The Romanov Conspiracy by Glenn Meade

seemed fearful the Reds would seize his property.
    Sorg didn’t trust him, was convinced that he was some kind of degenerate. “I better catch up on work,” Sorg suggested.
    “Of course, Mr. Carlson. Back to the salt mines for me also. Any problems, let me know.” The landlord returned to shoveling snow.
    Sorg climbed half a dozen steps to one of the townhouses, took a key chain from his pocket, and opened the two locks on the solid oak door. He stepped into a cold, sparse hallway.
    The two-room apartment with threadbare lace curtains comprised a front room that doubled as a bedroom, and a grimy kitchen. The dwelling was shabbily furnished, lacked a woman’s touch, and the air’s damp smell suggested it hadn’t been lived in much. It was perfect for Sorg’s needs.
    The landlord believed that he was a Swedish antiques dealer who traveled for most of the week. In fact, much of the time Sorg was a guest in one of St. Petersburg’s few remaining decent hotels, the Crimea.
    He stepped into the kitchen, put down the Gladstone on a rickety old table. He turned on the water faucet and let it run before filling the kettle—at least the pipes hadn’t frozen. He struck a match and ignited the gas cooker. While the kettle boiled, he undid his Gladstone bag and removed a screwdriver.
    He turned and opened a green-painted cupboard door. His eyes settled on a wood panel at the back of the cupboard. Using the screwdriver, he removed four screws and pried out the panel. Behind was a cubbyhole. He slipped both his hands inside and hefted out two canvas waterproof bags.
    He undid the slim ropes that bound one of the bags—inside were stacks of banknotes, Russian rubles, English sterling, Swiss francs, and American dollars. His stash looked intact. He retied the bag and replaced it in the cubbyhole.
    He carried the second canvas bag into the front room, laid it carefully on the table, and untied the rope. Nestled in a gray blanket was a complete brass Kriegsmarine spyglass—the Germans made the best telescopes. The spyglass was at least thirty years old but a perfect piece of workmanship. Sorg screwed together the tripod legs and attached the spyglass on top.
    He heard the kettle boil. He returned to the kitchen, made a pot of tea, and poured steaming amber into a glass, using a spoon to stop it from cracking, and then moved back to the front room. Pulling up a chair beside the tripod, he opened his overcoat and sat, placing a packet of cigarettes and a cheap metal ashtray on the floor beside him.
    Beneath his coat he wore a dark wool suit, his high stiff collar and slim tie covered by a thick wool scarf that didn’t stop him from shivering. He rubbed his hands, then gently parted the window’s lace curtains no wider than his palm.
    The striking scene that spread before him was the reason Sorg had chosen this lodging. The room had a clear view of the Alexander Palace. He lined up the telescope to face the palace’s rear gardens. Adjusting the focus, he saw bare birch trees, the grounds deserted apart from a few armed guards idly strolling the snowed paths.
    Sorg took a leather-bound notebook from his pocket and laid it on the floor. He always used his own coded shorthand, so if anyone else read the pages they would read gibberish. A sharpened lead pencil was ready in his top pocket alongside a black fountain pen. He removed the pen, balanced it in his palm.
    The six-inch fountain pen was a remarkable device—the nib made of Toledo steel, sharp as a scalpel, a covert weapon supplied by the State Department. Remove the cap and you had a lethal edged blade that could write exquisitely just as easily as it could slit a man’s throat.
    Sorg tapped the blade against a silver band he wore on the second last finger of his left hand. The ring flashed in the light: a small symbol was inscribed on the bottom of the band.

    A reverse swastika—an ancient Tibetan mark of good fortune. But the simple piece of jewelry symbolized so much