"I don't like this."

Lord stood and walked to the wall table where the velvet bag lay. He slid the egg inside. "I don't either, Akilina. But we have no choice. If there are direct Romanov heirs still alive, the Russian government needs to know that. We can't govern our lives with what Rasputin said decades ago."

"But we have no idea where to look."

"Publicity might bring any descendants of Alexie and Anastasia out into the open. DNA testing can easily weed the real thing from frauds."

"We were told to do this alone."

"We're the eagle and the raven, right? So we can set the rules."

"I don't think we can. I believe that we must find the tsar's heirs as the starets starets predicted." predicted."

Lord leaned against the table. "The Russian people need the truth. Why is openness and honesty so foreign a concept to you folks? I think we should let your government and the U.S. State Department handle this. I'm going to tell the guy from Moscow everything."

She was uneasy about the course Lord was about to take. She preferred anonymity, the protection that a city of hundreds of thousands could provide. But maybe he was right. Perhaps the proper authorities should be alerted and something done before the Tsarist Commission selected Stefan Baklanov, or anyone else, as the next Tsar of All Russia.

"My job was to find anything that might affect Baklanov's claim. I think this definitely qualifies. The man I work for needs to know what we know. There's a lot at stake here, Akilina."

"Perhaps your career?"

Lord went silent for a moment. "Perhaps."

She wanted to ask more, but decided not to. It was obvious he'd made up his mind and he did not look the sort to change it. She would just have to trust that he knew what he was doing.

"How will you find me after you leave the consulate?" she asked.

He lifted one of a brochures stacked with several others. It was a colorful pamphlet with pictures of a zebra and tiger on the front.

"The zoo stays open till seven PM. PM. I'll meet you there. At the Lion House. Your English is good enough to get you there. If I'm not there by six, go to the police and tell them everything. Ask for a U.S. State Department representative to be called. The man I work for is Taylor Hayes. He's in Moscow with the commission. Have the American representatives get in touch with him. Explain it all. When you call at three thirty, unless I personally come on the phone and speak with you, don't believe a word you are being told. a.s.sume the worst and do as I say. All right?" I'll meet you there. At the Lion House. Your English is good enough to get you there. If I'm not there by six, go to the police and tell them everything. Ask for a U.S. State Department representative to be called. The man I work for is Taylor Hayes. He's in Moscow with the commission. Have the American representatives get in touch with him. Explain it all. When you call at three thirty, unless I personally come on the phone and speak with you, don't believe a word you are being told. a.s.sume the worst and do as I say. All right?"

She didn't like what she was hearing and told him so.

"I understand," Lord said. "Vitenko seemed okay. And we are in San Francisco, not Moscow. But we have to be realistic. If this is something more than we've been led to believe, I doubt we'll see each other again."

THIRTY-FIVE.

2:30 PM.

The Russian consulate was located on a trendy street west of the financial district, not far from Chinatown and the opulence of n.o.b Hill. The consulate, a red-brown sandstone two-story with an end turret, sat on the corner of a busy intersection. Balconies lined with richly scrolled metal bal.u.s.trades adorned the upper floor. The roof was trimmed in a cast-iron cresting.

Lord was deposited out front by a taxi. A cool fog ebbed inland from the nearby ocean and sent a shiver down his spine. He paid the driver, then followed a brick path to a granite stoop. Twin marble lions guarded the entrance. A bronze placard attached to the stone announced, CONSULATE OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION CONSULATE OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION.

He entered a foyer of golden oak paneling, elaborate statuary, and mosaic flooring. A uniformed guard directed him upstairs to the second floor, where Filip Vitenko waited.

Vitenko shook his hand and offered him a seat in one of two brocaded armchairs. "I am so glad you decided to cooperate with us, Mr. Lord. My government will be pleased."

"I have to say, Mr. Vitenko, I'm uncomfortable with even being here. But I thought I'd do what I could."

"I mentioned your reluctance to my superiors in Moscow, but they a.s.sured me nothing would be done to pressure your a.s.sistance. They understand fully what you've experienced and are sorry for your misfortunes while in Russia."

Vitenko reached for a pack of cigarettes, surely the source of the bitter odor that permeated the room. His host offered one, but Lord declined.

"I, too, wish I didn't enjoy the habit so much." Vitenko balanced the filter end in a long silver holder and lit the tip. Thick smoke curled upward.

"Who is it I'll be speaking with?" Lord asked.

"A representative of the government in the Justice Ministry. He knew Artemy Bely. Arrest warrants are being prepared for Feliks Orleg and several others. This man is spearheading that action. More facts, though, could help seal the case against these criminals."

"Has the Tsarist Commission been warned?"

"The chairman is aware of what is happening, but no public announcement is to be made, as I am sure you can understand. This would do nothing but undermine the investigative process. Our political situation is most fragile, and the commission's deliberations are at a critical juncture."

He was starting to relax. The situation appeared nonthreatening, and he noticed nothing in Vitenko's words or actions that caused alarm.

The phone on the desk sprang to life with a shrill ring. Vitenko answered in Russian and directed that the call be placed through. He replaced the receiver and pushed another b.u.t.ton on the console. A voice came through the speakerphone.

"Mr. Lord. I am Maxim Zubarev. I work within the Justice Ministry in Moscow. I trust your day has been fine."

He wondered how the caller knew he understood the language, but he a.s.sumed Vitenko had pa.s.sed the information along. "So far, Mr. Zubarev. You're up late."

A chuckle crackled through the speaker. "It is the middle of the night here in Moscow. But this is most important. When you turned up in San Francisco, we breathed a sigh of relief. We were afraid the men who were after you may have succeeded."

"I understand they were actually after Artemy."

"Artemy was working for me, making discreet inquiries. I feel somewhat responsible. But he wanted to help. I failed to realize the reach of the men involved with this treason, and my heart aches over that failure."

He decided to try to learn what he could. "Has the commission been compromised?"

"We are not sure at this point. But we suspect that is so. It is our hope the corruption has not run too deep and may be caught in time. The original belief was that unanimity would prevent this type of abuse, but I am afraid that the requirement only heightened the extent of any bribery that may have developed."

"I work for Taylor Hayes. He is an American lawyer with extensive ties to foreign business investment in Russia-"

"I am familiar with Mr. Hayes."

"Could you contact him and let him know my whereabouts."

"Of course. But could you tell me why you are in San Francisco and why you accessed the safe-deposit box at the Commerce and Merchants Bank?"

He leaned back in the chair. "I'm not sure you would believe me if I told you."

"Why not let me be the judge of your sanity?"

"I am looking for Alexie and Anastasia Romanov."

There was a long pause from the other end. Vitenko gave him a surprised look.

"Could you explain, Mr. Lord?" the voice said through the speaker.

"It appears that two Romanov children escaped Yekaterinburg and were brought to this country by Felix Yussoupov. He was fulfilling a prophecy laid down by Rasputin in 1916. I found written confirmation of that in the Moscow archives."

"What evidence do you have to support this?"

Before he could answer, the wail of a siren seeped in from outside as an emergency vehicle pa.s.sed on the street below. Not something he usually paid much attention to, except that the same siren could be heard through the speakerphone.

The implications came in an instant.

He shot to his feet and bolted from the room.

Vitenko called out his name.

He yanked open the door and was met by Droopy's smiling face. Standing behind him was Feliks Orleg. Droopy slammed a fist into his face. He staggered back toward Vitenko's desk. Blood gushed out his nostrils. The room blinked in and out.

Orleg rushed forward and pounded him.

He slumped to the parquet floor. Somebody said something, but he could no longer register the words.

He fought the feeling, but blackness enveloped him.

THIRTY-SIX.

Lord awoke. He was strapped to the same chair he'd been sitting in while talking to Vitenko, duct tape now holding his arms and legs, another piece slapped over his mouth. His nose ached, and blood stained his sweater and jeans. He could still see, but his right eye was swollen, and the images of the three men standing before him were blurred.

"Wake up, Mr. Lord."

He focused hard on the man who was speaking. Orleg. Talking Russian.

"You certainly understand me. I would suggest you acknowledge whether you hear me or not."

He lightly shook his head.

"Good. So nice to see you again here, in America, land of opportunity. Such a wonderful place, no?"

Droopy stepped forward and rammed a fist between Lord's legs. The pain electrified his spine and brought tears to his eyes. The tape over his mouth deadened his scream. Each breath wheezed from a desperate attempt to suck air through his aching nostrils.

"f.u.c.king ch.o.r.n.ye, ch.o.r.n.ye," Droopy said.

He reared back to strike again, but Orleg grabbed his fist. "Enough. He'll be no good to any of us." Orleg pushed Droopy back toward the desk, then stepped closer. "Mr. Lord, this gentleman does not like you. On the train you sprayed his eyes with an aerosol, then in the woods you pounded his head. He would very much like to kill you and I really don't care, except that the people I work for desire some information. They have authorized me to say that your life will be spared if you cooperate."

Lord did not believe that for a second. His eyes apparently betrayed his mistrust.

"You don't believe me? Excellent. It is a lie. You are going to die. Of that we are sure. What I will say is that you can affect the manner of that death." Orleg was close and he caught the scent of cheap alcohol through the aroma of his own blood. "There are two options. A bullet to the head, which is quick and painless, or this." Orleg displayed a piece of duct tape dangling from his outstretched index finger, which he yanked free and then crumpled over Lord's broken nose.

The pain brought renewed tearing to his eyes, but it was the sudden loss of air that got his attention. With his nose and mouth sealed, his lungs quickly exhausted the remaining bits of oxygen. But not only couldn't he inhale, he couldn't exhale, either, and the skyrocketing carbon dioxide levels made consciousness strobe in and out. His eyes felt like they were about to explode. In the instant before darkness overcame him, Orleg yanked the tape from his nose.

He sucked in lungfuls of air.

Blood leaked down his throat with each breath. He couldn't spit it out, so he swallowed. He continued to breathe through his nose, savoring what until now he'd taken for granted.

"Option two is not pleasant, is it?" Orleg said.

If it was possible, he would have killed Feliks Orleg with his bare hands. There would be no hesitation, no guilt. Again, his eyes betrayed his thoughts.

"Such hate. You would much like to kill me, would you not? Too bad you will never have the chance. As I said, you are going to die. The only question is whether it will be quick or slow. And whether Akilina Petrovna will join you."

At the mention of her name, his gaze locked tight on Orleg.

"I thought that might get your attention."

Filip Vitenko stepped up behind Orleg. "Is this not going a bit too far? There was no mention of murder when I relayed this information to Moscow."

Orleg turned to face the envoy. "Sit down and shut up."

"Who do you think you are talking to?" Vitenko barked. "I am the consul general of this station. No Moscow militsya militsya gives me orders." gives me orders."

"This one does." Orleg motioned to Droopy. "Get this idiot out of my way."

Vitenko was jerked back. The envoy quickly shrugged off Droopy's grasp and retreated across the room, saying, "I am calling Moscow. I do not believe any of this is necessary. Something is not right here."

The door leading out of the office opened and an older man with a long smashed face and crinkly eyes the color of burnished pennies stepped into the room. He wore a dark business suit.

"Consular Vitenko, there will be no calls to Moscow. Do I make myself clear?"

Vitenko hesitated a moment, considering the words. He also recognized the voice. It was the man from the speakerphone. Vitenko shrank to the corner of the office.

The new man stepped forward. "I am Maxim Zubarev. We spoke earlier. Apparently, our little ruse did not work."

Orleg backed away. This older man was obviously in charge.

"The inspector was correct when he said you are going to die. That is unfortunate, but I have no choice. What I can promise is that Miss Petrovna will be spared. We have no reason to involve her, provided that she does not know anything of relevance or possess any information. Of course, we never learned what it is you know. I am going to have Inspector Orleg remove the tape from your mouth." The older man motioned to Droopy, who promptly closed the door leading out of the office. "But there is no need to waste your voice screaming. This room is soundproof. Perhaps you and I can have an intelligent conversation. If I am convinced you are being truthful, Miss Petrovna will be left alone."

Zubarev stepped back and Orleg yanked the tape from Lord's mouth. He worked his jaw and loosened the stiffness.