The Romanov Conspiracy (55 page)

They were in Sister Agnes’s office, her mood sombre once she heard Markov’s news.

His voice was shaky. “What if he squeals on us? The Reds could have him screaming for mercy. We’re finished, I tell you. Me, I’m getting out while I can still walk.”

As he turned to leave, the nun put a hand on his arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To hide with relatives in Perm. My son’s already gone ahead—”

She struck him a stinging slap across the face. Markov reeled back, clasping a hand to his jaw, shocked by the nun’s ferocity.

“What—what was that for?”

Pious strength bristled in Sister Agnes’s voice. “To bring you to your senses. This is a time to put your faith in God, not to panic. Tell me again what you heard.”

Markov massaged his jaw. “The Reds delivered the corpse of a curfew-breaker to the mortuary an hour ago. They scared the life out
of me when they banged on my door. I almost passed out. I thought they’d come for me.”

“Go on.”

“They boasted that an enemy spy was caught in a tunnel under the city. A Cheka inspector named Kazan made the arrest. The prisoner was taken to the cells in the Amerika Hotel for interrogation. Apparently, he was knocked unconscious. They had to summon a doctor from the city hospital.”

Sister Agnes paced the room in dismay. “I know it looks hopeless, but there must be something we can do.”

“The plan’s a mess now that we can’t use the tunnels. Worse, we’re in danger of being betrayed if he talks.”

A knock came on the door, and a young novice hurried in.

“There’s a man in a uniform waiting for you in the chapel, Sister. He banged on the church door, asking for you.”

Sister Agnes was immediately on guard. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know. But he has the look of the military about him. He demanded to speak with you personally.”

Markov began trembling. “I told you we were finished. What’s the betting that the Reds have the place surrounded?”

Sister Agnes addressed the novice. “Did you see any army vehicles out in the street? Any troops?”

“I didn’t look, Sister. Should I?”

“No, don’t do it now, that might draw attention.” Sister Agnes made the sign of the cross, then pushed Markov toward the door, her voice firm as she instructed the novice, “Take him down to the basement and keep him there. I’ll try to deal with the military.”

Sister Agnes bustled into the chapel, her black habit flapping about her legs.

Slim, ruby-red candles flickered in the dimness, and a powerful sense of peace suffused the chapel. In contrast, her heart was beating wildly.

The moment she saw the man standing near the entrance door she feared for her life. He was about fifty, a tough-looking specimen, his
face unshaven, and he wore a dark uniform jacket and polished knee boots.

Sister Agnes approached him, her anxiety mounting with every step. “I … I’m Sister Agnes. I believe you wish to see me?”

The man’s piercing eyes studied her, then he turned and rapped a knuckle on the back of the door, indicating a reverse swastika chalk mark. He stared back at her silently.

Sister Agnes’s heart stuttered. She felt racked by terror, her mind completely addled.
Has the spy talked?
Was the man challenging her, trying to find out what she knew?

“You didn’t answer my mark. It’s been there since yesterday evening.”

The man spoke in perfect English.

She stared back at him, realization dawning, and she felt a surge of relief.

He said, “You’re supposed to ask: ‘Are you lost? Do you need help?’ Then I’m to say, ‘I need to get to Market Street.’”

“Forgive me, my son. I … I’ve been distracted. It’s been a difficult morning.”

The man held out his hand. He wore a silver ring on his finger, and it bore a reverse swastika. He smiled with considerable charm. “I believe you’re expecting me. The name’s Joe Boyle.”

83

KOPTYAKI FOREST

EKATERINBURG

4:30 A.M.

The open-topped Opel bumped over the forest road. The Siberian night sky was an aching blue, stars bright, the light almost as pale as day.

Kazan wiped his nose with a handkerchief, his nostrils assaulted by the scent of pine sap drenching the air. “Where exactly are we?”

The
komendant
sat next to him in the backseat. “A disused ore-mining area called the Four Brothers. Countless abandoned mine shafts dot this part of the forest.”

The Opel turned onto a muddy track, and when the driver finally halted, the
komendant
climbed out and marched deeper into the woods.

Kazan followed, the driver and another guard moving ahead of him, each carrying a lit lantern.

“Any reason you picked this place?” Kazan asked.

The
komendant
plunged ahead, deadwood crackling under their feet. “It’s remote, so no one ought to bother us. Once we dispose of the bodies in one of the mine shafts, they won’t easily be found.”

“And the execution?”

“I’ll pick a squad of eleven men, one to kill each victim—the entire family, the cook and two servants, and Dr. Bodkin. We’ll liquidate them at the Ipatiev House. Then transport the bodies here by truck.”

“So, the children, too?”

The
komendant
nodded. “All except the kitchen boy. He’s a child, and it’s been decided we’ll send him out of the city and spare his life.
It’s a grisly business but I don’t want it descending into a disorganized bloodbath and the girls being raped. I’ve heard whispers that some of the guards may be tempted.”

Kazan seemed amused. “Does it really matter at this stage?”

“I won’t stand for any disobedience.”

“Where will it happen?”

“We’ll use the room where you interrogated the girl. It’s small but the walls on one side are solid rock, part of the natural hillside. They’re covered in plaster so they’ll mask the noise of the shooting, and ought to absorb any ricochets. I’ll also have a truck engine running to conceal the gunfire.”

Kazan grunted. “It seems you’ve thought of everything.”

They came to a clearing in the woods.

The
komendant
held up a lamp. Yards away in the middle of the clearing yawned the gaping mouth of an abandoned mine shaft, timber logs lining the sides. “This is where we’ll bury the bloodsucking royalty.”

Kazan stared down into the shaft, the bottom filled with brown, peaty water. The
komendant
said, “We’ll light a funeral pyre and burn them after they’ve been stripped, and remove any valuables hidden in their clothing. We’ve got quantities of gasoline, sulfuric acid, and firewood organized, which ought to speed up the process. We’ll leave no remains.”

“And once it’s done?”

“We’ll shovel the ashes down the shaft.”

Kazan turned slowly in a circle, examining the site. He dabbed his nose with his handkerchief, the pine scent still overpowering. “When?”

“After midnight tonight.”

84

Boyle slumped into a chair, his expression sober. “It’s not looking good, is it?”

Sister Agnes paced her office.

Markov, in his crumpled undertaker’s suit, nervously cracked his knuckles. “That’s what I told the sister,” he fretted. “If it was up to me, I’d be getting my backside out of town fast. It’s only a matter of time before the Reds come knocking, and then there’ll be murder to pay.”

The nun stopped pacing and regarded Boyle. “Is it really as hopeless as it seems?”

“Honest? It sounds like a complete mess.”

“We expected you days ago.”

Boyle rose, full of nervous energy. “The trains were delayed everywhere. I had to travel via the Ukraine, which didn’t help.”

“Can I get you anything? Food, refreshment?”

Boyle nodded to the samovar in the corner. “I wouldn’t say no to some tea. And a hot bath wouldn’t go amiss.”

As Sister Agnes poured steaming hot tea from the samovar, Boyle ran a hand over his face and said to Markov, “Why? Why did the bloody fool have to go exploring the tunnel and put us all in jeopardy?”

Markov shook his head. “Only he can answer that question.”

The nun said, “He seemed most interested to know about Princess Anastasia.”

“Why her?”

“Heaven knows. But I found out which doctor Kazan’s using—I know him, he’s worked at our hospital—and called his home. His wife said her husband’s still at the hotel.”

Markov said, “What about the other couple we were expecting?”

Boyle said, “I wish I knew. For now our concern is if the Cheka makes our man talk. It may not be safe for any of us.”

The nun said, “That’s why I thought it better if you don’t stay in the convent.”

“Where else have you got in mind?”

“Markov has premises about a mile from here—you can stay there for now, but you both may have to move elsewhere. Go bring your carriage round.”

Markov tipped his forehead as he left. “Yes, Sister.”

She said to Boyle, “I’ll find a dark suit for you, and Markov can take some more bodies from the basement while he’s here. At least it’ll look as if you’ll be going about your rightful business if you’re stopped.”

“Bodies?”

“Our hospital’s full of them. I’m afraid the Reds are killing all round them these days. Now, let me see about that suit.”

It was very still in the chapel when Boyle went in. The gilded icon of Our Lady and Child seemed to float above the candles, the beautiful Byzantine faces eternally peaceful. His footsteps echoed on the cool flagstones between the pillars as he walked down to the entrance door.

He rubbed out the chalked swastika with his coat sleeve.

As he turned back toward the altar, he felt a heaviness in his chest, a kind of despair that was almost crushing, and he did something he hadn’t done in years: he knelt in one of the pews, his hands joined, his head bowed, not praying, but trying to dissipate his frustration in the peace all around him.

As he knelt there, after a while he heard footsteps and saw Sister Agnes approach. “One of the nuns is fetching you clothes; she won’t be long. Did I disturb your praying?”

Boyle looked miles away and shook his head, as if to stir himself from a trance. “I’ve heard it said that prayer is sometimes listening to yourself. If that’s the case, then maybe mine have been answered.”