The Romanov Prophecy Page 0,34
either. Lawyers like him were supposed to work in offices, courthouses, and libraries, the only intrigue being how to bill enough to make the effort worthwhile, and how to garner recognition from senior partners like Taylor Hayes
people who would ultimately make the decision on his future.
People he wanted to impress.
Like his father.
He could still see Grover Lord lying in the open casket, the mouth that had hollered the word of God closed in death, the lips and face ashen. They'd dressed him in one of his best suits and tied the tie with a dimple the reverend had always liked. The gold cufflinks were there, along with his watch. Lord remembered thinking how those three pieces of jewelry could have paid for a good slice of his education. Nearly a thousand of the faithful had turned out for the service. There'd been fainting and crying and singing. His mother had wanted him to speak. But what would he say? He couldn't proclaim the man a charlatan, a hypocrite, a lousy father. So he'd refused to say anything, and his mother never forgave him. Even now, their relationship remained chilly. She was Mrs. Grover Lord, and proud of the fact.
He rubbed his eyes again as sleep started to take hold.
His gaze drifted down the long car to the faces of others up for a late refreshment. One man caught his attention. Young, blond, stocky. He sat alone sipping a clear drink, and the man's presence sent a chill down Lord's spine. Was he a threat? But the inquiry was answered when a young woman with a small child appeared. Both sat with the man and all three of them started chatting.
He told himself to get a grip.
But then he noticed at the far end of the car a middle-age man nursing a beer, the face gaunt, lips thin, the same anxious watery eyes he'd seen that afternoon.
The man from the archives, still dressed in the same baggy beige suit.
Lord came alert.
Too much of a coincidence.
He needed to get back to Zinov, but didn't want to make his concern obvious. So he tipped back the rest of his Pepsi, then slowly snapped his briefcase shut. He stood and tossed a few rubles on the table. He hoped his actions signaled calm, but on the way out, in the glass door, he saw the man's reflection stand and head toward him.
He yanked open the sliding door and darted from the saloon, slamming the door shut. As he turned into the next car, he saw the man hustling his way.
Shit.
He made his way forward and entered the car with his compartment. A quick glance back through the glass and he saw the man enter the car behind, still coming his way.
He slid open his compartment door.
Zinov was gone.
He slammed the door shut. Perhaps his bodyguard was in the lavatory. He rushed down the narrow aisle and rounded a slight angle in the corridor that led to the far exit. The lavatory door was closed, itsOCCUPIED notice not engaged.
He slid open the door.
Empty.
Where the hell was Zinov?
He stepped inside the lavatory. But before he did, he cracked open the exit door to give the appearance that someone had passed through to the next car. He slid the lavatory door shut, but did not engage the lock so theOCCUPIED wouldn't show from the outside.
He stood motionless, pressed tight against the stainless-steel door, breathing hard. His heart pounded. Footsteps approached and he braced himself, ready to use his briefcase as a weapon. From the door's other side, the exit for the sleeper car slid open with a dull scrape.
A second later it closed.
He waited a full minute.
Hearing nothing, he inched open the lavatory door. No one was in the hall. He slammed the door shut
and engaged the lock. It was the second time in two days he'd successfully run for his life. He laid his briefcase on the toilet and took a moment to rinse sweat from his face in the washbasin. A can of disinfectant rested on the sink. He used the spray to cleanse the bar of soap, then washed his hands and face, careful not to swallow the water, a laminated sign warning in Cyrillic that nothing was potable. He used his handkerchief to dry his face. No paper towels had been provided.
He stared at himself in the mirror.
His brown eyes were weary, the angular features of his face drawn, and his hair needed a cut. What was going on? And where