Tsarina
by
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Mallory knew that things were happening fast now, though the adrenalin surge was slowing time for him. There was no band, no inspection of the honor guard, and only a major, an Air Force major, to escort him to the aircraft, gleaming white in the floodlights. Alexandra Romanovna was trudging ahead of him struggling with the luggage. The major offered to help.
'It is her job.' The Cardinal said tersely.
The major looked disgusted. Mallory wondered how much he knew. Perhaps the Post Commander had been told and had balked. Perhaps they had had to go down through the chain of command to find an officer willing to escort passengers to their deaths. Perhaps the military knew nothing. There was no passport check, no one from customs and immigration, but Mallory was certain that a very careful count was being kept of who boarded Shepherd Two.
Then Alexandra was in the aircraft. The major paused at the steps, stepped back and snapped a salute. Afterward, he did not offer his hand. 'Have a safe journey,' sir, he said, and still did not offer his hand.
Mallory smiled. The major knew all right. If things went properly, the major would never see lieutenant colonel rank. He made the sign of the cross over the officer, who stepped back as if he had been struck. 'Goodbye, Major,' he said, 'this and all journeys are in God's hands.' The cardinal climbed quickly into the aircraft.
Inside was pandemonium. Swiss Guards were throwing black clericals on the deck and struggling into battle dress. Guardsman already changed were bringing SIG assault rifles, grenade launchers and anti-tank missiles from a rear stateroom that had been the armory. The Corpo were posted at all hatches and doors and watching the guardsmen throw clothing. All the curtains were drawn and the lighting was dim. Nothing could be seen from the outside.
Enrico Cinelli handed a bag of civilian clothing and a pair of worn Reeboks to Mallory. The Cardinal caught a glimpse of Alexandra being taken to the papal stateroom by a flight attendant. He went forward, and entered the flight deck. He remained well back at the flight engineer's station, and began to undress.
Captain Paolo Michelli was a slim, dapper pilot. He and his First Officer Karol Denczwo were finishing the preflight checklist. Michelli turned his head while still flicking switches and said angrily, 'It is an absolute outrage, Eminence, what has been done to my ship!'
'They will pay, Captain, quite soon.' Mallory pulled the cassock over his head and reached for the dark blue slacks. 'You will get your revenge.'
'I cannot wait' said Denczwo, a former pilot for the Polish Airline, Lod, and a fully qualified captain himself. He shook his head and rubbed his thick blond hair.
'You have your instructions,' said Mallory.
'They are going to see such flying as they have never seen before!' Michelli gestured descriptively.
Mallory laced his Reebocks. 'You may start your engines, Captain.' Michelli reached for the throttles as Denczwo began talking to the tower. Mallory headed aft. The Swiss Guard was ready now, armed and strapped in.
The flight attendant was running down the aisle. 'Scissors!' she cried. 'Quickly! Her hair is awful, she will be noticed.' The Swiss guard medic rummaged in a pack and produced scissors. The attendant said, 'a few minutes, no more, Eminence,' and ran down the aisle again.
The engines were spooling up. Mallory raced forward. 'Do not taxi yet, Captain. There is a problem with the hair.'
Michelli grinned, his eyes on the instument panel. 'With the women, the problems of the hair always take precedence.'
Mallory looked aft. In a few minutes, he saw Alexandra Romanovna come down the aisle in dark green slacks with a khaki blouse and a light jacket in dark green. As far as he could tell about such matters, the auburn hair was stylishly short and very becoming. The attendant had obviously worked wonders. Mallory had for-gotten that Tridentine nuns kept their hair cut short and were not concerned with style. Such a vanity was not for a Carmelite of the Tridentine Observance. As she came down the aisle, all the males by instinct, watched her. She began to blush. She was, Mallory thought, a stunner.
He hurried down the aisle to her. On the way he told Cinelli to have the Captain taxi.
'How do I look, Eminence?' She touched at her hair, flush now with excitement, shock, and determination.
'Not like a Carmelite, and no more Eminences. My name is Brendan.' He felt the aircraft begin to move as the brakes were released. 'You know what comes next?'
'When the plane turns and stops, we go out the back door.'
'When we get on the ground, crouch and run, just like me.'
Her eyes grew larger and she laughed. 'I have not forgotten how to run, Brendan.'
Rudenskiy was reporting to the Rezident in Washington. ' It is confirmed, She has boarded the aircraft, and they are preparing to take off.'
'I copy, Sergei, said the Rezident. 'Your long service there to the State is complete. You may take a few days off and await further assignment.' The Rezident had the magnification at maximum on the monitor. He watched the glowing blossom of the transponder move as the aircraft taxied. Rudenskiy knew nothing of the second transponder. The Rezident's part in this strange matter was over too. He had the reception for the Polish ambassador to attend. The Rezident switched off the monitor. Moscow Center could worry about it now.
Behind Sergei, Stanley Goldman was completing his call to The Director of the FBI, repeating what Rudenskiy had told his boss. Kibble seemed deflated, uninterested. Stanley turned around to his friend. 'My time is my own now. Told him my retirement paperwork was in the mail, It will be, too.'
'Come,' Sergei hurried off into the trees.
The great DC-10 lumbered off the taxiway and onto Runway 18 South, which was outlined by the standard blue lights. Mallory watched the green and white tower beacon sweep around, then looked toward the far end of the runway. It was in darkness, only the blue runway lights and the amber approach lights could be seen. Enrico handed him the two packs that he had so carefully filled in his apartment in the Apostolic Palace.
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About the Book
A white and gold DC-10 declares an emergency and lands at Baltimore-Washington International. Armed Swiss Guardsmen in battledress form a defense perimeter around the papal aircraft, refusing access to U.S. authorities. A bomb has been discovered onboard, and the satellite and inertial navigation systems have been cleverly sabotaged. Over the Chesapeake Bay, following a spectacular explosion, Coast Guard helicopters circle the wreckage of a high performance Cigarette boat. A ruthless manhunt spreads northward into New England, and the FBI exchanges fire at the U.S.-Canadian border with a team of hastily assembled British Intelligence agents.
Royal Navy Harrier fighter-bombers carry a man and woman across Northern Canada through a fierce air battle off the coast of Labrador. The Harriers race eastward, refueling from British carriers stationed on their flight path across the Atlantic. Brendan Mallory and Alexandra Romanov must reach Moscow despite the fierce opposition of the most powerful nation on earth. Their allies are few. The British Prime Minister, the President of Russia, besieged in the Kremlin, and the Pope.
Britain, weak, but stubborn and contrary, refuses to support her old friends as they wait to dismember Russia. The U.S., France and Germany are after Hitler's vast dream. Russia will become a vast client state, providing the raw materials and oil to power the New World Order. Siberia will be annexed to the United States, an old fantasy which now may well come true.
It is the final, desperate gamble of the Russian President. The country is near collapse. In Red Square the fascist browns and communist Reds clash in violent demonstrations against the powerless democratic government. President Viktor Bruslov has made a stunning, but secret appeal to Rome, for it is there that the popes, since 1918, acting with the consent of Britain, the Soviet Union and the Unitied States, have had control of the greatest secret of the twentieth century, the secret that may save Russia. Alexandra is Russia's last hope, for she is the great-great-granddaughter of Tsar Nicholas II. So well has the secret been kept, that the governments involved have practically forgotten it. The Anastasia legend was true after all, but not in the way the world has known it, and seven popes have prepared for this moment, at the end of the century. Brendan Cardinal Mallory has been charged by the Holy Father with the hopeless task of taking her into Russia. Mallory, former British soldier and now the youngest cardinal in the Church, sees nothing but death at the end of it all, and possibly the loss of his immortal soul. He has had to take up again the life he had fled, and must face spiritual perils for which he is unready. But he must go on.
Because he knows all that the Pope knows, all that has been closely guarded for decades in the Vatican archives. Alexandra Romanov must be crowned Tsarina of All the Russias, or the suffering nation will not endure. All the forces and events of the century are emerging, focusing upon this inexperienced, frightened but immensely capable young woman, for it is only she who can unite Russia. And what will unfold in the North Sea, the Baltic, St. Petersburg, the Valdai Hills in northwest Russia, Moscow, and finally in the heart of the Kremlin, has been placed in Mallory's hands. The stakes are high, immeasurably high, for what happens in Russia will shape the twenty-first century, will determine the future of mankind.
About the Author
Tsarina is Patrick Lally's third novel and is a product of his long interest in military and naval affairs, and Russia. He first began writing fiction to escape from the harsh realities of the inner city emergency room where he spent twenty-five years as a supervisor. He has now left the ER to devote full time to his writing, and has no plans to do an ER novel. Mr. Lally and his wife, Kathleen, live in the beautiful Maryland seaport town of Havre de Grace on the Chesapeake Bay where they spend a lot of time boating, occasionally venturing out into the Atlantic for bluewater cruising and fishing.
The author is also a singer and choral director and enjoys bicycling with his wife over American and European battlefields. When not living aboard the 'Porta Coeli,' he is at home on Swan Creek working on his next novel.