The Romanov Prophecy Page 0,2

agony?"

What was he saying?

He grabbed her arms and pulled her close. Fear filled his face, but he wasn't really looking at her. He was focused far off, beyond her.

"I shall leave this life before the new year. Remember, Mama, if I be killed by common assassins the tsar has nothing to fear. He will remain on his throne with nothing to fear for your children. They will reign for hundreds of years. But, Mama, if I am murdered by boyars, their hands will remain soiled by my blood for twenty-five years. They will leaveRussia . Brother will rise against brother, and they will kill each other in hate. Then there will be no nobles in the country."

She was frightened. "Father, why are you speaking like this?"

His eyes came back from beyond and focused on her. "If one of the tsar's relatives carries out my murder, none of your family will live more than two years. They will all be killed by the Russian people. Be concerned for your salvation and tell your relatives I paid for them with my life."

"Father, this is nonsense."

"It is a vision, and I have had it more than once. The night is dark with the suffering that is before us. I shall not see it. My hour is near, but though it is bitter, I do not fear it."

He started to tremble again.

"Oh, Lord. The evil is so great that the Earth will tremble with famine and sickness. Mother Russia will be lost."

She shook him again. "Father, you must not talk like this. Alexie needs you."

A calm overtook him.

"Fear not, Mama. There is another vision. Salvation. This is the first time it has come to me. Oh, what a prophecy. I see it clearly."

Chapter One

PART ONE

ONE

MOSCOW, THE PRESENT

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 12

1:24 PM

IN FIFTEEN SECONDSMILESLORD'S LIFE CHANGED FOREVER.

He first saw the sedan. A dark blue Volvo station wagon, the tint so deep that it appeared black in the brightmidday sun. He next noticed the front tires cutting right, weaving a path around traffic on busy Nikolskaya Prospekt. Then the rear window, reflective as a mirror, descended, and a distorted reflection of the surrounding buildings was replaced by a dark rectangle pierced by the barrel of a gun.

Bullets exploded from the gun.

He dived flat. Screams arose around him as he slammed onto the oily pavement. The sidewalk was packed with afternoon shoppers, tourists, and workers, all now lunging for cover as lead raked a trail across the weathered stone of Stalinist-era buildings.

He rolled over and looked up at Artemy Bely, his lunch companion. He'd met the Russian two days back and taken him to be an amicable young lawyer with the Justice Ministry. Lawyer to lawyer they'd eaten dinner last night and breakfast this morning, talking of the new Russia and the great changes coming, both marveling at being part of history. His mouth opened to shout a warning, but before he could utter a sound Bely's chest erupted and blood and sinew splattered on the plate-glass window beyond.

The automatic fire came with a constantrat-tat-tat that reminded him of old gangster movies. The plate glass gave way and jagged shards crashed to the sidewalk. Bely's body crumpled on top of him. A coppery stench rose from the gaping wounds. He shoved the lifeless Russian off, worried about the red tide soaking into his suit and dripping from his hands. He hardly knew Bely. Was he HIV-positive?

The Volvo screeched to a stop.

He looked to his left.

Car doors popped open and two men sprang out, both armed with automatic weapons. They wore the blue-and-gray uniforms with red lapels of themilitsya --the police.

Neither, though, sported the regulation gray caps with red brim. The man from the front seat had the sloped forehead, bushy hair, and bulbous nose of a Cro-Magnon. The man who slid from the rear was stocky with a pockmarked face and dark, slicked-back hair. The man's right eye caught Lord's attention. The space between the pupil and eyebrow was wide, creating a noticeable droop--as if one eye was closed, the other open--and provided the only indication of emotion on an otherwise expressionless face.

Droopy said to Cro-Magnon in Russian, "The damnchornye survived."

Did he hear right?

Chornye.

The Russian equivalent fornigger.

His was the only black face he'd seen since arriving inMoscow eight weeks ago, so he knew he had a problem. He recalled something from a Russian travel book he'd read a few months back.Anyone dark-skinned can expect to arouse a certain amount of curiosity. What an understatement.

Cro-Magnon acknowledged