The Romanov Conspiracy (50 page)

MOSCOW

Andrev hurried between the back garden clotheslines, just as the weaselly-looking man with the pencil mustache who was guarding the rear rushed in, brandishing a handgun and followed by a group of armed soldiers.

Andrev darted into the storage shed.

The soldiers stormed toward the tenement. Andrev vaulted the wall and slid down the other side. He mounted the next wall, and when he reached the ramshackle door that led to the lane he heard the clatter of boots. He froze and his stomach knotted.

In the lane, two armed soldiers went marching past, escorting Lydia.

He stepped out behind them, wielding the Nagant, no mistaking the menace in his voice. “Not a sound or you’re both dead.”

The men turned and saw Andrev aim his revolver at them.

“Put down your weapons and lie on the ground.”

The terrified soldiers obeyed.

Andrev tossed away their rifles and picked up the revolver belonging to one of the men. He was about to toss it to Lydia when behind him he heard the soft click of a weapon being cocked.

A familiar voice said, “Toss the gun aside. Don’t attempt to move.”

He spun round as Yakov came through the ramshackle door, aiming his revolver, his face seething. “I said toss the gun.
Now
, or you’ll die here this minute.”

Andrev threw the gun on the ground. Yakov struck him across the head with the butt of his revolver, and he staggered back against the wall.

When Lydia rushed to help him, Yakov aimed at her and roared, “Don’t take a step unless I tell you.”

Lydia obeyed. The two soldiers scrambled to retrieve their rifles. Yakov replaced his pistol in his holster and stepped over to Andrev.

He struck him a savage blow that slammed him against the wall. “Consider that another small down payment on a debt I owe you.”

Andrev tried to rise, unsteadily. “Leonid, you’re wrong if you think I killed Stanislas.”

But Yakov wasn’t listening. He lashed out with his boot, kicking one of Andrev’s legs from under him, and he hit the ground.

Yakov moved in fast, placing his boot on Andrev’s throat, crushing his windpipe. “Don’t try to lie to me.”

“Take your foot off his neck.”

Yakov’s head snapped round. The woman’s eyes had a steely look. “Who are you to demand anything?”

Lydia simply said, “Do as I say.”

The guard nearest Yakov stepped forward, a grin spreading on his face. “Let me deal with her, Commissar. Maybe a good beating will teach this one some manners.” He raised the butt of his rifle to strike out at her. “You stupid woman, answer with respect when the commissar asks you a question.”

Lydia raised her hand and the Mauser appeared. It cracked once, hitting the guard in the forehead, and he collapsed like a sack of flour.

The second guard was already bringing up his rifle.

Lydia shot him once in the chest and again in the head and he was hammered back against the wall.

As Yakov reached frantically for his holstered Nagant, Lydia stepped in and touched the barrel to his forehead. “Hand away from the gun.”

Yakov reluctantly did as he was told.

Andrev pushed himself up and removed the pistol from Yakov’s holster. A stone-faced Yakov looked at the dead guards, then up at Lydia and said, “You’ve both signed your death warrants.”

“Be grateful she didn’t kill you, Leonid,” Andrev told him.

All around them now they heard barked orders and shouts as troops reacted to the gunfire.

Andrev grabbed the motorcycle and said to Lydia, “Get in the sidecar.”

She joined him, clutching the Mauser and grabbing the second Nagant, the sound of rushing feet and voices growing louder.

Yakov glared, filled with vehemence. “This isn’t finished. Not by a long way.”

Andrev said, “Something tells me that even if there was time, you still wouldn’t listen to me, Leonid. Have it your way. But know one thing—this is between you and me, no one else. Harm Nina and my son and I swear I’ll kill you. I’d do it right here and now only I know it would condemn them. So heed my warning. I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

He started the motorcycle, revving the engine just as a group of soldiers appeared and advanced uncertainly toward them from the far end of the lane. Lydia fired two quick shots and the troops darted for cover.

The last thing an enraged Yakov saw was Andrev speeding off, the woman in the sidecar firing both guns at the soldiers, and then the motorcycle skewed around a corner and roared away.

73

EKATERINBURG

11 P.M.

Markov eased back gently on the reins and the horses slowed. His heart skipped when he saw the barricade up ahead in the milky darkness.

Markov reached behind him, rapped his knuckles on the wooden coffin in the back of the carriage, and whispered, “There’s a checkpoint ahead. How are you holding up?”

The lid was raised a little, enough for Sorg to breathe through. “Well enough. What do you want me to do?”

“Keep the lid on and remain still, especially if the guards check inside the coffin. Get ready, we’re almost there.”

Sorg slid the lid back on. Markov eased the horses to a halt at the checkpoint and two young armed soldiers came forward, each carrying a lantern, their rifles fixed with long bayonets. One said, “Don’t you know there’s a curfew, old man?”

Markov waved a sheet of paper. “Igor Markov, undertaker, comrades. I have a special pass from the local commissars. I’m taking a corpse to my mortuary, and there’ll be several more before the night’s out.”

“Let me see that.” One of the soldiers grabbed the paper, studying it in the lamplight.

Markov said, “Check the coffin if you like. He’s as dead as a doorpost. But be careful.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He had typhus. It’s highly contagious.”

The soldiers didn’t look happy at the prospect of examining the
coffin but one of them used his bayonet to pry open the lid, then held up his lamp.

Sorg lay inside, his face bone-white, his eyes closed, hands folded across his chest. He wore a black suit and on one sleeve was a red armband.

Markov tipped his cap respectfully and said, “A good Bolshevik, gone to meet his maker.”

The guard recoiled in disgust and let the lid fall back into place. “There is no God, undertaker. Don’t you listen to Comrade Lenin? Now get yourself out of here.”

Five minutes later Markov jerked the reins to a halt. The horses snorted, their hooves fading on the cobble. “We’re here. It’s safe to come out now.”

In the back, Sorg lifted the lid and eased himself from the coffin. He used a towel to wipe the flour Markov had applied to his face, and slipped off the red armband and thrust it in his pocket.

The undertaker grinned. “A nice touch, that armband.”

Sorg saw the huge church spire looming way off in the lunar darkness and recognized Voznesensky Cathedral. In the distance shimmered the broad Iset City Pond. “Where exactly are we?”

“About three hundred yards from the Ipatiev House.” Markov pointed into the darkness beneath a granite archway. “The tunnel entrance is under there, beyond a locked iron sewer door,” he explained.

“It leads to a turret set in the brickwork. You’ll see the Brotherhood’s mark painted above it. Behind it is a passageway that eventually ends at a brick wall. Behind that lies the basement storage room.”

“I think I’ve got it.”

“The bricks in the wall are loosened, but whatever you do don’t remove them, not until we’re ready to proceed with the recue. We don’t want to give the game away.”

Markov handed over an unlit kerosene lamp, a box of matches, and a metal ring with a key. “You’ll need the lamp. The key’s for the iron door.” He consulted his pocket watch, then snapped it shut. “Eleven-fifteen.
I’ll meet you back here in an hour. That ought to give you enough time. You recall the map details?”

Sorg nodded.

Markov touched his whip to the horses’ flanks. “Remember, any hint of trouble and get away fast. The Reds around here are all trigger-happy. They’ll shoot you dead at the slightest provocation.”

74

EKATERINBURG

Sorg moved under the bridge as the sound of Markov’s horses faded.

The archway was poorly lit but he spotted the sturdy, rusted iron door set in the middle of the wall. He checked to make sure no one was watching him and slid the key in the lock. It opened easily and he moved into pitch darkness.

Closing the door behind him, he fumbled for a box of matches and lit the lamp. Yellow light flared all around him. He was in a passageway, a foul, sulfur-smelling channel with a gurgling sewer running down the middle, raised stone walkways on either side, the lamplight casting flickering shadows on damp walls.

A rat scurried past, squealing as it went, startling Sorg. He put up his sleeve to cover his nose and splashed his way along the puddled walkway, wearing the rubber-soled boots Markov gave him.

A little farther on he came to a rusty metal turret set in the walkway. Raising the lamp high he saw a reverse swastika etched in white paint, high above the brickwork. The turret had a simple latch and when he snapped it open, it squealed on its hinges.

Inside, an arched tunnel lay beyond, white glazed tiles lining the walls.

He heard a faint, echoing murmur of voices and cocked his ears. The murmur seemed to come from the end of the tunnel. Markov said to go no farther, but Sorg’s mind was gripped by a powerful curiosity.

His heart thudding in his chest, he raised the lamp and crawled inside the tunnel.

In the Ipatiev House courtyard, Kazan’s truck slid to a halt and he climbed out.

Yurovsky, the
komendant
, was leaning against the door frame smoking a cigarette, his tunic unbuttoned, exposing his vest underneath.

Kazan said, “Anastasia Romanov. I want to interrogate her now.”

The
komendant
flicked away his cigarette. “It’s late. Come back tomorrow.”

“I have Yakov’s permission. He may have something to say about that.”

The
komendant
’s eyes flared. “I don’t know who I despise more—the Romanovs, or turncoats like you.”