The Invisible City (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 3)

by M. C. Roberts

  “It’s a long story. I’ll have to see it myself,” Hellen said. If it were humanly possible, she would have reached straight through the screen, Tom could tell.

  “Hellen, please don’t let me die ignorant,” Tom said impatiently. “Who’s Kitezh?”

  “Kitezh is not a who, Tom. The question should be: What is Kitezh?” Hellen looked at Tom with a smile, and he knew that she had tasted blood.

  11

  Makli Necropolis, Pakistan

  Berlin Brice, better known as the Welshman, sat in a CJ-5 Jeep that was almost as ancient as he was and directed his men as they loaded crates of looted goods onto trucks. The Makli Necropolis, one of the largest graveyards in the world, covers an area of twenty-five acres close to the city of Thatta in Sindh province, Pakistan. There are somewhere between half a million and a million graves at the site, dating from the 14th to the 18th century. Although the graveyard was declared a UNESCO World Heritage site as far back as the 1980s, the area has still not been properly researched—for organized grave robbers, a rich feeding ground.

  “Be careful with those, damn you! They aren’t vegetable crates,” the Welshman swore in Urdu, but it had little effect on the men working. The sun beat down mercilessly, a hundred and twenty degrees in the shade, and there were still countless crates to load. The Welshman rolled his eyes. His satellite phone rang.

  “Qadir, please make it very clear to these bastards that they will not get a single rupee from me if they continue to handle my finds like that.”

  Qadir nodded, raised his AK-47 and rattled off several shots into the air. Then he bellowed at the men in a voice that would have put the fear of God into a U.S. Marine drill sergeant. The men nodded submissively.

  “Well,” the old man said to himself, “would you look at that.” He picked up the Thuraya X5-Touch and answered the call.

  “We’ve found it, sir.”

  The Welshman leaned back and let out a sigh of relief. Suddenly, all the plundered goods he’d accumulated here so far were just pocket change. Everything paled in comparison to the treasure he was now one step closer to.

  “The entrance?”

  “No sir, not the entrance. But we know who has the casket.”

  The Welshman grunted and was on the verge of an angry reply when a shot made him jump. He looked back over his shoulder. Qadir had just shot one of the workers dead: the man had apparently managed to drop one of the crates. The other workers stared aghast at Qadir and began loading twice as fast.

  The Welshman shrugged. “One less man to pay. I like it when my employees show initiative to save me money.”

  “Pardon?” said the voice on the phone, confused.

  “Not you, idiot. Stop beating around the bush, this isn’t some damned quiz show. What have you found?”

  “We were able to trace back the casket’s trail. We now know when and to whom the guardian passed it on.”

  The man paused. The Welshman was growing impatient. “This isn’t some who-fucking-dunit! Give me a name!”

  “You won’t believe this, but he’s related to the grandfather of someone we know quite well: Tom Wagner.”

  The Welshman smiled. Wherever Wagner was, Cloutard would not be far away. And he had unfinished business with both of them. He had to stop them from throwing a wrench in the works again.

  “Good. Get the casket and get rid of Wagner’s old grandpa.”

  “The connection’s bad, Sir. What was that about a Wagner opera?” the caller asked, puzzled.

  The Welshman blew his stack. “Remind me to smash your face in the next time we meet. Now listen carefully: I want you to kill Tom Wagner’s grandfather. Shoot him, strangle him, blow him up, drown him, quarter him, whatever takes your fancy. Just get rid of him. And then bring me the fucking box!”

  12

  Pope’s chambers, Vatican City, Rome

  “Kitezh is a sunken city. Or rather, it’s the legend surrounding a sunken city. It’s sometimes called the Russian Atlantis—according to the myth, it’s supposed to have vanished beneath the waters of Lake Svetloyar in Russia, not far from Nizhny Novgorod,” Hellen said.

  “People have looked for the sunken city for centuries, treasure hunters and archeologists especially,” the Russian Patriarch said, his voice lowered to a reverent whisper. “In recent years they’ve even scoured the lake floor with diving equipment. If this really is the Cross of Kitezh, it would be an unparalleled sensation for Russia.”

  The Pope laid one hand soothingly on the old Patriarch’s shoulder. He looked at Tom, tilted his head a little to one side, and with unmistakable irony said, “Yet another adventure, Tom?”

  Tom grimaced apologetically and raised his hands as if to say it was all just pure coincidence.

  “Where did the cross come from if the city is underwater?” Tom asked, looking into the laptop’s camera to direct the question at Hellen.

  “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? And unfortunately we have no way to know the answer,” Hellen said with some resignation. “Until a few minutes ago, I’d always considered Kitezh to be a fairy story. Like many of my staid colleagues, I never even dreamed that the legend might hold a grain of truth.”

  “I’m more interested in finding out how the cross came to be lying on top of the Tomb of St. Peter,” Commandant Da Silva interrupted. “It’s one thing for an object of historical value to turn up, but someone has managed to gain unauthorized access to the Vatican and the Necropolis, and that has to be our top priority.” Da Silva’s harsh voice cut through the air like a chainsaw.

  “Truly, it is more important for us to know where the cross came from,” the Patriarch said. “The Cross of Kitezh is one of the most crucial artifacts of the ‘invisible city,’ as we Russians like to call it.”

  “And the mere fact that the cross exists means there is a chance of finding the city itself,” Father Fjodor added excitedly.

  Hellen, too, was thrilled at the find and impatient to know more. “That’s true,” she said. “If Kitezh still exists, then there must be a reason that someone deposited the cross in the Necropolis. And that must be someone who knows where Kitezh is. At least, I hope so.”

  “But why would someone suddenly steer all our attention toward a legend that no one really seems to think is true and that no one is looking for? And more importantly, why now, with a delegation from Russia visiting? That’s what we really need to find out,” Tom said, glancing across at the Pope.

  13

  Pope’s chambers, Vatican City, Rome

  Da Silva was shaking his head. “You don’t get to find out anything, Wagner. You’re in the Vatican as a guest, and if anyone’s going to open an investigation here, it’s me. The first question is, for whom was this strange message meant?”

  “Could it have been intended for Your Holiness?” Father Fjodor, the Patriarch’s secretary, piped up.

  The Patriarch looked at his companion in surprise, but then nodded benevolently. “The Cross of Kitezh is one of our oldest legends. As Mr. Wagner mentioned, maybe whoever left it there knew that we would be here and would visit the tomb, and they used it to get our attention.”

  “Impossible!” Da Silva interjected. “No one knew about the tour through the Vatican in advance, let alone where we would actually go. I’d stake my honor—my life!—on it.”

  The Patriarch was unmoved by Da Silva’s outburst. “The question is, what can we do?” he said.

  All eyes turned expectantly to the Pope.

  “With all due respect, Your Holiness,” said Tom, his voice uncharacteristically subdued, “I would like very much to speak with you alone.”

  Without waiting for the Pope’s reply, the Patriarch excused himself and left the room. His secretary followed silently. Da Silva and Sister Lucrezia gritted their teeth, but at a nod from the Pope they also departed.

  “Alone but with Hellen, you mean,” said the Pope, indicating the screen of Tom’s laptop, where Hellen’s face still showed.

  T
om nodded. “Since the first moment I saw the cross, I’ve had the feeling that I’d seen it before,” he said.

  “Why does that not surprise me?” said the Pope, with just a trace of sarcasm.

  Hellen seemed puzzled. “I thought you’d never heard of Kitezh?”

  “I haven’t. But I have seen that cross. All this time, I’ve been trying to think where it was, and now I’ve managed to dredge up the memory. My grandfather once showed me a picture of himself and one of his oldest friends. The man was a Russian Orthodox priest from Nizhny Novgorod, and in the photograph he was holding this cross in his hands.” Tom smiled mischievously. It was certainly not the first time he’d managed to surprise Hellen, but the astonished look on the Pope’s face was priceless.

  “What do you suggest, Tom? You’ve seen how important Kitezh is for the Patriarch. He would appreciate it very much if you were able to find his invisible city. One thing is clear to me: this is a sign from the Almighty.” The Pope was suddenly on his feet and there was veneration in his voice—Tom had heard it once before, back in the crypt beneath the Sagrada Familia: “It is no coincidence that you both are here,” he said.

  Hellen was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Okay, here’s a plan,” Tom said. “Hellen, you and Cloutard pay a visit to my grandfather and see what information you can get out of him. We have to find out all we can about the cross and who his friend in the photo is. I’ll fly straight to Russia tomorrow. Maybe I can fly with the Patriarch?” Tom looked up at the Pope and smiled enquiringly. “Once you’ve talked to Pop, you fly to Nizhny Novgorod. I’ll meet you and Cloutard there tomorrow night. It seems like the logical place to start looking.”

  Hellen nodded and beamed at Tom on the screen. “Searching for Kitezh is just as exciting as the job Blue Shield just gave us.”

  “If you say so,” Tom said, returning her grin. The Pope and Tom said goodbye to Hellen and the screen went dark.

  “May God protect you,” said the Holy Father and crossed himself. “Be careful.”

  14

  Vatican City, Rome

  “What a restaurant looks like is irrelevant, mon ami. In Rome, you can tell a good trattoria by how many locals are sitting inside.”

  There were few things that mattered as much to François Cloutard as good food and the right bottle of wine, except perhaps antique artifacts and stolen works of art. And now that Tom had called him after his talk with the Pope, Cloutard was more than happy to share his Rome restaurant tips with Tom.

  “François, I won’t be flying to Nizhny Novgorod until tomorrow morning, so I’ll be spending the night here in Rome. Do you know a good pizzeria?”

  “Mon Dieu, a pizzeria? You are a philistine, Tom, the dictionary definition of a philistine. Italians do not go to pizzerias to eat. In a traditional Italian restaurant, they do not even serve pizza. They serve real Italian food.”

  A diatribe followed about antipasti, pasta, frutti di mare and other Italian delicacies, few of which Tom could even pronounce. After a good five minutes, Tom finally managed to interrupt Cloutard.

  “All right, all right! Can’t you just send me the address of a restaurant you can recommend?”

  “Naturellement,” the Frenchman said, as if his honor had been wounded. “Ecoute, Tom, la chose la plus importante est: you are not to eat before 9 pm. A person who sets foot in a restaurant before that will be instantly stamped as an ignorant tourist and will end up with whatever leftovers they have from the day before.”

  “Ah. Okay. I did not know that. Good tip.”

  “So here is my recommendation: you go to a restaurant called Cacio e Pepe and you order their namesake dish, cacio e pepe, as an appetizer, followed by orecchiette pesto pachino pinoli. As a secondi, order the straccetti di manzo al rosmarino, then ricotta e cioccolato for dolci.

  “François, do you really keep the menus of every good European restaurant in your head?”

  “Of course not. What an absurd notion. I also know the menus of the best North African, Arabian and South American establishments, of course. The rest of the world, if you ask me, is unpalatable.”

  A few seconds later, Tom’s phone pinged with a text message: the address of Cacio e Pepe. Cloutard knew perfectly well that Tom would have trouble remembering spaghetti bolognese at the moment, partly because his mind was somewhere else completely.

  He could not stop thinking about the cross—in fact, it had even distracted his attention from the rumored terrorist threat. What did his grandfather have to do with the Cross of Kitezh? Why was the cross lying on the Tomb of St. Peter? How did it even get there? All these questions were spinning through his head as he left the Holy City and strolled past the cylindrical edifice of Castel Sant'Angelo, following the Tiber upstream. He was so deep in thought that he did not notice the bald man who began to follow him at St. Peter’s Square. The man wore a fairly large backpack, but that was not unusual for a tourist. He followed Tom until he turned left at the Ponte Matteotti and entered a trattoria not far from Piazza Mazzini.

  An hour and a half later, the man was still standing outside the restaurant. As usual in Rome, even at this late hour the streets were still filled with people, and he stopped a young boy, about ten years old, on the street.

  “How’d you like earn ten euros?” the man asked, coloring his flawless Italian with a dose of rough Roman dialect.

  The boy’s eyes gleamed and he nodded eagerly. “Si, Signore.”

  The man handed the boy a ten-euro note and an envelope. He pointed across the street. “There’s a guy sitting over there in Cacio e Pepe.” He showed the boy his phone. On the display was a picture of Tom. “Take this envelope to him, but don’t tell him who gave it to you. He’s an old friend of mine and I’ve got a big surprise for him, so you can’t tell him anything about it, okay?”

  The boy nodded. He snatched the envelope and the ten euros and ran across the road. The Kahle smiled and glanced at his watch. He still had a good hour. He turned and headed back toward the Tiber, crossed the river at Ponte Regina Margherita and continued on, moving southeast.

  Meanwhile, the boy had entered the overflowing restaurant. It was loud and stuffy, waiters scooted among the tables, and people sang and laughed and raised their glasses in toasts—a typical evening in a typical Roman restaurant. The boy scanned the tables until he saw Tom sitting alone at a table in a back corner, picking at his pasta and lost in thought. The boy recognized him immediately. He went and laid the envelope on the table and, before Tom had really taken any notice of him, had already vanished again out the door.

  Tom frowned. He picked up the envelope cautiously by one edge and held it up to the light. It looked like a normal letter, but an uneasy feeling came over him as he carefully opened the flap.

  Inside was a handwritten card. The paper was heavy, presumably expensive. On it, written in a delicate, almost calligraphic hand, was a short but clear message.

  15

  Sheremetev Castle, Yurino, Russia

  Father Lazarev gasped for breath when they finally pulled the stinking sack off his head. He looked around and realized that he was sitting handcuffed in a windowless room, surrounded by several armed men. The door opened. Another armed man entered and put a plate of food and a carafe of water on the table in front of him. He unlocked the handcuffs and motioned to the priest to eat.

  As soon as he was done eating, Father Lazarev was again cuffed to the chair. Then his kidnapper came into the room and sat on a chair in front of him. Unlike the day before, however, when he had come across as cold and cruel, he now seemed amiable, even friendly.

  “Hey, old man. If you like, I’ll let you go today,” he said.

  “Where am I?” the priest asked.

  “Oh, it’s a lovely spot. Not so far from your home, in fact.”

  “Who are you? Why am I here?” Father Lazarev pressed.

  “Listen closely, old man. We didn’t bring you here to answer your questions, but for you to answer ours. Now, I’m not
a barbarian. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Heinrich von Falkenhain, and I have an assignment. You should know that I have a reputation for being conscientious and seeing any assignment I accept through to the end. I’ve never made an exception—and you, old man, will not be the first.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Here, today, you will reveal to me the secret you’ve been keeping all this time.”

  “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You should know something else, old man. My reputation means a lot to me. As I said, I complete my assignments without fail. But just as important to me as my reputation is mutual respect. Do not take me for a fool.”

  Falkenhain stood up as he spoke, and just like that, his genial façade was gone. As if a switch had flipped, his voice turned hostile and his expression was suddenly savage. His face seemingly frozen, he glared at Father Lazarev. Not a muscle twitched. He did not blink. He stared at the priest and waited.

  “I really don’t—”

  Without a breath of warning, the German’s right fist shot forward and slammed into the old priest’s face. The priest heard his nose shatter, felt blood pour down his face. A fraction of a second later, the left fist followed, then the right again. Father Lazarev’s chair tipped over backward, but with his hands bound he could not even try to break his fall. The back of his head crashed against the stone floor, opening a wound, and a pool of blood immediately began to form. Two of the guards moved to set their prisoner upright again, but Falkenhain glowered at them, something insane in his eyes, making the two men stop in their tracks.

  “Kitezh!” Falkenhain bellowed, like an animal gone wild, at the bleeding man lying on the floor. “Kitezh!”