The Romanov Prophecy Page 0,32

he would like to talk. The tsarina was not a bit like him. She

was severe looking and had the appearance and manners of a haughty woman. Sometimes the guards discussed things and we decided that she looked exactly like a tsarina should. She seemed older than the tsar. Gray hair was plainly visible at her temples, her face not the face of a young woman. All my evil thoughts about the tsar disappeared after I had stayed a certain time among the guards. After I had seen them several times I began to feel entirely different toward them. I began to pity them. I pitied them as human beings. I longed for their suffering to end. But I realized what was coming. The talk of their fate was clear. Yurovsky made sure we all understood the task at hand. After a while, I started saying to myself that something should be done to let them escape.

What had he stumbled upon? And why had no one found any of this before? But he kept reminding himself that only in the past few years had access to the archives been opened. The Protective Papers were still closed to the vast majority of researchers, and the sheer chaos of Russian record keeping made finding anything a matter of luck.

He needed to get back to Moscow and report to Taylor Hayes. It was possible that Stefan Baklanov's claim could be brought into question. There might be a pretender out there, someone with a bloodline closer to Nicholas II than Baklanov's. Sensationalist journalism and popular fiction had long proclaimed a pretender's existence. One movie studio had even released to millions of children a full-length animated feature on Anastasia that postulated her survival. But just as with Elvis and Jimmy Hoffa, the record was heavy on speculation and devoid of conclusive evidence.

Or was it?

Hayes hung up the phone and tried to control his temper. He'd traveled from Moscow to Green Glade for both business and relaxation. He'd left word for Lord at the hotel that he'd been called out of town and that he should continue in the archives, promising to get in touch with Lord by midafternoon. Intentionally, he did not include any means of location. But Ilya Zivon had been ordered to keep a close eye on Lord and to report everything.

"That was Zivon," he said. "Lord spent the day in St. Petersburg going through the archives."

"You were unaware of this?" Lenin asked.

"Totally. I thought he was working in Moscow. Zivon said that Lord told him to drive to the airport this morning. They're taking the Red Arrow back to Moscow tonight."

Khrushchev was openly agitated. Rare for him, Hayes thought. Of the five, the government representative stayed the coolest, rarely raising his voice. He was also careful with his vodka, perhaps thinking sobriety gave him an edge.

Stefan Baklanov was gone from Green Glade, driven the previous day to another property not far away where he could be kept secluded until his first appearance before the commission in two days. It was a little past sevenPM and Hayes should have been headed back to Moscow. He was just about to leave when the call came from St. Petersburg.

"Zivon slipped away at dinner and called his employers. They directed him here," Hayes said. "He also said that Lord talked to a man at the archives yesterday in Moscow. Semyon Pashenko was the name. The hotel concierge told Zivon this morning that Lord had drinks with a man of the same description last evening."

"And the description?" Khrushchev asked.

"Late fifties, early sixties. Thin. Light blue eyes. Bald. Start of a beard on his face and neck."

Hayes observed the look exchanged between Lenin and Khrushchev. He'd sensed all week they were keeping something from him, and he was liking the situation less and less. "Who is he? Since you obviously know."

Lenin sighed. "A problem."

"That much I gather. How about details?"

Khrushchev said, "Have you ever heard of the Holy Band?"

He shook his head.

"In the nineteenth century, Tsar Alexander II's brother started a group that came to be known by that name. The fear of assassination was tremendous at the time. Alexander had freed the serfs and wasn't popular. This Holy Band was something of a joke. Nothing but aristocrats who pledged themselves to defend the tsar's life. In reality they could hardly defend themselves and, in the end, Alexander died from an assassin's bomb. Pashenko heads a contemporary group made up of anything but amateurs. His Holy Band was