The Romanov Conspiracy (47 page)

Before Yakov could reply, Zoba, leaning by the window, glass in hand, beckoned with a wave of his palm. “You better take a look at this.”

Yakov put Katerina down, her interest already drawn back to her companions. She gave him a puckered kiss and scampered off to rejoin her friends.

Yakov wandered over to the window. A chauffeured, open-topped black Mercedes pulled up in the street, its polished black paintwork gleaming. Two Fiat trucks loaded with troops rolled up behind. They jumped down, keeping watchful guard.

The familiar, wild-haired figure of Leon Trotsky stepped out of the Mercedes. He was wielding his officer’s baton, wearing his Sam Brown leather belt and holster.

Zoba said, “Nothing but the best for Trotsky. He swans around Moscow in that Mercedes as if he’s the tsar himself. Me, I have to make do with a filthy tram seat.”

“You’re beginning to sound disillusioned.”

Zoba sipped his vodka, smiled. “Give me a car like that and I wouldn’t be. Still, I never thought I’d see the day when the defense minister came calling. I thought you did all your business at the Kremlin. What does he want?”

Trotsky climbed the tenement steps, a pair of armed guards leading the way. Yakov buttoned his shirt collar, straightened his jacket. “We’ll soon find out.”

The clatter of footsteps halted out in the hall and a knock came on the door. Zoba’s wife went to open it. She put a hand to her mouth and stepped back as she recognized Trotsky. He looked as arrogant as ever as he removed his hat, tucked it under his arm, and strode in to meet
Yakov. He gave Zoba a dismissive stare. The Georgian took the hint and moved away.

Trotsky observed the children. “Have I disturbed your afternoon, Yakov?”

Yakov indicated Katerina. “My daughter’s birthday.”

Trotsky stripped his leather gloves from his fingers. “I met your wife at party rallies. She was a good woman. Her death must have been a terrible loss for you both. You need to find another wife, Yakov. Children need parents.”

“Katerina and I manage. To what do I owe the honor, Comrade Minister?”

Trotsky’s tone suddenly bristled with annoyance. “To be honest, when I heard you were still in Moscow I was disappointed. I would have thought you’d be well on your way to St. Petersburg by now, hunting down Andrev.”

“My train is ready to leave at a moment’s notice, but I believe that would be pointless.”

“Why?”

“Andrev’s a shrewd and capable man, and he’ll keep on the move. But he’ll try to make contact with his family. Their apartment is being watched day and night.”

Trotsky’s dark eyes glinted. “So you’re going to sit and wait, hoping he’ll take the bait? But what if he doesn’t?”

“I know the kind of man he is. He wouldn’t return to Russia without trying to see his wife and child, especially after he failed the last time.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it. But to business. After you left, Comrade Lenin and I finalized an important matter—the Romanovs’ execution goes ahead. The entire family will perish.”

“When?”

“This very week in Ekaterinburg, and the bodies secretly disposed of. The guard
komendant
at the Ipatiev house, Yurovsky, will be charged with carrying out the order. Though at all times you will be in command. Once it’s done, and you’ve witnessed the disposal of the bodies, you’ll return to Moscow immediately. Comrade Lenin and I will be waiting for your final report.”

Yakov fell silent.

“You’re an ambitious man, Yakov. A senior post needs to be filled—Commander of the Moscow Regional Cheka. Foil this plot, direct the execution to Lenin’s satisfaction, and the post is yours. Frankly, I’d hate to see a turncoat like Kazan best you in this matter.”

“I’ll do my duty, you can be sure of it.”

Trotsky started to turn toward the door but hesitated. “One more thing. Once this is over, I want you to make the arrangements for Andrev’s child and former wife to be deported to a Siberian camp, on Lenin’s personal order. Understood?”

“Is it really necessary?”

Trotsky tapped his baton in his palm, and the evil threat that always lurked beneath his dark, intense eyes flared. “They’re bad seed. And the only way to deal with bad seed is to destroy it.”

Trotsky’s baton reached out and its tip touched Yakov’s chest. “You better do more than your duty, Yakov. I expect great things of you. I don’t want to see a man of promise such as yourself fail, and end up keeping Andrev’s family company in some cold and brutal corner of Siberia.”

Trotsky removed his baton, gave a sideways glance at Katerina, playing with her friends, and a tiny, malicious grin twitched in the corners of his mouth. “I’ll make sure your daughter is looked after in your absence. I’ll have my men check on her while you’re busy with your duties. I hope we understand each other?”

67

EKATERINBURG

The hand-painted wooden sign on the redbrick courtyard building said Oleg Markov & Son, Undertakers.

Markov senior was busy in the mortuary that evening, applying his skills to the corpse of a young girl no more than fifteen. A tall man of sixty with a neatly trimmed black mustache, he wore an apron over his coarse dark suit, and had a well-practiced, mournful look.

On a wooden table next to him was a selection of mortician’s implements: a rubber mallet, a jar of embalming fluid, and pots of makeup and brushes. The child’s body lay on a metal trolley, a white sheet drawn up to her neck.

Such a terrible waste of youth and beauty
, Markov reflected with a sigh, but then death was all too common these days, since the barbarous Reds came to power.

When he finished applying a touch of rouge to the young woman’s cheeks, Markov tugged on a ceramic bell pull hanging by the door. Moments later a pale-faced young man wearing a dark suit a size too large for him appeared. Karl Markov was endowed with a dour look as practiced as his father’s.

“We have two more corpses due shortly, Karl. A pair of White officers executed this morning. Be a good lad and finish the young lady while I see to the paperwork.”

“Yes, father.”

Markov senior removed his apron and turned to a washbasin. As he scrubbed his hands with warm soapy water, the echo of a bell tinkled from somewhere deep in the mortuary and he came alert.

Grabbing a towel, he arched an eyebrow at his son. “It seems Lazarus
has come back to life. Take care of things while I attend to our guest.”

This time when Sorg awoke he was lying on a mattress on the floor of a room that smelled of disinfectant, the walls covered in glazed white tiles.

As he tried to take in his surroundings he felt something tied to one of his big toes. He saw it was a piece of string that snaked across the room and entered a piece of metal tubing. A puzzled Sorg moved his toe and heard a distant bell tinkle.

The door snapped open and a dark-suited man with a mustache and desolate eyes entered. He carried a small glass bottle in his hand. “So, you’re back with us. For a while there I was certain I had another coffin case on my hands.”

Sorg said groggily, “Where am I? Who are you?”

“Karl Markov, undertaker. You’re in my mortuary.” He knelt, put down the bottle, and untied the string from Sorg’s toe.

“What’s going on?” Sorg demanded.

“An interesting contraption this, used when medicine was less of an exact science and doctors sometimes wrongly diagnosed death. Should the corpse move the string pulls on a bell in the hall.”

Sorg shook his head, as if to clear the fog in his brain. “You learn something new every day.”

“In your case, I used it because I’ve been far too busy to keep watch on you. How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been clubbed with rifle butts.”

Markov smiled. “My son, Karl, and I brought you from the convent in our hearse, along with some bodies from the cellar. One of the nuns found you hiding in a nearby alcove. Sister Agnes didn’t think you’d live. You were in a bad state—your wound had opened. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember being shot at by a Cheka swine.”

“Yes, Sister Agnes mentioned that. Fortunately for you, he missed. Here, sniff this. It’ll help clear your head.”

He removed a cork stopper from the bottle and thrust it under
Sorg’s nose. The smelling salts hit Sorg’s nostrils like a blow and he came sharply to his senses.

Markov put the cork back in the bottle. “Can you stand?”

Sorg’s eyes watered as he swung his legs off the mattress and stood. The moment he did so he felt lightheaded.

“You look weak,” Markov commented.

“I’ll be fine.” Sorg’s lightheaded feeling passed, but then a twinge stabbed his side. A fresh dressing had been applied, and this time the bandages looked new. He felt well rested, better than he had in days.

Markov said, “Sister Agnes came and tended to you. You’ll remain here for now. It’s too dangerous to stay at the monastery in case the Reds return.”

Sorg stared at the undertaker. “How do I know I can trust you?”

Markov held out his left hand. On his wedding finger he wore a silver ring, inset with the ancient Tibetan symbol.

“Does that answer your question? I’m here to help you in any way I can.”

Sorg rubbed his jaw and felt stubble. “How long have I been here?”

“Almost three days. You slept most of it. Thankfully your wound’s healing nicely.”

Markov offered a cigarette from a silver case.

Sorg accepted. “What have I missed?”

Markov tapped a cigarette, lit both, and exhaled smoke. “White forces and Czech troops are less than twenty miles from the city now, maybe a week away from liberating us. Even less, if the rumors are to be believed, so time is precious.

“We’re certain the Reds won’t go to the trouble of moving the family again. It’s too much of a risk. Instead, they intend to execute them here in Ekaterinburg and dispose of the bodies, before the city falls.”

“Says who?”

“The Brotherhood has its sources, even among the Reds. Extra Cheka have arrived from Moscow. The new
komendant
, Yurovsky, is making trips into the woods outside the city. Especially to an area of old, unused mine shafts called the Four Brothers. We believe he’s looking for a suitable burial spot.”