The Romanov Conspiracy (37 page)

“Did you tell your parents?”

“I never got the chance. A month later I received the telegram that Sean was missing in action. The news hit me hard. I—I lost our baby.”

Rain lashed the window, the wind howled. She looked at Andrev, her eyes wet. “I’ve never told that to a soul, not even to Finn, my brother.” She tugged at her sweater. “This old thing belonged to Sean. I wear it to remind me of him when I’m feeling lonely. Silly, isn’t it?”

He saw torment in her face, and she seemed totally lost as she said, “I’m sorry, I think the reality of everything just hit me like a ton of bricks. I began to wonder what would happen to Finn if I don’t make it back. He’s still a child, really. I’ve looked after him since he was an infant. I—I worry about him.”

Andrev saw that she was struggling with her emotions, and when she couldn’t hold back any longer she started to cry, great convulsive sobs that shook her body. He reached out, pulled her toward him, gently stroked her hair. “You poor, tortured soul.”

Another powerful gust pounded the cottage. It stormed into the room through the open window, rattling the bedroom door and the rafters, blowing out the oil lamp, tossing the tree branches wildly.

He cradled her head on his chest, holding her tightly in the raging darkness.

PART FOUR

50

Sorg came awake drenched in sweat.

His body felt seared by heat. He was lying on a metal bed in a cell with a barred metal door. It was deathly silent and the cell stank of damp air.

When he struggled to sit up he couldn’t. His body was covered with a coarse gray blanket and he was tied down with leather straps. His clothes were gone and he felt naked under the blanket.

He moaned and slumped back on the bed. He remembered little after passing out. Just a vague memory of briefly coming awake while he was being dragged along a stone corridor. Now that he was fully conscious, he was certain he was in a prison. He heard footsteps and his heart hammered with alarm. A key rattled in the lock and the door clanged open.

A nun stood in the doorway. She was tall, middle-aged, with a gaunt but kindly face. Her bleached porcelain skin almost made her look sickly. Still, there was strength in her piercing blue eyes, no denying that, as she balanced a heavy tray in one hand.

It contained a towel, a basin, and a jug of steaming water. In her other hand she carried a lit oil lamp. “You’re awake at last. How’s the patient?”

“Where am I?”

The nun banged shut the door and hung the lamp on a wall hook. “In the basement of Novo-Tikhvinsky Convent. One of our nuns found you collapsed. I’m Sister Agnes, Mistress of Novices. Do you want to tell me who you are?”

Sorg didn’t reply.

The nun saw caution on his face and said at once, “Forgive me, but
I’m not used to all this subterfuge. You were supposed to leave your mark inside the church door. I was to leave another just like it, then come and ask, ‘Are you lost? Do you need help?’ And you’d reply, ‘I need to get to Market Street.’ But I think we’re past all that now, don’t you?”

Sorg said, puzzled, “How did you know who I am?”

The nun smiled. “You were delirious because of your wound. You kept repeating that you needed to get to Market Street. I also found a ring on your finger.”

“Where is it?”

“Stored safely with your clothes and belongings out in the hall.”

The nun wore a plain silver band on her own finger. She removed it and handed it to Sorg. He saw the engraving inside the ring, next to the silversmith’s mark, just like his own.

“Does that convince you?” the nun asked.

Sorg handed it back. “I came here the day I arrived in Ekaterinburg. I left my mark on the church door and there was no reply. I tried again every day for three days and there was still no answer. I wondered what happened to you. Finally, I asked for you by name at the hospital. They said you were gravely ill.”

The nun slipped the ring back on her finger. “I fell victim to the typhus that’s broken out all over the city. They moved me to a hospital in Perm. I was in a bad way so I left instructions with one of the nuns to make contact with you, but she herself fell ill and died. Still, I’m well now, and you’ve survived, that’s all that matters. How are you feeling?”

“As if I’ve been trampled on by wild horses. This place looks like a prison.”

The nun smiled. “Actually, it used to be. The convent was built on the ruins of a Mongol fort used by Genghis Khan, complete with dungeons. These days we run schools, a hospital, an orphanage, a bakery.”

Sorg tried to raise himself. “Are you going to undo these straps?”

Sister Agnes pulled up a wooden stool and sat, placing the tray at her feet. She unbuckled the straps. “Your wound’s turned septic and you were delirious for a time. We had to make sure you didn’t fall out of bed.”

Sorg massaged his wrists. “Where are the other patients?”

“In nearby wards. It’s more private here. I didn’t want to risk you saying something you shouldn’t if you became delirious again.” The nun unwrapped the cotton towel to reveal a handful of what looked like herbs, along with a thick slice of bread.

The pungent aromas of thyme and mint filled Sorg’s nostrils. He saw that the tray contained cotton dressings and scissors.

Sister Agnes crushed a handful of the herbs, rolling them between her palms. The fragrances spiced the air. She placed the herbs in a bowl and then put a hand to Sorg’s forehead. “You’ll probably feel terrible for a few more days. You’ve lost blood. And you’re still running a temperature. Here, drink this.”

She offered Sorg a glass of cold water. Easing his head forward, he sipped the refreshing liquid. Sister Agnes lay the crushed herbs on the bread.

Sorg asked, “What are you doing?”

“Making a poultice. Proper medicines are in short supply so we have to make do with the old methods. The poultice will draw out any pus from your wound.”

“Am I going to live?”

The nun unfolded the thick cotton cloth. She lay the bread in the middle and sprinkled on the herbs, moistening the concoction with steaming hot water. “With God’s help. What happened?”

Sorg told her.

The nun said, “I don’t think there’s any internal damage, but time will tell. You’ll definitely need to rest up and keep off the streets, in case the Reds are looking for you.”

“That’s impossible. I have work to do.”

“I understand but I’m a qualified nurse. Move about too soon and your wound could open, become infected again, and you could die.”
Sister Agnes pulled back the sheet and used the scissors to cut away Sorg’s dressing. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

She dabbed the poultice in the steaming hot water. “Hunger’s a good sign. I’ll see that you’re given some broth and freshly baked bread. We’ve been extraordinarily busy. Brutal skirmishes between the Whites and Reds in recent days have clogged the hospital with the sick and dying. Lean forward, please. This may hurt.”

Sister Agnes gently but firmly pressed the hot poultice against Sorg’s wound. Sorg gritted his teeth, feeling the heat sting his wound. Strangely, it seemed to ease the throbbing. “There’s something I need,” he said.

“What?”

“Laudanum.”

The nun didn’t flinch. “It’s used by many who served in the trenches. Is that how you came to use it?”

“That’s close enough.”

“I’m afraid we have no laudanum here and it may be impossible to come by under present circumstances. The Reds raided our medicine supply last week. We have little of anything left. I may be able to manage some coffee and cigarettes, if they help?”

“Thank you.”

The nun went to go.

Sorg gripped her arm. “Please, tell me about the family.”

The nun gently pried his grip away and patted his hand. “Rest first. Sleep as long as you can. Then you and I have plans to discuss.”

51

LONDON

It was just after lunch that same afternoon as Boyle went up the steps to St. Andrew’s Private Hospital. His clothes were crumpled and he looked as if he’d had a rough night.

He nodded to the uniformed policemen in the corridor who admitted him into the private room. A worried-looking Ambassador Walter Page stood by the hospital bed.

Boyle’s heart stuttered when he saw Hanna.

She was unconscious, covered in bandages from head to toe, her legs and hips encased in some kind of metal contraption. Her face was heavily bruised, even her eyelids, which were purple, swollen, and closed.

Page said, “She’s got internal injuries, broken bones, and she hemorrhaged badly. The doctors say she may not survive.”

Boyle’s eyes were burning, his face very pale. “Who did this, Walter?”

“The police haven’t found the van or driver. But a witness said he looked Slavic and was actually grinning as he mowed her down. I’m convinced it’s the long arm of our friends in Moscow.”

Boyle gently touched Hanna’s fingers, his voice hoarse.
“Why?”

“The real question must surely be
why at this time
. I smell trouble. That they’d try to kill her now means they’ve been watching her. If they’ve been watching her, then what else have they seen, or surmised?”