The Romanov Conspiracy (48 page)

A piercing siren suddenly shrieked like a banshee, startling Sorg.

Markov said, “The eight o’clock curfew. You must be starving. I’ll have my son bring you some food. By the way, Sister Agnes said you’d need these.”

He slipped a hand inside his coat pocket and handed Sorg some folded sheets of paper. “Detailed drawings of the Ipatiev House.”

Sorg took them eagerly as the siren ended.

Markov shook his head. “But I’m afraid they won’t help us. Only Vilim Ivanovitch de Gennin can do that.”

“Who?”

Markov blew out smoke, crossed to a cupboard, and removed what looked like some rolled-up parchments, stained amber with age.

“One of Ekaterinburg’s original founders. This city goes back to 1723, when de Gennin oversaw its design as a fortress. He was a military man and a fortification engineer, who insisted on a number of secret tunnels being built to serve as escape routes in case of siege.”

“Enlighten me.”

Markov came back and handed the parchments to Sorg. “The tunnels are still there. Some bore deep under the bowels of the streets, or crisscross beneath cathedrals and churches and go down to the river. Some are dangerous places where the walls have collapsed or are flooded with water, or are bricked up, but others are still passable.

“The Reds know some of the passageways exist but they can’t know them all. The Brotherhood has a full set of the original fortress plans. It’s important you see for yourself the more important of these tunnels as soon as you’re well enough to walk. Especially the ones I’ve marked.”

Sorg’s heart twinged as he unrolled what looked like a set of intricate ink-and-pencil architectural drawings that appeared centuries old. “Spit it out.”

“We know a route to get the family safely from their prison.”

“Explain.”

“One wing of the lower part of the Ipatiev House is built into a solid granite hillside. I’ve marked a passageway on the drawings that tunnels through the rock and leads directly to a basement storage room, used to store furniture.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“As you’re my judge. I’ve been in the passageway. It runs from the east and can be entered through Voznesensky Cathedral, or from under an archway east of the Iset’s City Pond. The passageway under the house was shored up but I helped demolish the brickwork to make it passable.”

Sorg was electrified. “I want to see it.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“You’re crazy. You’re still healing.”

“I’m capable of walking. There’s no time to waste.”

Markov looked hesitant. “What about the curfew? Anyone who ventures out without a permit risks being shot.”

“You’re an undertaker. Don’t you have a permit?”

“Well, yes. The Reds need me to remove the typhoid victims day and night for public health reasons. But we’d be taking a big risk. All of Ekaterinburg’s garrison will be on the lookout for you.”

“Get your hearse ready. I’ve got an idea.”

68

MOSCOW

5:30 P.M.

The trolley squealed to a halt at the end of Kolinsky Prospect and Andrev and Lydia climbed down. After a short walk they reached the tenement building, a shabby-looking affair.

Trolley cars trundled past on the crowded street, electric flashes sparking from the overhead cables, tired-looking pedestrians strolling by, many of them returning home after a day’s hard labor.

Andrev carried his duffel on his back, the canvas bag of workman’s tools by his side, and as they came near the building, he said, “Slip your arm through mine, like we’re walking home after work.”

They ambled by a busy tobacco kiosk, past a swarthy-looking Georgian or Armenian shoe shiner sitting on some steps. Like most of the shoe shiners in Moscow—they could be found at any street corner—he didn’t have polish but would spit on his customer’s shoes and rub them hard with a rag until they shone.

As they strolled on, Lydia said, “Do you really think the Cheka will be keeping watch on Nina?”

“After the last time, it’s more than likely. Don’t look back, but the shoe shiner is probably Cheka, or at least in their pay, keeping an eye on the comings and goings from the building. The man working in the tobacco kiosk, too—and they won’t be the only ones.”

A little farther on they came to a park, far enough away from the tenement building but still within viewing distance. They sat on a bench. A handful of children played at scattering the scrawny pigeons, while tired-looking workmen cycled or walked past on their way home. Lydia said, “What are you going to do?”

Andrev opened the duffel bag, took off his leather jacket, and stuffed it inside. He wore his peasant’s work shirt and cap, and with his tool bag he looked like a tradesman. “Try to find the building’s rear entrance and see if I can locate Nina. It may take a while.”

“What if the Cheka are waiting inside the building?”

Andrev slipped the Nagant revolver from his pocket and tucked it into the tool bag. “I’ll have to cross that bridge if I come to it. If anyone asks, I’m there to repair the plumbing. If that doesn’t work, I’ll have to fall back on my other plan.”

“What’s that?”

“Shoot my way out.”

“Won’t that endanger Nina and your son?”

“That’s what worries me.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, it’s best I go alone. If you hear gunfire, get back to our lodgings as fast as you can and wait there until I show up.”

Lydia put a hand on his, concern in her eyes. “Be careful, Uri. Please.”

He stood, smiled down at her, but there was no hiding the strain in his face. “Remember, any sign of trouble, get away fast.”

By five o’clock that evening Abraham Tarku was drunk. He swallowed a glass of vodka and sat staring at the Remington typewriter with glazed eyes.

“Why in the name of all that’s good did you have to come back, Uri?
Why?
” he asked the question aloud, then flung the glass against the wall, shattering it to pieces.

He stumbled to his feet, went out the front door of the pawnbroker’s shop, locked it after him, and staggered out into the street.

Minutes later he spotted an empty droshky coming toward him, and he waved down the carriage driver.

“Where to, citizen?”

“Cheka headquarters, and be quick about it.”

69

A lane led all along the back of the tenements and Andrev counted off the buildings.

When he neared Nina’s building he noticed a thin, weaselly-looking man with a pencil mustache sitting on a low wall, reading a newspaper.

The man was Cheka, he had no doubt, and was watching the rear entrance. Andrev stepped into a door recess to avoid being seen. The rotted door hung open on its hinges and he squeezed past it into a back garden.

He made his way across the overgrown weeds and peered over the wall into the next back garden. If he climbed over the back walls he might be able to reach Nina’s building without the man noticing him.

Andrev hefted his tool bag over his shoulder, pulled himself up over the wall, and slid down the other side. He crossed the ragged garden and peered over the next wall into Nina’s backyard.

Lines of laundry ran along the narrow garden, a couple of storage sheds on one side. A green-painted rear entrance door into the tenement was wide open. He slid over the wall and let himself down silently.

Moving cautiously between the rows of hanging clothes, he came to the first storage shed and ducked inside. Metal garbage bins stank to high heaven. As he stood peering between a crack in the door, wondering what to do next, a waif of a child came out of the tenement rear, carrying a wooden bucket.

She sloshed the contents down a water drain, then moved back inside the darkened hallway and disappeared into darkness.

After a few more minutes Andrev saw a door open on the right side of the hallway and a woman stepped out into the backyard, carrying an empty wicker basket.

She wore a work apron and she looked tired and drawn.

It was Nina.

A small, pale-looking child with curly blond hair followed her out, sobbing tiredly as he rubbed his eyes.

Andrev’s chest tightened the instant he saw his son.

Sergey began tugging at his mother’s apron, as if wanting to be comforted.

Every tug Sergey made at the apron tore at Andrev’s heart.

As Nina moved along the clothesline, retrieving her laundry, she tried to soothe Sergey with soft words. He sounded cranky with tiredness, holding out his hands to her, wanting to be picked up.

Finally, when Nina finished, she lifted him up, balancing Sergey on her hip before she carried him back inside with her clothes basket. She moved into the hallway and reentered her room.

Andrev wanted to call out after her but he dared not. What if the Cheka were lurking inside the building?

His stomach churned.

Minutes passed, then several more.

Finally, after another fifteen minutes, his heart beating wildly, his stomach knotted with apprehension, and when he could bear it no longer he slipped the loaded Nagant from the tool bag.

He moved between the washing lines and came to the dim hallway.

It was empty and stank of boiled cabbage and greasy mutton.

Distant noises drifted from inside the building; a baby’s shrill cry and the abrasive singsong of adults arguing. Andrev moved deeper into the hall. He came to the door Nina entered and rapped on the wood. Footsteps sounded on bare floorboards and then the door opened.

When Nina saw him her hand went to her mouth in disbelief and she gave a gasp.

Before she could speak Andrev pushed his way into the room and kicked shut the door.

70

CHEKA HEADQUARTERS

MOSCOW

The door burst open and Yakov strode into the office. “You smell like a backstreet drunk. What do you want?” he demanded.

Abraham Tarku looked up with blurry eyes, then fell silent and nervously licked his lips.

Yakov’s eyes sparked. “It’s about Andrev, isn’t it? It’s got to be.”

“After you hunted me down in Moscow, you let me go again. You said you wanted to use me as bait in case Andrev showed up. You said that was the only reason I didn’t get a bullet in the neck. I told the commissar that the captain didn’t kill his brother.”