8:40 PM
Hayes lay back and gripped the iron bar above his head. He shoved the weights up from their cradle and sweated through ten presses, his biceps and shoulders aching from the stress. He was glad the Volkhov was equipped with a health club. Though pushing sixty, he was determined to surrender nothing to time. There was no reason he couldn't live another forty years. And he needed that time. There was so much to do, and only now was he in a position to succeed. After Stefan Baklanov's coronation, he'd be able to work at will and do what he wanted. He was already eyeing a lovely chalet in the Austrian Alps, a place where he could enjoy the outdoors, hunt, fish, and be the lord of his own manor. The thought was intoxicating. More than enough motivation to keep him moving forward, no matter what the task.
He finished another set of presses, grabbed a towel and patted moisture from his brow. He then left the exercise room and headed for the elevators.
Where was Lord? Why hadn't he called in? He'd told Orleg earlier that Lord may now doubt him. But he was not convinced. It could be that Lord assumed the hotel phones were being monitored. Lord knew enough about Russian paranoia to know how easy it would be for either the government or a private group to accomplish that task. That might explain why he hadn't heard from Lord since his abrupt departure from Felix Orleg's office. But he could have called the firm in Atlanta and arranged for contact. Yet a check there not an hour before had revealed no calls had come through.
What a mess.
Miles Lord was becoming a real problem.
He stepped off the elevator into a wood-paneled lobby on the sixth floor. Every floor had one, a sitting area with magazines and newspapers. Filling two leather chairs were Brezhnev and Stalin. He was scheduled to meet with them and the rest of the Secret Chancellory in two hours at a villa south of town, so he wondered about their presence here and now.
"Gentlemen. To what do I owe this honor?"
Stalin stood. "There is a problem that requires action. We must talk, and you could not be located by telephone."
"As you can see, I was working up a sweat."
"Might we go to your room?" Brezhnev asked.
He led the way past the dezhurnaya, who did not look up from her magazine. When they were inside his room with the door locked, Stalin said, "Mr. Lord was located earlier at the circus. Our men tried to intercept him. One was disabled by Lord, the other by men who were apparently likewise searching. Our man had to kill his captor to escape."
"Who interfered?" Hayes asked.
"That is the problem. It is time you learn some things." Brezhnev sat forward in the chair. "There has long been speculation that some of the imperial family may have survived the death sentence the Soviets imposed in 1918. Your Mr. Lord came across some interesting material in the Protective Papers, information that we had not been privy to. We thought the matter at first serious, but containable. Now, such is not the case. The man Mr. Lord made contact with in Moscow is Semyon Pashenko. He is a professor of history at the university. But he also heads a group dedicated to tsarist restoration."
"How could that threaten what we have in motion?" Hayes asked.
Brezhnev sat back and Hayes took him in.
Vladimir Kulikov represented a large coalition of the country's new rich, the lucky few who'd managed to turn a tremendous profit since the fall of the Soviet Union. A short and serious man, his face was weather-beaten-like a peasant's, Hayes had often thought-his nose beaklike, the hair short, sparse, and gray. He gave off an air of superiority that often infuriated the other three in the Secret Chancellory.
The new rich were not particularly liked by the military or the government. Most were ex-party officials blessed with a web of connections-clever men who manipulated a chaotic system to their personal advantage. None of them worked hard. And many of the American businessmen Hayes represented financed them.
"Until his death," Brezhnev said, "Lenin was quite interested in what happened at Yekaterinburg. Stalin likewise was consumed, so much so that he sealed every piece of paper dealing with the Romanovs in the state archives. He then killed or banished to the camps anyone with knowledge. His fanaticism is one reason that learning anything firsthand is now so difficult. Stalin worried about a Romanov survivor, but twenty million deaths can stir up a lot of chaos, and no opposition to him ever collated. Pashenko's group is somehow connected with the possibility of one or more Romanov survivors. How, we're not sure. But there have been rumors for decades that a Romanov was hidden until the time was right to reveal his or her whereabouts."
Stalin said, "We now know that only two of the children could have survived, Alexie and Anastasia, since their bodies were never found. Of course, even if either or both survived the massacre they would have died long ago, the boy especially because of his hemophilia. So we're talking about their children or grandchildren, if there were any. And they would be direct Romanov. Stefan Baklanov's claim would be meaningless."
Hayes saw concern on Stalin's face, but he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "There's no way any of those people survived. They were shot at close range, then bayoneted."
Stalin ran a hand along the armchair, tracing the wood carvings. "I told you at our last meeting, Americans have a hard time understanding the Russian sensitivity to fate. Here is an example. There are Soviet documents I have seen where the KGB conducted interrogations. Rasputin predicted that Romanov blood would be resurrected. He supposedly said that an eagle and a raven would accomplish the resurrection. Your Mr. Lord found a writing that confirms this prediction." He leaned forward. "Would not Mr. Lord qualify as that raven?"
"Because he's black?"
Stalin shrugged. "As good a reason as any."
He couldn't believe a man with Stalin's reputation was trying to convince him that a scoundrel peasant from the early part of the twentieth century had somehow predicted the reemergence of the Romanov dynasty. And, even more, an African American from South Carolina was somehow a part of all that. "I may not understand your sensitivity to fate, but I fully understand common sense. This is crap."
"Semyon Pashenko doesn't think so," Brezhnev was quick to say. "He stationed men at the circus for a reason, and he was right. Lord showed up. Our men reported that a circus performer was on the train last night. A woman. Akilina Petrovna. They even talked with her and thought nothing of it at the time, but she was led from the theater with Lord and driven off by Pashenko's men. Why, if there is nothing to this but fiction?"
A good question, Hayes silently admitted.
Stalin's face was severe. "Akilina means 'eagle' in old Russian. You speak our language. Did you know that?"
He shook his head.
"This is serious," Stalin said. "There are things at work we really do not fully understand. Until a few months ago, when the referendum passed, no one seriously thought a tsarist return possible, much less one that could be used for political advantage. But now both are possible. We must stop whatever is happening immediately, before it can gestate into something more. Use the telephone number we provided, assemble the men, and find your Mr. Lord."
"It's already being done."
"Do more."
"Why not do it yourself?"
"Because you have freedom of movement none of us enjoys. This task is yours to handle. It might even move beyond our borders."
"Orleg is looking for Lord right now."
"Perhaps a police bulletin regarding the Red Square shooting could multiply the number of eyes," Brezhnev said. "A policeman was killed. The militsya would be anxious to find the gunman. They might even solve our problem with a well-placed shot."