The Romanov Cross: A Novel (28 page)

“What’s the data telling you right now?” Slater asked as they approached the graves closest to the edge of the precipice.

Kozak paused before answering. “I will need to analyze it later. But there is something strange. Either the monitor is malfunctioning, or the ground has fracture lines that are not geological in origin.”

“Oh, you mean from when the graves were dug?” the sergeant surmised.

“Something more than that,” Kozak said, still looking a bit puzzled. He pushed the GPR carriage over the plot closest to the area were the cliff had given way, then moved it back and forth slowly, from the top of the grave to its foot. Slater craned his neck to look at the monitor himself, and it vaguely reminded him of looking at a sonogram. What he saw there was a fuzzy image of a long rectangle, with something sharper and harder depicted in the middle of the space. But when Kozak rolled the GPR back again one more time, Slater could see that the edges of the image grew wider and more irregular. Blurred. He could guess what that meant, but he waited for Kozak to say it.

“Frost heaval.”

“The coffins have been shifting in the ground?”

Kozak nodded. “The closer to the cliff they are, the more movement there has been.”

Movement meant damage, and damage meant any number of things might have transpired in the Alaskan soil, from leakage to contamination to—and this he could only hope for—disintegration and harmless dissipation.

“What are the ground temps?” Slater asked, and Kozak punched a few buttons on the computer, bringing up a separate graph on the screen. “At a depth of one meter or so, where most of the coffins are, it’s between minus four and minus ten degrees Celsius.”

“Is that good or bad?” Nika asked.

“At the AFIP,” Slater replied, “we keep our specimens, for safety’s sake, at minus seventy Celsius.”

But this then would have to be the grave with which their project began. It was closest to ground zero, as it were, and as a result the condition of the cadaver in the casket lost at sea would be most closely replicated in this one. In any epidemiological mission, it was critical to work from the most hazardous location first, then proceed outward from there to see where, and how far, some contagion or contaminant might have spread. Slater motioned to Groves and told him the excavation work should begin right here, and Groves twisted a wire pennant around the top of the cross at the top of the grave, then stuck another into the snow at the foot of the grave.

“And make sure you keep the soil as intact as possible, so that we can lay it back neatly over the grave when we’re done.”

Groves made a note of it, as Nika nodded approvingly.

“We want to leave no sign of any desecration behind us when we’re done.”

“And the sooner you all go,” Kozak piped up, waving his hands, “the easier it will be for me to finish my own work here. So, scat—I must make my grid now, and you are all in the way.”

Slater knew what it was like to have a bunch of onlookers hanging around when you wanted to concentrate on a serious task at hand, so he ushered Nika and the sergeant back toward the gateposts as Kozak focused on his GPR. If this first exhumation was going to go off without a hitch tomorrow, there were things he needed to do back at the colony today. Kozak was barely aware of their leaving. And though he jiggled the monitor to see if he could remove the squiggly lines that were spoiling the topographic map, they kept coming right back, as did the occasional impression of a hard, probably metallic, object as he rolled the GPR chassis over each individual gravesite. A strong blast of cold wind swept in from the sea, bending the boughs of the dark trees that bordered the barren graveyard, and he pressed the earflaps
of his hat closer against his head. It was the same kind of hat he’d worn as a boy, growing up in the Soviet Union. And now, on this strange island, he was revisited by that same crushing sadness that he remembered enveloping him even back then.

That was one reason he had just shooed them all away. When this depression fell, he needed to be alone with it … and it fell upon him often in climes like these. He was carried back in time, to a throng of mourners, gathered at an impressive state funeral in Moscow, when he was just a boy. Wrapped in their heavy black coats and fur hats, they had stood impassively as the wind had battered their faces and brought tears to their eyes. Of course, given the reputation for steely rectitude of the dignitary whose funeral it was—a man whom everyone feared and no one much liked—a sharp wind was the only way any of them would have been inclined to shed a tear.

As young Vassily had looked on, the Russian Orthodox priest, in his long black cassock and purple chimney-pot hat—the
kamilavka—
had overseen the
perebor
, or tolling of the bells. First, a small bell had been struck once, and then, in succession, slightly larger bells were rung, each one symbolizing the progress of the soul from cradle to grave—or so his mother had leaned down to whisper in his ear. At the end, all the bells were struck together, signifying the end of earthly existence. The coffin, sealed with four nails in memory of the four nails that had crucified Christ, was lowered into the grave, with the head facing east to await the Resurrection. The priest poured the ashes from a censer into the open pit, and after each of the stony-faced mourners had tossed in a shovelful of dirt and drifted off down the snowy pathways of the cemetery, Vassily had found himself alone there, with only his widowed mother. He had leaned back against her and she had folded her arms over him as they watched the gravediggers, impatient to finish the job, emerge from the cover of the trees to fill up the rest of his father’s grave.

“So, where did you say you got this?” Voynovich asked, while leaning back on his stool. He’d gotten even fatter, if that was possible, since Charlie Vane had last come into the Gold Mine to fence some other items.

“I already told you,” Charlie said. “It was a gift from God.”

“Yeah, right. I’ve heard your show. You and God are good buds now.”

Charlie knew that nobody believed that his conversion to Christ was the real thing, but so what? There would always be unbelievers and naysayers. Jesus himself had to deal with Doubting Thomas. But he’d driven here, all the way to Nome, because Voynovich was the only person he could think of who could give him a decent appraisal of the emerald cross—and tell him what the damn writing said on the other side.

Voynovich studied the cross under his loupe one more time. “I can’t be completely sure until I take them out,” he said, “but these stones could just be glass.”

“They’re emeralds,” Charlie said, “so don’t give me any of your bullshit.” Just because he was a man of God now, it didn’t mean he’d become a sucker. “And the cross is silver.”

“Yeah, I’ll give you that much.”

It was only four in the afternoon, but it was dark out, and in deference to the delicacy of their negotiations, Voynovich had lowered the front blinds of the pawnshop and flipped the sign to
CLOSED
. The place hadn’t changed much over the years—the same old moose head hung on the wall, the dusty cabinets displayed a seemingly unchanged array of Inuit scrimshaw, old mining tools, and “rare” coins in sealed plastic sleeves. The fluorescent lights still sputtered and fizzed.

“It’s definitely an old piece,” Voynovich conceded.

“How old?”

“Best guess? Judging from the condition, at least a hundred years. Of course, if I knew more about how and where you found it—it’s why I asked—I’d probably be able to tell you a whole lot more.” He shrugged his shoulders under his baggy corduroy shirt and shook a fresh cigarette out of the packet lying on the counter.

“How about the writing on the back?” Charlie asked, shifting in his wheelchair. He was still sore from his long drive from Port Orlov. “What’s it say?”

Voynovich turned it over and tried peering at it through the bottom of his gold bifocals, then gave up. “Gotta get the magnifying glass out of the back,” he said, sliding off the stool, and heading for the rear of the shop. A trail of smoke wafted into the air behind him.

The trouble with dealing with crooks, Charlie reflected, was that they never stopped being crooks. Not emeralds? What a load. Voynovich was probably hoping to buy the thing outright from him for a couple of hundred bucks, act like he was doing Charlie a favor the whole time, then turn around and sell it for thousands through his own guys down in Tacoma. Well, Charlie hadn’t come all this way for a couple hundred bucks, and he sure didn’t want to have to tell Rebekah that that was all he got. While she was supposed to be the subservient wife—that’s what the Bible decreed—she had a tongue on her that could cut like a knife.

Right now, she was out shopping with her sister. The town of Nome was small—only around ten thousand people lived in the area—but compared to Port Orlov, it was the big city. The streets were
lined with bars and bingo parlors and tourist traps selling native handicrafts and souvenirs. Most of the buildings were two stories high, made of weathered wood and brick, and clung close to the wet streets, lending the place the feel of an Old West mining camp.

Voynovich lumbered back to his stool, parked his cigarette on the foil ashtray, and held the magnifying glass over the back of the cross. “My Russian’s not what it used to be,” he said, “and some of this is pretty far gone. From all the dents and scorch marks, it looks like some moron used the thing for target practice.”

“Just tell me what the hell it says.”

The pawnbroker leaned over to inspect it more closely. “It looks like it says, ‘To my … little one. No one can break the chains of holy love that bind us. Your loving father, Grigori.’ ”

Voynovich studied it for another few seconds, then sat back.

“That’s it?” Charlie asked.

“That’s it.”

Charlie didn’t know what exactly he’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it. A gift from a doting dad? Nothing there sounded like a clue to some vast buried treasure trove.

“If you want me to hang on to it and see what else I can find out, no problem,” Voynovich said, a little too readily for Charlie’s comfort. “I’ve got a big data base for Russian stuff and a few people I could talk to.”

“No.”

“Fine,” Voynovich said. “Then if you just want to sell it, we can go ahead and do that, instead. It’s probably worth more in one piece, but we can see what they think down in Tacoma. Maybe breaking it up is the way to go … especially if those are emeralds.” He started to pick the cross up off the counter, but Charlie reached up and grabbed his wrist—he hated how the damn wheelchair kept him lower than most people—and stopped him.

“I’m hanging on to it,” he said, and Voynovich looked confused.

“I thought you wanted to make some money.”

“And I will.” He wrapped the cross back up in the soft old rag he’d brought it in, then stuffed it into the inside pocket of his coat.

“If you want some kind of an advance,” the pawnbroker said, his
eyes avidly following the cross into Charlie’s pocket, “I could do that. What do you say to two hundred bucks now and—”

But Charlie was already pushing his wheelchair away from the counter.

“Okay, five hundred up front, against whatever we get, plus the usual split.”

Charlie was at the door, but to his humiliation, it was the kind you had to pull inwards, and he had to wait there for Voynovich to come over and hold it open while he maneuvered his chair over the threshold.

“Make it a grand,” Charlie heard over his shoulder as he wheeled away. “An even grand.” But now, with the bid rising so fast, he knew that the thing must really be worth something, after all. Quite a bit, in fact, unless he missed his guess.

The sidewalk, like every concrete surface in Alaska, was pitted and uneven, and it was murder getting the chair down the street. But Charlie knew where he’d find Bathsheba. The Book Nook sold used paperbacks, and she’d be in there stocking up on romance novels.

Somebody leaving the store held the door open for him, and a little bell tinkled overhead. Bathsheba, no surprise, had her nose buried in some piece of trash that she hastily tried to hide when he wheeled up beside her.

“Where’s your sister?”

“Just up the street, buying yarn.”

“We’re going.”

“You’re done already? Rebekah said we could eat someplace in town.”

“Rebekah said wrong.”

“But there’s that place, the Nugget—”

“I said, we’re going.”

He whirled the chair around, and Bathsheba put the book back on the shelf and leapt to get the door open for him. Once Rebekah had been retrieved from the yarn shop, the sisters helped Charlie up into the driver’s seat of the van, and he pulled out onto the slushy street using the hand controls.

“Look,” Rebekah said, as Charlie drove by without even slowing down, “that’s the burled arch.” She was hoping to distract her disappointed sister.

“The what?” Bathsheba said, taking the bait and turning in the backseat to glance at the split spruce log raised atop two columns.

“That’s the place where the Iditarod race ends every year.”

“What’s that?”

“Remember, I told you about it last time.”

“Tell me again.”

How in God’s name did Rebekah put up with it, Charlie wondered? Always having to explain everything to her sister, even when she’d already explained it a dozen times before? They’d come to him as a package deal—wife and sister, indivisible—and since he’d needed a lot of help around the house, he thought why not. Still, there were times, like right now, when he wondered if he hadn’t acted rashly.

Then he chastised himself for the uncharitable thought. Man, staying right with Jesus was a full-time job.

“It’s in honor of something that happened many years ago,” Rebekah said, with the patience she showed to no one but her sister. “There was an epidemic of a disease, typhoid I think—”

“Diphtheria,” Charlie corrected her.

“Okay. Diphtheria. And the children of Nome—the native children—had no immunity to it.”

“It was in 1925,” Charlie said, unable to restrain himself. “And it used to be called ‘The Great Race of Mercy.’ ”