the Romanov Prophecy (2004) Read Free Page B

speeding south, his way. Apparently the gunmen had heard the sirens, too, and hastily retreated. He then saw the dark blue Volvo that had started everything appear from the north and speed down the boulevard. The two gunmen backed toward it, but seemed unable to resist a few parting shots.
    He watched as they finally climbed into the Volvo and roared away.
    Only then did he raise up on his knees and release a sigh of relief.
    TWO
    Lord climbed out of the police car. He was back on Nikolskaya Prospekt, where the shooting had begun. At the construction site he’d been lowered to the ground and hosed down to cleanse away the mortar and blood. His suit jacket was gone, as was his tie. His white dress shirt and dark trousers were soaking wet and stained gray. In the chilly afternoon they felt like a cold compress. He was wrapped in a musty wool blanket one of the workers had produced that smelled of horses. He was calm. Amazing, considering.
    The
prospekt
was filled with squad cars and ambulances, light bars flashing, a multitude of uniformed officers everywhere. Traffic was at a standstill. Officers had secured the street at both ends, all the way to the McDonald’s.
    Lord was led to a short, heavy-chested man with a bull neck and close-cropped reddish whiskers sprouting from fleshy cheeks. Deep lines streaked his brow. His nose was askew, as if from a break that had never healed, and his complexion carried the sallow pale all too common with Russians. He wore a loose-fitting gray suit and a dark shirt under a charcoal overcoat. His shoes were dog-eared and dirty.
    “I am Inspector Orleg.
Militsya.
” He offered a hand. Lord noticed liver spots freckling the wrist and forearm. “You one here when shots were fired?”
    The inspector spoke in accented English, and Lord debated whether to answer in Russian. It would surely ease their communication. Most Russians assumed Americans were too arrogant or too lazy to master their language—particularly black Americans, whom he’d found they viewed as something of a circus oddity. He’d visited Moscow nearly a dozen times over the past decade and had learned to keep his linguistic talent to himself—garnering in the process an opportunity to listen in on comments between lawyers and businessmen who thought they were protected by a language barrier. At the moment, he was highly suspicious of everyone. His previous dealings with the police had been confined to a few disputes over parking and one incident where he was forced to pay fifty rubles to avoid a bogus traffic violation. It wasn’t unusual for the Moscow police to shake down foreigners.
What do you expect from somebody who earns a hundred rubles a month?
an officer had asked while pocketing his fifty dollars.
    “The shooters were police,” he said in English.
    The Russian shook his head. “They dress like police.
Militsya
not gun people down.”
    “These did.” He glanced beyond the inspector at the bloodied remains of Artemy Bely. The young Russian was sprawled faceup on the sidewalk, his eyes open, brown-red ribbons seeping from holes in his chest. “How many were hit?”
    “Pyát.”
    “Five? How many dead?”
    “Chet´yre.”
    “You don’t seem concerned. Four people shot dead in the middle of the day on a public street.”
    Orleg shrugged. “Little can be done. The roof is tough to control.”
    “The roof” was the common way to refer to the
mafiya
who populated Moscow and most of western Russia. He’d never learned how the term came into being. Maybe it was because that was how people paid—through the roof—or perhaps it was a metaphor for the odd pinnacle of Russian life. The nicest cars, largest
dachas,
and best clothes were owned by gang members. No effort was made to conceal their wealth. On the contrary, the
mafiya
tended to flaunt their prosperity to both the government and the people. It was a separate social class, one that had emerged with startling speed. His contacts within the business