The Romanov Legacy Read Online Free Page B

reached the fourth.  What was in the other two levels?  Could
there be definitive proof that the tsar’s secret account actually
existed?  It wasn’t the kind of thing he could simply ask about. 
People associated with that file had a strange habit of disappearing.  “This
ends here, Mikhail.  Tell your lunatic he will have to deal with us in
person.” 
    “You’re going to negotiate with him?”
    “I can’t let him wave those letters at the Chechens or the
Georgians.  Saakashvili would snatch them in an instant if he thought it
would bring the Kremlin crawling back to him.  If Starinov found out, we
wouldn’t live long enough to take a piss.  When your lunatic contacts you,
arrange a meeting at his home.  No public places, under any
circumstances.  I’ll send one of my men to handle it.”
    “Handle it?” the ambassador repeated.  “I don’t want
any trouble, Vadim Petrovich.”
    “Russia does not negotiate with terrorists, separatists,
mobsters, pirates, or American lunatics who think they know this county’s
history better than their own.”
    “And Professor Brandon?  Even if you kill this man, she
still knows everything.”
    “The Public Security Intelligence Bureau will handle
this.  Do you understand?”
    “Yes, sir.  Shall I call Valery back?”
    “No.  I’ll handle it.  Speak of this to no
one.  The matter is closed, Mikhail Vasilievich.” 
    Vadim hung up the phone.  He missed the small click on
the line that indicated he was not the only one to hear the ambassador’s story.

Chapter Six
    July 2012
    Cusco, Peru
     
    The alpaca fur lay soft as clouds beneath his palm. 
Constantine Dashkov tousled the thick white strands and turned the blanket over
to inspect the construction.  The vendor asked 300 nuevo soles and he
would have paid twice that, but haggling was the custom and he would only
insult the shopkeeper by handing over the money.  “ Doscientos ,” he
said. 
    The man shook his head.  “ Trescientos, por favor .”
    Constantine fingered the mottled leather on the blanket’s
underside, pretending to find flaws in the tanning.  “She usually prefers
vicuña,” he lied. 
    “You will find no vicuña for this price.”
    “I did at Señor Fernandez’s shop.”  He didn’t tell the
man that Señor Fernandez also offered coca leaves at an exorbitant price and
threw in a vicuña coat or blanket as a complimentary gift with purchase.
    “Fernandez is a fool,” the vendor said, curling his lip to
reveal squat teeth the color of bean curd.  “He dyes goat hair and tells
tourists it is vicuña.”
    “Is that so?”  Constantine rocked back on his heels and
tried to look thoughtful.  Behind the shopkeeper’s hut, the Andes rose
like sleeping giants, waiting to be woken.  “ Doscientos cincuenta y no
mas .”
    “ Bueno .”  The shopkeeper snatched the blanket
from him and scuttled behind his workbench to wrap it, leather side out, in
thinly woven burlap. 
    “ Gracias .” Constantine stepped out of the shop and
took a deep breath that did not fill his lungs.  The filament-thin air
stretched over the jagged peaks like a piece of plastic wrap forced to cover an
entire banquet table.  Russian air was the opposite: thick, solid, with
weight that could fill you or crush you, depending on the season.  I am
done with this place , he thought.  No more flat tires, no more
insects the size of small children.  I am going home.
    The vibration of his cell phone interrupted him.  He
pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the number.  “Vadim,” he
said.  “What is it?”
    “Greetings, my boy,” the bureau chief said, his tired
baritone crackling over the air.  “How is Peru?”
    “Suffocating,” he answered.  Behind him, the shopkeeper
tied up his purchase with long strands of twine.  “But I’m on my way home
now.”
    “About that…there has been a change of plan.”
    He clenched his fingers around the narrow phone. 
“Don’t do this to me,