"Better, Mr. Lord?" Zubarev asked.

He said nothing.

Zubarev pulled a chair over and sat down, facing him. "Now tell me what you failed to tell me on the phone. What evidence do you have to support a conclusion that Alexie and Anastasia Romanov survived the Bolsheviks?"

"You own Baklanov, don't you?"

The older man heaved a long breath. "I see no reason why that is relevant, but in the hope that you will cooperate I will indulge you. Yes. The only thing that could stand in the way of his ascension is the reemergence of a direct bloodline to Nicholas II."

"What's the point to all this?

The older man laughed. "The point, Mr. Lord, is stability. The reinst.i.tution of a tsar could greatly affect not only my interests, but a great deal of other individuals' interests as well. Was that not your purpose for being in Moscow?"

"I had no idea Baklanov was a puppet."

"He is a willing puppet. And we are clever puppeteers. Russia will thrive under his rule, and so will we."

Zubarev casually examined the fingernails of his right hand, then looked at Lord. "We know that Miss Petrovna is here in San Francisco. She is no longer at your hotel, though. I have men looking for her now. If I find her before you tell me what I want to know, there will be no mercy. I will let them enjoy her and do as they please."

"This is not Russia," he said.

"True. But that is where she will be when all that occurs. A plane is waiting at the airport to return her. She is wanted for questioning and we have already cleared that with your customs authorities. Your FBI has even offered to a.s.sist in locating both you and her. International cooperation is such a wonderful thing, is it not?"

He knew what he had to do. He could only hope that after he failed to show at the zoo, Akilina would leave town. He was sad he would never see her again. "I'm not going to tell you a d.a.m.n thing."

Zubarev stood. "Have it your way."

As the older man left the room, Orleg slapped another strip of tape over his mouth.

Droopy stepped close and smiled.

He hoped the end would be quick, but knew that it wouldn't.

[image]

Hayes looked up from the speaker as Maxim Zubarev entered the room. He'd listened to the entire exchange with Lord from down the hall, courtesy of a room microphone.

He, Khrushchev, Droopy, and Orleg had left Moscow the previous night within hours after the call verifying Lord's location. An eleven-hour time difference had allowed them to travel nine thousand miles and arrive by the time Lord was having lunch in San Francisco. Thanks to Zubarev's government connections, police visas had been arranged for Orleg and Droopy. What Khrushchev had just told Lord was true. A call had secured the help of the FBI and customs in locating Lord and Akilina Petrovna if needed, but Hayes had declined American intervention, hoping to keep the situation confined. An easy exit from California and back to Russia for Lord and Petrovna was arranged through the State Department, few questions to be asked by Immigration at the San Francisco airport, a Russian warrant for murder the means of securing unquestioned American a.s.sistance. The idea was to contain exposure and stop whatever it was Lord was intent on finding. The problem was they still did not really know what that that was, beyond some incredible a.s.sertion that perhaps somewhere in the United States was a direct descendant of Nicholas II. was, beyond some incredible a.s.sertion that perhaps somewhere in the United States was a direct descendant of Nicholas II.

"Your Mr. Lord is a defiant man," Khrushshev said, as he closed the door.

"But why?"

Khrushchev sat. "That is the question of the day. When I left, Orleg was stripping two wires from one of the lamps. Some electricity surging through his body might loosen his tongue before we kill him."

Through the speaker Hayes heard Droopy's voice as he told Orleg to cram the plug back in the wall socket. An amplified scream that lasted fifteen seconds pierced the room.

"Maybe you might reconsider telling us what we want to know," Orleg's voice said.

There was no reply.

Another scream. This one longer.

Khrushchev reached across the desk to a candy dish and fingered a chocolate ball. He unwrapped the gold foil and popped the morsel into his mouth. "They will continue lengthening the amount of electricity until his heart gives out. It will be a painful death."

The tone was cold, but Hayes had little sympathy for Lord. The fool had placed him in a difficult situation, his irrational actions jeopardizing a lot of planning and millions of dollars. He now wanted to know everything as badly as these Russians.

Another scream rattled the speaker.

The phone on the desk buzzed and he lifted the receiver. A voice on the other end informed him that a call had come in through the switchboard downstairs for Miles Lord. The receptionist thought it important and decided to see if Mr. Lord was available to take the call.

"No," Hayes said. "Mr. Lord is in a conference right now. Put the call through to here." He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. "Shut that speaker off."

A click in his ear and a female voice asked through the phone, "Miles. Are you all right?" She spoke Russian.

"Mr. Lord is not available at the moment. He asked me to speak with you," he said.

"Where is Miles? Who are you?"

"You must be Akilina Petrovna."

"How do you know that?"

"Miss Petrovna. It is important we speak."

"I've got nothing to say."

He motioned to switch the speaker back on. A crackled scream instantly blared.

"Did you hear that, Miss Petrovna? That is Miles Lord. He's being questioned at the moment by a determined Moscow militsya. militsya. You could end his pain by simply telling us where you are and waiting there." You could end his pain by simply telling us where you are and waiting there."

Silence on the other end.

Another scream.

"Electricity is being pa.s.sed through his body. I doubt his heart can take much more."

The phone clicked dead.

He stared at the receiver.

The screaming stopped.

"The b.i.t.c.h hung up." He looked at Khrushchev. "Determined people, aren't they?"

"Very. We must learn what they know. Your idea of tricking Lord was a good one, but it failed."

"I'm betting these two are more coordinated than we think. Lord was smart to hide her. But they had to have a way to reconnect, if this wasn't a trap."

Zubarev sighed. "I'm afraid there's no way to find her now."

He smiled. "I wouldn't say that."

THIRTY-SEVEN.

4:30 PM.

Akilina was forcing back tears. She stood at a pay phone, the surrounding sidewalk busy with shoppers and pedestrians. She could still hear Lord's scream. What was she going to do? Lord had expressly forbidden her to call the police. He'd also made it clear that she was not to go to the Russian consulate. Instead, she was to find a new hotel, check in, and go to the zoo at six PM. PM. Only when he failed to show was she to go to the American authorities, preferably somebody with the U.S. State Department. Only when he failed to show was she to go to the American authorities, preferably somebody with the U.S. State Department.

Her heart ached. What had the man on the phone said? Electricity is being pa.s.sed through his body. I doubt his heart can take much more. Electricity is being pa.s.sed through his body. I doubt his heart can take much more. The words were delivered as if killing meant nothing to him. His Russian was good but she detected an American twist, which was curious. Were American authorities likewise compromised? Were they working with the same Russians who seemed intent on discovering what she and Lord were doing? The words were delivered as if killing meant nothing to him. His Russian was good but she detected an American twist, which was curious. Were American authorities likewise compromised? Were they working with the same Russians who seemed intent on discovering what she and Lord were doing?

Her hand continued to grasp the phone, her gaze down to the sidewalk, and she failed to notice anyone until a hand touched her right shoulder. She turned and an elderly woman said something. The only words she caught were you you and and over. over. Tears were now dripping from her eyes. The woman noticed the crying and her face softened. She caught herself and quickly swiped the moisture from her eyes and mouthed a Tears were now dripping from her eyes. The woman noticed the crying and her face softened. She caught herself and quickly swiped the moisture from her eyes and mouthed a spasibo, spasibo, hoping the woman understood Russian for "thank you." hoping the woman understood Russian for "thank you."

She stepped from the phone and merged into the sidewalk rush. She'd already checked into another hotel using the money Lord had provided. She'd not stashed the egg, gold bars, and newspaper in the hotel's safe-deposit box, though, as he recommended. Instead, she carried them in one of the bags that had originally held Lord's toiletries and change of clothes. She did not want to trust their safety to anyone or anything.

She'd wandered the sidewalks the past two hours, darting in and out of cafes and shops, making sure no one was following. She was fairly sure she was alone. But where was she? Definitely west of the Commerce & Merchants Bank, beyond the city's main financial district. Antiques stores, art galleries, jewelers, gift shops, bookstores, and restaurants abounded. Her drifting had led her in no particular direction. The only thing important was to know the way back to her new hotel, but she'd brought one of the brochures and could always show it to a taxi driver.

What had drawn her to this spot was the bell tower she'd noticed a few blocks back. The architecture was Russian with gilded crosses and a distinctive dome. The design was a breath of home, but there were clearly foreign influences in the pedimented main door, rusticated surfaces, and a bal.u.s.trade she'd never seen on any Orthodox church. She could read the sign out front, thanks to a Cyrillic translation beneath the English-HOLY TRINITY CATHEDRAL-and concluded this was a local Russian Orthodox church. The structure harked of safety, and she quickly crossed the street and entered.

The interior was traditional, built in the form a cross, the altar facing east. Her eyes were drawn upward to the dome and a ma.s.sive bra.s.s chandelier that dangled from its center. The distinctive smell of beeswax drifted from bra.s.s stands holding thick candles that flickered in the muted light, the mild scent softening a lingering presence of incense. Icons stared back from all around-on the walls, in the stained gla.s.s, and from the iconostasis that separated the altar from the congregation. In the church of her youth the barrier had been more open, offering a clear view of the priests beyond. But this was a solid wall filled with crimson and gold images of Christ and the Virgin Mary, only the open doorways offering glimpses beyond. There were no pews or benches anywhere. Apparently people here, as in Russia, worshipped standing.

She moved to a side altar, hoping perhaps G.o.d could help with her dilemma. She started to cry. She'd never been one for tears, but the thought of Miles Lord being tortured, perhaps to death, was overwhelming. She needed to go to the police, but something cautioned her that this might not be the right course. Government was not necessarily a salvation. That was a lesson her grandmother had hammered into her.

She crossed herself and started to pray, muttering lines taught to her as a child.

"Are you all right, my child?" a male voice asked in Russian.

She turned to face a middle-age priest dressed in black Orthodox robes. He did not wear the headdress common to Russian clergy, but a silver cross dangled from his neck, an accessory she vividly recalled from childhood. She quickly dried her eyes and tried to regain control.

"You speak Russian," she said.

"I was born there. I heard your prayer. It is odd to hear someone speak the language so well. Are you here for a visit?"

She nodded.

"What is the trouble that makes you so sad?" The man's calm voice was soothing.

"It is a friend. He is in danger."

"Can you help him?"

"I don't know how."

"You have come to the right place to seek guidance." The priest motioned to the wall of icons. "There is no better adviser than our Lord."

Her grandmother had been devoutly Orthodox and tried to teach her to trust in heaven. Not until this moment, though, had she ever really needed needed G.o.d. She realized the priest would never understand what was happening, and she did not want to say much more, so she asked, "Have you followed what is occurring in Russia, Father?" G.o.d. She realized the priest would never understand what was happening, and she did not want to say much more, so she asked, "Have you followed what is occurring in Russia, Father?"

"With great interest. I would have voted yes for restoration. It is the best thing for Russia."

"Why do you say that?"

"A great destruction of souls occurred in our homeland for many decades. The church was nearly destroyed. Maybe now Russians can return to the fold. The Soviets were terrified of G.o.d."

That was a strange observation, but she agreed. Anything that might have gelled the opposition was viewed as a threat. The Mother Church. Some poetry. An old woman.

The priest said, "I have lived here many years. This country is not the awful place we were taught it was. The Americans elect their president every four years with great fanfare. But at the same time, they remind him he is human and may be wrong in his decisions. I have learned that the less a government deifies itself, the more it should be respected. Our new tsar should take a lesson from that."

She nodded. Was this a message?

"Do you care for this friend who is in trouble?" the priest asked.

The question brought her attention into focus, and she answered truthfully. "He is a good person."

"You love him?"

"We have only recently met."

The priest motioned to the bag draped from her shoulder. "Are you going somewhere? Running away?"

She realized this holy man did not understand, nor would he ever. Lord said to talk to no one until after he failed to show at six PM. PM. And she was determined to respect his wishes. "There is nowhere to run, Father. My troubles are here." And she was determined to respect his wishes. "There is nowhere to run, Father. My troubles are here."

"I am afraid that I do not understand your situation. And the Gospel says that if the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch."

She smiled. "I don't really comprehend it myself. But I have an obligation to fulfill. One that is tormenting me at the moment."

"And it involves this man, whom you may or may not love?"

She nodded.

"Would you like for us to pray for him?"

What could it hurt? "That might help, Father. Then, after, could you tell me the way to the zoo?"

THIRTY-EIGHT.