“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve been shot. I’m hiding at a safe house.”
“Oh, damn! Where are you? I’ll let Gene know at once. You hang in there, buddy.”
Constantine gave him the address. “And Pavel, tell Gene that the attack is connected with the name he mentioned. Oltersdorf. I think I know the secret.”
Constantine put the phone back in its cradle, drawing out a long breath. Now he could only wait for the arrival of reinforcements. He paced the room but after a few steps it suddenly started spinning around him. Swaying from the vertigo, he sank onto the couch, which seemed to shake under his body. Then he blacked out.
4
The Ilyushin Il-76 aircraft taxied off the runway of the EMERCOM airbase outside Moscow, having completed a twenty-hour haul to Hong Kong and back.
As they got off the plane, Sokolov draped his heavy parka over Stacie’s shoulders to shield her from the cold. The warm clothing they’d picked up in Hong Kong proved inadequate against icy gusts and flurries of snow.
A Land Rover raced across the tarmac toward them. It braked sharply, skidding in front of Sokolov and Stacie. Behind the wheel, a harried Pavel Netto motioned for them to get inside the vehicle. Sokolov opened the rear passenger door for Stacie and sat next to her, surrounded by waves of hot air wafting from the car’s heater.
Netto hit the accelerator, steering the Land Rover in the direction of a helipad where a Eurocopter EC145 was already revving up, rotor blades whipping the air.
Their pre-arranged plan didn’t include a helicopter.
“What’s going on?” Sokolov asked.
“Gene, we have an emergency.”
“What is it?”
“Your brother. Somebody shot him.”
The news hit him like a punch in the gut. Sokolov steeled himself.
“Is Constantine alive?” he demanded.
Netto spoke in a grave voice. “He’s wounded. That’s all I know. He called me from some sort of a hideout a couple of minutes ago.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Yeah, he told me. I considered sending in a medical team, but it could do more harm than good. Constantine said something about a secret he’d uncovered. He sounded paranoid. He doesn’t trust anyone. Things can go haywire if someone other than you shows up. Not that I can blame him. We don’t know what condition he’s in. Whoever attacked him may still be out there, waiting to pounce on a mistake. We’ll make it quicker on our own by chopper. In any case, I had to notify you first.”
“You did the right thing. Let’s get moving,” Sokolov said. Then he turned to Stacie. “I hate to leave you like this. My friend Sergei will take you to the Australian Embassy immediately. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe.”
“No,” she protested. “Your brother risked his life because of me. If someone tried to kill him, it’s my fault, don’t you understand?”
“Stacie, don’t blame yourself—”
“I’m going with you. I owe as much both to you and your brother. I might be able to help. My father is a doctor, I’ve learned enough from him to be useful.”
Sokolov had no desire to argue. “Alright. And … thanks.”
“You were there for me, Eugene, and we’ll stay together no matter what,” she said.
Seconds later, they were airborne once more, this time aboard the Eurocopter.
5
The Eurocopter swooped down, arriving at an EMERCOM rapid-response facility in east Moscow, a three-minute drive away from the Lefortovo address, which Netto reduced to two minutes as he handled the speeding, siren-blaring ambulance.
Netto swung the ambulance to a sharp halt. Donning an orange-and-blue EMERCOM coat, Sokolov snatched his medical kit and rushed out of the vehicle. Stacie and Netto trailed him inside a building which had fallen into a dangerous state of disrepair. Sokolov charged up the stairs, stopping at the door marked 8. He yanked the door handle, only to find it locked. He pressed the buzzer, but no reply came. He gestured to Netto.
Netto produced a set of lock picks and started working on the ancient lock.
Stacie’s brows arched in surprise.
“You never told me that your friend was a burglar!” she murmured to Sokolov.
“Lock picking is a required skill for emergency responders. Sometimes people get trapped, locking themselves in by accident.”
“Oh,” she said, her face showing that she couldn’t imagine living in such appalling conditions, let alone getting trapped inside.
“Got it,” said Netto, swinging the door open.
Sokolov stepped into the brightly-lit apartment, finding himself inside a home church. He detected a blood smudge on the light switch. Another red splotch traced a path across the linoleum floor. He strode into the adjacent room, where he found his brother. Constantine was leaning in a lifeless pose on a couch, his back pressed against the wall, his neck craned sideways. Blood stains covered the jacket around a bullet hole in the arm, and another one in the torso.
Sokolov came closer and checked his pulse.
Constantine was breathing.
“Thank God you’re alive.”
With a pained groan, Constantine opened his eyes.
“Thank God you are, too.”
Sokolov retrieved a chair from the church room, dropped his medical bag on the seat and unzipped it.
“Gene, you should introduce me to your new assistant,” Constantine said as Stacie quietly entered the room. “Baroness Oltersdorf, I presume?”
“I’m Stacie,” she said. “And it’s Anastacia Rose, not Oltersdorf, actually.”
Sokolov put on a pair of gloves and examined his brother’s wounds, drawing a long breath.
“It’s not as bad as I feared. The bullet that hit your arm went clean through, missing blood vessels. The wound in your side looks like nothing more than a graze. You’re extremely lucky.”
The bandaging was a different matter. Obviously, Constantine had dressed the wounds by himself.
Together, Sokolov and Stacie applied new dressings. Sokolov admired Stacie’s composure. She never lost her calm even as she helped him stitch up the wound in Constantine’s side. Her father had taught her the basics well. Sokolov didn’t have to instruct her. Their efficient teamwork wasn’t lost on Constantine.
“You make a fine couple.”
Stacie’s cheeks flushed red.
As he saw her blushing, Constantine added, “A great pair of doctors, I mean.”
Sokolov injected him with a shot of antibiotics and inserted an IV drip for a saline infusion.
“There, that’s better. In a week’s time, you’ll feel as fit as an ox. It’s going to hurt for a while, but you’ve been shot twice, after all. Now tell me how it happened.”
Constantine recounted the details of his meetings with Ilia and Orlovsky.
Apostasy. The damning word hung in the air as he explained the history of the Russian Church.
When he finished, a stunned Stacie said, “Wait a minute, let me get this straight. Are you saying that the Moscow Patriarchate is an intelligence agency?”
“Not in the conventional sense,” Constantine answered. “The Soviet security apparatus shared few similarities with its Western counterparts. You see, the FSB, SVR, KGB, NKVD, all hail from the Cheka. They call themselves Chekists to this day, priding in their origin. From its formation in 1917, the Cheka never functioned as an intelligence service. It was the military wing of the Bolshevik Party. An instrument of Red Terror. Its name stood for Extraordinary Commission for Fighting Counter-Revolution. Fighting, not intelligence-gathering. Extermination. The Cheka Russian intelligence officers. Men like Peter Oltersdorf.”
“The baron was a spy?” asked Stacie with even greater surprise in her voice.
“A mathematician, rather. Chief cryptographer in the Imperial Russian Army. During the First World War, he solved German and Austrian codes.”
“We’ve recovered his notebook as well as the codebook which deciphers it,�
�� Sokolov told Constantine, and went on to update him on the Hong Kong incident.
“Are you serious? You’ve actually got the Oltersdorf books with you?”
“Yes,” said Stacie. “Each is the size of a small diary. I have them both in my purse.”
“May I have a look?” Netto chimed in.
“Sure, why not. Perhaps you might identify the code. Unless we figure out the way it works, the notebook will remain unreadable.”
She placed the two leather-bound books side by side atop the desk.
As Netto carefully turned the pages of each notebook, a befuddled expression set on his face.
“I only see blocks of random, unintelligible text,” Netto said. “Letters and numbers, arranged in columns.”
“Like I said, we don’t even know what the puzzle is, much less how to crack it.”
“I do,” said Constantine. “I know exactly what this is. Although I’ve never seen it crafted in such an elegant style.”
“I’m still a bit confused,” said Stacie.
“So am I,” Netto added.
“This, my friends,” said Constantine, “is a one-time pad.”
6
All secrets require security. When sensitive data was first put into writing, its meaning had to be concealed. Thus, cryptography began millennia ago. And so did cryptanalysis, driven by the opposite desire—to uncover hidden information. The earliest known cryptanalyst was perhaps Daniel, the Biblical prophet.”
“I remember the story of Belshazzar’s feast,” said Stacie. “Do you mean the writing on the wall?”
“Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin,” quoted Constantine. “King Belshazzar’s magicians failed to even read God’s message, let alone decode it. Only Daniel was able to interpret it. The Bible also contains several examples of Atbash, a Hebrew substitution cipher. Substitution is the most common method of encryption. Julius Caesar devised his own cipher to protect his secret messages. Peter the Great and Napoleon Bonaparte did likewise. Ciphers became more complex, but from the days of the Old Testament to the twentieth century, none were perfectly secure. Every cipher was breakable. During the First World War, the opposing sides routinely intercepted and decoded each other’s radiograms. Russian codes ranked among the weakest, broken by the Austro-Hungarians in three days. After the war, however, everything changed when two Americans, Gilbert Vernam and Joseph Mauborgne, invented the one-time pad. The Vernam cipher is absolutely impossible to crack.”
“Even a million years from now,” Netto said, “when aliens discover our ruined planet, they’ll never manage to break a one-time pad.”
“For the Vernam cipher to work, the key must consist of a totally random sequence of letters. Plaintext is encrypted into ciphertext using the key material. The reverse process must be performed to recover the original message.”
“So, all we need now is pencil and paper?” Stacie asked.
Constantine nodded. “You can apply the keys from the codebook to decrypt the ciphertext manually. Or you could let a computer program handle the conversion into clear text instantly.”
“I won’t have a chance to do that any time soon,” she said.
“Not if I can help,” said Netto, holding his phone.
“Really?”
“I you don’t mind, I’ll scan the pages with the camera. The images will sync with my workstation. As soon as I get back home, I’ll OCR the pictures into readable text and run it through the crypto tool. I can get it all done today.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
Netto fired up the camera app and opened the notebook carefully. He snapped quick photo bursts, adjusting the phone’s position for maximum quality.
“Maybe my great-grandfather will become less of a mystery for me.”
“I can tell you something about him that might surprise you,” said Constantine.
“I’d love to learn any details of his life.”
“As the civil war broke out, he joined the White Movement. As a matter of historical record, he fought in the army of Admiral Kolchak.”
“Kolchak.” Stacie shook her head. “I don’t think I’m familiar with the name.”
“Admiral Alexander Kolchak was the acknowledged leader of all anti-communist forces in Russia. He set up a provisional Russian Government in Siberia, becoming the last legitimate head of state in this country. In 1919, his forces numbered 300,000 troops, controlling territory from the Volga River to the Pacific Ocean. However, the Bolsheviks regrouped and broke through the Ural Mountains. The Red Army advanced deep into Siberia, forcing Kolchak’s troops to retreat. Losing ground, they were unable to hold off the Bolshevik hordes rolling across the vast Siberian plains. Only a few months later, Kolchak’s disorganized army was defeated, and the Admiral himself was subsequently murdered by his captors. Not only did the Bolsheviks capture their sworn enemy, but they also seized the Russian gold reserve which had been evacuated eastward. Or at least, the Reds got some of it. The major portion vanished. It’s been missing to date.”
“Hold on, are you talking about lost treasure?”
“The entire gold fund of the Russian Empire was transported across Siberia by railroad, away from the attacking Reds. Gold bullion. Forty freight cars loaded with more than 10,000 crates of gold bars and several thousand bags of gold coins. Five to six hundred tons of gold in total. Even at the time, the exact quantity was incalculable. Not to mention another four hundred tons of silver, as well as jewelry and works of art. Kolchak had spent some of it on the war effort, procuring arms and supplies from the foreign Allies who later betrayed him. Another part fell to the Reds. The rest has never been found. Two hundred tons. Perhaps more.”
“And it’s real? The gold isn’t just some legend?”
“It does exist. Ever since its disappearance in 1920, some have believed that the treasure was buried in a church. Whether that claim is true or not, the gold must still be hidden somewhere in Siberia.”
“If you’re suggesting that this is what the Chekists have been hunting for …”
“It has to be the secret which Baron Oltersdorf was guarding with his life. I’m confident that the location of Kolchak’s gold is revealed in the notebook.”
Suddenly, Netto’s phone rang.
“It’s the Minister.”
“Put him on speakerphone,” said Eugene.
Klimov’s voice sounded stern.
“Pavel, is Gene around?”
“I’m right here.”
“Gene, I need you to report to my office immediately. We have a crisis. National security is at stake.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Also, that girl you’ve brought with you from Hong Kong.”
“What about her?”
“I’d like to hear her side of the story. It’s relevant to the developing situation. Is she in any condition to be present alongside you?”
Eugene gave her a questioning look, and Stacie nodded her agreement.
“We’ll be there together.”
“Excellent. I expect to see you both within twenty minutes.”
Klimov ended the call.
Before Netto could switch to the camera app and take another picture, Stacie tucked her great-grandfather’s notebooks back inside her purse.
Eugene placed a hand on Constantine’s shoulder.
“Looks like we don’t have much time. But I can’t leave you here like this.”
“Just go. Don’t worry about me. You’ve patched me up pretty good. Nobody can find me here. It’s probably the safest place in Moscow right now. I don’t need babysitting.”
“All right, but I promise I’ll come back sooner than you think.”
7
Netto, Sokolov and Stacie descended the stairs and exited the building. As Netto started toward the ambulance car, Sokolov halted him.
“Wait, Pavel. Hand me the keys.”
“What? Why?”
“I want you to remain here and look after Constantine. Despite his bravado, I’d rather you kept
an eye on him. Stay put until we return. Got it?”
“Okay, boss.”
Netto did as he was told and gave the car keys to Sokolov. As Stacie got inside the ambulance next to him, Sokolov started the engine and the vehicle sped away.
For a few seconds Netto just stood there in the empty, dimly lit street.
Then he fetched his phone and checked his outgoing email status. The progress bar slowly crept toward completion. Mobile data speed in the area left much to be desired.
Nervously, he eyed the grim urban landscape. Lefortovo was a place that made him shudder even thinking about it. Being anywhere near Lefortovo Prison proved unbearable. He had endured a miserable few hours of solitary confinement inside the prison. In order to get out, he’d agreed to cooperate with the FSB. He’d been spying on Sokolov ever since.
A notification popped up, showing that the pictures of the Oltersdorf notebook had been sent.
He called the recipient. Anton Minski, his FSB handler. The man with the power to lock him up for good. The FSB owned the kangaroo courts that passed for the country’s legal system. Through intimidation, imprisonment or direct action, the FSB had everything and everyone under their control. What was the point of acting tough like Constantine did? The FSB always got what they wanted. As far as Netto was concerned, he didn’t want to get hurt in the process. Minski was a cynical, arrogant bastard who enjoyed impunity. Coming from a Chekist family, young Anton quickly rose through FSB ranks in his quest for personal profit. He didn’t care about the lives he ruined. Netto knew that Minski would crush him as soon as he stopped being useful. There would be hell to pay if Netto withheld the Oltersdorf information from him. Netto now held a get-out-of-jail card and he had to play it smart.
“You’d better come up with something decent this time, Pavel,” Minski spoke in a gruff voice.
“Check your inbox.”
“Just what the hell is it?”
“Proof that I’ve managed to locate Constantine Sokolov.”
“Very good. We’ve moved heaven and earth trying to find the bastard in this damned city.”
Temple of Spies Page 16
