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“What do you care? Their fate is not your business.”
“But—the ransom . . . The Dowager Empress entrusted us with it. To buy their passage.”
“Ransom?” the man laughed. “You don’t really believe they were ever going to let them go, do you?”
“We promised.”
“You fool. What’d you think would happen? That the Bolsheviks would take this as payment, then set them free? Soon, Maria Feodorovna”—he turned and spat, his expression one of disgust at the mention of the Dowager Empress’s name—“will meet the same fate as her son and his disgusting spawn.”
Only then did Pyotr realize they were too late. The entire Romanov family had been killed. The children’s faces flashed in his mind—the last time he’d seen them, before the clash of war, they’d been so happy . . .
“Where are we going, then?”
“To bring that as proof.” He nodded toward the back of the wagon. “When they see what the old woman stole from Russia, trying to buy her son’s freedom, she and every last Romanov will be hunted down, as will anyone who supports them.”
Of all the royal family, Maria Feodorovna’s life meant something. Unlike her son and his wife, she’d served Russia well. This war was her son’s making. His failure to lead.
But if, as he said, they came after everyone who supported the royals, Pyotr was bound to be high on that list, especially once they learned he’d left Maria with one of the eggs. The very thought frightened him, especially when he realized where they were going. The old barn where a number of royalists had been shot. “Are you going to tell them what I did?”
“Of course. Your fate is for the people to decide.”
They were going to kill him.
Pyotr’s hands shook and he tucked them at his side, stealing a glance at the man beside him, eyeing the pistol at his hip.
The wagon wheels hit a rut, jarring the vehicle and throwing him against the driver. He grabbed the gun and pushed away, pointing it.
The driver turned, trying to grab the weapon. “What—”
Pyotr fired.
The shot hit him in the chest. He fell to the side, letting loose the reins. Pyotr shoved him from his seat and he tumbled down to the ground. Grabbing the reins, he stopped the team, then turned them around, pausing beside the fallen man.
He looked up at Pyotr, his face turning gray. “Why?”
“Saving my life. And Maria Feodorovna’s.”
“They’ll bury you right next to her. The moment they find you or anyone else with that treasure.”
“They’ll never find it.” He shook the reins, then headed toward the castle. He knew of a hidden panel in the Amber Room. The Bolsheviks would have to disassemble the entire place to find it. Somehow, he’d get word to the Dowager Empress that she needed to leave, that they intended to kill her.
And maybe one day they could come back for the treasure.
II
BUENOS AIRES
DECEMBER 1947
There must be something we can do. We’re not asking for much. I’ll pay it back. Every cent.”
The desperation that twelve-year-old Klaus Simon heard in his father’s voice twisted at his heart and he edged closer to the kitchen door, straining to hear the conversation in the front room.
“Please, Ludwig,” his father continued. “If you could find it within you to help us this once.”
“Actually, there is something . . .” For several seconds, the only thing Klaus heard was the ticking of the kitchen clock behind him. Finally, his uncle said, “I’m in need of help during a short trip to Santiago. If you agree to my conditions, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I’ll do anything. Anything at all.”