The Exile

  “Tovarich, he wants you to pay now.” Kovalenko was walking toward him, Gray Hair at his heels. “I thought he would take me on good faith and friendship and I could arrange for you to pay him later. He has a boat, and he has a crew who will not ask questions, but this is risky business and he’s afraid that if something happens he will not get his money. And certainly I do not have the kind of money he is asking for.”

  “I—” Marten stammered. All he had were his two credit cards and, by now, less than a hundred euros in cash.

  “How much does he want?”

  “Two thousand U.S. dollars.”

  “Two thousand?”

  “Da.” Gray Hair pushed up beside him. “Cash, up front,” he said in English.

  “Credit cards,” Marten said flatly.

  Gray Hair’s face twisted and he shook his head. “Nyet. Cash dollars.”

  Marten looked to Kovalenko. “Tell him it’s all I have.”

  Kovalenko turned to Gray Hair but never got the words out.

  “ATM,” Gray Hair said brusquely. “ATM.”

  “He wants—” Kovalenko started to explain.

  “I know what he wants.” Marten looked to Gray Hair. “ATM. Okay. Okay,” he said, hoping to hell that between the two cards he had enough cash-advance balance available to cover it.

  38

  TSARSKOE SELO. 2:16 P.M.

  Gardeners looked up at the sudden thud of heavy rotor blades as the Kamov Ka-60 came in just above the treetops to pass over the still-brown grass of the expansive lawns and early plantings of the massive formal gardens. Flying over a sea of fountains and obelisks, it turned abruptly over a corner of the enormous Catherine Palace, then flew directly over a dense copse of oak and maple to set down in a blast of prop-wash in front of the double-winged, colonnaded, hundred-room Alexander Palace.

  Immediately the engines shut down and Alexander jumped out. Ducking beneath the still-churning rotor blades, he ran anxiously toward the door leading to the building’s left wing. In the last hour they had come up against particularly strong headwinds that used up fuel and slowed their airspeed, delaying their arrival time considerably and necessitating a refueling before they returned to Moscow. It meant he had little time to collect Rebecca and be on his way back for his meeting with Gitinov.

  As he reached the entryway, the two newly posted FSO agents there came to attention. One of them pulled open the door and Alexander entered.

  “Where is the Tsarina?” he said to the two FSO officers on post just inside. “Where?” he pressed.

  “Tsarevich,” the Baroness’s voice echoed sharply down the long, white-walled hallway behind them. Immediately Alexander swung around. The Baroness stood in an open doorway, halfway down the long hallway, in a stark shaft of bright sunshine. Her dark hair turned up severely, she wore a light mink jacket over a designer pantsuit, yellow and white as always.

  “Where is Rebecca?” He walked quickly toward her.

  “Gone.”

  “What?” Horror stabbed across Alexander’s face.

  “I said, she has gone.”

  The Baroness led Alexander through a bedroom and then through heavily draped double doors into the Mauve Room, the favorite room of Tsar Nicholas II’s wife, his own Alexandra. For the Baroness, the singular attraction of the room was neither its color nor its history, but that it could only be reached through the bedroom, then the draped double doors, and therefore was safe from roving eyes and ears. To be doubly safe, she closed the doors behind them as they came in.

  “What do you mean she is not here?” Alexander had held his temper for as long as he could.

  “She had the FSO drive her into St. Petersburg.”

  “St. Petersburg?”

  “She left about thirty minutes before you arrived.”

  “Nicholas Marten is in St. Petersburg.”

  “You don’t know that for certain. The only information you have is that a detective from the Ministry of Justice arrived in St. Petersburg on the Moscow train, and someone may or may not have been with him.”

  “Where did you hear that?” Alexander was astonished.

  “I try to take notice of what is going on around me.”

  “The FSO had specific orders she was not to leave the palace.”

  “She is strong-willed.” A faint smile crossed the Baroness’s face.

  Alexander flared with sudden realization. “You are the only person strong-willed enough for that. It was you who gave permission for her to leave.”

  “She is not a prisoner of your imagination, or your”—the Baroness chose the word carefully—“worries.”

  Suddenly Alexander realized. “You knew I was coming.”

  “Yes, I knew, and I didn’t want her here when you arrived because I knew her presence would complicate things further. That she wanted to go fit things perfectly.” The Baroness’s stare became ice. “The utter stupidity of your coming here. You are the Tsarevich, and with the most important encounter of your life only hours away, you act like some precious schoolboy who has an army helicopter to play with.”

  Alexander ignored her. “Where did she go?”

  “Shopping. At least that’s what she told me.”

  Abruptly Alexander turned for the door. “Colonel Murzin will radio the FSO agents with her and have her brought back.”

  “I think not.”

  “What?”

  “There is every chance you will be late for your ‘tea’ with the president as it is. I will not have you jeopardizing everything we have worked for by standing around waiting for your ‘Tsarina’ to be brought back.”

  “She is shopping!” Alexander was outraged. “She will draw a crowd! People will know she is there. What if—”

  “Her brother finds her?” Coldly, quietly, the Baroness finished his thought.

  “Yes.”

  “Then Colonel Murzin would have to do something, wouldn’t he?” she said directly, her eyes still riveted on him.

  “Do you know what it means?” she asked in a voice that was suddenly soft, even distant, and had the quality of silk.

  “What it means to be Tsar?” Her eyes held his for the longest moment, and then she turned and crossed to the window to stand there staring into the distance. “To know you have absolute power. To know that the land and everything in it—its cities, its people, its armies, its rivers and forests—all belong to you.”

  The Baroness let her words drift away. Then slowly she turned to face him. “Upon your coronation, my sweet, that power will be yours forever. Never again to be taken away, because you have had the training and the bloodletting, and will have the force and means, to ensure it.

  “For me to have given you life, to have conceived you from Russia’s noblest seed, was God’s will. In time you will beget children of your own, and they in turn will beget theirs. They will be our children, all of them, my sweet, yours and mine. A dynasty has been reborn. A dynasty that will be feared and adored and obeyed without question. A dynasty that will one day make Russia the most formidable power on earth.”

  The faintest smile crossed the Baroness’s lips. Then abruptly her eyes narrowed and her voice sharpened. “But for all of it, you are not yet Tsar. God still tests. Gitinov is his saber.”

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the Baroness started across the room toward Alexander, her eyes never leaving him. “A Tsar is a king, and a king must be wise enough to know his enemies. To understand he cannot risk his future and his children’s future to the distrust or ambition of a mere politician. To realize that until the deal is done and the crown is fully upon his head, the king-in-waiting remains at the politician’s mercy.

  “President Gitinov is powerful and shrewd and very dangerous. He must be played like the cruel instrument he is. Coddled and stroked and twirled like a puppet until he fully believes that you are no threat to him whatsoever, that you will never be more than a figurehead monarch content to remain in his shadow.”

  The Baroness reached Alexander
and stopped before him, her eyes still locked on his, powerful and unwavering. “Once that is done the crown will be ours,” she whispered. “Do you understand, my sweet?”

  Alexander wanted to turn and walk away from her, but he couldn’t; the force of her was far too strong. “Yes, Baroness,” he felt his lips move and his voice come in a hush, “I understand.”

  “Then leave Murzin here with me and return to Moscow at once,” she said sharply.

  For the longest moment Alexander did nothing, just stood there staring at her in numbed silence, his entire being overrun by two simple thoughts, one as vile as the other. Whose crown was it to be really? His or hers? And who was truly the puppet—Gitinov or himself?

  “Did you hear me, my sweet?” The angry timbre of her voice rocked through him.

  “I—” He started to speak, to react.

  “What is it?” she demanded.

  Alexander watched her a moment longer, wanting to have it out with her right then, tell her once and for all that he had had enough of her manipulations and everything that went with them. But he knew from a lifetime’s experience that such a reaction would only bring on a further torrent. Here as always, against her, there was no such thing as winning.

  “Nothing, Baroness,” he said finally, then abruptly turned on his heel and left.

  39

  ST. PETERSBURG. 3:18 P.M.

  The beige Ford crossed Anichkov Bridge and continued down the traffic-filled Nevsky Prospekt, St. Petersburg’s Champs Elysées, its Fifth Avenue. The car was nondescript, one of thousands of vehicles on the move through the city. In minutes the gilded spire of the Admiralty building on the banks of the River Neva would come into view. And then, directly across from it, the huge Russian Baroque edifice that was the Hermitage Museum.

  “Drop me on Dvortsovy Prospekt, just before the river.” Lady Clem looked at Kovalenko behind the wheel from where she sat in the passenger seat. “There is a secondary entrance where I asked Rebecca to meet me. A personal guide will be waiting to take us on a private tour. That should be enough to get rid of the FSO, at least for a time.”

  “That’s assuming she gets that far.” Marten hunched forward anxiously from the backseat.

  “Tovarich,” Kovalenko said, as he slowed behind a crowded city bus, “at some point we must trust in fate.”

  “Yes,” Marten said, and sat back. Clem sat back, too, and Kovalenko stayed intent on his driving.

  Clem was even more beautiful than Marten remembered. He’d caught his breath as he’d seen her walk out of passport control at Pulkovo Airport and strut toward them in dark glasses, black cashmere turtleneck, black slacks, and tan Burberry raincoat, the big black leather handbag slung boldly over her shoulder.

  Her reaction to him, as she’d seen them waiting, or rather as she had seen Kovalenko waiting alongside a barefaced, excruciatingly thin man with a very bad haircut, was quite different.

  “Good Lord, Nicholas, you are a mess,” she’d said with genuine concern, but that had been all she’d been able to say because Kovalenko quickly steered them out the door and toward the Ford on a breezy St. Petersburg afternoon, without giving them so much as a chance to embrace. What either of them felt at seeing the other after so long a time, and after all that had taken place, would have to be discussed later. What Clem also had to put aside for the moment was her not terribly fond sentiment for Kovalenko, remembering clearly the interrogation-hell he and Lenard had put her through in Paris.

  What mattered most now, they all knew, as the clock clicked down and they approached the Hermitage, was Rebecca, how she would react when she saw her brother, then was informed about Alexander, and what she would do afterward. There was no discussion whatsoever about Marten’s earlier concern, that a different kind of fate might intervene and she wouldn’t arrive at all.

  40

  THE HERMITAGE MUSEUM. 3:25 P.M.

  Clem got out of the Ford and walked directly toward the grand museum’s secondary entrance on Dvortsovy Prospekt.

  “Lady Clementine Simpson,” she said in her best-clipped British accent to a uniformed guard at the door.

  “Of course,” the guard said in English and immediately opened the door.

  Once inside, she followed a marble-floored corridor around to the Excursion Office. Again she introduced herself simply by reciting her name.

  A moment later a door opened and a short, matronly woman in a neatly pressed uniform came out.

  “I am your guide, Lady Clementine. My name is Svetlana.”

  “Thank you.” Clem glanced around. It was three-thirty exactly. This was where and when she was to meet Rebecca. The plan was to tell the guide they wanted to see the Malachite Drawing Room on the second floor. Then they would dismiss the FSO, and with the guide leading them, they would take a private elevator to the second floor. A short walk down the corridor would lead them to the Malachite Drawing Room, where the windows provided an excellent view of the river and the boat landing directly in front of the museum. Gray Hair’s boat was to arrive at three-fifty-five. When it did, Rebecca and Clem would go directly to the Small Throne Room, the Memorial Hall of Peter the Great, which Lord Prestbury had personally requested be closed off for the afternoon. Once there, they would ask the guide to wait outside the room while they had a private conversation. Then they would go in and close the door. Inside, Marten and Kovalenko would be waiting.

  3:34 P.M.

  Where was Rebecca?

  Marten stood behind Kovalenko in the admission line at one of four ticket counters. Around them people waiting to get in jabbered in half a dozen languages. They inched forward.

  “If you weren’t with me, it would cost you almost eleven dollars U.S. to get in,” Kovalenko said. “Russians pay just fifty-four cents. Today you are Russian. You are lucky, tovarich.”

  Suddenly there was a commotion behind them. The crowd around them turned. Three dark-blue-suited FSO were coming through the front doors. In their midst, resplendent in mink coat, pillbox hat, and dark veil, was Rebecca.

  “The Tsarina!” a woman cried out.

  “The Tsarina!” People’s voices echoed in awe across the room.

  And then she was gone, whisked away by the FSO.

  Marten looked at Kovalenko. “You are right, tovarich, I am lucky.”

  3:40 P.M.

  Rebecca and Lady Clem threw their arms around each other, hugging joyfully as the FSO shooed people from the Excursion Office. In a moment there were only the six of them, the three FSO, Lady Clem, Rebecca, and Svetlana Maslova, their tour guide.

  Now came the hard part, and Clem walked Rebecca away to a corner of the room, smiling, chatting about nothing. When they were far enough away, she looked at Rebecca.

  “I have a surprise for you,” she said quietly. “We need to go to the second floor but without the FSO. Can you get rid of them?”

  “Why?”

  “It’s important we be alone. I’ll explain it to you when we are.”

  “I’m afraid it is not possible. Alexander radioed for them to stay with me until he got here.”

  Lady Clem tried to cover a gasp. “Alexander is coming here, to the Hermitage?”

  “Yes, why? What’s going on?”

  “Rebecca—never mind, I’ll take care of it.” Immediately Clem turned and crossed the room to where the FSO stood. Thankfully, they were all men.

  “The Tsarina and I are going with the guide to the second floor, to the Malachite Drawing Room. We wish to be alone.”

  A tall, broad-shouldered FSO with eyes that were little more than dots stepped forward. “That is not possible,” he said coldly.

  “It’s not—” Clem started to get mad, then realized it was the wrong approach. “Are you married?” she asked suddenly, dropping her voice and stepping back, away from the others, so he had to follow her.

  “No,” he said, joining her.

  “A sister?”

  “Three.”

  “Then you will appreciate that when a woman
learns she is pregnant and she is not married, what to do about it is not something to be discussed in front of strangers, especially men, even if they are”—she used the full FSO designation respectfully and with solid Russian pronunciation—“Federalnaya Slujba Ohrani.”

  “The Tsarina is—?”

  “Why do you think we went to all the trouble to meet away from the palace?”

  “The Tsarevich does not know?”

  “No, and he’d better not learn of it either. When he is told, the news will come from the Tsarina herself.” Lady Clem glanced at the two FSO behind him. “This was conveyed to you in confidence. Do you understand?”

  Dot-eyes shifted his feet uncomfortably. “Yes, of course.”

  “Now,” Lady Clem said, indicating an elevator door near the back of the room, “we will go upstairs by private elevator. Svetlana will make certain that the Tsarina and I are not disturbed when we go into the room alone to talk. She has a radio. She can call you instantly if there is a problem.”

  “I—” He hesitated and Clem saw him wavering. This was no time to back off.

  “The Tsarina is the most public woman in Russia. The wedding and coronation are barely three weeks off. She has asked for my help in a very delicate matter. Would you be the one to deny it?”

  Still he hesitated, his dot-eyes boring into her, looking for the lie, the put-on, anything to tell him what she was saying was not true. But she held firm and he saw nothing.

  “Go,” he said finally, “go.”

  “Spasiba,” Lady Clem whispered, “spasiba.” Thank you.