The Romanov Prophecy Part 1

THE ROMANOV PROPHECY.

A Novel.

by STEVE BERRY.

PROLOGUE.

ALEXANDER PALACE.

TSARSKOE SELO, RUSSIA.

OCTOBER 28, 1916.

Alexandra, Empress of all Russia, turned from her bedside vigil as the door swung open, the first time in hours her gaze had been diverted from the pitiful child lying p.r.o.ne beneath the sheets.

Her Friend rushed into the bedroom, and she burst into tears. "Finally, Father Gregorii. Thanks to precious G.o.d. Alexie needs you terribly."

Rasputin swept close to the bed and made the sign of the cross. His blue silk blouse and velvet trousers reeked of alcohol, which tempered his usual stench, one her court ladies had said reminded them of a goat. But Alexandra had never cared about any odor. Not from Father Gregorii.

She'd sent the guards to look for him hours before, mindful of the stories of how he loved the Gypsies on the outskirts of the capital. Many times he would exhaust the night there with drink, in the company of prost.i.tutes. One of the guardsmen even reported that the dear father had paraded across tabletops with his trousers down, proclaiming the delight his ample organ bestowed on the ladies of the Imperial Court. Alexandra refused to believe such talk about her Friend and promptly had the guard rea.s.signed far from the capital.

"I have been searching for you since twilight," she said, trying to get his attention.

But Rasputin's focus was on the boy. He fell to his knees. Alexie was unconscious and had been for nearly an hour. Late in the afternoon, the boy had been playing in the garden when he fell. Within two hours the cycle of pain had started.

Alexandra watched as Rasputin peeled back the blanket and studied the right leg, blue and swollen to the point of grotesqueness. Blood was pulsating out of control beneath the skin, the hematoma now the size of a small melon, the leg drawn up against the chest. Her son's gaunt face was devoid of color, except for dark smears beneath both eyes.

She gently brushed the child's light brown hair.

Thank G.o.d the screaming had stopped. The spasms had been coming every quarter of an hour with morbid regularity. A high fever had already made him delirious, but he'd continued to sound a constant wail that ripped her heart.

Once he became lucid and pleaded, "Oh Lord, have mercy on me," and asked, "Mama, won't you help me?" Then he wanted to know if the pain would stop if he died. She could not bring herself to tell him the truth.

What had she done? This was all her fault. It was well known that women pa.s.sed on the trait for hemophilia, but were never affected. Her uncle, brother, and nephews had all died from the disease. But she never considered herself a carrier. Four daughters had taught her nothing. Only when the blessed son finally arrived twelve years ago had she learned the painful reality. Beforehand, not one doctor had cautioned her of the possibility. But did she ever ask? No one seemed willing to volunteer anything. Even direct questions were many times avoided with nonsensical answers. That was why Father Gregorii was so special. The starets starets never held back. never held back.

Rasputin closed his eyes and nestled close to the stricken boy. Flecks of dried food littered his wiry beard. The gold cross she'd given him hung around his neck. He grasped it tight. The room was lit only by candles. She could hear him muttering, but could not make out the words. And she dare not say anything. Though she was Empress of All Russia, the tsarina, she never challenged Father Gregorii.

Only he could stop the bleeding. Through him G.o.d protected her precious Alexie. The tsarevich. Sole heir to the throne. Next tsar of Russia.

But only if he lived.

The boy opened his eyes.

"Don't be afraid, Alexie, everything is all right," Rasputin whispered. The voice was calm and melodious, but firm in its conclusion. He stroked Alexie's sweaty body from head to toe. "I have driven away your horrid pains. Nothing will hurt you anymore. Tomorrow you will be well, and we will play our jolly games again."

Rasputin continued to caress the boy.

"Remember what I told you about Siberia. It is full of huge forests and endless steppes, so large no one has seen the end of it. And it all belongs to your mama and papa and, one day, when you are healthy, strong, and big, it will be yours." He clutched the boy's hand in his. "One day I will take you to Siberia and show it all to you. The people there are so different from here. The majesty of it all, Alexie. You must see it." The voice stayed calm.

The boy's eyes brightened. Life returned, as quick as it had left hours ago. He started to raise himself from the pillow.

Alexandra became concerned, afraid he would inflict a fresh injury. "Take care, Alexie. You must be careful."

"Leave me alone, Mama. I must listen." Her son turned to Rasputin. "Tell me another story, Father."

Rasputin smiled and told him about humpbacked horses, the legless soldier and eyeless rider, and an unfaithful tsarina who was turned into a white duck. He spoke of the wildflowers on the vast Siberian steppes, where plants have souls and speak to one another, how the animals, too, could speak and how he, as a child, had learned to understand what horses whispered in the stable.

"See, Mama. I've always told you horses could speak."

Tears welled in her eyes at the miracle before her. "You are so right. So right."

"And you will tell me everything you heard from the horses, won't you?" Alexie asked.

Rasputin smiled approvingly. "Tomorrow. I'll tell you more tomorrow. Now you must rest." He stroked the boy until the tsarevich dozed back to sleep.

Rasputin stood. "The Little One will survive."

"How can you be sure?"

"How can you not?"

His tone was indignant and she instantly regretted her doubting. She'd many times thought her own lack of faith was the cause of Alexie's pain. G.o.d was perhaps testing her through the curse of hemophilia to see the strength of her beliefs.

Rasputin stepped around the bed. He knelt before her chair and grasped her hand. "Mama, you must not forsake our Lord. Do not doubt His power."

Only the starets starets was allowed to address her with such informality. She was the was allowed to address her with such informality. She was the Matushka, Matushka, Little Mother; her husband, Nicholas II, the Little Mother; her husband, Nicholas II, the Batiushka, Batiushka, Little Father. It was how the peasantry viewed them-as stern parents. Everyone around her said Rasputin was a mere peasant himself. Perhaps so. But he alone could relieve Alexie's suffering. This peasant from Siberia with his tangled beard, stinking body, and long greasy hair was heaven's emissary. Little Father. It was how the peasantry viewed them-as stern parents. Everyone around her said Rasputin was a mere peasant himself. Perhaps so. But he alone could relieve Alexie's suffering. This peasant from Siberia with his tangled beard, stinking body, and long greasy hair was heaven's emissary.

"G.o.d has refused to listen to my prayers, Father. He has forsaken me."

Rasputin sprang to his feet. "Why do you speak this way?" He grasped her face and twisted her toward the bed. "Look at the Little One. He suffers horribly because you do not believe."

No one other than her husband would dare touch her without permission. But she did not resist. In fact, she welcomed it. He whipped her head back and bore a gaze deep into her eyes. The full expression of his personality seemed concentrated in those pale blue irises. They were unavoidable, like phosph.o.r.escent flames at once piercing and caressing, far off, yet intent. They could see directly into her soul, and she'd never been able to resist them.

"Matushka, you must not speak of our Lord this way. The Little One needs you to believe. He needs you to put your faith in G.o.d." you must not speak of our Lord this way. The Little One needs you to believe. He needs you to put your faith in G.o.d."

"My faith is in you."

He released her. "I am nothing. Merely the instrument through which G.o.d acts. I do nothing." He pointed skyward. "He does it all."

Tears sprang in her eyes and she slumped from the chair in shame. Her hair was unkempt, the once beautiful face sallow and wizened from years of worry. Her eyes ached from crying. She hoped no one entered the room. Only with the starets starets could she openly express herself as a woman and mother. She started to cry and wrapped her arms around his legs, her cheeks pressed tight to clothes that stank of horses and mud. could she openly express herself as a woman and mother. She started to cry and wrapped her arms around his legs, her cheeks pressed tight to clothes that stank of horses and mud.

"You are the only one who can help him," she said.

Rasputin stood rigid. Like a tree trunk, she thought. Trees were able to withstand the harshest Russian winter, then bloom anew every spring. This holy man, whom G.o.d had certainly sent, was her tree.

"Mama, this solves nothing. G.o.d wants your devotion, not your tears. He is not impressed with emotion. He demands faith. The kind of faith that never doubts-"

She felt Rasputin tremble. She released her hold and stared up. His face had gone blank, his eyes rolled to the top of his head. A s.h.i.+ver quaked through him. His legs went limp and he crumpled to the floor.

"What is it?" she asked.

He did not reply.

She grabbed him by his s.h.i.+rt and shook him. "Speak to me, starets. starets."

Slowly he opened his eyes. "I see heaps, ma.s.ses of corpses, several grand dukes and hundreds of counts. The Neva will be all red with blood."

"What do you mean, Father?"

"A vision, Mama. It has come again. Do you realize before long I shall die in terrible agony?"

What was he saying?

He grabbed her arms and pulled her close. Fear filled his face, but he wasn't really looking at her. He was focused far off, beyond her.

"I shall leave this life before the new year. Remember, Mama, if I be killed by common a.s.sa.s.sins the tsar has nothing to fear. He will remain on his throne with nothing to fear for your children. They will reign for hundreds of years. But, Mama, if I am murdered by boyars, their hands will remain soiled by my blood for twenty-five years. They will leave Russia. Brother will rise against brother, and they will kill each other in hate. Then there will be no n.o.bles in the country."

She was frightened. "Father, why are you speaking like this?"

His eyes came back from beyond and focused on her. "If one of the tsar's relatives carries out my murder, none of your family will live more than two years. They will all be killed by the Russian people. Be concerned for your salvation and tell your relatives I paid for them with my life."

"Father, this is nonsense."

"It is a vision, and I have had it more than once. The night is dark with the suffering that is before us. I shall not see it. My hour is near, but though it is bitter, I do not fear it."

He started to tremble again.

"Oh, Lord. The evil is so great that the Earth will tremble with famine and sickness. Mother Russia will be lost."

She shook him again. "Father, you must not talk like this. Alexie needs you."

A calm overtook him.

"Fear not, Mama. There is another vision. Salvation. This is the first time it has come to me. Oh, what a prophecy. I see it clearly."

PART ONE.

ONE.

MOSCOW, THE PRESENT.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 12.

1:24 PM.

In fifteen seconds Miles Lord's life changed forever.

He first saw the sedan. A dark blue Volvo station wagon, the tint so deep that it appeared black in the bright midday sun. He next noticed the front tires cutting right, weaving a path around traffic on busy Nikolskaya Prospekt. Then the rear window, reflective as a mirror, descended, and a distorted reflection of the surrounding buildings was replaced by a dark rectangle pierced by the barrel of a gun.

Bullets exploded from the gun.

He dived flat. Screams arose around him as he slammed onto the oily pavement. The sidewalk was packed with afternoon shoppers, tourists, and workers, all now lunging for cover as lead raked a trail across the weathered stone of Stalinist-era buildings.

He rolled over and looked up at Artemy Bely, his lunch companion. He'd met the Russian two days back and taken him to be an amicable young lawyer with the Justice Ministry. Lawyer to lawyer they'd eaten dinner last night and breakfast this morning, talking of the new Russia and the great changes coming, both marveling at being part of history. His mouth opened to shout a warning, but before he could utter a sound Bely's chest erupted and blood and sinew splattered on the plate-gla.s.s window beyond.

The automatic fire came with a constant rat-tat-tat rat-tat-tat that reminded him of old gangster movies. The plate gla.s.s gave way and jagged shards crashed to the sidewalk. Bely's body crumpled on top of him. A coppery stench rose from the gaping wounds. He shoved the lifeless Russian off, worried about the red tide soaking into his suit and dripping from his hands. He hardly knew Bely. Was he HIV-positive? that reminded him of old gangster movies. The plate gla.s.s gave way and jagged shards crashed to the sidewalk. Bely's body crumpled on top of him. A coppery stench rose from the gaping wounds. He shoved the lifeless Russian off, worried about the red tide soaking into his suit and dripping from his hands. He hardly knew Bely. Was he HIV-positive?

The Volvo screeched to a stop.

He looked to his left.

Car doors popped open and two men sprang out, both armed with automatic weapons. They wore the blue-and-gray uniforms with red lapels of the militsya militsya-the police. Neither, though, sported the regulation gray caps with red brim. The man from the front seat had the sloped forehead, bushy hair, and bulbous nose of a Cro-Magnon. The man who slid from the rear was stocky with a pockmarked face and dark, slicked-back hair. The man's right eye caught Lord's attention. The s.p.a.ce between the pupil and eyebrow was wide, creating a noticeable droop-as if one eye was closed, the other open-and provided the only indication of emotion on an otherwise expressionless face.

Droopy said to Cro-Magnon in Russian, "The d.a.m.n ch.o.r.n.ye ch.o.r.n.ye survived." survived."

Did he hear right?

Ch.o.r.n.ye.

The Russian equivalent for n.i.g.g.e.r. n.i.g.g.e.r.

His was the only black face he'd seen since arriving in Moscow eight weeks ago, so he knew he had a problem. He recalled something from a Russian travel book he'd read a few months back. Anyone dark-skinned can expect to arouse a certain amount of curiosity. Anyone dark-skinned can expect to arouse a certain amount of curiosity. What an understatement. What an understatement.

Cro-Magnon acknowledged the comment with a nod. The two men stood thirty yards away, and Lord wasn't about to wait around to find out what they wanted. He sprang to his feet and raced in the opposite direction. With a quick glance over his shoulder he saw the two calmly crouch and ready themselves to shoot. An intersection loomed ahead, and he leaped the remaining distance just as gunfire blasted from behind.

Bullets strafed the stone, puffing cloud bursts into the chilly air.

More people dived for cover.

He sprang from the sidewalk and faced a tolkuchki tolkuchki-street market-lining the curb as far as he could see.

"Gunmen. Run," he screamed in Russian.

A bobushka bobushka peddling dolls understood instantly and shuffled to a nearby doorway, jerking tight a scarf around her weathered face. Half a dozen children hawking newspapers and Pepsis darted into a grocery. Vendors abandoned their kiosks and scattered like roaches. The appearance of the peddling dolls understood instantly and shuffled to a nearby doorway, jerking tight a scarf around her weathered face. Half a dozen children hawking newspapers and Pepsis darted into a grocery. Vendors abandoned their kiosks and scattered like roaches. The appearance of the mafiya mafiya was not uncommon. He knew that a hundred or more gangs operated throughout Moscow. People being shot, knifed, or blown up had become as common as traffic jams, simply the risk of doing business on the streets. was not uncommon. He knew that a hundred or more gangs operated throughout Moscow. People being shot, knifed, or blown up had become as common as traffic jams, simply the risk of doing business on the streets.