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this happening. I didn’t foresee falling helplessly in love. I never thought that I would need your company, long to kiss you; ache for you to come and lie beside me at night. I never imagined that I would be terrified of never seeing you again .
    It troubled him to think what his own father would say. A man who hated royalty with a vehemence.
    Yet Sorg recalled that after each of his piano lessons, he found himself more and more looking forward to his palace visits.
    It didn’t matter that he used the visits as much to gather intelligence information as for his own pleasure. Sorg convinced himself that much more than a glimmer of attraction passed between him and Anastasia during their first meeting. And as much of a tomboy as she was, he sensed her vulnerability.
    As if despite her privileged upbringing—or because of it—she didn’t fit in anywhere. That weakness made him want to protect her.
    Sorg came alert as the guards ushered the Romanovs toward the palace.
    Their exercise period was over. The last to enter the French doors was Anastasia. For a moment she hesitated, as if she was searching for something in the grounds but wasn’t quite sure what, and then with a turn of her pretty head she moved back inside the palace doors and was gone.

    Sorg’s heart sank like an anchor, as it always did whenever he lost sight of her. He tore his gaze from the telescope. What kept his spirits up was his hope of rescuing Anastasia; that was his mission. He cared nothing for her father. In truth he loathed the tsar, but he had a job to do and it included the ex-tsar and all his family.
    He wrote up his notes, recording the time and the family’s general appearance along with his impressions. He would wire his encoded report to Helsinki. In due course, via the undersea cable from London to New York, his message would be telegraphed to Washington.
    Sorg put away his notebook and pencil and began to disassemble the telescope. He heard a faint sound like a creaking floorboard and turned.
    The landlord, Mr. Ravich, stood in the doorway. He wandered in with his crooked grin, removing his gloves, finger by finger. “Ah, Mr. Carlson, I just came to check if everything’s all right with the plumbing?”
    Sorg asked hoarsely, “How long have you been standing there?”
    Ravich tucked his gloves into his pocket. In an instant he replaced them with a revolver that he pointed at Sorg.
    “Long enough. I’ve learned that a surprise visit to new tenants is often enlightening. It does seem I chose my moment well. I hope this experience has taught you something, Mr. Carlson?”
    “To keep my door locked in the future.”
    Ravich’s grin widened. “The gun’s loaded, by the way. And I’m well able to use it. Are you armed?”
    “No.”
    “We’ll see.” The landlord circled Sorg, patting down his clothes.
    Sorg felt sweat rise on his forehead, his mind turning somersaults.
    Ravich finished, then his free hand caressed the shiny brass telescope. “A fine instrument. German, if I’m not mistaken? Are youenjoying a spot of bird-watching, Mr. Carlson, or is it something more interesting?”
    “What do you want?”
    Ravich pulled back the net curtain. “The view is one of the reasons why I bought this property. I hoped one day it might add value to my investment. Alas, the mess that Russia is in, I fear my hope may be a lost cause.”
    “What’s your point?”
    Ravich wandered across the room and peered in at the Gladstone bag on the kitchen table. “I keep asking myself what a man like you is doing with a spyglass pointed at the palace grounds. An innocent act perhaps, but …”
    “But what?
    “I’ve kept a discreet eye on you since you rented these rooms. After seeing what I’ve just seen I’m tempted to presume that you’re a spy.”
    “You presume a lot, Mr. Ravich.”
    Ravich jerked the gun. “Don’t take me for a fool. I worked in naval intelligence for years. You’re watching the palace where the Romanovs are