The Romanov Conspiracy (62 page)

“Why does that not surprise me? The kind of people you consort with, they’re a ruthless pack of animals.”

“Had Uri never come back, had he never involved himself in this,
you and your son would still be in Moscow, and Sergey might still be alive.”

She stared at him accusingly, and her tone was savage. “You say that. You—the man who intends to take us to a camp? I pity you, Leonid Yakov. I pity you and your kind.”

“What are you talking about?”

“No one killed Sergey but you and your Bolshevik friends. You’ve drenched this country in blood.”

Yakov said nothing, simply stared back at her.

She turned on him now, force in her voice. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not afraid to speak the truth anymore. I’m not afraid of you. How could I be, after losing Sergey? How can I ever live without him?
How?
”

Her voice sounded like a strangled, pitiful whisper. She broke down again, harsh sobs racking her body, and she sagged as if she was going to collapse.

Yakov took hold of her arms, pulled her to him, and she allowed herself to cling to him, if only because she needed to cling to someone, but the moment she regained control she pushed herself away and wiped her eyes.

“Do you know what else is pitiful? Your hatred of Uri. It has little to do with justice, but everything to do with envy.”

“What are you talking about?”

It all came flowing out of her in a sudden burst. “You envied him all your life, but you’d never admit it. Envied everything he ever represented: the respect he earned, the kind of honorable man he is that others look up to, the kind of father he had. He had everything you craved, even the woman you couldn’t have. That’s the real source of your hatred, isn’t it, Leonid?
Isn’t it?
You called him a brother yet part of you always despised him.”

He didn’t reply.

Nina met his gaze. “I see now what it was I sensed in you the first moment we met, all those years ago—sensed but didn’t understand until now. Always in your heart there’s a sense of injustice and outrage. That you’ve been wrongly done by, and mostly by people like Uri and his class.”

Yakov was pale, his voice hoarse. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I? You blamed Uri because in your heart you wanted to blame him, you wanted to destroy him.”

Yakov answered bitterly, “You’ll never convince me he isn’t guilty.”

Hostility braided her words. “Let me tell you something. Stanislas didn’t kill him, no more than you did.”

Outside the carriage, Yakov glimpsed a bustle of activity.

His men were running up and down the track, calling out to one another, waving storm lamps. He thought he heard a train whistle.

He ignored the distraction and said fiercely, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You weren’t there. How could you know? He was on the run, a desperate man, capable of anything.”

“But not that. Not to kill a boy like that. Will I tell you why? Because they’re two sides of the same coin.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“When Uri’s father died, we sat with him until the end. Uri and I, we heard his confession, his sad little secret, and he made us both promise him we’d never divulge it to anyone. Especially to you, because it might dishonor the memory of your mother, but I’ll divulge it to you now. I know he’d understand. Because someone needs to tell you. Someone needs to put you to rights.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s time you knew, Leonid. It’s time you knew the whole pitiful truth.”

95

When Boyle entered the convent church that afternoon from the annex, he saw Novice Maria get up from one of the benches.

She wore a scarf around her head, and with her deeply sunken eyes she seemed absurdly young.

Boyle said, “I was told to meet you here.”

“Sister Agnes could not come herself; she’s busy in the hospital surgery. But she said there’s something you must see.”

Boyle said, “You speak excellent English.”

“My father’s a merchant. I had an English governess.” The novice’s footsteps echoed hollowly as she led him down the aisle to the entrance.

She pulled back one of the oak doors and pointed.

Boyle saw the chalk mark of a reverse swastika. “How long has it been there?”

“No more than an hour. Sister said to be careful, that it could be a trap. And to give you this.”

She handed him a piece of chalk, which he took, a spark in his eyes now as if he seemed to come alive. “
Spasibo
. Run along, I’ll take care of it from here.”

He waited until the novice’s footsteps faded, and then Boyle chalked another reverse swastika beside the first before he went to sit on one of the benches, one hand inside his jacket pocket, ready on the butt of his Colt pistol.

It didn’t take long until he heard the footsteps.

A figure stepped into the doorway, followed by another. Strong sunlight filtered through the stained glass, and for a moment Boyle
couldn’t make out their faces, but then he saw one of the figures pull back the doors.

He recognized Andrev and Lydia, looking the worse for wear, their clothes shabby and blackened.

He stood and approached them. “So, you made it at last.”

“We’ll dispense with the formalities if you don’t mind, Boyle,” Andrev said. “We’re here, and lucky to be alive.”

“You weren’t followed?”

“No, I made certain.”

Boyle kept his hand on the Colt as he looked past the door, making sure. Satisfied, he relaxed. “You two look like you’ve been through the wars.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Boyle,” said Lydia.

He smiled. “Does anything in life ever run smoothly? Let’s get you cleaned up and you can tell me everything.”

Sorg drifted awake, a stench of ammonia smelling salts filling his nostrils.

A terrible feeling of nausea swept over him, the vapors so powerful that they hurt his lungs. To make matters worse, his jaw felt as if it had been struck by a hammer.

He remembered being hit in the jaw by Kazan, a powerful blow that caused him to black out.

He blinked, looked around him.

A single light blazed overhead, the white intensity forcing him to shield his brow with his hand. He was lying on a table of some sort in a small airless room, the windows barred, rain beating against the glass.

There was no sign of Kazan. Instead, a small man with an unshaven face and his breath reeking of cigarette smoke stood over him, the elbows of his jacket crudely patched. He held a brown medicine bottle in his hand.

Sorg tried to sit up. He immediately felt dizzy. “Where—where am I?”

The man put a hand on his chest, gently pushed him back down. “Relax. For now just take slow, deep breaths.”

96

“He’s being held here, in the Amerika Hotel.” Boyle used a pencil to mark a circle on the city map that was spread out on a wooden table.

“It’s being used as the local Cheka headquarters, and sister here thinks we’d be insane to try to gain entry. But time’s running out fast and we’re desperate. With the Czech divisions so close, the city’s in disarray. Rumor says the Reds will evacuate within days.”

They were in Markov’s huge, white-tiled mortuary. The air was pungent with the chemical smell of embalming fluid. Several corpses lay on the floor in a corner, wrapped in white cotton sheets. Adult and adolescent forms alike, at least a dozen bodies in all.

Around the table with Boyle were Sister Agnes and Markov, and Andrev and Lydia, who had washed and changed into fresh clothes.

Andrev said, “Is that why you think the executions will happen soon?”

Boyle tossed down his pencil and said to a solemn-looking Agnes, “Tell him, Sister.”

“My two novices were turned away from the Ipatiev House this morning. They went to deliver fresh milk, bread, and dozens of eggs—more than usual—and extra rolls of sewing thread.”

“Why thread?”

The nun explained, “The girls sew gems into their clothes, to be used in case of their escape. The
komendant
seized most of their jewelry but he strongly suspects more are hidden. He’s fanatical about finding any remaining valuables.”

“Go on, Sister.”

“When the novices arrived, the
komendant
took the provisions but wouldn’t allow them to see the family.”

“Has that happened before?”

“Seldom. The guards are always happy to take their cut of the food we bring. So I called there myself to see what I could find out. The
komendant
refused to talk to me. As I left, one of the guards sniggered, ‘We won’t be having any more visits from you nuns soon enough.’”

Markov offered, “I heard that the
komendant
’s ordered a truck and rolls of canvas from the central garage for midnight. And a quantity of sulfuric acid from one of the foundries. Such acid can be used to dissolve human flesh. It seems the only reason the Reds would want it.”

Sister Agnes recoiled and blessed herself. “I wouldn’t put any cruelty past them.”

Boyle paced the room. “We’ll have to forget about the tunnels, as they’re all under heavy guard, but I’m open to suggestions. The same applies to getting our man out of the hotel.”

Andrev unfolded the forged letter from his pocket. “Would this help?”

Boyle studied the page and frowned. “Where did you get it?”

Andrev explained.

Boyle said, “It could be worth a try. What do you two think?”

He handed the page to Sister Agnes and Markov, who studied it.

The undertaker rubbed his cheek. “It certainly looks official enough.”

The nun shook her head. “Some of the Cheka may be peasants, but they’re nobody’s fool. I can’t see them being easily duped.”

Lydia wandered over to the white-sheeted bodies. “Who are these poor creatures?”

Markov said, “Some died of natural causes, others were executed. There’s been a shortage of wood for coffins, so we have to bury them in simple sheets.”

Boyle asked, “Are they dead long?”

“Mostly since this morning.”

Boyle stared at the corpses and looked deep in thought.

Andrev said impatiently, “I hate to push you, Boyle, but time’s running out.”