The Romanov Conspiracy (71 page)

“Check all their pulses—be absolutely certain,” Boyle ordered.

The fog of gunpowder lifted as Andrev and Lydia negotiated their way through the bodies, trying not to slip on the blood. They checked for pulses, feeling necks or wrists or both.

Boyle’s anger was like a fast-burning fuse, and he brandished his Colt at Yakov. “What kind of men could do this? Look at your dirty work. Look at it!”

“The boy’s still alive,” Andrev cried, carefully moving the chair from under Alexei. “His pulse is weak, but it’s there.”

The announcement sent a jolt through them all. Just as Lydia went to feel Anastasia’s left wrist the girl emitted a tiny shriek, her body jerking as if she’d received an electric shock. Crimson spewed from her mouth in an obscene gush and then her body fell still again.

Lydia recoiled.

“Feel her pulse—feel it, for heaven’s sake,” Boyle said desperately.

Lydia dropped to her knees and gripped Anastasia’s left wrist while her other hand felt her neck. Blood flowed from an obscene purple wound in her side. “She—she’s still alive.”

Hope sparked in Boyle’s eyes. He knelt over Nicholai Romanov’s body, feeling for a heartbeat. “Hurry, check them all again. And try and stem that wound …”

EKATERINBURG RAILWAY STATION

“You better not be lying.” When Markov finished talking, Kazan pointed his pistol at the undertaker’s head while the men held him up. “Are you, Markov?”

“I swear. Every word’s the truth.” Markov looked in agony, blood running down his leg and spreading in a pool on the floor.

Victory lit Kazan’s face. He stepped back, his brow furrowed, his mind working feverishly.

Markov looked close to fainting. “You—you said you’d let me go.”

Kazan grinned, “So I did. But I didn’t say it was to hell,” and his pistol came up and he shot Markov point-blank in the heart.

His body slumped, and the men let him go.

Kazan turned his attention to Sorg, saying with a smirk, “So, now I know. You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, you know that?”

Sorg stood silent and pale as one of Kazan’s men, the one wearing the gray slouch hat, asked, “What do you want to do with them?”

“I’m thinking about it.” Kazan turned to look at an unconscious Nina, then at the medic who trembled with fear. “Tie these two up. Give the medic some of his own ether. That ought to keep him quiet. Find somewhere to lock them both up. The woman may come in handy to bait Andrev.”

“There’s a sleeper wagon four carriages back.”

“Do it.”

Zoba moved protectively in front of Nina. “I wouldn’t lay a finger on her if I were you, or you’ll have Yakov to answer to.”

Kazan’s smile was forced. “Yakov’s for the firing squad. And I thought I told you not to speak unless spoken to.” Kazan shot Zoba in the head and he reeled back, collapsing against the wall.

The medic screamed. The two men who had been holding Markov now grabbed the medic by the arms.

Kazan told them, “Leave the bodies. Do as I say, then bring the car round.”

He turned to Sorg. “You’re coming with us to the tunnels. I’d hate to miss the final tragic act of this stupid farce. What a waste of time—the Romanovs are dead by now. Including the little witch whose interrogation you interrupted. What do you have to say to that?”

Sorg went cold, but then rage consumed him. He spat in Kazan’s face.

Kazan actually grinned and wiped away the spittle. “We’ll see how
spirited you are when I get you back to the hotel basement.” He nodded to his man. “Take him out to the car. I’ll join you in a minute.”

Kazan strode along the platform. He came to the engine, a lazy wisp of smoke rising from its funnel. Kazan dragged himself up some metal steps to the driver’s cabin.

A grimy-looking man badly in need of a shave was seated on a three-legged wooden stool. He was smoking a cigarette and wore soot-stained clothes, a shovel resting across his knees. He rose when Kazan appeared and tossed away his cigarette. “Can I help you, comrade?”

“You certainly can.” Kazan studied the maze of pressure dials, glass water-level indicators, and brass and copper pipes that crisscrossed the locomotive’s panel. “You must be Yakov’s driver.”

The man nodded. “That’s right. What can I do for you?”

Kazan produced a pistol and held out his free hand. “You can start by giving me the shovel.”

The shocked driver wasn’t arguing with the gun. He handed over the shovel.

Kazan held it sideways, like a machete, bringing the blade down hard, slicing into several narrow pipes, a spray of steam escaping. He pounded the glass dials and indicators, smashing them with the shovel’s butt until they were a shattered mess. “This train’s going nowhere,” he spat, tossing the shovel aside.

The driver looked distraught. “You fool! Yakov will have your life.”

Kazan callously shot him twice in the chest, and he crumpled.

Kazan nudged the man’s body with the tip of his boot. “You got that wrong. It’s the other way round,” he said, and he climbed down the cabin steps.

112

“Alexei and Anastasia are barely alive. The others are dead,” Andrev announced.

Lydia crouched beside Anastasia, holding her wrist. “Her pulse is still there, but it’s weak.”

“And the boy?” Boyle demanded. “Will he make it?

Andrev shook his head. “I don’t know. His heartbeat’s faint.”

Yakov stared speechless at the family’s corpses.

Andrev said angrily, “Well, what are you gaping at? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Not the children,” Yakov said hoarsely.

“It’s a bit late now,” Andrev answered bitterly, and brandished his gun. “Help with the girl. Go easy with her.”

Yakov helped Lydia gingerly raise Anastasia from the floor.

Boyle told Andrev, “Cover Yakov, and I’ll take the boy.” Boyle knelt, gently lifting him. As he did so, a mournful cry escaped from the child’s lips, the sound of his last breath leaving his body, and he shuddered and fell still.

“No …” Boyle said hoarsely. He gently lay the child down and felt his pulse. Finally he looked up in despair and shook his head. “He’s gone for good. God have mercy on his soul.” Boyle used his thumb and forefinger to close Alexei’s eyes. An overpowering sense of grief seemed to smother them all, but it barely lasted, Boyle already hustling them toward the storage room. “What are you all waiting for? Uri, take the girl from Lydia, she’ll lead the way with the lamp. I’ll cover our back.” He jerked his gun at Yakov. “Get going.”

As they withdrew, Boyle was the last to leave. He took one last look
around the execution room, barely able to fathom the awful carnage, and then he pulled the doors shut after him.

Kazan turned the Opel into Voznesensky Prospect, the car’s suspension bouncing on the stones.

Sorg was cramped between two of Kazan’s comrades, his hands still tied.

Kazan approached the compound and halted, a truck parked near the doorway, its engine running. The barrier was down, and the guards looked even more jittery as Kazan clambered out of the car. “Is the grisly business done yet?” he demanded.

One of the older guards said, “What’s it to you? I thought we threw you out!”

“I want to know, are they
dead
?”

The man grinned. “No one could have lived through that hail of gunfire.”

“When?”

“Less than ten minutes ago. Now get out of here before I’m tempted to shoot you.”

Kazan raged, “You’re the one who’ll be shot, you imbecile. I’ll see that you face a firing squad for your contempt. Where’s Komendant Yurovsky?”

The guard balked at the threat. “Inside. Why?”

“Lead me to him. It’s a matter of the utmost urgency.”

They moved through the tunnel. When they finally came toward the exit, Boyle passed Markov’s pile of dead bodies, the fuel cans and containers of embalming fluid stacked next to them. “Everyone be quiet.”

They fell still, not a sound from anyone, and Boyle listened intently behind them, cupping an ear, but he heard nothing. He nodded to Lydia. “Signal to the sister. Then come back here.”

She opened the iron door and moved outside, carrying her lamp. They all heard an engine move closer, there was a wash of headlights, and Lydia stepped back in. “She’s here.”

Andrev reached across and felt Anastasia’s wrist, blood still flowing
from her wounds, then he put a finger to her neck. “She’s still got a heartbeat, but I wonder for how much longer.”

Lydia said, “What about igniting the fuel?”

“There’s not much point now, is there?” Boyle replied, and ushered them toward the iron door.

In the guardroom, now that the killing was over, Yurovsky experienced a strange kind of relief and it made him feel lightheaded. He raised a vodka bottle to his lips and took another long swig, the alcohol helping numb his mind.

All around the room his men were doing the same, collapsed on cots and chairs, chain-smoking cigarettes and getting drunker by the minute, trying to settle their frayed nerves after the savage, close-quarter butchery.

A guard appeared. Yurovsky said, “What do you want?”

“It’s Kazan, he’s turned up again.”

“Tell the fool to go away.”

“Now who’s been drinking too much?”

He looked up to see Kazan standing over him, accompanied by a man wearing a gray slouch hat.