Red Templar

by Paul Christopher

  “The elusive notebook,” murmured Bortnikov.

  “The elusive notebook.” Putin nodded. “The key to the greatest fortune in the entire world.”

  It looked surprisingly like an IRT station on the New York subway-tile walls, narrow platform and low ceilings. There were no benches, however, and the track Holliday found himself looking at as he climbed through the freshly made hole in the old brick had only two rails, not three, which meant that the big green car parked at the platform’s edge was probably a self-propelled, gas-operated carriage. At the far end of the platform there was a ragged hole in the ceiling where a section of the roof had collapsed at some point, and a pile of concrete and old bricks that had been swept aside against the wall.

  It was a smart idea, when you thought about it: a bunch of Russian bigwigs in the Kremlin fleeing from a barrage of American ICBMs wouldn’t want to depend on local electricity sources. Holliday also noticed that while everything looked 1950s old, it also looked well maintained. There was even the faint smell of lubricating oil in the air. This place was still being used.

  “It’s the D-six,” said Holliday, fascinated by seeing something he always thought of as a Cold War urban myth.

  “?Que?” Eddie asked.

  “It was called Metro-two,” replied Holliday. “The KGB code-named it D-six. An escape route for high-ranking members of the Kremlin. It was supposed to lead to several underground command posts and bunkers and even an underground city. Stalin was even supposed to have used it to get to his dacha in Kuntsevo, which is where he spent most of World War Two.”

  “We have no time for this,” said Ivanov irritably. He checked the GPS. “We are three hundred and eleven meters below the surface; this puts us in the time period of Ivan the Terrible. We must continue.”

  “Continue where?” Holliday asked.

  “There,” answered the priest, pointing. Under the broad lip of the platform above, Holliday could see a square of brickwork almost lost in the shadows. When the tunnel was dug for the train they must have simply cut through the passageway he and the others had come though, then sealed it up again when they were finished building the underground station.

  “Hurry, please,” said Ivanov. “The Spetsnaz must patrol here regularly.” He scuttled across the tracks and ducked below the platform, crawling on his hands and knees to reach the rough patch of brickwork. The rest followed quickly behind him. This time it took them less than fifteen minutes to break through to the other side. They were instantly assailed by an odor that even their respirator masks failed to dull. Not the smell of human waste in all its forms, but something much worse, a thick stench of rot and mold and death.

  The passageway narrowed almost immediately, and within fifteen yards the four were on their bellies, Ivanov in the lead.

  “Dios mio, what is that stink?” Eddie groaned. “It is much worse than before, this smell.”

  They crept forward slowly until Ivanov stopped. “What is it?” Holliday asked, his lamp lighting up the man’s boots. There was no brickwork here, only an amalgam of broken stone and dank, dark earth.

  “A grating of some kind. Pass me up the pry bar.”

  Holliday slipped the eighteen-inch crowbar off his workman’s belt and passed it up to the priest. A moment later there was a grunt and the sound of metal on metal and then the sound of crumbling masonry.

  “How many bars?” Holliday called out.

  “Five. I’ll have to remove them all, and even then it will be a tight squeeze, especially for someone as large as you and your companion.”

  The sound of straining metal continued for a long ten minutes and then stopped. There was a series of sounds from Ivanov as he slithered forward, his feet scrabbling for purchase and throwing back dirt into Holliday’s face. Finally the boots disappeared altogether and Holliday crawled forward, his lamp illuminating the grate Ivanov had been working on.

  Ahead lay a letterbox-shaped opening perhaps four feet wide and two feet high. Holliday could see the ancient cement frame that had held the iron bars in place. The bars were gone, leaving nothing but gaping holes like the sockets of rotting teeth. He could see almost nothing beyond except a wall of pitted, dressed stone, the blocks fitted so tightly together there had been no need for mortar.

  Struggling, Holliday dug his feet in and pushed himself forward, eventually reaching the opening. He put his arms above his head and slithered forward, finally pushing his shoulders through and then his hips. Halfway through the opening he rolled over and pushed hard with his heels, finally popping completely out of the rectangular opening.

  Standing, Holliday saw that Ivanov was shining his lamp down a long, dark corridor about four feet wide, the arched ceiling not much more than six feet overhead. There were low, riveted iron doors with massive hinges every five feet on both sides of the passage. The doors were solid, each equipped with a heavy iron bar set onto massive iron brackets.

  Holliday shone his own light down at the opening he’d just come through and watched as Eddie struggled to free himself. From the looks of it, the grated opening had been some sort of overflow channel for water. Eddie, cursing resoundingly in Spanish with every inch gained, finally pulled his big muscular frame through the hole and stood up. A few moments later Genrikhovich appeared, coughing and choking and spitting out dirt.

  “Do you have any idea where we are?” Holliday asked Ivanov.

  The priest nodded. “If I’m not mistaken, these are the dungeons of Ivan Chetvyorty Vasilyevich the Fourth, better known to the world as Ivan the Terrible.”

  34

  They moved off down the dark, stone-walled passage. The silence was something you could almost taste, heavy and oppressive, with a tart tang of blood-soaked earth. History was alive down here in the worst of all possible ways, like writhing worms and ancient nightmares. Holliday stopped at the first door they came to and lifted the heavy wooden bar. He pulled on the rivet-studded door and it eventually moved, groaning as he manhandled it open. He shone his light into the interior of the cell.

  The chamber was ten feet on a side, and lying in tumbled heaps were the skeletons of at least a dozen men, tossed like so many broken marionettes into a dark corner of a child’s cupboard. There was no obvious facility for hygiene, not even a hole in the floor, which was mostly covered with a thick layer of black earth no doubt made from their own waste. The limbs on some of the skeletons had been torn away, the dead feeding the living for a little while longer.

  Holliday shivered; the sounds from this place would have been like the moaning of some hellish choir, the sounds fading with each passing day until there was only silence. There would have been no hope here: no hope of redemption, no hope of food or water, only a slow, hideous death. The cell Holliday stared into was the very definition of horror and evil personified, and the man who ordered its construction had been without compassion and had no love in his cold heart for any living thing on the planet. Reflexively, from an almost forgotten past, Holliday made the sign of the cross and whispered the formulas as he did so.

  “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen.” Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Eddie was doing the same thing.

  “En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo y del Espiritu Santo. Amen.”

  “We have no time for this foolishness, Colonel Holliday; we have much more important things to concern us now,” said Genrikhovich, his voice a little petulant. “We have better things to do than mourn the deaths of prisoners five hundred years ago.”

  “Whatever else they were or might have been, they were men once, and their bones deserve a little respect from the living.”

  “We won’t be living much longer if you insist on dawdling and saying your prayers, Colonel. I can assure you of that.”

  Eddie dropped a big hand on Holliday’s shoulder. “You are a good man, mi coronel, no matter what this idiota thinks.”

  Holliday closed the door to the cell but he left the bar off; the dead men had been imprisoned
long enough; now at least their spirits could be free. When he’d shut the door he went after the others down the low-ceilinged passageway.

  The passage seemed to go on forever, sometimes curving, sometimes dipping down or up, depending on the terrain, but by Holliday’s calculation they were always heading in roughly the same direction. Ivanov answered the unspoken question.

  “We are traveling south. Most of the research points to the Tainitskaya Tower, or the Secret Tower, as it is sometimes called, since it is the oldest.”

  “Is that the only reason?” Holliday asked.

  “No. It is thought that the Tainitskaya Tower also had two tunnels, one leading to the nearby bank of the Moskva River, the other leading across Red Square to the cathedral.”

  “Was any such tunnel ever found?”

  “They filled in the tunnel to the river in the 1930s, when the tower was completely sealed. They never found the second tunnel,” said Ivanov.

  It was well past midnight before they reached their objective, at least according to Ivanov’s GPS, programmed on the basis of Father Ignatius Stelletskii’s eighty-year-old maps of the underground city. They stood in a small circular chamber with a rib-vaulted ceiling and finally stripped off their respirators and stepped out of their Tyvek suits.

  At the base of each rib in the chamber’s vault there was a carved rosette, and beneath the rosette a pillar reaching to the dressed-stone floor. Twelve ribs, twelve rosettes and twelve pillars arranged in a circle around a raised stone plinth set in the middle of the floor.

  Around the plinth a deep circle had been carved into the floor, surrounding it, carved wavering rays of light extending outward from the circle like a great, flaming sun with the raised dais at its center: an altar. On the plinth was a stone sarcophagus of a knight carrying a long shield, and on the shield a carved Templar cross. The fourth Templar, who carried the Sword of the South, Octanis, the last of the swords sent forth from Castle Pelerin. In the knight’s mailed fist he clutched a broadsword, and along the blade there was an inscription:

  YA OHRANNIK VELICHAISHIE SOKROVISHCHA MIRA.

  “It’s Old Russian,” said Ivanov. “It says, ‘I guard the greatest treasures of the world.’”

  “A Templar tomb,” murmured Genrikhovich.

  “I’m not so sure,” said Holliday.

  Genrikhovich snorted disdainfully. “Don’t be absurd. The stone effigy is carrying a shield with a Templar cross blazoned on it.”

  “I’m not disagreeing with you about the stone carving; I’m just disputing the fact that it’s a tomb.”

  “What else could it be?”

  Holliday, who’d seen something much like this not too long ago in the middle of Ethiopia’s Lake Tana, just smiled. He turned to Eddie. “Lend me a hand, will you?”

  “Of course, compadre,” said the big Cuban. Holliday put both hands about six inches apart on the edge of the plinth closest to the effigy’s head. Eddie joined him.

  “On three, push as hard as you can,” instructed Holliday.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Genrikhovich asked.

  “Ready, one, two and three!” Holliday heaved and Eddie joined him. At first nothing happened, but finally the whole stone structure began to rotate on its axis, rumbling as it followed the narrow circular track in the floor.

  “Chto, chert voz mi?” Genrikhovich whispered.

  At forty-five degrees from its original position the plinth and its stone figure of the Templar Knight revealed a stone staircase, its steps disappearing into the darkness.

  They went down the stairway, one after another, the beams from their miner’s lamps playing over what lay ahead. Twelve steps and then a landing, and twelve more steps before a second landing and another ninety-degree turn. There were four sets of twelve steps, eventually turning through a full three hundred and sixty degrees and exiting into a strange, twelve-sided room, its ceiling an oddly shaped barrel vault high above them. In each of the twelve narrow walls was an equally narrow door.

  Ivanov slipped off his backpack and unclipped the big eight-volt light from it. He switched on the powerful lamp and the room was suddenly brilliantly illuminated.

  “It’s magnificent!” Holliday whispered.

  The floor of the room was made of mosaic tile, its colors as brilliant as the day it had been constructed. The design was an arcane circular device surrounding a seven-pointed star that in turn enclosed another circle and another star. In the circular ribbons there were inscribed letters and words in an arcane language that might have been Aramaic or ancient Hebrew. In the center of the second seven-pointed star, a design depicting four swords had been picked out in the mosaic, their points not quite touching, the space between them a perfect cross.

  Holliday bent down and ran his fingers over the mosaic. The designs hadn’t been done in ceramic, as he’d first thought, but in semiprecious stones. The whole floor was made up of obsidian, jade, agate amethyst and opal, garnet, moonstone and amber. The whole floor glittered and flashed in the light from the big lamp. Holliday stood again and stared.

  “?Que es?” Eddie asked.

  “I think it’s a pentangle of some sort,” answered Holliday. “A magician’s symbol.”

  Genrikhovich shook his head. “Not a magician, but an alchemist-in this case Basilius Valentinus, the canon of the Benedictine Priory of Sankt Peter in Erfurt, Germany, a contemporary of Ivan the Terrible and well-known to him. The design is the Key of Solomon; in this case instead of the Hebrew name of God being in the center it shows the four swords of Pelerin.”

  “Aos, Hesperios, Polaris and Octanis,” supplied Holliday.

  “Quite right, Colonel,” said Genrikhovich.

  “Of which one is missing,” put in Ivanov. “Octanis, Sword of the South.”

  Genrikhovich smiled knowingly. “Octanis is not missing, Father Ivanov. It is here, where it has been hidden for the past five hundred years.”

  “Where?” Holliday asked flatly.

  “Look around you and choose,” said the Russian, a faintly condescending and aristocratic tone in his voice.

  The walls of the twelve-sided room were painted a deep blue-black, like the great wheel of the night sky, and on each door there was a constellation picked out in bright golden stars. The sky wasn’t real, however, but astrological. “I would suggest that Father Ivanov use his GPS to find us south, the door to Octanis.”

  The priest went and stood in the center of the room. He took out his GPS unit and switched on its compass function. He turned slowly until he faced the side of the room that had been on their left when they reached the bottom of the stairway. “That way.” He pointed. “That is south.”

  “The constellations Castor and Pollux, the twins, or Gemini, and Alpha Cancri, the claw of Cancer,” Genrikhovich said. “Which shall we choose?”

  “I wouldn’t choose either,” said Holliday.

  “And why not, Colonel? Do you have some knowledge of alchemy and the works of Basilius Valentinus?”

  “Never heard of the man until a minute ago, but I do know that in astrology the poles are counterintuitive-north is south and south is north.”

  “You hardly seem the type to believe in astrology, Colonel.”

  “I’m not, but my cousin Peggy is always telling me that it’s Mercury in retrograde, or my aspect is wonky or something, and I managed to pick up a few things over the years-the north-south transposition was one of them.”

  “So we’re supposed to believe your cousin then?” Genrikhovich sneered.

  Holliday finally reached his boiling point. “I don’t care what you do anymore, you arrogant Russian jerk; frankly I’m sick and tired of you and your lies and your bullshit. If it weren’t for Brother Rodrigues I wouldn’t be here, and you’d be the last person I’d be here with.”

  “?Bravo, mi compadre!” Eddie laughed.

  “One thing more,” said Holliday, still fuming. “I don’t know a hell of a lot about alchemy, but I know lots about history, and as I recall
Ivan the Terrible was famous for his dungeons and his torture chambers. I wouldn’t be so quick to go through any doors he designed; you might find yourself playing ‘The Lady or the Tiger.’”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You never heard of the story ‘The Lady or the Tiger’?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll find out. Think Indiana Jones,” said Holliday.

  “Ignore him,” said Genrikhovich to Ivanov. “We’ll go through the Gemini door.”

  The priest looked briefly in Holliday’s direction, a faint light of uncertainty visible in his eyes. Then he turned away and stepped toward the door with the Gemini constellation on it. The door had a simple old-fashioned wrought-iron latch, which Ivanov pressed down. He pulled open the door and stepped through, Genrikhovich following a few steps behind him.

  Eddie turned to Holliday. “What should we do, amigo?”

  “Follow,” said Holliday. “Just keep back a little.” The two men went after Genrikhovich through the Gemini door.

  The first thing Holliday noticed was that instead of being made of dressed stone, like the walls and the arched ceiling overhead, the floor of the passageway they found themselves in was made of a firm layer of fine, almost powdery sand. Other than that the corridor was featureless, the beams from their miner’s lamps lighting up a second door about a hundred feet ahead. The design on the farther door was unmistakable: the gold double-headed imperial eagle of the original duchy of Moscow adopted by Ivan the Terrible when he became Russia’s first czar.

  “Why sand?” Holliday wondered aloud.

  Genrikhovich half turned, the sneer back on his thin face. “Taurus is an earth sign, Colonel, or didn’t your cousin tell you that?” The Russian turned away and hurried after Father Ivanov. Holliday heard a faint clicking and stopped dead. He’d heard a sound like that before-a makeshift pressure trigger hidden along a path in the A Shau Valley on the Laos-South Vietnam border. He’d never forgotten the sound, because a split second later the grunt walking point thirty feet ahead had been flayed into hamburger from the knees down by a makeshift claymore. It was like something out of a Sgt. Rock comic book-one second the poor bastard’s legs were there; the next they were gone. The clicking sound came again and Genrikhovich stumbled. Faintly Holliday could hear a distant, hollow whirring sound. He held a stiff arm out, stopping Eddie.