The Romanov succession

Alex said to Sergei, “You won’t need that.”

He walked down the stairs stiffly to the sprawled figure. Sergei met him there. Irina watched from the marble floor of the foyer-expectant, intent.

“Yes,” Sergei said, bending over the assassin. “This one is dead.”

“God damn it.”

“What?”

He’d spoken it in English; he only shook his head. “He can’t tell us anything now, can he?”

Irina’s hand had gone to her throat. “Alex-”

He went down to her: took both of her hands. “He’s killed Vassily.”

For a moment it was as if she hadn’t heard him: she stared into his face. Then slowly she turned away from him. He saw her shoulders stiffen. “It’s my fault. If I’d trusted my intuitions-if I’d only acted a little faster.”

“What?”

She shook her head. “I thought I saw a gun under his coat-I just wasn’t certain enough. I didn’t do anything about it until it was too late.”

“It isn’t your fault, Irina.”

“Isn’t it?” She gave him a level glance. “I don’t want to see him, Alex.”

“No.”

“Hadn’t you better get this one away from here?”

He hadn’t thought. Now her meaning grenaded into him. Irina said, “You don’t want the Spanish police here-not tonight. There are too many vulnerable people here-the Guardia Civil would take great pleasure in embarrassing them.”

What she hadn’t said was that the Guardia would take even more pleasure in arresting him for the murder of this one on the stairs. He’d been persona non grata ever since he’d walked out on the Falangist army.

Irina said, “No one’s heard anything. The villa is too solid. I’m going back into the dining room.” But she was searching his face with great intensity. “Vassily knew he was going to die.”

“He told me that.”

“You’d better go up then. But hold me first, Alex-I need to borrow your strength.”

He pressed her against him. After a moment she drew herself up and moved away. “I’ll be all right. Go on.”

Sergei threw the dead man across his shoulder and carried him upstairs. Alex caught up at the landing.

A few of them were trickling out into the gallery from the drawing room-Oleg and General Savinov and Anatol. They looked dazed but a fierce gleam of enraged satisfaction illuminated Oleg’s face when he recognized Sergei’s burden.

Alex stooped to retrieve the bust of Peter the Great. It was intact except for a chip out of the base. He found the chip against the moulding and pocketed it; and carried the bust back to its stand.

Old Prince Michael stood bewildered in the door. “What are we to do?”

Alex shook his head, putting them off; he said sotto voce to Sergei, “Are you willing?”

“Of course.”

“Are there back stairs you can use?”

“No one will see me.”

“Search him first. Then bury him where no one will find him.”

“In the stable, I think. And cover the grave with straw.”

“All right-but keep it private, Sergei.”

“I have no love for the Guardia, ” the big man replied, and turned toward the rear of the hall.

Alex went into the drawing room. They had one of the nurses there but it was no good; Alex had known by the way Vassily fell back that he was dead.

The others crowded into the room behind him. Anatol was visibly shaken. Prince Leon seemed to be in command of himself but he said quietly to Alex, “What shall we do?”

The rest of them stared at Alex and he saw they were putting it up to him: they expected an instant solution from him. Only Oleg looked as if his mental machinery was unimpaired by shock.

Alex said, “Don’t let anyone in.” General Savinov was just inside the door; he kicked it shut.

The nurse was a stocky woman with brown hair and a pleasant face. She was watching Prince Leon as if for a sign. Alex said to her, “Would you leave us for a bit?”

“The doctor must be brought,” she said in awkward Russian; she was English, he remembered.

“We’ll send down for him. Please wait in the Grand Duke’s room.”

She left them-trembling with fear.

Oleg said to Leon, “Can she be trusted?”

“I believe so. But for what?”

“You believe so? You’re not sure? This thing is too important for suppositions, Leon.”

Count Anatol burst out with sudden sarcasm, “What would you do, Oleg-murder her to guarantee her silence?”

Oleg remained stubbornly calm. “We must have assurances. She is in love with this doctor, is she not?”

“Yes.”

“Then we must have the doctor sign a certificate that Vassily died of natural causes. Everyone knows he has been under a great strain. A heart attack-everyone will believe that. And once the doctor’s signature is on the certificate the nurse cannot reveal the truth without betraying him.”

“You are too clever by half sometimes,” Anatol snarled.

Prince Leon said cautiously, “I see no need to be devious, Oleg. We must simply tell the truth.”

Alex said, “No.”

They looked at him.

“Too many people would be hurt. We’re not in a country where you can trust the police.”