Zavala shook his head in puzzlement. "There's something I don't get. A few years ago, the Russians dug up some bones that were supposedly identified as those of the Romanov family."
"The Soviet government was masterful at fabricating evidence. I would assume that they passed along that skill to their successors. There may be some truth to the story of the tsar's bones, but even so, the remains of the boy, Alexis, and his sister the Grand Duchess Maria were never found."
"Maria?"
"Yes, she was the second youngest. Why?"
Zavala went out to his car and returned with the Perlmutter file. He leafed thorough the contents and pulled out the book excerpt on the little mermaid, which he handed to Dodson. The Englishman donned a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses. As he pored over the file, his expression grew grave.
"Astounding! If this is accurate, the Romanov line didn’t die out! Maria, or Marie as she's called here, went on to marry and have children."
"That's my take on it."
"Do you know what this means? Somewhere there may be a legitimate heir to the tsar's throne." He ran his fingers through his hair. "My God, what a catastrophe!"
"I'm not sure I understand."
Dodson composed himself. "Russia is in the midst of great turmoil. It is still seeking its identity. Beneath this bubbling cauldron is a fire of nationalism. Those who would go back to the days of Peter the Great and the tsars have touched a yearning in the Russian people, but all they have had to sell is a memory of a forgotten time. With an actual heir to the tsar, their cause would have focus. It is a country that still controls weapons of mass destruction and a major share of the world's natural resources. It will not be safe for the world if Russia lapses into a civil war and follows the lead of the worst kind of demagogue. British complicity in the plot against the tsar will stir up all those paranoid feelings against the West." He affixed Zavala with a steely gaze. "Tell your superiors that they must be discreet. Otherwise no one may be able to control the consequences."
Zavala was bowled over by the emotional reaction from this reserved Englishman. "Yes, of course, I'll tell them what you said."
But Dodson seemed to have forgotten that Zavala was even there. "The tsar is dead," he murmured. "Long live the tsar."
26
WASHINGTON, D.C.
LEROY JENKINS CAUGHT his breath as he stepped from the wilting Washington heat into the cool interior of the thirty-story green glass tower overlooking the Potomac. The exterior of the tall tubular building was impressive enough, but nothing could have prepared him for his first glimpse inside NUMA headquarters. He craned his neck to gaze up to the top of the atrium lobby, then swept his eyes around the tumbling waterfalls and aquaria filled with exotic fish, taking in the huge globe of the world that rose from the center of the sea-green marble floor.
Smiling like a child in a toy shop, he started across the giant lobby, threading his way among the gaggles of tourists who trailed behind impeccably uniformed guides. An attractive woman in her twenties, one of several receptionists at a long information desk, saw Jenkins approach and beamed him in with a pleasant smile.
"May I help you?" Jenkins was struck dumb. On the flight from Portland, he'd rehearsed what he would say when he got to NUMA. Now his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. He was overcome by awe at being in the heart of the biggest ocean science agency in the world. He felt like Fred Flintstone visiting the Jetsons. As an oceanographer, he had long contemplated a trip to the Holy Grail of ocean science, but his teaching duties had intervened and later he was consumed by his wife's illness. Now, he'd reached the point where he didn't like to leave Maine, because, as he joked, his gills would close up if he ventured too far from the sea.
The air seemed to crackle with electrical energy. Every nontourist in view clutched a laptop computer. No one carried anything remotely resembling the battered tan briefcase in his sweaty hand. Jenkins was uncomfortably aware of his wrinkled khaki pants, his worn Hush Puppies and the faded blue chambray work shirt, damp from the heat. He removed the tan fisherman's cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead with a red bandanna, immediately regretting the move because it made him look even more like a hick. He stuffed the bandanna back into his pocket.
"Someone in particular you'd like to see?"
"Yes, but I'm not sure who it might be." Jenkins offered a weak grin. "Sorry to be so vague."
The receptionist was familiar with the symptoms. "You're not the first person who's been vague. This place can be a bit overwhelming. Let's see what we can work out. Could you tell me your name?"
"Sure, it's Roy Jenkins. Dr: Leroy Jenkins, I mean. I taught oceanography at the University of Maine before I retired a few years ago."
"That narrows it down. Would you like to speak to someone in the oceanography division, Dr. Jenkins?"
Hearing the title before his name gave him courage. He said, "I'm not sure. I've some questions of a specialized nature."
"Why don't we start in oceanography and go from there?"
The young woman picked up the phone, pressed a button and spoke a few words. "Go right up, Dr. Jenkins. The receptionist on the ninth floor is expecting you." She flashed her fabulous smile again and directed her eyes to the next person in line.
Jenkins made his way toward the ranks of elevators off to one side of the lobby. Still wondering if he had come all this way to make a fool of himself in front of some young Ph.D. with a pocket protector and a condescending attitude, he stepped into an elevator and pushed a button. Too late now, he thought as the elevator whisked him skyward.
ON THE TENTH floor of the NUMA building, Hiram Yaeger sat in front of a horseshoe-shaped console and stared at an immense computer monitor that looked as if it were suspended in space. Displayed on the screen was the image of a narrow-faced man with beetling brows bent over a chessboard. Yaeger watched the man move the white rook two spaces. He studied the board a moment and said, "Bishop to queen five. Check and checkmate."
The man on the screen nodded and tipped his king over with a forefinger. In a thick accent, he said, "Thank you for the game, Hiram. We must play again." The screen went blank except for a pale green afterglow.
The middle-aged man sitting next to Yaeger said, "Very impressive. Victor Karpov isn't exactly a slouch."