The Romanov Conspiracy (36 page)

“I see you’ve started without me,” MacKenzie said as he settled into the easy chair opposite.

“I’m a man in need of sustenance, Mack. Help yourself to a sandwich. Rough crossing on the ferry?”

“Not that bad, considering. So how goes it?”

“They’re settling in nicely. I got some photographs of the two of them developed and they certainly look the part. Take a gander.”

Mack examined the photographs, his expression even more sober than usual. Boyle remarked, “You look like your horse came in last in the Derby.”

Mack handed back the photographs and sighed. “There’s a hitch, Joe.”

“Big or small?”

“Big enough to worry me.” Mack jerked his head toward St. Stephen’s Green park. “Let’s take a stroll.”

Boyle finished his coffee and they left the hotel and walked over to the park. Mack said, “Our original plan was to send you all—Andrev,
Ryan, and you and Hanna—by cargo ship from Belfast to St. Petersburg. From there you’d take separate routes by train to Ekaterinburg, where you’d meet up. We estimated the journey would take three to four weeks.”

“Why do I get a distinctly bad smell about this?”

“What do you know about our agent Dimitri?”

“Only what Ambassador Page told me. He’s Russian-born with an American background, a man who’s familiar with the tsar and his family, and his help is crucial.”

As they strolled round the park’s pond Mack kicked a pebble into the water and a half-dozen ducks went skittering after the splash, hoping it was food. “Dimitri’s our best spy in Russia. The truth is, he’d be impossible to replace.”

“Don’t dance around it like a diplomat. Get to the nub, Mack.”

Mack stopped walking. “We fear Dimitri may be compromised.”

Boyle paled. “Don’t tell me that, not at this late stage.”

“We received news from Ekaterinburg that the Cheka raided his lodgings. Dimitri escaped by the skin of his teeth. But it’s clear that he may be living on borrowed time.”

“How much time?”

“Impossible to say. Our spy’s a clever man who’ll do his utmost to keep one step ahead of the enemy, but his luck can’t last forever. If he’s caught, our plans may be sunk. Just as worrying are the White allies, the Czech legions. They’re fighting their way to Ekaterinburg faster than we reckoned.”

Mack added, “We’re trying to convince them to slow down, but they seem determined to seize Ekaterinburg. We fear any sudden advance may incite the Reds to execute the family.”

“What do we do?”

“Hanna’s in London to meet the ambassador. He’ll propose to her that we speed things up. If we’re lucky, we estimate we’ve got a couple more weeks to free the Romanovs. That means a faster route. Things really need to be under way a lot sooner.”

“Spit it out, Mack. How much sooner?”

LONDON

That same evening, a Slavic-looking man with high cheekbones and wearing a shabby work suit sat in a black Ford delivery van parked near the Connaught Hotel.

The engine was running and he had his cap pulled well down over his face as he smoked a cigarette.

The van was borrowed, no markings on the side, and he watched as Hanna Volkov came down the hotel steps.

She carried a parasol and she looked across the road toward the busy tearooms.

The man smiled to himself and tossed away his cigarette.

Ten minutes earlier he left a note with the concierge, addressed to her.
Dear Hanna, please meet me in the tearooms across the street
. He signed it with an unreadable scrawl.

He watched as Hanna Volkov looked left and right before she started to cross the street.

The man released the handbrake and pressed the accelerator.

By the time she was halfway across the road he’d already covered the distance between them.

She heard the approaching engine because she looked up from under her parasol, her mouth open in horror as the Ford bore down on her at speed.

The van struck her with a terrible thud of flesh hitting metal, and the driver kept going.

Hanna Volkov was sent flying through the air in a swirl of skirts and limbs, her body bouncing off the sidewalk.

48

CARLINGFORD LOUGH, IRELAND

The coastal fishing village was once a busy Viking port. Dominated by the ruins of the twelfth-century King John’s Castle, the inlet was peppered with sailboats that warm Sunday afternoon.

Children played along the strand; men in starched high collars and straw hats and women in bonnets and long dresses strolled the seafront.

Lydia and Andrev parked the Ford and found a picnic spot. They unrolled a blanket and looked inside the picnic basket: a bottle of Burgundy, chicken and cucumber sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, crockery, and utensils.

Andrev opened the Burgundy with a corkscrew, poured two glasses, and handed one to Lydia. “Tell me about yourself. If we’re to trust each other with our lives, we ought to know all we can about each other.”

Lydia sipped from her glass. “My father traveled around a lot when my brother and I were young. We lived in St. Petersburg for eight years, where he ran a horse-breeding business. Luckily, my parents saw the writing on the wall and we got out of Russia well before the war started.”

“And the governess job?”

“My father thought it might be an interesting way for me to spend a year.”

“And was it?”

She considered. “I hated all the regal nonsense, if that’s what you mean. But I liked the children. There’s something very special about them, something especially sweet and unconventional. And surprisingly
for royalty, they were quite unspoilt. They slept on hard beds and each had their chores.”

“You became close?”

“I like to think so. They had their moments, like all children, but the family never seemed happier than when they were in their own company. Behind it all, they’re simple, devoutly religious people.”

Lydia put down her wine. “But no doubt you learned all that when you served in the royal guard. Alexei, of course, suffers from constant ill health. He’s an invalid really, a terrible worry to his parents.” She paused, then changed the subject. “What about you? What happened that caused your wife to seek a divorce?”

Andrev stared away, his eyes dark. “What always happens in such cases? People change.”

“Is that what happened?”

“Would it surprise you if I said I don’t know? All I’m certain of is that you can drive yourself insane trying to figure it out.”

“You must still love her.”

“I don’t think I’m even sure what love is anymore, at least not the kind between a man and a woman.”

“Why else would you be going back?”

Andrev said intently, “Because above all I want my son to grow up free and unafraid, and not to be used as part of some insane, bloodthirsty social experiment by a madman like Lenin.” Raw pain etched Andrev’s face and he changed the subject. “Tell me about your fiancé. How did you end up on different sides?”

“When hostilities began, everyone saw the Kaiser as a war-mongering tyrant bent on destroying Europe’s liberty—at least that’s how the British told it. So Sean joined up, like many Irishmen. Of course, after 1916 everything changed.”

“Why?”

“That was the year of the Irish rebellion. When the British executed the republican leaders without a shred of mercy, there was no going back.”

Andrev looked into her eyes, probing them. “Tell me the rest.”

“What do you mean?

“I’ve had hell inside me, and I can see it in others. The moment we met I sensed you were devoured by hurt and anger. And I’m not just talking about what’s happened to your country. I mean personally.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve learned enough about human nature to know that behind anger or bitterness or hurt there’s always a wound, or fear, or frustration. There’s something you’re hiding. Am I right?”

Lydia’s neck flushed red, as if he’d struck a nerve. “I think I’ve told you enough already.”

“Can I tell you what else I’ve learned? We never truly reveal ourselves. Like Salome and her dance. She hides herself from the world with seven veils. Most of us never remove our veils. It’s our protection, a way to guard ourselves. That’s just what you’re doing now.”

“Really? And you’re an expert, are you?” Lydia yanked the blanket from the ground, scattering the food and plates, knocking over the wine bottle as she got to her feet. “I think it’s time we stopped this nonsense and drove back.”

A voice behind them said, “I’m glad to see you two getting along like a typical married couple.”

They turned and saw Boyle standing there, smiling.

Lydia said, “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d drive out and give you the news. There’s been a change of plan. We leave for Russia tomorrow.”

49

Later that evening a heavy summer storm swept in suddenly, rain hammering on the cottage thatch and flailing against the glass.

Andrev was sitting up in his bed reading, a clutch of books on the nightstand, the oil lamp lit, one of the windows open a crack.

A knock came on his door and Lydia appeared.

She had on a worn Aran wool sweater a couple of sizes too big for her, and it made her look young and vulnerable. “May I come in? I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?”

“Getting angry today.”

“It’s already forgotten. What’s the book?”

She held up a slim volume in tan leather. “W. B. Yeats. He’s an Irish poet I have a fondness for. I found it on the shelves outside. There’s a poem in particular I’ve marked. It’s a favorite of mine.”

“May I?”

She sat on the end of the bed and handed him the book. Andrev opened the leaves on a silk marker and studied the page, his eyes drawn to several of the lines, which he read aloud:

How many loved your moments of glad grace
,

And loved your beauty with love false or true;

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you
,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face
.

When he finally looked up, he seemed touched. “I’m not sure I understand it, but it sounds very beautiful.” He closed the book. “Are you afraid now that we’re finally going into Russia?”

She brushed a strand of hair from her face. “To be honest, I don’t know what I feel. I think I just want it all to be over, if that makes sense. But that wasn’t why I wanted to talk.”

“No?”

“Maybe you were right about the seven veils. That they’re a way to protect ourselves. I think I’ve always felt like an outsider, ever since I was a child and my family moved around so much. Some people thought I was privileged, maybe even spoiled, but really I wasn’t. I was just lonely, and never truly felt at home anywhere. Until I met Sean. For the first time in my life I felt connected to another human being.”

She hesitated, emotion welling in her. “There’s an old Irish saying: ‘May I know you until the end of my days.’ That was how I felt about him.”

A powerful gust lashed the window, flickering the oil lamp, almost blowing it out. Andrev put down the book and said softly, “It’s all right, Lydia. We’re all entitled to our privacy. I shouldn’t have been so inquisitive, and you don’t have to explain.”

Her eyes moistened. “No, I really think I need to tell someone. Sometimes, you see, it makes me feel so lost, so angry with the world because it can be so unjust. I haven’t told it to another living soul, and it torments me.”

“What does?”

“Before Sean left for the front we made love. It’s a very human instinct when there’s a war. Couples want to acknowledge their feelings, they fear they may never see each other again.”

“Of course.”

“Not long after Sean left I realized I was pregnant. It stunned me. I was all emotions—happy, lost, confused. I knew my parents would be shocked. In my family, daughters don’t get pregnant before marriage. It’s unheard-of.”

She bit her lip. “I prayed for forgiveness and yet somehow I felt that God would understand what I’d done. I desperately wanted Sean’s baby, you see. Maybe some instinct in me even knew he wouldn’t ever come back and perhaps that was our only chance to have a child together.”