The Romanov Conspiracy (72 page)

Kazan stared at the drunken guards through clouds of cigarette smoke, a stash of handguns and bloodied bayonets discarded on the table, cluttered with overflowing ashtrays and vodka bottles.

“What do you want?” the
komendant
demanded, his eyes blurred from drink.

“You’re certain the family’s all dead?” Kazan demanded.

With a frenzied look, the
komendant
took another swig from the bottle and waved a blood-soaked bayonet from the table. “Of course I’m sure. We had to use these to finish them off. Yakov’s in there now, checking our work, before we move them to the truck and clean up. See for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

“Yakov?”
A chill rippled through Kazan.

“Hurl your accusations against him now, Kazan, and see where they get you.” The
komendant
sneered. “He’ll have you up against a wall to face a firing squad.”

“You drunken fool,” Kazan spat, and stormed from the room, already reaching for his pistol.

He burst open the basement doors and stalked into the grisly scene, ignoring the stench of death and gunpowder. Unmoved, he took in the knot of bullet-ridden corpses and the walls, splashed with crimson.

His comrade recoiled, putting a hand over his mouth. “They really slaughtered them, didn’t they? No mistake.”

“Shut up. Don’t make a sound.” Like the eyes of a preying animal, Kazan’s gaze flicked between the bodies and the storage room doors. Clutching his pistol, he moved toward the doors, trampling on the victims, wading in their blood. It was impossible to tell how many dead there were, the corpses were such a tangle, but Kazan said to his comrade, “Count the bodies.”

Kazan halted by the doors and listened. When he heard nothing he gripped the handles and pushed. The doors gave easily. Darkness lay beyond.

“How many bodies?” Kazan demanded.

“Ten, I think.

“You
think
?”

The man counted again. Kazan did, too, to be absolutely certain.

“Yes, ten.”

“One’s missing.” Kazan was livid. He searched the dead faces and saw no sign of Anastasia Romanov. “The conniving little witch is gone.”

“Will I get a lamp to enter the tunnel?”

“Forget it, we’re too late.”

“What will I tell the
komendant
?”

Kazan said viciously, “That drunken moron? Nothing. Let him earn himself a hangman’s noose. Get back to the car; we’ll head them off at the station.”

“What if they try to leave?”

“They can’t. I sabotaged their engine and ordered the stationmaster to block all trains leaving the city. The vermin aren’t going anywhere, I’ll make sure of that.”

They reached the Opel, clambered in, and Kazan backed the car
like a madman out past the barrier. He sped down Voznesensky Prospect, then slammed on the brakes. Across the street was the city’s main Red Army barracks. He swung round in the seat, the engine still running, and fixed Sorg with a triumphant grin.

“I was right—the family’s been executed. They’re all dead, except perhaps that little witch whose interrogation you interrupted. It appears your friends have taken her out through the tunnel. But they’ll not get far.”

Sorg slumped, torn between hope and dismay.

Kazan nodded to his comrade in the passenger seat and jerked a thumb toward the barracks. “Alert the commander. Tell him we’ve cornered enemy agents. We’ll need every man from the barracks he can spare. I want the railway station sealed as tight as a drum.”

113

Andrev turned the ambulance down a littered backstreet. A wispy, early morning fog began to descend as they arrived behind the railway, near the cargo bays.

A tired-looking elderly railway employee smoking a clay pipe manned a barrier, and Andrev shouted, “Get that barrier up, we’ve got wounded to transport!”

The man snapped to life when he saw the leather jacket and Andrev drove through and down by a platform. He halted as close as he could to Yakov’s train, sixty yards away. He climbed out and ordered Yakov to do likewise.

Boyle said, “See if the engine’s steamed up and ready to go. Take Yakov with you. We’ll join you.”

Andrev trained his gun at Yakov. “You heard him, Leonid. Let’s go chat with the driver.”

They marched away and Boyle went round the back of the ambulance and opened the doors. By the light of a lamp, Sister Agnes and Lydia tended to Anastasia, removing blood-soaked clothes with a scissors and placing fresh cotton on her wounds. The nun covered her with a coarse blanket.

“How is she?”

Sister Agnes shook her head and held up a bloodied corset. “I’ve managed to stem the bleeding but I don’t know what’s happening internally. Cup your hands and hold them out.”

Boyle did as he was told.

The nun turned the corset inside out. With scissors, she cut jagged lines crisscrossing the material. A spray of sapphires, diamonds, and emeralds filled Boyle’s hands, cascading from the corset.

He palmed the gems into one hand. Even in the poor light, they glinted brilliantly. “It seems to me not all the bullets penetrated her body where the gems were sewn into her clothing.”

The nun nodded. “They saved her from being killed instantly.” She indicated tight columns of gems woven inside the corset lining. “It’s probably why Alexei didn’t die at first. No doubt they were sewn into his clothing, too.”

Boyle took the corset and examined the fabric. “Will she make it?”

“Impossible to say. But she’ll need proper medical attention, a hospital really.”

“Too risky. But Yakov has a medic. The sooner we get her on board and depart, the better.”

Andrev came back, looking despondent as he escorted Yakov, who didn’t look much better.

Boyle weighed the gems in his palm and held up the corset. “This is what saved her—precious stones sewn into her underclothes.” He handed them back to the nun, who took a leather coin pouch from under her habit, filling it with the gems for safekeeping. Boyle said to Andrev, “What’s wrong? You both look like death.”

“Zoba, Markov, and the engine driver have been shot dead.”

Boyle sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Any more bad news?”

“Nina’s unconscious four carriages down the back. She was with the medic; they were both tied up. He was out cold, too, but I managed to wake him. They’re alive at least. The medic’s gone to see to Anastasia.”

“Did he say what happened?”

“It was Kazan. The medic thinks he went back to the Ipatiev House, determined to find us. He took Sorg.”

Boyle’s broad shoulders appeared to slump. “Can it get any worse?”

“The locomotive’s been sabotaged. We’re going nowhere, Boyle.”

114

The fog seemed to be getting worse as they marched to the engine and climbed up the boarding steps. When Boyle saw the engineer’s body, he fixed Yakov with an iron stare. “A nasty piece of work, Kazan.”

Andrev said, “It seems he learned his craft in the tsar’s secret police.”

Boyle examined the shattered dials and the severed pipes. “They obviously didn’t teach him anything about steam power.”

“What do you mean?” Andrev asked.

Boyle examined a metal pipe where it had been sliced through, then he fiddled with a couple of valves. “I know something about locomotive engines. None of the main pipes have been cut. Just the ones to the indicators.”

“Meaning?” Andrev inquired.

“I think the train will still operate, but we’ve no way of knowing if the steam pressure or water level are right. Where exactly did you leave Yakov’s engine and tender?”

“About five miles from here.”

He considered and sighed. “We might not make it that far. We’ll have to be careful how we stoke; I’d hate to risk blowing up the boiler.” Boyle slipped on a heavy padded glove and opened the furnace door. A blast of heat greeted them. “Grab a shovel and start working as fast as you can,” he told Yakov.

Andrev translated.

“This is all a waste of time,” Yakov said, tight-lipped.

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Yakov began shoveling coal into the furnace.

Boyle told Andrev, “Get the others on board. Use the carriage closest to the engine. And see how the medic’s doing with the girl.”

Andrev hurried down the engine’s steps.

Boyle fiddled with the shattered instruments and pipes, seeing if he could repair them, but it was useless. He checked the water tank, making sure it was filled. “Come on, Yakov, keep that shovel working.” After a time, Boyle made a gesture for Yakov to stop. “Okay, that’s enough coal for now. We ought to be ready to give it a go.”

Yakov tossed down the shovel and wiped his brow.

Boyle smiled at him. “I’ll bet you’re asking yourself if it’s insane to risk driving this thing. What if it blows up in our faces?”

Yakov stared back at him, not comprehending, his eyebrows raised.

Boyle said, “Well, you better pray it doesn’t explode, Yakov. Because it’s you who’ll be doing all the shoveling.” He gestured with the Colt. “Now get yourself down those steps; our job’s not done yet.”

Boyle hustled Yakov back to the carriage and they climbed aboard. The floor was congealed with blood. Two bodies lay sprawled on the floor, Zoba’s and Markov’s, his bloodied left leg shattered at the knee.

“Butcher’s work,” Boyle remarked angrily.

Yakov stared down bitterly at Zoba’s corpse. “He was a good man.”

Boyle understood that much in Russian, and he offered a reply. “Then he kept the wrong company.” He gestured to the bodies and added, “Move them over there, against the wall.”

Boyle turned his attention to Anastasia. She lay on a soldier’s metal cot at the far end of the carriage, her head now swathed in bandages.

She moaned once or twice in pain, but didn’t stir. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow. Lydia and Sister Agnes knelt on one side of her while the medic dabbed his stethoscope on her neck and chest, then felt her pulse.

“How is she?” Boyle asked.

The medic looked doubtful. “The wounds to her skull appear to have been caused by bayonets and have probably concussed her. The good news is the bleeding from her abdomen has stopped. The bad news is she could be bleeding internally. But it’s impossible for me to know exactly at this stage if any of her major organs are damaged. Only time will tell.”