the Romanov Prophecy (2004) by Steve Berry Read Free Book Online Page A

he said that if one of our relatives carries out his murder, none of our family will live more than two years. We will all be killed by the Russian people.
    He made me rise and immediately write this down. Then he said not to despair. There would be salvation. The one with the most guilt will see the error of his way. He will assure that the blood of our body resurrects itself. His rantings bordered on nonsense and I wondered, for the first time, if the stench of alcohol upon him had affected his brain. He kept saying that only a raven and an eagle can succeed where all fail and that the innocence of beasts will guard and lead the way, being the final arbitor of success. He said God will provide a way to be sure of righteousness. Most troubling was his statement that twelve must die before the resurrection can be complete.
    I tried to question him but he went silent, insisting that I write the prophecy down exactly and convey the vision to you. He talked as if something might happen to us, but I assured him that Papa has the country well in hand. He was not comforted and his words troubled me all night. Oh my precious one, I hold you tight in my arms and will never let anyone touch your shining soul. I kiss, kiss, kiss and bless you and you always understand. I hope you come to me soon.
    Your Wify
    Lord knew that the writer was Alexandra, the last tsarina of Russia. She had kept a diary for decades. So had her husband, Nicholas, and both journals subsequently provided an unprecedented look into the royal court. Nearly seven hundred of their letters were found in Yekaterinburg after the execution. He’d read other diary excerpts and most of the letters. Several recent books had published them verbatim. He knew the reference to “our Friend” was their way of describing Rasputin, since both Alexandra and Nicholas thought their letters were being scrutinized by others. Unfortunately, their unfettered confidence in Rasputin was not shared by anyone else.
    “So deep in thought,” a voice said in Russian.
    He glanced up.
    An older man stood on the opposite side of the table. He was fair-skinned with pale blue eyes, a thin chest, and freckled wrists. His head was half bald and graying fuzz dusted the sallow skin on his neck from ear to ear. He wore steel-rimmed glasses and a bow tie. Lord immediately recalled that he’d seen the man poring through the records, one of several individuals who seemed to be working as hard as he was.
    “Actually, I was back in 1916 for an instant. Reading this stuff is like time travel,” Lord said in Russian.
    The older man smiled. Lord estimated his age to be nearing, if not more than, sixty.
    “I quite agree. It is one of the reasons I like coming here. A reminder of something that once was.”
    He instantly warmed to the congenial manner and stood from the table. “I’m Miles Lord.”
    “I know who you are.”
    A wave of suspicion swept over him and his gaze unconsciously darted around the room.
    His visitor seemed to sense the fear. “I assure you, Mr. Lord, I am no threat. Just a tired historian looking for a little conversation with someone of similar interests.”
    He relaxed. “How do you know me?”
    The man smiled. “You are not a favorite of the women who staff this depository. They resent being ordered about by an American—”
    “And a black?”
    The man smiled. “Unfortunately, this country is not progressively minded on the issue of race. We are a fair-skinned nation. But your commission credentials cannot be ignored.”
    “And who are you?”
    “Semyon Pashenko, professor of history, Moscow State University.” The older man offered his hand and Lord accepted. “Where is the other gentleman who accompanied you in days past? A lawyer, I believe. We talked for a few moments among the stacks.”
    He debated whether to lie, but decided the truth would be better. “He was killed this morning on Nikolskaya Prospekt. In a shooting.”
    Shock filled the older man’s face.