The Romanov Conspiracy (58 page)

Zoba led him to a barn.

Mersk’s body lay slumped against a wooden post. He’d been shot once in the side of the skull and a dagger was planted deep in his chest.

Zoba said, “We counted over ten dead, not a single survivor. Andrev’s on form, I’ll give him that.”

Yakov looked enraged as he tipped Mersk’s body with the toe of his boot. “He probably killed Mersk, too. That knife looks personal.”

Zoba grunted. “Renegades like these are the scum of the earth. Mersk was hunting with the wrong hounds.”

Yakov kicked at a mound of hay, sending straw flying, his face crimson with frustration. Then he turned and strode out of the barn, flames beginning to lick at the timbers, the heat becoming unbearable.

“Where do we go from here?” Zoba asked.

Yakov strode out into the street toward the stationmaster’s office. He saw wooden telegraph poles, the cables in place. “Check if the telegraph’s still working. I’ll need to use it.”

“Anything else?”

Yakov said bitterly, “If you’ve no luck finding Andrev in the village, assemble the men. We’re leaving.”

“Where to?”

“Ekaterinburg.” Yakov angrily punched his balled fist into his open palm. “That’s where Andrev will head. That’s where we’ll find him.”

Andrev stepped into a luxurious private carriage.

A samovar bubbled in a corner, charcoal scenting the air, a bottle of vodka and some glasses on a nearby side table. He crossed the polished walnut floor. “Leonid’s done well for himself. This thing looks like a fortress on wheels.”

“This is
his
?”

Andrev slapped a palm against one of the window’s steel-hinged plates, complete with gun ports. “It probably belonged to some duke or prince, but with a few unsociable modifications by the Bolsheviks.”

On a walnut desk lay a Trans-Siberian Railway route map, open on a page. Andrev picked it up and studied it.

“What is it?” Lydia asked.

Andrev smiled. “I think we could be in luck.”

“I’d love to know exactly what’s going through your mind.”

“When I’m sure, I’ll let you know.”

Lydia noticed a crumpled photograph frame discarded in a corner, the glass completely shattered. A curled-up ball of photographic paper lay nearby. She opened it, studied the faces, Andrev easily recognizable as a child. “Does this bring back memories?”

He took the photograph, his mouth tightening. “It certainly does.”

“I have the distinct impression Yakov isn’t a happy man. What have you got in mind, Uri?”

He crumpled the photograph and replaced it exactly where Lydia
found it, and a sudden spark in his eyes seemed to enliven him. “I’m working on it.”

“You know what frightens me? The worse the danger, the more you come alive.”

He offered her a smile. “I know. Troubling, isn’t it?”

“Are you going to tell me what you intend?”

“We wait.”

“For what?”

“Yakov.”

“Are you insane?”

Andrev crossed to a door, opened it warily. A bedchamber lay beyond, furnished with a simple soldier’s cot, gray blankets folded neatly on top. “We’ll wait in here for now.”

“And when Yakov appears?”

“A difficult thing for you Irish, but leave the talking to me.”

89

AMERIKA HOTEL

EKATERINBURG

Kazan’s footsteps clattered down the basement steps. The guards admitted him through the iron gate, and when he entered the cell a bitter stench of ammonia drenched the air.

The doctor was busy with the smelling salts, sweat on his brow as he wafted the open bottle under the prisoner’s nose. He stopped what he was doing and looked up, distinctly uncomfortable once he saw Kazan.

“Well?” The Inspector’s mouth was tight with impatience.

“He’s stirred a few times. But I have to be careful not to overdo the ammonia. Too much could damage his lungs.”

“How long before I can start work on him?”

“Difficult to say. But I’ll need a little time to get him stable once he awakens.”

Kazan grunted. “I’ll be back.”

As Yakov’s train thundered through the night, the carriage rocking side to side, he poured vodka into a glass.

As he replaced the cork in the bottle, he stared at his reflection in the carriage window. He looked haggard, his eyes dark, tiredness wearing him down.

Seething with frustration, he went to take a drink. As it touched his lips he changed his mind and flung the glass against the wall. It shattered just as Zoba knocked and entered.

“Well for some, throwing it away. You don’t look happy.”

“Should I be? We lost him again. Lenin’s wrath will be unforgiving.”

“We can still finish this thing, Leonid. You sent the cable?”

Yakov nodded and rubbed his eyes. “Every stationmaster from here to Ekaterinburg will know to keep the rail lines open, or risk being shot. With any luck, we ought to get there by this afternoon. Check on our prisoners. Make sure they’re all right.”

Zoba paused at the door, then stared back at an exhausted Yakov. “Can I give you some well-meaning advice? You’ve hardly slept in two days. Try to get some rest or you’ll collapse.”

As the door closed, Yakov unbuttoned the top of his tunic and wandered into his bedchamber, overcome by fatigue.

As he entered he heard the soft click of a firearm being cocked.

His heart chilled.

“Don’t move or make a sound, Leonid.”

Andrev stepped out from behind the door, a gun in his hand. “Take his weapon and tie him up.”

The woman appeared and removed the pistol from Yakov’s holster. She tied his hands behind his back with a leather belt, then pushed him into the chair by the bed. Andrev took the bedsheet and used it to tie him to the chair.

Yakov said vehemently, “You’re dead. You must know that?”

“It comes to us all. But a little gratitude might be in order, considering that I didn’t kill you just now.”

“Like you killed Mersk?”

“He deserved it. Mersk killed Stanislas in cold blood. He’s paid the price.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because that’s always been your problem, Leonid. You’ll only believe what you want to believe.”

“I know what you intend. But it won’t work. You haven’t a chance. The odds are stacked against you.”

Andrev arched his eyebrows. “Don’t dismiss me just yet. Where are Nina and Sergey?”

“Safe and unharmed. Whether they stay that way depends on you.”

Andrev’s expression darkened, in fury. “Like that, is it? My threat stands. Harm them and I’ll tear your heart out.”

“It’s Lenin, he gives the orders.”

“And you follow blindly, even if it means harming women and children?”

“I’d never willingly harm Nina or Sergey.”

“Why do I suddenly find that hard to believe?” Grim-faced, Andrev checked the Trans-Siberian Railway map. “This is quite a machine you’ve got. But machines can always go wrong, can’t they?”

Yakov said in frustration, “What are you scheming? You’re playing with fire. The train’s full of my men.”

Andrev slipped the map in his pocket and opened the door at the far end of the bedroom. “You’ll know soon enough. I’ll be back. You and I aren’t finished yet.”

A ferocious clatter of metal wheels screamed into the room from the unseen engine. A coal wagon lay beyond, a rush of white steam flurrying overhead the train, the air thick with the smell and heat of burning coal.

Andrev moved toward the tender and said to Lydia, “If he tries to escape, shoot him.” He fixed Yakov with a stare. “She’s an excellent shot. Do yourself a favor and behave, Leonid.”

Seven carriages away, Zoba halted outside the compartment.

Two guards stepped away, giving him privacy. Zoba stared in through the glass, the compartment lit by an oil lamp.

Nina sat on the lower sleeping bunk next to the window, holding her son as the medic examined Sergey’s chest with a stethoscope.

Every now and then the child gave a wheezing cough and his mother looked fraught with worry.

When the medic finished his examination he spoke briefly with her, then he stepped out into the carriage hallway while Nina remained, rocking her child in her arms.

Zoba put a hand on the medic’s arm as he slid shut the door. “Any change?”

The medic was a rake-thin, twitchy man with a nervous blink. He stuffed his stethoscope in his pocket and guided Zoba farther along the corridor.

“For the worst, I’m afraid. His temperature’s raging. His lungs are severely congested. If you ask me, it’s TB. I’m certain he’s had it awhile.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“A trip to a decent Swiss sanatorium would help.”

“Don’t be smart.”

“I wasn’t. The boy needs to be in the hospital.” The medic took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and blew smoke. “As I’m forever telling Yakov, I’d give my right arm to leave this country. There’s nothing but sickness and despair.”

Zoba craned his neck to see Nina by the light of the oil lamp, as she patted her son’s brow with a damp cloth.

The medic shook his head. “Pitiful, isn’t it? How long before we reach Ekaterinburg?”

“Why?”

“If we’re delayed, I fear for the child’s life.”

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