“Go on,” Marten urged.
Kovalenko concentrated on the road for several moments more, then they hit a pocket where the snow let up a little and he relaxed. “Because Alexei was a hemophiliac and because of the pressure of the revolution, two sailors of the imperial navy had been assigned to look after the children—a kind of combination bodyguard and nanny. At some point the sailors had a confrontation with Alexei’s tutor, who thought their presence hindered Alexei’s intellectual development. Finally one had had enough and left. The other, a man named Nagorny, stayed with them until they were detained at the Ipatiev house. Then the revolutionaries had him taken to Ekaterinburg prison. Supposedly he was killed there, but he wasn’t. He escaped and later came back and found a way to join Yurovsky’s men. He was one of the guards standing behind the firing squad.
“After the shooting stopped, in the dark, blinding smoke and chaos of the murder scene, while the others were loading the bodies onto the truck, Nagorny found one of the children still alive. It was Alexei, and he picked him up, carried him out. In the dark and confusion of all those men trying to get the bodies the hell out of there and onto the truck, how could one man and one body be missed? Nagorny got him away. First to a nearby house and then to another truck. Alexei had been wounded once in the leg and in the shoulder. Nagorny knew well of his hemophilia and how to use pressure to stop the bleeding, which he did successfully.
“Much later when the pieces of what happened began to come together and the bodies, including one thought to be Tsarevich Alexei, were found in the mine shaft, naked, burned, and soaked in acid to try and hide their identity, it was determined there were nine bodies, not eleven. Eventually they realized the two that were missing were Anastasia and Alexei.”
“You mean Anastasia survived as well, and that was what her story was about?” Marten said.
Kovalenko nodded. “A woman named Anna Anderson was thought for years to have been Anastasia. Finally the DNA process came along and scientists were able to verify that the bodies recovered were indeed those of the imperial family, but the process also proved that Anna Anderson was not Anastasia. So what really happened to Anastasia? Who knows? We probably never will.”
Suddenly Marten realized Anastasia wasn’t who Kovalenko was talking about at all. “But you do know what happened to Alexei.”
Kovalenko turned to Marten. “Nagorny got him out. By truck and then by railway to the Volga River. After that by boat to the port of Rostov and after that by steamer across the Black Sea to Istanbul, which was then Constantinople. There he was met by an emissary from a close and very well-off friend of the Tsar who had escaped the revolution and gone to Switzerland early in 1918. The emissary carried false papers for both Alexei and Nagorny, and together all three boarded the Orient Express for Vienna. Afterward, they vanished from sight.”
Snow had begun falling again, and Kovalenko turned his attention back to the highway in front of them. “No one knows what happened to Nagorny, but—do you understand what I’m telling you, Mr. Marten?”
“The direct male descendant of the Tsar was still alive.”
“For fear of Communist reprisal he never revealed his identity but grew to prominence in the jewelry business in Switzerland. He had one child, a son, who went on to gain immense wealth and far greater prominence.”
“Peter Kitner,” Marten breathed.
“The only true bloodline successor to the Russian throne. And a fact that will be revealed to the Romanov family tonight.”
72
Grand Duchess Catherine sat mouth agape as she heard the evidence presented.
Three of the four chairs on the dais and beneath the great Romanov crest were filled with men she had been certain were her staunchest allies—Nikolai Nemov, the mayor of Moscow; Marshal Igor Golovkin, Russian Federation minister of defense and probably the most powerful officer in the Russian military; and the last, the man many felt was the most revered person in all Russia, bearded and berobed, His Holiness Gregor II, the Most Holy Patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church. Taken together, the triumvirate was, without doubt, the most dominant political machine in Russia, more commanding even than the president of the country, Pavel Gitinov. And that power and influence was what she had counted on.
But now all that had vanished—her future, her son’s future, her mother’s, a dream burst by the man who sat in the fourth chair, Sir Peter Kitner, né Petr Mikhail Romanov, the irrefutable heir to the imperial throne.
It was all there in the lengthy but fully understandable explanation provided by Prince Dimitrii and in the assembled documents and photographs, copies of which were projected on a large screen put up to the right of the dais. A number of the photographs were faded black-and-white pictures taken by the Russian sailor Nagorny as he helped the young Tsarevich Alexei flee from Russia to Switzerland after the Ipatiev massacre. Others were of Alexei and the young Petr as he grew up in the family home in Mies, outside Geneva. Still others were technical and showed DNA chartings, the laboratories where they were done, and the technicians who had produced them.
But the photographs, charts, and documents only served to underscore the unassailable truth of the evidence presented. Bone samples had been taken from the remains of Tsar Nicholas in the crypt in St. Petersburg and a DNA analysis done. Those results were then compared with DNA samples taken from the remains of the supposed Tsarevich Alexei, Kitner’s father, buried in a suburb of Geneva. The DNA sequences and the repetition of those sequences matched those of Tsar Nicholas without question. To make absolutely certain that what they had found was not some bizarre coincidence, they chose a contemporary DNA for comparison. Princess Victoria, the older sister of Empress Alexandra, Tsar Nicholas’s wife and mother of Alexei, had had a daughter who became Princess Alice of Greece. Of Princess Alice’s children, her lone son, Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh and husband of Elizabeth II, Queen of Great Britain, was an ideal, living candidate for a DNA comparison with his grand-aunt, the Empress Alexandra. Again bone samples were taken from the crypt in St. Petersburg, this time from the Empress Alexandra, and matched with samples provided by Prince Philip. Again the DNA sequences and repetitions matched perfectly. Then all four samples were compared with samples provided by Peter Kitner. Again a precise match.
Taken together, this evidence erased any question at all that Tsarevich Alexei Romanov had survived the execution of his family at the Ipatiev house or that Peter Kitner was not only his son but, from Swiss birth records and interviews with people who had known the family, his only child. The line from then to now was clear, simple, unmistaken, and unmistakable—Petr Mikhail Romanov Kitner was the true head of the house of Romanov, and as such was the man who would become Tsarevich.
Catherine’s only recourse was to play the Anastasia card and protest that the DNA testing proved nothing and that Kitner was as much a pretender as Anna Anderson had been, but she knew it would be a futile gesture and only bring embarrassment to her, her mother, and her son. Besides, the triumvirate had not made the journey from Moscow for nothing. They had seen the material long before this, had their own people question the experts who had made the analyses, had the DNA procedures repeated by three additional and wholly separate laboratories, and afterward made up their minds. Further, Pavel Gitinov, the president of Russia, had asked Kitner to meet with him at his vacation residence on the Black Sea; and there, in the presence of the triumvirate and the leaders of both the Federation Council and the Duma, Russia’s upper and lower houses of parliament, had personally asked him to return to Russia as titular monarch, and as such become a practical, emotional, and promotional force to help unite a nation filled with social and economic uncertainty and to shape a new Russia into the global power it once had been.
Slowly, Grand Duchess Catherine Mikhailovna rose to her feet, her eyes locked on Peter Kitner as she did so. Seeing her, Grand Duke Sergei rose as well. So, too, did his grandmother, Grand Duchess Maria Kurakina.
“Petr Mikhail Romanov.” Ca
therine’s strong voice echoed across the cavernous room. Heads turned to stare as she raised a golden goblet emblazoned with the Romanov crest toward him. “The family of Grand Duke Sergei Petrovich Romanov proudly salutes you and humbly acknowledges you as Tsarevich of All Russia.”
With that the others stood, goblets raised in salutation. Prince Dimitrii stood as well. So did Nikolai Nemov, mayor of Moscow, Marshal Igor Golovkin of the Russian Federation Ministry of Defense, and Gregor II, the Most Holy Patriarch of Moscow and All Russia.
Then Sir Petr Mikhail Romanov Kitner rose, his white hair like a royal mane, his dark eyes gleaming. Raising his hands, he waited, staring out at the royal salutations. Finally and simply, he dropped his head in formal acceptance of his mantle.
73
Kovalenko saw the abandoned car too late. He swung the wheel hard, swerving wildly to avoid the car, and sending the ML500 spinning across the snow-slicked highway like a top. A split second later it hit a snow berm on the far side, went up on two wheels, then came back down to smash backward through the berm and slide tobogganlike down a long embankment, where it came to a stop, its engine running, its headlights still on, in the deep snow on the edge of a rock outcropping.
“Kovalenko!” Marten tugged against his seat harness and looked toward Kovalenko’s motionless form behind the wheel. For a long second there was silence, and then slowly the Russian turned and looked at him.
“I am alright. You?”
“Okay.”
“Where the hell are we?”
Marten’s right hand found the door handle and he pushed it open. He felt the car rock slightly as snow and freezing air rushed in. Gently he eased over and peered out. From the light of the open door he could just make out the dark chasm directly under the door and hear the rush of distant water below them. Leaning out a little more, he felt the car tip in his direction. Immediately he stopped.
“What is it?” Kovalenko demanded.
All Marten could see was the top of a snow-covered ledge and below that, pitch black. Slowly he eased back and closed the door.
“We’re on the edge of a precipice.”
“A what?”
“A precipice, a cliff. I’d be surprised if we have more than two wheels on solid ground.”
Kovalenko leaned over to look and the car rocked with him.
“Don’t do that!”
Kovalenko froze where he was.
Marten stared at him. “I don’t know how far down it is and I don’t want to find out.”
“Nor do I. Nor would Lenard. He wants his car back in one piece.”
“What time is it?”
Carefully Kovalenko squinted at the dashboard clock. “Just midnight.”
Marten took a deep breath. “It’s snowing like hell and it’s midnight and we’re way off the road in the middle of nowhere. A sneeze could put us over the side and that would be that. We’d either drown or freeze to death or burn up if this thing catches on fire.
“Even if we got through on your cell phone there’s no way we could tell anybody where we are because we don’t know. And even if we did and could, I doubt anybody could get here before daylight. And that would be if we were lucky.”
“So what do we do?”
“We’ve got two wheels over the side, which hopefully means we still have two wheels on solid ground. Maybe we can just drive out of here.”
“What do you mean ‘maybe’?”
“You have a better idea?”
Marten could see Kovalenko considering alternatives, then as quickly deciding there were none.
“At least it would be helpful,” Kovalenko said with authority, “if we had less weight on the passenger side.”
“Right.”
“And you can’t very well get out on your side because you would plunge into the depths and maybe take the vehicle with you.”
“Right.”
“Therefore I will get out on my side. As I do, you will slide over and take the wheel and make the attempt to, as you say, drive out of here.”
“And you get to stand safely back and see what happens. Is that it?”
“Mr. Marten, if the car does go over we do not need two inside it when one will do.”
“But the one inside it won’t be you, it will be me, Kovalenko.”
“If it is any consolation, if you do go over I will no doubt freeze to death anyway.”
With that Kovalenko unhooked his seat belt and pushed the driver’s door open. A gust of wind pushed it back, but he put his shoulder against it and shoved it open again.
“Okay, I’m going. Move with me.”
Kovalenko began to slide out from behind the wheel. As he did, Marten eased delicately over the center console, putting as much of his weight on the driver’s side as he could. Suddenly the ML creaked and started to tip toward the ravine. Kovalenko moved back quickly, putting all of his weight on the edge of the seat. The car stopped.
“Mother of Christ—” Kovalenko breathed.
“Stay where you are,” Marten said. “I’m coming the rest of the way over.”
One hand on the driver’s seat, then moving down on his elbow with as much of his body weight as he could, Marten lifted off the console and slid onto the seat, swinging his legs one by one under the wheel.
Marten looked up. Kovalenko’s nose was inches from his own. A sudden gust of wind slammed the door into Kovalenko from behind, throwing him full into Marten. Their noses smacked hard and the car tilted toward the ravine.
Then Marten shoved Kovalenko away and out into the snow and leaned as far over as he could toward him. The move was enough; the ML righted.
“Get up and close the door,” Marten said.
“What?”
“Get up and close the door. Gently.”
Kovalenko rose like a ghost from the snow. “You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
Marten watched Kovalenko push the door closed and then step back. Slowly Marten looked out the windshield past the beating wipers. In front of him the headlights shone on nothing but white. It was impossible to tell whether what he was looking at went up or down or straight. All he knew was he did not want to turn right.
Taking a breath, he glanced out at Kovalenko staring in at him. Kovalenko’s collar was up, his hair and beard covered with snow.
Marten looked back. His hand went to the gearshift and moved it into DRIVE, then ever so gently he touched his foot to the accelerator. There was a soft whir as the engine’s rpms picked up and he felt the wheels start to turn. For a moment nothing happened. Then came the slightest lurch as the tires caught and the ML inched forward. Two feet, and then three and then the wheels started to spin in the deep snow. He eased off and the SUV rolled back. Instantly he touched the brake. The car slid and then stopped.
“Easy,” he breathed, “easy.”
Again the accelerator. Again the SUV inched forward. Again the wheels turned and then caught. Again they began to spin. Then Marten saw Kovalenko move forward and disappear behind the car. He looked in the mirror and saw the Russian throw his shoulder against the ML’s rear door.
Marten’s foot touched the accelerator and he opened the window a little.
“Now!” he yelled and eased the accelerator down. The wheels spun. Kovalenko strained with everything he had. Finally Marten felt the wheels take hold, and the car moved forward. This time it kept going. Then he was moving faster, going straight uphill through foot-deep snow. Again he glanced in the mirror. Kovalenko was behind him, running in the track the ML had made. Five seconds. Another five. The SUV was actually accelerating. Then Marten saw the big snow berm in the headlights. From this angle it was at least as high as the car, maybe higher. How solid it was or if it wasn’t a berm at all but a stone wall covered with snow was impossible to tell, but he couldn’t stop now and risk sliding backward. All he could do was hit the berm as hard and fast as he could and hope he broke through to the other side.
A half beat and he shoved the accelerator to t
he floor. The ML rocketed forward. Two seconds, three. The berm was right there and he hit it flush. For an instant everything went dark. Then he was through it and onto the roadway.
A deep breath and he lowered the driver’s window all the way. In the outside mirror he could see Kovalenko running up the hill and through the tank-sized break in the berm behind him. His chest heaving, breath streaming from his nostrils, his entire being enveloped in snow, he was yelling in victory and pumping his fists in the air. In the red glow of the taillights he looked like a great dancing bear.
74
PARIS. SAME TIME, FRIDAY, JANUARY 17. 12:40 A.M.
Tsarevich Peter Kitner Romanov covered his ears against the deafening roar as the twin-rotor Russian Kamov-32 attack helicopter took off from a secured corner of Orly Airport in heavy wind and blinding snow.
Across from him sat Colonel Stefan Murzin of the Federalnaya Slujba Ohrani, the FSO, his personal bodyguard and one of ten Russian presidential security agents who had rushed him from the house at 151 Avenue Georges V and into the third of four identical limousines waiting outside the servants’ entrance. The cars had left at once, driving through blowing snow past the French police and then bumper to bumper across the Seine and through nine miles of deserted, snowy streets to a cordoned-off area of a storm-closed Orly Airport.
Two Kamov-32s had been waiting, engines fired up, their rotors slowly churning. The moment Kitner’s limousine stopped, its doors were pulled open and Colonel Murzin guided the Tsarevich and four heavily armed FSO agents to the first helicopter. In seconds they were on board, the doors closing, the rotors picking up speed, with the square-jawed, black-eyed Murzin personally strapping the Tsarevich into his seat. Then Murzin strapped himself in, and seconds later both helicopters were airborne.
Murzin sat back. “Are you comfortable, Tsarevich?”
“Yes, thank you.” Kitner nodded, and looked at the faces of the other men protecting him. He had had personal bodyguards for years, but none were like these. Each was a former member of the elite Russian Special Purpose Forces, the spetsialnoe naznachenie, or Spetsnaz. They were all like Murzin; young, muscular, and extremely fit, their hair razor-cut to the scalp. From the instant Kitner had been named Tsarevich and bowed his head to the others in formal acceptance, he had become their property. In a flash Higgs was pushed into the background, his only job now to inform the top MediaCorp executives who needed to know that their chairman had been called away for “personal reasons,” but that he was well and would return within a few days. At the same time, the remaining Romanov family members were sworn to secrecy. Requiring the same of the personnel working the dinner—waiters, chefs, beverage servers—was not necessary; they were all FSO agents.