The Romanov Conspiracy (52 page)

Kazan heard the noise and his head jerked up, his senses alert.

It sounded as if someone had kicked a tin can and it rattled over cobblestone. The racket came from somewhere beyond the second pair of double doors in the far wall. Kazan stiffened. He saw from the look on the girl’s face that she’d heard the noise, too. He let go of her hair and strode over to the doors.

Putting his ear to the wood, he thought he heard the noise wash away. He tried the door handles: they were locked. He pushed his shoulder to the wood but still they didn’t budge.

He crossed back to the entrance doors, opened them, and called out, “Guards!”

Three men rushed in with rifles. Kazan pointed to the far wall. “Where do those doors lead?”

“Nowhere, Inspector. They’re blocked up. There’s some kind of storage room beyond, so I hear.”

Kazan crossed the room in a fit of rage and kicked at the doors with his boot. “I heard a noise from behind. Get over here, help me. One of you get some lamps.”

Two of the guards smashed at the doors with their rifle butts, and when that didn’t work, they pried at them with their bayonets until
the lock gave. The doors opened a few inches and Kazan saw crisscrossed planking beyond, nailed firmly in place. “Force your way in,” he ordered.

The men obeyed, using their shoulders, and they crashed into a darkened storage room packed with old furniture.

A guard returned with three lit kerosene lamps. Kazan held up a lamp and saw that shards of glass littered the floor. A gaping hole yawned in the brickwork in the far wall. He strode over, his feet crunching on the glass.

He knelt, waved his lamp, and peered into an empty passageway patched with water puddles. “Take the girl back upstairs. Where’s the
komendant
?”

“Asleep,” one of the men said.

“Wake him. Tell everyone to be extra vigilant. We may have intruders.”

The man dragged Anastasia away.

Kazan removed his revolver and crawled into the passageway, the other two guards following. He heard a noise—the clatter of fleeing feet, splashing through water puddles.

“Come with me,” Kazan ordered the guards, and he plunged into the passageway.

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Sorg hurried through the pitch-dark tunnel, feeling his way along the moist walls.

The lamp was still extinguished and he stumbled in compete darkness. The lamp’s glass cowl was missing, and the wick felt drenched with kerosene from rolling on the ground. He heard the slosh of liquid—at least he still had fuel.

Behind him came the sound of crashing wood, and it echoed throughout the tunnels like gunshots. It sounded as if Kazan was breaking down the doors.

Sorg came to a halt as his head cracked into something solid—he felt a painful ringing sensation in his skull and staggered back, seeing stars.

He’d hit a wall.

He felt like vomiting and put a hand to his skull and massaged it. Gritting his teeth in agony, he closed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths. He knew he was panicking, but every instinct told him to get far away as fast as he could.

He fumbled desperately in his pockets for the box of matches, dropping them in the darkness.

No!

He knelt and frantically searched the ground for the matches.

His hand splashed in a puddle. He swore, fumbling until he found the box.

It felt wet.

He carefully placed the lamp on the ground to his right, still unable to see anything. Removing one of the matches, he struck it on the box.

Nothing happened. Sorg felt the coarse striker on the box’s side—it was wet to the touch.

Behind him came the deafening crash of wood splintering, then muted shouts and orders.

Raw terror jolted Sorg’s heart. He fumbled to find the lamp in the pitch darkness and then stumbled on.

Kazan plunged through the passageway, clutching his revolver, his lamp throwing shadows on the damp walls.

Moments later he halted. In front of him two archways led in different directions, one left, the other right.

The guards rushed up behind him, their boots splashing in puddles.

Kazan hissed, “Be quiet, both of you. Don’t make a sound.”

The guards fell silent.

Kazan listened, his ears cocked, but heard only silence.

He jerked a thumb at one of the guards.

“You go left.”

The man obeyed, his rifle leveled as he held up his lamp.

Kazan nodded for the second man to follow him, and they plunged into the passageway on the right.

Sorg was beginning to panic. He halted and tried to strike three more matches but none worked.

He heard the echo of voices and footfalls behind him.

Kazan.

He knew he couldn’t go on in complete darkness. He put down the lamp again and tried to light another match. Nothing—the striker still felt damp.

In frustration, he tried once more, this time striking a match on his trouser knee. He felt a slash of heat as the match ignited and illuminated the passageway.

Thank God.

Sorg knelt and touched the match to the saturated wick. It flared instantly, throwing shadows around the walls. He thought he recognized where he was. Another hundred or so yards and he’d come to the turret exit.

He stood, elated.

More noises echoed from behind: the sound of splashing, hurrying footsteps.

His heart thudding in his chest, Sorg shielded the lamp’s naked flame with his hand and hurried on.

Kazan came to two more archways veining off in different directions.

He swung his lamp and spotted a scattering of spent matches on the ground. He knelt, felt the warm tips. A noise echoed down one of the passageways: footsteps, no question.

Kazan grinned.

Sorg was completely lost.

He couldn’t find the metal turret. In his panic, he must have taken the wrong turn. The passageways were a maze. He felt utterly confused, his chest throbbing with stress pains.

A scraping noise sounded behind him, like a boot on concrete.

He spun round but saw no one—and heard only dripping water.

He turned and kept going, his feet drenched by deep puddles. When he rounded the next bend his spirits soared.

Somehow he had ended up in a main channel—a passageway that ran down to the pond or river, the distant water glinting with silver lunar light, a faint breeze wafting up, soothing on his face.
At last
.

Archways bled off from the passageway every twenty yards or so, feeding into the main tributary. As he went to move on, he heard a faint rush of feet and his heart stuttered.

A figure stepped out of an archway, five yards ahead.

Sorg felt a stab of fear and froze.

Kazan stood holding a lamp, a triumphant grin on his face.

“Going somewhere?” He stepped closer, his question echoing around the chamber.

Sorg grabbed wildly for the steel pen in his pocket.

Kazan’s fist smashed into his jaw, he felt a lightning bolt of pain, and a second later he drowned in darkness.

PART SIX

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