The Romanov Prophecy Page 0,15

never let anyone touch your shining soul. I kiss, kiss, kiss and bless you and you always understand. I hope you come to me soon.

Your Wify

Lord knew that the writer was Alexandra, the last tsarina of Russia. She had kept a diary for decades. So had her husband, Nicholas, and both journals subsequently provided an unprecedented look into the royal court. Nearly seven hundred of their letters were found in Yekaterinburg after the execution. He'd read other diary excerpts and most of the letters. Several recent books had published them verbatim. He knew the reference to "our

Friend" was their way of describing Rasputin, since both Alexandra and Nicholas thought their letters were being scrutinized by others. Unfortunately, their unfettered confidence in Rasputin was not shared by anyone else.

"So deep in thought," a voice said in Russian.

He glanced up.

An older man stood on the opposite side of the table. He was fair-skinned with pale blue eyes, a thin chest, and freckled wrists. His head was half bald and graying fuzz dusted the sallow skin on his neck from ear to ear. He wore steel-rimmed glasses and a bow tie. Lord immediately recalled that he'd seen the man poring through the records, one of several individuals who seemed to be working as hard as he was.

"Actually, I was back in 1916 for an instant. Reading this stuff is like time travel," Lord said in Russian.

The older man smiled. Lord estimated his age to be nearing, if not more than, sixty.

"I quite agree. It is one of the reasons I like coming here. A reminder of something that once was."

He instantly warmed to the congenial manner and stood from the table. "I'm Miles Lord."

"I know who you are."

A wave of suspicion swept over him and his gaze unconsciously darted around the room.

His visitor seemed to sense the fear. "I assure you, Mr. Lord, I am no threat. Just a tired historian looking for a little conversation with someone of similar interests."

He relaxed. "How do you know me?"

The man smiled. "You are not a favorite of the women who staff this depository. They resent being ordered about by an American--"

"And a black?"

The man smiled. "Unfortunately, this country is not progressively minded on the issue of race. We are a fair-skinned nation. But your commission credentials cannot be ignored."

"And who are you?"

"Semyon Pashenko, professor of history, Moscow State University." The older man offered his hand and Lord accepted. "Where is the other gentleman who accompanied

you in days past? A lawyer, I believe. We talked for a few moments among the stacks."

He debated whether to lie, but decided the truth would be better. "He was killed this morning on Nikolskaya Prospekt. In a shooting."

Shock filled the older man's face. "I saw something on the television about that earlier. So terrible." He shook his head. "This country will be the ruin of itself if something is not done soon."

Lord sat and offered a seat.

"Were you involved?" Pashenko asked, settling into a chair.

"I was there." He decided to keep the rest of what happened to himself.

Pashenko shook his head. "That sort of display says nothing for who or what we are. Westerners, like yourself, must think us barbarians."

"Not at all. Every nation goes through periods like this. We had our own during the western expansion and in the nineteen twenties and thirties."

"But I believe our situation is more than merely growing pains."

"The past few years have been difficult for Russia. It was hard enough when there was a government. Yeltsin and Putin tried to keep order. But now, with little semblance of authority, it's nothing short of anarchy."

Pashenko nodded. "Unfortunately, this is nothing new for our nation."

"Are you an academician?"

"A historian. I have devoted my life to the study of our beloved Mother Rus."

He grinned at the ancient term. "I would imagine there hasn't been much use for your specialty in some time."

"Regretfully. The communists had their own version of history."

He recalled something he'd read once.Russia is a country with an unpredictable past. "Did you teach, then?"

"For thirty years. I saw them all. Stalin, Khrushchev, Brezhnev. Each one inflicted his own peculiar damage. It is sinful what happened. But even now, we find it hard to let go. People still line up each day to walk past Lenin's body." Pashenko lowered his voice. "A butcher, revered as a saint. Did you notice the flowers around his statue out front." He shook his head. "Disgusting."

Lord decided to be careful with his words. Though this was the postcommunist