Eternal Empire

by Alec Nevala-Lee

  “Are you kidding? Rachel says she lost count at eight. The rest are upstairs with the bride.” Lewis lowered himself into his chair again. “You should go over and say hello. She said there was something she wanted to ask you about. I’ll save you a seat while you catch up.”

  Powell thanked him and turned to work his way across the room. As he drew closer to Wolfe, he reflected on how much their relationship had changed since his departure from the agency. They still spoke occasionally on the phone, but he hadn’t seen her in person in more than two months, and he knew that she disapproved of some of his recent decisions.

  When she caught sight of him, however, the pleasure on her face seemed genuine. He had never seen her hair up before, and as she gave him a hug, Powell thought that the effect was quite fetching. “You look lovely.”

  Wolfe took a step back, glancing down at her sari. “I still don’t know how to walk in this thing.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Powell said. “How has Maya been handling the pressure?”

  Wolfe gave him a sad smile. “It’s been hard. This should be a happy day, but it’s impossible to forget the rest. I really thought it would be tied off by now.” Her expression darkened. “I need to talk to you. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.” He followed her to a spot at some distance from the others. “What is it?”

  “It’s about Maddy.” Wolfe kept an eye on the other bridesmaids. “Is she still on the yacht?”

  “For now. They’re scheduled to arrive in Sochi in two days. As far as I know, she hasn’t spoken to Tarkovsky since her departure.”

  “She might want to keep it that way. I don’t think this is a pleasure cruise. You said there were executives from Argo on board?”

  “Yes, along with representatives from Polyneft. They’re all scheduled to attend the signing ceremony.” Powell studied her face. “What makes you think there’s something else going on?”

  “Because of Shambhala,” Wolfe said. “I read the file that Adam sent, and it reminded me of something. I’d heard the name recently, and I finally remembered where. It was in Rogozin’s work.”

  Powell glanced over his shoulder automatically, although it was unlikely that anyone here would be listening. “You mean in intelligence?”

  “No. In his published writings. When we were building our case against Rogozin, I read everything he wrote over the past few years. And in several articles, he mentioned a rumor, widespread among journalists in Moscow, that Vladimir Putin had taken an interest in the legend of Shambhala.”

  In the rising noise of the conservatory, Powell had to lean closer to make out what she was saying. “That doesn’t sound like the Putin I know.”

  “I thought so, too. But Rogozin claims, among other things, that Putin wanted a piece of the polar seabed brought back to him after the Arktika expedition five years ago, allegedly because an entrance to Shambhala is supposed to exist at the pole. He also says that Putin authorized funding for a search for Shambhala in the Altai Mountains, although nobody wants to confirm this on the record.”

  “Naturally. But we have more than enough reason to doubt Rogozin’s motives.”

  “I know. And even if he was telling the truth, I don’t think Putin is really looking for Shambhala. He’s too practical. It’s more likely that a journalist heard a reference to it and didn’t understand what it meant. My guess is that it’s a code word for something else, in the same way Maddy thinks Tarkovsky sees it as a metaphor for social upheaval. But when I look at Tarkovsky’s history, I don’t think this is about social change at all. I think it’s a code for oil.”

  As he listened, Powell found that he deeply missed these moments of connection. “If you’re right, it isn’t the first time Shambhala has stood for something more. Mind if I have a seat?”

  They went to the nearest row of chairs, where Powell set his cane aside, glad to be off his feet. “You remember that Gleb Boky, the head of the Special Section, wanted to sponsor an expedition to Shambhala, or so he claimed. But it doesn’t seem in character for Boky, much less Dzerzhinsky.”

  Wolfe was listening intently. “I agree. So there must have been some other reason.”

  “Yes. But in the end, the expedition was canceled, because a similar expedition was already under way. It was led by Nicholas Roerich, the artist and mystic whose paintings Tarkovsky has been acquiring. He thought he was destined to found a new Shambhala in Tibet, and he received support from Russian intelligence. His brother was employed by the same institute that took over Alexander Barchenko’s research into mind control. Roerich himself filed regular intelligence briefs, and a member of one of his later expeditions claimed he had an important mission from Moscow.”

  Wolfe seemed to see his point. “And it had something to do with Central Asia.”

  “Exactly. An expedition focused on Shambhala would have been the perfect cover for an intelligence operation. It was a way for the secret services to enter Central Asia without any risk, looking for sources of regional influence, or perhaps for something else. As part of his cover story, Roerich took a land concession for mining in the Altai Mountains, and Shambhala itself, in the old legends, was often said to be underground. Which implies—”

  “—that it was a code word for mineral wealth,” Wolfe finished. “Boky was a cryptographer. He thought in codes. So you’re saying that this expedition was really a covert attempt to look for energy reserves outside Russia.”

  “And if I’m right, it still means the same thing. If Putin has an interest in the arctic, it isn’t for any mystical reason. It’s because most of the giant oil fields in Russia have been discovered. A quarter of the world’s undeveloped oil and gas is at the pole, and it’s finally accessible because of global warming. Russia has already begun to stake its territorial claims. It’s central to its future as a geopolitical power.”

  “But they can’t do it alone,” Wolfe said, leaping ahead to the next stage of the argument. “Even if the ice melts, they need foreign technology to extract the oil, which requires deals like the kind Tarkovsky is making with Argo. Forget the Black Sea. The pole is the real prize. He’s laying the groundwork for future partnerships to drill for oil reserves where he can’t do it himself. Except—”

  Wolfe hesitated. “Except that Putin would never allow these resources to be exploited by anyone but the state. He wouldn’t give these concessions to a private company. Not without huge political pressure.”

  “Which is exactly what Tarkovsky is doing,” Powell said. “You’ve seen our report on his finances. His foundation is channeling funds to intermediaries, which disguise where the money really goes. At first, I thought he was supporting military intelligence, but now I think he’s funding advocacy groups and opposition politicians. He’s building support for something.”

  “But if that’s what Shambhala stands for, then Tarkovsky is playing with fire. Putin would never let those concessions go without a fight. And it means that Maddy has no business being involved—”

  Wolfe broke off as one of the other bridesmaids, who had been hovering at a discreet distance, came up and plucked her lightly by the sleeve. “Sorry to interrupt, Rachel, but it’s time.”

  Powell picked up his cane and stood. “We’ll talk more later. I’ll let you get ready.”

  Wolfe held his eyes for a second longer, then turned with a smile to the other bridesmaid. As Powell headed back down the aisle, he saw that she was right to object to Maddy’s involvement. If Tarkovsky was playing such a dangerous game, it threatened to draw the attention of forces that had a great deal invested in the outcome. And as long as it continued, no one around the oligarch was safe.

  For a moment, Powell thought about calling Maddy, but he decided that this could wait until after the ceremony. Arriving at his seat, he gave a friendly nod to Lewis, reaching for his cell phone as the musicians at the front of the room started to play. Pow
ell turned off his phone and slid it into his pocket. Then he settled back to wait for the wedding to begin.

  42

  Wolfe stood in the receiving area at the rear of the conservatory, a bouquet of white flowers in one hand. She was keeping very still to avoid upsetting her sari. Around her were seven other bridesmaids, all of whom she had met at least once, although she still had trouble telling Kavita from Savita.

  Over the shoulder of the bridesmaid in front of her, she watched as Devon received a tilak from the bride’s mother, broke a clay vessel carefully underfoot, and began to walk toward the mandapam. He was dressed in an embroidered white sherwani with a red sash, pointed slippers, and a matching sword, all of which seemed somewhat incongruous with his glasses.

  Hearing a murmur from the others, Wolfe turned to see the bride approaching at last. In her bridal sari and high golden shoes, Asthana looked delicate, slightly nervous, and heartbreakingly beautiful. In a modern touch, her father was at her side, beaming in his dark suit, and as Wolfe watched them head for the aisle, it seemed possible to forget everything else.

  A moment later, the line began to move. Wolfe waited until the bridesmaid in front was almost at the mandapam, then stepped into the conservatory, keenly aware of the two hundred pairs of eyes on her face. Flashes went off as guests took her picture, making her all the more conscious of her sari, which she had been assured would oblige her to move gracefully.

  As Wolfe walked gingerly down the aisle, she saw Powell and Lewis seated side by side. She smiled at them as she approached the mandapam, taking her assigned place to the left. From here, she had a good view of the bride and groom, who had lowered themselves into royal chairs on opposite sides of a scarlet curtain. At the other end of the canopy stood the eight groomsmen, in white sherwanis, who had filed in from a separate entrance.

  When the last remaining bridesmaid had assumed her place at the end of the line, the cloth between the bride and groom was lowered, allowing them to face each other for the first time. Watching as they gave each other garlands of flowers, Wolfe found that she missed the reassuring structure of belief, having long since abandoned most of the rituals she knew.

  As the music ceased, the pandit began with an invocation to Ganesh. The bride and groom stood smiling as their wrists were joined with red cloth, followed by another symbolic bond, a loop of white cotton. In a bed of foil, a sacred fire had been kindled. As Wolfe watched, Asthana and Devon took seven steps around it in bare feet, the clicking of the camera audible over the drum and flute.

  When they were finished, the music ended again. Asthana turned to her groom, giving Wolfe a view of her profile. She stood there quietly, looking at Devon, and as the room fell into an attentive silence, she began to speak.

  “Devon,” Asthana said, her eyes shining, “I’ll never be able to tell you how much you mean to me. You’re my best friend, my only love, and you’ve been there for me through everything. Without you, I never could have gotten through these last few years. And I’m so grateful I get to spend my life with you.”

  As Wolfe listened, she felt her own eyes grow damp. Several of the other bridesmaids were misting up as well. Wolfe blinked away the tears, wishing that she’d remembered to tuck a spare tissue into her bouquet, and watched happily as Devon squeezed Asthana’s hand and began a vow of his own.

  “Maya, I’ve loved you since I first saw you at the reading room in Seeley,” Devon said. “My friends said that you were too busy studying to date. What you could possibly see in me, I’ll never understand. But I know that you have a poetic side, even though you try to hide it.”

  Devon nodded to one of his groomsmen, who bounded up to the mandapam. He had something in his hand. Looking past the line of bridesmaids, Wolfe saw that it was a tattered spiral notebook.

  Asthana laughed at the sight, clearly surprised. Devon took the notebook, giving his sword to the groomsman in exchange, and turned back to his bride. “I don’t know if you remember this. I didn’t tell you I was going to do it because I knew that you’d probably say no.”

  There was a murmur of laughter from the crowd. Devon turned to face the guests. “This is one of my notebooks from college. Not a lot of notes inside, I’m afraid. But Maya wrote something in it when we first began dating. And ever since, it’s been one of the most precious things I own.”

  Devon turned back to Asthana, who had a bemused look on her face, and opened the notebook. Wolfe caught a glimpse of some words on the inside cover as Devon cleared his throat and began to read in a clear, wavering voice: “Twice or thrice had I lov’d thee, before I knew thy face or name—”

  Wolfe felt the world go away. As the words faded into insignificance, dwindling into mere sounds, she found herself thinking of the last time she had heard this poem, in a prison cell in Paddington Green.

  Rogozin, she recalled, had translated John Donne into Russian, sharing his enthusiasm for the poet with all his protégés. Karvonen had only been the latest, but of course he had not been the first.

  As Wolfe came back to herself, she found that she was staring at Asthana. Her second realization was that Asthana was looking back. She was still smiling as softly as before, and there was nothing in her expression to indicate that she suspected what Wolfe might be thinking.

  For a moment, the two women stood eye to eye. At last, Asthana turned back to Devon, her face still shining with happiness, as he finished the poem and gave the notebook back to his groomsman.

  The rest of the wedding was a blur. Wolfe watched as Devon gently put red powder on Asthana’s forehead and in the parting of her hair, then hung the sacred thread with its two gold pendants around her slender neck. As they showered each other with petals and rice, Asthana continued to smile brightly.

  After a final blessing, the couple turned away from the bridal party to face the crowd, the guests rising to applaud. As they left the mandapam, Wolfe saw Asthana glance back, their eyes meeting for one last time, a smile still playing across the bride’s face. Then she looked away.

  Wolfe took a step forward. Before she could go any farther, she felt a hand close on her arm. “Wait,” the bridesmaid standing next to her whispered. “Not until they’ve left the room—”

  As bride and groom walked together down the aisle, the music swelling to its height, Wolfe felt frozen in place. Even now, her heart could not entirely believe what her mind was telling her. She saw Asthana lean quickly toward Devon, whispering something in his ear. A second later, they passed through the conservatory doors, and then they were out of sight.

  Wolfe waited helplessly with the other bridesmaids as both sides of the family filed out. At last, the girl in front of her moved past the mandapam to head down the red carpet, and Wolfe joined the line, still clinging to her bouquet, her vision filled by the door ten steps ahead.

  A second later, she was through at last. The entrance hall was crowded with members of the bridal party. Looking around, Wolfe finally saw Devon standing next to the bride’s father. They were alone.

  Wolfe ran up to him, no longer worried about upsetting her sari. “Where’s Maya?”

  Devon seemed confused as well. “She said she was feeling flushed. I think she went to the toilet—”

  Without waiting to hear the rest, Wolfe turned, dropping her flowers, and pushed her way past a knot of groomsmen. The restrooms stood at the far end of the receiving area, at right angles to the conservatory entrance. Her sari was still holding her back, but she managed to break into something like a run as she rounded the corner to the ladies’ room and pushed her way through the door.

  Inside, the bathroom was silent. The row of sinks was deserted. Wolfe checked the stalls. They were empty.

  She left the bathroom and headed back out to the reception area, looking around frantically for a red sari. By now, the entire bridal party had emerged from the conservatory, and a number of guests had appeared to give their congratulations
, but there was no sign of the bride. Asthana had disappeared.

  Wolfe stood there, thinking desperately. Then she turned and ran for the elevator.

  43

  As soon as Devon began the poem, Asthana knew what was coming. Until that moment, she had been enjoying the ceremony, in a detached sort of way. She always liked being the center of attention, and when she looked around the room, she felt a certain satisfaction at seeing the disparate parts of her life assembled in one place. It was the culmination of all she had ever wanted, although it was at just such times, she knew, that things often came apart.

  Hearing the poem’s first line, Asthana felt her eyes go immediately to Wolfe, who was looking back at her with dawning recognition. Even now, as she began to understand that there would be no prospect of return, she was amused by the thought of what Wolfe must be feeling. Asthana wanted to savor the sight of so many illusions falling away, but she resisted the urge, knowing that the next few minutes would be the most crucial she had ever known.

  She turned away from Wolfe as Devon finished reading, looking up from his notebook with a smile. Asthana smiled back with admirable tenderness, and her expression remained unchanged for the rest of the ceremony, which she fortunately knew by heart. As she went through the motions of the wedding, she considered her situation from all sides, grateful for the chance to think, and remained conscious all the while of Wolfe’s eyes on her face.

  Asthana had no specific memory of writing the poem in Devon’s notebook, but she didn’t doubt that she had done so. She had been very young at the time, and she had not yet understood the importance of keeping the two sides of her life firmly separated. A smile, she had learned, could hide a great deal, but only if you were careful not to hint at what else might be unfolding behind it.

  Rogozin had taught her this, as he had taught her so much else. Donne, Rogozin said, had lived with a similar division at the heart of his experience. He had been a great lover before he was a preacher, and after his conversion, his passion and wit had turned from the erotic to the sacred, a tension that had never been fully resolved, flowering instead into something rich and strange.