"You realize, Mr. Lord," Pashenko said, "that you were the object of the killing on Nikolskaya Prospekt four days ago, not Artemy Bely. Men are after you. Men whom I suspect already know some of what we know. These men will want to stop you."

"I a.s.sume," Lord said, "no one will know where we're going except you?"

"That's right. And it will stay that way. Only you, I, and Miss Petrovna know the details of the starting point."

"That's not entirely true. The man I work for knows of Alexandra's writing. But I don't see how he would connect any of this. And if he did, he would tell no one."

"Do you have any reason not to trust your employer?"

"I showed him that stuff two weeks ago and he never said a word about it. I don't think he even gave it much thought." He shifted in his seat. "Okay, since we've agreed to do it, how about explaining the more more you alluded to earlier." you alluded to earlier."

Pashenko sat up, emotion returning to his face. "The Originator set the search up in steps, each independent of the other. If the right person, with the right words, appeared at each step, information for the next would be provided. Only Yussoupov knew the entire plan and, if he is to be believed, he told no one.

"We now know that somewhere in the village of Starodug is the first leg. I checked after our talk a few days ago. Kolya Maks was one of Nicholas's palace guards who turned, after the revolution, to the Bolsheviks. By the time of the Romanov murders he was a member of the Ural Soviet. In the revolution's infancy, before Moscow a.s.serted dominant control, local soviets ruled their respective geographic areas. So the Ural Soviet controlled the tsar's fate far more than the Kremlin. The Ural region was staunchly anti-tsarist. They wanted Nicholas dead from the first day he set foot in Yekaterinburg."

"I recall all that," Lord said, thinking about the peace treaty Lenin had signed in March 1918 that removed Russia from World War I. "Lenin thought he was rid of the Germans. h.e.l.l, he practically begged for peace. The terms were so humiliating one of the Russian generals shot himself after the signing ceremony. Then the German amba.s.sador was a.s.sa.s.sinated in Moscow on July 6, 1918. Lenin now faced the possibility of another German invasion. So he planned to use the Romanovs as a bargaining chip, thinking the kaiser cared enough to actually want them, especially Alexandra, who was born a German-born princess."

"But the Germans did not want any Romanovs," Pashenko said. "That's when the family became a liability. So the Ural Soviet was ordered to kill them. Kolya Maks may have been part of that. He may even have been present at the execution."

"Professor, that man is surely dead," Akilina said. "Too many years have pa.s.sed."

"But it was his duty to make sure the information survived. We must a.s.sume Maks stayed faithful to his oath."

Lord was perplexed. "Why don't you just go yourself and find Maks? I understand you didn't have the name until now, but why do we have to do it?"

"The Originator made sure that only the raven and the eagle could be given the information. Even if I went, or sent someone else, the information would not be pa.s.sed on. We must respect Rasputin's prophecy. The starets starets said only you could succeed where all others fail. I, too, must stay faithful to my oath, and respect what the Originator designed." said only you could succeed where all others fail. I, too, must stay faithful to my oath, and respect what the Originator designed."

Lord searched his mind for more details about Felix Yussoupov. The family was one of the wealthiest in Russia, and Felix had only inherited the family reins when his older brother was killed in a duel. He'd been a disappointment from birth. His mother had wanted a girl and to console herself she kept him in long hair and dresses until he was five.

"Wasn't Yussoupov fascinated by Rasputin?" he asked.

Pashenko nodded. "Some biographers even suggest a h.o.m.os.e.xual link, one Rasputin may have rejected, which might have led to Yussoupov's resentment. His wife was Nicholas II's favorite niece, regarded as perhaps the most eligible young woman in Russia. He possessed a deep loyalty to Nicholas, and thought it his duty to rid the tsar of the threatening influence of Rasputin. It was a misguided belief, encouraged by other n.o.bles who resented the starets starets's position at court."

"I never regarded Yussoupov as particularly intelligent. Much more a follower than a leader."

"That may have been intentional. In fact, it is our belief that is precisely the case." Pashenko paused. "Now that you have agreed, I can tell you more of the information pa.s.sed down to me. My great-uncle and uncle both harbored their portion of the secret until death. It is the words that must be uttered to the next person in the chain, which I now believe is Kolya Maks, or his successor. He that endureth to the end shall be saved. He that endureth to the end shall be saved."

Lord thought immediately of his father. "From the gospel of Matthew."

Pashenko nodded. "Those words should gain access to the second part of the journey."

"You realize that this all could be a wild goose chase," Lord declared.

"I no longer think so. Both Alexandra and Lenin mentioned the same information. Alexandra penned her letter in 1916, describing the incident with Rasputin that the Originator independently pa.s.sed to us. Lenin, six years later, wrote what was learned from a tortured White Guardsman. He specifically noted Maks's name. No. There is something in Starodug. Something Lenin could not discover. After his stroke in 1922, Lenin more or less retired and lost his zeal. By 1924 he was dead. Four years later Stalin sealed everything, and it stayed sealed until 1991. The Romanov business, The Romanov business, Stalin called it. He forbade anyone to even speak of the imperial family. So no one ever followed Yussoupov's trail, if anyone even realized there was a trail to follow." Stalin called it. He forbade anyone to even speak of the imperial family. So no one ever followed Yussoupov's trail, if anyone even realized there was a trail to follow."

"As I recall," Lord said, "Lenin didn't necessarily consider the tsar a rallying point for opposition. By 1918 the Romanovs were discredited. 'Nicholas the b.l.o.o.d.y' and all that. The disinformation campaign the communists waged against the imperials was quite successful."

Pashenko nodded. "Some of the tsar and tsarina's writings were first published then. All Lenin's idea. That way the people could read firsthand how indifferent their royal family had become. Of course, the published material was selective and heavily edited. It was also designed to send a message abroad. Lenin hoped the kaiser might want Alexandra back. He thought perhaps dangling her fate might ensure German compliance with the peace treaty, or perhaps a way to bargain a return of Russian prisoners of war. But the Germans possessed an extensive spy network throughout Russia, particularly in the Ural region, so I imagine they knew that the entire imperial family was murdered in July 1918. Lenin was, in essence, bargaining with corpses."

"What of all the stories about the tsarina and her daughters surviving?"

"More disinformation put out by the Soviets. Lenin was unsure how the world would view the murdering of women and children. Moscow tried hard to paint what happened as a valid execution carried out in heroic fashion. So the communists invented a story that the female Romanovs were taken off and died later in a White Army battle. Lenin thought disinformation would keep the Germans guessing. Once he saw that no one cared for any Romanov, regardless of s.e.x or age, the pretense was dropped."

"Yet the disinformation remained."

Pashenko grinned. "Some of that our Holy Band must take credit for. My predecessors did an excellent job of misdirection. Part of the Originator's plan was to keep the Soviets guessing and the world wondering. Though I am not certain, I believe the entire Anna Anderson affair was a Yussoupov creation. He sent her to perpetuate a hoax, which the world readily accepted."

"Until DNA testing came along and proved her a fraud."

"But that was only recently. My guess is, Yussoupov taught her all the details she would need. The rest was her own magnificent performance."

"That was all part of this?"

"And much more, Mr. Lord. Yussoupov lived until 1967 and personally a.s.sured that his plan worked. The misinformation was not only to keep the Soviets off guard, but also to keep the surviving Romanovs in line. They could never be sure if a direct heir survived, so no one faction ever had complete control over the family. Anna Anderson played her role so well that even a lot of the Romanovs swore under oath she was Anastasia. Yussoupov was brilliant in what he conceived. After a while, pretenders emerged everywhere. There were books, movies, court fights. The deception took on a life of its own."

"All to guard the real secret."

"Correct. Since Yussoupov's death the responsibility has fallen to others, myself included, but because of Soviet travel restrictions it was difficult to a.s.sure success. Maybe G.o.d shines upon us with your appearance." Pashenko stared hard. "I am glad you decided to do this, Mr. Lord. This nation needs your service."

"I'm not sure how much service I'll be."

The older man looked at Akilina. "And you, too, my dear." Pashenko sat back in the chair. "Now, a few more details. Rasputin's prophecy foretells that beasts will be involved-how, I could not begin to say. And that G.o.d will provide a way to ensure the righteousness of the claim. This could be a reference to DNA testing. It can surely be used here to verify the authenticity of any person you locate. This is not Lenin's or Yussoupov's day. Science can help."

The apartment's serenity had calmed his nerves, and Lord was becoming too tired to think. Also, the aroma of cabbage and potatoes was inviting. "Professor, I'm starved."

"Of course. The men who brought you are preparing everything." Pashenko turned toward Akilina. "While we eat, I will send them to your apartment to retrieve what you might need. I would recommend securing your pa.s.sport, because there is no indication where this quest might lead. Also, we have contacts within the organization that owns the circus. I will arrange a leave that will not jeopardize your career. If this turns out to be nothing, at least your job will be waiting."

"Thank you."

"What about your things, Mr. Lord?"

"I'll give the men my hotel key. They can bring my suitcase. I also need to get a message to my boss, Taylor Hayes."

"I would not recommend that. The prophecy speaks of secrecy and I believe we should respect that."

"But Taylor might be able to help."

"You require no help."

He was too tired to argue. Besides, Pashenko was probably right. The fewer who knew his destination, the better. He could always call Hayes later.

"You can sleep here tonight in safety," Pashenko said, "and start your quest tomorrow."

TWENTY-FOUR.

SAt.u.r.dAY, OCTOBER 16.

4:45 PM.

Lord drove the battered Lada down a stretch of twolane highway. Pashenko had provided the vehicle along with a full tank of gas and five thousand U.S. dollars. Lord had asked for American currency rather than rubles since Pashenko had been right last night-there was no telling where this journey would lead. He still thought the entire venture a waste of time, but he felt 1,000 percent better now that he was five hours south of Moscow, motoring through the wooded terrain of southwestern Russia.

He was dressed in jeans and a sweater, Pashenko's men having retrieved his suitcase from the Volkhov without a problem. He was rested, and a hot shower and shave had done wonders. Akilina looked refreshed as well. Pashenko's men had obtained her clothes along with her pa.s.sport and exit visa. To facilitate their extensive travel schedule, all of the circus performers were issued visas with no expiration date.

She'd sat quiet for most of the trip. She wore an olive mock turtleneck shirt, jeans, and suede pea coat-an outfit, she explained, bought in Munich the year before. Dark colors and a conservative tone fit her well. High lapels accented her thin shoulders and threw off an Annie Hall look that Lord liked.

Through the windshield he saw fields and forests. The soil was black, nothing like the red clay of northern Georgia. Potatoes were the region's claim to fame. He recalled with amus.e.m.e.nt the tale of Peter the Great, who'd decreed that the strange plant be grown by peasants of the area. Apples of the earth, Apples of the earth, Peter had called them. But potatoes were foreign to Russia and the tsar failed to say which part of the plant needed to be harvested. When, in desperation, they tried to eat every part except the root, the peasants became ill. Angry and disappointed, they burned the entire crop. It was only when someone tasted the charred inside of the root that the plant acquired a home. Peter had called them. But potatoes were foreign to Russia and the tsar failed to say which part of the plant needed to be harvested. When, in desperation, they tried to eat every part except the root, the peasants became ill. Angry and disappointed, they burned the entire crop. It was only when someone tasted the charred inside of the root that the plant acquired a home.

Their route took them through several dismal unhealthy meccas for metal smelting and tractor production. The air was a bitter smog of carbon and acid, everything filthy with soot. The whole area had once been a battleground. Pagans resisting Christians, princes vying for power, Tatars seeking conquest. A place where, as one writer had said, Russian earth drank Russian blood. Russian earth drank Russian blood.

Starodug was a slender strip of a town oozing an imperial feel from colonnaded shops and wood and brick buildings. White-barked birch trees lined the streets, its center dominated by a three-spired church topped with midnight-blue onion domes and gold stars that glistened in the last rays of a setting sun. A sickening feeling of decay permeated the place-clear from structures teetering in disrepair, pavement crumbling, and green s.p.a.ce in need of attention.

"Any suggestions on finding Kolya Maks?" he asked Akilina as they idled down one of the streets.

She motioned ahead. "I don't think that will be a problem."

He stared out the dirty windshield and saw a sign for the Kafe Snezhinki-cakes, meat pies, and ice cream noted as specialties on the storefront sign. The establishment consumed the ground floor of a three-story brick building with gaily carved window frames. Also on the sign he saw-IOSIF MAKS, OWNER.

"That's unusual," he said.

Russians didn't generally advertise ownership. He glanced around and noticed few other store signs, none with names. He recalled Nevsky Prospekt in St. Petersburg and the Arabat section of Moscow. Both trendy spots where hundreds of high-priced boutiques lined the street for miles in a commercial can-can. Only a few of those shops displayed prices, much less ownership.

"An omen of the times, perhaps," Akilina said. "Capitalism creeping upon us. Even here, in rural Russia." A smile noted that she was kidding.

He parked the Lada and they climbed out into fading darkness. He led the way back to the Kafe Snezhinki. The sidewalk was empty except for a dog chasing a fleeing magpie. Few retail shops were lit. Outside of metropolitan regions Russian stores were only rarely open on the weekend. More remnants, he knew, of a Bolshevik past.

The cafe was spa.r.s.ely decorated. Four rows of tables dotted the center. Gla.s.s cases held the day's food a.s.sortment. An aroma of bitter coffee filled the air. Three people sat at one table, a solo at another. No one seemed to pay them any attention, though he wondered how many black men appeared here on a given day.

The man behind the gla.s.s cases was short and stout with bushy copper hair and a s.h.a.ggy mustache and beard to match. He wore an ap.r.o.n smeared with an a.s.sortment of stains and, as he approached, a smell of feta cheese came with him. He was wringing his hands dry with a dirty towel.

"You Iosif Maks?" Lord asked in Russian.

A strange look came back.

"Where are you from?" the man said in Russian.

He decided the less information the better. "Why does that matter?"

"Because you're in my store asking questions. Talking like a Russian."

"Then I a.s.sume you're Iosif Maks?"

"State your business."

The tone was gruff and unfriendly, and he wondered if the reason was prejudice or ignorance. "Look, Mr. Maks, we're not here to cause trouble. We're looking for a man named Kolya Maks. He's probably long dead, but would you know if any of his relatives still live here?"

The man's gaze was tight. "Who are you?"

"My name is Miles Lord. This is Akilina Petrovna. We've come from Moscow looking for Kolya Maks."

The big man tossed the towel aside and clasped his arms around his chest. "There are a lot of Makses living around here. I know of no Kolya."

"He would have lived here in Stalin's day, but his children or grandchildren might still be around."

"I am a Maks by my mother and have never been close with any of them."

"Then why is your last name Maks?" he quickly asked.

A fl.u.s.tered look crept onto the Russian's face. "I have no time for this. I have customers."

Akilina moved close to the gla.s.s counter. "Mr. Maks, this is important. We are in need of Kolya Maks's relatives. Could you not tell us if they live here?"

"What makes you think they live here?"

Lord heard footsteps behind him and turned as a tall policeman entered the cafe, dressed in the rural uniform of the militsya, militsya, his head covered with a blue fur his head covered with a blue fur shlapa. shlapa. He unb.u.t.toned and removed his greatcoat, then sat at one of the tables, waving at Iosif Maks. The proprietor understood and busily went about preparing a coffee. Lord moved close to the counter. The policeman made him nervous. He kept his voice low as he spoke to Maks's back. He unb.u.t.toned and removed his greatcoat, then sat at one of the tables, waving at Iosif Maks. The proprietor understood and busily went about preparing a coffee. Lord moved close to the counter. The policeman made him nervous. He kept his voice low as he spoke to Maks's back.

"He that endureth to the end shall be saved."

Maks's head swiveled around. "What does that mean?"

"You tell me."

The Russian shook his head. "Crazy American. Are you all nuts?"

"Who said I'm American?"

Maks looked at Akilina. "Why are you with this ch.o.r.n.ye ch.o.r.n.ye?"

He did not react to the derogatory remark. They needed to leave the cafe with minimal disruption. Yet there was something in Maks's eyes that contradicted his words. He wasn't sure, but the man might be sending him a message that now was not the time or the place. He decided to take a chance. "We're leaving, Mr. Maks. Any suggestions where to stay for the night?"

The proprietor finished preparing the coffee and headed around the far end for the policeman's table. He deposited the drink, then returned.

"Try the Okatyabrsky Hotel. Turn left at the corner, then three blocks toward the center of town."

"Thanks," he said.

But Maks did not return the pleasantry and retreated back behind the gla.s.s cases without saying another word. Lord and Akilina started for the exit but were forced to walk right by the policeman, who sat sipping his steaming coffee. He noticed the man's gaze linger far longer than it should have. Turning back toward the gla.s.s counter at the other side of the room, Lord saw that Iosif Maks noticed, too.