The Romanov Conspiracy (63 page)

Boyle crossed to the window, peered out into the yard where Markov
kept his horses. “Sister, do you think you could find me a Red Army uniform?”

“We’ve got plenty, taken from dead soldiers.”

Boyle looked invigorated at the prospect of action and said to Andrev, “We’ll use the same plan I outlined to Markov, except it’ll be you and me who enter the hotel. You can keep up the Cheka role. And don’t forget that letter.”

Boyle addressed the undertaker. “Have you anything faster than that hearse of yours?”

Sister Agnes said, “The convent has a motorized ambulance. The Reds only let us keep it because we’ve been transporting their wounded from the front.”

“Perfect.” Boyle pointed to the city map. “I’ll want you waiting here, a street from the hotel, so we can beat a hasty retreat.”

Lydia said, “What if the letter doesn’t work?”

Boyle nodded to the corpses. “That’s simple. We end up like these poor devils. But fortune belongs to the brave. Three months ago I bluffed my way into the Kremlin vaults, removed the Romanian crown jewels, and walked out again without a shot fired.

“All I had was a couple of men and an officious-looking letter. It’s all about having the right attitude, as they say. Right, time to test the water, so let’s be going.”

As they left the room, Boyle caught Andrev by the arm. “Yakov taking your family hostage changes everything, you realize that? I’m afraid it’ll be impossible to keep my end of the bargain and get them out. We have no way of knowing what Yakov may have hidden up his sleeve.”

Andrev nodded bleakly. “One thing. If he shows up, he’s mine.”

97

EKATERINBURG RAILWAY STATION

6:05 P.M.

The train kissed the buffers and the air brakes hissed.

Yakov slid open a carriage window. The station platforms were bedlam, crowded with peasants pushing handcarts and carrying belongings.

Zoba jumped down, spoke with a military official, and came back. “He said we can order transport from the local military garage. How long it’ll take is another matter; the town’s being evacuated. It might be quicker if we walked.”

Yakov buttoned his tunic. “Stay here, I’ll find the garage. Don’t allow anyone to move the train. I’ve commandeered it. And see that the men are looked after—they’ll need food and to bathe. There ought to be hotels near the station. Requisition as many rooms as you need.”

“What about Nina?”

“Stay with her, she’s fragile. Have the medic give her some more ether to calm her.”

“Ether?”

“It’ll make her sleep. When reality hits her again she’ll be hysterical. Then take care of the child’s body. Make sure it’s treated with respect.” Yakov turned to go.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Leonid?”

“What?”

“I know longing when I see it. You love her, don’t you?”

Yakov didn’t reply, his mouth tight with exhaustion. “All that matters right now is that I stay alive, and not make my daughter an orphan.”

“Even if that means killing Uri, after what Nina told you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Zoba put a hand on Yakov’s arm. “I’m suddenly beginning to wonder if all this war is worth it. Will you be all right, Leonid?”

“That’s another question I don’t know the answer to.”

Yakov climbed the front steps to the Amerika Hotel. He stepped into the bar. It was half-empty, a handful of leather-jacketed Cheka and local Bolshevik officials drowning their sorrows amid clouds of cigarette smoke.

He approached a nervous-looking bartender who was wiping some glasses. “Give me a vodka. Better still, make it a bottle.”

The bartender placed a vodka bottle and a single glass on the bar. Yakov slapped down a handful of coins, uncorked the bottle, and filled his glass to the brim. He emptied it in one swallow and poured another, then stared into space, the corners of his eyes moist.

He still felt shocked, and angry, and …

He didn’t know what he felt—he hadn’t slept in almost three days, exhaustion grinding him.

But he felt angry at his mother for not telling him the truth. Yet another part of him understood. She was a good woman, but a lonely human being with a desolate life. Didn’t she deserve affection?

Whenever we’re offered love, we should accept it … wherever we encounter tenderness, we should embrace it.

He swallowed more vodka, the raw alcohol a flame in his throat.

His vision began to blur with tiredness. Drinking only worsened his exhaustion. He told himself,
No more—I need my wits about me
.

He still had bloody work to do.

Find and destroy Andrev. Execute the Romanovs.

He couldn’t fail in his duty. Katerina’s life depended on it. Bile rose in his throat at the very thought of his daughter being harmed.

“Drowning your sorrows, Commissar?”

Yakov turned. Kazan stood wearing his broad-rimmed hat, his face smug. “You look like you’ve had a shock.”

“What’s it to you?”

“I heard about your drama.” Kazan nodded to the bartender, who poured him a whiskey.

“Who told you?”

Kazan removed his hat, placed it on the counter, and ran a hand over his bald head. “You’ve only arrived, but it seems that tongues are already wagging. Your men can’t stop talking about how yet again you were made a fool of by Andrev.”

Yakov’s mouth was a slash as he fought to control his anger.

Malice glinted in Kazan’s face. “I can only hope for your sake Moscow doesn’t hear about your latest mistake. It won’t look good, Andrev besting you at every turn. Tell me, is it true you have a soft spot for Andrev’s ex-wife? I’m sure she’ll be glad of the company now that her brat’s dead.”

Yakov hit Kazan across the jaw. He reeled back, slammed against the counter, and slid to the floor, a crimson gash on his mouth.

Kazan put a hand on his lip, looked at the blood on his fingers, and grinned. “Temper, Commissar. We need each other. More than ever.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Kazan.”

Kazan pushed himself up. “My prisoner’s the only conspirator we have in custody, and therefore our only hope of finding the others.”

“He’s not
your
prisoner, he’s the state’s. And let’s not forget who’s in charge. Has he talked?”

Kazan smiled tightly. “Not unless you count his screams. He’s proving obstinate. But that’s about to change. I have a couple of tricks up my sleeve that will loosen his tongue.”

Yakov emptied his glass and hammered it on the counter. “Where is he?”

“In the cells.”

Markov gently snapped the horses’ reins as the hearse clattered toward the Amerika Hotel.

It looked busy with Cheka types coming and going, some of them carrying packed bags and loading belongings onto hand carts and droshkies.

The occasional crack of artillery fire erupted in the distance; the Czech divisions were less than twenty miles away.

“The rats are deserting the sinking ship while they can,” Markov commented.

Boyle wore a Red Army uniform and regulation hat, the tunic a little tight around the neck.

Andrev was dressed in the Cheka-style leather jacket and cap, a holstered Nagant on the leather belt around his waist.

Boyle said, “All right, once more round the block to make sure Sister Agnes is in place with the ambulance, then we go in, gentlemen. Remember, if we can’t get our man out, we kill him.”

98

Yakov followed Kazan down the steps past the guards and stepped into the cell.

Sorg was strapped down onto a metal trolley. His jaw was a bruised mess, and alarm lit in his eyes as he stared up at his visitors.

Kazan regarded him with scorn. “Meet Commissar Yakov, from Moscow. I hope you’re not going to disappoint us.”

Kazan leaned in closer until Sorg could smell the sour breath on his face. His heart sank. He felt overcome by fear, expecting Kazan to lash out.

But instead, he removed a small brown medicine bottle from his pocket and unscrewed the glass-and-rubber stopper. He said to Yakov, “Laudanum. I believe our prisoner has a weakness for it.”

Kazan grinned down at Sorg. “Don’t you?”

Markov eased the hearse toward the curb, making a clicking sound with his tongue. “Whoa! Settle down now.”

The horses reared to a halt a hundred yards past the hotel. Boyle and Andrev climbed down.

Boyle told Markov, “Wait here. If anyone asks, you’re picking up a typhus victim. That ought to dull their interest.”

Markov made a sign of the cross. “What if you don’t return?”

“I’ve yet to meet an undertaker who’s an optimist. We’ll be back; don’t go anywhere.”