The Romanov Legacy (20 page)

The voice on the line transmitted through crackles and
pops.  “Your Excellency, this is Lieutenant Colonel Sergei Kyrillovich
Borovoi.  You asked me to report directly to you once our objective had
been achieved.”

Starinov felt a thrill of anticipation in his chest. 
His eyes flickered to the portraits on his wall.  “You have the letters?”

“
Da
.  I request your permission to extract
Professor Brandon.”    

“Vadim’s agent didn’t pick her up?”

“There was a mistake in the file, Your Excellency. 
Dashkov got away with the wrong woman, the professor’s sister.”

Starinov tapped his finger against his desk blotter. 
“Does he know this?”

“He must, sir.  But we have Professor Brandon under
full surveillance and she has received no communication from Dashkov or her
sister.”

“Are you certain?  No email or text message?”

“No, sir.” 

Starinov hesitated.  It was unlike Vadim to let his
agent disobey a direct order.  If the boy had not checked in yet or
admitted his mistake, Vadim would have no idea the wrong sister was in
custody.  But he knew the way Vadim ran his operation.  He knew
Vadim’s agents confided in him completely—Vadim insisted on it.  Something
was wrong. 

Borovoi sensed his hesitation.  “What are your orders,
sir?”

“Bring the letters and Professor Brandon to me.  I will
deal with the rest.”

“Yes, sir. And…sir?”

“Yes?”

“Dashkov has killed five of my men.  Please take that
into consideration.”

“I will,” Starinov said, hanging up.  He waited for the
green light to flash briefly, an indication that the digital recorder had
captured the call in its entirety.  The recording would be transferred to
his chief of staff, who would use the digital signature of Borovoi’s phone to
track him.  If something went wrong, the cleaners could at least be given
a GPS coordinate.     

“Now,” he said, tight smile on his lips.  “Where were
we?”

The man in the corner did not answer.

“I believe you owe me a name,” Starinov said.  “Have
you thought of one?  Or shall I supply one for you?”

The man looked up, hopeful.  “Yes.  Anyone.”

“Vadim Primakov.”

“What?”  The man shook his head.  “But…he’s a
director.”

“No one is above suspicion.  Not even you, Valery
Vakhanovich.”

“I cannot.  Vadim is a friend.”  Beads of sweat
fell like tears down Valery’s face.

“If it helps you at all, Primakov has been lying to
us.  He is playing his own game, with his own rules.”

“This is about the Romanov letters.”

Starinov nodded. 

“Vadim asked for my help.  He wanted me to help his
agent and I refused.  He wanted me to ask you to call off your men.”

“I have very little sympathy for Primakov’s man, considering
he has already killed five of mine.  Nor for Primakov himself, who failed
to bring the existence of the letters to my attention.  That does not make
me happy.”

Valery shivered.  “Of course not.”

“Enough of this,” Starinov grumbled.  “You may save
your brother-in-law or you may save Primakov, a man who may be a traitor to
Mother Russia.  At the very least, he has been a traitor to me.  The
decision is yours.”

Valery clamped his lips shut.  His eyes shone with
moisture. 

Starinov watched the man’s tears gather and curled his
lip.  “It’s a shame,” he said, picking up the phone.  “Your sister is
ill, is she not?  Your brother-in-law’s salary pays for the drugs that
keep her cancer from spreading.  It will be such a shame when she cannot
afford treatment.”  He sighed.  “But then again, living with cancer
isn’t really living, is it?  Perhaps you’re making the right decision
after all.”  He held up Popov’s file and began to dial.

“Wait,” Valery whispered, blinking quickly in the dim
light.  “What do you want to know about Vadim?” 

July 2012

Daly City, California

The Seashore Oaks nursing home complex sat high on a ridge,
five miles inland and lifted well into the fog bank.  Natalie saw nothing
but solid gray in every direction, including down.  It was like nuclear
winter—the worst possible place to send a loved one to die. 

Constantine parked the Monte Carlo in front of the entry
vestibule.  She stared at the long, low building with loathing. 
Don’t
go in there
, Belial said. 
You know what they do to people like
you. 

“I know,” she whispered.  “But it’s the only way.”

“Is it Belial?” Constantine asked.  “What’s he saying?”

She forced her throat to swallow.  Every muscle in her
body felt tense, locked in place to keep her from exiting the car.  “The
doctors.  They all want to lock me up.” 

“Natalie, they won’t lock you up.”

She turned to face him and felt her eyes fill with angry
tears.  She hated that the doctors could make her so afraid.  But if
there was one thing Belial insisted on, it was that she stay away from hospitals
and doctors.  “How do you know?”

He flicked aside his jacket, revealing the Walther in his
waistband.  “I won’t let them.”

Don’t be stupid, little one.  One gun is no match
for thousands of vials of haloperidol, chlorpromazine, droperidol, thioxene,
iloperidone…shall I go on?

“Belial, be quiet!”  She balled her hands into fists
and pressed them to her forehead.  “I’m doing this.”

Find another way.

“There is no other way!”  She looked down at her newly
purchased handbag, inside which lay the miniature trove of Romanov artifacts
she’d stolen from Yuri’s box.  The bag felt empty without the
letters.  “We need this.” 

Her eyes wandered to the automatic sliding doors of the
vestibule.  A white-coated doctor trotted out to a parked car and fumbled
with his keys.  Belial tensed, ready for trouble. 
They sent him
out here to spy on you.  He’s going to run back inside and tell them
you’re coming.  They’ll be ready.

 
She grasped the door handle so tightly that
ridges of white bone rose up over her knuckles.  Constantine put a warm
hand on her shoulder.  “Are you all right?”

“What if the doctors find out that I belong in there? 
What if they don’t let me leave?”

His hand moved from her shoulder to her cheekbone.  He
let his index finger slide down the curve of her cheek.  She closed her
eyes and leaned into his touch, feeling his warmth radiate throughout her
body.  “You don’t belong in a place like this,” he said.  “And I
won’t let them keep you.  All you have to do is pretend we’re husband and
wife, visiting an old man.  Can you do that?” 

His azure eyes met hers head-on without fear or doubt. 
She watched for that moment of distancing, the one when people shut themselves
away from her to protect their self-image or their ideas about safety.  It
didn’t come.

Her heart clenched in her chest, stealing her breath. 
In the same moment, the back of her skull erupted with the heat of a lightning
strike. 
Pretending is all you’re going to get, little one.  You
know that, don’t you?

“Yes,” she whispered, blinking back tears.  “I know how
to pretend.”

She followed Constantine through the automatic sliding doors
into a reception room.  He smiled at the woman behind the desk.  A
plastic nametag identified her as “Myra.”  Her hair was black at the roots
with blond permed curls that cascaded to her shoulders.  “Good morning,
Myra,” he said, thickening his consonants to make the Russian accent
unmistakable.  “I’m here to visit my uncle.”

“What’s your uncle’s name?” Myra asked, straightening the
keyboard on her desk.

“Grigori Voloshin.”  Constantine spelled the name for
her as she typed.

A white-coated man emerged from the hallway on her right and
passed directly behind her.  All his attention was focused on the chart in
his hands and he scribbled madly as he walked. 
He’s writing something
about you
, Belial growled.

“No,” she said.  “Cut it out.” 

“What was that?” Myra asked, looking up at her.

“You’ll have to excuse my wife,” Constantine said, putting
an arm around her shoulders.  “She just found out her grandmother is ill.”

Myra curled her lip.  Her front teeth were stained with
coral lipstick.  “You’re just having a run of bad luck, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your uncle is sick, too.  I’m afraid we can’t allow
you to see him.”

“Why not?”

“The only approved visitor on the list is his son, Yuri.”

“But we’ve come all this way to surprise him!  Please,
just let us see him for a few minutes.”

“I’m sorry,” Myra said.  “Patients who left the ICU
less than 48 hours ago are only allowed approved visitors, and you’re not on
the list.”

Natalie narrowed her eyes.  Convalescent homes couldn’t
be that different from hospitals or sanitariums and she knew those institutions
thrived on protocol—pointless bureaucracy that enforced a power
structure.  All they had to do was find out who had the power.  “How
do we get on the list?” she asked.

The sympathetic furrow slipped from Myra’s brow.  “I’m
sorry, ma’am.  You can’t just ‘get on the list.’  It’s a long process
that involves paperwork and documentation of your relationship to our patient.”

The doctors did this on purpose
, Belial said. 
They
want to kill him without witnesses.  

Constantine bent forward over the reception desk.  “Are
you absolutely sure there’s no way we can see my uncle?  Perhaps it would
help him to see a friendly face.”

“I’m sorry, sir.  I wish there was a way I could help.”

“Listen,” she said, shoving past Constantine.  “His
son’s been murdered.  Someone needs to tell him.  Do you want it to
be you or do you want it to be me?” 

Myra gasped and looked back to Constantine.  “Is this
true?”

Constantine sighed.  “I’m afraid so.  The police
contacted us yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”  She jiggled the
mouse at her desk and refocused her eyes on the screen.  “It says here
that Gregory’s son is his only living relative.”

“Grigori,” Natalie snapped.  “His name is Grigori.”

Myra leveled her with an arctic glare.  “That’s what I
said.”

“Look, can you at least give him a message?  Tell him
Nicky and Alicky sent us here.  Tell him it’s about the girls.”

The woman hesitated, glancing down at her mouse. 

“It’s important,” Constantine pressed.  “Yuri was his
only son, and he should have a member of the family break the news to him.”

She sighed and ripped the top sheet from a stack of sticky
notes.  “What did your wife say again?”

Natalie repeated her message and watched with satisfaction
as the woman shuffled off to fulfill their request. 
She’ll tell the
doctors about you
, Belial said.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.  “As long as I get to
see Grigori.”

You must be careful with him, little one.  His mind
is fragile.

“What do you mean?”

He is near the end of his journey.  He will see
through a heart that is not surrendered.

“Fuck,” she said.  “I was afraid of that.”  She
looked up at Constantine and wondered if his willingness to pretend to be
married to her counted as a surrendered heart.   

“You look worried,” Constantine said.  “Did Belial tell
you something about the letters?”

She nodded.  “Apparently getting in is the easy
part.” 

“He’s an old man.  Just tell him he needs to give us
the letters or Yuri will die.  There’s no way he knows it’s already
happened.”

Natalie thought of the way she and Beth could spend
afternoons in Beth’s office, wrapped up in research.  All of a sudden,
Beth would look up from her desk and gasp, fully aware that halfway across
town, her son had just fallen off his skateboard in the driveway.  “He’ll
know,” she said. 

“Natalie, that’s impossible.”

She opened her mouth to retort as Myra shuffled back behind
her desk.  Natalie pushed Constantine aside.  “What did he say?”

“He wants to see you,” Myra said grudgingly.  “He said
he’s been waiting for you.”

July 2012

Daly City, California

Grigori had a single room with a large double-paned
observation window facing the hallway.  Everyone who walked by could look
in and see him, whether he curled up and slept or sobbed alone and waited to
die.  The man on the bed looked older than his eighty years.  His
skin had withered and darkened, like fruit dried in the sun. 

Natalie put her hand against the door and absorbed the
feeling of cold and dread it gave her. 
I can’t help you in there,
Belial said. 
My brother’s hand is already upon him.   

“I understand,” she said with a shiver.  Then she
turned to Constantine.  “You have to wait outside.”

He shook his head.  “I’m coming with you.”

“No,” she said again.  “It’s like a séance.  You
have to believe.”

“Natalie, he’s just an old man.”

“Keep the doctors away from me.  I’ll call for you if I
need help.”  Before he could follow, she slipped through the door and
locked it from the inside.  She pressed her palm to the observation window
and mouthed, “I’m sorry.” 

Then she turned to the rheumy-eyed man on the bed.  The
sleeves of his gown barely covered his shoulders.  The armholes were cut
so wide she could see the slack flesh of his forearm, now empty of muscle,
lying useless against his chest.  “Mr. Voloshin,” she said, pulling up a
rolling stool at his bedside.  “My name is Natalie.”

“Natalia,” he corrected, as if she ought to have known to
use the Russian version of her name.  His right index finger lay encased
in what looked like a plastic pencil sharpener, and at least half a dozen tubes
snaked out of his gown, connecting with bags and machines that surrounded the
head of his bed.  “Did Yuri send you?”