The Romanov Conspiracy (42 page)

Sorg lit the lamp and handed it over.

They passed the grim, rusted remains of medieval-looking torture implements, racks and chains. Sorg shivered in the icy air. “Where are we?”

“In part of the old torture chambers. This area of the convent was built on top of what was a peat bog. The peat is a perfect preservative, so the cellars are always cool, which makes it ideal to store the dead.”

“What dead?” Sorg felt a biting cold below his feet, as if the floor he stood on was a block of ice.

“The overflow from the hospital.”

Sorg watched as the novice swung the lantern toward a recess in a far wall, which revealed an iron-studded door. The bolt and hinges were smothered in grease and when she pulled back the metal door it opened silently.

Sorg’s nostrils filled immediately with a horrid, sickly stench. It made him want to vomit. Stilettos of silver light knifed through a pair of narrow, iron-barred basement windows, revealing a huge chamber. It remained in near darkness until the novice raised her lamp, and then Sorg saw to his horror that they were in a makeshift mortuary.

The swollen blue corpses of at least three dozen men and women were stacked in mounds, two or three bodies high, their bloated limbs entangled. Most were uniformed soldiers, some with limbs hacked or blown off. Others were riddled with bullet holes or bayoneted. Some corpses were naked; others wore bloodied clothing.

Sorg’s stomach heaved. “What in the name of … ?”

Maria blessed herself, then put a hand over her face to mask the stench. “Some are soldiers who died from their wounds. Others suffered from illness or disease. Some are executed civilians.”

Sorg covered his mouth with his arm. The stench was so noxious he wanted to faint. “Why—why don’t you bury them?”

“There’s been so much death in the city that the undertakers haven’t been able to get round to them all. Meanwhile, we’ve had to store the bodies here.”

“Why are
we
here? What about my escape?”

Maria shook her head. “Escape’s impossible with the convent surrounded. Your best hope is to hide among the corpses and pray the Reds won’t find you. I’ll come back when it’s safe.”

Sorg stood rigid, almost too shocked to speak, staring at the nearest mound of flesh in front of him. On top, in the yellow lamplight, he saw a dead soldier with bulging eyes, his chest spattered with dried blood. He stared back at Sorg with a ghoulish smile. The soldier was entangled with a woman’s naked body, her blue flesh pockmarked with bullet holes.

“I—I can’t do it.”

“You must. Whatever you do, remain still. If they find you they’ll kill us all. I’ll return to the convent by another passageway. Stay here until I come back.”

Maria stepped out and Sorg heard the door bolt being slid shut.

The stench was abominable. In the dim shafts of light filtering through the barred windows, Sorg stared at the obscene mounds of marbled corpses. Sweat drenched his face and terror paralyzed him. Noises echoed from the corridor, the sounds of boots scraping on stone.

The Reds are coming
.

Sorg reluctantly stepped toward the nearest mound of bodies, aware of his heart pounding and his limbs trembling.

He felt knifing pains in his side. He put his hand under his shirt and touched the bandage. It felt damp. He was bleeding again from all his movement.

He turned back. The footsteps sounded closer.

He knelt on the chilled floor, facing a mound of bodies. Sick with revulsion, he lifted the rigid arm of the naked woman. It felt as cold as frozen marble. Then he raised the leg of the ghoul-faced soldier and tried to untangle the grim tapestry of limbs.

The sound of boots marched closer.

Sorg suppressed the bile rising in his throat, threatening to choke him.

Dread in his heart, he burrowed his way into the icy bodies.

59

Kazan marched down the corridor, his revolver held in midair. He halted and snapped his head.

“Did you hear that? A noise like a metal door banging.”

The guard beside him frowned. “I heard something, I’m not sure what.”

“Shut up. Don’t make a noise.” Kazan moved forward more cautiously, holding the lamp high, his chin jutting as if he was trying to detect a scent.

They passed an open chamber and saw the rusted remains of medieval torture implements. Kazan ran a hand over the racks and rattled the chains. “What’s that stench?”

He sniffed the air and directed his lantern toward a recess in the wall. It revealed an iron-studded door, its heavy bolt greased. Kazan plucked at the remains of a flimsy web that hung limply from the door frame.

“What’s wrong?” the guard asked.

“Someone’s been here.” Kazan leveled his gun and nodded. “Open it. Carefully, mind.”

The guard slid the greased bolt and opened the door. He held up his lamp, revealing the chamber. “What in the name of—”

Yellow lamplight flickered over the mounds of corpses. Kazan recoiled at the stench but the sight of the bodies didn’t seem to bother him. He strode into the chamber, his revolver at the ready. “Hold the lamp higher,” he instructed.

The guard obeyed, the overpowering stench making him cover his nose.

Kazan studied the gruesome scene, but it was almost impossible
to make out individual dead, the corpses twisted, limbs knotted with limbs.

The guard said, “They must be from the convent hospital.”

“Why aren’t they buried?”

“There you’ve got me, Comrade Inspector. Shall we carry on? This place gives me goose pimples.”

But Kazan ignored him and strode along the mounds of dead. He halted, kicked at a bloated leg, only to discover that it was severed at the knee, tendons and flesh revealed, the cracked bone white as birch.

“Comrade Inspector?” the guard persisted.

Kazan took no notice, his animal instinct roused. He leveled his revolver at the nearest mound of corpses and cocked the hammer. The puzzled guard frowned.

“What—what are you doing?”

Kazan fired into the tangled mass of flesh, again and again.

Sister Agnes was seated at her desk. Her jaw was stained with a huge purple bruise and on the desk in front of her was a bowl of steaming hot water and a white cotton facecloth. She winced as she dabbed her cut lip with iodine.

The door crashed open and a young nun hurried in. “We heard shots down in the cellars where some of the Reds went, Sister Agnes. What if they’ve found—”

“Be quiet, someone’s coming,” Sister Agnes snapped.

They all heard the clatter of boots on the wooden stairs and moments later Kazan burst into the room, impatiently slapping his palm against his leg as he addressed the younger nun. “You, get out!”

The trembling woman left.

A smile curled on Kazan’s lips as he crossed to a fearful Sister Agnes. He lifted her chin with a pincer-like grip of his hand and made a point of roughly examining her cut. “It’ll heal. A mere scratch.”

“Do you enjoy hurting people, Inspector?”

Kazan grinned.

Yakov strode into the room. “What do you think you’re doing, Kazan?”

Kazan let go of the nun, his mouth fixed in a sneer. “Actually, I’m here to seek forgiveness.” He turned to Sister Agnes. “You must excuse the behavior of me and my men. We’re searching for a wanted spy and our zealousness got the better of us. It seems we owe you an apology.”

The nun stared back at him, open-mouthed.

Kazan addressed Yakov: “We searched the entire convent and found no sign of the man we’re looking for.”

The nun said, “My sisters heard shooting.”

Kazan said, “A little overenthusiasm on my part in the cellar morgue. I wanted to make sure the bodies were really dead.”

Yakov asked the nun, “Why haven’t the corpses been buried?”

“It’s the same in every hospital in the city: the morgues are full. The undertakers can’t keep up with all the butchery.”

Yakov warned, “Understand something, sister. Harboring a spy is an offense punishable by death. If anyone suspicious shows up looking for medical help you’re to contact the local Cheka at once, understand?”

The nun nodded.

“Finish up, Kazan, and let’s get out of here.” Yakov turned and left, his footsteps clattering down the hall.

Kazan glared at Sister Agnes. “Heed the warning. Ignore it and I’ll kill you, nun.”

He left, banging the door after him.

Sister Agnes crossed to the window, nursing her jaw. Minutes later she saw the cortege of trucks disappear down a side street. The young nun came back, opening the door, and said, “It’s a miracle we’re all safe.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain. Kazan’s got cunning written all over him. Where’s Maria?”

“Gone down to the cellars to find out what’s happened to our visitor.”

Sister Maria appeared within minutes, looking confused.

“Well, is he alive or dead?”

“I—I don’t know. The man’s gone, Sister Agnes.”

“What do you mean, ‘gone’? Where?”

“I’ve no idea. He wasn’t in the mortuary chamber where I left him.”

“Return to the cellars. Bring help, extra lanterns. Search everywhere.”

“I already did. We found a blood trail leading to the hallway but no sign of him.”

“Search again. He’s weak; he’s lost more blood. Worse, Kazan may have shot him and he’s crawled into one of the passageways and died.”

“What do we do then?”

Sister Agnes made a sign of the cross. “Summon the undertaker again.”

60

Andrev felt a hand shake him and he came awake with a start.

It was the young copilot. “The captain asked me to wake you, sir.”

“What time is it?”

“Just after eight a.m.”

Bright sunlight poured in the windows and Uri looked over at Lydia’s empty bed. “Where’s the lady?”

The copilot smiled. “Up front with Captain Pozner. He’s giving her a flying lesson.”

Andrev sat up and ran a hand over his cropped hair. “How soon will we land?”

“In about an hour, sir.” The copilot nodded to the washroom. “Just time for you to freshen up.”

Andrev shaved and washed. The Ilya Muromets had landed near the Gulf of Kiev just after 4 a.m. in a white-night dawn, with just enough light to land by. It seemed as though the field was in the middle of nowhere, but Pozner had found it easily enough using his compass and map, and the coastline as a marker. After two passes he landed, the grass velvet-smooth, hardly a bump.

As he disembarked, Boyle said solemnly, “Good luck to you both. And remember everything I’ve told you.”

He shook hands with Andrev and the crew, then disappeared across the field, vanishing like a ghost into the twilight.

Within fifteen minutes they refueled and took off again and Andrev finally managed to sleep for a few hours.

Now he dressed and went up to the cockpit. Pozner was seated at the controls, Lydia standing behind him.

She smiled over her shoulder and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Good morning. Did you get enough rest?”

“More than enough, thanks. Have you tamed your dislike of aircraft?”

“I don’t know about that, but take a look. It’s astonishing.” Lydia pointed beyond the cockpit window.