Empire (A Jack Sigler Thriller Book 8)

by Jeremy Robinson

  “Set,” she said.

  “Knight, do your magic eye thing,” Queen said.

  The one thing Bishop had not been able to procure on short notice was any sort of night vision devices. Knight’s new optical implant would suffice, for him at least. The rest of them would have to play blind man’s bluff. Fortunately, the forest floor was covered in snow, despite the dense overhead canopy of evergreen branches, which meant the rest of them would be able to follow Knight’s trail to the objective.

  “All clear,” Knight reported a few seconds later. “Starting forward now.”

  The woods were unnaturally quiet. There were no birds or insects to provide nocturnal accompaniment to their journey. The only sound, aside from Knight’s periodic reports, was the rasp of skis on snow.

  “Hold,” Knight cautioned suddenly. “Something really big up ahead. Made of metal.”

  The ensuing pause removed even the noise of travel. It was so quiet Bishop could hear her heartbeat.

  After nearly a full minute, Knight spoke again. “It’s a vent cover. I think we’ve found our back door.”

  “Any security?” Queen asked.

  “Negative.” There was not a trace of uncertainty in his answer. “It’s safe to shed a little light on the subject.”

  “You heard him,” Queen said. “Red lights only.”

  In the ruddy glow of their LED headlamps, the team advanced to the vent cover—a vertical structure, about the size and shape of an outhouse. There were probably several more like it scattered throughout the forested area. Knight had already begun using his bayonet like a can-opener, enlarging the opening that allowed air movement into or out of the system. He revealed a long duct about four feet square, that disappeared into the heart of the Earth.

  Queen peered down into the shaft, then she nodded in satisfaction. “We can chimney slide down this. Knight, you stay on point.”

  “You won’t be able to see through metal,” Deep Blue warned.

  “Maybe not,” Queen answered, “but he’s the best climber on the team.”

  Knight just nodded and crawled over the edge of the opening he had made. With his back flat against one side, legs extended and feet braced against the opposite wall, he began inching down into the darkness.

  A minute passed. Five minutes. Then Knight’s voice came over the comm. “You guys need to get down here. Now!”

  30

  Yekaterinburg, Russia

  “Let me out here.”

  The taxi driver glanced back, one dubious eyebrow raised, but then pulled to the sidewalk. Peter handed him a five thousand ruble note and got out without waiting to see if the man would offer to make change.

  The brisk air stung his cheeks, which gave him an excuse to pull his collar up, completely hiding his face. It was probably a futile precaution, just like getting out two blocks away from his actual destination. Three a.m. local time, was too early for even the earliest rising commuters to be up. The streets were completely devoid of traffic. There wasn’t a single person to be seen anywhere on the sidewalk, which made his presence all the more conspicuous. If he was walking into a trap, then no amount of spy tradecraft or paranoia would save him.

  His gut told him it was a trap, but it was also his best chance of learning the truth about Julie’s fate. The fact that Vladimir had dangled that particular carrot meant that maybe there really were answers to be had. He was not likely to find them anywhere else. Escaping the trap was something he would worry about once he had them.

  He began walking toward the cathedral, its white exterior and magnificent gold domes shimmering with reflected brilliance from the streetlights below. Despite its traditional Eastern Orthodox design, the Church on Blood in Honour of All Saints Resplendent in the Russian Land—usually referred to as ‘All Saints’ or sometimes ‘Church on Blood’—was not five hundred or even a hundred years old. In fact, construction of the cathedral complex had begun in the year 2000.

  The location had formerly been the site of the Ipatiev House, the last residence of Tsar Nicholas II and his family before their execution by Bolshevik revolutionaries. The Communist Party had intended to use the site to commemorate the overthrow of the bourgeois monarchy, but the opposite had happened. The Ipatiev House had become a symbol of the old Russia—the Russia many longed to see again—so the Soviet government had the historic house demolished in 1977. Thirteen years later, with the end of the Soviet Union looming, the site was handed over to the Church for the construction of a new cathedral complex. The once despised Romanov family were canonized as saints. Church on Blood was a celebration of the end of Communism and the restoration of the Russian Orthodox Church in more ways than one.

  Peter stopped at the foot of the snow-covered stairs leading up to the main entrance, partly to take one last surreptitious look around to ensure that he was not being followed, but mostly because he felt like he was about to commit an act of sacrilege. Indoctrinated from infancy in the sacred tenets of Communism, he had never identified at all with Russian Orthodox Christianity, unlike many of his countrymen who had secretly kept the faith and ultimately contributed to the downfall of the Soviet Union. That he should be looking for answers in a church felt surreal, but those answers would not be found in the cold outside.

  The church itself was warm and inviting, the golden walls of the entrance hall decorated with dozens of painted icons in gilt frames, but there was not a soul in sight. Peter approached the elaborately decorated double doors opposite the entrance and opened them, revealing the much larger nave of the church, likewise deserted.

  No, not quite deserted.

  A cleric, dressed in black klobuk and mantle, stood before the altar, his back to the entrance, in silent prayer or meditation. Peter hesitated, wondering if he should leave and return in the morning, but then the priest spoke without turning. “Please. Join me.”

  The room seemed to amplify the man’s voice, but Peter couldn’t quite tell if it was the same as that which he had heard over the telephone on so many occasions. Was this Vladimir in disguise? Or was this the man’s true identity? Had Vladimir always been an agent of the Church?

  The man gestured to the altar. “This is where it happened.”

  Peter shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “Below us, in the cellar of the old house. It was midnight. They told them to get dressed and go to the cellar, where they would wait for a truck to take them somewhere safe. But it was a lie. Instead, when they were all together, Yurovsky of the secret police, read the execution order. They did not even have time to cross themselves.”

  Peter recognized the familiar story of the execution of the Romanov family, but he did not grasp its import. Perhaps this was just a priest, mistaking him for a late-night tourist. “I should come back later.”

  “No, tovarich. You should stay.”

  Peter froze.

  So it was Vladimir. Peter looked around quickly, verifying that no one else was in the room. Unlike Catholic and Protestant churches, there were no pews or kneelers. The Church expected the faithful to stand respectfully for the Divine Liturgy. “Did you bring me here for a history lesson?”

  “The future is rooted in the past. As are the answers you seek.”

  That prompted Peter to begin moving forward. “Then explain it.”

  “The execution of the royal family was the transformative event. The step beyond the precipice, from which there could be no retreat. It is a difficult thing to make such a choice, to change the world. Not all men are capable of such decisiveness. Lenin could not bring himself to give the order, for he knew, correctly as it turns out, that in death, the Tsar would become a more powerful figure in Russia’s history than he ever could have been in life.”

  “I don’t understand.” Peter stopped alongside the man. “What does this have to do with Julie?”

  “Nothing. And everything.” He turned, giving Peter a look at his face, clean-shaven and intense. He was several inches shorter than Pete
r, though his klobuk—the traditional brimless hat worn by senior Orthodox clergy—gave the illusion of added height. He looked very familiar, but with the rest of his head covered, Peter couldn’t quite place him. “I chose the name ‘Vladimir’ to honor Vladimir Sviatoslavich, who brought Christianity to the Kievan Rus. Vladimir the Great. The first Russian.

  “Earlier,” he went on, “you asked why I have been helping you all these years. Protecting you and your family.”

  “You said it was for Russia.”

  A hint of a smile touched the man’s lips.

  “And now you are wondering, what is the connection? Can the fortunes of one family change the fortunes of a nation?”

  Peter glanced to the altar. “I suppose it depends on the family.”

  “Your family is very important, Peter. You and your wife both are the scions of an ancient and powerful bloodline.”

  This was not news to Peter. He had learned of his heritage from the source, from Alexander Diotrephes himself. What he did not understand was how this man had come by the knowledge. “You knew? All along?”

  “Almost from the beginning. Of course, back then, my influence was limited. It was all I could do to whisper in the right ears to make sure that you and Lynn Sigler were brought together, sharing a long-term deep cover assignment. I wanted to keep you safe, give you a chance to grow and thrive. Raise a family.” He smiled again. “You see, I have always played the long game.”

  Peter scrutinized the man’s face more closely. Vladimir appeared to be about the same age as him. “You must have been very ambitious to have that much authority at such a young age.”

  Vladimir did not address the topic directly. He gestured to the far end of the nave and began walking toward it. “As the years passed, my position in the KGB became more secure, and my ability to influence senior party officials grew to the point where I was able to indefinitely postpone your activation, until the inevitable collapse of the U.S.S.R.”

  “What about Julie?” As he wrestled to find the right question, some of the pieces finally fell into place. “You said that she’s still alive. Did you take her? Stage the accident so you could kidnap her? Is she just a pawn in your long game?”

  “Not a pawn.” Vladimir stopped and gave him a look that was both stern and at the same time, strangely indifferent. “The accident was real. I had nothing to do with that. Your daughter died in that plane crash.”

  “You said—”

  “I said that I would take you to her. And I will.” He resumed walking, and as he approached the door he began removing his priestly vestments, revealing a gray business suit underneath. “I told you that you are the descendants of a powerful bloodline—the Children of Adoon—but what I did not tell you is that your ancestry gives you extraordinary abilities. You are more intelligent. Stronger. You heal faster than an ordinary person.” He glanced over for a moment. “We all do.”

  Peter was sure he knew the man, that as soon as the head covering was removed, he would recognize him instantly. Who was he?

  He had not seen anyone in the KGB leadership in several decades. He tried to imagine this man thirty years younger, but he could not organize his thoughts. His mind was stuttering over this latest revelation.

  Vladimir was also descended from Alexander Diotrephes. They were related.

  Vladimir continued speaking. “There are certain organic chemical compounds that are deadly to an ordinary human, but in a child of Adoon, they promote rapid cell growth. They reverse aging, and instantaneously heal even a fatal wound. Adoon himself discovered the formula for the elixir of life, thousands of years ago, but he feared to share the secret—even with his own children.”

  “You found the secret,” Peter said, breathlessly. He felt dazed, not by what Vladimir was telling him—most of it was not new information—but rather by the implications. “And you gave some to Julie. That’s how she survived.”

  “Now you understand.” Vladimir gestured for Peter to step through the doors ahead of him, and then he removed the klobuk to reveal thinning, light brown hair. “The time for the Children of Adoon to fulfill their destiny has come. There is a place for you in my new empire, Peter.”

  Peter felt his knees go weak as he at last recognized the man.

  Before he could find words, Peter glimpsed movement in the corner of his eye. Vladimir had not come alone. Standing in the narthex, just past the double doors, were half a dozen men, all wearing plain clothes and greatcoats, but all unmistakably seasoned military veterans.

  It all made sense now. He understood now how the secret of his and Lynn’s undercover assignment had been preserved. The man standing before him had indeed once been a senior KGB officer in the First Directorate, and later in Directorate S—the secretive unit charged with recruitment of foreign spies. But that had only been the beginning of this man’s rise to power.

  Vladimir, secret benefactor and protector of the Machtchenko family, was the President of Russia.

  31

  Volosgrad

  After hastily dragging the bodies of the two soldiers into the examination room, King set about splinting Lynn’s ankle. She wouldn’t be able to walk on it, which meant she would have to be carried. Catherine was an unwilling hostage, which meant that someone would have to watch her at all times. Joe was ambulatory, but he looked like he might collapse from exhaustion at any moment. King recognized the signs of radiation sickness. He knew that whether they all made it back, the mission had already claimed Joe as a casualty.

  In short, situation: TARFU—things are really fucked up—that rarely lingered-at stage between the normal level of screwed-up—SNAFU—and the shit-hitting-the-fan catastrophe of FUBAR.

  Which was both cause for optimism and concern. Optimism because things weren’t as bad as they possibly could be. Concern because things could still get a lot worse.

  “Joe, tell me about this place,” he said, as he wound a long strip of cloth around Lynn’s swollen ankle.

  Joe seemed to have anticipated the question. “They didn’t let me see very much of the place. I do know that there aren’t very many humans here. I only saw maybe a dozen different people, mostly scientists.”

  “Not very many humans? What the hell does that mean?”

  “The place is guarded by these…ape-monsters. A lot of them.”

  “Ape-monsters? Can you be more specific? Are we talking trained apes? Genetically modified animals? Hybrids?”

  “Big and ugly, but smart. Kind of reminded me of the ape-men you see in museums. You know, like the Missing Link. Or Bigfoot maybe.” Joe looked at him suspiciously. “You don’t seem very surprised by this.”

  “It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with something like it.” King looked over at Catherine. “Got anything you’d like to contribute?”

  For a moment, Catherine’s only answer was a cold stare, but then she relaxed a little. “He’s right. One of our ongoing research projects has been the creation of super-intelligent primates. We have an army of them. You’ll never get past them.”

  “They’re inside? Guarding the complex?”

  She hesitated ever so slightly before answering. “Some are.”

  “They were keeping them in cages downstairs,” Joe added. “They’re not there anymore.”

  “That’s right,” Lynn confirmed. “The cages are all empty.”

  “You saw only a fraction of the force we have here,” Catherine said. She crossed her arms. “You can take your chances with them of course, but they do tend to get carried away.” She nodded at Joe. “If you don’t believe me, ask him.”

  King could tell she was holding something back. Not lying exactly, but bluffing, like a champion poker player trying to hide a weak hand. The primates were out of play somehow, maybe patrolling outside the facility. But she was hiding something else, too.

  The Firebird.

  Before he could figure out how to ask without giving himself away, Lynn spoke. “Julie, we’re here to take you home. No matter wha
t has happened, you’re my daughter, and I love you.”

  King could have kicked himself. He had been thinking tactically, trying to deal with the immediate situation, treating Catherine—Julie?—like a hostile prisoner, or at best, as a hostage who had developed sympathies for the enemy. He had forgotten about the very thing that had brought him here. His sister.

  “I am not your daughter,” Catherine said, matter-of-factly.

  “You know that isn’t true.” Lynn’s voice was clear, despite the pain she must surely have been enduring. A mother’s voice. “I heard what you said. You know it in your heart.”

  Catherine’s face might have been made of stone. “I don’t know anything of the sort. I am a child of Adoon, just like you. Whether you gave birth to me is irrelevant. Family is irrelevant.”

  King saw that his first impression of the woman had not been wrong. Yet he wondered if Lynn had gotten through to her. What was she thinking behind that mask? “We’re gonna have to put a pin in that,” he told Lynn. He gave the binding on her ankle a final check. “It’s time to go.”

  He outlined his plan. It was ugly, but a mad rush for the goal line was the only chance they had.

  “It’s a lot of balls to juggle,” Joe said when he was done. “If we have to fight our way to the helo, we won’t be able to keep an eye on her.” He nodded to Catherine.

  “You should leave me,” Catherine said. “Handcuff me to the table. You might actually make it out.”

  King spotted the manacles he had worn from Moscow on a side table. He picked them up and ratcheted one of the cuffs around Julie’s right wrist.

  “Good idea. But I’ve got a better one.” He clipped the other one loosely around his own left wrist. “Looks like were in this together, Sis. Now, do I need to gag you?”

  She glowered at him. “No. It would be stupid of me to draw attention to us. I might get killed in the crossfire.”

  “Smart girl.” He gripped his captured rifle in both hands, holding it at a low ready. Then he moved to the door, pulling Catherine along as if she was not even there. Joe knelt, allowing Lynn to climb onto his back, and he followed along, holding his rifle one-handed.