“I can hardly wait to actually see the cross for real,” Hellen said distractedly, looking for maybe the fiftieth time at the picture of the cross on her phone. It took her several seconds to realize that Tom had asked her a question. “Which guy?”
“You were miles away, weren’t you?” Hellen looked at him, not understanding. “The whole time we were in the shop, there was only one other customer.”
“So?”
“Well, he was completely bald. And I mean completely. A real cue ball. No hair, no eyebrows, not even eyelashes.”
“The things you notice when a woman in a sexy evening dress is standing right in front of you,” Hellen said, and she sighed. “Times change, I guess.”
27
Arthur Julius Prey’s apartment, Havana, Cuba
“Monsieur Prey? Hallo?”
No answer.
Cloutard knocked again, then reached for the door handle. To his surprise, the door was not locked. Is it something in Tom’s genes? he briefly wondered. Cautiously, he stepped inside. Behind the door, a baseball bat leaned against the wall, and he smiled as he picked it up. Armed now, he crept deeper into the small, shabby apartment. The noises were coming from a room at the back. Cloutard was not sure if the place was just messy or if someone had ransacked it. He advanced with caution. In the past, he had rarely had a direct hand in anything—he had had people for that sort of thing. But that had all been in another life. He positioned himself in front of the door from behind which the sounds were coming, took a firm grip on the bat, and kicked the door open.
“Oh, mon Dieu!” Cloutard exclaimed. It took him a split second to process the scene in front of him, then he instantly turned away and closed the door behind him. But he was too late: the image had burned itself onto his brain. Arthur Prey, Tom’s grandfather—surprisingly sprightly for his seventy-five years, as Cloutard had just discovered—was in the middle of a stormy lovemaking session involving his Cuban girlfriend and a chest of drawers, his pants around his ankles. The wobbly piece of furniture, the old man’s puffing, and the pleasure-filled squeals of the woman, some years younger than Arthur, had let Cloutard to fatally misinterpret the situation. Chattering in Spanish and frantic thumping came from the other side of the door, and Tom’s grandfather appeared seconds later brandishing a revolver.
“Who the devil are you?” he shouted, the gun leveled at Cloutard’s head. Cloutard immediately dropped the baseball bat and raised his hands in the air.
“I am a friend of your grandson, Tom Wagner. My name is François Cloutard. I work for Blue Shield with Tom and Hellen de Mey.”
“Hellen? I thought they’d broken up?”
In as few words as possible, Cloutard explained to the old man what had happened.
“Artjom,” Arthur whispered. “I haven’t heard from him in years.” He slumped onto a chair at the kitchen table and put the revolver aside. “And my cat?”
Cloutard squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head.
The bedroom door opened a little and the Cuban woman peeped out through the gap. She had wrapped herself in a sheet.
“No hay nada de malo?” she whispered. Then she came out of the room and dashed to Arthur. She laid her hand on his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek.
“This is Aniel,” Arthur said by way of introduction.
“Enchantée,” said Cloutard.
“Mi nieto necesita me ayuda—my grandson needs my help,” Arthur said to Aniel. “Get dressed, we have to leave.” He turned to Cloutard. “I have to get something first.”
“What do you have to get?” Cloutard asked in surprise. “We have to get to Russia as fast as we can. Someone has already destroyed your apartment in Vienna and you are in great danger here.”
“Maybe so, but if this is really about Father Lazarev and the cross he showed me forty years ago, then there is something we have to go and get. Trust me.”
Tom’s grandfather did not give the impression of being seventy-five years old. He was as fit as a man half his age and wore a full gray beard that reminded Cloutard of Ernest Hemingway.
Cloutard’s phone rang. “Cirilo,” he read on the display, and he took the call.
“I don’t know what you’re involved in, but two evil-looking bastards just jumped out of a car down here and they’re heading for your uncle’s building. Something tells me they’re here for him. Get the hell out of there as fast as you can.”
28
Kremlin of Nizhny Novgorod
“I had no idea there was a kremlin outside Moscow,” Tom said as he climbed out of the taxi and looked up at the fortress, originally built in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Thousands of people were streaming toward the citadel to be part of the celebration of the city’s eight-hundredth birthday.
“There are many kremlins in Russia, in fact, but the one in Moscow is the best known. The kremlins are citadels that were built on the borders of the Grand Duchy of Moscow to protect it from raiders. Part of the construction of this particular kremlin is ascribed to the Italian architect Pietro Frjasin. Its walls are a mile and a half in length and up to forty feet high, with thirteen watchtowers built in.”
Tom took the tickets that the Patriarch had given him out of his jacket pocket and showed them to the security guards at the main entrance. They passed through an airport-like security check followed by a thorough patting down, but Hellen wasn’t about to let anything dampen her enthusiasm. She went on telling Tom about the complex.
“There are also five large square towers that used to be topped by artillery pieces. Each tower has its own name, similar to other kremlins. That one there, for example,”—she pointed to a tower some distance to their right—“is the Demetrievskaya Tower. Its name comes from a church sanctified to Demetrius of Thessaloniki that used to stand opposite the tower.”
From security they made their way through a parking area toward the concert hall.
“That doesn’t look particularly historical,” Tom said, pointing to an ugly prefabricated concrete building.
“It’s not. In the Soviet era in the 20th century, several administration buildings were constructed on the kremlin grounds. In World War Two, the roofs of the Taynitskaya, Severnaya and Chasovaya towers were dismantled and replaced with anti-aircraft guns on platforms. And that there”—Hellen pointed to a white-painted church with a green roof—“is the Archangel Cathedral, which dates back to the sixteenth century. There was an older building here before this one, dating from 1227. It was one of the first religious structures in Russia made of stone.”
Tom was impressed. A year earlier he would not have found any of it especially interesting. Art, culture and history had never matter much to him. But the adventures of the last year had awakened a fascination in him for historical myths, antique artifacts and sunken treasure.
“The things you know,” he murmured admiringly as they stepped into the foyer of the concert hall. At the entrance to the kremlin, Tom had noted the presence of hundreds of police and military vehicles. An eighth centennial celebration was a big deal, no doubt, but did it call for marching an entire company around inside the kremlin walls?
Tom’s mind returned to the events in Rome—once again he was surrounded by snipers, and he didn’t like the feeling at all.
In the foyer of the concert hall, Father Fjodor, the Patriarch’s secretary, came bustling toward them. “President Gennady Vlasov has just arrived,” he said, and Hellen’s eyes widened. “We were not sure that he would even make it, but now that he is here there will be a brief reception ahead of the official ceremony, just a small gathering. The Patriarch would like to personally show the Cross of Kitezh to the president and the governor of Nizhny Novgorod before presenting it to the wider world. The artifact is of great importance to us Russians.”
The man’s excitement was palpable and he kept looking around nervously. He took out two VIP passes and handed them to Tom and Hellen.
“The Patriarch would like you to be there. Please follow
me.”
Without waiting for their reaction, Father Fjodor began to push his way through the waiting crowd.
29
Kremlin concert hall, Nizhny Novgorod
They followed the Patriarch’s secretary into the empty concert hall, where a cocktail reception had been hastily organized to accompany the presentation of the cross to the visiting luminaries. Around thirty people were already gathered on the stage. The Patriarch was among them—Tom could see him talking with a group of important-looking men. Father Fjodor led Tom and Hellen up a set of stairs and onto the stage, and when the Patriarch saw them his face lit up.
“I am so happy you were able to come! May I introduce the governor of Nizhny Novgorod, Maksim Borislav Nikolayev?” Starting with the governor, Tom and Hellen shook one hand after another as Father Fjodor made the introductions.
“And this is Berlin Brice, a good friend of the governor, and his assistant, Mr. Qadir,” Father Fjodor said. “Mr. Brice is an art expert from the United Kingdom.”
“From Wales, to be precise,” Brice said. His correction did not sound unfriendly or pedantic. There was pride in his voice, in fact.
Tom instantly thought of the first time he met François Cloutard, not that long ago. It had been a similar situation—a famous artifact, a lot of wealthy people—but he did not have a good feeling about Brice at all.
“And you are Hellen de Mey, the famous archeologist,” Brice went on, gallantly kissing Hellen’s hand. “It’s good to see UNESCO making an appearance in this part of the world. Sometimes it seems as if UNESCO rides the coattails of the Americans and goes only where there’s oil or other raw materials to be had.”
Hellen returned a pained smile. “Blue Shield is active wherever art and history are in danger. Not only in war zones, but also to protect them from grave robbers and smugglers.”
Her words carried a double shot of cynicism, and Father Fjodor noticed that the conversation was cooling rapidly. He took the opportunity and said loudly, “Well, it looks as if all of our guests are here. I think we can get started.”
It wasn’t subtle, but it worked. Tom and Hellen moved away to one side, while those around them talked curiously among themselves, wondering what the spontaneous reception was all about. Around fifty people were now gathered on the concert hall stage.
“Do you know those guys?” Tom asked, nodding back toward Brice and his assistant.
“Yes, I’m sorry to say. People call him ‘the Welshman.’ He may be an art expert, but he’s also a notorious plunderer. Cold-blooded and totally ruthless.”
“Like Cloutard, but on the dark side of the Force?”
“That sums him up pretty well, actually.”
“So basically, an asshole. We seem to be meeting a lot of those lately,” Tom said, and they both chuckled.
A murmur ran through the crowd as all eyes turned to a side door that had just opened. Around twenty-five grim-faced security men in black suits streamed inside and spread out. Everyone knew what that signaled. A few seconds later the Russian president himself entered the concert hall.
“He’s even uglier in real life that on TV,” Hellen whispered.
“Ms. de Mey, since when are you so rude? Usually it’s me who can’t keep his opinions to himself.”
She poked him in the ribs. “You’re a bad influence.”
“But you’re right,” Tom said. “He’s no beauty.”
Two security guards climbed onto the stage and herded the guests aside to make room for the president, who made his way up the steps behind them.
“Man, the president shows up and they all start pissing their pants,” Tom whispered, earning an incensed look from a Russian couple standing close by. The couple bore all the hallmarks of wealthy “New Russians.” “Do you suppose they’ve ever been to Ibiza?” Tom added.
“Hush now!” Hellen hissed.
The mood became more official, and even the “New Russian” stereotypes snapped to attention. The Patriarch, the governor and the president himself each made short speeches, though Tom and Hellen did not understand a word. Then the Patriarch lifted the cross from its velvet-lined case and lifted it high in the air for everyone to see. The guests’ faces shone with enthusiasm. The Patriarch presented the cross to the president, pointing toward Tom and Hellen as he did so. They did not understand what was being said, but the Patriarch’s words were followed by a vigorous round of applause.
“Looks like we’re the heroes of the evening,” Tom said, grinning, and he bowed cheerfully. Hellen, however, felt herself blush. She shifted her weight nervously and looked at the floor in embarrassment. To her horror, the Patriarch waved them both over, and she and Tom hesitantly stepped forward. The president handed the cross back to the Patriarch and went to meet them.
“On behalf of the people of Russia, I would like to thank you for coming to help us find our long-lost city,” he said. “Спасибо—Spasibo.” He shook Hellen’s hand, then Tom’s.
Without warning, a door on the other side of the hall flew open with a crash.
“The cross will do you no good! Kitezh will soon be lost forever!” shouted a short, non-descript man from the door. He wore a crumpled tweed jacket and his hair was a wild tangle.
Every face turned to the man. The bodyguards with the president stepped protectively between him and the new arrival, their guns trained on the intruder.
“My name is Hillary Graves. I’m a seismologist, and in forty-eight hours an earthquake of magnitude eight or greater is going to devastate everything from Lake Svetloyar to Nizhny Novgorod. Kitezh will sink a second time, and this time forever!”
30
Arthur Prey’s apartment, Havana, Cuba
“Arthur? May I call you Arthur?” Cloutard said, trying to get Tom’s grandfather’s attention. “We have to get out of here!”
“You already said that. What do you think we’re doing, spring cleaning?” Arthur snapped. “We’re packing.”
Cloutard grabbed Arthur by the arm and made him look at him. “I mean we have to get out of here now. The men looking for you are coming up the stairs right now!”
That got Arthur’s attention. He paused for a second, then hurried to the front door, locked it and jammed an armchair under the door handle.
Moments later, the two men outside reached the door. They threw their weight against it, but it held.
“They’re here,” Cloutard whispered into his phone.
Arthur took his revolver from the kitchen table and slipped it into the back of his trousers. He jerked open a drawer and collected several loose bullets, stuffing them in his pocket.
“Mi vida, vámonos!” Arthur shouted to Aniel, who had run to the bedroom to get dressed. He took her hand in his and looked deep into her eyes. “Everything will be all right,” he said, stroking her hair. “We’ll come back for our things later. Now we have to go.” Aniel, upset by the commotion, only nodded. Arthur pulled her toward the balcony door. He jerked open the white slatted door and went out first. The two men were still in the hallway, throwing themselves at the apartment door, and the armchair was starting to slip.
“Come on! What are you waiting for?” Arthur shouted back to Cloutard. He followed them out onto the long, slender balcony, which overlooked an alley with two garden restaurants. Cloutard heard music from below and the laughter of patrons. The alley was very narrow and the neighboring building was surrounded by scaffolding for renovation work. They hurried along the balcony to the end.
“We’re on the harbor side of the building. Pick us up at the corner,” Cloutard shouted into his phone, and hung up.
“We have to get across,” Arthur said. He helped Aniel climb over the railing. She jumped and landed neatly on the scaffolding.
“Now you, come on.”
“Mon Dieu,” Cloutard muttered, looking down. They were only two floors up but even at that altitude he did not like the idea of jumping from one building to another at all, though it was just a few feet. In the meantime,
the people in the restaurants had noticed them.
“Go! Hurry!”
Cloutard jumped and found himself a moment later behind the green tarpaulins hanging over the scaffolding. He followed Aniel, who was already climbing down a ladder.
Suddenly, the two thugs charged out onto the balcony. The white curtain billowed through the balcony door behind them. They carried pistols with silencers and looked around wildly. One of them spotted Arthur and fired twice, but the bullets missed Arthur by a hair’s breadth as he leaped across to the scaffolding.
The men tucked their pistols into their jeans and took up the chase, jumping across to the scaffolding behind Arthur. But they were too far behind. By the time they had reached the ground and battled their way out through the tarpaulins, all they saw was the red Chevy racing away with its tires squealing. They ran around the building, jumped into their car and sped in pursuit.
“What now? What do we still have to get?” Cloutard said.
“I got to know Artjom Lazarev in Vietnam. He’s a Russian Orthodox priest and he saved my life and the life of a young girl there. Years later, he asked me to do him a favor. He gave me an object and asked me to hide it at the other end of the world. I was happy to oblige.”
“What was this ‘object?’” Cloutard asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t really know,” Arthur replied. He stepped out of the bushes bordering the gardens of the Castell de la Real Fuerza. Cirilo had driven a few hundred yards, then stopped to let Cloutard and Arthur jump out before driving on with Aniel, luring their pursuers away.
“Do you trust that man?” Arthur asked Cloutard.
“With my life. He will look after your friend, I assure you.”
“Then let’s go. We have no time to lose.” Arthur stepped onto the street and flagged down one of Havana’s ubiquitous moped taxis.
The Invisible City (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 3) Page 7
