Eternal Empire

by Alec Nevala-Lee

  She stared at herself in the mirror, the water glistening on her face, as the pieces came together. Tarkovsky was going to Constanta in two days. From there, he would take his yacht across the Black Sea to a signing ceremony in the Russian resort town of Sochi. This was public knowledge, and had been for weeks, long before the deal itself had been concluded.

  What was not public knowledge, at least not yet, was what Powell had told her. Tarkovsky had long been connected to elements of military intelligence. In fact, he was their last remaining source of capital, a relationship that would become all the more lucrative after the Argo deal.

  Which meant that a number of rival parties, especially on the civilian side, had good reason to go after Tarkovsky himself.

  She tried to consider the problem one point at a time. If Arkady Kagan had learned that an operation was being readied against Tarkovsky in Constanta, he might well have seen only one way to get the message out. He had destroyed a painting that depicted the location in question, in a manner that would make headlines on both sides of the ocean. Only then could he transmit the name of the city above the noise of his own agency’s collapse.

  Maddy reached out for a towel and dried her face. Then she ran her fingers through her hair, opened the door, and left the bathroom.

  As she returned to the living room, she reminded herself that it was necessary to take things slowly. The coincidence of locations was striking, but it might still mean nothing. And it would not be the first time that she read something into a work of art that wasn’t there.

  All the same, she owed it to Powell to tell him. Her phone was on the kitchen table. Picking it up, she was about to place the call when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye.

  Her front door, which led to the hall outside, was open. It had not been open before.

  She lowered the phone, then took a step forward. The baseball bat she had bought a day earlier was still leaning against the wall. It was only a few feet away. She took another step.

  Behind her, the floor creaked softly. And even as she realized that she was no longer alone, the hood came down over her head.

  II

  AUGUST 8–14, 2011

  The Scythian princes . . . dispatched a herald to the Persian camp with presents for the king: these were, a bird, a mouse, a frog, and five arrows. The Persians asked the bearer to tell them what these gifts might mean, but he made answer that he had no orders except to deliver them, and to return with all speed. If the Persians were wise, he added, they would find out the meaning for themselves.

  —Herodotus, The Histories

  I clearly understand that I am responsible for what I did and do not ask you to soften my fate. Yet let me draw your attention to the fact that I discovered a physical phenomenon unknown to modern science.

  —Alexander Barchenko, in a private letter to

  Nikolai Ezhov, December 24, 1937

  26

  Three years earlier, shortly after the series of events that led to her abrupt departure from the art world, Maddy had moved from Brooklyn to a smaller place in Astoria. As she descended from the subway platform on a cold evening near the end of November, she was one of the last passengers remaining on the train. Trudging home through the slush, she glanced back every minute or so, in order to reassure herself that she wasn’t being followed.

  When she arrived at her front door, which was a rental on the first floor of a tidy brick row house, she paused under the awning, key in hand. As usual, whenever she returned from her latest temp job in the city, she had to spend a moment convincing herself that no one was waiting for her inside.

  In the end, she inserted the key firmly into the lock and turned it. Going into the darkened entryway, she shut the door and set down her purse. As she removed her boots, her heart rate began to slow. There was no one here. The danger, as always, was all in her head.

  She switched on the light. In the living room, seated in an armchair, was Ilya Severin.

  Maddy must have screamed, because before she was aware of any movement, Ilya was out of the chair and holding her firmly by the shoulders. His voice was low but urgent. “I’m not armed. I did not come to hurt you. I only need a few minutes. Then I will go.”

  She stared at him, heart juddering, her mind still catching up to the fact that this was happening at last. All the while, a more detached part of her brain was already ticking off the relevant points. Her landlord was on vacation. The windows were closed against the chill. If she screamed again, there was no guarantee that anyone outside would hear her in time.

  He released her and took a step back. She felt tears come, more instinctive than emotional, and was surprised at the steadiness of her own voice. “If you aren’t fucking armed, then prove it.”

  Ilya seemed to grant the reasonableness of this request. He backed up slowly, his eyes on hers, and undid his overcoat. Beneath it was a rumpled suit, but nothing resembling a weapon.

  They regarded each other in silence. It was the first time she had ever really studied his face. He was younger than she remembered, certainly short of forty. His features were nondescript but more angular than before, and his eyes were as black as always. “What do you want from me?”

  “Only to talk,” Ilya said. “I’m sorry to come see you like this. It was the only way.”

  Maddy opened her mouth again. She found that she was shaking, her head somehow loose on her shoulders, and she was not entirely prepared for what she said next. “I need a drink.”

  She took a step forward, still in her coat and scarf. Ilya fell back, giving her space, as she moved on autopilot into the kitchen. Keeping him in sight, she had to remind herself to breathe as she headed for the refrigerator, her eye briefly caught by the snapshot posted to the door as she opened it.

  Maddy bent down, the refrigerator door hiding her from view. Half a bottle of white wine stood on the first shelf. Reaching behind it, she felt for the handle of the boning knife she had placed there weeks ago, one of several she had stashed around the apartment, a form of security born in equal measure from caution and her lingering chemical paranoia.

  Glancing at Ilya, she saw that he was looking at the bookshelf by the dining table. She slid the knife quietly into the pocket of her coat. Then she took out the bottle and straightened up.

  A used tumbler lay next to the sink. Closing the refrigerator, she pulled out the plastic cork and poured three generous inches of wine. When she turned to face Ilya again, she saw that he had taken out a book to examine it. He put it back, then indicated the table with its two folding chairs. “You can sit if you like.”

  Maddy managed to pick up the glass, but she remained where she was. “I’ll stand.”

  Ilya only nodded and sat down. He pulled off his gloves, laying them side by side on the table before him. “It’s strange, but I don’t really know you. Even after our paths have crossed so often—”

  Maddy put the wine down without drinking it. Ten feet of faded linoleum stood between her and the Scythian. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m looking for Alexey Lermontov,” Ilya said. “He has left the country, but it is still too dangerous for him to return to Moscow. Once he goes home, he will be out of reach. I have come to the end of my own resources. And I thought you might have some idea of where he could be found.”

  Maddy slid her right hand into her pocket, her fingers closing around the knife. “Why would I know this?”

  “Because you worked for him. And there are some things a man cannot hide. His habits, his tastes, his affectations. I hoped you might have some insight into this.” He glanced again at her books. “I can tell you what I have gathered so far. Perhaps you can say if I am right or wrong.”

  When she said nothing, Ilya began to speak slowly, occasionally pausing to search for the right word. “You worked at his gallery for several years. It must have been a good position. He was one of
the leading dealers in the city, with important clients. And he liked you. He would have kept you on, but you left to start a gallery of your own. It did not go well.”

  He waited to see whether she had any response, then continued when none seemed forthcoming. “You took a job at an art investment fund, where you were asked to look into a painting purchased by the oligarch Anzor Archvadze. You went to his mansion to see his collection for yourself. It was there that we first met. Of course, I was there to steal the picture.”

  Maddy found her voice at last. “You were also there to poison Archvadze.”

  She saw something harden in his dark eyes. “Yes. At the time, I did not question it. I did not learn the purpose of the theft until I was betrayed. The painting was evidence that Lermontov was dealing in stolen art. Archvadze bought it to build his case. Lermontov ordered him silenced and the picture stolen. Later, he killed another man who had also discovered the truth—”

  “He was my colleague,” Maddy said. “A friend of mine. His name was Ethan.”

  “I know.” Ilya paused. “In the end, Lermontov fled after being exposed. But certain questions remain. It is unclear how Archvadze learned he was working for the security services. Do you have any thoughts on this?”

  “No. And Archvadze, unfortunately, isn’t around to tell us.” Looking down, Maddy found that her free hand had picked up the wine, apparently of its own accord. “And if you find him?”

  “I will do what is necessary,” Ilya said. “Lermontov may have vanished. But he’s still a useful man. His role will be less visible, but his influence will remain. And this is something I cannot allow.”

  The wine was bad, but it seemed to clear her head. “And why should I help you?”

  “You know the answer already. At the museum, I saw it in your eyes. I understand what it means to lose everything. As long as this man is alive, you will never be safe. Sooner or later, he will seek to silence those who threaten or inconvenience him. It’s why you’re so afraid to put your life back together. And why you keep so many knives in your house.”

  Ilya rose, picking up his gloves, and set a folded scrap of paper on the dining table. “I won’t bother you again. You can contact me here if you wish to talk. But it has to be soon.”

  Maddy set down the wine, the glass trembling in her hand, and turned away. As she began to see what Ilya’s offer really meant, she hated him for coming to her, after she had tried so desperately to face her fears on her own.

  But what frightened her the most was the realization, deep down, that she wanted it.

  Maddy turned back around, sensing that her decision was already made. “If I agree to this, it won’t be for you—”

  She broke off. Hearing the sound of the door closing softly, she saw that the chair was empty. Ilya was gone.

  27

  Maddy sat in the backseat of a parked car, alone, the hood still over her head. It was dark and hot but fairly easy to breathe. The hood had been sewn together from black cloth and smelled mildly of fabric softener. It had been recently washed, perhaps to remove telltale fibers, and this sense of meticulousness, which in another context might have seemed homely, frightened her even more.

  Waiting in the car for whatever was coming, she fought away the fear that threatened to overwhelm her, forcing herself to remember what had happened, which was the only way to keep panic from taking hold completely. After the hood came down, she had felt the hard pressure of a gun against her back and heard a man’s voice in her ear: “Make a sound, and it ends right now.”

  He had pushed her roughly toward the door of her flat, which was open from before. Maddy had nearly fallen, but the hand locked around her forearm had kept her on her feet, steering her toward the stairs outside. She felt cool air as they passed through the door of her building and crossed the sidewalk. Up ahead, she heard an idling engine, along with monotonous dance music from a car stereo, the waves of sound pushing thickly through the hood.

  She was shoved into the backseat. Her assailant from upstairs slid in beside her and drew the seat belt across her body, the gun pressed against her rib cage. Maddy heard the door close and the music rise as the unseen driver cranked up the volume, and then they were away from the curb.

  They had driven for perhaps half an hour. The music on the speakers was a shapeless wall of noise, each track shading imperceptibly into the next, so it was impossible to tell where one song ended and the next began. Maddy tried to remember the turns they made and listen for clues outside, the way one might do in the movies, but she lost her bearings after the first roundabout.

  The car stopped at least twice, once at what seemed like a red light, a second time for close to a minute, at the end of which the front passenger door opened to let someone else in. At one point, Maddy heard a siren approaching from the other direction, filling her with momentary hope, but the vehicle, whatever it was, only passed and receded into the distance.

  Eventually they came to a highway. After driving along it for some time, they exited onto a side road, the ground uneven beneath the tires of the car, which slowed its progress to a crawl. At last, they came to a stop. The engine was turned off, ending the music. In the ensuing silence, Maddy heard the front doors open and shut, followed by two sets of footsteps.

  The man at her side did not move for a long time. At last, his voice came again in her ear: “Stay where you are.”

  With that, the man opened the rear door and withdrew the gun. Sliding out, he closed the door behind him. Maddy heard his footsteps grow steadily softer as he moved away from the car. And then there was nothing.

  Now she sat waiting in the backseat, the lump of sickness in her stomach refusing to dissolve. Her arm ached at the spot where her assailant’s hand had clamped down, and she found that she had to go to the bathroom. In the end, she wasn’t sure how much time passed, but it might have been only a minute or two before she was startled by the shrill ring of a cell phone.

  Maddy jumped at the sound. The phone rang again, sending a vibration through the seat beside her. Reaching up, she pulled off the hood, her hair sticking in strands to her forehead, and found that she was alone. The car turned out to be an old-model compact with grimy tinted windows and vinyl seats creased like the palms of human hands. Through the windshield, she saw that she was parked in a field of dry grass strewn with gray trash and debris.

  She looked back at the road along which they had approached, the marks of the tires still visible in the dust, then turned again to the windshield. In the distance, a line of trees stood beneath the white sky. Just before the field ended, there was a decrepit house, its front steps sagging with age.

  The phone on the seat was still ringing. Glancing down at last, she thought at first that it was her own phone, although the ringtone was strange. She picked it up and saw an unfamiliar number on the display. Only when she opened the phone to answer it did she realize that it was not hers at all, but a different phone of the same kind, a fact that filled her with even more fear than before.

  She raised the phone to her ear. Before she could speak, a distorted voice came over the other end, its words channeled through a voice changer, shifting the pitch downward, so that she wasn’t sure if it was male or female: “Look in the pocket of the seat in front of you.”

  Her eyes fell on the back of the front seat. There was something sticking out from the pocket. Reaching down, she was about to undo her safety belt when the voice abruptly spoke again: “Keep the belt on.”

  Maddy looked sharply around. The field was still empty. Keeping her eye on the house in the distance, which was the only place where anyone could be watching, she reached into the pocket and felt her fingers close around a manila envelope. As she withdrew it, the voice came over the phone: “Look inside.”

  She shifted the phone to her other hand. The envelope was unmarked and lightweight. Staring at it, Maddy had a sudden premonition of what mig
ht be there. All the fears she had been storing up came rising to the surface, but her hands were steady as she unwound the string on the flap and slid out the contents.

  The first thing she saw was a set of pictures printed on uncut photo stock. When she turned them over to get a better look, she felt all her strength drain away. The photos had been taken outside Lermontov’s house. One showed her going up the steps, while the second caught her in profile as she left something on the porch, and the last was a shot of her walking away.

  Beneath the pictures was a sheet of folded paper. Maddy opened it, already guessing what it was, and saw a photocopy of an itinerary for a flight from New York to London. Circled on the form was her own name, as well as the return date below it, just over two years ago.

  “You see, we know,” the voice in her ear said, any trace of emotion flattened out by the pitch modulator. “You came to London two years ago to help Ilya Severin kill Alexey Lermontov. Ilya couldn’t have done it on his own, but you knew how such a man might be found—”

  Maddy closed her eyes, her hands falling open so that the documents fluttered down to the floor. She took a long breath. “You’re wasting your time. I have no money. There’s nothing I can possibly do for you.”

  “You’re wrong,” the voice said. “We need you to perform a service for us. Once this task is concluded, you will never hear from us again. You can resume your life as before—”

  Even then, Maddy knew that this was a lie, and that there would be no going back. “What do you want?”

  “It’s very simple,” the voice replied. “We want you to join Tarkovsky on his yacht.”

  Maddy opened her eyes. The Rigden, she knew, would be departing from Constanta in two days, with Tarkovsky and his guests on board, and there was no way she could get an invitation. “Why?”