The Einstein Code

by Tom West

  ‘You sound surprised!’ Boris gave Kate a testy look.

  ‘I wasn’t judging.’ She had her right hand up, clutching the coffee with her left. ‘Quite the reverse, Boris. I’m amazed at your ingenuity. But why? Why are you here?’

  ‘I cannot speak for others. But there was nowhere for me up there.’ He pointed a blackened fingernail towards the ceiling. ‘I got into trouble . . . found my way underground. That was long time ago.’ He got up from the chair. ‘Come, we are close to finishing shift. You wish to be taken to Sergei? Then you must come with us . . . or tunnels will suck you in and never spit you out.’

  Boris led the way along a narrow passageway that opened out into a large rectangular high-ceilinged space. The workers had gathered there, and Kate and Lou could see an old carriage on a single track. It was a dumpy, corroded thing fronted by an electric locomotive.

  A rail ran along the spine of the carriage from which a series of leather straps hung. The train pulled away slowly accelerating to a sedate twenty miles per hour, before plunging into a tunnel; the only light, a sparse reflection along the walls from the rather dim headlights of the locomotive. It made an awful noise, clattering along the tunnel shaking and rolling like a jelly on a dessert trolley.

  ‘Not far,’ Boris shouted over the racket. ‘Old train . . . but this best way. After long day it good!’

  The train emerged from the tunnel into a well-lit station. Lou spotted a sign as it slid past: ‘Stantsiya Nomer Tri.’ He nudged Kate and pointed towards it.

  Boris noticed. ‘We build loop, cutting off Station Number Two just past where we worked today. Part of network for these electric trains. It feeds off main power grid of regular Metro. We get around faster than on foot. And it costs us nothing!’ He gave them a gappy grin.

  The train slowed and pulled to a stop at the end of the platform of Station Number Three. The men jumped out and headed off along the platform chatting and joking among themselves. Boris hung back with Kate and Lou.

  ‘I don’t know your business with boss,’ he said. ‘It is none of mine . . . I shall take you to him now.’

  They followed him along the platform and turned into a narrow passageway, through a door and down a long, wide spiral staircase that opened out into a corridor. A man came towards them pushing a cart laden with sacks, another man dressed in workman’s overalls carried a huge hoop of electric cable over his left shoulder, a metal toolbox in his other hand. He strode past them without a second glance.

  Down a side passage they saw two women hanging their last items of washing on a line. Kate, Lou and Boris edged past the women and headed along the corridor, made a left and a right and stepped into another wide open space. In front of a heavy wooden door with a large brass handle two children were playing with a pair of handheld Nintendos. Boris shooed the kids away, stepped up to the door and rapped the handle.

  A few moments passed and a man in military fatigues appeared at the door. He had a Kalashnikov over his shoulder and a holstered handgun in his belt. He gave Kate and Lou a hard, questioning look and then noticed Boris.

  ‘Anton Viktor Dubovnich, these two are here to see Sergei,’ Boris said in Russian.

  Dubovnich looked them up and down. ‘I’m sure they are,’ he sneered, holding his gaze on Kate’s breasts a little longer than was polite. ‘I take it you have checked for weapons? Checked ID? Followed protocol?’

  ‘Of course. Unarmed. Their IDs fit their story.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘They are here to see Sergei on business.’

  The militiaman sneered again. ‘Business?’

  ‘They know Max.’

  Lou recognized the word and jumped in. ‘Max brought us into Metro 2 . . . to meet Sergei.’

  The man stared coldly into Lou’s eyes.

  ‘Max brought them down. They got separated and lost,’ Boris said.

  Dubovnich considered Kate, then Lou. He unshouldered his Kalashnikov, the barrel a few inches from Lou’s guts. ‘You should know better than to bring strangers here, Boris Gregorovich Milov. People don’t just get separated from Max and “lost” in the tunnels. These two are either spies or they were meant to be ditched. Either way . . .’ He stepped forward, swung the rifle round with lightning speed and slammed the butt into the side of Lou’s head, sending him sprawling across the floor.

  33

  Lou came to staring blankly at a wooden floor, a throbbing pain beginning at the side of his head and running down his neck. He lifted his head and the pain screamed. Slowly he began to focus and touched his temple. His fingertips came up red.

  ‘Lou . . .’ It was Kate.

  He looked up at her and gradually his vision cleared. First getting up onto one elbow, he rose slowly, Kate helping him to his feet. ‘You OK?’

  He did not answer. Instead, he rubbed his eyes and looked round. The barrel of the Kalashnikov hung only inches from his face.

  A man stepped over and took his arm gently. Lou looked round and saw Adam Fleming. He had a black eye and a gash across his cheek, the latter patched up with a row of Steri-Strips.

  ‘Take it easy, Lou.’

  ‘What the fuck . . .?’

  Fleming stepped back and Lou could see they were in a large room lit weakly by a chandelier containing a dozen candles. In the centre of the room stood a long heavy oak table. At the head of the table sat a large man in a leather coat. He had spiky salt-and-pepper hair, prominent cheekbones and a vivid scar running from the corner of his left eye in a meandering line to his chin. To his right sat Max; still dressed in his fur-collared greatcoat, he was staring at the oak table.

  ‘Please sit,’ Max said. He indicated to three other seats at the table. Fleming strode over to the chair to the left of the man at the head of the table.

  Lou took two steps towards the table, the rifle still levelled at him. He stopped suddenly. ‘Fuck this,’ he spat. ‘Why should I sit?’

  The stranger at the table raised his hand and Dubovnich backed off.

  ‘Dr Bates, we would appreciate it if you would sit with us,’ said Max. ‘We apologize for what has happened – a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Misunderstanding?’ Lou shot back. ‘Then why is this ape still pointing his rifle at me?’

  The man with the scar signalled to Dubovnich again and the guard at last lowered the Kalashnikov. Lou glanced at Kate, took a deep breath and lowered himself slowly into the chair next to Fleming, while Kate sat down opposite him.

  ‘There,’ Lou said acerbically. ‘Sitting down. Now can you tell us what is going on?’

  The man with the scar spoke at last. ‘My name is Sergei.’ And he glanced round at Fleming then Kate, ‘You wish to speak to me.’

  Lou sighed and shook his head. ‘Nice introduction.’

  ‘Forgive us,’ said Max. ‘It was a necessary precaution.’

  Fleming went to interrupt.

  Lou raised a hand. ‘No, wait a minute. Kate and I could have been killed, lost in those tunnels. And what happened to you?’ He glared at Fleming.

  ‘I removed the rope tying him to you, then took him to a different tunnel before removing his blindfold,’ Max said.

  ‘What was all this for?’ Kate sounded exhausted. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘We had to be sure you were not Russian government spies,’ Sergei said.

  ‘It’s standard procedure. If you were agents you would have called for assistance once you were lost in the tunnel system. You didn’t do that.’ Max waved a hand towards Adam. ‘Nor did Mr Fleming, who arrived just before you two. He took a tumble. We patched him up. He has a remarkable sense of direction and amazing resilience.’

  Lou glanced at the Englishman and turned back to Max. ‘So, you’re saying it was a test?’

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘Please, let us move on . . . yes?’ Sergei said, holding court. ‘You must be famished and parched. I have not broken my fast. Would you do me the honour of sharing a meal with us?’ Sergei’s expression was unreadable. He clap
ped and a young man appeared beside his chair. ‘We are ready to eat.’

  The food was surprisingly good: steak, fruit, crisp bacon, eggs, cereals, coffee and juices.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ Kate said as her coffee was topped up. It was a strong Brazilian blend with no trace of bitterness. Very different from the stewed workman’s coffee Boris had given them.

  ‘You sound surprised,’ Sergei remarked. ‘I am a billionaire after all, Dr Wetherall! What did you expect? Rice and rough vodka fresh from the still?’

  ‘No, I . . .’

  Sergei produced a fulsome laugh. ‘I am teasing you,’ he said. His English was almost without accent, smooth. ‘We try to live well here. This breakfast is nothing too grand. We eat like normal wealthy people. We try to do everything others do.’

  ‘But you must miss the space, the air, the sun?’ Lou said.

  ‘Yes, of course, we have to accept some drawbacks, but no one is forced to stay here and some people do leave after a while. Each to his own. I believe the pros outweigh the cons, for if I were to be apprehended by the authorities I would be kept in a far more confined space than we have here.’ Sergei extended his arms to encompass his personal fiefdom. ‘And, most importantly, I would not be a free man. My world here under Moscow may have some limitations but I sleep in my own bed at night, I eat and drink what I wish. I am free to talk to anyone I choose. I have the latest Internet and telecoms here.’ He waved a hand. ‘This is merely a work space. My home is large and I have a garden watered and illuminated by advanced technology. Most crucially, it is mine. I spend good time with my children and my wife every day, and if I decide to, I can, and do, travel to the surface incognito. Money buys whatever you wish for.’

  ‘And you are prepared for us to come here. Aren’t you concerned we could reveal the location of Metro 2?’ Kate said.

  Sergei laughed, shaking his head. ‘Hah! You can try! Why do you think we took such precautions? The authorities are quite aware of us and even know roughly where we are, but we’ve made it extremely hard for them to touch us . . . and believe me, they try.’

  ‘And you are amenable to talking to us, to arranging a deal over the Einstein–Kessler material?’ Adam Fleming said before taking a sip of coffee. He looked from Sergei to Max.

  ‘I am, my friend. But not now. I’m sure you are all exhausted and in no mood to discuss business.’

  ‘Well, I’m . . .’

  ‘Good,’ Sergei said and started to rise from his chair. ‘We are agreed then. I apologize again for the very shaky start to our meeting. But I sense you accept that we could do little else.’

  ‘I’m sure—’ Fleming tried again.

  ‘I hope you find the accommodations to your liking. Shall we meet again here this evening? Seven p.m.?’

  34

  Lou and Kate were so tired they took little notice of the journey to their quarters. They noted without comment that the rooms were spacious and comfortably furnished, the bed large and welcoming, and they fell asleep to the sound of birdsong piped through hidden speakers.

  Lou awoke first, feeling refreshed. He glanced at a bedside clock and saw that it was almost 6 p.m. He crept out of bed leaving Kate asleep while he looked around.

  The suite reminded him of an old movie he had seen as a kid – Planet of the Apes – in which the ruling caste of orang-utans lived in luxuriously appointed caverns. The bedroom led on to a large living area, which he had no memory of passing through some ten hours earlier. It was furnished with two modern leather sofas, a widescreen plasma TV on the rough stone wall, and in the corner stood a desk, a Mac and a printer. Curious, Lou flicked on the TV with a remote and surfed through the channels – everything from local Moscow TV to BBC World and CNN. ‘Amazing,’ he said under his breath.

  Kate appeared in the doorway to the bedroom. She stretched and yawned.

  ‘How’d you feel?’ Lou asked.

  ‘Like I’ve just had a great sleep after a week of insomnia.’

  ‘Me too.’ He waved around the room. ‘Sergei wasn’t kidding when he said that they had everything normal wealthy people took for granted. I’ve just tried the TV, they have CNN.’

  ‘Oh, well fancy that!’ Kate replied and looked at him as though he were a four-year-old before stepping forward and kissing him affectionately on the cheek.

  *

  At 6.55 a man in a green paramilitary uniform knocked on the door. He did not give a name and spoke abruptly in accented English. ‘Come with me, please.’

  Lou and Kate followed him along a series of passageways. They passed people going about their business: two repair men fixing a fluorescent strip light, a young mother scolding two small children who were clearly not keen to learn that it was their bedtime.

  Emerging from a wide corridor, they entered a spacious courtyard – lines of single-storey apartments with curtained windows and flowerpots outside. Seeing these, Kate looked up and noticed three large circular lights recessed into the roof. Each of them was at least four metres in diameter and they gave off a soft orange light. She pointed them out to Lou as they followed the anonymous guard. ‘Must give out a broad spectrum including UV; simulated sunlight, basically.’

  They arrived at a set of double doors. The guard knocked loudly. The doors opened inwards and he ushered them inside before retreating without a word.

  ‘Good to see you both,’ Sergei said, moving away from where he had been talking to Adam Fleming and Max and walking across a smooth stone floor towards them, a hand extended. ‘I trust you slept well.’

  ‘We did,’ Lou replied.

  ‘Come, sit,’ Sergei said and led them to an arrangement of sofas and chairs around an ornate coffee table. Adam settled into a chair to Sergei’s left. Kate and Lou made themselves comfortable on a wide sofa. Sergei looked relaxed as he reclined in a modern wingback chair and ordered coffee from the same young man who had served them breakfast that morning.

  ‘So,’ said Fleming, turning and considering Sergei. ‘Where should we begin?’

  ‘I understand you have had the inconvenience of an impostor, this Zero character.’ Sergei gave Fleming a hard look. ‘You won’t have any such issues with me.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  The coffee arrived and they were distracted as it was poured and the cups handed out.

  ‘We each have something the other can provide,’ Sergei said, bringing his cup to his lips and surveying the faces of his guests over the rim.

  ‘Zero was talking about absurd amounts of money.’

  Sergei waved away the remark. ‘I am a businessman, Adam . . . may I call you Adam? But, and this is very important, although I like money – like it very much – it is not the only thing in my life. You would have learned already that I am not the most conventional man you have ever met, no?’

  He turned to the scientists, then pointed to Lou. ‘What do you think matters to me almost as much as money, Lou?’

  ‘I would say, Sergei, that you like to stick it to the authorities. With this document you have something your government would like to get its grubby hands on, and although you are a patriotic Russian, love for your country goes only so far. Getting one over on the Kremlin and the promise of greenbacks into the bargain is a serious temptation.’

  Sergei laughed his heavy bass laugh and clapped, smacking his big meaty hands together like slabs of beef on a butcher’s block. ‘Right on target!’ he exclaimed and drained his coffee cup. ‘So, make no mistake, I do want to be paid for what I have for you, but I will also derive great satisfaction from denying our beloved leaders upstairs access to the information.’

  ‘OK, what is it you have for us, precisely?’ Fleming said. ‘You have the Kessler Document?’

  ‘You mean the etched metal sheet secured within the piping system of SS Freedom?’

  Fleming didn’t flinch. ‘Well at least we know you are not an impostor. But how did you know about that? You have the original?’

  ‘Ah, all in good time.’ Sergei pla
ced his empty cup on the table and stood up. ‘Come, drink up. I have something to show you.’

  ‘Sergei,’ Max said, ‘I will see you later. I have to do my regular inspection of the periphery with my men.’

  Sergei nodded and Max turned to the others. ‘I hope I will see you later.’

  The four of them boarded a vehicle that closely resembled an oversized golf cart. Another man in paramilitary uniform lowered himself into the driver’s seat and released the brake. It glided quietly along the corridors. People stepped smartly out of its path. None of the passengers spoke as they travelled perhaps four hundred yards before pulling up outside the entrance to a tunnel. Sergei disembarked and strode ahead. At the end they stopped at a massive door. Sergei leaned in to a combination lock positioned in the centre of the door, turned the dial anticlockwise, paused, twisted it further another few notches, paused, flicked it clockwise and then back again. A low clank came from a lock on one side and he pulled on a handle easing the door outwards.

  Nothing prepared Kate, Lou and Fleming for the sight that met their eyes. The door opened onto a room the size of an aircraft hangar. Beyond a small clear area close to the door thousands of yards of metal shelving in dozens of rows stretched into the distance. The ends of the racks stood at least a hundred yards away, close to the far wall. Each row of shelving stretched to the ceiling some thirty feet above their heads. From where they stood, they could see that the shelves were filled with thousands of boxes, files, ledgers and books. All three were struck dumb.

  ‘Impressive, no?’ Sergei said unnecessarily.

  Along with the soldier who had driven them, they followed Sergei into the room, dwarfed by the sheer dimensions of the place, their boots echoing around the cavernous space.

  ‘What is this place?’ Kate asked, gazing around at the gigantic stacks. ‘It’s incredible.’

  ‘Metro 2 was originally built by Stalin’s people. You probably know that. It was meant to be a vast fallout shelter for the glorious leader, his ministers and their families. There was a direct rail link to it from the Kremlin. I had that sealed up before moving here and I have constructed a decoy system to stop the authorities opening it up again. Stalin’s successors kept up the maintenance of the entire network, but, and I’m not sure why, they lost interest in it during the 1970s. It was then the party technocrats realized that if they kept storing paper in the Kremlin and other archives at the rate they were, Moscow would soon be submerged in triplicate! They remembered Stalin’s folly and well . . .’ He waved a hand around.