The Romanov Conspiracy (79 page)

When Yakov greeted me at Briar Cottage, I was again struck by how frail he looked. I wasted no time as he led me inside and gestured for me to sit by the fire.

“Tell me what happened to Anastasia.”

“She didn’t live a long life afterward, I’m sorry to say. Her wounds, mental and physical, caused her much ill health.”

“Sorg joined her?”

Yakov shook his head. “I honestly don’t know, even if I’d like to think so. Nor do I know where she was taken. All I’m certain of is that she was protected fiercely. And that her final years were a closely guarded secret.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Uri told me much of it. As did Leonid Yakov. And on that, you’ll simply have to take my word.”

A good part of me believed him. Perhaps, like so many others haunted by the mystery of Anastasia Romanov, because I
wanted
to believe. “You say you met Uri.”

“I arrived here not long before he died. Before my father passed away, he told me everything, you see. I was so stunned by his confession I was determined to try to track down Uri Andrev, if he was still alive. And that’s what I did. It was an emotional meeting for us both.”

“I can imagine.”

“Actually, I doubt you can,” Yakov said oddly, and went to add something but changed his mind.

“What became of Uri afterward?”

“He and Nina started a new life here, in Collon, among the small Russian community. She died some years before him. From what I hear, they lived quiet lives.”

“Do you think he loved Lydia?”

“You know what they say—what has been joined, never forgets. He was deeply affected by her death, just as he was by his son’s.”

My questions tumbled out. “How did Lydia end up in a forest grave in Ekaterinburg? Why didn’t Boyle rescue her?”

He hesitated, looked away into nothing a moment, before he replied, “For a time she hid out in Moscow with Yakov’s daughter,
where they were contacted by one of Boyle’s agents. But Russia was in total chaos after the Ekaterinburg massacre. With the Red Army’s retreat and the attempt on Lenin’s life, Moscow became a city under siege. It was gripped by food shortages and disease. Thousands died. Lydia fell ill. To compound the problem she was carrying Uri’s child.”

I reeled, as if struck by a physical blow.

Yakov said, “Don’t look so shocked. In wartime, faced with so much death, people often choose to affirm their belief in life. It’s a natural, God-given instinct.”

Yakov paused, then went on. “When Boyle’s agent finally got in touch, Lydia couldn’t be moved. She had a difficult pregnancy, so Zoba’s wife took care of her. After the child was born, Yakov moved her to Ekaterinburg again, along with Zoba’s wife, for the Reds had retaken it.

“From there, they would flee south over the border once the time was right. Yakov arranged their accommodation and returned to Moscow. He intended to join Lydia, with Katerina and Nina’s parents, and for them all to escape together.”

“What went wrong?”

“Lydia went out one day to buy medicine for her child and was caught in a roundup. The Red Terror was in full swing by then, the Cheka killing everyone they suspected. Innocent victims were being picked up off the streets, murdered, or thrown into jails.

“Lydia was held prisoner with hundreds of others in a disease-ridden camp outside the city. When Yakov learned this, he traveled to Ekaterinburg to have her released. But he was too late. Lydia had caught typhoid and died. They buried her in a mass grave, where you found her, along with other victims who perished.”

I felt my throat tighten. “What happened to her child?”

“I survived, despite everything.”

I felt so stunned by Yakov’s words that my mouth fell open.

He saw my total shock. “I told you this was deeply personal, doctor. In many ways, my survival proved an irony. Yakov raised me—he was a good father to me—just as Uri’s father raised him. It came full circle.”

“Why didn’t Yakov continue with the escape?”

“After Lydia’s death, the Reds had the country in an iron grip. Even Boyle’s network of agents fell apart. Escape became impossible.”

I sat without speaking for several moments, thinking about it all. “How did Uri react when you told him who you were?”

“My revelations shocked him. It was a deeply emotional meeting, naturally. The knowledge that I was his son seemed to give him great joy. To know that his love for Lydia had a consequence, that it lived on despite her death—I think that meant a lot to him.”

Still dazed, I removed the locket from my purse. “Tell me what the inscription says.”

Yakov took the locket, rolled it between his fingers. “May I know you until the end of my days.” He looked up. “It seemed fitting. Sometimes broken hearts never truly mend, do they? Love’s wounds always twinge now and then, like shrapnel forever lodged in scar tissue. I think that’s how it was for Uri. He did the honorable thing and took care of Nina, but his heart, I think, part of it forever belonged to Lydia.”

Yakov stood with effort, one hand on his knee, his other hand gripping the fire mantel. “Let me show you something.” He shuffled over to a shelf, took down an old metal biscuit tin. He pried the lid with bony fingers and removed an old sepia-colored photograph and handed it to me.

I held the snapshot so it faced the sun filtering through the window, as it burst from between rain clouds. I saw a young woman seated in the stern of a small boat that was tied up to a wooden promenade. In the background was a wide river or lake, with thick forest on the far bank. It must have been a sunny day because she shielded her brow with a hand as she looked out at the camera. From the look of her clothes, I made a guess that the photograph was taken sometime in the 1920s.

As I studied her features I felt my heart flutter. The young woman looked not unlike Anna Anderson, with the same facial shape and strong features. Her eyes looked bright but she wasn’t smiling, a kind of detached calm about her.

“Turn it over,” Yakov said.

I turned over the snapshot. Written on the back in blue ink it said
in English: “With deepest gratitude. To a man of great courage and compassion. Bless you always.”

Yakov said, “Now look again at the boat.”

When I turned the snapshot over again, I saw the name on the stern:
St. Michael
. Anastasia’s favorite saint.

Yakov said, “Uri gave it to me shortly before he died. He said it was passed on to him by Boyle.”

As I looked down at the image my mind raced. I can only tell you what I felt. The woman certainly
looked
like Anastasia—a little older, more tired, a torment in her eyes, for certain, but then I knew nothing could ever erase the terror and the agony she had endured that night.

Finally, I looked up. There seemed nothing more to say.

Yakov met my stare. “And now you know the truth. The bright, shining truth, as they say.”

Charcoal clouds threatened more rain as we drove to the graveyard. When we reached the tombstones, Yakov said, “Promise me that when the time comes you’ll see to it Lydia gets a proper burial?”

“I’ll do my best. Whatever I can.”

“I know you will, Dr. Pavlov. I greatly appreciate it.”

As we stood there together, I drew out the locket. I felt at that moment he needed this touchstone to the past far more than I did. “Why don’t you take this, for now?”

He accepted, clutched it tightly. “Thank you.”

Standing there, watching the old man bend his head in silent prayer, it finally started to rain again. The fine mist felt like velvet on my face.

I thought of Boyle. And of Sorg, and Yakov, and all the ghosts from the past. I thought about their bravery and their loss, their redemption and their self-sacrifice.

And I thought of Uri Andrev, and of Lydia Ryan.

And for some reason I thought how potent a creation love is—that although sometimes it exists for just a brief, glorious moment in our lives, the ghost of its giving and taking often weaves such an intricate pattern upon our souls, as delicate as lace, as strong as steel. That its spirit is something far too powerful for us mere humans to understand.

There was no complete answer to Anastasia’s disappearance. Maybe there never could be, but I knew in my heart that there
was
a seed of doubt about her death. I had lifted a veil and glimpsed the shadows of myths and lies.

And who can say? Perhaps the truth of it all is far deeper than any of us can ever know.

Watching the old man standing over the gravestone, alone with his ghosts, I suddenly felt like an intruder.

The dead had spoken their truth.

I turned and walked back through the cemetery in the rain.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In Moscow and Ekaterinburg, I’d like to thank Boris Nevaski, Leon Davis, John Wright, Pietor Ulyanov, Mariya Semenova; also Vadim Fomenko, Frank Evans, Maxim Petrovsky, and Peter Boyle. On the few occasions I had to twist arms to elicit help, I hope it didn’t hurt too much.

To that certain lady in Kentucky who provided the missing link—thanks alone will never be enough.

My gratitude also to Jim Sherlock, Ray Kelly, and Paul Deasy, in Ireland; to Paul Higgins in Canada; and to the many others who expressed their opinions and theories, along with their wishes to remain nameless—I can only offer my appreciation for helping me weave the many strands of this story.

For the Gaelic purists: accept the phonetic.

I highly recommend the website
www.alexanderpalace.org
, run by Bob Atchison and his dedicated colleagues. It contains a wealth of information for those interested in exploring the lives of the Romanovs.

And finally to Peter, who first told me about the émigré Russians in Ireland, and Uri Andrev and Joe Boyle’s involvement in the rescue plot.

I hope I’ve done an extraordinary tale some justice.

GLENN MEADE
was born in Ireland. He has lived in New Hampshire and worked in the field of pilot training and as a journalist before becoming a full-time writer.

His novels to date—
Snow Wolf, Brandenburg, The Sands of Sakkara, Resurrection Day, Web of Deceit, The Devil’s Disciple, The Second Messiah
—have been international bestsellers, translated into twenty-seven languages, enjoyed critical and commercial success, and earned rave reviews in the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post
.

During his free time, Meade travels in the American South anywhere below the Mason-Dixon line, where he loves the scenery, the courtesy and the kindness of the people, the strong sense of faith and respect, garnished with a genteel touch of rebel wackiness.

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