The Romanov Conspiracy (68 page)

As the boy watched him with wide, curious eyes, Yurovsky began to arrange his victims in a particular order, behind the chairs. “There have been rumors that your health is not good,” he told them, “and that you are being poorly treated. So before we leave, I will need a photograph to prove otherwise. Please stand as I ask.”

The family obeyed as the
komendant
posed them: Maria, Tatiana, and Olga standing close behind their mother, who remained seated; the family doctor and the three domestic servants in front of Anastasia, who stood defiantly alone. Nicholai Romanov stood next to his son, sitting in the second chair.

The
komendant
once again checked his watch. “The photographer is delayed but will be here presently. I’ll be back once he arrives.”

His men retreated from the room. Yurovsky was the last to leave. He paused at the door. Did he see a faint hint of uncertainty, a glimmer of terror on their faces?

His said reassuringly, “Once we’ve finished taking the photograph, you will board the truck in an orderly fashion. You’ll be driven to a safer location, away from any shelling.”

He took a final look at his victims, making sure they were still in the same pose, and then he nodded, pulling the doors shut after him with a soft click.

In the room at the back of the mortuary, lit by a bare lightbulb, Boyle donned dark breeches and leather knee boots and pulled on a Chekist leather jacket.

He studied the de Gennin map, the parchment laid out on the table, then looked up. “How are they getting on with the bodies?”

Andrev peered out into the courtyard and saw Markov and Sorg finish loading a dozen of the white-sheeted corpses onto the back of the hearse. “It looks like they’re done.”

They returned, Markov closing the door after them, carrying a sledgehammer and a pick. “Once I hitch up the horses we’re ready to go. Here are the tools you wanted.”

Boyle examined them. “Perfect. What about explosives?”

“I’m afraid all I have are some cans of kerosene and a supply of embalming fluid. I’m no chemist, but I’d bet that if you ignite both you’ll make quite a bang.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it. Load everything on board the hearse before we leave. And I’ll need clear directions for the tunnels.”

Markov nodded and left.

Andrev said to Boyle, “You mind telling me now what exactly you have in mind?”

“First, you better bring Yakov in and see what kind of mood he’s in.”

Andrev returned, escorting Yakov, still blindfolded by the sackcloth and with his hands tied. Boyle stood in front of him and tore the sack from his head.

Yakov blinked and took in the scene. Facing him, next to Andrev,
was a big, solidly built man. He looked formidable, all business, his hands on his hips. Yakov’s eyes darted around the windowless chamber. “Where are we? What goes here?”

Boyle said bluntly, “Tell the commissar we’ll need his full cooperation. If he gives it, he’ll live to see his daughter.”

Andrev translated. Yakov was silent, stern-faced.

Boyle went on: “Tell him that in return for his help he can accompany us when we leave Ekaterinburg once we’ve finished our business. I solemnly promise we’ll get him and his daughter out of Russia. I have people in Moscow who can do that, just as soon as I can arrange it. Tell him.”

Andrev translated.

Yakov uttered a terse reply.

Boyle asked, “What did he say?”

“You’re insane, and haven’t a hope.”

Boyle’s mouth tightened in an almost chilling grimace. He stepped up to Yakov, grabbed him by both lapels as he stared into his face. “You could be right about both. But you’ll do exactly as you’re told, whether you like it or not.”

Andrev translated.

Boyle added, “Tell him if he doesn’t, I’ll make sure he’s keeping the devil company before the night’s out.”

Andrev interpreted; Yakov remained tight-lipped.

Boyle stepped back and Lydia asked, “What happens now?”

“Markov, you and I will travel in the hearse. Yakov will lead us in the truck, Uri with him, to get us past any checkpoints.”

“I hope you have a solid plan, Boyle,” Andrev said.

Boyle jabbed a finger at the parchment. “It’s bluntly simple. We’ll haul the bodies into the tunnel entrance, along with the kerosene and embalming fluid. Later, when we exit the tunnel, we ignite both fluids. In an enclosed space, it should cause an impressive blast.”

“What about the guards on the tunnel?”

“I’ll deal with that,” Boyle said. “But first, you and Yakov have to gain entry to the house. I need you to convince the
komendant
that the executions will go ahead, but that you’re to conduct a last-minute interrogation of the family, on Moscow’s orders.”

“Interrogate them about what?”

“The missing jewels are as good a reason as any. Make it clear that Lenin wants all the Romanov valuables accounted for. Tell the
komendant
you have information that precious stones have been withheld and that you intend to find them. You’ll need to get the family into the basement room and keep the guards out. Only then can we attempt to evacuate them through the tunnel.”

“That’s asking an awful lot, Boyle.”

He smiled and slapped a hand on Andrev’s shoulder. “Of course it is, but I have every confidence in a man of your abilities.”

“What will
we
be doing?” Lydia asked.

“You and I will make our way to the basement, to guide the family out through the storeroom. Once everyone’s safely aboard the ambulance, I’ll blow the tunnel.” Boyle hefted up the sledgehammer and the pickaxe. “I want to be prepared in case we need to open up the wall some more or breach the basement doors.”

Lydia said, “Troops will be swarming all over the area after the blast. What happens when they find the bodies?”

“If the blast does its job, there won’t be much left to identify, which ought to distract them while we’re quitting town.”

“How?” asked Sorg.

“I want you and Markov to get down to the railway station. Make sure that Yakov’s train is stoked and ready to depart.”

“And how do we do that?”

“You’ll have a written order from Yakov here. We’ll join you just as soon as we can.”

Sorg shook his head stubbornly. “No, I’m going into the tunnel with you.”

Boyle snapped, “We’ve all got a job to do for this to stand a chance, and I’ve given you yours. It’s vital the train’s ready. Now can I depend on you or not?”

Sorg didn’t look happy but answered, “Yes.”

Andrev said, “What if by some miracle we all manage to make it to the station, then what?”

“We’ll head south, toward the White lines. Beyond that, I’m hoping we’ll have a clear run all the way to Bucharest.”

“Aren’t you forgetting about the machine-gun nest in the church tower? And the other two at the house?”

“We’ll be out of their line of fire and in darkness, so they shouldn’t bother us.”

Andrev considered. “I still don’t like it. Everything’s too rushed.”

Boyle replied, “It could either go as smoothly as silk, or we could all wind up dead. But do you have you a better idea at this stage?”

“No.”

“Then we’re stuck with it.” Boyle tore his Colt pistol from its holster. He slapped his notebook and a fountain pen on the table. “Now, tell Yakov here I want him to write a note, and he’s to be quick about it.”

107

In the guardroom, Yurovsky nervously rechecked his two firearms, a Colt and a Mauser. The final moment was approaching. His men sat hunched together, chain-smoking cigarettes, clutching their weapons, a few with bayonets stuck inside their belts. Adrenaline coursed through their veins; every one of them was on edge, their tempers frayed, Yurovsky could see that.

One of them, a swaggering drunk named Ermakov, looked eager for action with three revolvers. He clutched two near-empty bottles of vodka, one in each hand, and splashed generous measures into the men’s enamel mugs. “Get that into you, you’re going to need it, comrades. But make sure you shoot straight.” Ermakov grinned drunkenly. “Send them all to hell, every last one of them; there’ll be no sparing women or children.”

Yurovsky swallowed a mouthful of vodka from a bottle on the table and wiped his lips. He allowed the alcohol because he knew his men needed it for the grim task ahead. He already felt a little drunk himself, but not so much that he didn’t realize the men were getting out of control. Their fast and furious drinking was giving them Dutch courage, but if it kept up they would be in no fit state.

He slapped down his mug and grabbed the bottles from Ermakov. “Enough! We all need clear heads.”

“When are we going to do it? When?” Ermakov snarled.

Yurovsky again consulted his watch: 2:15 a.m. From his tunic, he took the piece of paper that contained the execution order he would read to the family. He beckoned one of the younger guards. “Have the driver start the truck. The rest of you, prepare your weapons.”

The Fiat drove toward the lake and slowed as it approached the archway. They were over three hundred yards from the Ipatiev House.

A pair of Reds with bayoneted rifles guarded the iron door. They stepped out from under the archway, one of them waving a lantern. The second guard held up his hand for the truck to halt. The guards looked young, barely in their teens, but alert and cautious. They studied the men wearing leather jackets seated in the truck. A female in the back wore a Red Army uniform and carried a lantern. One of the guards said, “We have orders not to let anyone pass here.”

Andrev left the engine running and climbed down, leaving Boyle on the other side of the front seat, holding an unseen Colt pistol to Yakov’s side.

“I’m Commissar Couris. This is Commissar Yakov, from Moscow.”

The guard nodded, recognizing Yakov from the compound, and respectfully tipped his forehead. “Yes, Commissar.”

Andrev snapped, “This area is under control of the Cheka for now. We’ll take over here. You two keep watch down by the lake.”

“But we have orders—”

“And now you have mine.”

As the guards disappeared in the lake’s direction, Andrev jumped back into the Fiat.

Boyle said, “You did the wise thing, Commissar.” He offered Yakov a cigarette, and he accepted it. Boyle tossed him a box of matches. “Tell him what I said, Uri.”