The Romanov Conspiracy (34 page)

“Thanks to you and Boyle I don’t have much choice, do I?”

Hanna said evenly, “You asked whose idea it was to involve you. It was mine. I heard about you through Vasily, my husband—he’s the one who arranged for you to work as a governess for the Romanovs. Naturally, when we needed someone, I thought of you, even if it turned out that you’d made yourself a career smuggling guns.”

“You have a problem with that?”

“No, quite the opposite—it showed courage. But the British certainly resented your work. You were on their wanted list. In fact, you and your brother would likely be dead by now if it weren’t for Boyle. He managed to convince the right people of your usefulness. And permit me an observation: don’t you think it’s time you took off that suit of armor you wear?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been long enough an actress to know that we all hide our true selves. It’s part of our natural defense mechanism. But with you, I think it goes even deeper. There’s a wound buried inside you that you’re hiding. It makes you angry with the world and it makes you defensive. The sooner you confront it, the better.”

Lydia blushed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I? Very well, have it your way. Just one more thing, Miss Ryan. And I gave Uri the same warning I’m about to give you.”

“What’s that?”

“Where you’re going is a kind of hell. There’s terror on the streets of Russia and police informers everywhere. Innocent victims are arrested at random. Men, women, children are thrown into prison cellars for the slightest reason, and some are even executed.”

“What’s your point?”

“Once you cross over that border, trust no one but yourself and Uri. Measure every word you speak. The smallest error on your part, the wrong answer to a Red soldier or a secret policeman, could have dire consequences.”

“I’m no fool. I understand.”

“Make sure you do. Your life and the lives of those you’ll try to rescue could depend on it.”

43

EKATERINBURG

Sorg’s wound felt on fire.

Stopping in an empty alleyway, he leaned against the wall. He wore his black overcoat to hide his blood-drenched shirt, and the heat was unbearable. He pulled up his shirt to examine his side.

Blood dribbled from a purple gash. He pressed his shirt to the wound, but it didn’t stop the bleeding, just caused him a knifing pain that made him almost pass out.

He needed to find medical attention or he’d die. But almost every street he entered he saw armed Red Guards patrolling the sidewalks, and so he was forced to keep to the backstreets.

Sorg hurried on, sweat drenching his clothes. His legs began to hurt and his wound throbbed. Eventually he came to his destination and stopped to rest against a wall.

Across the street was a huge convent with whitewashed walls and enormous blue and gold minarets topped by the Russian cross. A Red Cross ambulance was parked on the street.

The Novo-Tikhvinsky Convent was famous—a vast complex staffed by over a thousand nuns who ran almshouses, an orphan asylum, workshops, a school, and a hospital. Their hospital was on another side of the square, but Sorg felt too exhausted to reach it.

He approached a wide archway with an oak door, the ancient wood split with cracks, a wrought-iron crucifix nailed above it.

Sorg summoned all his energy and yanked a bellpull on a rope. Tinkling sounded beyond the doors, mixed with the raucous sounds of noisy children.

He heard footsteps approach. A bolt scraped, a peephole opened in
the door, and like a vision, there appeared the beautiful face of a young nun wearing a black wimple. “Yes?”

“I—I need your help, sister,” Sorg said weakly.

“It’s late,” the nun answered. “We only tender alms to the needy before noon, not at this hour.”

“I don’t need charity, Sister—”

The peephole banged shut.

Sorg gritted his teeth as an agonizing pain blossomed in his side. He touched his shirt and his fingers felt drenched.

The whole thing was a disaster.

I’m afraid I’m going to die
, he thought.

I want to see Anastasia again
.

A second later his senses faded, his eyelids fluttered, and he was engulfed by a black tidal wave.

COLLON, IRELAND

The shooting range was in an old paddock at the back of the manor.

Boyle laid out a Nagant revolver and two boxes of ammunition on a trestle table. Fifteen yards out was a line of five tin cans, inches apart.

While Lydia and Andrev looked on, Boyle began to load rounds into the revolver. “No doubt you know it but this is a Nagant, the standard sidearm for the Russian army. It can be deadly enough up close but like most handguns, it’s not very accurate beyond ten or fifteen yards unless you’re a marksman.”

Boyle cocked the Nagant. “You’ll have one each for your journey. That said, if at any time you think the weapon’s going to cause you trouble, get rid of it at once. Guns are everywhere in Russia these days. With a little ingenuity you’ll get your hands on another.”

Boyle aimed and fired in one fluid movement, snapping off seven shots and hitting four of the five cans. “I’ve done better.”

He reloaded the revolver and handed it to Lydia. “The lady’s turn.”

“Do I have to, Boyle?”

“No, you don’t, but practice makes perfect.”

Lydia accepted the Nagant.

Boyle said, “You want to line those cans up again, Uri?”

Andrev walked out to the tin cans. He replaced four of the cans but before he could set down the last one, Lydia’s right hand came up wielding the gun and she called out, “Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move a hair.”

She fired four shots in quick succession, sending the cans on the ground skittering across the grass. Then she called out to Andrev, “Toss the last one in the air, to your right, away from you.”

“Are you joking? Hitting a moving target that size with a Nagant isn’t easy.”

“
Toss
it.”

Andrev lobbed the can through the air. Lydia’s Nagant cracked, sending the can skewing before it landed in the grass. The moment it did, Lydia fired another two rounds, each puncturing the metal.

Boyle said, astonished, “How the heck did you learn to shoot like that?”

Lydia ejected the spent cartridges and laid the weapon on the table. “A misspent childhood on a Kentucky farm, Boyle. My father believed that a woman should always be able to defend herself.”

Boyle tipped back his hat. “I suppose you know that you just broke every safety rule on the range?”

“I know the rules, Mr. Boyle. And when to break them, don’t you worry.” And with that Lydia turned and strode back up to the manor.

Boyle looked on, speechless.

Andrev smiled. “Now there’s a woman who knows how to look after herself.”

44

Dinner was a simple affair in the manor’s kitchen. Hanna served roasted chicken, potatoes, and cabbage, followed by dessert of stewed apples and custard. Boyle opened a bottle of Burgundy and when they finished their meal he stood and filled their glasses from a decanter of port. “I think the fact that we’ve managed to get this far calls for a special celebration. Drink up.”

Andrev said, “Who are you, Boyle? Who are you working for? Isn’t it time we knew?”

Boyle placed a foot on the chair and rested a hand on his knee. “I’m a businessman, an adventurer, a man of too many parts for my own good. I made my fortune in the Klondike gold rush in Canada and used part of it to invest in railways, about which I managed to acquire considerable expertise. That led to the Russian provisional government asking me to help organize their entire railway system, which was a badly run mess. Later, I did the same for the Bolsheviks.”

Lydia said, puzzled, “You worked for the Reds?”

Boyle’s jaw was set in an angry look. “Until I witnessed their brutality—entire towns destroyed, villages wiped out, their inhabitants executed. The low point came when I visited a town where a thirteen-year-old boy had the audacity to hang a royalist flag on the local square. A Red commissar had the child put up against a wall and shot him, then hung the body from a telegraph pole as a warning to others.

“After that, I swore to myself I’d do my utmost to see the Reds ripped from power in the same heartless way they grasped it. In the last year I’ve built up a spy network of over four hundred agents in Russia, gathering intelligence.”

Lydia looked from Boyle to Hanna. “You still didn’t say who you’re working for.”

It was Hanna who answered. “Let’s just say we represent the tip of a rather complex iceberg. Have you ever heard of the Russian St. John?”

“He was a priest who liked to do good in secret.”

“That’s right.” Boyle then took a pencil and notebook from his pocket and laid them on the table. “The Brotherhood of St. John of Tobolsk is a kind of legacy, a secret society if you like. Its members come from all walks of life.”

He picked up the pencil. “Right now the Brotherhood has a single purpose: to save the Romanovs from being butchered. Hanna and I are willing accomplices. Let me show you something.”

Boyle flipped open a fresh page in the notebook and penciled an odd shape on the page—a reverse swastika.

He went on: “The Brotherhood’s mark is an ancient Tibetan symbol used for good luck, the reverse swastika. It’s considered a symbol of faith, love, and hope. It’s also a secret key that you’ll encounter on your journey whenever you come into contact with our members.”

Hanna put aside her glass. “Several rescue attempts were tried in Tobolsk, where the family was last held captive. Hence the Brotherhood’s name. Two other secret attempts were made since the family was moved to Ekaterinburg. They also failed. But this time we believe we have a chance.”

“What if we don’t reach Ekaterinburg?” Lydia asked.

Boyle said, “Hanna and I will be coming with you. I’m hoping that at least one pair of us will make it and conclude the rescue. So we’ll be taking exactly the same risks that you are. We’ll travel with you into Russia but take different routes to Ekaterinburg, where hopefully we’ll meet.”

Lydia said, “Aren’t you worried we might divulge all this to the Reds if we’re caught?”

Boyle smiled tightly. “No, because I’m sure you’re both sensible people.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The Reds are brutal in their dealings with foreign spies. If it’s a woman, she’d most certainly be raped and tortured before being killed. Either way, if you’re caught, you’re corpses. But I’m going to help you avoid too much unpleasantness. Hanna?”

Hanna took two vials from her purse and placed them on the table. Each held dark brown liquid. “One each,” she said.

Andrev picked up one of the vials and swirled the liquid. “What is it?”

“Potassium cyanide. It kills in seconds. If you’re apprehended, I suggest you break the vial and immediately swallow the contents.”

Andrev and Lydia regarded each other silently, then Andrev said, “On that cheerful note, is there anything else you’d care to tell us in case we’re caught?”

Boyle stood, raised his glass. “All I can do is offer a suitable Irish toast. May you get to heaven long before the devil knows you’re dead.”