"I, too, have read those explanations. But the fact remains Rasputin could affect the tsarevich. And he apparently foretold his own death weeks in advance, along with what would happen if royalty killed him. He also prophesied a resurrection. The one Felix Yussoupov implemented. Something the two of you are now part of completing."

Lord glanced over at Akilina. Her name and its linkage to him could be pure coincidence. Yet that coincidence was apparently decades in the making. Only a raven and an eagle can succeed where all fail. Only a raven and an eagle can succeed where all fail. What was going on? What was going on?

"Stefan Baklanov is unfit to rule this nation," Pashenko said. "He is a pompous fool with no ability to govern. It is only by a fluke of death that he is eligible. He will be easily manipulated, and I fear the Tsarist Commission will vest him with sweeping power-a gift the Duma will have no choice but to confirm. The people want a tsar, not a figurehead." Pashenko leveled his gaze. "Mr. Lord, I realize it is your task to support Baklanov's claim. But I believe there is a direct blood heir of Nicholas II out there. Precisely where, I have no idea. Only you and Miss Petrovna can learn that."

He sighed. "This is too much, Professor. Way too much."

A slight smile came onto the older man's face. "Understandable. But before I tell either of you any more, I am going into the kitchen to see about dinner. Why don't you talk in private. You have a decision to make."

"About what?" Akilina asked.

Pashenko rose from the chair. "Your future. And Russia's."

TWENTY-TWO.

8:40 PM.

Hayes lay back and gripped the iron bar above his head. He shoved the weights up from their cradle and sweated through ten presses, his biceps and shoulders aching from the stress. He was glad the Volkhov was equipped with a health club. Though pushing sixty, he was determined to surrender nothing to time. There was no reason he couldn't live another forty years. And he needed that time. There was so much to do, and only now was he in a position to succeed. After Stefan Baklanov's coronation, he'd be able to work at will and do what he wanted. He was already eyeing a lovely chalet in the Austrian Alps, a place where he could enjoy the outdoors, hunt, fish, and be the lord of his own manor. The thought was intoxicating. More than enough motivation to keep him moving forward, no matter what the task.

He finished another set of presses, grabbed a towel and patted moisture from his brow. He then left the exercise room and headed for the elevators.

Where was Lord? Why hadn't he called in? He'd told Orleg earlier that Lord may now doubt him. But he was not convinced. It could be that Lord a.s.sumed the hotel phones were being monitored. Lord knew enough about Russian paranoia to know how easy it would be for either the government or a private group to accomplish that task. That might explain why he hadn't heard from Lord since his abrupt departure from Felix Orleg's office. But he could have called the firm in Atlanta and arranged for contact. Yet a check there not an hour before had revealed no calls had come through.

What a mess.

Miles Lord was becoming a real problem.

He stepped off the elevator into a wood-paneled lobby on the sixth floor. Every floor had one, a sitting area with magazines and newspapers. Filling two leather chairs were Brezhnev and Stalin. He was scheduled to meet with them and the rest of the Secret Chancellory in two hours at a villa south of town, so he wondered about their presence here and now.

"Gentlemen. To what do I owe this honor?"

Stalin stood. "There is a problem that requires action. We must talk, and you could not be located by telephone."

"As you can see, I was working up a sweat."

"Might we go to your room?" Brezhnev asked.

He led the way past the dezhurnaya, dezhurnaya, who did not look up from her magazine. When they were inside his room with the door locked, Stalin said, "Mr. Lord was located earlier at the circus. Our men tried to intercept him. One was disabled by Lord, the other by men who were apparently likewise searching. Our man had to kill his captor to escape." who did not look up from her magazine. When they were inside his room with the door locked, Stalin said, "Mr. Lord was located earlier at the circus. Our men tried to intercept him. One was disabled by Lord, the other by men who were apparently likewise searching. Our man had to kill his captor to escape."

"Who interfered?" Hayes asked.

"That is the problem. It is time you learn some things." Brezhnev sat forward in the chair. "There has long been speculation that some of the imperial family may have survived the death sentence the Soviets imposed in 1918. Your Mr. Lord came across some interesting material in the Protective Papers, information that we had not been privy to. We thought the matter at first serious, but containable. Now, such is not the case. The man Mr. Lord made contact with in Moscow is Semyon Pashenko. He is a professor of history at the university. But he also heads a group dedicated to tsarist restoration."

"How could that threaten what we have in motion?" Hayes asked.

Brezhnev sat back and Hayes took him in.

Vladimir Kulikov represented a large coalition of the country's new rich, the lucky few who'd managed to turn a tremendous profit since the fall of the Soviet Union. A short and serious man, his face was weather-beaten-like a peasant's, Hayes had often thought-his nose beaklike, the hair short, spa.r.s.e, and gray. He gave off an air of superiority that often infuriated the other three in the Secret Chancellory.

The new rich were not particularly liked by the military or the government. Most were ex-party officials blessed with a web of connections-clever men who manipulated a chaotic system to their personal advantage. None of them worked hard. And many of the American businessmen Hayes represented financed them.

"Until his death," Brezhnev said, "Lenin was quite interested in what happened at Yekaterinburg. Stalin likewise was consumed, so much so that he sealed every piece of paper dealing with the Romanovs in the state archives. He then killed or banished to the camps anyone with knowledge. His fanaticism is one reason that learning anything firsthand is now so difficult. Stalin worried about a Romanov survivor, but twenty million deaths can stir up a lot of chaos, and no opposition to him ever collated. Pashenko's group is somehow connected with the possibility of one or more Romanov survivors. How, we're not sure. But there have been rumors for decades that a Romanov was hidden until the time was right to reveal his or her whereabouts."

Stalin said, "We now know that only two of the children could have survived, Alexie and Anastasia, since their bodies were never found. Of course, even if either or both survived the ma.s.sacre they would have died long ago, the boy especially because of his hemophilia. So we're talking about their children or grandchildren, if there were any. And they would be direct Romanov. Stefan Baklanov's claim would be meaningless."

Hayes saw concern on Stalin's face, but he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "There's no way any of those people survived. They were shot at close range, then bayoneted."

Stalin ran a hand along the armchair, tracing the wood carvings. "I told you at our last meeting, Americans have a hard time understanding the Russian sensitivity to fate. Here is an example. There are Soviet doc.u.ments I have seen where the KGB conducted interrogations. Rasputin predicted that Romanov blood would be resurrected. He supposedly said that an eagle and a raven would accomplish the resurrection. Your Mr. Lord found a writing that confirms this prediction." He leaned forward. "Would not Mr. Lord qualify as that raven?"

"Because he's black?"

Stalin shrugged. "As good a reason as any."

He couldn't believe a man with Stalin's reputation was trying to convince him that a scoundrel peasant from the early part of the twentieth century had somehow predicted the reemergence of the Romanov dynasty. And, even more, an African American from South Carolina was somehow a part of all that. "I may not understand your sensitivity to fate, but I fully understand common sense. This is c.r.a.p."

"Semyon Pashenko doesn't think so," Brezhnev was quick to say. "He stationed men at the circus for a reason, and he was right. Lord showed up. Our men reported that a circus performer was on the train last night. A woman. Akilina Petrovna. They even talked with her and thought nothing of it at the time, but she was led from the theater with Lord and driven off by Pashenko's men. Why, if there is nothing to this but fiction?"

A good question, Hayes silently admitted.

Stalin's face was severe. "Akilina means 'eagle' in old Russian. You speak our language. Did you know that?" means 'eagle' in old Russian. You speak our language. Did you know that?"

He shook his head.

"This is serious," Stalin said. "There are things at work we really do not fully understand. Until a few months ago, when the referendum pa.s.sed, no one seriously thought a tsarist return possible, much less one that could be used for political advantage. But now both are possible. We must stop whatever is happening immediately, before it can gestate into something more. Use the telephone number we provided, a.s.semble the men, and find your Mr. Lord."

"It's already being done."

"Do more."

"Why not do it yourself?"

"Because you have freedom of movement none of us enjoys. This task is yours to handle. It might even move beyond our borders."

"Orleg is looking for Lord right now."

"Perhaps a police bulletin regarding the Red Square shooting could multiply the number of eyes," Brezhnev said. "A policeman was killed. The militsya militsya would be anxious to find the gunman. They might even solve our problem with a well-placed shot." would be anxious to find the gunman. They might even solve our problem with a well-placed shot."

TWENTY-THREE.

Lord said, "I'm sorry about what happened to your parents."

Akilina had been sitting still, eyes down, since Pashenko had left the room.

"My father wanted to be with his son. He intended on marrying the mother, but to emigrate you must secure permission of your parents-an absurd Soviet rule that stopped anyone from leaving. My grandmother, of course, gave her consent, but my grandfather had been missing since World War Two."

"Yet your father still had to have his okay?"

She nodded. "He was never declared dead. None of the missing ever were. No father, no permission, no visa. The repercussions came fast. My father was dropped from the circus and not allowed to perform anywhere. It was all he knew how to do."

"Why didn't you see them the last few years?"

"Neither could be tolerated. All my mother could see was another woman who'd birthed her ex-husband's baby. All he could see was somebody who'd left him for another man. Their duty was to endure the situation for the collective good." The resentment was clear now. "They sent me to my grandmother. I hated them at first for doing it, but as I got older I simply could not stand to be around either of them, so I stayed away. They died within a few months of each other. Simple flu that became pneumonia. I often wonder if my fate will be the same. When I can no longer please the crowds, where will I end up?"

He didn't know what to say.

"It is hard for Americans to understand how things were. How they still are, to some extent. You could not live where you wanted, do what you wanted. Our choices were made for us early in life."

He knew what she was referring to, the raspredeleniye. raspredeleniye. Distribution. A decision made at age sixteen as to what a person was to do with the rest of his or her life. Those with clout possessed a choice. Those without took what was available. Those in disfavor did what they were told. Distribution. A decision made at age sixteen as to what a person was to do with the rest of his or her life. Those with clout possessed a choice. Those without took what was available. Those in disfavor did what they were told.

"Party members' children were always looked after," she said. "They got the best a.s.signments in Moscow. That was where everyone wanted to be."

"Except you?"

"I hated it. There was nothing but misery here for me. But I was compelled to return. My talents were needed by the state."

"You didn't want to perform?"

"Did you know what you wanted to do for the rest of your life at age sixteen?"

He silently conceded her point.

"Several of my friends chose suicide. Far preferable to spending the rest of your life at the Arctic Circle or in some remote Siberian village doing something you despise. I had a friend from school who wanted to be a doctor. She was an excellent student, but lacked the requisite party affiliation to be selected for university. Others of far less ability were allowed to attend over her. She ended up working in a toy factory." She stared at him hard. "You are lucky, Miles Lord. When you get old or disabled, there are government benefits to help. We have no such thing. The communists spoke of the tsar and his extravagance. They were no better."

He was beginning to understand even more the Russian preference for the distant past.

"I told you on the train about my grandmother. It was all true. She was taken off one night and never seen again. She worked in a state store and watched while managers pilfered the shelves, blaming the thefts on others. She finally wrote a letter to Moscow, complaining. She was fired, her pension canceled, her work papers stamped with the badge of an informant. No one would hire her. So she took up verse. Her crime was poetry."

He tilted his head to one side. "What do you mean?"

"She liked to write about the Russian winter, hunger, and the cries of children. How the government was indifferent to common people. The local party soviet considered that a threat to national order. She became noticed-an individual rising above the community. That was her crime. She might become a rallying point for opposition. Someone who could galvanize support. So she was made to disappear. We are perhaps the only country in the world that executed its poets."

"Akilina, I can understand the hatred all of you have for the communists. But there needs to be an element of reality here. Before 1917 the tsar was a fairly inept leader who didn't necessarily care if his police killed civilians. Hundreds died on b.l.o.o.d.y Sunday in 1905 merely for protesting his policies. It was a brutal regime that used force to survive, just like the communists."

"The tsar represents a link with our heritage. One that stretches back hundreds of years. He is the embodiment of Russia."

He sat back in the chair and took a few deep breaths. He studied the fire in the hearth and listened as the wood crackled into flames. "Akilina, he wants us to go after this supposed heir, who may or may not be alive. And all because some faith-healing idiot, nearly a century ago, predicted we would."

"I want to go."

He stared at her. "Why?"

"Since we met, I have felt strange. As if it was meant that you and I would connect. There was no fear when you entered my compartment, and I never once questioned my decision to let you spend the night. Something inside told me to do it. I also knew I would see you again."

He wasn't as mystical as this attractive Russian seemed to be. "My father was a preacher. He traveled from town to town lying to people. He loved to scream the word of G.o.d, but all he did was take advantage of people's poverty and play off their fears. He was the most unholy man I ever knew. Cheated on his wife, his kids, and his G.o.d."

"But he fathered you."

"He was there when my mother conceived, but he didn't father me. I raised myself."

She motioned to her chest. "He is still inside. Whether you want to admit it or not."

No, he didn't want to admit that. At one point, years ago, he'd seriously considered changing his last name. Only his mother's pleas had stopped him. "You realize, Akilina, this could all be made up."

"For what purpose? You have wondered for days why men are trying to kill you. This professor has provided an answer."

"Let them go find this Romanov survivor themselves. They have my information."

"Rasputin said only you and I could succeed."

He shook his head. "You don't really believe that?"

"I don't know what to believe. My grandmother told me, when I was a child, that she saw good things for me in life. Maybe she was right."

Not necessarily the answer he wanted, but there was something inside nudging him forward, too. If nothing else, this so-called quest would get him out of Moscow, away from Droopy and Cro-Magnon. And he couldn't deny being fascinated by the whole thing. Pashenko was right. There were an awful lot of coincidences that had come together over the past few days. He didn't for one minute believe Gregorii Rasputin had been able to predict the future, but he was intrigued by Felix Yussoupov's involvement. The Originator, The Originator, Pashenko had called him, almost with reverence. Pashenko had called him, almost with reverence.

He recalled the man's history. Yussoupov was a bis.e.xual transvest.i.te who had murdered Rasputin out of a false belief that the fate of a nation rested on what he did. He took an almost perverse pride in his accomplishment and basked in the limelight of that foolish act for fifty years thereafter. He was another hypocritical s...o...b..at, a dangerous and malevolent fraud, like Rasputin and like Lord's own father. Yet Yussoupov was apparently involved in something that bespoke unselfishness.

"All right, Akilina. We'll do it. Why not? What else have I to do?" He glanced over at the kitchen door as Semyon Pashenko stepped back into the den.

"I just received some disturbing news," the older man said. "One of our a.s.sociates, the one who carted away the man at the circus, did not show up at the a.s.signed location with his prisoner. He's been found dead."

Droopy had escaped. Not a comforting prospect.

"I'm sorry," Akilina said. "He saved our lives."

Pashenko looked listless. "He knew the risks when he joined our Holy Band. He is not the first to die for this cause." The older man sat down in a chair, a tired look in his eyes. "And will probably not be the last."

"We've decided," Lord said, "to do it."

"I thought you might. But do not forget what Rasputin said. Twelve must die before the search is complete. Twelve must die before the search is complete."

Lord wasn't necessarily concerned about any hundred-year-old prophecy. Mystics had been wrong before. Droopy and Cro-Magnon, though, were real, their threat immediate.