by Greg Cox
By now, in fact, the commotion in the Square had caught the attention of the sentries posted along the Kremlin walls. Searchlights beamed down on the chaotic scene from the towers along the northeast wall of the centuries-old fortress, revealing an appalling display of bloodshed and bodies. Snipers fired from the towers at the American as he sprinted for the nearby mausoleum. Clouds of dust and powdered rock, raised by the thunderous impact of bullets colliding with cobblestones, trailed in Number Seven’s wake, nipping at his heels, yet the brazen American successfully gained the shelter of the tomb, rushing past Noon, who stepped aside just in time to let the older man dive over the threshold of the violated mausoleum.
The Indian teenager dropped Komananov unceremoniously onto her feet, then waved his curved silver dagger beneath her chin. “Watch her,” he curtly instructed Number Seven. The kidnapped colonel could not help noticing that, horrifyingly enough, Noon did not seem at all short of breath, despite his strenuous exertions during the battle and afterward. He slammed the Tomb’s heavy iron door shut with a single easy shove, then bolted the gate from the inside. For extra assurance, he took two chakrams off his arm and used them to jam the door closed, wedging them between the door and its frame, then folding the metal rings over the edge of the jamb with his bare hands.
Such strength! Komananov observed, impressed even amidst such dire circumstances. Our Olympic coaches and trainers would give much to know what sort of diet and regimen produced such exceptional might and stamina!
[357] “There!” Noon pronounced confidently as he stepped back from the door. A single chakram remained threaded upon his brawny biceps. “That will do for now.” Keeping his dagger at the ready, he approached his American partner. Komananov noted with some relief that Number Seven, at least, showed signs of fatigue. Beneath the last greasy remnants of his disguise, the American’s bruised face was slick with perspiration, and his chest rose and fell heavily as he struggled to catch his breath. Good to know, the colonel thought bitterly, that at least one of my captors is mortal.
“Thank you, Noon,” the older man stated in English, standing guard over the colonel with his borrowed rifle, the purloined attaché case resting at his feet. The blinding effect of the flashbomb had long passed, so that the American’s vision had been restored. “I am grateful, if admittedly surprised, by your intervention.” He arched his eyebrow quizzically. “I wasn’t aware you were in Moscow.”
“The name is Khan,” the Indian corrected him brusquely. It seemed there was little love lost between the two foreigners. “I rescued you just as you once rescued me.” A scowl marred the young man’s otherwise handsome features as he recalled some prior encounter with the American. His body language was stiff and aggressively formal. “Now we are even.”
Number Seven nodded grimly, acknowledging the other’s cool assessment of the nullified debt. Then he gestured at Komananov. “Be careful of her earring. It may contain an explosive charge or some other mechanism.” He gingerly rubbed his split lip and purpled jaw, wincing as he probed his broken teeth with a cautious finger. “Trust me, I know whereof I speak.”
Komananov smirked, drawing some comfort and satisfaction from the injuries she had inflicted on the American. She stared coldly at the youth who called himself Khan as he reached out his hand and demanded her sole remaining earring. “Carefully,” he added ominously, pressing the flat of his blade against her cheek. The captive officer grudgingly removed the camouflaged flashbomb from her ear and surrendered it to Khan. Fine, she resolved. She would have to find another way to achieve her liberty—and foil her foes.
[358] Multiple footsteps pounded up the stairs on the other side of the jammed door. “Open up!” demanded a loud, angry voice that Komananov recognized as belonging to Colonel Rublev of the Kremlin’s security forces. Rifle butts hammered the iron door from without, but the sabotaged door held fast against the barrage, at least for the moment. “Open up in the name of the State!”
“That door won’t hold forever,” Number Seven predicted. Slinging the strap of his rifle over his shoulder, he extended an open hand toward Khan. “Give me back my servo, and I’ll get us out of here.”
Servo? Komananov guessed that the American was referring to his ingenious pen-shaped device. She was not surprised that he wanted it back, perhaps even as much as she yearned to recover the attaché case upon the floor.
Frowning, Khan shook his head. “No,” he stated unequivocally. “I will not be placed in your debt again.” Shoving Komananov ahead of him, he pointed with his knife at the hallway leading to the Tomb’s inner chamber. “This way,” he insisted.
Apparently, the older man knew better than to argue with the insolent young Sikh, especially when there was a squadron of Russian soldiers pounding at the door. “Very well,” he agreed, picking up the leather case before following Khan and the colonel down the murky corridor. “I confess, I’m curious to see how you plan to extricate yourself from this situation.”
“I assure you, Seven, that I came prepared for every eventuality,” Khan shot back, “including your own feeble attempt to find out exactly what the colonel and her co-conspirators are planning for tonight.”
Does everyone know about our operation? Komananov thought, clenching her fists in fury and frustration. “You cannot stop us!” she spat defiantly. “Russia’s true patriots will see to that. Gorbachev’s hours are numbered!”
“Never mind your celebrated leader,” Khan warned her, menace in his tone. He addressed her in fluent Russian, as opposed to the English he used when speaking to Number Seven. “It is your own future you should be worrying about now.”
[359] They reached the heart of the crypt, with its empty bier and raised glass sarcophagus. Komananov spotted her fur hat lying on the floor of the tomb, just where she had dropped it less than half an hour ago. The heavy blows and angry shouts of Colonel Rublev and his men barely penetrated the hush of the Tomb, sounding muffled and much too far away. Given the mausoleum’s monumental solidity, it would not be easy to break into, Komananov knew, but where else could the fleeing terrorists go, now that they had arrived at the desecrated crypt? We have reached a dead end, she realized. There is no escape.
Instructing Number Seven to keep an eye on their captive, Khan strode toward the vacant bier and took hold of one of the decorative spears adorning the crypt. He twisted the sickle-headed lance clockwise, then pushed it forward about forty-five degrees. To her surprise, Komananov heard the sudden thrum of hidden machinery coming to life. Long-dormant gears screeched in protest as the heavy iron catafalque slid backward into the shadows, revealing a set of wide concrete steps leading down to another level below the burial chamber. The colonel’s sky-blue eyes widened; in all her years of service to the State and its secrets, she had never heard a whisper about any hidden passageway beneath Lenin’s Tomb, Judging from the bemused expression on Number Seven’s face, she guessed that this revelation came as a surprise to the American as well.
“Aleksey Shchusev, the architect of the Tomb, included this concealed back door at Stalin’s request,” Khan explained rapidly. He directed his comments at Komananov as well, apparently quite aware that she understood English. “All the relevant blueprints and documents were supposed to have been destroyed, but I deciphered a coded memorandum hidden in the private diary of one of the construction workers, who later defected to the West during the purges of the 1930s.”
“Excellent work,” Number Seven commented, sincerely so it seemed. He took Komananov’s arm and led her toward the waiting steps, where Khan lingered to make certain they were coming. “The existence of this escape route had escaped even my data files.” Pensive gray eyes regarded the young Sikh with what struck Komananov as a [360] genuine mixture of pride and regret. “I always knew you had enormous potential, Khan.”
“Yes,” the youth agreed bluntly. He thrust his silver dagger back into his belt. “And, more importantly, the will to use it.”
Komananov felt like she had wandered in
to the middle of an old argument between the two men, who clearly shared an uneasy history of some sort. A teacher-student relationship gone wrong? That appears the most likely scenario, she surmised, attentively scrutinizing her captors for further evidence of any rift that she might be able to turn to her advantage. Khan has the attitude of a former apprentice determined to outshine his one-time mentor.
Unless, of course, this was all just an elaborate good-cop/bad-cop routine designed to soften her up for interrogation. Komananov had played such games herself, often to great effect, so she resolved to take nothing for granted, and to zealously guard her secrets no matter what nefarious tactics Seven and Khan employed.
Her suspicions were interrupted by the jarring sound of several kilograms of iron crashing to earth. The front door, she realized, even as she was dragged reluctantly down the underground stairway. Colonel Rublev had broken into the Tomb at last, but was he already too late?
“In here! Hurry!” she shouted, digging in her heels upon the concrete steps, in a possibly hopeless attempt to buy enough time for Rublev’s soldiers to catch up with them. “Help! Pomogite!”
Snarling, Khan grabbed on to her arm and handily hurled her down the stairs, amazing her once more with his sheer physical strength. He then leaped to the bottom of the steps in a single bound and hastily pulled on a rusty metal lever mounted on the wall. The manual switch looked as though it hadn’t been touched in decades, but Khan’s formidable grip easily liberated the lever from its corroded housing, throwing ancient gears into reverse. Komananov watched despairingly as the ponderous catafalque slid back into place, cutting them off from the crypt above. A single lightbulb, naked and coated with dust, flickered above the lever on the wall, providing only a bare minimum of illumination to replace the light from the Tomb.
By the time Rublev and his men reached the inner chamber, she [361] realized, there would be no hint at all of where the deadly terrorists and their hostage had disappeared to, except perhaps a discarded ushanka hat upon the cold stone floor. She could just imagine the consternation on Rublev’s jowly face when he discovered that the murderous fugitives, who had littered Red Square with the bodies of dead Russian soldiers, had escaped immediate capture and retribution. Despite her own precarious situation, she did not envy Rublev the position he had been placed in. Someone would have to take the blame for this tragic lapse in security.
“Are you all right, Colonel?” Number Seven asked, reaching out to help her back onto her feet. He spoke Russian, presumably as a courtesy Ah yes, she thought disdainfully, the good cop. Pointedly rejecting his offer of assistance, she raised herself from the floor. Her body was sore and bruised from the fall, but, to her relief, nothing appeared to be broken. Thank providence for small favors, she thought, brushing dust and grit from her hands and knees.
The sputtering lightbulb upon the wall revealed little of their new surroundings, but Komananov had the impression of a moldy underground vault or catacomb, little used and long forgotten. The air was dank and smelled of mildew and rat droppings. Vermin scuttled outside the meager swatch of light cast by the single bulb, while water dripped like a metronome somewhere in the darkness. Cobwebs shrouded the crumbling stone walls, and she flinched as a spider scurried across the toe of her boot.
Khan waited until the arachnid dropped back onto the floor, then crushed it beneath his heel. “There is an entire network of tunnels here,” he explained in a condescending tone, “dating back to the days of the tsars. Successive generations of Russian leaders have added yet more hidden entrances and exits, including a celebrated one beneath the so-called Secret Tower on the Kremlin’s southern wall.” Komananov nodded grimly; she knew about that clandestine passageway, at least, along with every tour guide in Moscow. “I have a swift boat waiting by the river, not far from here,” Khan added.
He knelt by the bottom steps, where the colonel now noticed a bulging canvas sack resting against the wall. The young Sikh rooted [362] through the bag, coming away with a portable flashlight, which Komananov assumed that Khan had stowed here earlier. Of course, she realized. This explains the way he suddenly appeared up above. He must have used the underground stairway to enter the Tomb while she and the guards were occupied with Seven. She grimaced at the thought of the boyish assassin coming and going as he pleased in the very shadow of the Kremlin itself. If I survive this, she vowed, I will see to it that every centimeter of these cursed tunnels is mapped and placed under the tightest guard!
Khan had a more immediate agenda. He tossed the flashlight at Number Seven, who switched it on obligingly. A brilliant white beam, stronger and more steady than the faltering bulb, swept across the stony floor of the vault, surprising a plump, black rat who screeched and scurried from view. “Come,” Khan instructed the others, pointing into the Stygian darkness ahead. He glanced briefly upward. “I doubt that our pursuers will uncover the means of our escape right away, but it might be wise to put a little more distance between us and our foes ... before attending to the business at hand.” A fierce look at Komananov made it clear that she was the “business” to which he referred.
“I agree,” Number Seven said, shining the flashlight in the direction Khan had indicated. The incandescent beam exposed the arched entrance of a decaying, subterranean corridor stretching away into the shadows lying beyond the reach of the light. Stagnant puddles of filmy water created iridescent reflections of the radiance emanating from the American’s flashlight.
“I was not asking,” Khan asserted. Raising the hilt of his dagger, he shattered the dingy lightbulb at the foot of the stairs. “To inconvenience any who follow.” Fragments of broken glass crunched beneath the tread of his boots as he led the party into the gloomy, timeworn tunnel. His shining blade slashed at the cobwebs across their path like a machete cutting through dense underbrush, yet shredded wisps of webbing still clung to Komananov’s face and hair as she trudged grimly down the tunnel, a few meters ahead of Number Seven and his electric torch.
After they had marched for several minutes, a tense and uneasy [363] silence hanging over the group, they came to an intersection where two deserted tunnels met at right angles, beneath an unadorned groin vault whose upper reaches were cloaked in shadows. A thin trickle of water ran down the nearest brick wall, irrigating slimy layers of mold and algae. Mice and insects burrowed in the niches between the decrepit bricks, where all or part of the mortar had crumbled away over time. In the middle of the crossing, a squat stone well, covered by a rusty metal lid, fed corroded lead pipes running along the bottom of the tunnel walls. Sludge leaked from the pipes, pooling in the cracks between the floor stones.
“This will do,” Khan declared, raising his hand to halt the mute procession. The chakram upon his upper arm caught the light of Number Seven’s torch, as did the engraved steel band upon his right wrist. He turned on Komananov and advanced toward her, knife in hand, backing her up against a damp, ooze-encrusted wall, whose inhospitable chill seeped into her bones even through the heavy wool layers of her greatcoat. Khan kept on coming, until his chiseled, sparsely bearded face was only a finger’s length away from hers. “Now then, Colonel Anastasia Natalya Komananov, of the Committee for State Security, Third Chief Directorate, I want you to tell me everything you know about the plot to disrupt the summit conference now being held in Reykjavik.” He pressed the tip of the blade against the hollow of her throat. “Refusal is not an option.”
Ordinarily, she would have laughed at the notion that she, a high-ranking member of the world’s most feared intelligence agency, could be intimidated by a teenage boy scarcely past puberty. But Khan, it was obvious, was no ordinary youth. His dark brown eyes held an intensity and firmness of purpose far beyond his years. Nor did she sense that he was bluffing; that icy determination left little room for mercy or squeamishness. “I do not know what you are talking about,” she said, swallowing hard, which caused the sharpened tip of the dagger to scrape minutely against the taut flesh of her throat. “I know of no such
plan.”
Khan’s expression darkened. “Do not toy with me, woman,” he hissed, baring flawless white teeth. “I know that you and your [364] confederates have a scheme to derail the summit meeting between Gorbachev and Reagan, endangering the safety of the entire world merely to keep your precious Cold War alive.” His left hand clamped on to her wrist, squeezing it hard enough that she feared her bones might snap. “What I do not know are the exact particulars of your plot, but you will tell me those ... now.”
Khan twisted her wrist and Komananov winced in pain. In desperation, she looked past Khan’s shoulder at Number Seven, who stood a few paces away, his stolen AK-74 still slung over his shoulder. His knitted brow and disapproving frown gave her hope that he might call a stop to her brutal interrogation. “Khan,” he said sternly, taking a step toward Khan and the colonel.
The youth did not deign to look back at his American ally. “You may avert your eyes if you wish, old man. I know that doing what is necessary is sometimes too much for your humane and oh-so-civilized sensibilities.”
Biting down on her lower lip, to keep from giving voice to her pain, Komananov prayed that Number Seven would not be so easily rebuffed. She could use a good cop right now, no matter what the American’s ultimate agenda was.
“I’m disappointed, Khan,” the older man said, shaking his head. His voice had the tone of an elder chiding an upstart child. “Your intellect is as impressive as ever, but you’re still too quick to resort to violence, too easily caught up in the adolescent bloodlust of conflict and battle.” He patted the leather attaché case in his grip, calling Khan’s attention to the crucial item. “This case, which you overlooked in your eagerness to wage a one-man war against the entire Soviet Army, may tell us everything we both want to know about the conspiracy against Gorbachev—and without descending to savagery.”
