This can’t be happening,
she thought.
The
floor seemed to sway under her feet. “What if I’m wrong?”
“Then you die.” Starinov pushed back the sleeve of his
suit to look at his watch. “Your first three minutes begin now.” He
folded his hands behind his back and began to pace around the room. His
bodyguards trailed after him, exchanging nervous glances.
Beth’s gaze shifted to Viktor. “I say we tell Starinov
to kill him first and buy ourselves another three minutes.”
“Think again, you ungrateful bitch. I’m management.”
“Then what are you doing standing with the help?”
“Leaving.” Viktor turned his back on them and went to
join Starinov.
Natalie sank to her knees on the floor, painfully aware of
the emptiness in her brain. “Belial,” she moaned. “Belial, where
are you?” Images of herself and Beth as children flowed through her mind,
little girls in white dresses. Then she began to confuse those two girls
with the Romanov girls, and Seth’s features grew to look like the girls’ brother
Alexei. “I don’t know who I am,” she cried. “I don’t know who I
am!”
She felt someone pulling at her and she buried her head in
her hands, shielding herself. All her life, she’d never known why Belial
chose her or what he wanted from her. He was both a companion and a
nuisance. She’d never asked him to intervene on her behalf before.
Now, the one time she did, he was going to let her down. “Belial, tell me
what it is!”
As soon as she said it, she felt a hot wind sweep through
the room. Her eyes were already closed but she saw a white light behind
them, stronger than any light bulb or candle could produce. There was a
roar as if the air around her were being torn to pieces, and then her skull
rattled with an enormous vibration. Feathers wrapped themselves around
her brain as Belial gripped her and landed. She felt electric shocks of
pain separate her skin from her bones and screamed.
Did I hurt you, little one? I didn’t mean to.
She gasped for words but couldn’t move her jaw. It
hurt too much.
I’ll be still now.
“The password,” she whispered.
Ask your sister. It’s written on her face.
And then all was still. Belial’s wings lay tucked
beside his shoulders and he crouched in silence. Her body ached with the
pain of his re-entry and she felt that if she moved, she might shatter into
pieces. Still, she blinked and tried to open her eyes.
Above her, Constantine and Beth hovered like worried
parents. She looked into her sister’s eyes, blue and bright and filled
with tears. “Beth,” she said, reaching for her sister’s hands.
“Yeah, sweetie?” Beth sniffed and held her hands in a
strong, sure grip.
Everything she knew about love was what Beth had shown
her. Beth defended her, sheltered her, fought for her, and taught her how
to fight for herself—not that she was doing a good job of it. Her cheeks
burned as she realized how ashamed she was of wasting her sister’s
efforts. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Sorry? Nat, what the hell are you talking about?”
Constantine leaned in and smoothed her hair back from her
face. She tried to smile at him. She wanted to tell him that she
loved him the way Beth had taught her to love: with all her heart. But
she had to tell Beth first. “Beth, without me, you would have been
perfect. I know it. If I had come out right, I could have helped
you.”
“No,” Beth said, shaking her head fiercely. “You and
Seth are my family. Everything I have was given to me so I could protect
you.”
“I’m never going to be normal,” she said sadly. “You
know that, right?”
“Do you think I care about that? Nat, you show me what
it’s possible to do, even when things happen that we don’t understand. I
wouldn’t know what faith is if it weren’t for you.”
Natalie threw her arms around her sister, holding her
tight. Beth felt so thin in her arms and she wondered how long it had
been since someone had taken care of
her
. “I’ve been an idiot,”
she said. “I’m so sorry, Beth.”
“You’re still light years ahead of the rest of us,
babe. You can do anything.”
Anything
. The word echoed in her brain and made
Belial smile. If Beth believed it, it must be true. Beth was never
wrong. “We’re going to figure this out, aren’t we?”
“Of course we are. I was just waiting for you to
realize it.”
Natalie let go of Beth and turned to Constantine. He
bent forward and kissed her softly, hands in her hair. “Let’s do this.”
Across the room, Starinov’s voice echoed like a drill
sergeant’s. “Three minutes,” he said, pointing his gun at a second
bodyguard and pulling the trigger. The man tumbled to the ground, folding
in on himself like a marionette being put away.
Natalie and Beth jumped, turning to see the lifeless body
sprawl across the floor, a thick red pool spreading from his broken
skull.
“Next time, I’ll choose someone from your side,” Starinov
said. Viktor edged away from him, scuttling closer to her, Beth, and
Constantine.
“God almighty,” Constantine muttered. “He’s serious.”
Natalie watched the dead man’s legs give a final
twitch. “It’s not supposed to happen like this.”
Viktor leaned over her and sneered. “Exactly how was
it supposed to happen, ducky? Was God’s gift to women here supposed to
save you so you could live happily ever after?”
As Viktor spoke, Natalie felt something shift inside her
brain, as if Belial had twitched his wings. It wasn’t a random movement,
though—it was swift and purposeful, like the stroke of a finger on a piano key,
or the tap a lucky blackjack player made to request another card. She had
never felt him move that way before. “That’s it,” she said softly.
“That’s the answer.”
It made so much sense. Of course that was how they
would have encapsulated their lives. All their love, all their pain, all
their suffering revolved around one thing and one thing only—and now she knew
what it was.
July 2012
Moscow, Russia
The tale had taken almost twenty minutes to tell, with
interruptions on both sides to correct and clarify. “I don’t know how
much time they have left,” Vadim said. “And I don’t know where else to
turn.”
It was the literal truth. His driver was circling
aimlessly through Moscow, waiting to be given a destination. In the back
of the sedan, Vadim clutched the phone in one hand and a cigarette in the
other. On the other end of the line, Rockwell Marshall, the American ambassador
in Moscow, sighed. “Jesus Christ, I wish you’d brought this to our
attention sooner. It really pisses the big guy off when he’s the last to
find out about these things.”
“I don’t care if your president gets his feelings hurt!
These people killed my granddaughter, and they’ll kill two of your citizens as
soon as they have what they want.”
“I could have done something if you’d told me while they
were still on U.S. soil, but as of now, we’re fucked. You have no idea
what kind of incident report this is going to generate.”
“Are you listening to me?” Vadim snapped. “Maxim
Starinov sent Vympel into the U.S. and killed two men, both U.S.
citizens. Two more of your citizens will be dead if you don’t help me
find a way to stop him!”
“Mr. Primakov, if what you’re telling me is true, neither
the Americans nor Starinov are still on Russian soil. That makes me a
message bearer at best. I’m afraid there’s not a hell of a lot I can do
for you.”
“If you hang up on me, Mr. Rockwell, my next call will be to
Atlanta and then to London. I’ll tell CNN and the BBC what’s
happening. I doubt they will share your cavalier attitude.”
“Jesus, buddy, don’t do that! Listen, the best I can
do is call Gordo and tell him what’s going on. If they’re on British
soil, I have no jurisdiction. Britain is our friend and friends don’t
poke around in other friends’ garbage cans. We can relay the message and
ask for cooperation, but I can’t even ask for any sort of rescue team to be
sent in. They have to offer it.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Union Jack’s going to have a hell of a bad press day when
the bodies are found.”
“Your job, sir, is to avoid having any bodies in the first
place!”
Rockwell Marshall sighed. “Let me conference in Gordon
Wilson, our ambassador in London. Maybe he can get us some traction.”
The line went silent and Vadim sighed. He put his
finger over the “disconnect” button, ready to hang up and dial Atlanta.
Surely the free press would care more about innocent people about to be
murdered than cold-hearted bureaucratic cogs whose only business was to sweep
up murder, not prevent it. But even the American press couldn’t bring
down a foreign prime minister, not single-handedly—his plan still needed the
official channels in order to work.
In his pocket, he caressed the glass that shielded Marya’s
image from his fingerprints and his tears.
Three minutes later, the line clicked back to life.
The undersecretary to the American ambassador to Britain had managed to drag
his boss out of a dinner meeting and slip a phone into his hand. “Rocko,”
a deep voice boomed. “How’s the caviar?”
Rockwell Marshall laughed. “Not bad, Gordo—a hell of a
lot better than fish and chips. Listen, buddy, we have a problem.
I’m on the line with Mr. Vadim Primakov, director of the Bureau of Classified
Intelligence of the Russian Federation.”
Gordon Wilson paused, leaving a palpable chill on the
line. “Yes?”
“Gordo, there’s a hostage situation in London. Maxim
Starinov has two American women and one Russian man held prisoner.
They’re under duress, traveling without passports.”
Wilson gulped audibly. “Starinov’s here?”
“He’s headed for the Bank of England. He’s after some
old account, something hidden during World War I.”
Vadim cleared his throat. “If I may add to that, sir,
one of your citizens is being forced to divulge the account password.
Maxim will kill her, and her sister, once he’s opened it.”
“Holy hell,” Wilson said. “Rocko, this is
serious. Who else knows about this?”
“Mr. Primakov spoke to the governor of the Bank of England,
but no one else.”
“And did the bank’s governor speak to the British PM?”
“How the hell do I know? I’m sitting here rotting in
Moscow. That’s why we need you, Gordo.”
Wilson exhaled. “Hold on. Let me see if I can
get the prime minister on the line. If the governor of the bank did his
job, Davies already knows everything.”
Vadim sat through one more connection, waiting for the
chance to plead his case. This time the wait was much shorter. The
prime minister of Britain, Steven Davies, acknowledged him last, after
cordially greeting the two American ambassadors. Londoners, Vadim knew,
feared and resented the wealthy Russians who owned much of their city.
“Good evening, Mr. Primakov,” Davies said in a cultured Eton
accent. “I am indeed aware that you spoke with Algernon Perry, the
governor of the Bank of England. You told him Prime Minister Starinov was
coming to claim the Tsar’s account. This is an irregular form of
diplomatic contact, to be sure, but not illegal.”
Vadim took a deep breath and crossed himself. “I told
you Starinov was coming, but I didn’t tell you he brought two kidnapped
American citizens and one of my Russian agents. He’ll kill them when he
has what he wants.”
The line fell quiet for the space of a breath. “Are
you sure he’ll do it on British soil?” Davies asked.
Vadim clenched his fists, even though he knew no one could
see him. “Is that all you care about? Who is responsible for
cleaning up the mess? How about preventing the mess in the first
place? Did that ever occur to you?”
Davies sniffed. “You elected the man. What he
does is not my business until he does it in my backyard.”
“But he
is
in your backyard! He is going to
murder three innocent people!”
The British prime minister sighed. “Even if Starinov
is traveling incognito, he is still a head of state. I cannot pull him
over like a common criminal and risk an incident. Until he commits a
crime on British soil that I can prove without a doubt, I’m afraid I can’t help
you, gentlemen.”
July 2012
London, England
“I think I know what it is,” Natalie said.
“Nat, you’ve got that weird look in your eyes. Talk to
us.”
It was all coming together. Thoughts and images shot
through her mind like fireworks, and it was all she could do to grasp their
burning, sparkling essence before they vanished into the black.
Alexei, Nicholas’s son and heir, was born in 1904. No
little boy could have been more loved. To Alexandra, his birth was proof
that God heard her prayers. The only thing most Russians expected of her
as Tsarina was to produce an heir, and after ten years and four daughters, she
finally fulfilled their expectations. The boy was cherished by his
all-powerful father, fierce mother, and four adoring older sisters. They
called him “God’s gift.”
What the world didn’t know was that Alexei was ill.
Every single day the boy lived and breathed was a gift, one that might not be
repeated. He suffered from hemophilia—at that time, an incurable disease
that doomed him to an early death. Nicholas, Alexandra, and the girls
kept Alexei’s hemophilia a secret, so most of the Imperial court never knew how
fragile the boy’s hold on life really was.
Her brain began to thrum with the soft whir of a mental
photo album—snapshots she remembered of Alexandra and Alexei. In most of
them, Alexandra’s eyes were lifeless and helpless, staring back at the camera
only because she didn’t have the energy to turn away and hide her pain. Hemophilia
was a mother’s nightmare. How do you raise a healthy boy when everything
that could make him happy might kill him? Still, God had answered
Alexandra’s prayers by putting Alexei on the earth in the first place. If
there were anything the family would have wished to commemorate, Natalie knew
it would have been their own private miracle.