Temple of Spies

by Ian Kharitonov

  “I could tell that by his wounds.”

  “How did you find him?”

  “I’ve been asked to help with the Oltersdorf papers.”

  Netto could hear Minski draw a sharp breath.

  “Did you say Oltersdorf?”

  “Yes, and I know exactly what that means to you. Sokolov and his brother got the two notebooks. I’ve sent you a few sample pages.”

  “Give me the rest of it. I need to have everything.”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that. Eugene’s gone somewhere and he took the notebooks with him. I’ve stayed behind with Constantine. He’s mending a couple of bullet holes.”

  “Tell me where to find you. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “I want something in return.”

  “What exactly? Money?”

  “Position. I want to be off the hook. I’m sick of working as a double agent and fearing for my future. A man of my talents should have a regular career at the FSB. I’ve shown you my worth.”

  “I guess you’re right. You’ve acquitted yourself. Fear not. Once I get the Oltersdorf papers, I’m joining the league of real heavy hitters. I’ll have bigger fish to fry but I could put in a word for you to my superiors. I can promise you that much.”

  “Do we have a deal?”

  “You’ll soon get your new status. Consider it done.”

  “Very well.”

  Netto spelled out the address of the safe house.

  “Excellent,” Minski said. “I’ll send my man there. Make sure you stay out of the way. I’m a humanist. I don’t want too many corpses.”

  “Wait, it’s not supposed to be like this!”

  Minski snickered. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  8

  Sokolov and Stacie arrived for debriefing at the EMERCOM Headquarters on Theater Drive. Standing four stories high near the Bolshoi Theater, the former ‘revenue house’ carried shrapnel marks on its nineteenth-century façade—the result of a recent terrorist bombing, Sokolov explained.

  On the top floor, they entered Klimov’s office. The cavernous room produced an air of authority. Glossy parquet flooring of solid oak covered the entire 200-square-meter area, complemented by the darker wood of the wall panels. In full uniform, Klimov sat alone at the head of an empty conference desk that stretched before him. Two flags stood next to the entrance—the Russian flag and the EMERCOM flag, which featured an eight-pointed star on a blue background. The wall behind the general was dominated by a formidable map of the Russian Federation.

  Klimov rose to greet his visitors and Sokolov made the introductions. Nikolai Klimov had a lean frame. He was even taller than Sokolov but not as muscular. His short dark hair had touches of silver at the temples. Despite their apparent difference in age and rank, the two men shook hands cordially. Their eyes showed genuine camaraderie. Klimov’s gentle handshake and a warm smile put Stacie at ease. As she took her seat behind the massive desk with Sokolov, she no longer felt awed by the surroundings.

  Sokolov recounted the events following his mission to Thailand and Stacie told her part of the story. Klimov listened intently, sometimes asking about specific details. The revelations of Father Mark proved to be of particular interest to him. Stacie produced the Oltersdorf notebooks to back up their report. When they finished, Klimov let out a pensive sigh.

  “It confirms my own findings. I was hoping I got this one wrong, but you’ve left me no room for doubt.”

  “What happened while I was away?” Sokolov asked.

  “It’s not about what did happen, but rather what didn’t. At nine a.m. today, a scheduled event we were supposed to monitor never occurred. We expected increased seismic activity in a certain part of eastern Siberia. Yet our Seismological Data Center issued no alerts. At the designated hour, it registered nothing.”

  “You don’t mean …” Sokolov paused. “That would be unthinkable.”

  A shadow crossed Klimov’s face.

  “Gene, you know that I hate politics. As a minister in the federal government, I’ve seen my share of power plays. I’m no saint. Sometimes I’m dragged into things that leave a nasty taste in my mouth. I’ve turned a blind eye on a few false-flag operations in the past, convincing myself that I was choosing the lesser of two evils. But a line must be drawn somewhere. I don’t want to end up like Shoigu, the founder of our agency. I can’t go against my conscience and sit around idly as a terrorist plot is unfolding before my eyes.”

  “I’m sorry but what’s going on?” asked Stacie, confused.

  “A nuclear explosive device has gone missing in Siberia,” said Klimov. “I believe it’s the final piece of Operation Temple as you described it.”

  Stacie stared in astonishment. “How is it even possible to steal a nuclear bomb?”

  “Have you heard of PNEs?”

  Stacie shook her head.

  “Peaceful nuclear explosions,” Sokolov explained.

  “I’ve no idea what that means.”

  “Like my brother is fond of saying, the Soviet Union was only capable of destruction, not creation. Communism stifled all original thought. You’d imagine that the invention of the atomic bomb required some creative genius, but it was impossible in an impoverished, war-torn country under Stalin’s rule. Igor Kurchatov is recognized as the father of the Soviet nuclear program, but he was clueless about physics. Kurchatov was a Chekist, not a researcher. An NKVD man tasked by Beria with overseeing the project. The real father of the bomb was German physicist Manfred von Ardenne, taken to the USSR together with hundreds of other ex-Nazi scientists and their equipment in 1945. Once the German secrets fell into their hands, the Soviets became a nuclear superpower. They wanted to show it off in the Cold War race for ideological supremacy, but the military side had to remain classified. So they came up with a civil use for atomic weapons. They called it Program 7, coining the term Nuclear Explosions for the National Economy.”

  “The crazy experiments performed under Program 7 were nothing short of criminal,” Klimov commented.

  “The most striking example came during 1965 with the Chagan detonation, when the Soviets violated a test ban treaty in Kazakhstan. A 140-kiloton bomb produced a giant crater which dammed the Chagan River and formed a water reservoir. Thus it became the first man-made radioactive lake. The fallout from the blast traveled as far as Japan.”

  Klimov pressed a console button and the map of Russia behind him lit up like a Christmas tree with a myriad of blinking markers. Nuclear explosion sites dotted the entire country.

  “That was just a single one of at least 128 known nuclear explosions performed around the USSR over several decades.”

  A text overlay appeared on the map, listing each PNE:

  …1971: Sapphire, 15 kilotons…

  …1972: Region-4, 6.6 kilotons…

  …1978: Kraton-1, 22 kilotons; Kraton-2, 15 kilotons; Kraton-3, 22 kilotons…

  …1982: Rift-1, 16 kilotons…

  …1984: Quarz-4, 10 kilotons…

  The list went on and on.

  “My God,” Stacie said as her eyes scanned it.

  Klimov continued. “The intended application of PNEs involved earth-moving, ore-crushing, stimulation of oil production, or geological exploration. In most cases, the use of nuclear devices proved completely unwarranted and resulted in radioactive pollution. A large number of blasts were carried out merely to study the spread of radiation. A two-kiloton PNE code-named Globus-1 polluted a densely-populated area of the Volga in 1971. Lake Baikal, the nature’s largest fresh water reserve, was contaminated following detonations between 1953 and 1982. Such catastrophes are comparable to Chernobyl or the tragedy of the Aral Sea.”

  “A hundredfold Chernobyl,” Stacie murmured in horror.

  “Program 7 shut down in 1988 as the Soviet Union neared collapse. Recently, however, it has been revived. A gas gusher is raging in Yakutia, and a decision was made to extinguish it with a PNE as the only alternative. According to EMERCOM’s seismic da
ta, it didn’t go successfully. As things stand, a twenty-kiloton nuclear device remains unaccounted for. Beyond that, it’s impossible to verify any information. The FSB has sealed off all access to the area. I’ve voiced my concerns over the possible loss of a nuclear bomb to the Kremlin and the FSB. The Kremlin is keeping silence. In a thinly veiled threat, the FSB advised me to avoid making rash accusations. They must be preparing a cover-up. The company operating the gas well has strong connections with both the FSB and the Patriarchate. It all adds up.”

  “So what are we going to do about it?” said Sokolov.

  “First and foremost, we must bring Anastacia back to Australia safely. Stacie, you’re a brave young woman, but you must realize that your life is in peril. The people we’re up against will stop at nothing. With every passing minute, staying in Russia is becoming increasingly more dangerous for you. I’ve already arranged for an EMERCOM plane to fly you to San Francisco. Once there, you’ll head over to the Australian Consulate, claim a lost passport, and return to Sydney.”

  She shook her head as the finality of Klimov’s words sank in. Her fingers brushed over the leather-bound covers of the Oltersdorf books resting atop the conference table.

  “Promise me that the secrets within these pages won’t fall into the wrong hands,” she said.

  “They belong to you,” Sokolov said. “The notebooks and their secrets. Don’t you want to keep them?”

  “But what if they really contain the whereabouts of Kolchak’s gold?”

  “That’s beside the point, Stacie. The importance of these papers has nothing to do with lost treasures. The Oltersdorf notebooks are memories of your family’s past. Your great-grandfather and your aunt left them for you, not someone else. Nothing else matters. You decide.”

  She felt a tear rolling down her cheek.

  “Thank you, Eugene. I never expected to hear such words. And yet, Russia is where Baron Oltersdorf’s legacy belongs. This is my decision. I want your brother to keep the papers. He deserves it as a historian and as a person.” She squeezed the golden pendant on her neck. “I have enough to remind me of my family history. I hope the notebooks will remind you of me.”

  Sokolov nodded.

  “I’ll always remember you, Stacie. You can count on that. And I’ll deliver the notebooks to Constantine.”

  “I guess it’s the last goodbye, then,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”

  “We’ll meet again someday,” he assured her.

  Klimov broke an uneasy silence.

  “Gene, speaking of your brother, you should transfer Constantine to an EMERCOM hospital right away. No time left until your next mission.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “We’re facing a cataclysm of global magnitude. A missing twenty-kiloton explosive device puts us on the brink of a nuclear war. If what you’ve told me is true, we cannot allow the North Koreans to blow up the Middle East. As an backup alternative, they might set it off somewhere in Russia. But what if they’re targeting the United States? Whoever has stolen the bomb, and whatever their real plan is, it can only end in a nightmare scenario. I want you to stop them, Gene. You must find the nuclear bomb before it’s too late.”

  9

  His Holiness Patriarch Galaktion of Moscow and All Rus’, Primate of the Russian Orthodox Church, did not believe in God.

  The religious leader of millions of Christians never opened the Holy Scripture.

  His faith was militant atheism. The only icon he’d ever worshipped was a portrait of Lenin. His sacred text was a bank ledger.

  His father, Valdemar, had ended an undercover KGB career in the rank of Archbishop of the Moscow Patriarchate. Continuing the family tradition, Galaktion (secular name Anatoly Vasiliev) had reached even greater heights, becoming the Patriarch.

  Galaktion wore an everyday black cassock, a white cowl covering his head, and a green cope embroidered with gold thread and jeweled like his crosier. His private collection numbered around ten thousand vestments worth a total of several million U.S. dollars, a trifle which he could well afford, having amassed a fortune to rival Russia’s wealthiest oligarchs. The diamond-covered Hublot timepiece on his wrist had cost a million alone.

  The Patriarch’s official residence occupied a mansion built in 1816 by a famous Moscow family. Located just off Prechistenka, a few blocks away from the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, it had been ‘nationalized’ by the Bolsheviks following the Revolution and given to the Embassy of Germany. In 1941, the German ambassador to the USSR had been evicted from the mansion. Two years later, Stalin handed it over to his newly-formed Moscow Patriarchate. Today, an FSO security detail protected it around the clock.

  Inside the mansion, Patriarch Galaktion was holding a tête-à-tête meeting in the Red Room. True to its name, the vast chamber featured maroon-colored walls and mahogany furniture. The air smelled of fresh white roses, its stillness accentuated by a grandfather clock with each metronomic swing of its pendulum. Honorary awards from the Kremlin and the FSB lined the wall next to a life-size, oil-on-canvas portrait of Galaktion in a gilded frame.

  In a wheezing voice, Galaktion spoke to his guest sitting across the table.

  “What tidings do you bring, Saveliy Ignatievich?”

  Frolov grinned slyly. “Your Holiness, you will be most pleased.”

  “Business hasn’t gone too well lately. Even the vodka sales are dropping. I need something to brighten my mood.”

  “Operation Temple is well under way. Phase Two has begun.”

  Pensively, Galaktion stroked his thick, gray beard. He still had reservations about the plan. The risk seemed too great—but so was the reward. As Galaktion’s long-time KGB handler, Frolov knew which buttons to push. The Patriarch preferred to play it safe, but Frolov had convinced him that they had more to lose unless they turned the tables in the great geopolitical game.

  “Is everything running on schedule?”

  “It couldn’t have gone any better. Zeldin and his team have been eliminated. The device is currently aboard the train. As soon as it reaches North Korea, it will be shipped by sea to commence the final phase. Operation Temple is unstoppable.”

  “And the Oltersdorf papers?”

  “Minski just got word from his snitch. After all these years, the Oltersdorf notebooks are finally here in Moscow.”

  Galaktion’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  “Any news about the girl and those who helped her?”

  “I assure you that they no longer pose any threat.”

  “They deserve punishment.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve already sent my man to deal with them.”

  “Deal with them? I want them eliminated,” said the Patriarch of the Lubyanka.

  Frolov chuckled. “They don’t have a prayer.”

  10

  A Hyundai sedan pulled up in front of the shabby apartment block, the headlights turned off. The driver killed the engine and got out, shutting the door softly. Observing from across the street, Netto failed to make out the man’s features in the dim lighting. He was of medium height and build, but there was no mistaking the purposeful stride. He was a predator prowling his hunting ground. As the man entered the building, Netto’s gut feeling told him that it was the killer sent over by Minski.

  His chest tightened with swelling panic. Fear mixed with guilt. He knew that he was responsible for signing Constantine’s death warrant. Sokolov would realize that Netto was a mole. No one else could have tipped off the FSB. It would all end badly, Netto told himself. What if Minski had decided to get rid of him, too? Trying to bargain with Minski now seemed like a really stupid idea. Dread filled Netto at the prospect of becoming either the fall guy or someone who knew too much.

  With numb fingers, he dialed Sokolov.

  The endless ring-back tone was driving him mad.

  Come on! Pick up the damned phone!

  He cursed his luck. Sokolov was probably still in a meeting with Klimov.

  The call sw
itched to voicemail. Netto severed the connection and redialed.

  At length, Sokolov answered. “I’m heading back, Pavel. What have you got?”

  “Gene… Hurry. I think the safe house has been compromised.”

  11

  Gun drawn, Victor kicked the door in and entered the apartment, searching for targets. His sights found an injured man reclining on a couch, hooked to an IV drip. The wounds were bandaged where Victor’s quick shots had hit him. The bastard had been fortunate enough to remain alive but his luck had run out. With the prey finally trapped, Victor wanted to enjoy the moment to its fullest.

  “We meet again, Constantine,” he said. “But this time, you can’t escape your death.”

  Instead of betraying terror or despair, Constantine Sokolov’s eyes showed disdain.

  “Death doesn’t scare me. But I’d hate to give you the satisfaction, Comrade … what was it? Sorry, I never bothered to remember the name of Frolov’s lapdog. You’re all bark but no bite, though.”

  Victor had never expected the bastard to mock him. He seethed.

  “Is that so? That old fool Ilia thought differently before he died. He spilled his guts, and so will you. You’ll tell me where the notebooks are.”

  Victor kicked him in the stomach, grabbed hold of his shirt and hauled him off the couch. The IV stand toppled, ripping the tube free of the catheter. Victor dragged Constantine across the floor, smashing the gun handle against his skull repeatedly. Next, he retrieved a zip-tie from his jacket pocket and locked Constantine’s wrists behind his back, fastening it around the pipe of an old cast-iron radiator in the corner of the room.

  Blood trickling down his neck, Constantine gritted his teeth. Those stormy gray eyes flashed with cold rage, but again showed no sign of fear. Anyone else would’ve already begged for mercy. Not this son of a bitch.

  Victor started losing his temper. Let’s see how tough you really are.

  Lacking any suitable tools, Victor had to improvise. He barged into the adjacent kitchenette and flicked on the light switch. A cockroach scampered behind the cupboard. Victor opened the drawers, which were barren save for an empty plastic bag and a can of bug spray. He would have to make do. He slapped his handgun back into the shoulder holster and took both.