“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t like your demeanor. You were condescending.”
“Baroness, I was polite. We talked. I said nothing. If that is condescending—”
“He saw through it. He thinks you are too strong. That you have other ambitions.”
Alexander grinned confidently and looked out across the roof toward the Moscow River and the Kremlin beyond it. “He’s more perceptive than I gave him credit for.”
“Gitinov did not become president because he is a fool. The fault is yours, not his!” The Baroness’s voice cut like a razor.
Alexander turned his back to the helicopter as if Murzin or the crew might see his reaction, or worse, hear what was being said.
“Did you learn nothing in your life? To never, ever, reveal what’s inside you!” The Baroness reached the library windows and immediately turned back, pacing angrily across the room.
“Have you no concept of what it took to get you to where you are? Not just the years of molding your temperament, or the years of physical and other very special and very personal training, all of which was designed to make you strong enough and forceful enough and brutal enough to be Tsar of All Russia, but manipulating the politics of it?” Her anger was building word by word.
“Who worked the triumvirate for nearly two decades, separately and together, gaining their confidence, getting inside their minds, listening to their problems, giving them money, a lot of money, for their causes? Who convinced them that the only way to stabilize the country and build a lasting national spirit was to reestablish the monarchy? Who convinced them to demand that Sir Peter Kitner step aside in favor of you?” Her anger crescendoed. “Who?”
“You,” he whispered.
“Yes, me. And so you listen when I tell you that even now there remains great bitterness between the president and the triumvirate. I remind you it was they who pushed the members of both houses of parliament to restore the monarchy. They did it because I convinced each of them that doing so was not only in Russia’s best interest but that of his own institution. And it was because of that that they, and their influence, settled it.
“The president, on the other hand, worried privately from the beginning that you would overshadow him in the public eye. And that fear has already been realized in the public attention paid to you. He knows what it means to be a celebrity, and he thinks you already command too much power.
“It is bad enough that three weeks before the coronation you have given him more cause for uneasiness. But if he can turn his own discomfort into a concern for national security by convincing them you are a conceited, disruptive force, and if that concern finds its way into the parliament or to any of the three, even with my influence and your popularity, everything could erode overnight, to the point where a new parliamentary election could be called that would effectively dissolve the monarchy before it even begins. It would be an election that for President Gitinov”—her voice became ice cold—“would be a godsend.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“The president has graciously consented to take tea with you in the Kremlin at six this evening—where, he has been told, you will apologize for any misunderstanding yesterday and reassure him, in very direct terms, that you have no ambition whatsoever other than the good of the Russian people. Is that clear—” she hesitated and then softened, but only slightly—“my sweet?”
“Yes.” Alexander was staring off, humiliated, seeing nothing.
“Then see it is done.”
“Yes”—Alexander breathed—“Mother.”
He heard her click off and for a moment just stood there, seething with anger. He hated her, hated Gitinov, hated them all. He was Tsarevich, not they. How dare they question him or his motives? Especially when he had done what they had requested and agreed on.
Across the roof he could see the dark silhouette of the helicopter, its door open, its blades slowly churning. What was he to do, forget about Marten and send the helicopter away? Suddenly he saw movement in the doorway; then Murzin stepped from it and came quickly toward him, a two-way radio in his hand. Clearly something had happened.
“What is it?”
“Kovalenko, the Ministry of Justice homicide inspector with Marten in Davos, was seen getting off the eight-twenty-five Moscow train in St. Petersburg.”
“Was Marten with him?”
“At first he was alone, but then another man caught up with him inside the station.”
“Marten?”
“Possibly, but this man was clean shaven and had short hair. Marten came through passport control with a beard and long hair.”
“How expensive are razor and scissors?” Alexander could feel the pound of his heart and with it the awful sweep of dread as he felt the metronome begin once again. “Where are Kovalenko and his friend now?”
“We don’t know, Tsarevich. The fartsovchik that saw him didn’t even know if sighting Kovalenko was worth reporting, let alone following him. After all, Kovalenko was not the man the fartsovchik was sent to look for. And a check with the Ministry of Justice shows Kovalenko is on holiday. His wife confirmed it, saying he went off unaccompanied yesterday to camp and hike in the Urals. It seems he is on some physical fitness program.”
“St. Petersburg is not the Urals.” Alexander reddened with anger. “We had Kovalenko removed from his assignment before. Why is he back?”
“I don’t know, Tsarevich.”
“Well, find out. And this time find out exactly what branch of the ministry he is in and the name of the person he reports to.”
“Yes, Tsarevich.”
Alexander stared at Murzin for the briefest moment; then he looked off and Murzin could see a grimace cross his face as if he were suffering some kind of internal pain. A heartbeat later Alexander looked back. “I want all avtoritet, fartsovchik, blatnye, and patsani in St. Petersburg put on alert,” he said coldly. “I want Kovalenko and the man with him found now.”
36
10:57 A.M.
Moscow disappeared beneath puffy clouds as the Ka-60 helicopter banked sharply and then evened out to settle on a direct course for the palace at Tsarskoe Selo.
“Mother,” Alexander had called the Baroness. It was a term he hadn’t used since childhood, and he didn’t know why he had done it now, except he had been angry and just had. But neither his anger nor hers, as she had lectured him about Gitinov, would be anything like the fury he could expect when she saw him arrive at Tsarskoe Selo. The reason he had come would not interest her at all, any more than Marten’s sudden reappearance seemed to interest or even worry her. His personal feelings and concerns were nothing, and, as he thought about it, never had been. She had had her revenge on Peter Kitner. All that mattered now, and maybe always had, was the monarchy and only the monarchy.
“Rebecca be damned!” she had said. Well, Rebecca would not be damned. Not by the Baroness or anyone else. Nor would he lose her because of her brother.
Abruptly he turned to Murzin, raising his voice against the scream of the jet engines.
“The Tsarina’s cell phone is to be taken from her immediately. If she asks why, she is to be told we are once again changing her number and need the instrument to reprogram it. Nor are any calls to be put through to her on any other telephone, cell or landline.
“Should she choose to place a call herself, she is to be informed there is a problem with the main switching terminal and repairs are being made. Under no circumstances is she to be in contact with anyone outside the palace, nor is she allowed to leave it.
“On the other hand, she is not to be alarmed or made to think anything out of the ordinary is happening. Is that clear?”
“Of course, Tsarevich.”
“Next, quietly double the guard on the palace’s perimeter walls and attach a canine unit to each section. At the same time, station four FSO agents at every palace entry and exit, two inside and two out. No one is to be permitted onto the grounds without prior clearanc
e from either you or me, and even then only with full identification. That order is to include all purveyors, service people, palace staff, and FSO personnel, who are simply to be told we have increased security as the coronation date approaches. Any questions, Colonel?”
“No, Tsarevich, no questions.” Murzin turned crisply to pick up the handset to his radio transmitter.
Alexander listened as Murzin contacted FSO headquarters at Tsarskoe Selo, then leaned back to absently touch the leather flight jacket he wore. The knife was there, in the inside pocket, and, as so many times in the past, its very closeness reassured him.
It was now a little after eleven. It would be nearly one-thirty when they reached the palace. His plan was straightforward and would, once she was calmed down and heard it, satisfy the Baroness.
He had sent Rebecca from Moscow to Tsarskoe Selo because her brother had been reported as being alive and in Moscow. Since Marten—he was certain the man with Kovalenko was Marten—was now in St. Petersburg, possibly even on his way to the palace, the most obvious thing was simply to fly her out of the compound and back to Moscow. The reason, too, was obvious—they had been invited to six o’clock tea with the president, and what better way to humble oneself before the president than to bring one’s beautiful and utterly charming fiancée along.
It was an idea the Baroness would grasp instantly. It would immediately ease her rage, and at the same time physically remove Rebecca from the approach of her brother. Moreover it would all happen quickly because they would need to leave almost as soon as they arrived, to be back in Moscow in time to dress for the presidential tea.
Alexander glanced at Murzin and then out to the Russian countryside below. Huge expanses of still-raw land were cut here and there by rivers or lakes or forests, and the occasional roadway or rail line. Russia was a massive country, and flying over it like this made it feel even more so. Soon Russia would take all of his energy, touching this corner of it and that, as little by little he became its supreme ruler.
Still, for all his plans, despite everything that was already in motion, there remained the problem of Marten. Alexander should have killed him in Paris when he had the chance. Or before Paris, gone to his flat in Manchester and killed Marten there. But he hadn’t because of Rebecca.
Earlier in the morning, as he stepped from a purposely cold shower, he had seen his reflection in the mirror and stood there transfixed. It was the first time in as long as he could remember that he had allowed himself to look at his body and the ugly patchwork of scars covering it. Some were surgical; others were from the L.A. policeman Polchak’s horrific machine gun, bullets that would have killed him had it not been for his last-second twisting away and John Barron’s Kevlar vest, which Raymond had put on, almost as an afterthought, before they left Barron’s house for the Burbank Airport. And there, too, was the faint scar at his throat where Barron’s shot had torn across, searing his flesh during his bloody escape from the Criminal Courts Building.
In truth he should have been dead. But he wasn’t, because each time, a combination of his own ingenuity, skill, and luck had played a hand. So had God, who had given him strength and delivered him to his destiny as Tsar of All Russia. It was because of that God-guided destiny that he hadn’t died in L.A., and wouldn’t die during this Russian army helicopter ride to Tsarskoe Selo.
But Marten hadn’t died either. He was still here, too, in spite of everything and at nearly every turn. The same as he had been in L.A. and Paris, and then in Zurich and Davos, and then Moscow, and now in St. Petersburg. He was always there. Why? What part of God’s work was that? It was something Alexander didn’t understand.
37
THE ST. PETERSBURG SEA AND RIVER YACHT CLUB, NABEREZHNAYA MARTYNOVA. STILL SATURDAY, APRIL 5. 12:50 P.M.
From where he stood with his collar turned up against a cold wind, peering in through a corner window, Marten could see Kovalenko at the bar, a glass in his hand, talking with a tall, sea-weathered man with a great mane of curly gray hair.
It had been nearly half an hour since Kovalenko had left him waiting in the beige Ford rental car, saying he’d only be a few minutes. But there he was, still talking and drinking as if he were on vacation, rather than trying to hire a boat.
Marten turned away and walked toward the pier, looking out at the stretch of islands and waterways across from him. To his left, in the distance, he could see the massive Kirov sports stadium, and beyond it, glinting in the sun, the Gulf of Finland. They were lucky, Kovalenko had told him. St. Petersburg harbor was usually full of ice at this time of year, but the Russian winter had been mild and the rivers and the harbor, and most probably the Finnish Sea itself, were virtually free of big ice fields, which meant the shipping lanes, while still hazardous, would be open.
The idea of using a boat as a means of getting Rebecca out of Russia had come to Marten on the train from Moscow as he watched Kovalenko sleep. Getting her away from Tsarskoe Selo was one thing—he knew that if Clem called Rebecca, calmly and matter-of-factly said she was coming to St. Petersburg, and asked her if there was some way she could sneak away from her courtly duties to meet her alone for an hour or so, Rebecca would do so without question. Once away from the palace, the two of them could get rid of the FSO protectors who would accompany Rebecca by simply saying they wanted to be alone. If Rebecca had trouble saying that, Lady Clem most certainly would not, and, if they chose the right location—a cathedral, an exclusive restaurant, a museum—once they were alone, there were any number of ways they could leave undetected.
The problem was what to do then. Rebecca, as the hugely popular Tsarina-to-be, was a world media darling whose face, along with Alexander’s, was everywhere and on seemingly everything, from television to newspapers, to magazines, T-shirts, coffee mugs, even children’s pajamas. As Rebecca, she could go nowhere without being recognized and, as a result, could hardly be expected to walk through a train station or airport without being mobbed, and without people asking, “Where is the Tsarina going, in public, without security, and without the Tsarevich?”
The authorities would ask the same question and immediately alert the FSO. Moreover, even if she wore some kind of disguise and eluded detection, tickets and passports were necessary even for a disguised Tsarina. Add to that timetables, weather, and late arrivals and departures, and public travel became far too complicated and time-consuming for a successful and swift escape. Therefore, Marten had had to think of an alternate means of transit that would get them not just out of St. Petersburg but out of Russia, quickly, out of public view, and on their own terms and schedule. A private aircraft was a possibility but far too costly. Moreover, a flight plan would have to be filed. Using Kovalenko’s rental car was another alternative, but roadblocks could be hurriedly set up and every vehicle stopped and searched. Besides, it was a long way to the nearest border, Estonia to the west, or Finland to the north. However, hiring a private boat that could leave St. Petersburg immediately and sail rapidly out of Russian waters was as intriguing as it was attractive. When he broached the subject with Kovalenko, it seemed to be the ideal course, one made all the easier by Kovalenko’s personal connections gained through years in law enforcement. Hence, the gray-haired man at the yacht club bar and Kovalenko’s negotiation for a vessel and crew.
It might be crazy, but so far it was working. Clem, waiting to change planes in Copenhagen, had reached Marten on his cell phone to say she had spoken to Rebecca just before breakfast. She’d reached her simply by calling the Kremlin and saying who she was, and, after she’d given enough information for the Kremlin to verify her aristocratic identity, her call had been put through to Rebecca’s secretary at Tsarskoe Selo. In no time Rebecca had eagerly agreed to meet her alone at the Hermitage Museum, where Lord Prestbury had long been a patron and where, as his daughter, Clem had special access to private rooms.
It was now nearly one o’clock. In just over ninety minutes Clem would arrive at Pulkovo Airport, and Marten and Kovalenko would pick her u
p in the rental car and drive her into St. Petersburg. At three-thirty she would meet Rebecca at the Hermitage Museum and begin to tour it. At four Rebecca and Clem would go to the Throne Room of Peter the Great, where Marten and Kovalenko would be waiting. If all went well, at four-fifteen they would leave by a side door and walk directly out to the boat landing across from the museum, where, assuming Kovalenko was successful with “Gray Hair,” the man at the bar, a seaworthy boat would be waiting. Marten and Clem and Rebecca would board immediately and go into the cabin and out of sight. Within minutes the vessel would pull away from the landing, travel down the River Neva to the St. Petersburg harbor and out into the Gulf of Finland, and cross the sea in an overnight passage to Helsinki. Kovalenko would simply return the rental car and take the next train back to Moscow.
By the time the FSO realized Rebecca had gone and sounded the alarm it would be too late. They could alert every airport, search every train, and stop every car if they wanted, but they would find nothing. Even if they suspected she had left by boat, how could they know which of the hundreds of boats plying the waters she was on? What would they do, stop them all? Impossible. Even if they tried, by the time the warning was sounded and the Russian coast guard sent into action, night would be falling, and Rebecca, Clem, and Marten would either be in, or very close to, the safety of international waters.
So, with Clem on her way, and Kovalenko negotiating for a boat, the clock had started ticking down. The question now was how and if the remainder of the pieces would come together without breaking apart. In that, Rebecca was most problematical of all. The simple act of her leaving Tsarskoe Selo for a trip to St. Petersburg could become exceptionally difficult if the security people there protested. But assuming she did reach St. Petersburg without trouble, there was no way to predict what would happen once she arrived at the Hermitage Museum and met Lady Clem thinking she was there for a pleasant outing with a friend and instead was suddenly brought face to face with Nicholas. It was a moment that would pack a powerful emotional punch all its own. How she would react to the truth he would tell her about Alexander moments later, and if she would have the strength and courage to believe him and agree to leave St. Petersburg right then, was something else entirely. Yet it was something their escape fully depended upon.