Five

Hawke stared at Kuragin in disbelief for a brief moment, then, seeing the clear truth in his wise old eyes, put his face into his hands and leaned forward, giving full rein to his overwhelming emotions. The general stood up and placed his one good hand on Alex’s shoulder. “I’ll go and get the ‘prisoner’ now, Alex. I’m sure you two will want to be alone. I will send her to you here where you’ll be comfortable. Sit back now. Calm yourself. That decanter on my desk contains the purest Russian vodka dirty money can buy. I suggest you avail yourself of it.”

A gentle tapping at the door. So soft an anxious Hawke nearly missed the sound above the crackle and hiss of the great fire in the hearth. He practically leaped from the chair, set his small glass of vodka on Kuragin’s massive desk, and raced across the large room to the door. His hand was shaking badly as he reached for the doorknob. His heart had taken on a life of its own, beating like some jungle drum warning of imminent danger.

Little did he know.

He pulled the heavy wooden door open, slowly, terrified of what he might or might not see beyond it.

Anastasia.

He saw her upturned face, morning light spilling down from a high window, afire in her golden hair.

Her luminous green eyes shining with tears.

Her lower lip trembling.

Her tentative hand, reaching out, coming to a trembling rest against his wild heart, as she spoke his name, barely above a whisper.

“Alex.”

“It is you,” he said softly, almost breathless.

Hawke unfastened his eyes from hers with strained difficulty, as though they had become entangled. He felt if he lost contact with them he’d sink without a trace. He opened his arms and she fell into them, pressing her cheek against his chest, clinging tightly to him. He enfolded her, cradling her head, the two of them seemingly on a pitching deck, holding on to each other for dear life.

“It is me, Alex,” she said, her voice breaking, a single tear coursing down her cheek. Hawke looked down and gently brushed it away as he spoke softly to her.

“I thought—I thought I’d lost you . . . all this time, all these years, I’ve been broken inside . . . I’ve been so lost, so—”

She put a finger to his lips and said,

“I have to—sit down, I’m afraid. Where shall we—?” She looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

He took her hand and led her over to the yellow satin divan beneath the tall leaded-glass windows. She sat and arranged her emerald silk skirt around her, looking up at him, smiling through her tears. “Oh, Alex, my darling boy, I can’t believe I’m sitting here looking up at you. I gave you up so long ago. When I saw you lying there in the snow below my window. So still. All that bright red blood soaking into the snow. My father said, ‘There’s your hero. Do you still think he can save you? Do you, you lying bitch?’ And I didn’t, my love; I didn’t think I would ever see your face again. I was so sure you were dead. And now . . .”

Hawke had dropped to his knees at her feet, resting his head upon her lap, weeping, trying to hold on to himself, keep everything inside from flying apart. She ran her slender fingers through his wild black hair, whispering words of comfort to him as if he were a small boy, a child who’d lost his way and had now found his way home at last.

He looked up at her and finally found the courage to speak without a tremolo in his voice. He said, “But now I am here, aren’t I? We’re both young and alive. We’re together. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

Her forced laughter was like the sound of glass breaking.

“Yes. For now, my darling.”

“I still don’t understand what happened. I saw you. I saw the stretcher, watched them putting you aboard the airship. I don’t see how you can be here. It’s impossible. Eyes don’t lie.”

“It wasn’t me, Alex. I never left the house. Until I was arrested by the KGB the following day.”

“I saw your arm drop, your ermine sleeve, it fell from beneath the blanket when they lifted you up to. . . .”

“It wasn’t me, dear Alex. It was Katerina. Katerina Arnborg, my father’s Swedish housekeeper. She came into my room and found me on the stretcher, waiting for the airship to depart. I was drugged, couldn’t move or speak. He did that to me. My own father. When I woke up, I was in a linen closet, hidden under the dirty linen. The stretcher was gone. The airship was gone. Everyone was gone, everything. Except the red-stained snow below when I looked out my window.”

“This Katerina, she took your place on the stretcher? Under the blanket.”

Anastasia nodded. “It’s the only possible explanation.”

“But why? Why did she do it?”

“She’d heard things in that terrible house. Over the years. She knew things. Evil things. Terrible secrets.”

“Tell me.”

“No. It is not for you. Not anymore. The past is dead and buried. Katerina was a good woman. I think in the end she wanted to save me from him. And in the end she gave her life for me.”

“She saved you. For me.”

“And who saved you?”

“No one. I just wasn’t ready to die. It was only afterward, after I killed your father, that I wanted to die. In the worst way.”

“Because you thought you had killed me, too.”

“Yes. I was sure of it.”

“Alex. Please. End this. For both of us. It’s unbearable, really, these horrible memories. We should be happy. We are both alive, as you said. And we have a child together. The most beautiful little boy in all the world. He looks exactly like you, my darling. He even smiles like you, which will of course get him into no end of trouble when he learns how to use it.”

Hawke lifted his head and smiled, really smiled, for the first time in memory. “What did you call him?”

“Alexei.”

“Alexei. It’s perfect.”

“I thought so, too.” She looked down, gazing at him with her perfect smile, and for a moment he lived once more in the bright green worlds of her eyes.

“How old is he now?”

“Almost three. His birthday is tomorrow. We’ll have a little birthday party.”

“Where is he? May I see him?”

“Of course. He is up in the nursery playing with his toy soldiers. I’ve told him that his father was here to see him. He’s very excited. He asked me what a father was and I told him.”

“What did you say?”

“I said a father is a tall, handsome man. Very strong and very brave. A good man, true and full of life and beauty.”

Hawke got to his feet and held out his hand. “It’s all a miracle. Let’s go and see him now.”

“He’s coming here. Nurse is bringing him. I’ve only to call.”

Hawke smiled as she picked up the receiver next to the divan and spoke a few brief words in Russian.

Alexei and his English nurse appeared at the library door a few minutes later. When the door swung open, the little dark-haired boy peeked out from behind his nurse’s skirts and stared wide-eyed at Alex for a few long moments, then ran to his mother’s arms, hiding his face in the folds of her skirt. He was dressed like a little prince, which, in some respects, he was. The late Tsar’s grandson wore a suit of dark blue velvet, with a ruffled white collar at the neck. His shoes were black patent leather with small black satin bows.

“Good morning, sir,” the attractive young nurse said, with a slight curtsy and a very proper British accent.

Anastasia gestured at Hawke as she said to the child, “Alexei, that is your father standing over there beside the fire. He’s come a very long way just to see you. You must be on your very best behavior. Show him what good manners you have. Can you say hello?”

The child peeked out at Hawke for a second or two, then hid his face once more in the folds on his mother’s skirts. Hawke went to him and dropped to a knee on the floor beside his son.