The Romanov Conspiracy (57 page)

He twisted. There was a cracking sound as the man’s neck snapped. He let go and the body slumped.

The smell of burning filled the air—charcoal from the samovar speckled the hay, and flames started to lick the stable floor.

The other guard was still bent double, gasping for breath. Andrev ignored him, grabbed the dead guard’s rifle, and pocketed a grenade tucked into the man’s belt, then he raced out into the yard.

87

When he reached the barn, Lydia appeared unconscious as Mersk knelt over her in the hay, clawing at her underclothes like a frenzied animal.

He turned his head back and stared as Andrev burst in.

“Move away from her before I take your head off.”

His voice sounded dangerously calm as he shouldered the rifle.

Mersk’s eyes burned with hate. He rose to his feet, dragging Lydia up with him, one arm around her throat, using her as a shield. “Throw down the rifle or I’ll snap her neck.”

Andrev hesitated, and in an instant the
nagaika
appeared in Mersk’s free hand. The whip flicked through the air like a serpent’s tongue and coiled around Andrev’s neck. Mersk jerked the whip, Andrev lost his balance, and the rifle exploded, kicking up dirt.

Mersk reeled him in, Andrev’s eyes wide as he struggled to breathe, the whip choking him.

At the last moment Mersk flung Lydia away and his free hand palmed his Cossack dagger. “It’s time you got what that stupid brother of Yakov’s got.”

His face beamed as he raised the dagger. A distinct
click
sounded.

He didn’t see Lydia get to her feet, but he felt her hand slip into his jacket pocket. When he jerked round she was pointing the Mauser at his face, and he knew he had just made the worst mistake of his life.

She said calmly, “If you had even an ounce of human decency, I’d give you time to say your prayers. But an animal like you doesn’t deserve that. You can go to the devil.”

Mersk twisted his head sharply away just as Lydia squeezed the trigger.

His head snapped back, and the bullet rutted the right side of his
skull, scouring flesh, blood everywhere. He reeled back, dazed, letting go of the whip and dagger.

But the moment he regained his balance he was like an angry bear and he moved in for the kill, all reason gone now, his fury seething.

As Andrev tried to struggle free of the whip, fighting for lungfuls of air, Mersk went after Lydia, not giving her a chance to aim the Mauser, his huge hands grabbing at her wildly.

She stumbled, losing her balance, and as the Ukrainian lunged at her Andrev picked up the dagger. “Mersk!”

The Ukrainian turned and Andrev crossed the distance between them fast, using the dagger like a sword, thrusting it deep into Mersk’s chest.

The Ukrainian’s eyes snapped wide open as he stared down at the blade embedded in his chest. He staggered back against a wooden post and slid to the ground, the life going out of him.

Andrev helped Lydia to her feet. He looked down at Mersk’s body. “So much for my only witness.”

“It couldn’t have ended any other way. Mersk’s the kind of wild animal you have to put down.” Lydia examined her ripped clothes.

“Did he … ?”

“Rape me? No, and I can’t even bear thinking about it.”

Andrev grabbed a gray blanket lying on the hay and draped it around her shoulders. “That’ll have to do until we find you some clothes.”

They heard raised voices, Mersk’s men roused by the gunshot. “I counted at least nine more men. Any second now they’re going to be swarming in here like angry bees.”

Sweat beading his face, Andrev tore off Mersk’s pistol and ammunition belt. He jumped into the Fiat truck parked on the far side of the barn and checked the Maxim machine gun. He loaded a belt of ammunition and yanked the cocking handle. “Can you drive one of these trucks, assuming it’s working?”

“Yes.”

He jumped down and grabbed the Fiat’s starting handle. “Get in the front. Be ready to back through those wooden gates when I tell you.”

“But they’re closed.”

“They won’t be for long.”

Andrev moved to the front of the Fiat, grabbed the starting handle, and gave it a couple of turns. The engine ignited just as one the gates leading to the garage tore open and the remainder of Mersk’s men appeared.

They opened fire as Andrev ducked for cover behind the Maxim’s armor plate. He fired off a sustained burst, the stuttering machine gun cutting down the men and shredding the wooden doors.

Two of the soldiers managed to duck behind the doors and one lobbed a grenade toward the truck.

It erupted like thunder, and in reply Andrev tossed the grenade from his pocket, lobbing it just past the gates. It exploded seconds later, wounding both men. As they staggered out, still firing, he finished them with the Maxim.

He shouted, “Back up now, out through the gates, keep going until I tell you to stop!”

She put the truck in reverse and revved the engine, the Fiat picking up speed. It burst through the shattered wood, out into the garage forecourt and onto the deserted street, where it smashed into a wall.

Andrev remained with the machine gun as he tried to take stock. The blaze was getting worse, spreading everywhere, as ammunition exploded like firecrackers. The timbers in the back of the crashed Fiat were smoldering from the grenade blast and he jumped down. “Time we got away.”

They crossed the forecourt and came to the motorcycle and sidecar where they left it, by the water pump.

When he climbed onto the saddle and tried to start the engine, it gave a sputtering cough and died. He tried again but this time the engine didn’t even splutter. He dismounted and said in despair, “I’m wasting my time. There’s the problem. Probably a ricochet.” He indicated a bullet hole drilled into the engine block.

Tight-lipped, he moved out into the middle of the street.

The neighing of a horse carried on the night air. Andrev’s gaze settled
on the opposite end of the village, near the railway station. “It goes from bad to worse. See what’s coming?”

Lydia followed his finger. A hundred yards away she saw shadowy horsemen advance like specters.

Andrev said stone-faced, “Yakov’s surrounding the village.” He strode back toward the bodies of Mersk’s men, sprawled where they had fallen.

All the corpses were bloody, some of the uniforms stained worse than others. He began to remove one of the men’s tunics. “Try and cobble together a complete uniform, one in reasonable shape that’s near your size. Nothing we can do about the bloodstains, just pick the best you can. And tie back that hair of yours and keep it hidden under a uniform cap.”

“Why?”

“We’re about to join Yakov’s army.”

88

As the train idled half a mile from the village, Yakov’s instinct told him that something was terribly wrong.

Flames erupted into the night sky as buildings were consumed by fire, the crack of ammunition exploding. Then a green flare exploded, the signal bursting into the sky.

He shouted to one of his men watching from the carriage steps, “Tell the driver to get moving. Everyone remain alert.”

The train gathered momentum, and in no time it chugged into the village station, a dismal-looking place pockmarked with bullet holes, every window shattered.

Even before the engine halted, Yakov snapped open the carriage door and jumped down, followed by dozens of troops from the other carriages.

A sober-looking Zoba appeared on the platform, his pistol drawn.

Yakov said, “It looks like bedlam here. Any sign of Andrev?”

“You better see for yourself.”

Andrev held on to Lydia’s hand as they moved toward the rail track, careful to remain in the shadows.

Half a dozen of Yakov’s guards were posted on the platform and along the tracks, but they seemed preoccupied by the village blaze. Andrev moved toward the front of the train and hauled himself aboard a carriage. He gave Lydia the all-clear, she ran to join him, and he held out his hand and pulled her up.

“Are you sure this is wise?” she whispered anxiously.

“We’ll soon find out.” He turned and softly clicked open the carriage door.

As watchful as hunters, Yakov and his men advanced through the village.

It was eerily deserted, and as they approached the military garage, they saw bodies strewn everywhere. “They’re all dead,” Zoba announced.

The entire village looked ablaze, and on the garage forecourt Yakov saw the shells of burning, fire-damaged trucks, empty gasoline cans strewn about, the heat almost unbearable. They passed a crashed Fiat truck with a Maxim machine gun mounted in the back, spent cartridges everywhere.

A British-made Douglas motorcycle and sidecar was left abandoned near a village water pump, and Zoba kicked at the rear wheel. “Andrev and the woman escaped from Moscow on something similar.”

“Have you searched the entire village?”

“We’re still checking, building by building. He isn’t among the dead. If you ask me, he’s been and gone.” Zoba jerked his head at the flaming wrecks. “Most likely in a stolen vehicle.”

A couple of ammunition rounds cracked like whips, sending ricochets flying, and they ducked instinctively.

“Show me what else you found.”