The Romanov Legacy Read Online Free PDF Page B

hidden Tsarist money, from pretenders such as Anna Anderson
to former servants and companions like the Tsarina’s friend Lili Dehn. 
The Bank of England issued countless statements denying the existence of a
secret account.  Rumkowski believed they were all lying, under a blanket
order originating with King George V.  He believed they had hopes of
confiscating the money themselves. 
    Over time, Rumkowski’s leads thinned out as people who
remembered the Tsar died or succumbed to dementia.  No one ever confirmed
Ivan Skorokhodov’s story, and the file remained open but dormant, a nuisance
that nagged at Soviet premiers desperate for money to fund the space race,
Olympic athletic programs, and the war in Afghanistan. 
    Constantine set the file down.  Somewhere deep behind
his eyes, a headache was forming.  The rhythmic throb reminded him of a
derrick, pulling black gold out of the Baku oil fields.  This assignment
was ridiculous.  If Stalin himself couldn’t find the Tsar’s money, how was
anyone else supposed to?
    The intercom buzzed to life.  “Excuse the interruption,
Mr. Dashkov.  We have reached our cruising altitude of 43,000 feet. 
Our expected landing time in San Francisco is 9:30 p.m. local time.  The
flight should be smooth, if you want to get some sleep.”
    Constantine waved acceptance; the cabin camera displayed in
the cockpit would let the pilot know he understood.  He opened the small
bottle of vodka and drank all of it, settling down into a restless sleep. 

Chapter Seven
    July 1918
    Ekaterinburg, Russia
     
    Olga sat alone in the upstairs drawing room, pretending to
read her Bible.  It lay open on her lap but she hadn’t turned a page in
more than an hour.  The words of Jesus failed to comfort her because she
could only think of the horrible end that awaited him.  No matter how kind
he was, the people he sought to help always betrayed him.  How had it
felt, she wondered, at the moment of death?  Was it a relief to put down
the burden of suffering?  Was it a struggle not to curse the soldier who
had thrown the spear?  What did it all matter, since two thousand years
later, the same terrible crimes were still being perpetrated?
    Her eyes drifted to the empty basket on the side
table.  Any moment now, the delivery boy would come to fetch it and bring
it back to the nunnery.  The guard who had struck her, bribed with one of
Marie’s bracelets, would escort the boy upstairs while Marie kept the rest of
the family away. 
    Olga moved her jaw from side to side, still feeling soreness
throb in her gums.  It wasn’t the first time she’d been hit—it happened to
all the girls at one time or another in the past few months.  Only Alexei
and the Tsarina escaped, Alexei because of his hemophilia and the Tsarina
because, truthfully, the men were all afraid of her.  Her mother’s posture
and bearing were still that of an empress, even if her beauty had long faded.
    Olga knew she would not be able to see the boy approach
because the soldiers had painted all the windows over.  Instead, she
closed her eyes and listened until she heard the sound of the outer gate and a
guard’s voice giving the go-ahead.  Raucous laughter followed the poor boy
as he trudged up the steps and knocked on the front door.  The downstairs
guard opened it and Olga held her breath until she heard a single pair of
footsteps trudge up the stairs.
    The boy emerged from the stairwell and looked at the floor
instead of at her.  “ Dobryi dyehn ,” he said softly.
    “ Dobryi dyehn ,” Olga replied, smiling in spite of
herself.  On this hot July day, the boy wore a scarf wound twice around
his neck.  “You are dressed for snow, Filipp Feodorovich.”
    His eyes remained on the floor.  “Y-yes, your—”
    “Olga,” she interrupted.  People who referred to them
by their titles usually earned a beating from the guards.  She glanced
toward the far end of the drawing room where Anastasia and Marie sat on