The Romanov Prophecy Page 0,60
could always call Hayes later.
"You can sleep here tonight in safety," Pashenko said, "and start your quest tomorrow."
Chapter Eleven
TWENTY-FOUR
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 16
4:45 PM
LORD DROVE THE BATTEREDLADA DOWN A STRETCH OF TWOlane highway. Pashenko had provided the vehicle along with a full tank of gas and five thousand U.S. dollars. Lord had asked for American currency rather than rubles since Pashenko had been right last night--there was no telling where this journey would lead. He still thought the entire venture a waste of time, but he felt 1,000 percent better now that he was five hours south of Moscow, motoring through the wooded terrain of southwestern Russia.
He was dressed in jeans and a sweater, Pashenko's men having retrieved his suitcase from the Volkhov without a problem. He was rested, and a hot shower and shave had done wonders. Akilina looked refreshed as well. Pashenko's men had obtained her clothes along with her passport and exit visa. To facilitate their extensive travel schedule, all of the circus performers were issued visas with no expiration date.
She'd sat quiet for most of the trip. She wore an olive mock turtleneck shirt, jeans, and suede pea coat--an outfit, she explained, bought in Munich the year before. Dark colors and a conservative tone fit her well. High lapels accented her thin shoulders and threw off an Annie Hall look that Lord liked.
Through the windshield he saw fields and forests. The soil was black, nothing like the red clay of northern Georgia. Potatoes were the region's claim to fame. He recalled with amusement the tale of Peter the Great, who'd decreed that the strange plant be grown by peasants of the area.Apples of the earth, Peter had called them. But potatoes were foreign to Russia and the tsar failed to say which part of the plant needed to be harvested. When, in desperation, they tried to eat every part except the root, the peasants became ill. Angry and disappointed, they burned the entire crop. It was only when someone tasted the charred inside of the root that the plant acquired a home.
Their route took them through several dismal unhealthy meccas for metal smelting and tractor production. The air was a bitter smog of carbon and acid, everything filthy with soot. The whole area had once been a battleground. Pagans resisting Christians, princes vying for power, Tatars seeking conquest. A place where, as one writer had said,Russian earth drank Russian blood.
Starodug was a slender strip of a town oozing an imperial feel from colonnaded shops and wood and brick buildings. White-barked birch trees lined the streets, its center dominated by a three-spired church topped with midnight-blue onion domes and gold stars that glistened in the last rays of a setting sun. A sickening feeling of decay permeated the place--clear from structures teetering in disrepair, pavement crumbling, and green space in need of attention.
"Any suggestions on finding Kolya Maks?" he asked Akilina as they idled down one of the streets.
She motioned ahead. "I don't think that will be a problem."
He stared out the dirty windshield and saw a sign for the Kafe Snezhinki--cakes, meat pies, and ice cream noted as specialties on the storefront sign. The establishment consumed the ground floor of a three-story brick building with gaily carved window frames. Also on the sign he saw--IOSIF MAKS, OWNER.
"That's unusual," he said.
Russians didn't generally advertise ownership. He glanced around and noticed few other store signs, none with names. He recalled Nevsky Prospekt in St. Petersburg and the Arabat section of Moscow. Both trendy spots where hundreds of high-priced boutiques lined the street for miles in a commercial can-can. Only a few of those shops displayed prices, much less ownership.
"An omen of the times, perhaps," Akilina said. "Capitalism creeping upon us. Even here, in rural Russia." A smile noted that she was kidding.
He parked the Lada and they climbed out into fading darkness. He led the way back to the Kafe Snezhinki. The sidewalk was empty except for a dog chasing a fleeing magpie. Few retail shops were lit. Outside of metropolitan regions Russian stores were only rarely open on the weekend. More remnants, he knew, of a Bolshevik past.
The cafe was sparsely decorated. Four rows of tables dotted the center. Glass cases held the day's food assortment. An aroma of bitter coffee filled the air. Three people sat at one table, a solo at another. No one seemed to pay them any attention, though he wondered how many black men appeared here on a given day.
The man behind the