WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 20
Lord and Akilina rose early and checked out of the hotel. The past week had been the first time in many years he'd slept with a woman. There'd been no sex, as they were both too exhausted and scared, but they'd lain in each other's arms, he dozing in and out, half expecting Droopy and Orleg to burst into the room any minute.
They'd awakened just after dawn and headed to an Avis rental agency in the financial district. Then, they'd driven ninety miles northeast to Sacramento, reasoning that the airport there might be safe from watchful eyes. After dropping off the car, they boarded an American Airlines nonstop to Dallas. On the plane, he took the time to read a USA Today. A front-page story recounted how the Tsarist Commission was nearly finished with its work. Defying all odds, the commission had completed its interviews and narrowed the field to three finalists, one of whom was Stefan Baklanov. A final vote, originally scheduled for the next day, had been changed to Friday because of a death in one commission member's family. Since unanimity was required on any final vote, there was no choice but to institute a one-day delay. Analysts were already predicting Baklanov's selection and heralding the choice as the best course for Russia. One historian was quoted as saying, "He is the closest we have to Nicholas II. The most Romanov of the Romanovs."
Lord stared at the phone recessed into the headrest of the seat ahead. Should he contact somebody at the State Department, or Taylor Hayes, and tell them what he knew? The information he and Akilina were privy to would almost certainly change the outcome of the commission's vote. At least it would delay any final resolution until the validity of his information could be checked. But the prophecy said he and Akilina must complete the task alone. Three days ago he would have dismissed all of this as the drunken ravings of a power-hungry peasant who managed to worm his way into the graces of Russia's imperial family. But the ape. The beast. He'd smashed the egg. He'd also stopped Droopy from leaping over the moat.
The innocence of beasts will guard and lead the way, being the final arbitor of success.
How could Rasputin have known something like that would happen? Was it coincidence? If so, it stretched the bounds of probability to the breaking point. Was the heir to the Russian throne living peacefully in America? Genesis, North Carolina, population 6,356, according to the atlas he'd bought in the airport. The seat of Dillsboro County. A tiny town in a tiny county nestled in the mountains of Appalachia. If he or she was there, that fact alone could change the course of history. He wondered what the Russian people would think when they learned two heirs had survived Yekaterinburg and hid in America, a place the entire nation had been taught for decades to mistrust. He also wondered what the heir would be like-a child or grandchild of Alexie or Anastasia, or perhaps both, raised American. What type of connection would he or she have to a Motherland that now beckoned them home to rule a country in utter turmoil?
This was incredible. And he was a part of it. An integral part. The raven to Akilina's eagle. Their job was clear. Finish this quest and locate a Thorn. But somebody else was also looking. People who were trying to influence the commission's outcome. Men who'd used money and power to dominate what was supposedly a neutral process. Was it all a lie concocted by the people who controlled Filip Vitenko, simply to lure him to the Russian consulate? He didn't believe so. Maxim Zubarev had shown a callousness that gave credence to his words. Stefan Baklanov was owned. Nothing more than a willing puppet. And, as Zubarev had said, they were clever puppeteers. What else had Zubarev said? The only thing that could stand in the way is the reemergence of a direct bloodline to Nicholas II. But who were they? And had they really managed to stack the commission? If so, what did it matter since Stefan Baklanov was the man he'd traveled to Moscow to champion? His clients wanted that result. Taylor Hayes wanted that to happen. It would be good for everybody.
Or would it?
Apparently the very factions, both political and criminal, that had brought Russia to its knees now controlled its absolute-monarch-to-be. And this wasn't some eighteenth-century ruler with cannons and guns. This autocrat would have access to nuclear weapons, some small enough to fit into a suitcase. No single person should ever have that kind of authority, but Russians would never consider anything less. To them, the tsar was sacred, a link to God and a glorious past they'd been denied for a century. They wanted a return to that time, and a return was what they were about to get. But would they be better off? Or simply trading one set of problems for another? Something else Rasputin had said occurred to him.
Twelve must die before the resurrection can be complete.
He mentally tallied the dead. Four the first day, including Artemy Bely. The guard in Red Square. Pashenko's associate. Iosif and Vassily Maks. So far everything else the starets said had come to pass.
Would three more die?
Hayes watched Khrushchev squirm in the chair. This former communist and long-standing government minister, highly placed and highly connected, was nervous. He realized that Russians tended to wear their emotions on their sleeves. When happy, there was an exuberance that could sometimes be frightening. When sad, their despair ran deep. They naturally gravitated to either extreme, rarely set in a middle ground, and he'd come to learn from nearly two decades of dealing with them that trust and loyalty were indeed important attributes. Problem was, it could take years before one Russian actually trusted another, even longer before a foreigner was accepted.
Khrushchev was, at the moment, acting particularly Russian. Twenty-four hours ago he'd been confident and assured, knowing Lord would soon be in his hands. Now he was quiet and detached, saying little since the previous night at the zoo when they realized there was no way to track their quarry, and he would have to explain to the other members of the Secret Chancellory that he'd approved the idea of deliberately letting Lord escape.
They were on the second floor of the consulate, alone in Vitenko's office with the door locked. On the other end of the speakerphone were the Chancellory members, all gathered in the study of the Moscow house. No one was happy with the present predicament, but no one openly criticized the course of action.
"It is not a problem," Lenin said through the phone. "Who could have predicted the intervention of a gorilla?"
"Rasputin," Hayes said.
"Ah, Mr. Lincoln, you are beginning to understand our concern," Brezhnev said.
"I'm beginning to think Lord is definitely after a survivor to Alexie and Anastasia. The heir to the Romanov throne."
"Apparently," Stalin said, "our worst fear has become a reality."
"Any thoughts on where he might go?" Lenin asked.
Hayes had been thinking about just that for the past few hours. "I have his apartment in Atlanta being watched by a private investigative firm. If he returns there we'll have him, and this time we won't let him go."
"That's all well and good," Brezhnev said. "But what if he ventures straight to wherever this supposed heir is waiting?"
That was the other possibility he'd been pondering. He knew people in law enforcement. FBI. Customs. DEA. Those contacts could be utilized to covertly track Lord, especially if he was using credit or bank cards to finance his journey. They would have access to information trails he could never duplicate. But bringing them into the loop would entangle him with folks he preferred to keep at arm's length. His millions were safely tucked away under a mountain of Swiss protection, and he intended to enjoy those dollars-and several more million he planned to acquire-over the coming years. Then he would retire from the firm, taking the seven-figure buyout the partnership agreement guaranteed him. The remaining senior partners would surely want him to stay on in some capacity, enough that his name would continue to appear on the letterhead and assure the loyalty of clients he'd cultivated. He would, of course, agree. Provided a reasonable annual stipend was paid-enough to cover modest living expenses for a man residing in a European chateau. It was all going to be perfect. He sure as hell was not going to give anyone the opportunity to screw the whole thing up. So, in answer to Brezhnev's query, he lied.
"I have some avenues available that I can pursue. There are men here, as you provided to me there." He'd really never had any need for such men before, and did not know where to secure them, but his Russian pals didn't need to know that. "I really don't think it's going to be a problem."
Khrushchev's eyes met his. The speakerphone was silent, his Moscow listeners apparently waiting for more.
"I believe Lord will contact me," he declared.
"Why would you say that?" Khrushchev asked.
"He has no reason not to trust me. I'm his employer, and I have contacts in the Russian government. He's got to call me, especially if he actually finds somebody. I'd be the first person he'd want to tell. He knows what our clients have at stake and what that would mean to them and him. He'll contact me."
"So far he has not," Lenin said.
"But he's been under fire and on the move. And as of now, he doesn't have anything to show for his efforts. He's still looking. Let him. Then he'll contact me. I'm positive."
"We have only two days left to contain this," Stalin said. "Luckily, after Baklanov is selected it will be hard to undo his ascension, especially if public relations are handled carefully. If any of this comes to light, we could simply paint the matter as another conspiracy hoax. No one will seriously believe any of it."
"Not necessarily," Hayes said. "DNA testing could demonstrate a conclusive connection to Nicholas and Alexandra since the Romanov genetic code is now cataloged. I agree, the situation can be contained, but we need corpses for heirs, not living human beings, and those corpses should never be found. They must be cremated into oblivion."
"Can that be handled?" Khrushchev wanted to know.
He wasn't sure how he'd do it, but knew what was at stake, both for him and for the other men. So he gave them the correct answer.
"Of course."