by Darcy Fray
Dmitry had planned an elaborate proposal, but the moment had proven itself far too powerful to be governed by such scripts. He opened the handcrafted wooden ring box, which beautifully presented the ring. He dropped to one knee and blurted out, “Sarah Leigh Appleton, would you do me the honor of marrying me?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” They fell into each other’s arms, sobbing with joy.
After that day, they made a vow to return to the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood every year on their anniversary at 9:20 a.m...and this year, Dmitry was late.
He approached the iron railing that encircled the Church and locked his bike to it. He looked down at his watch: 9:28 a.m. He had just returned from a Nano conference in Moscow that morning and was eagerly anticipating his reunion with Sarah. Fortunately, after thirty-six years of marriage, she had grown to accept Dmitry’s habitual tardiness, even on their special day. He pushed through a crowd of tourists milling about at the arched doorway and entered the Church. Hundreds more sightseers crowded the interior. The Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood had re-opened to the public in 1997 as a museum of mosaics, attracting thousands of visitors a year. Sarah always waited for him at the exact spot he had proposed to her. Always. But this year, she was nowhere to be seen. That same gut-wrenching feeling he experienced thirty-six years earlier grabbed him by surprise. Had she finally come to her senses after all these years?
He lost consciousness as a razor sharp chest pain dropped him to his knees.
•••
Dust, WV - Base Camp
A life steeped in academia had programmed Gordon to find safety and comfort sitting behind old desks, so that’s exactly what he did. It had been a long day with mixed results and he felt as though he needed to pedantically clarify it all. He selected a freshly sharpened pencil from his old “World’s Greatest Physics Teacher” mug, which had magically appeared in his tent earlier that day, along with the remainder of his personal effects from his Caltech office.
The mug’s bold proclamation had never rung true to him. He knew in his heart that he was far too impatient and distracted to ever truly be the world’s greatest teacher of anything. Perhaps this was where he really belonged, beholden only to himself and the U.S. Army. He smiled. No matter how hard one tries to break the mold, the apple really doesn’t fall that far from the tree.
He jotted down a few thoughts on the day:
- Conduit/Object - why has everything with a pulse, within one square mile of the trailer, been dematerialized, except for Caden? Optic nerve?
- Why a pyramid? Mathematical mysticism?
- Zolkin - not the type.
Not surprisingly, Gordon had already absorbed a healthy portion of the Zolkin reference material. There was no mistaking the man’s romantic spirit. The attack just didn’t compute, and to further complicate matters, Wilkinson had informed Gordon that the ongoing investigation into Zolkin’s whereabouts was proceeding slowly. The Russians were tight-lipped.
He knew what had to be done.
•••
Wilkinson was in the midst of his usual evening routine, two fingers of a fine malt scotch accompanied by the revolving vinyl on his Victor Victrola phonograph. Tonight, he was enjoying Krzysztof Penderecki’s Symphony No. 2, composed as recently as 1979, but steeped in the romanticism of Bruckner. He took a seat and allowed his eyes to close for a moment.
“Lieutenant General Wilkinson?” a voice inquired, from just outside the tent’s entrance.
Wilkinson’s eyes snapped to attention. He rose from his desk, smoothing the front of his uniform. “Enter.”
Captain Keith Dillon stepped inside the tent, carrying a U.S. Army issued laptop. “May I?” Captain Dillon extended the laptop toward the Wilkinson’s desk.
“Certainly,” Wilkinson responded as he cleared a space for it.
“There’s something I think you should see, sir.” He navigated to the WorldOrderUnderground.com webpage, as Wilkinson looked on over his shoulder.
“What in the Sam Hill is that?” The homepage of WorldOrderUnderground.com had fully loaded, revealing a visual cacophony of unnavigable menus, flashing banners and ads.
“It’s One World Underground dot com, sir.”
“And why do I care?”
“Because of this, sir.” Captain Dillon loaded the page with Fletcher’s photos accompanied by the anthrax cover story article. Wilkinson examined the images and gave each and every word his full attention.
“You have got to be shitting me,” Wilkinson said, slamming the lid of the laptop case down.
“No, sir. I’m not.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Well, sir, it’s a popular conspiracy website run by internet radio talk show host Bob Billings. He’s already been brought in and he’s cooperating. However, it seems that the unidentified individual who provided the content cleverly used a modified form of peer-to-peer sharing to transfer the material, making this very difficult to trace, if not impossible.”
Wilkinson felt his anger rise from the pit of his gut. “I want a full accounting of every single person who has set foot within twenty miles of this godforsaken hellhole for the past week. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Captain Dillon turned about-face, before abruptly exiting the tent.
The romantic strains of Penderecki’s Symphony No. 2 did little to pacify Wilkinson’s swelling fury. He lifted his glass from the desk and hurled it against the forgiving tent wall.
•••
Burbank, CA - Bob Hope International Airport
Fletcher Crisp deplaned on the tarmac of Bob Hope International Airport in Burbank, California, where the unseasonably warm night embraced him like an old familiar friend. After a short stroll down the length of Terminal 1, he stepped out onto the bustling sidewalk and immediately spotted the black Prius. Behind the wheel sat Los Angeles native Harper Crisp, also known as Veritas 213. Harper, twenty-four, was a recent Ph.D. graduate of MIT’s Department of Electrical Engineering and Computer Science. History dictated that she should be up in Silicon Valley pulling down six figures, plus healthy stock options and bonuses. Instead, she was here in Burbank picking up her father.
Fletcher landed in the passenger’s seat and leaned in to plant a big kiss on Harper’s cheek. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, love.”
She immediately noticed his bandaged hand. “What happened?”
Growing up in a single-parent home, Harper often assumed a mothering role. She was fully aware of the lengths her father would extend himself to uncover the truth, and that was part of the reason she decided to take the assistant professorship in computer science at Caltech. She could live at home, save up some money and keep an eye on her dad.
“Laceration by pyramid.”
“Seriously, Dad.”
“Oh, I’m quite serious, love.” Fletcher withdrew the pyramid from the bag, placed it on his open palm and extended it toward her.
“What is that?” The car swerved into the oncoming lane as the mysterious object held Harper’s gaze.
“Eyes on the road,” he commanded, grabbing the steering wheel to correct their path.
“Well?”
“That, I’m afraid I don’t know. But I do happen to know this girl who works at a certain university where they will be able to find out. I wish I could remember her name...kind of cute if you can get past her footballers’ eyes and knobby knees.”
“Very funny,” Harper replied, throwing an elbow his way. In actuality, Harper was a beauty, though she tried her best to hide it with boyish haircuts, facial piercings and numerous literary and scientific tattoos. “Where did you get it?”
“Gift shop at the airport. Do you like it?” Fletcher never missed an opportunity to put a smile on his daughter’s face. She was his world.
“Ha, ha, Dad. Really.”
“I found it in the midst of putting out a forest fire on a crest just above the site of the disappearance
. True story. Have no idea what it is, but I just have a gut feeling about it. Any ideas?”
She stole a quick second look. “If it doesn’t have a processor of some sort inside it, I’m afraid I won’t be of much help. There’s a guy in the physics department who’d take a look at it for us, though. I think he fancies me.”
“Shame about his poor eyesight,” Fletcher retorted, before spitting a spent sunflower seed shell out onto the passing pavement.
“And to think I actually missed you.”
•••
Highway 52, WV
The pre-dawn light colored the still slumbering horizon an ominous red. Lieutenant General John Wilkinson and Gordon sat side by side in the back of the fully-outfitted black Cadillac Escalade as it sped down southbound Route 52. Wilkinson pressed a button, raising a thick soundproof privacy window that secluded them from the uniformed driver.
“Gordon, you do realize you don’t need to do this, right?” Wilkinson’s voice softened.
“Yes, John. I gave up on trying to impress generals long ago,” Gordon responded coolly. “I’ve lectured on six of the seven continents and because of that I’m welcome in Iran, China, Russia, you name it... And according to you, my status is ‘officially unofficial.’ Nobody knows I’m working with the U.S. Army, correct?”
“That’s correct, but--“
“But what? There are physics conferences going on in every country, on any given day. It’s a perfect cover. You and I both know it. And even if you did send in someone else to find Zolkin, you’re still going to need me there to ask all the right questions. It just makes sense.”
“Your father would kill me with his bare hands if anything were to happen to you.”
“Well, lucky for you he’s dead,” Gordon replied. He terminated the conversation by pressing the button that lowered the privacy glass.
For the remainder of the journey the two men stared ahead in silence, both wary of the emotion that any further discussion might bring.
CHAPTER EIGHT
St. Petersburg
Saint Petersburg, Russia
SAINT PETERSBURG STATE University. One of the oldest and largest universities in Russia with a teaching staff of nearly seven thousand faculty. Its list of graduates included Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin, Russian President Dmitry Medvedev, American novelist Ayn Rand and Nobel Prize winners Ivan Pavlov, Joseph Brodsky and Lev Landau. Though impressive, the list of notable alumni had little to do with Dr. Dmitry Zolkin’s decision to take the teaching job.
In 1980, upon the completion of Sarah’s Oxford literature degree, Dmitry and Sarah jointly decided to move to Saint Petersburg to begin their married life together. It was Dmitry’s home, after all, and Sarah had instantly been charmed by the city’s sweeping grandeur. A qualified candidate like Dmitry would have no trouble securing a teaching job at the celebrated university, and though Sarah’s still-burgeoning command of Russian would prove an obstacle to her own job search, she had an alternative plan -- to begin work on her first novel. A romance, of course.
They settled into a cozy, bright apartment on Nevsky Prospect. Just a three-minute walk from the Mayakovskaya metro station, the location allowed them to travel freely about the city without the need of a car, as neither of them had ever learned to drive.
A large arched window in their ample living room afforded them a view of the quiet courtyard below and the entire city beyond. It seemed a perfect start.
They readily adjusted to life in their new home. Dmitry accepted a prestigious faculty position in Saint Petersburg State University’s physics department. Sarah remained unemployed, but began writing her first novel, Lost in the City of 101 Islands, which she very often was. Dmitry was dedicated to both his research and teaching and would often work into the wee hours of the night, exploring new ideas and theories. They both set their work aside on the weekends and intimately came to know every nook and cranny of the city, whether by foot, train or bicycle.
It was during this time that Dmitry first truly explored the theory of “soul energy” or Dusha, which had been the subject of his Oxford doctoral thesis. Having felt the overwhelming power and persistence of love, he was quite certain that the human soul was a potent, viable energy source. He wondered if there really was some higher power and if, perhaps, that higher power harvested and fed upon the lost energy of the soul upon a person’s passing? It would explain the creator’s desire to inflict upon his creations a lifelong exposure to extremes in love, hate, joy and sorrow. If the soul is a muscle, one would need to flex it, no?
His colleagues found the theory embarrassing and a waste of time for a man of such brilliance, but Dmitry persisted. He spent every free moment running the theory over and over in his mind, considering each and every potentiality. But conceptualization and putting the theory to test were two completely different animals. How does one capture the energy of the soul? And if there is a Heaven, will a worthy soul still pass through the gates or will it be forever trapped in a state of scientific limbo? Though thrilling, the idea felt akin to challenging God to a chess match. Dmitry fully acknowledged the questionable ethics of working on real-life applications of his Dusha Theory, but he was a scientist first -- and scientific advancements required proof and sacrifice. Besides, if the energy was as powerful as he anticipated, it would be for the good of society as a whole, or so he convinced himself.
Dmitry had heard the rumors regarding the Central Investigation Institute for Special Technology, which operated under the aegis of the KGB. It had previously been referred to as Laboratory 1, Laboratory 12, and the more ominous name, Poison Laboratory of the Soviet Secret Services. The Institute functioned as a covert research and development facility, running poison tests and experiments on Russian state prisoners. Only two years earlier, the Institute and the KGB had facilitated the assassination of dissident Bulgarian writer Georgi Markov, who was shot with a tiny pellet laced with the deadly toxin ricin. Markov had been waiting for a bus in London when he felt a sharp sting in the back of his thigh. He spun around to find a man picking up an umbrella off the ground, who then fled off in a taxi. Markov died three days later. His assassination was commonly referred to as “the umbrella murder.”
Dmitry knew the Central Investigation Institute for Special Technology would be interested in the Dusha experiments. If Dmitry’s hypothesis proved correct, Dusha could potentially have powerful weapons applications. And while weaponization certainly wasn’t his goal, collaborating with the Institute would allow for him to test his theory on animals and then, potentially, human subjects. He mentioned the plan to Sarah only once. She was appalled at the thought of him having anything to do with KGB or the Institute. If he pursued it, he knew he would not have her support. He dropped the idea.
•••
Saint Petersburg, Russia - Grand Hotel Europe
GORDON HAD SPENT the previous two days in the air. He departed from West Virginia, briefly touched down in Detroit, flew on to Amsterdam, and from there he flew to Saint Petersburg. All totaled, it was about fourteen hours of flight time and a grueling fifteen hours of layover.
During the final leg of his journey, he caught himself staring at a passenger who looked remarkably like his mother. She had the same gentle eyes and familiar smile that led to effortless conversation. Gordon fondly recalled that she would often return home from short jaunts with at least five or six new friends added to her always-growing Christmas card list. The ability to make small talk and connect with complete strangers was a gift he simply hadn’t inherited from her. He was more like his father in that regard. People respected him, but no one really considered him a close friend. He’d been to a few weddings, but never as a groomsman or best man. He led a solitary existence and had grown accustomed to it.
When in Saint Petersburg, Gordon typically liked to stay at the five-star Grand Hotel Europe, a fine example of the charm and splendor of nineteenth century tsarist Russia. He inserted his keycard in the security panel of room 305. T
he Pavarotti Suite. Hues of gold and red dominated the elegant room, but it was the antique grand piano in the living room that made it truly special. Gordon’s mother, Margaret, held firmly to the belief that every child should learn to play an instrument. From an early age, Gordon had difficulties forming and maintaining friendships, so it comforted her to know that music would serve as his companion through life’s many peaks and valleys. Gordon’s first instrument was the trumpet, which soon fell to the wayside after he displayed a proclivity for only practicing ridiculously high and low notes. His music teacher, Mr. Taylor, politely suggested that he might not be a “brass man,” and switched him over to piano. Gordon immediately took to the percussive, mathematical feel the piano offered, and to this day, he rarely passed up an opportunity to sit at a vacant bench.
He laid his bag down on the bed and peeled away his outer layer of clothing. The room was five or six degrees colder than he would have liked, but the slight chill helped to mitigate the effects of jet lag crashing down upon him. He took a seat at the piano and began to play Chopin’s Nocturne in E-Flat, Op. 9, No. 2. Chopin’s twenty-one nocturnes were among his favorite piano pieces. The melancholic melody, harmonies and rhythmic broken chords of Op. 9, No. 2, instantly washed his tension away.
As the last note still hung in the air, Gordon rose from the bench and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling living room window. He drew back the heavy gold drapery, revealing a scenic view of Saint Petersburg’s snow-covered main avenue, Nevsky Prospect, and the striking Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood. In his well-travelled opinion, there were certainly more beautiful churches and cathedrals in the world, but there was something uniquely special about this one, with its unparalleled mosaic artistry and checkered past. He vaguely recalled that the church had been used as a morgue during WWII, which, given the name, didn’t seem that outlandish. Just gazing upon the historical building stirred something deep inside him.
