The Romanov Legacy (17 page)

Then she heard the plastic room key slip into the electric
lock.  “The prodigal returns,” Viktor said, bursting through the door with
a collection of plastic bags.  He glanced toward the bed and raised an
eyebrow.  “Did I interrupt something?”

Natalie sat up straight and felt her cheeks turn red,
painfully aware of the fact that she’d come close to kissing Viktor just an
hour or two ago, and here she was with Constantine, sprawled out on a
bed. 
Jesus
, she thought,
I can’t do this
.  “No,” she
said sharply.  She got up without meeting Constantine’s eyes and flopped
onto the second bed.

Viktor tossed one of the plastic bags onto the space she’d
occupied.  “All right, loverboy.  Let’s get you out of these wet
things.”

Constantine smiled.  “I bet you say that to all the
girls.”

“Holy shit,” Natalie said.  “You guys really did learn
English by watching bad TV.” 

Viktor adopted a faux baritone.  “Did I mention that
I’m not only the hair club president, but I’m also a client?”  As he
spoke, Viktor began to peel off Constantine’s blood-soaked shirt and Natalie
looked away. 

Her eyes drifted to the floor, where she’d deposited Yuri’s
box. 
That’s not a very safe place, now, is it?
Belial chided.
 
You’re going to want to hide that. 

“Why?” she asked.

“Why ask why?” Viktor answered.  “Try Bud Dry.”

“Jesus,” she said.  “Make it stop.” 

Just do as you’re told,
Belial snapped.

She stood up and stretched, using her toe to slide the box
out of sight beneath the bed.  By the time she lay down again, Viktor had
the bloody shirt peeled away.  Neither of them had any idea what she’d
done.

“Now for the fun part,” Viktor said.  He dumped the
bag’s contents onto the bed: disinfecting pads, tape, gauze, iodine, bottled
water, and sandwich bags.  He cleaned the skin around the wound with an
antiseptic pad, smiling at Constantine’s compressed lips.  “Don’t pretend
this doesn’t hurt.  Go ahead and scream if you like.”  He stopped and
turned to Natalie.  “As long as it won’t disturb the psychiatric
ward.” 

Belial ruffled his wings. 
I don’t like him.  I
want him to leave.
   

“Hush,” she said softly.  “Leave him alone.” 

“I thought you wanted me to fix him,” Viktor said.

“I wasn’t talking to you.  Keep working.”

“So pleased to have your permission, sweet pea.” 
Viktor moved to the sink and mixed a solution of iodine and bottled water in a
resealable sandwich bag.  Then he used his pocketknife to poke a tiny hole
in the bottom of the bag.  Constantine clenched his fists and took a deep
breath as Viktor held the bag over the wound and squeezed.  The solution
squirted into the wound and Constantine roared.

This time, Natalie fought the urge to look away. 
This
happened to him because of you
, she thought. 
Watching him suffer
is your punishment.
  Finally, Viktor patted Constantine dry with a
towel and applied a dressing and bandage to his chest.  “Finished!” he
proclaimed.  “Now let’s have a drink.”

Constantine groaned.  “I thought you’d never ask.”

Natalie hopped up to rummage through the bags.  She
found the bottle and poured into the motel’s plastic cups.  She handed the
first to Constantine, ashen and sweating but smiling weakly.  His fingers
brushed hers as he grasped the cup and her belly fluttered as if Belial’s wings
had landed there. 

She turned away quickly, handing the second cup to
Viktor.  He stared at her empty hands.  “Based on your previously
demonstrated alcoholic tendencies, I expected you to be joining us.”

“I am,” she said.  “Mine’s the bottle.”

“Of course it is, lamb chop.”

Constantine drained his cup in two quick gulps. 
“Viktor, did you see any sign of Vympel out there?”

“Let’s talk about something more cheerful, shall we? 
Like leprosy or the holocaust.”

“Viktor.”

“No,” Viktor sighed.  “I didn’t see anything.  And
that’s what worries me.”  He paused.  “Do you think we can still
trust Vadim?” 

“I don’t know.  But that password is the only leverage
we have.”   

“Speaking of which, what happened to the box?”

Natalie’s heart froze in her chest.  Why had Belial
told her to hide the box?  And how was she supposed to keep it hidden when
they were all in the same room? 
I promise you I’m right
, he
whispered. 
I will never lie to you.
 

She looked Viktor in the eye.  “It’s in a safe place.”

“Safe from whom?  I thought you couldn’t wait to get
your hands on those letters.”

“Belial said we should wait,” she lied.

“Then by all means, let’s do what your imaginary friend
says!”  He turned to Constantine.  “Are you going to allow this?”

“Leave her be, Viktor.  If she says wait, we wait.”

“Do you know what happens if we wait?  Vympel comes
knocking on the door!”  He turned to Natalie.  “What does your
imaginary friend say about that?  Is he prepared to die?”

“Technically he’s already dead.  I don’t think he’s
worried.”

“Brilliant!”  He threw his empty plastic glass against
the wall and slumped down in a rolling chair.  “Fucking brilliant.”

“Look,” Constantine said.  “We all need to rest.
 Let’s sleep for a couple of hours and then we can be reasonable
again.”  He looked at Viktor.  “Can you do that?”

Viktor glared at Natalie.  “Fine.”

Constantine nodded, head sinking down onto the pillow. 
“Viktor, you take first watch.  Wake me up in an hour.” 

Viktor retrieved his gun from the nightstand and
repositioned himself in the chair.  “I don’t want to hear another word out
of you,” he said, pointing the gun at her.   

She flipped him off and slipped under the covers for a nap.

June 1950

Taesongdong, South Korea

Filipp lay weak and exhausted, clutching the bedspread
embroidered by his wife.  Now that the end had come, he wanted to hold
something that reminded him of her.  Every time he ran his fingers over
her stitches, he imagined he could still feel her touch.  “Milla,” he
whispered. 

His son Grigori shifted in the bedside chair.  “What
did you say, Papa?”

A thunderous boom shook the glass in the window. 
Filipp waited for the echoes of the blast to die because he couldn’t summon the
breath to drown them out.  “They’re getting closer,” he said. 

The last time he’d heard artillery blasts on the edge of
town, the entire world fell apart.  He could still feel the thick Siberian
air in his lungs and see the Bolshevik soldiers polishing their pistols outside
the merchant Ipatiev’s house.  On the bedspread, his son’s hand rested
near his.  Tan and unlined, it symbolized all the strength he now
lacked.  Filipp picked it up and clasped it as firmly as he could. 
“It was this hand she touched, you know.”

Grigori smiled, crinkling the skin beside his pale gray
eyes.  “I know, Papa.” 

“You think you do,” Filipp corrected.  “But there is
more.”

“You mean the part where the Grand Duchess kissed you? 
You told me that already.”

Filipp opened his mouth to chide his son but couldn’t gather
the breath.  He coughed violently and Grigori pulled him upright just in
time to disgorge a clot of blood into a small metal bowl.  “Don’t try to
talk,” Grigori said.  “I’ll bring you some tea.”

“No,” he said again, looking up at his son with all the fear
in his heart.  “There is more.”

“You’re serious,” Grigori said, sinking back down onto the
chair.  “Tell me, Papa.”

“You must forgive me, my son.  I never told you because
I did not want to put you in danger.  But my time is over and now you are
the only one I trust.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The last time I saw her, Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaievna
entrusted me with letters to take from that horrible house.”

Grigori’s face grew pale.  “Oh, God, Papa.  What
have you done?” 

“She told me a secret, something she wanted me to write on
the letters before I sent them.  But I did not do it.”

“Why not?”

“I failed her,” Filipp said, looking away so his son could
not see the depth of his shame.  “I fell ill and did not send the letters
at all.  By the time I recovered, the Great Father and his family were
gone.”

“That wasn’t your fault, Papa.  You couldn’t have saved
them.”

“What about the people who would have received those
letters?  Perhaps they might have saved them.”  Filipp took a breath
and shook his head.  “No, God would not be so cruel.  I believe He
intended for me to keep them all along.  It has been my sacred duty for
more than thirty years and now it falls to you to carry these words until the
Great Father rises again.” 

“The Tsar is dead, Papa.”

“Then where is his body?  There is no proof he is
dead.  No proof at all.  Do you know what they say about that woman
in Germany?”

“That she is a fraud who takes advantage of people who
believe she is Anastasia.”

“Yet it remains unproven.  If her own relatives cannot
decide who she is, who are we to say?  I cannot.  I will not.” 
He felt tears collect in the corners of his eyes.  “You did not see them,
Grigori.  They were such beautiful girls.  Who would not wish one of
them to survive?”

“Wishing does not make it true, Papa.”

“It is beyond us, boy.  God has chosen us to guard
their secret.  Why would he not also choose one of them to survive?” 
His wet eyes flickered to the shrine he had erected in the corner of his
bedroom.  On a rectangular table, he’d propped up photos of Nicholas II
and his family, along with a few of their belongings he had been able to buy
from impoverished émigrés: a belt buckle, a hairpin, a brooch, a pair of
earrings.  “If even one of them remains alive, we must give them back
their legacy.”

“A few rusty trinkets are hardly a legacy.”

“There is more than what you see here.”

“What, exactly, did the Grand Duchess say to you?”

Filipp’s rheumy eyes swept the room.  “I cannot speak
it.  Even walls have ears.”

“There is only me,” Grigori said, placing his ear in front
of his father’s wrinkled mouth.  “Now tell me what she said.”

Filipp felt the telltale rattle in his chest and knew he had
no choice.  The North Korean army was closing in on Taesongdong, and
everyone knew they would be followed by the Soviets.  His son—and the
letters—must be gone by then.  He opened his lips and let his tongue form
the words he had never before uttered. 

“Good God,” Grigori gasped.  “But that’s—”

“Hush,” Filipp ordered, clamping a hand onto his son’s
shoulder.  “You must never speak it aloud.”

A second blast shook the ground beneath the house. 
Filipp imagined tanks rolling across the hilled countryside, crushing people and
animals beneath their tread, stealing the breath from their lungs. 
Suddenly, the entire war made sense.  “I should have seen it,” he
gasped.  “The Soviets know we are here, my boy.  They have sent the
North Koreans to seek us out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Papa.  Just try and rest.”

“I know what happened in the gulags!  I know what they
were looking for!  Do not underestimate what they will do to claim what
they believe is theirs.  You must go, my son.  Do not let them find
you here.”

“What are you talking about?  I won’t leave you.” 

“You must!” Filipp said.  “We were chosen for
this.  It is why God spared me that summer.”

“You survived because the nuns cared for you.”

“I survived because God willed that it be so!”  Filipp took
both his son’s hands in his.  “The Great Father and his family ask this of
us from their seat in Heaven.  I ask it of you as a father’s dying
wish.  Will you refuse me?”

Grigori sighed.  “No,” he said sadly.  “How could
I?”  His shoulders sank under the weight of his father’s bequest.  He
felt dizzy and nauseated.  His father had lived a double life, guarding
the secret of the world’s richest man, even beyond the grave.  Everyone
knew the Tsar was dead.  Why couldn’t his father see that?  What was
he supposed to do?  Where was he supposed to go?  He had known no
home but Korea and the outside world gaped like the edge of a map, leading to
black pits of death and despair.  “I’m afraid, Papa.”

Filipp tried to smile but could barely move his lips. 
“So was I.  God will not take away the danger, but he can take away your
fear.  Go put on the uniform, my son.”

Grigori nodded and trudged into the next room.  At the
back of the closet, Filipp had hidden the uniform and dog tags of an American
soldier, killed on the road to Panmunjon during the U.S. and Soviet withdrawal
from the 38
^th
Parallel five years earlier.  At the time,
Grigori believed his father’s manic desire to steal the uniform was some form
of dementia; now he realized his father had always planned for this
moment.  He began to wonder how much of his father’s life had been lived
in the service of the dead Tsar.  Still, he could not refuse his father’s
last wish.  He believed in God and Heaven, and he would not have his
father greet either with disappointment in his breast. 

Grigori stripped off his loose Korean tunic and pants and
replaced them with the scratchy fabric of the soldier’s jacket and
trousers.  He draped the dog tags around his neck and made his way back to
his father’s room, where a bright, fresh blood clot lay on the pillow beside
Filipp’s mouth.  “Papa!” he cried, lifting Filipp upright.

Filipp couldn’t even take in enough air to cough.  He
gasped and wheezed, gripping Grigori’s arms with the strength of a man half his
age, but he could not force the breath from his mouth for a last word. 
Slowly, Grigori watched his father’s lips turn blue.  He held Filipp to
his chest, sobbing like a child until the frantic twitches ceased.  He
could not face the bulge and the wild fear in his father’s eyes.