“Sahib, we have a big problem. We’ll have to hurry if we want to get the treasure out of Kitezh safely.”
The Welshman was suddenly all ears. As his servant and fix-it man, Qadir was the only one allowed to interrupt anytime and anywhere, his only confidante able to judge the true urgency of a situation. The Welshman trusted him unreservedly. Qadir handed him a sheet of paper.
“The seismographic readings from the area around Nizhny Novgorod. Something big is coming.”
It took the Welshman a few seconds to interpret the data. Then he jumped from the massage table as if stung by a scorpion. The towel fell to the floor, but he didn’t care. He turned to Thai woman. “Pack our things. We have to get to Russia, fast!”
24
Theresia de Mey’s apartment, central Vienna
“We need the jet,” Hellen said. On second thought, it probably wasn’t the best opening, considering she had just woken the head of Blue Shield up in the middle of the night—even if the head of Blue Shield was her own mother.
Hellen and Cloutard had driven straight from Arthur Prey’s bombed-out apartment to see Theresia de Mey at home, but once Hellen had briefed her mother about the Cross of Kitezh and the attack on Tom’s grandfather, Theresia agreed to approve an official Blue Shield investigation. But on one condition: at the end of the day, Hellen had to have something concrete to show for it.
“The budget we get from UNESCO is not enough for what I want my Blue Shield to be,” Theresia de Mey said. “Yes, we had a little windfall after your last escapade. But the UNO, in its infinite wisdom, has now decided it can put that money to better use elsewhere. So we are in a tight spot, financially speaking. Bring me something with actual monetary or historical value, something I can present to the world. Blue Shield has to find private investors to survive. Thanks to Monsieur Cloutard I have enough contacts, at least for now. All legal, too, astonishingly enough. But I need to be able to show them something extraordinary. I hate to say it, but this is the price we have to pay to protect the cultural treasures of this world.
“And by the way, when you see Mr. Wagner, tell him that was the last time I will put up with him running off the way he did. And ask him to have a word with his friend in Rome. I’ve had a number of inquiries. Interested parties from New York to Tokyo would pay well to be able to put the Sword of Peter on display, but the Vatican seems to have no interest whatsoever.”
Hellen nodded obediently and turned to go.
“And darling? Next time, just call.” With that, Theresia de Mey closed the door behind her daughter.
“I will arrange my visa myself, Chérie,” Cloutard said when Vittoria ran through the details of his flight. Vittoria Arcano, former Interpol agent and now Theresia de Mey’s right hand, had already worked out everything else—and getting a flight plan together for a private jet on such short notice was no easy task.
En route to the airport, they had made brief stops at Tom’s houseboat and Hellen’s apartment to pick up a few items. Hellen still had a few hours before her flight left, but she saw no sense in driving back into the city after she had dropped Cloutard at the private terminal.
A short time later, Cloutard was Havana-bound and making himself at home in the Blue Shield jet. He put his feet up, poured himself a small glass of his favorite cognac and leaned back in the oversized leather seat. Ah, the good old days, he thought, sipping his cognac with delight. Theresia de Mey had been nice enough to equip the minibar of the Blue Shield jet with Louis XIII. The luxurious Gulfstream V had come into Blue Shield’s possession indirectly, seized by Interpol as part of a drug raid—Theresia de Mey had gotten herself a jet at a bargain-basement price.
25
Strigino Airport, Nizhny Novgorod
“Can you explain this?”
Hellen held out her phone, showing Tom the video of him in his blood-splattered T-shirt, firing wildly in all directions. It was mid-morning and Tom had arrived in time to meet Hellen at arrivals. Now they were waiting for her suitcase to appear.
“Amazing how good the cameras are on these new phones, amiright?” Tom said. He tapped on one part of the screen. “See? Only one streetlamp lit and you can still see it’s me. Okay, it’s grainy and I’m covered in blood, but I’m still impressed.”
Hellen raised one eyebrow. She looked at Tom but said nothing. He knew that look: she was through joking around. “Okay, the short version,” he sighed, and explained to Hellen what had happened.
“How do you keep getting dragged into these insanely absurd situations? You’re a catastrophe magnet! More happens to you in a week than happens to normal people in their entire lives.”
“Is it my fault if people keep shooting at me? The guy was a stone-cold contract killer, very professional. But more importantly, did you visit Grandpop?”
Hellen’s face was suddenly stricken. Tom knew that look, too, and he suspected the worst.
“Is he okay?”
Hellen explained what had happened in Vienna and immediately tried to put Tom’s mind at ease: “François is on his way to Havana. He’ll look after Arti.”
“Is François really the right guy for the job?” Tom did not feel very reassured. He and Cloutard had been through more than one escapade together, but he also knew the Frenchman’s criminal past and that he could switch allegiances at the drop of his Panama hat. He could only hope that Cloutard would find his grandfather and keep an eye on him.
“Tom, don’t forget that your grandfather can also take care of himself pretty well. I remember the stories he told us about his time as a war reporter.”
He had to admit that she was right. There was little he could do anyway, at least for now.
“Okay, Professor de Mey. Tell me more about this ‘invisible city’.”
Hellen smiled. She didn’t need to be asked twice. Her eyes bright with enthusiasm, she launched into the history of Kitezh, and Tom could see that she was in her element. “Of course. Well, at the start of the 13th century, there were two cities: Maly Kitezh, which means Little Kitezh, and Bolshoi Kitezh, or Big Kitezh.”
“Bolshoi? I hope you’re not taking me to the ballet. God, anything but that. Do you remember the time you dragged me to the State Opera?”
“Yes! You snored so loud the usher came and threw us out. It took me months to get decent tickets again. Don’t worry, no ballet.”
Tom breathed with relief.
“So, according to legend, Little Kitezh was founded by the Grand Prince of Vladimir,” Hellen said.
“By the lake where they say it sank?”
“Actually, no. Little Kitezh was on the shores of the Volga River, not far from Nizhny Novgorod. But then the same Grand Prince of Vladimir discovered a much more beautiful location on the shores of Lake Svetloyar, and that’s where he built Big Kitezh. The city quickly became known as a holy site, like the Vatican, and there were churches, monasteries and palaces built all around the city.”
“So what happened to it?” Tom asked.
“Genghis Khan’s grandson, that’s what,” said Hellen.
“What do you mean?”
“In 1238, Batu Khan, Genghis Khan’s grandson, led the Mongol armies into the northeastern part of Russia. While his soldiers were conquering, plundering and burning everything in their path, including Little Kitezh, the Khan heard about Big Kitezh, and suddenly he had a new goal. All that mattered to him from that moment on was taking the city.”
“But didn’t Genghis Khan have hundreds of grandchildren?” Tom asked.
“Yes, but only one of them ever amounted to anything. That was Batu. The Grand Prince tried to negotiate with Batu Khan, but he ended up having to flee for his life when the Khan tried to have him killed. The problem was that none of the Khan’s soldiers knew the exact location of Big Kitezh. So he interrogated his prisoners from Little Kitezh.”
“Did they tell him?”
“No. Not one of them would reveal the holy city’s location, which made the Khan furious. He ordered the pris
oners to be beaten and tortured but still none of them said a word.”
“Why not? Weren’t they scared? Why were they so loyal?” Tom was curious now, and Hellen grinned. She could tell that he was getting interested.
“They were more afraid of the eternal curse of Kitezh than they were of death threats and torture.”
“The eternal curse . . .?”
“Yes. The prisoners believed that if they revealed the location of Big Kitezh they would bring down a curse on themselves and their descendants forever.”
“So if none of them told the Khan where the city was, how did the Mongols find it?”
“In the end, one of the prisoners finally broke. They tortured him beyond human endurance, and he told them about the secret routes that led to Lake Svetloyar.”
“What happened to the Grand Prince?”
“They say he died in the battle. Before he died, though, he was able to hide all of the city’s holy artifacts and treasures in the lake. Then, somehow, the city became . . . invisible. No one really knows today exactly how to interpret that, or what ‘the invisible city’ really means. These days, all there is at Lake Svetloyar is the lake itself and lots of forest.”
“So no one really knows what became of Kitezh?” Tom raised his eyebrows. He hoped they had not flown all this way for nothing.
“They say that the city is only visible to the pure of heart, and that those who truly believe in it can hear church bells coming from the lake. Some even claim to have seen the outlines of buildings on the lakebed.”
“But no one’s really seen or heard anything?”
“No. Several archeological expeditions have studied the area around the lake, and they have found signs of an old settlement. But no relics or treasures. The Kitezh mythology also says that all of Batu Khan’s plunder is also to be found in the city—and it was a long campaign that cut right across the heart of Asia.”
“Do you think there’s a chance we’ll find anything new?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. But it’s too tempting not to at least try.”
While Hellen was relating the history of Kitezh, her luggage arrived. Three minutes later, they were sitting in Tom’s rental car on their way into the city.
“By the way, we have to get you an outfit for tonight,” Tom said casually.
Hellen frowned. “An outfit?”
“Unless you have an evening dress packed in your suitcase.”
“Why would I need an evening dress?”
“The Patriarch has invited us to Nizhny Novgorod’s kremlin. They’re celebrating the city’s eighth centenary. Even the Russian president’s going to be there.”
“The Pope, the American president, the Russian president. The speed-dial list on your phone must be bursting at the seams,” Hellen said with a smile, and Tom once again sensed the attraction that still existed between them.
“True. But I think I could still find a slot for the Dalai Lama,” he said.
Twelve hours after leaving Vienna, the pilot opened the door of the Gulfstream and lowered the steps. Tiny beads of sweat appeared instantly on Cloutard’s forehead as he stepped out of the air-conditioned interior of the plane.
Sun, sea, a cloudless sky, cocktails, music and a unique lust for life – that was Cuba. Cloutard straightened his Panama hat as he descended the steps, then looked up to see a bright red Chevy convertible parked on the airport apron. The vintage beast was still in good shape, but it wore its seventy years of history on its sleeve. A copper-tanned man leaned against the driver’s door, puffing on a fat cigar—an unusual sight: most locals could hardly afford cigars. But Cirilo García López was no regular Cuban. He served as a kind of ambassador, a link in the chain between corrupt government officialdom and organized crime.
Cirilo threw up his arms when he saw Cloutard and came to meet him, the cigar pushed into the corner of his mouth.
“Hola François. Welcome back,” Cirilo shouted happily.
“Salut, old friend. So good to see you again.”
The two men threw their arms around each other in a brotherly embrace, then Cirilo took Cloutard’s bag and put it on the white-leather back seat of the convertible.
“I see you still have your old fotingo.” The Cubans used the word, which translated roughly as “jalopy,” with affection to describe the vintage cars that were an inseparable part of the cityscape of Havana.
“Si, compañero. She has never let me down,” Cirilo said and he rapped his knuckles on the door. They climbed in and the car trundled toward the airport exit. The boom gate swung upwards and the guard waved them through.
“Getting into Cuba with your help is still as smooth as silk, I see,” Cloutard said, patting his old friend on the shoulder.
“Pero seguro. Except it is a little more expensive than it used to be.” Cirilo rubbed his fingers together and they both laughed. “By the way, I have a gift for you.” Cirilo reached over to the back seat and came back with a beautifully made cylindrical wooden box in his hand. He passed it to Cloutard.
Cloutard’s eyes widened.
“Is this . . .?”
“Siiii!” Cirilo smiled.
Cloutard opened the box reverently. “Havana Club Maximo Extra Añejo,” Cloutard whispered, examining the expensive Baccara decanter. The strictly limited special edition cost almost two thousand dollars a bottle—a lot of money for half a liter of rum.
“You do know that I have lost my empire and that I am not able to afford such luxuries right now?”
“Don’t worry, viejo amigo,” Cirilo said reassuringly. “Lo siento mucho. We could not believe it when we heard the news.”
“Thank you. But do not worry. I will get it all back.”
Half an hour later, Cirilo and Cloutard were driving along the Malecón, Havana’s famous esplanade. The Malecón led them past La Habana Vieja—Old Havana, the city’s tourist hotspot and a gorgeous piece of the island’s history. Since 1982 it had also been a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The old buildings were gradually being renovated, but there were still more than enough of the ramshackle buildings that characterized the city.
They continued along the Malecón past Castillo de San Salvador de la Punta until they reached Castillo de la Real Fuerza. Just past the fortress complex, they turned into a small cul-de-sac and Cirilo stopped the car at the end.
“Your friend lives up there, top floor.” Cirilo pointed. Cloutard looked up at the green-and-yellow building, overlooking Plaza de Armas on one side and the harbor on the other. It stood opposite a small garden and adjacent to a public library, and was definitely among Old Havana’s more attractive buildings. The white wooden shutters, closed to the heat of the day, and the encircling balcony on the top floor only added to the charm of the house.
Cloutard got out of the car and went to the entrance of the building, which faced a small municipal garden adjacent to a public library. Inside, he climbed the narrow staircase, which was sorely in need of renovation. At the end of the hallway was the apartment. He looked around and was about to knock when he heard sounds from inside. He put his ear to the door and heard thumping and a clattering sound, then muffled whimpering and murmurs.
He knocked on the door.
26
Armani store, Nizhny Novgorod
Tom had never had much time for style or designer clothing, but as he inspected himself in the mirror, he had to admit he looked pretty good. Hellen had disappeared into the ladies’ section, giving Tom the opportunity to clear his head.
Hellen was the only woman Tom had ever truly loved. Unfortunately for both of them, the balance between their differences and their passion for one another had tipped; in time the drama had become too much. Deep down, they were two very different people, and there were just too many ways they didn’t fit together. After they broke up, Tom had sworn that he would never again let anyone get as close to him as Hellen had. Everything about love confused the hell out of him.
And yet here he was, with Hellen in Russia, buyin
g expensive designer clothes for an evening they were going to spend together. Not a date, of course. No, this was purely professional. At least, Tom tried to tell himself it was.
He heard a soft whistle as he appraised himself in the mirror. “James Bond would die of envy, I’m sure,” Hellen said. “Although he always preferred Brioni. You’ll have to get rid of the five-o’clock shadow, and that mop on your head isn’t exactly what I’d expect on a gentleman…but other than that, a woman could almost be seen in public with you.” The words were friendly, but the tone was a little cool. It bothered him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.
He turned around and his jaw dropped. Hellen was wearing a stunning black dress, the picture of elegance and femininity. Flounces adorned the back of the close-fitting, sleeveless garment, while the neckline dipped low, accentuating and hinting at what was underneath—a simple dress, but incredibly sexy.
He had to admit that she looked breathtaking, and he told her so. But she still seemed distant. Too much had happened in the last year. It’s probably better this way, he told himself. We don’t want to start all that madness again.
Hellen paid with her Blue Shield credit card and the assistant packed their new outfits into stylish shopping bags.
“Do you think tonight could be dangerous?” Hellen asked. “Just so I can prepare.” She did not sound concerned at all.
“I doubt it. No one knows the cross has turned up.”
Hellen was all business, and as they left the store it bothered Tom that she hadn’t been receptive to even his slightest compliment. He decided to give it up. It made no sense, anyway. Outside, Tom flagged down a taxi to take them back to the hotel.
“That guy was kind of strange, wasn’t he?” Tom said after Hellen had passed the hotel’s business card to the driver.
The Invisible City (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 3) Page 6
