The Romanov Conspiracy (54 page)

“I take it there’s definitely no hope if she refuses?”

Yakov said bleakly, “Not a shred.”

The carriage shuddered with a squeal of brakes as the train slowed. Yakov peered out the window and saw a station up ahead. “Why are we halting?”

“To take on more fuel.”

“Find the cable office. See if there’s any news from Moscow.”

Yakov remained by the window, staring at his reflection, tension around his mouth.

Nina’s accusation echoed in his mind. “What kind of man can condemn an innocent child to death for his parents’ sins? What kind of man would do that?”

He stared back at his reflection in the mirror. “Well? What do you say?”

Was she right? Had he sold his soul? He
had
changed. The passing years and the revolution had hardened his heart. But the grim thought of Nina and her child dying in some freezing hellhole of a camp weighed heavily. And one thing remained constant—his love for her. Even if she spurned him, he couldn’t ignore his feelings.

He gave a hopeless sigh and turned from the window. Some instinct made him open his desk drawer and he removed the framed photograph he’d once cherished, taken at the St. Petersburg fair: of him and his mother and Stanislas and Uri Andrev and his father.

Ever since Stanislas’s death he couldn’t bear to look at it. But now he stood the frame on his desk. His mouth grim, he studied the image. The sight of Andrev enraged him. He swept the photograph from the desk with an angry blow.

It crashed against the wall, the glass splintering, and then he knelt and tore the photograph from the shattered frame. He ripped Andrev’s image from the snapshot, crushed it in a ball in his hands, and tossed it on the floor, grinding it with the heel of his boot. All control gone, he kicked at the remains of the frame and they smashed against the corner wall.

He strode into the cramped stationmaster’s office, where a couple of signal clerks were busy with paperwork behind a desk. He found Zoba reading a cable.

“Well?” Yakov demanded.

“Good news mostly, just a touch of bad. More like an inconvenience.”

“Out with it. I don’t have the patience.”

“It’s all happening—Kazan’s apprehended the Phantom.”

“How? Where?”

“In a tunnel near the Ipatiev House. He’s under guard at the Amerika Hotel. We’ll find out more in Ekaterinburg. I’ll bet Kazan will be Lenin’s sweetheart after this.”

“We
have
to find Andrev.”

Zoba said, “There’s more good news. He’s been caught, along with the woman.”

“What?”

“The cable just came through. The bad part is they were seized by a gang of brigands and deserters.” Zoba slapped a palm on a rail map on the station wall. “They’re here. A village near Kovrov. The brigands cabled our nearest garrison, forty miles away, and asked that the message be passed on to you personally as a matter of urgency.”

“
Me?
Who are these people?”

“Bandits and cutthroats most of them. A law unto themselves who steal, rape, and terrorize.”

“Why ask for me in particular?”

“One of them is our old friend Sergeant Mersk.”

“Mersk?”

“A bad penny always turns up again. He deserted, remember?” Zoba tapped the map. “There’s a minor rail line that passes through the village, if it hasn’t been blown up or sabotaged.”

“How far?”

“Less than two hours should do it. One other thing.”

“What?”

“Mersk’s cable says he’d consider it an honor to kill Andrev for you. But if you want to take custody of the prisoners, his comrades are demanding a ransom of ten thousand rubles.”

“Whatever it is, we’ll pay.”

81

EKATERINBURG

2:45 A.M.

The Amerika Hotel was the jewel in the city’s crown.

It boasted all modern conveniences—electricity, flushing toilets, bathrooms with hot running water—and not surprisingly was seized by the Bolsheviks for their headquarters.

The luxury first-floor suites were reserved for the Cheka, one flight up from the staff quarters in the basement. There a dozen rooms were transformed into detention cells.

Kazan looked pleased with himself as he hurried down the steps that early morning, rapping his knuckle-duster against his leg. He approached a heavily padlocked metal gate. Two guards snapped to attention, and one of them inserted a key in the lock.

“Well? Has the quack arrived?” Kazan demanded.

“He’s with the prisoner now.”

“Perfect. Remember, no one gets past the gate unless they’re authorized by me. Disobey and you’ll get a bullet.”

The cell had once been a staff bedroom, but now the window was barred.

Sorg lay unconscious on a metal gurney, a tattered white sheet pulled up to his neck. His jaw was bruised and heavily swollen.

A thin, anxious man wearing a frayed dark suit flecked with cigarette ash stood over the prisoner, a black doctor’s bag open by his side. Fear ignited in his face the moment Kazan appeared. The milky-eyed inspector chilled his blood.

“Has he come to yet?” Kazan demanded.

“Briefly, but he lapsed back into unconsciousness. His jaw doesn’t appear to have been fractured or broken, but you must have hit him hard.”

Kazan pulled back the sheet. Sorg was naked above the waist and strapped down with leather restraints. His wound was freshly bandaged. “Can’t you force him to come round?”

“With strong ammonia salts, perhaps. I wouldn’t recommend slapping him in case there’s internal cranial bleeding.”

The doctor felt Sorg’s pulse.

Kazan pinched Sorg’s forehead between his thumb and forefinger. “This swine almost cost me my life. Do whatever you must to get him conscious.”

Outside, the sound of footsteps clattered down the stairs.

Kazan snapped his fingers at the doctor. “I’m expecting company. Get out. Wait for me in the lobby.”

The terrified doctor scurried out and the Ipatiev House
komendant
, Yurovsky, appeared.

He regarded Sorg with interest. “So, this is the spy? You think he’ll be fit to talk?”

“He better, or the doctor’s life won’t be worth living.”

Yurovsky looked in high form as he lit a cigarette. “I have excellent news. The couple have been caught.”

“What?”

“Commissar Yakov is on his way to take them into custody. You don’t exactly look brimming with joy, Inspector. Do I detect a touch of rivalry between you two?”

Kazan snorted and looked down at Sorg. “Think what you want. One thing is clear: this wasn’t a one-man operation. Our friend here must have had help. Which is why I’m having every guard on checkpoint duty last night questioned, in case they saw anyone.”

“But hundreds of guards were on duty. Besides, most of them are being moved back and forth to the front all the time.”

“We’ll question who we can. You saw the tunnel?”

Yurovsky nodded. “This city’s full of them, They’re like spiderwebs,
going back to when Ekaterinburg was designed as a fortress. I didn’t know about the passageway you found. But we’ve thoroughly searched it and it’s empty, as are all the others.”

“And they better remain that way.”

“We’ve locked the doors again and arranged for guards to be posted at every tunnel entrance.”

Kazan smirked. “A word of advice. It might be wise not to mention the tunnel when you’re making your report to Moscow. As
komendant
, it could seem like a failure of your duty.”

Yurovsky flushed at the reprimand, crushed his cigarette, and went to go.

Kazan said, “Where are you off to?”

“To inspect the woods I’ve chosen for the disposal of the Romanovs’ bodies.”

Kazan grinned. “Why don’t I join you? I could do with some fresh air. By the time we get back our spy ought to be ready for interrogation.”

82

NOVO-TIKHVINSKY CONVENT

EKATERINBURG

6 A.M.

“
How?
How could you be so reckless?”

Sister Agnes’s temper was in full flow as she faced the undertaker.

Markov anxiously wrung his hands, dark patches under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept a wink all night. “It wasn’t my fault! I warned him to be careful. I was on my way back to pick him up when I saw troops everywhere, so I cleared off as fast as I could. I waited until curfew ended before I even risked coming here.”