"She loved him. Still does. Never will she hear a foul word about him. His followers were the same. Grover Lord was a saint to all of them."

"No one knew?"

"No one would believe. He would have simply screamed discrimination and roared from the pulpit how hard it was for a successful black man to survive."

"We were taught in school about prejudice in this country. How blacks have no chance in a white society. Is that true?"

"It was, and some say it still is. But I don't think so. I'm not saying this country is perfect; it's far from that. But it is a land of opportunity, if you take advantage of the chances."

"Did you, Miles Lord?"

He smiled. "Why do you do that?"

A curious look came to her face.

"Use my whole name," he explained.

"A habit. I meant no offense."

"Call me Miles. And to answer your question, I'd like to think I took advantage of every opportunity. I studied hard, earned everything I ever achieved."

"Your interest in my land. Did that come early in life?"

He motioned to a row of bookcases across the sunlit room. "I was always fascinated by Russia. Your history makes for great reading. A country of extremes in size, politics, weather. Att.i.tudes."

She watched him carefully as he spoke, listening to the emotion in his voice and watching his eyes.

"What happened in 1917 was so sad. The country was on the verge of a social renaissance. Poets, writers, painters, playwrights were at their peak. The press was free. Then it all died. Overnight."

"You want to be a part of our revival, don't you?"

He smiled. "Who would have ever thought a kid from South Carolina would be in this position?"

"Are you close with your brothers and sisters?"

He shrugged. "We're all scattered across the country. Too busy to take the time for a visit."

"Are they successful?"

"One's a doctor, two are schoolteachers, another's an accountant."

"Sounds like your father did not do so bad."

"He did nothing. My mother pushed us all."

Though she knew little about Grover Lord, she thought she understood. "Maybe his life was the example each of you needed."

He scoffed. "An example I could live without."

"Is he why you never married?"

He moved to one of the windows and glanced out at the sunny morning. "Not really. Just too busy to take the time."

The rumble of traffic could be heard in the distance. "I never married, either. I wanted to perform. Marriage in Russia can be difficult. We are not the land of opportunity."

"No one special in your life?"

For a moment she debated telling him about Tusya, but decided against it, saying only, "No one of importance."

"Do you really believe that restoring a tsar is the answer to all your country's troubles?"

She was glad he didn't press the point. Maybe he'd sensed her hesitancy. "Russians have always been led by somebody. If not a tsar, then a premier. What does it matter who leads, as long as the leadership is wise?"

"Apparently somebody wants to stop whatever it is we've become involved with. Perhaps they see a restored monarchy as a way to seize control?"

"They are thousands of miles away now."

"Thank G.o.d for that."

She said, "I keep thinking about the Makses. That old man and his nephew died for what they believed. Can it be that important?"

He stepped to the bookshelves and slid down one of the volumes. She noticed the photograph of Rasputin on the cover, a menancing shot of a bearded face and piercing eyes. "This opportunist may well hold the key to the future of your nation. I always thought him a fraud who had the good fortune to be in the right place at the right time. That shelf is lined with books about him. I've read about him for years, never believing him anything more than what my own father was."

"And now?"

He heaved a deep breath. "I don't know what to think. This whole thing is incredible. Felix Yussoupov somehow secreted away two Romanov children to America." He motioned to another shelf. "I have several biographies of Yussoupov. The portrait they paint is not one of a clever manipulator. More an idealistic bungler who couldn't even murder a man right."

She stepped close and took the book from his hands, staring deep into Rasputin's eyes on the cover. "They haunt, even now."

"My father used to say that divine mystery is impossible to decipher. I used to think that was simply a clever way to keep the faithful loyal-keep them coming back to hear more. Now I'm hoping he was wrong."

Her gaze caught his. "It's not good to hate your father."

"I never said I hated him."

"You didn't have to."

"I resent what he did. The mess he left behind. The hypocrisy."

"But maybe, like Rasputin, your father's legacy is more than you realize. Perhaps you are that legacy. The raven."

"You really believe all this, don't you?"

In the quiet of the warm apartment she was beginning to relax. "I only know that from the moment you entered my compartment on the train I have felt different. It's hard to explain. I am a woman from a simple family. My grandmother was murdered, my parents' lives destroyed. I have watched suffering all my life and wondered what could I do about it? Now maybe I can help change it all."

Lord reached into his pocket and withdrew the bra.s.s key that had come from the metal box in the grave. The initials C.M.B. C.M.B. 716 were clear. "That's provided we find h.e.l.l's Bell and figure out what this key opens." 716 were clear. "That's provided we find h.e.l.l's Bell and figure out what this key opens."

"I have confidence we will do both."

He shook his head. "I'm glad one of us does."

THIRTY-TWO.

MOSCOW, 4:20 PM.

Hayes studied Stefan Baklanov. The Heir Apparent was perched at a silk-draped table facing the seventeen members of the Tsarist Commission. The Grand Hall in the Palace of Facets was full of spectators and press, the still air laced by a blue fog from commissioners who seemed to continually enjoy tobacco in one form or another.

Baklanov was dressed in a dark suit and appeared unfazed by either the length or breadth of the commission's questions. This was his last appearance before a vote on the three finalists was taken in the morning. Nine names had been placed in nomination. Three were given no chance. Two were questionable. Four were serious contenders based on blood affiliation and compliance with the Succession Act of 1797. The initial round of debate had centered on marriages since 1918 and the dilution of bloodlines that may have once been strong. Each of the nine candidates had been given time before the commission to plead his respective case and answer questions. Hayes had arranged for Baklanov to go last.

"I keep thinking of my ancestor," Baklanov said into the microphone, his voice low, but strong. "In this chamber of the Facets Palace, boyars convened in January 1613 to choose a new tsar. The country was in turmoil from a dozen years of having no one on the throne. That group set precise conditions, just as you have done. After much debate, and many rejections, they unanimously chose a gentle sixteen-year-old-Michael Romanov. Interesting that he was found in the Ipatiev Monastery, the place where Romanov rule began and that-three hundred years later-another Ipatiev house, the House of Special Purpose, was where Romanov rule ended." Baklanov paused. "At least for a time."

"But was not Michael selected," one of commissioners asked, "because he agreed to consult with the boyars before any decisions would be made? In essence making the boyar Duma a national a.s.sembly? Is that your plan?"

Baklanov shifted in his chair, but his face remained open and friendly. "That is not the only reason my ancestor was selected. Before voting, the a.s.sembly took a crude poll and found that there was widespread popular support for Michael Romanov's selection. The same is true here, Commissioner. All of the national polls indicate the people support my restoration. But to answer your question directly, Michael Romanov lived in different times.

"Russia has tried democracy and we can see each day the results. We are not a nation accustomed to distrusting its government. Democracy breeds constant challenge, and our history has not prepared us for that. Here, the people expect government to involve itself in their lives. Western society preaches the opposite.

"This country has seen no greatness since 1917. Our empire was once the largest on Earth, but now our existence is conditioned on the generosity of foreign nations. That sickens me. We spent nearly eighty years building bombs and equipping armies while our nation crumbled. It is time to reverse that."

Hayes knew that Baklanov was playing to the cameras. The sessions were being fed live nationwide and worldwide-CNN, CNBC, BBC, and Fox all were providing Western feeds. The answer was nearly perfect. Baklanov had dodged the real inquiry, but used the opportunity to make a global point. This man may not know how to govern, but he sure as h.e.l.l knew how to pander.

Another commissioner asked, "Michael's father, Filaret, if I recall my history, actually ran the country for much of his son's reign. Michael was nothing more than a puppet. Is that a worry this nation should have from you? Will others control your decisions?"

Baklanov shook his head. "I a.s.sure you, Commissioner, I will require no one to make my decisions. But that is not to say that I will not utilize my state council for advice and wisdom. I fully recognize that an autocrat must have the support of both his government and his people to survive."

Another excellent answer, Hayes thought.

"And what of your sons? Are they prepared for the responsibility?" the same commissioner asked.

The man was pressing. He was one of the remaining three who had not been fully purchased, the price of his loyalty still being negotiated. But Hayes had been a.s.sured only a few hours ago that, by tomorrow, unanimity would be a certainty.

"My sons are ready. The oldest understands his responsibility and is prepared to become tsarevich. I have trained him for that since birth."

"You were sure of restoration?"

"My heart always told me that, one day, the Russian people would want their tsar returned. He was yanked from them in violence, his throne stolen at gunpoint. An ill deed cannot bring honor. Never has good grown from evil. This nation goes in search of yesterday, and we can only hope and pray that failure will teach us success. None of us is born to ourselves. This is particularly true of those blessed with imperial roots. The throne of this nation is a Romanov throne, and I am the closest male Romanov to Nicholas II still alive. Great honors beget great burdens. I am prepared to shoulder those for my people."

Baklanov savored a sip of water from the gla.s.s before him. No commissioner interrupted the moment. He tabled the gla.s.s and said, "Michael Romanov was a reluctant tsar in 1613, but I make no apologies for the fact that I wish to rule this nation. Russia is my Motherland. I believe all nations have a gender, and ours is distinctly feminine. It is this strong femininity that accounts for our fertility. One of Faberge's biographers, though an Englishman, put it best: Give her the start, the seed, and she mothers it in her own peculiar way to quite astonishing results. Give her the start, the seed, and she mothers it in her own peculiar way to quite astonishing results. It is my destiny to see those results mature. Every seed knows its time. I know mine. The people can be forced to fear, but not to love. I understand that. I do not wish for Russia to fear me. I desire no imperial conquest or world domination. Our greatness, in the years ahead, will come from providing our people with a way of life that a.s.sures health and prosperity. It matters not that we can annihilate the world a thousand times over. What should matter is that we can feed our people, cure their sickness, provide for their comfort, and a.s.sure a prosperous nation for generations." It is my destiny to see those results mature. Every seed knows its time. I know mine. The people can be forced to fear, but not to love. I understand that. I do not wish for Russia to fear me. I desire no imperial conquest or world domination. Our greatness, in the years ahead, will come from providing our people with a way of life that a.s.sures health and prosperity. It matters not that we can annihilate the world a thousand times over. What should matter is that we can feed our people, cure their sickness, provide for their comfort, and a.s.sure a prosperous nation for generations."

The words were delivered with the kind of emotion that translated easily in both audio and video. Hayes was even more impressed.

"I will not say that Nicholas II was without fault. He was a stubborn autocrat who lost sight of his purpose. We know now that his wife clouded his judgment and that the tragedy with his son made them both vulnerable. Alexandra was a blessed woman in many ways, but she was foolish, too. She allowed herself to be influenced by Rasputin, a man nearly all despised as an opportunist. History is a good teacher. I will not repeat those mistakes. This nation cannot afford weak leadership. Our streets must be safe, our legal and governmental inst.i.tutions stocked with truth and confidence. Only then can this country move forward."

"It sounds, sir," one of the commissioners said, "as if you have already chosen yourself tsar."

The question came from the same aggravating commissioner.

"My birth made that choice, Commissioner. I have no say in the matter. The throne of Russia is a Romanov throne. That is an indisputable fact."

"But did not Nicholas renounce the throne for himself and his son, Alexie?" came a question from the panel.

"He did for himself. But I doubt any legal scholar would conclude that he had the right to also renounce for Alexie. At the moment Nicholas abdicated in March 1917, his son became Alexie II. He possessed no right to take that throne away from Alexie. The throne is Romanov, from the bloodline of Nicholas II, and I am the nearest living male."

Hayes was pleased with the performance. Baklanov knew exactly what to say and when. He delivered his p.r.o.nouncements with enough inflection to make his point without offending.

Stefan I would make an excellent tsar.

Provided, of course, that he followed orders as well as he wanted to give them.

THIRTY-THREE.

1:10 PM.

Lord glanced over at Akilina. They were sitting on the port side of a United Airlines L1011, forty thousand feet over the Arizona desert. They'd left Atlanta at five minutes after noon and, thanks to a five-hour flight and a three-hour time difference, they would arrive in San Francisco a little after two PM. PM. Over the past twenty-four hours Lord had traveled three-quarters of the way around the globe, but he was glad to be back on U.S. soil-or over it-even if he wasn't sure what they were going to do in California. Over the past twenty-four hours Lord had traveled three-quarters of the way around the globe, but he was glad to be back on U.S. soil-or over it-even if he wasn't sure what they were going to do in California.

"Are you always so restless?" Akilina quietly asked in Russian.

"Not usually. But this isn't usual."

"I want to say something."

He heard the edge in her voice.

"I was not totally honest with you earlier . . . in the apartment."

He was perplexed.

"You asked if there had ever been anyone special in my life, and I said no. Actually, there was."