took in his surroundings with a grateful smile. “It’s been a welcome refuge from the rain on more than one occasion. And Father Doneski’s kitchen kept me from starving now and then. Why do you ask?”

Hanna looked toward a glass window in a corner of the church. Through it she could see the line lingering from the soup kitchen. “I don’t know where we’d be without selfless men like Father Doneski. Thanks to Lenin, millions of destitute Russians have crowded into Europe.”

Her eyes swung back toward her visitor. “May I tell you a secret, Mr. Andrev? I was never overly fond of churches as a child. They always seemed dark and cheerless places. But the older I get, the more I appreciate that there’s a certain peace here that you find nowhere else.”

“I can understand that.”

She regarded the gilded altar. “Perhaps Chekhov was right when he said that a house of God is one of the few places in this world where we can begin to sense the tranquility of his embrace.”