The Romanov Conspiracy (41 page)

Yakov climbed out, his gaze still fixed on the convent. “A hospital, you say. It could be just the place where our spy might seek medical help.”

One of the troops went to move forward but Kazan grabbed his arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To yank the bell, comrade.”

“And let them know we’re coming? Don’t be an idiot.” Kazan withdrew his revolver. “We go in the back way and surprise them.”

“The Ipatiev House is well guarded. Everyone who enters requires a special pass and they’re thoroughly searched. Two of our young novices, Maria and Antonina, were given passes and are allowed to bring eggs, cream, butter, and fresh bread to the family every few days. They also bring thread.”

“Thread?”

“To repair their worn clothes. The girls and their mother have also been sewing precious gems into their undergarments, should they need such valuables to aid their escape.”

“How did you get passes for the novices?”

“From the guard commander. But a new one was appointed over a week ago. His name’s Yurovsky. I don’t know how much longer he’ll allow us to continue to visit the family.”

Sorg reached for his cigarettes and lit one. “Why?”

“The new commander trusts no one. He’s tightened security and put in electric bells to warn of any trouble. He also replaced some of the guards with handpicked Latvian thugs. Ekaterinburg is a city of whispers, and the rumors I hear frighten me.”

“What rumors?”

“The story going around is that one of Lenin’s henchmen has arrived from Moscow. A Commissar Yakov. Even the dogs on the street know it’s only a question of time before he orders the execution.”

Sorg tapped the cigarette in the astray. “You say even the novices are thoroughly searched?”

“It depends on the guards. Some simply wave them in. Others seem to take delight in embarrassing them by searching under their habits. We passed the family messages not long after they arrived here, you see. One of our nuns had the clever idea of inscribing a message on some fresh radishes they delivered to the house. A guard noticed the inscriptions. Fortunately, he couldn’t read and merely crushed the radishes with his boots. But the commander at the time heard about it. He threatened to shoot all of us if it happened again.”

“Is it always the same two novices who deliver the milk and food?”

“Yes. Maria and Antonina.”

Sorg considered. “Do you think they could draw me a diagram of the house from memory?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I’ll need to know where the entrances and exits are, which rooms are which, upstairs and downstairs. And where the guards are stationed. Detail like that is important. Better still if you could get hold of architectural drawings.”

“That may be difficult, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Tell me more about the family.”

The nun shrugged. “What’s there to tell? The tsar’s a broken man and his wife is a frightened woman on the edge of madness. They’re under enormous stress. Imagine the torment of knowing that your children may be murdered at any moment.”

“What about the children?”

“Their health’s reasonable. However, their doctor sometimes orders their hair to be cut short to battle head lice. They’ve also had to suffer the guards’ taunts and abuse. And young Alexei is forever ill. They all know the fear of execution hangs over them.”

“And Anastasia?”

“As well as could be expected.” The nun frowned. “Why do you ask?”

Before Sorg could reply there was an echo of someone hammering on a door in the distance. He crushed out his cigarette.

Sister Agnes startled as a commotion erupted somewhere out in
the hall and a terrorized young novice hurried into the cell. “You need to come quickly, Sister. The Reds are outside the rear door with their rifles. Their motor trucks have surrounded the convent.”

Sorg pushed himself up from the bed in alarm. “You’ve betrayed me …”

Sister Agnes said, “No, never. Nobody here, I promise you. The Reds sometimes carry out a search just to strike fear into us, or to raid our medicine supplies.”

She turned to the young novice. “Take him to the mortuary chambers; it ought to be safe there.” Sister Agnes picked up the bandages and sponge, rolled them into a ball, and tucked them under her habit. She asked Sorg, “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

“This way.” Sister Agnes emptied the water basin into a corner drain before placing it in a storage cabinet in the corridor, along with the tray. Then she briskly led the way along the hall, just as shouts sounded in the distance, followed by the clatter of heavy boots.

Fear braided her voice. “The Reds are not far away. Quickly now.”

The young novice followed them, helping a struggling Sorg, who tried to drag on his clothes.

There was a sound of splintering wood and Sister Agnes said with alarm, “They’re breaking down the door.”

They came to a rusted iron trellis gate at the end of the hall. Sister Agnes took a key from a ring on her leather belt and inserted it in a rusting lock. The gate squeaked open, revealing a flight of metal steps leading down.

She grabbed a brass oil lamp hanging from a nail and lit the wick with a box of matches she took from a wall recess.

Sorg stared into the dark passageway, tinged by the faint yellow glow of the oil lamp. It looked forbidding, a stone-flagged floor, the slimy granite walls glistening with wet and tainted with green lichen. “Where’s this?”

Sister Agnes pushed them inside the passageway, closing the trellis gate. “Explanations later. Follow Novice Maria. And just pray that I can delay these bloodthirsty thugs.”

57

Sorg descended the stone stairway, the young novice leading the way and carrying the oil lamp. The slimy walls reeked of mold. “Where are we going?”

“To the torture chambers, part of the original Mongol fortress.”

“Why there?”

“Some of the passageways once served as escape routes, if I can find them.”

“What do you mean—if?”

The novice looked uncertain. “I—I’ve only been down here twice, after I joined the order. One of the nuns wanted to frighten me. Oh my—”

She put a hand over her mouth and staggered back into Sorg’s arms, almost dropping the lamp as a huge black rat scurried across the floor in front of them. Its tail disappeared into a mound of rocks and the novice looked petrified.

Sorg grasped hold of the lamp. “Here, better give me that.”

A split second later they both heard the sharp crack of a gunshot echo like an explosion from somewhere up above. Sorg looked back a moment, then gripped Maria’s arm and dragged her after him. “Keep moving.”

Sister Agnes was kneeling by the basement room when she heard the crash of wood and the door down the hallway splintered. Footsteps thundered down the corridor and Kazan rushed into the cell, brandishing a revolver. “Why didn’t you open the door, you old witch?” he screamed.

The nun struggled to her feet. “I’m Sister Agnes, the Mistress of
Novices. And might I remind you that this is a place of God. Weapons are not—”

Kazan struck her savagely across the mouth with his knuckle-duster, and she stumbled back. “What are you doing here?” Kazan demanded.

The nun wiped blood from her lips. “The—the basement rooms are used as a place of prayer and contemplation.”

Kazan sneered. “Is that a fact? Who else is with you?”

“No one.”

“You better not be lying.” Kazan turned to his men. “Search the place.”

The guards fanned out and began searching. Kazan removed the oil lamp from the wall hook. He took his cigarette case from his pocket, removed the lamp’s glass cowl, and touched the tip of his cigarette to the flame. The flickered shadows that lit his face gave him a truly wicked look. He replaced the lamp on the hook, a sly grin spreading on his lips. “So this is where you come to pray, is it?”

“Yes.”

Kazan lashed out again, striking the nun across the jaw. She reeled back, slamming against the wall. As she struggled to keep her balance, Kazan moved in, smashing a fist into her face again, until it was a bloodied mess.

Sister Agnes stood swaying, her back to the wall.

A gloating Kazan sucked on his cigarette and said, “Well, what have you to say for yourself now?”

“That I forgive you, just as Christ would have.”

Kazan’s nostrils flared. “Don’t mock me, you old witch. We’ll see if you still feel that way when I’ve had more time to loosen your tongue.”

Two of the guards came back in and one said, “There’s not a sign of anyone down here.”

Kazan snapped his fingers. “Drag her upstairs for now. If she still refuses to talk I’ll put her against a wall and shoot her myself. And tell Commissar Yakov where we are—he’s searching the main hospital. What are you waiting for? Take her away.”

“Yes, comrade.”

As the men hauled the nun along the corridor, Kazan followed. They passed a metal trellis and Kazan peered beyond the barred gate. “Wait,” he called out to his men, then addressed the nun. “Where does this lead?”

When she didn’t answer quickly enough, Kazan grabbed her threateningly.

“To—to a passageway of old torture chambers. The convent was once a Mongol fortress.” Blood trickled from the nun’s mouth and nose.

“We haven’t checked there. Where’s the gate key?”

“On—on my belt.”

Kazan yanked the key chain from the nun’s waist with such force that it almost knocked her off her feet. Malice twisted his face as he said to one of the men, “Take her upstairs. I’ll deal with her later.”

The man dragged the nun away. His comrade waited with Kazan, who tried several of the keys. He found the one that fit and inserted it in the lock. The gate yawned open with a screech of protest.

Kazan raised his revolver and barked at the other man, “Find a couple of lamps somewhere and come with me.”

58

“I think we’re lost.” Sorg held up the lamp as he followed the nun along a darkened passageway. The air was chilled, the damp walls glistening.

The nun slowed to get her bearings. “No. The tunnels are a maze, but I know where we’re going.”

They came to a sturdy oak door with a heavily rusted lock. Another storm lamp hung next to it. The nun said, “Let me have that; we may need it.”