by Alex Archer
Trouble was, until they knew more about who it was chasing them, there was no way to tell.
It was a decidedly irritating situation.
To help pass the time, Annja tried to re-create Fioravanti’s map from memory. She found a phone book in the nightstand even though there wasn’t a phone in the room. She tore the cover off it and used the blank space on the inside to sketch out the map and as many of the notations as she could remember. It wasn’t perfect, but it was close and would at least get them within the general vicinity of the vault.
Gianni finally woke up around nine, just as she was finishing the map. The guests on each floor shared a single, communal bathroom, one without a shower, no less. The two of them took turns standing outside the door while the other had a quick sponge bath.
Annja had dealt with worse conditions and didn’t mind, but Gianni grumbled the entire time. Annja thought about giving him some grief over it, but decided to be merciful. It was probably his first time being chased by armed gunmen, after all, and a little mercy might make the day go easier.
By lunch there was still no word from Charles Davies and the cramped confines of the hotel room were wearing on them considerably. Annja was confident they hadn’t been followed to the hotel last night, and given her belief that they weren’t officially wanted by the police, she figured they were safe enough to slip out and grab a bite to eat, provided they didn’t linger in the open. They managed to get the location of a café from the recalcitrant hotel clerk and five minutes later were seated at an outside table, sipping coffee and waiting on their sandwiches and, in Gianni’s case, a side of French fries. Gianni had the satellite phone so they wouldn’t miss Charles when he called and it rested on the table, the ringer set to high.
They were halfway through with their lunch when a stranger pulled out the chair between them and sat down at their table. Annja froze with her fork partway to her mouth.
He was a big man, in both height and weight. He reminded her of one of those Russian weightlifters she’d seen in the Olympics, heavy muscle layered over a big frame. His head was shaved smooth, his eyes were a dark brown and he had a cauliflower ear that threw off the rounded symmetry of his face.
He was dressed simply in dark blue coveralls worn over a thermal shirt that had once been white and was now closer to ivory with a hint of battleship gray.
“Good morning, my American friends,” he exclaimed. With an impish grin, he stole a French fry off Gianni’s plate.
Annja wasn’t buying the “I’m harmless” act, not for an instant. She casually put her fork down and let her right hand fall below the level of the table, where it would be out of sight if she had to draw her sword. She could call the weapon to her and shove it into the stranger’s guts before he could draw a weapon. That knowledge alone allowed her to breathe easier for the moment.
The Russian had spoken English, but Annja gave no sign that she understood that language. She replied in a torrent of French, taking him to task for his rudeness at interrupting their lunch, not wanting to betray that she, at least, was an American. Until she knew who he was and just what he wanted from them.
Across the table Gianni was getting ready to take some action of his own, though what he was intending to do Annja didn’t know. Apparently the newcomer sensed the pending explosion, as well. He lifted his meaty hands off the table and held them before his chest in a gesture of surrender.
“Easy now,” he said, still sticking with English even if his mastery of the language wasn’t perfect. “Sir Charles said you may be a little jumpy. No need to get upset. I’m only here to help.”
As if on cue, the satellite phone in the middle of the table chose that moment to begin ringing.
They all turned and stared at it.
“You going to get that?” the Russian asked.
Annja glared at him. “How do you know Sir Charles Davies?” she asked in English.
Their guest gestured at the still-ringing phone. “Answer the phone.” He smiled in what Annja guessed he intended to be a reassuring manner.
In truth he looked more like a grimacing frog, but she snatched up the phone, anyway.
“Hello?” Annja got up from the table and took a few steps away.
“How is everything there, Annja? Are you and Gianni doing all right?”
“We’re fine, if you ignore the big Russian with the wrestler’s ear who’s claiming to know you and interrupting our lunch.”
Charles laughed. “He’s there already? I’m happy to hear I can add efficiency to his list of many talents.”
Annja eyed the man who had been sitting across from her, slightly mollified now that Charles had corroborated sending him. “I’d say that’s a good thing, if I had any idea what he’s doing here.”
“His name is Vladimir Vikofsky and he is going to get you underground. That is, of course, if you are still interested in pursuing the library.”
“You know I am. Tell me about our new friend.”
“He’s the leader of a group that calls itself the Urban Underground, whose stated aim is to study the historical, ecological and social aspects of the Moscow underground. Personally, I think he just gets a kick out of exploring places he’s not supposed to be.”
I like him already, Annja thought. “I’ve heard of the Urban Underground. Had help from them in the past.”
“Good. And don’t let Vladimir’s size and laidback manner fool you. He’s a veritable genius when it comes to moving around down there. If there is anyone on the planet who can get you to where you need to be, he’s the one. You can talk about the library freely with him. I’m confident in his discretion.”
“All right. I think we can live with that.”
“How’s Gianni holding up?”
“Just fine,” she said, glancing over to see him watching Vikofsky the way one might watch a small but temperamental dog, as if uncertain if it was going to suddenly go nuts and bite you.
“Let me know if you think he’s having difficulties. You are far more used to this kind of thing than he is.”
“I’m sure he’ll rise to the occasion.” Annja believed it, too. Most people would have cracked under the pressure of what they’d gone through the evening before but he’d slept through the night—even when she hadn’t.
Annja agreed to check in with Charles the next morning, once they knew exactly how they intended to move forward, after which they said their goodbyes and she then rejoined the others at the table.
Annja made the introductions, then made sure Vladimir understood what they were looking for.
“There are six levels of tunnel under Moscow, perhaps as many as twelve,” he told them. “Old sewer systems, fountain foundations, drainage tunnels, rerouted streams and underground river systems, subway tunnels and access systems. I have mapped the first three completely. I can take you where you need to be.”
Annja knew Moscow had been built along the swampy banks of the Moskva River. Workers quickly discovered that the soil was soft and pliable, the kind that easily gives way to a determined man with a shovel. As the village grew into a city, expanding outward, it also grew downward. Paranoid czars built underground bunkers and vaults to hide their treasures and to provide protection from unexpected attacks. Subsequent rulers had followed in Ivan the Terrible’s path, bending the underground to their will. In the late 1700s, Catherine the Great had decided she didn’t like the location of the Neglina River and had brought in architects to divert its entire length into a vast underground network of brick-lined tunnels where it still runs today. Under Stalin the Soviets had dug even deeper, building secret tunnels, fallout shelters and KGB listening posts.
The idea that they might make use of the underground to reach the vault rather than descending through the Kremlin itself was a good one and Annja was frankly surprised she hadn’t come up with that solution herself.
Seeing they had another guest, the waiter approached, but Annja waved him off.
“Let me see this map you h
ave,” Vikofsky said, holding out his hand.
“We don’t have it anymore.”
“Where is it?”
Annja explained what had happened the night before and the reason they were holed up at the hotel down the street rather than back at the Marriott.
“You think the map is still in the hotel safe?” Vikofsky asked.
She shrugged. She had no way of knowing and was hesitant to call the hotel in case someone had put two and two together and could identify her and Gianni as the guests involved in the shoot-out last night. She said as much to Vikofsky.
“We should go see,” he replied. “I know someone behind the desk who will check for me. Cost me price of dinner, but she is nice girl.”
“I’m willing to try if you are.”
“You’re as crazy as she is,” Gianni muttered. Annja and Vladimir smiled at each other.
This might just work out, after all, Annja thought.
Chapter 16
Vlad, as he preferred to be called, drove a slate-gray Volkswagen minibus so covered with graffiti that it looked like a throwback to the seventies. The three of them piled in—Vladimir behind the wheel, Annja riding shotgun and Gianni sitting between the two seats on a plastic milk crate shanghaied into service as a makeshift chair. The engine fired up with a cough and a bang that did nothing to reassure either of the two passengers that it could actually get them from point A to point B without breaking down at least half a dozen times.
Their Russian friend seemed unconcerned, however, so Annja did her best to ignore it. Vlad was a spastic, though adept, driver and negotiated the busy city streets with a deftness that spoke of long practice. Almost before Annja knew it they were entering the center of the city.
Vlad drove past the Marriott and pulled the van to the curb a couple of blocks farther down the street. He watched the entrance of the hotel through his side mirror for several minutes. Satisfied, he said, “Wait here,” and hopped out of the van, leaving the engine running.
As soon as he turned away, Annja slid over into the driver’s seat, ready to take charge of the Volkswagen if they needed to leave in a hurry. She watched him through the side-view mirror as he made his way across the busy street and disappeared inside the Marriott.
Let’s just hope he comes out again, she thought to herself.
* * *
SERGEANT ARKADY DANISLOV was likewise holed up in a vehicle, watching the entrance to the Marriott, though the Mercedes sedan he’d been loaned for the duration of the assignment was decidedly more comfortable than the Volkswagen Annja and her companion were waiting in up the street.
The night before had been a disaster and Danislov was still berating himself for the mistakes he’d made. He’d wrongly assumed that the Creed woman wasn’t a threat and so he and his men had been unprepared for the level of response. It had taken Danislov hours to clean up the mess and he’d had to invoke his authority as an agent of the Federal Security Service, or FSS, several times, declaring the entire incident a matter of national security in order to keep the Moscow police out of the mess. Goshenko hadn’t been happy, but he had let Danislov deal with it his way without interference.
It had been a long night and more than anything else Danislov wanted to go home and get some sleep, but he had a hunch that Annja Creed might return to the hotel to get her belongings. And he wanted to be here if she did. He’d intentionally left her hotel room alone for that very reason, not wanting to reveal his hand. His men hadn’t been carrying any ID last night, so right now she probably suspected she’d inadvertently become tied up in some kind of failed kidnapping, perhaps by the Russian mafia or some other criminal organization. Such events had become increasingly common over the past several years, after all.
The blare of a car horn brought him out of his reverie and he looked out the window to see a burly man in coveralls and a backpack slung over his shoulder crossing the street with little regard for the traffic moving in either direction.
“Jackass,” he said, and then turned away to watch the entrance to the hotel.
* * *
ANNJA HAD BEGUN TO GROW concerned, thinking Vlad had been inside the hotel too long only to recover something from the safe, when she heard the blare of a horn and saw him cutting across traffic toward them.
She slid over to her own seat and a moment later Vlad opened the door and climbed inside, holding her backpack. He passed it over with that crazy grin on his face.
“No problem. Got the pack and the map, plus date for Friday night.”
Annja couldn’t believe it. She unzipped the pack and looked inside. Her laptop and digital camera were there, along with the document tube in which they’d placed the map. “How on earth…?”
“My friend also has passkey to guest rooms,” he said, still grinning. “Thought you might want your computer back, too.”
“I do, thanks.” It was a pleasant surprise and she appreciated his forethought, but still, it was troubling.
“There wasn’t any problem getting the pack out of the room?”
Vlad shook his head as he pulled out into traffic. “No problem. Friend said big incident last night with the FSS, but it was hushed up and she did not have details. You wouldn’t be knowing anything about that now, would you?”
The FSS? Those men last night had been with the Federal Security Service?
That was going to complicate things. The FSS had access to all kinds of surveillance information coming out of traffic cameras, bank ATMs, private security systems, you name it. It could make it very difficult for them to move around the city. Never mind how difficult it would be to get out of the country if an official alert for their arrest and apprehension was put out.
Somehow the FSS must have connected them to the damaged statue in the cathedral, though why that would be an issue for the former KGB was beyond her. It seemed more like something the Moscow police would handle.
If the men chasing them last night had been FSS agents on official business, why hadn’t they identified themselves?
Instinct told her there was something else going on.
Without any way to get to the bottom of it at the moment, she pushed it to the back of her mind to mull over later. “Where are we going?”
“World headquarters for the Urban Underground,” Vlad told her.
As it turned out, the headquarters for the world-famous Urban Underground turned out to be a dingy flat on the second floor of a crumbling old apartment building.
Vlad’s flat, actually.
One he shared with his aging mother.
He helped the old woman into her bedroom, turned on her television and got her a cup of hot tea, before joining Annja and Gianni in the front room.
The space had been converted into a kind of makeshift office. Annja stood in the center of the room, staring at the hundreds of hand-drawn maps that decorated the white-painted walls like its own kind of graffiti. They had been drawn to resemble three-dimensional cutaway plans, so that one could see the relationships between one level and the next at a glance. The level of detail was astounding and Annja was suddenly very pleased that Charles had managed to track Vikofsky down and enlist him in their adventure. He was going to be an invaluable resource for helping them navigate the underground in search of the vault.
“Map, please,” he said to her, and Annja handed it over without hesitation. Vlad opened the document tube, carefully pulled out the map and then unrolled it on the table. He routed around in a drawer for a few minutes until he found the jeweler’s loop he was looking for. He spent long moments studying the drawings and the annotations on its surface, muttering to himself in Russian, and then walked over to one wall, comparing the information on the map with several of the drawings there. Clearly unsatisfied, he moved to a second section of drawings and then a third. Gianni was casting disparaging glances in Vlad’s direction, but Annja ignored him, not yet willing to give up on the big Russian.
Then, all of the sudden, Vlad gave a low whoop and tapped the
wall hard with his fist.
He turned to face them.
“Who wants to go exploring?”
Chapter 17
After watching the hotel entrance all night, Danislov had turned the duty over to a subordinate and returned to his apartment for a few hours of sleep. He awoke feeling refreshed and ready to take on the challenge ahead of him—finding two fugitives in a city of more than ten million people.
The best thing, he knew, was to start at the beginning. In this case that meant a visit to the offices of the Federal Migration Service.
His FSS credentials allowed him to cut through the red tape and, within minutes of arriving, he was ensconced in a cubicle with a pert little platinum-blond aide who had been ordered to give him whatever he needed.
“I want to see the entrance records for Annja Creed,” Danislov told her. He gave her the date he believed Creed had entered the country, but it really wasn’t necessary. The massive database the Federal Migration Service, or FMS, kept on every individual who crossed the nation’s borders was more than sophisticated enough to find the records he wanted with just a name. But adding the date would allow them to cull the records into something more manageable if she had made more than one visit in the past several months.
As it turned out, she hadn’t visited Moscow very often. On this particular trip, Miss Creed had arrived in Moscow the night before the incident at Saint Basil’s. The records showed that she and Gianni Travino had arrived on Aeroflot 861 and had subsequently been detained together for a short time while passing through immigration.
Danislov had the aide call up what information they had on Travino, which wasn’t much. He entered Russia with an Italian passport that listed his legal residence as an address in Rome and his occupation as an artist. This corresponded to what Dr. Petrescu had told him. The woman, Creed, had come to study the text of the Gospel of Gold while her male companion, whose name Petrescu had either missed or forgotten, had been there to examine the artwork adorning the Gospel’s pages.
