he said. "They survived."
He reached for the newspaper and unfolded the yellowed bundle. He could read SwissGerman reasonably well and noticed a story on the bottom fold, apparently the reason why it had been included in the safe-deposit box. The article was headlined:GOLDSMITH Faberge SUCCUMBS. The text reiterated the death of Carl Faberge the day before at the Hotel Bellevue in Lusanne. He'd only recently arrived from Germany, where he'd fled in exile after the Bolshevik takeover in October 1917. The story went on and noted that the House of Faberge, which Carl Faberge had headed for forty-seven years, ended with the demise of the Romanovs. The Soviets had seized everything and closed the business, though a vain attempt was made to keep the enterprise open for a short while under the more politically correct name of "Committee of the Employees of the Faberge Company." The reporter noted that the lack of imperial patronage was not the only reason for the business's decline. The First World War had tapped the resources of most of the rich clientele Faberge had served. The article concluded with an observation that privileged Russian society seemed gone forever. The photograph that accompanied the article showed Faberge as a broken man.
"This newspaper is here to prove authenticity," he said.
He rolled the egg over and found the goldsmith mark of the man who crafted it:HW . He thumbed through one of the volumes and came to a section that dealt with the various workmasters Faberge had employed. He knew that Faberge himself actually designed and made nothing. He was the presiding genius of a conglomerate that, at its height, produced some of the finest jewelry ever crafted, but it was the workmasters who actually conceived and assembled everything. The book noted that Michael Perchin, the head workmaster who created the Lilies of the Valley Egg, died in 1903. The text reflected that
Henrik Wigstrem took over the managerial reigns until the House's demise, dying himself in 1923, a year before Faberge. The volume likewise contained a photograph of Wigstrem's mark--HW--and Lord compared the picture with the initials stamped into the bottom of the egg.
They were identical.
He saw that Akilina held the contents of the third velvet bag--another gold sheet with engraved writing in Cyrillic. He came close and had to strain to read it, but was able to translate:
To the Raven and the Eagle: This country has proven the haven it claims to be. The blood of the imperial body is safe, awaiting your arrival. The tsar reigns but does not govern. You must remedy that. The rightful heirs will remain forever silent until you properly awaken their spirit. What I wish for the despots who destroyed our nation Radishchev said best more than a hundred years ago: "No you shan't be forgotten. Damned for ages to come. Blood in your cradle, hymns and the battle roar. Ah, drenched in blood you tumble into the grave." See to it.
F. Y.
"That's it?" he said. "This tells us nothing. What about Hell's Bell? The last engraving from Maks's grave said only Hell's Bell can point the way to the next portal. There's nothing here about any Hell's Bell." He lifted the egg and shook it. Solid. No sound from inside. He carefully studied the exterior and noticed no lines or openings. "Obviously, we're supposed to know more at this point than we do. Pashenko said parts of the secret had been lost with time. Maybe there was another step we missed, one that would tell us what Hell's Bell is."
He brought the egg closer and examined the three small photos extending from the top. "Alexie and Anastasia survived. They were here, in this country. Both are long dead, but maybe their descendants aren't. We're so close to finding them, but all we have is some gold and an egg worth a fortune." He shook his head. "Yussoupov went to a lot of trouble. Even involving Faberge, or at least his last workmaster, to craft this."
"What do we do now?" Akilina asked.
He sat back in the chair and considered her question. He wanted to offer some hope, an answer, but finally he spoke truthfully.
"I have no idea."
Chapter Sixteen
THIRTY-FOUR
MOSCOW
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 19
7:00 AM
HAYES WALKED QUICKLY TOWARD THE PHONE RINGING BESIDE HISbed. He'd just finished showering and shaving, preparing for another day at the commission proceedings, a pivotal day when a decision would be made on the three candidates to be considered in the final voting. There was certainly no doubt Baklanov