The Romanov Prophecy Page 0,50

man motioned toward Droopy.

"A bit hard to believe with a gun pointed at me."

The man lowered the revolver. "Quite right. Now, we must go. My associate will deal with this man while we take our leave."

He stared at Akilina and asked, "You with him?"

She shook her head.

"We must go, Mr. Lord," the man said.

His expression telegraphed to her,Should we?

"I think so," she said.

He decided to trust her instincts. His hadn't been so good lately. "All right."

The man turned to his associate and spat out something in a dialect Lord did not recognize. Droopy was forcibly led down the hall toward a door at the far end.

"This way," the man said.

"Why does she have to come?" he asked, motioning to Akilina. "She has no involvement."

"I was instructed to bring her."

"By whom?"

"We can talk about this on the way. Right now we have to leave."

He decided not to argue any further.

They followed the man outside into the cold night, stopping only to allow Akilina to retrieve a pair of shoes and a coat. The exit opened into an alley behind the theater. Droopy was being stuffed into the backseat of a black Ford near the alley's end. Their host walked to a light-colored Mercedes, opened the rear door, and invited them inside. Then he climbed into the front seat. Another man was already behind the wheel, the engine idling. A light rain started to fall as they left the theater.

"Who are you?" Lord asked again.

The man did not reply. Instead he handed him a business card.

SEMYON PASHENKO

Professor of History

Moscow State University

He was beginning to understand. "So my meeting him was not coincidental?"

"Hardly. Professor Pashenko realized the great danger both of you were in and directed us to keep watch. That was what I was doing in St. Petersburg. Apparently, I did not do a good job."

"I thought you were with the others."

The man nodded. "I can see that, but the professor instructed me only to make contact when forced. What was about to happen back in the theater, I think, would qualify."

The car wove through heavy evening traffic, its windshield wipers clunking back and forth, not doing much good. They were headed south, past the Kremlin, toward Gorky Park and the river. Lord noticed the driver's interest in cars around him and surmised that the many turns were designed to avoid any tails that might be lurking.

"You think we're safe?" Akilina whispered.

"I hope so."

"You know this Pashenko?"

He nodded. "But that means nothing. Hard to know anybody around here." Then he added with a weak smile, "Present company excepted, of course."

Their route had taken them away from the blocks of anonymous high-rises and neoclassical oddities, the hundreds of apartment buildings little more thantrushchobaslums--and life there, he knew, was a tense daily grind, noisy and crowded. But not everyone lived that way, and he noticed they'd turned onto one of the unobtrusive, treelined streets that radiated from the busy boulevard. This one ran north toward the Kremlin, linking two of the ring roads.

The Mercedes veered right into a lighted asphalt lot. A guard watched the entrance from a glass booth. The three-story apartment building beyond was unusual, fashioned not of concrete but of honey-colored bricks laid straight and true, a rarity for Russian masons. The few cars in the lined spaces were foreign and expensive. The man in the passenger's seat pointed a controller and commanded a garage door to rise. The driver steered the Mercedes inside, and the paneled door rolled shut.

They were led into a spacious lobby lit by a crystal chandelier. The smell was pine, not the horrid scent of mud and urine most apartment lobbies wafted--The smell of cats,one Moscow journalist had called it. A carpeted stairway led up to a third-floor apartment.

Semyon Pashenko answered a light knock on a white paneled door and invited them inside.

Lord quickly took in the parquet floor, Oriental rugs, brick fireplace, and Scandinavian furniture. Luxuries in both the Soviet Union and new Russia. The walls were a soothing beige, broken periodically by elegantly framed prints depicting Siberian wildlife. The air smelled of boiled cabbage and potatoes. "You live well, Professor."

"A gift from my father. To my dismay, he was a devoted communist and afforded the privilege of rank. I inherited the amenity and was allowed to purchase it when the government starting divesting. Thankfully, I had the rubles."

Lord turned in the center of the room and faced his host. "I guess we should thank you."

Pashenko raised his hands. "No need. In fact,