The Romanov Legacy (9 page)

“That’s the other thing.  It’s not a secret. 
Someone followed me here.”

“That’s impossible.  No one knows about this but the
two of us and the ambassador.”

“Then the leak came from inside.  Whoever gave us that
address is on Starinov’s payroll.  They followed me straight to the girl’s
apartment.”

“Starinov!  Why do you suppose he’s the one following
you?”

“Because the men I killed were Vympel.”

“Jesus Christ, boy, are you sure?”   

“I saw their insignia, Vadim.  There’s no doubt.” 

Originally a KGB special ops squad, Vympel disbanded amid
the confusion of communism’s fall and Yeltsin’s messy assumption of
power.  In the late 1990s, the unit was resurrected by Maxim Starinov, a
protégé of Putin who was also an FSB director before becoming prime
minister.  Starinov returned the squad to its roots—a brutal
spetsnaz
unit specializing in foreign espionage.  The squad functioned as
Starinov’s personal army, with no government mandate or oversight.  During
the second Chechen war, Starinov sent Vympel men dressed as Chechen rebels to
kidnap and murder Red Cross workers.  When he ordered Vympel to end the
hostage situation at School Number One in Beslan, they fired thermobaric
rockets into a school full of frightened children without hesitation. 

Nine months ago, the bureau’s hackers had intercepted an
email from Starinov to the heads of the GRU and the SVR, informing them that
the reconstituted Vympel unit would fall under his personal jurisdiction, not
theirs.  With government status, Starinov could funnel as much funding
into Vympel as he wanted.  His personal army would now be paid for by
Russian taxpayers and given unprecedented access to the country’s best weaponry
and technology.  It was a nightmare of epic proportions.

“You know what I’m up against,” Constantine said.  “I
need your help.”

“So it’s true,” Vadim said softly.  “How many of them
were there?”

“I killed two.  I don’t know how many more he sent.”

“They’ll come after you with everything they have.”

“I know, but that’s not what scares me.  They’re
watching us from the inside, Vadim.  If they had their own intel, they’d
have gone for the right sister.”  Constantine thought about the brief he’d
been given—information about the Romanov execution and portions of the
Rumkowski file.  If he was right about the leak, Starinov knew everything
the bureau knew.  The man ran the FSB for years before becoming prime
minister; he could be in no doubt as to what it meant.  “That bastard is
using us to find the Tsar’s money, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Vadim sighed.  “And he’ll kill you when you find
it.”

“So where does that leave us?”  

Vadim took a gulp of vodka.  “Starinov obviously
believes the tsarist cache exists or he wouldn’t risk sending Vympel into the
United States.”

“If we get it first, maybe we can strike a bargain.” 

“How long do you think you can avoid the next Vympel death
squad?”

“As long as I have to,” Constantine said, turning to look at
Natalie.  “But there’s something else.  It’s about the girl.” 
He told his boss about Natalie and her connection to the Berlin forger. 
“I don’t know if it’s true, but she believes it.  If her story checks
out…”

“Jesus Christ, are you telling me this girl can just
ask
Nicholas and Alexandra where they hid their goddamned money?”  

“No,” he said.  “It’s not like that.  Natalie says
her sister’s never even met Voloshin.  They’ve never heard of him or seen
his copy of the Romanov letters.”

“And you believe her?”

Constantine watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest,
and the curl of her hands next to her breast.  “Yes,” he answered.

Constantine heard the sound of breaking glass as Vadim
chucked his bottle across the room.  “It was all a bluff?  Why in
God’s name would Voloshin do something so foolish?”

“Because it worked.  A professor’s name was enough to
make us all believe him.  But listen, Vadim, if Voloshin’s never met the
real Elizabeth Brandon, he won’t know Natalie isn’t the expert.  Let me
take her to the meeting.”

“With Vympel following you?”

“I don’t know enough about the tsar or his money to see
through Voloshin’s bullshit.  We need her.”

“We need the professor, the one Voloshin mentioned!”

“Natalie is her sister’s researcher.  Everything her
sister knows, she knows.”

There was a long pause as Vadim sighed and cracked his
knuckles.  “You aren’t going to give me a choice, are you?”

“You didn’t give me one,” Constantine replied.  “Lana’s
still waiting.”

“Fine,” Vadim grumbled.  “Maybe God Almighty will
whisper the Tsar’s password into that girl’s ear and save us all the
trouble.  Kadyrov set the meeting for 1 p.m. at Voloshin’s house.” 

Constantine jotted down the address and the time. 
“I’ll call you when it’s over.” 

“Be careful, my boy.”

“I’ll be fine.  Starinov doesn’t know any more than we
do.  All he can do is have me followed and wait for something interesting
to happen.  If Natalie thinks Voloshin’s story is good enough, maybe we’ll
have something to bargain with.”

“If that girl can uncover what the entire Soviet war chest
could not, then God help you both.  Starinov will send the angels
themselves after you.”

“Let him,” Constantine said.  “Natalie’s already got
one of them on our side.”

July 2012

Moscow, Russia

Vadim hung up and reached for the bottle of chalky antacid
tablets in his drawer.  The vodka had been a bad idea.  Just hearing
the word “Vympel” made his stomach leak like a Soviet faucet.  He knew he
couldn’t fight Starinov head-on—the bureau didn’t have the money.  All
they had was a brief head start and the cooperation of Constantine’s lunatic
girl.  Starinov was going to obliterate them and there was nothing he
could do about it.

He thought of his daughter Liliya and granddaughter
Marya.  They would be cooking supper right now, simmering things in a pot
and making the house smell of meat and paprika.  Marya would set the table
and fold yellow cloth napkins into unidentifiable shapes that she insisted were
zoo creatures.  Liliya would put far too much spice in the stew and their
noses would all run while they ate. 

A sudden pang of longing dwarfed the burn of his
ulcer.  He wanted to be with them.  He wanted to embrace them and
tell them how much he loved them.  If the worst happened and Starinov sent
a Vympel squad for him, too, he wanted to die knowing he had made peace with
the people dearest to him. 

He hefted his briefcase and left the office, a two-story
whitewashed brick building north of the Kremlin, just off Bolshaya
Nikitskaya.  Nondescript except for two false towers and a dormer window,
the building looked more like a well-to-do merchant’s home than a government
agency’s headquarters.  He liked it that way:  no glass-walled
skyscraper, no view of the vulgar riverboats draped with banners advertising
tourist hotels, nightclubs, and websites.  He detested the young
billionaires of the Ostozhenka who wasted all their rubles on Rembrandts, Bentleys,
and models who looked like starving choir boys.  The city he loved was the
ancient one, a colorful place with brightly painted homes and silver samovars
in every parlor.  Moscow, he believed, was the true soul of Russia, old
and powerful and boisterous, like a drunk boyar at the table of Peter the
Great.

Vadim trudged down Bolshaya Nikitskaya, past the ornate
red-brick theater and the beautiful blue opera building.  A passing
afternoon shower had left puddles along the sidewalk and the road.  He
avoided them as best he could; Liliya would not be happy if he splattered mud
up and down his slacks.  In good weather, street vendors sold fruit and
snacks for commuters on their way home but the storm had driven most of them
away.  There were no Greek nectarines for Marya today.

When he reached the traffic signal at Nikitsky Vorota, he
turned east on Tverskoy.  As he walked, he thought about what Constantine
had said about the spy in their midst.  There were twenty analysts who
might have processed and prepared Constantine’s brief.  Even worse,
sometimes field agents prepared briefs if they had relevant experience and
knowledge.  That drove the number of possible culprits to over a
hundred.  He would have to ask Pavel for a sweep of employee computers and
phone records.  The log would take days to inspect, and by then the
culprit might have leaked even more information.

He turned onto Malaya Bronnaya, alert to the noises of the
city.  Car honks, dog barks, children’s laughter, and splashes.  He
curled his lip at the last. 
Some lucky bastard who doesn’t have a
drill sergeant for a laundress
, he thought.  But the further he went,
the more the sound disturbed him.  The splasher kept pace with him,
neither overtaking him nor falling too far behind.  People minding their
own business rarely kept such a studied pace—they sped up to reach a crosswalk
or slowed down to take a call.   

In an instant, he decided not to go home.  He did not
believe the splasher meant to kill him—Vympel would never be so sloppy. 
But whoever it was obviously needed information about him and there was no
sense in providing it.

Directly across the street stood a line of residential
buildings, some renovated with freshly painted exteriors and some in a lesser
state of repair, with crumbling brick facades and flaking paint.  These
were the easiest targets—decaying wood doors with flimsy locks that he could
easily force open.  All he needed to do was enter one and get access to a
cell phone. 

He trudged north, hands shoved deep into his pockets. 
He slowed his pace, as if the long walk were too much for him.  As he
slowed, he listened again for the sounds of pursuit.  The rustle of a coat
as it brushed against a man’s legs, the barely audible thump of rubber soles on
pavement: yes, someone was still following him.  

Vadim looked ahead for an opportunity.  Two blocks
north, he spotted an older brick building with an open door and an idling Lada
parked at the curb.  He pushed back the sleeve of his coat and looked at
his watch, as if he were surprised to see the car.  Reaching into his
pocket, he pulled out his cell phone and called his voicemail.  “Hi Kolya,
it’s me,” he said loudly, turning in the street.  “Are you going somewhere
tonight?”

He gave the imaginary Kolya time to offer a response.

“Well, I’m almost to your house and I saw the car running so
I just wanted to make sure we’re still on.”

He counted to ten while Kolya told him that while he wished
he could accompany Vadim to their favorite Japanese restaurant, he’d forgotten
about his niece’s dance recital.

“That’s too bad,” Vadim said.  “I guess we’ll go out
some other time.  But since I’m right here, I’ll just pop in and wish your
niece good luck at her recital.”  Then he disconnected and walked through
the open door. 

Once inside, he pushed the door until it was nearly shut,
closing the home’s hallway from public view.  He saw a closet and bathroom
on the left, living area on the right, and a staircase at the end of the
hallway.  A green buffet table held ticket stubs from the Helikon opera
house and a Nokia phone.  He picked up the phone and shut himself into the
closet.

The glow of the phone’s tiny screen provided enough light to
type out a text message to Liliya.  He told her to keep Marya inside until
he returned, to open the door for no one.  A second text went to his head
of security, Pavel Chubais, with the emergency code for a full building
sweep.  He was about to leave the closet when he had another idea.

The only way to save Constantine was to convince Starinov
the boy was already on the money’s trail.  What would convince Starinov
that they’d found something?  Who was left to trust, if every agent and
every analyst were under suspicion? 

He sent two more text messages, crossed himself, then exited
the closet and left the phone exactly where he found it. 

August 1918

Ekaterinburg, Russia

Filipp blinked, unable to see past the blinding white light
in his eyes.  He tried to lift his arms but they lay useless at his sides,
like dead sturgeon on the fishmonger’s table.  He turned his head to the
side and waited for his vision to clear.

“Awake, are you?” a woman asked.  Cold fingers fell to
his wrist, checking his pulse.  “I suppose you’ll survive.”

“Where?” he gasped.

“You are in the convent of the Sisters of the Blessed
Sacrament,” the woman answered, lowering herself onto a stool at his
bedside.  Scrubbed clean, her ruddy face was unlined and devoid of all
warmth.  He could not see her hair; it lay flat beneath her white
wimple.  “I am Sister Marfa.”

He forced another word from his bone-dry throat. 
“Water.”

“You’ve had plenty,” Sister Marfa replied.  “But I will
fetch you some more.”

Filipp closed his eyes as the nun fetched a water glass and
held it to his lips.  The liquid trickled down his parched throat and he
swallowed greedily.  “What happened to me?”

“You fell ill, right after you left that house.  You
dropped like a rock into the street.  The guards brought you here and
you’ve been in this bed ever since.”

“Ever since?”

Sister Marfa raised an eyebrow.  “It has been more than
a month.  The fever held you like a mother suckling a child.”

My hand
, he thought. 
In a month, surely they
have washed it.
  If they had, it no longer bore the touch of the
Tsar’s daughter.  A flare of regret lit up in his chest. 

As his memory descended from the realm of fever and flight,
he remembered what else he might have lost.  The basket was of no
importance; he had transferred the letters and ring to his coat, afraid the
guards would tear away the basket’s fabric lining before sending him through
the gate.  He wished he could remember if they had.