The Romanov Prophecy Part 33

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"No doubt?"

"None to me. But DNA will put any questions to rest."

"Miles. Listen and listen good. I want you to stay right there. Don't leave that town. Give me the name of the place you're staying."

He did.

"Don't leave that inn. I'll be there by tomorrow afternoon. I'll get the first plane out of Moscow for New York. This has to be handled carefully. When I get there, we'll involve the State Department and whoever else we need. I'll be in touch with the right people while en route. I'll take care of this from now on. You got that?"

"I understand."

"I hope so. I'm p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l you've waited until now to call."

"The phones are not safe. I'm not even sure about now."

"This phone is clean. I guarantee it."

"I'm sorry about not involving you, Taylor. But I had no choice. I'll explain all of it when you get here."

"I can hardly wait. Now get some sleep and I'll see you tomorrow."

FORTY-FIVE.

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 21.

9:40 AM.

Lord followed the directions Michael Thorn provided. The lawyer sat in the backseat of the Jeep Cherokee he'd rented yesterday at the Asheville airport. Akilina filled on the front pa.s.senger's seat.

Lord and Akilina had spent a restless night at the Azalea Inn, both deeply affected by what they'd found. There was no doubt in Lord's mind the balding, middle-aged man with soft gray eyes sitting behind him was heir to the Romanov throne. Who else would have known exactly how to respond? Not to mention possessing the gold clapper that formed the bell. He'd satisfied all the criteria Yussoupov had established to confirm his ident.i.ty. Science could now provide undisputed verification in the form of DNA testing, which surely the Tsarist Commission would order.

"Turn up there, Miles," Thorn said.

They'd gone to first names last night after two hours of conversation and the call to Taylor Hayes. At breakfast Thorn had asked if they would like to see the graves. Lord recalled Hayes's instruction to stay close but didn't think a short trip would be a problem, so they'd driven a few miles south of Genesis into a lovely hollow of copper and gold trees. The day was bright and sunny. Like an omen from heaven, Lord thought, that everything was going to be all right.

But was it?

Here, in this tiny corner of America, known for homespun Appalachian common sense and misty blue ridges, lived the Tsar of All Russia. A country lawyer college-educated at the University of North Carolina, then at nearby Duke for law school. All paid for by a student loan and part-time jobs that helped feed a wife and two kids.

Thorn had told them all about himself. They were ent.i.tled to know. He'd come back to Genesis after graduating and had practiced law the past twenty-four years, opening an office and making sure a s.h.i.+ngle hung outside for all to see. That had been one of Yussoupov's instructions. A way to mark the trail. Of course the odd little Russian had never conceived of computers, satellite communications, and the Internet, or the ability to locate someone with the push of a b.u.t.ton, a world so small that there were few, if any, places left to hide. Yet Kolya Maks and Thorn's father, along with Thorn himself, had adhered to Yussoupov's instructions, and that single-minded determination had paid off.

"You can park over there," Thorn said.

Lord nestled the front b.u.mper close to the trunk of an oversized oak. A light breeze rustled the surrounding boughs and whisked leaves into a twirling dance.

Unlike the frozen plot in Starodug, the cemetery in the grove beyond was immaculate. The gra.s.s around every grave was cut and trimmed, and many were adorned with fresh flowers and wreaths. No moss or mold stained the markers, though many showed the effects of time. A gravel path bisected the center and branched off in shoots leading to the far corners of the rolling site.

"Our local historical society maintains the plots. They do an excellent job. This site has been used for burials since the Civil War."

Thorn led them to the outer perimeter of the gra.s.sy meadow. A line of princess trees rose not fifty feet away, their limbs dotted with colorful pods.

Lord stared at the stone markers, a cross chiseled into the top of each: ANNA THORN.

BORN JUNE 18, 1901-DIED OCTOBER 7, 1922 PAUL THORN.

BORN AUGUST 12, 1904-DIED MAY 26, 1925 "Interesting that they used the correct dates of birth," he said. "Wasn't that a little foolish?"

"Not really. n.o.body knew who they were."

On both of the monoliths the same epitaph appeared below the names. HE THAT ENDURETH TO THE END SHALL BE SAVED. HE THAT ENDURETH TO THE END SHALL BE SAVED.

Lord motioned to the words. "A last message from Yussoupov?"

"I always thought it fitting. From what I was told, they were each quite special. Perhaps if they'd continued as the tsarevich and grand d.u.c.h.ess, their personalities would have been corrupted. But here they were merely Paul and Anna."

"What was she like?" Akilina asked.

A smile crept onto Thorn's mouth. "She matured wonderfully. As a teenager, Anastasia was plump and arrogant. But here she thinned and I'm told was quite beautiful, like her mother at that age. She walked with a limp and her body was scarred, but her face was untouched. My father made a point of telling me everything that Yussoupov said about her."

Thorn stepped over to a stone bench and sat. The hoa.r.s.e croaking of crows echoed in the distance.

"She was to be the hope, though there was fear of hemophilia pa.s.sing from her to a male child. No one seriously believed Alexie would survive long enough for a wife to be found and children produced. It was a miracle he made it out of Yekaterinburg without an attack. He had many attacks here. There was a local doctor, though, who had some success with him. Alexie learned to trust him, as with Rasputin, and in the end it was simple flu that killed him, not his defective blood. Rasputin was right on that, too. He predicted hemophilia would not be the cause of the heir's death." Thorn gazed off at the mountains in the distance. "My father was a year old when Alexie died. My grandmother lived until the nineteen seventies. She was a wonderful person."

"Did she know about Alexie?" Lord asked.

Thorn nodded. "She was Russian-born to n.o.ble blood. Her family fled when Lenin took over. She knew it all. Alexie's physical afflictions were impossible to hide. They spent only three years together, but you would have never known from listening to her. She loved Alexie Nicholaevich."

Akilina stepped toward the markers and knelt down on the gra.s.s. He watched as she crossed herself and said a prayer. She'd told him about her experience in the San Francisco church, and he now realized this Russian woman was more religious than she wanted to admit. He, too, was moved by the tranquil scene, disturbed by nothing other than the rustle of squirrels through princess trees.

"I come here often," Thorn said. He motioned toward three more markers, their backs facing them. "My father and mother and grandmother are all buried there."

"Why wasn't your grandmother placed here, with her husband?" Akilina asked.

"She refused. The sister and brother should be buried together, she said. They are divine, of royal lineage, and should rest alone. She was insistent on that."

They drove back to Genesis in silence and Lord headed straight for Thorn's office. Inside, he noticed photographs of a woman and two young men displayed on a dusty credenza. The woman was attractive, with dark hair and a smile that transmitted warmth. Thorn's sons were both handsome with dusky-hued complexions, strong features, and wide Slavic cheekbones. They were Romanovs. One-quarter each. In direct line with Nicholas II. He wondered how Thorn's siblings would react when told they were now n.o.bles.

He'd brought the travel bag from San Francisco and laid it on a wooden table. Last night, in the excitement of the moment, he'd not shown Thorn the Faberge egg. Now he gently removed the shattered treasure and found the two tiny portraits of Alexie and Anastasia. Thorn studied them closely.

"I've never seen what they looked like after they came here. No other photographs were ever taken. My grandmother told me about these pictures. They were made at the cabin, not far from here."

Lord's gaze returned to the photos of Thorn's family on the credenza. "What about your wife?"

"I didn't say anything to her last night. Once your employer arrives and we determine what's to be done, then I'll speak to her. She's gone for the day. Down to Asheville to visit her sister. It'll give me time to think."

"What's her background?"

"What you really mean is, does she qualify as tsarina?"

"It's something that has to be considered. The Succession Act is still in place, and the commission intended on following it as closely as possible."

"Margaret is Orthodox by birth, with some Russian blood, as much as could be found twenty-five years ago here in the United States. My father personally searched for candidates."

"You make it sound so impersonal," Akilina said.

"I didn't mean to. But he realized the depth of our responsibility. Every effort was made to maintain a continuity with the past."

"She's American?" Lord asked.

"From Virginia. Which makes two Americans Russia will have to accept."

There was something else he wanted to know. "The man who sent us here told us about tsarist wealth that might still be in banks. Were you privy to that information?"

Thorn set the photos of his ancestors beside the clump of debris that was once a Faberge egg. "I was given a safe-deposit key and told where to go when the time arrived. I guess that's now. I a.s.sume the information will be in the deposit box. I was told never to attempt access unless you arrived. New York will have to be our first stop."

"Are you sure the box still exists?"

"I pay the rental every year."

"Did you pay the rental in San Francisco?"

Thorn nodded. "Both are paid from automatic withdrawals on accounts that were opened decades ago under fict.i.tious names. I don't mind telling you we had a problem when the law changed and Social Security numbers had to be attached to every account. But I managed to use a couple of deceased clients' names and numbers. I was concerned about a trail, but I never considered my position dangerous. That is, until last night."

"I can a.s.sure you, Michael, the threat is real. But Taylor Hayes will provide protection. You'll be okay. Only he knows where we are. That much I can a.s.sure you."

[image]

Hayes climbed from the car and thanked the Pridgen & Woodworth a.s.sociate who'd been waiting at the Atlanta airport. He'd called ahead and told his secretary to have somebody there, and with three dozen lawyers in his division, and that many and more in paralegals to choose from, the task should not have been difficult.

Droopy and Orleg had traveled with him from California and they, too, stepped out into a foggy morning. Neither of the Russians had uttered a word since the airport.

Hayes's house was a stone-and-brick Tudor monstrosity that sat on three wooded acres in north Atlanta. He had no wife. The divorce had come a decade ago. Luckily, there'd been no children. And there would be no more wives. He harbored no desire to share anything he possessed with anyone, much less a greedy woman who'd want a respectable percentage of his a.s.sets as compensation for the privilege of having lived with her.

He'd called from the car and told his housekeeper to have food prepared. He wanted to clean up, eat, and get on the road. There was business waiting a few hours north in the North Carolina mountains. The kind of business that would shape his future. Serious men were depending on him. Men he did not want to disappoint. Khrushchev had wanted to come with him, but he'd vetoed the idea. Bad enough he was strapped with two burly Russians who could use personality lessons.

He led Droopy and Orleg through a wrought-iron gate. Leaves slid across the brick pavers, riding a wet morning breeze. Inside the house, he saw that his housekeeper had followed directions and prepared an early lunch of cold cuts, cheese, and bread.

While his two Russian a.s.sociates gorged themselves in the kitchen, he stepped into his trophy room and unlocked one of several gun cases that lined the paneled walls. He selected two high-powered rifles and three handguns. Both rifles were equipped with sound suppressors-usually used for hunting in heavy snow to avoid avalanches. He unbolted the clips and peered down the barrels. He checked the scopes and sites. All seemed in order. The handguns were loaded with ten shots each. All three were Glock 17L Compet.i.tion pistols. He'd bought them on a hunting trip in Austria a few years back. Droopy and Orleg had certainly never been privileged enough to handle weapons like these.

He gathered spare ammunition from the locked closet on the other side of the room, then walked back to the kitchen. The two Russians were still eating. He noticed open beer cans. "We'll leave here in an hour. Easy on the alcohol. Drinking has limits here."

"How far away is this place?" Orleg asked through a mouthful of sandwich.

"About a four-hour drive. That will put us there by midafternoon. Let me make myself clear. This isn't Moscow. We do this my way. Understand?"

Neither Russian said a word.

"Is it necessary I call Moscow? Perhaps more instructions could be given to you by phone."

Orleg swallowed his food. "We understand, lawyer. Just get us there and tell us what you want us to do."

FORTY-SIX.

GENESIS, NORTH CAROLINA.

4:25 PM.

Lord was impressed with where Michael Thorn lived. It was a lovely neighborhood of older homes with forested lots and deep lawns. Ranch style Ranch style was the description he recalled appended to the design, most of the houses single-story brick structures with gabled roofs and chimneys. was the description he recalled appended to the design, most of the houses single-story brick structures with gabled roofs and chimneys.

They'd driven over so Thorn could tend to his dogs. The lawyer's wooded backyard was dotted with pens and Lord immediately recognized the breed. The males were noticeably larger and all of the animals, about a dozen, varied in color from sable red to tan and black. The heads were long and narrow and slightly domed. The shoulders sloped, the chests narrowed. They stood about three feet tall, each animal a hundred pounds or so, and muscular, the fur long and silky.

They were in the sight hound family and their name, borzoi, borzoi, meant "swift." Lord smiled at Thorn's choice of breed. These were Russian wolfhounds, bred by n.o.bility for the demands of coursing wild game through open terrain. Tsars since the 1650s had raised them. meant "swift." Lord smiled at Thorn's choice of breed. These were Russian wolfhounds, bred by n.o.bility for the demands of coursing wild game through open terrain. Tsars since the 1650s had raised them.

This one apparently no exception.

"I've loved these dogs for years," Thorn said as he walked about the pens, filling water bowls with a hose. "I read about them years ago and finally bought one. They're like chocolate-chip cookies, though. Can't have just one. I ended up breeding them."

"They're beautiful," Akilina said. She stood close to the cages. The borzois stared back at her through oblique brown eyes encased by black rims. "My grandmother cared for one. She found him in the woods. He was a fine animal."

Thorn opened one of the cages and dumped scoops of dry food into a bowl. The dogs did not move and had yet to bark. The animals' gazes followed Thorn's movements, but they did not otherwise advance toward the meal. The lawyer then motioned with his forefinger to where the food bowls lay.

The dogs pounced.

"Well trained," Lord said.