About Trinity: The Koldun Code (Book 1)
I am in a world deeply strange and strangely deep, a world as different from my old life as it’s possible to be, and it feels completely natural.
An unexpected encounter with a handsome stranger in a Russian wood changes forever the life of 22-year-old traveler Helen Clement, catapulting her into a high-stakes world of passion, danger, and mystery. Tested in ways she could never have imagined, she must keep her own integrity in a world where dark forces threaten and ruthlessness and betrayal haunt every day.
Set against a rising tide of magic and the paranormal in a modern Russia where the terrifying past continually leaks into the turbulent present, Trinity is a unique and gripping blend of conspiracy thriller, erotically-charged romance and elements of the supernatural, laced with a murderous dose of company politics. With its roots deep in the fertile soil of Russian myth, legend, and history, it is also a fascinating glimpse into an extraordinary, distinctive country and amazingly rich culture.
Contents
About Trinity: The Koldun Code (Book 1)
A Note to the Reader
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Also by Sophie Masson
Acknowledgments
About Sophie Masson
Copyright
For him who does not believe in signs, there is no way to live in the world.
(Russian proverb)
A Note to the Reader on Russian Names
Russians have three names – their given or forename, their patronymic (which is formed from the person’s father’s first name) and their surname, or family name. When addressing people formally, you use the first name, followed by a patronymic name. In the countryside, sometimes only a patronymic might be used. Sometimes you’ll see initials used in written material (for example, V.I. Lenin, V.V. Putin) but Russians never use the Western-style form with an initial in the middle, such as Vladimir V. Putin.
Endings of both patronymics and surnames are different depending on whether the named individual is male or female. Patronymics end in “evich” or “ovich” (meaning “son of” ) for a male, and “ovna” or “evna” (meaning “daughter of”) for a female. Surnames of Slavic origin always end in “a”, for a woman, so, for instance, you would know if a doctor is a man or a woman. Surnames of non-Slavic origin, however, such as Kersh and Blok do not follow this rule.
Pet names and diminutives of given names are also frequently used for friends and family. So for instance “Nikolai” becomes “Kolya”; Alexey “Alyosha”, “Lyosha”, “Lyoshka”; Mikhail “Misha” or “Mishka”; Yelena “Lena” or “Lenochka” and so on. There are often many pet names or diminutives for the one name, but I have kept to one or two to avoid confusion.
Western titles like “Mr” and “Mrs” aren't used in modern Russia, though “Dr” and “Professor” certainly are. In the Soviet past, Tovarish (Comrade) was used, but not now; and in pre-Soviet Russia, “Gospodin/Gospozsha” (literally, “lord” and “lady” rather like the French “monsieur” or “madame” ) were commonly used. But all these have now fallen into disuse. To denote respect or formality, people call others by their first name and patronymic, though this can also be used between family on occasion too, usually only when addressing older members of the family.
Chapter 1
The Volga River, the longest in Europe, winds majestically through a million square kilometers of the Great Russian Plain on her way to the Caspian Sea: past forest and farmland, marshland and meadow, factories and power plants, shipyards and timber yards, and through countless villages, towns and cities. The lifeblood of her people throughout history, the center of myth and legend, even today the river known as “Mother Volga” ferries more than half of Russia’s water traffic, everything from creaking old barges to vast timber carriers, smart speedboats to aluminum dinghies, little sailboats to luxurious cruisers, and the big tourist ships that ply up and down the waterways from May to October, when the water’s ice-free.
For the tourists, whether Russian or foreign, it’s a welcome chance to experience the enchantment of Russia the old way, by water. But for the settlements along the routes, the arrival of the tourist ships spells another kind of magic: a true end to winter as hibernating shops and markets suddenly wake up, teachers transform into guides, wooden toys march out of workshops, musicians brave monstrous mosquitoes and sudden spring showers to perform al fresco.
On a beautiful sunny afternoon in late May, the spring bustle was in full swing when the latest ship docked at the quay below the Volga town of Uglich. There was already one ship moored there, another on its way, and the usual small crowd of musicians, touts, and local guides waiting for the alighting throng. Most of the passengers wouldn’t be here more than a couple of hours, for them Uglich was only one short stop on a long cruise.
A small fraction of the tourists might break their journey here for a day or two, and head to the town’s few hotels. But the two women who stepped off the ship, wheeling suitcases behind them, were not bound for a hotel.
One was in her mid-forties or so, small and chic in pencil skirt and close-fitting shirt, short dark hair cut sleek as a helmet. The other was young, slightly taller than the other woman, dressed in jeans and a lace top, and her dark red hair was in a single thick plait that hung to her shoulder-blades. It was odd, thought Sergey Olegovich Filippov as he picked his way through the milling crowd toward them. From behind, you’d suppose the two women couldn’t possibly be related. But from the front, you’d see the same anxious expression appear in the same kind of large, long-lashed brown eyes, and you’d have to guess again.
Not that Sergey had to. He knew they were the closest of relations – a mother and child. A Mrs. Clement and her 22-year-old daughter.
They hadn’t seen him yet. Of course, they’d expected Professor Bayeva herself to meet them. She’d meant to, but “I’ve been called away unexpectedly, Sergey,” she’d said, “would you mind picking up my friends? I’ll be back by nightfall.”
Sergey didn’t mind. Not only did the professor pay well but he always appreciated a chance to practice his English. And besides, he thought, smiling to himself as he picked his way down to them, having two such pretty ladies in my car is no hardship at all.
“Excuse me, ladies,” he enunciated carefully, in English, as he drew close to them. They turned to look at him. “You come with me, please.” He gestured toward the road.
“No. Please go away and leave us alone,” snapped the older woman, in fairly good Russ
ian, her dark eyes imperious. “We are not buying anything.”
Sergey was not put off. Persisting in English, he said, “Madam, I am not selling. I am driver. For you.”
In the same language, she said, “We didn’t ask for a driver. A friend is picking us up.”
“Yes. That is Professor Bayeva.”
“Professor Bayeva Simmons, you mean.”
“She is Professor Bayeva here,” Sergey said gently. He looked into the woman’s lustrous dark eyes – he’d always loved dark eyes most of all – and went on, “And she is sorry – ah, Mrs. Clement –” he pronounced the name and title carefully “ – but she must go on urgent business today. So she ask me. I drive taxi. Often she take it. You see?”
“I do see,” said Mrs. Clement, a smile softly lighting up her face. “Well, Mr. – ”
“Filippov,” he said, promptly, returning her smile. “Sergey Olegovich Filippov, at your service.”
“Well, then, Mr. Filippov, where’s your car?”
“Close. I take bags for you please,” said Sergey, cheerfully, reaching for the handles of the two big suitcases. There was a little exchange then between mother and daughter which he didn’t understand because they’d spoken not in English, but in French. Professor Bayeva had told him that Mrs. Clement was originally French, but now lived in England, and had once been married to an American. But though he could not understand the words, the meaning was clear enough. The girl wasn’t keen on him taking her bag. It didn’t offend him – he had a much-loved niece about the same age, and she could be just as snippy about anyone touching her things, as though they contained State secrets. Shooting an understanding glance at them, he took Mrs. Clement’s bag, studiously leaving the girl to handle hers, said, “Come with me, please,” and led the way toward his vehicle, an old but well-kept blue Lada.
All the slow way to Professor Bayeva’s house, as he guided the car carefully around the potholes in the road, Sergey kept up a gentle patter of conversation.
“Professor Bayeva told me Mrs. Clement was famous journalist,” he said, glancing into the rear-vision mirror.
“Oh not that famous,” Mrs. Clement said with a smile. “I just write travel articles for magazines.”
“And you plan to write on Uglich?” he went on.
“And other towns nearby, I’m writing a series about the Golden Ring. I’ve written about Moscow and St Petersburg in the past, but never come here.”
“Oh, here much better than big cities! Here you find real Russia. Real heart. And real soul.”
“Well, that’s certainly what I’m looking for,” said Mrs. Clement.
Encouraged by her reaction, Sergey launched into full flow. “Uglich, most beloved of all, because of Saint Dimitri you understand. You have seen his church from river? Is beautiful, da?”
“Oh yes,” agreed Mrs. Clement. “Enchanting.”
“In Russia we say churches, they are alive,” Sergey observed. “And Saint Dimitri on Blood, it is most alive, because this little Prince Dimitri, he is innocent child killed by wicked men right there. It still mystery who do this terrible thing though many people suspect.” His voice dropped. “But not only mystery here. You see this street here? Up there is Makarov dacha. Country house, that is. Belong to Ivan Mikhailovich Makarov. You hear of him perhaps?”
“No,” said Mrs Clement. “But do tell us.”
“Ivan Mikhailovich rich man. Very, very rich.” Sergey rolled his r’s with relish. “His company named Troitsa – I do not know in English …”
“Trinity,” said Mrs. Clement.
“Trinity. Yes. This very special company, it” – he struggled with the words – “like – like police, with mysteries, only private, yes?”
“Ah. Private investigators.”
He nodded vigorously. “Da. Troitsa – Trinity – have three leaders. Makarov, Galkin, Barsukov.” He paused dramatically. “And now all dead. Strangely.”
“Murdered, you mean?”
He shrugged. “No one know for sure. Police say accident. Because all drown.”
The girl spoke for the first time. In the rear-vision mirror, Sergey saw her face had paled. “Here? In the Volga?”
“Oh, no, no,” he said, hastily. “Thanks be to God not here.” He shot a glance at her. “Miss, you must not worry.” A pause, then he went on, “These men, they die different times. And different places. Galkin in Finland. Barsukov in France. Makarov in Australia. No one see what happen. No one know. And some people call this Rusalka curse.” He saw his passengers’ puzzled expressions, and explained, “Rusalka, she is spirit from water. She look like beautiful girl, but she drown men.”
“What?” said Mrs. Clement. “Are they saying it’s a girl who –”
“Nyet. Nyet,” Sergey said firmly. “No one know who. Is big, big mystery like murder of Prince Dimitri. And now company belong to only son of Ivan Mikhailovich Makarov. Alexey Ivanovich. He is rich young man now. But not interested in Trinity.” He had turned into a quiet little cul-de-sac road, sprinkled with wooden houses behind birch trees and grassy verges. “They say he sell company. Some say he needs sell, or Rusalka curse get him too.”
“Maybe we’d better talk about something more cheerful now,” said Mrs. Clement, with a wary glance at her daughter.
“Nichevo. No problem,” said Sergey, turning into a little lane and pulling up outside a house right down the end of it, just before the shaky asphalt petered out at the entrance to a little wood. It was a traditional timber izba, or cottage, two-story, with walls of silvery weathered boards, the golden light of late afternoon picking out the delicate tracery of carvings around the windows. “Here is house of Professor Bayeva.”
“Oh, it’s lovely,” exclaimed Mrs. Clement.
Sergey went to open the car door, ushering them out. As the girl stepped out, he said, a little anxiously, “Please excuse if I frighten you, Miss.”
The girl looked at him. Beautiful eyes, but too serious for one so young, he thought. At her age, she should be full of joyful sparkle, like his niece Masha. She said, softly, “It’s okay, Mr. Filippov. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.”
“It’s Helen’s first time in Russia,” explained her mother protectively.
Sergey nodded. “Ah. And you have come from Moscow, of course. Much too big, noisy, tiring city. I myself go there only once. And this enough. I want to run away. But here is different. You find peace, Miss, I think.”
*
The taxi driver turned his back to them as he opened the front door of the house, and didn’t see the look that passed over Helen’s face. He was quite right, she had been freaked out by Moscow. But unlike Sergey, she came from a big city, so it wasn’t that. And it wasn’t that the Russian capital was ugly or frightening, either, quite the opposite. Partly, it was because the physical contrast to home was so great, and so sudden. They’d left a mild gray London spring morning and emerged into a Moscow afternoon so bright blue that it seemed painted on with a lavish brush. Everything had culture-shocked her, from the sublime to the ordinary: the candy-striped domes of St Basil’s cathedral flaunted against the intense sky, Red Square vast as a rolling stone plain, wide streets strung with garlands of lights, weird little railway kiosks like tiny general stores, impassive people whose faces she didn’t know how to read. And most of all, the barbed-wire look of Cyrillic script fencing her off from any real understanding of what was going on.
But it wasn’t just culture shock; she knew that.
Chapter 2
Inside, Irina’s cottage was like a wooden nest, with its timber floors and ceilings not silvery-weathered like outside, but glowing a soft gold. The simply but attractively furnished large downstairs room, which served as a combination of kitchen, dining-room and living-room, clustered around a white-washed traditional brick stove. But cozily traditional though it might look, the izba didn’t lack for modern comforts either: a gleaming new stove, fridge, and microwave oven, and a modern, compact bathroom.
Up a set
of narrow stairs were three smallish but comfortable bedrooms, each furnished with a wooden bed covered with an embroidered spread, a chest of drawers, a small rug, a spindly chair, and a bedside cabinet. Each of the bedrooms had a window looking out over a pretty view: from Helen’s mother’s there were the silver-scaled onion domes and white-washed walls of a little church; from Irina’s, the back garden with its mauve and white lilac bushes and the renovated study that had once been a bath-house. And from her room, Helen looked out over the quiet lane at the front of the house: asphalt edges crumbling into the flower-threaded long spring grass, a tall silver birch like a giant candle, and the faded-blue walls of the house across the road.
Just then, a magpie flew down from the top of the birch and landed on the window-sill. Cocking its head, it surveyed Helen briefly. As it flew off again, she caught a flash of silver on one of its legs. A tag, she thought. It’s some kind of …
“I can understand why Irina likes it here,” said her mother, in French, behind her. Helen jumped.
“What? Who? Oh, Irina, you mean.”
Her mother looked at her a little oddly. “Who else would I mean? It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes. It is.”
“She spends most of the year here now, from what I gather,” said Therese. “Still overwinters in LA though. Well! It’s going to be good to see her. Haven’t caught up with her for ages.” Helen knew the two women had first met twenty years ago at a summer school in LA, where Irina was tutoring a class in comparative myth.
Helen said, “And I don’t think I’ve seen her since I was, oh at least fifteen.”
“That’s about right. I did see her briefly a few years ago in Paris but on my own. She seemed just the same as ever, nose to the grindstone. That new book of hers on the folklore around bears, she’s been at it for, oh, I think at least seven or eight years. I’m sure she rewrites chapters twenty times over. That level of perfection would just bore me. Which is why I’m a freelance journalist and she’s a respected academic, I suppose.”
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