The Invisible City (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 3)

by M. C. Roberts

  The men and women, indifferent to the armed men, kept working. They’d all seen worse.

  “Where did they go?” one of the men snarled as they marched through the rows looking for Arthur and Cloutard.

  Ernesto, in his improvised disguise, said: “Down the back stairs and out the rear entrance.” He pointed back toward the cargo elevator. “The elevator takes you straight down to the courtyard.”

  The men looked at each other, then hurried to the elevator and started down. But as soon as the elevator doors closed, Ernesto jumped to his feet. He ran to the elevator, jerked open the door to the electric panel and switched off the breaker to the elevator, which instantly jolted to a stop between floors. The furious yelling of the two men trapped inside rose through the elevator shaft to the top floor. Ernesto signaled to his people to get downstairs to safety as fast as they could.

  Cloutard pulled open the steel gate as soon the antique elevator came to a stop, then opened the secret door that led into the VIP room. He and Arthur rushed out into the salesroom but pulled up short, shocked to find Cirilo waiting for them.

  “If I’d known who those two were working for and why they’re here, I never would have helped you,” he said. He held Arthur’s girlfriend by the hair and had a gun pressed to her neck. Ernesto’s wife cowered behind the counter, afraid to move an inch.

  “Aniel! Let her go, you bastard,” Arthur growled.

  “I thought we were friends,” Cloutard said.

  “We are. This has nothing to do with you. You’re free to go.” He nodded toward the door. “I mean it. Get out of here. All I need is the casket, and I’m sure Mr. Prey here will be happy to part with it in exchange for his girlfriend.”

  Cloutard looked at Arthur and shrugged indifferently. “Je suis désolé. I am sorry,” he said, and he stepped cautiously to one side, checking if his friend really meant what he said.

  “Go! Disappear!” Cirilo shouted. Cloutard didn’t wait to be told a third time. He grabbed his box of cigars, raised his hat in farewell and quickly left the showroom.

  “You chickenshit bastard!” Arthur spat after him.

  “It seems that honor truly is dead,” Cirilo chuckled mockingly.

  “Aniel? Are you all right?” Arthur asked.

  Aniel nodded, but cried out when Cirilo pulled harder on her hair and pressed the gun harder against her throat. “Put the damned casket on the counter or I’ll blow her head off,” he said.

  Slowly, his free hand raised in surrender, Arthur did as he was told. He set the casket down on top of a glass cabinet and took a few steps back. “You’ve got what you want. Let her go,” he said. He thought of his revolver—all he needed was the right moment. He looked into Aniel’s eyes, willing her to understand.

  Cirilo pulled the poor woman with him by the hair. When he reached the casket, he held his gun at arm’s length, aimed at Arthur.

  “I’m sorry, but the people who want this box also want to see you dead.”

  Now or never, Arthur thought. He was just about to go for his revolver when an ear-splitting noise shattered the tension of the moment. Rubble, dust, cigar boxes and glass flew in all directions as Cirilo’s bright red Chevy smashed into the room with terrible force. The crash pushed the cabinets apart and one of them slammed into Cirilo, knocking him over. The casket went flying. Aniel pulled herself free of Cirilo and jumped across to Arthur, who threw a protective arm around her and swung her into cover behind the large column in the center of the showroom.

  “What are you waiting for? Get in!” Cloutard shouted. He sat behind the wheel of the convertible, covered in dust but grinning from ear to ear.

  “But I need the casket.”

  “Forget the damned box!” Cloutard shouted at him.

  Arthur saw Cirilo, cursing, struggling back onto his feet.

  “Mi amor, come on,” Aniel said, and she tugged at Arthur’s arm. Finally, he relented. They both climbed into the car as fast as they could and Cloutard hit the gas. Dust, rubble and shards of glass shot from underneath the spinning wheels, forcing Cirilo to duck for cover. The car tore away down the street, leaving a huge cloud of dust in its wake.

  “I thought you’d really bailed on us,” Arthur said.

  “Are you mad? Do you even know your grandson? He would hunt me to the ends of the earth if anything happened to you while you were you my responsibility,” Cloutard said, and he smiled as he turned onto the Malecón and headed for the airport.

  35

  Hospital room at the kremlin, Nizhny Novgorod

  Tom felt as if someone was jabbing red-hot needles into his eyes. His head was pounding and almost every part of his body hurt. When his eyes had adjusted to the light, he looked around in confusion. He was lying on an examination table in a small hospital room. But that was all that his brain could process, because the next thought that came to him was far worse.

  “Shit, they’ve got the cross!” he said aloud and sat up too quickly, sending a jolt of pain searing through his head.

  “No, Tom. They don’t.” Hellen pressed him gently back onto the bed.

  The Patriarch and his secretary, Father Fjodor, entered the room. “Feeling a little better, Mr. Wagner?” the Patriarch asked.

  Tom nodded. “I’m all right. My head’s exploding, but apart from that . . .” He paused for a moment, then continued, “. . . just scratches. Spoken like a Hollywood action hero, right?”

  He grinned at his three visitors. Hellen rolled her eyes, but she was clearly relieved. “There’s nothing wrong with him,” she said to the Patriarch, who nodded, reassured.

  “What about the cross? The bald guy had it and I let him get away. Was that an earthquake? Did Cueball survive? Was anyone else hurt? The earthquake guy was right.” Tom slowly sat up again.

  “It must be the shock,” Hellen said apologetically. “He never talks this much.”

  “Yes, the earthquake guy was right,” Tom heard someone say, and only then did he notice a man sitting in a corner of the room and pressing an ice pack to his head: Sir Hillary himself.

  “Looks like being a seismologist didn’t help,” Tom said with a smile. He pointed to the ice pack. “You still ended up getting bumped on the head.”

  “This?” Sir Hillary turned his eyes upward and lifted the ice pack for a moment. “This was the president’s security guys,” he growled. “And yes, a few hours from now all hell is going to break loose. There won’t be a building left standing. That earthquake last night was just a little foreshock. According to my calculations, the epicenter will be close to Lake Svetloyar, where the legends say Kitezh is supposed to be.”

  “If we don’t have the cross, we need—”

  “But we do have the cross,” Father Fjodor interrupted him. All eyes turned to the priest. “I was on my way to the bathroom when the lights went out. A man came running out of the concert hall. He was heading right at me but looking behind him, as if someone was chasing him. I assume that was you.” He looked at Tom, who nodded. The priest continued: “He didn’t notice me, and all I had to do was stick my leg out. He fell and dropped the cross, and I picked it up. A few seconds later, everyone started coming out of the concert hall and the man ran away.”

  Tom nodded. “Well, thank God for that. And there I was chasing the wrong guy and nearly breaking my neck.” Tom swung his legs over the side of the examination table. “What about the English guy? Brice, wasn’t it? He was with Mr. Clean at the concert.”

  “The Welshman? He disappeared in the chaos,” Hellen said as she helped Tom to his feet. He was a little wobbly but already feeling much better.

  Tom looked across at Sir Hillary. “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink. Fingers crossed they can mix a decent whiskey sour at our hotel. Come and tell us all about our impending Armageddon.”

  Sir Hillary nodded and they all left the room together. “Gladly, if I can get a single malt. Cocktails made with bourbon are for barbarians.”

  36

  Kulibin Park Ho
tel, Nizhny Novgorod

  “Hellen? You ready? Room service will be here with breakfast any minute.” He looked at his watch as he paced back and forth through the living room of their suite. They had separate bedrooms, of course.

  “Good,” Hellen said as she emerged from her room. “I’m starving.” She had pulled on a plain white T-shirt, jeans and New Balance sneakers. She was wearing no makeup at all and had tied her hair back in a practical ponytail.

  It was hard for Tom to imagine a simpler outfit, but despite that—or maybe because of it—he found her absolutely captivating. “My stomach’s growling, too,” he said.

  There was a knock at the door, and Tom, playing it safe, spied through the peephole. He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  Hellen interpreted the look correctly. “Not breakfast, I guess,” she said. “Who is it?”

  Tom did not reply, but simply opened the door.

  “Good morning. May I come in?” It was Father Fjodor.

  “Of course,” Tom said, and stepped aside.

  Father Fjodor smiled as he turned to Hellen and bowed his head in greeting. He looked around, taking in the interior of the suite for a moment.

  “Please, have a seat,” Hellen said, and she gestured toward the small leather easy chairs arranged around the coffee table in the center of the living room.

  “I’m sorry to barge in like this without a word of warning, but it’s an emergency.”

  “No problem,” Tom said. “What can we do for you?”

  “That’s something I’d like to discuss elsewhere, if you don’t mind,” the priest whispered, looking around suspiciously. “Not here. We’re in Russia. Walls have ears here.”

  “But breakfast is on its way,” Tom protested, which only earned him a glare from Hellen.

  “It’s about the cross. I’d prefer to be outside. We can talk safely out there,” Father Fjodor said, and he turned toward the door.

  “Of course,” said Hellen. The cross was more important than breakfast.

  Tom sighed. He grabbed the backpack with his laptop inside and followed Hellen and the priest out of the room. The hotel was situated on the edge of Kulibin Park, opposite the Church of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul. Just past the church, Father Fjodor turned onto a path leading into the park. After a short distance, still looking around cautiously, he spoke again.

  “I was afraid they would try to steal it,” he said.

  “Who are ‘they’? And what do you know about the cross that we don’t?” Tom said.

  “I should have warned you that other, er, individuals are also searching for the invisible city.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Hellen said. “The myth of Kitezh has been around for hundreds of years, and people have been searching for it just as long.”

  Father Fjodor looked down at the ground. “That’s true. But the people I’m talking about do not hesitate to kidnap, blackmail and kill to get what they want. They are probably the same ones who tried to steal the cross last night.”

  “Who are they?” Tom asked.

  “I don’t know exactly,” the priest said. “But I’m certain that they only want the treasures in the invisible city for themselves—and that they would do anything to get them. The mythology and Russia’s historical heritage mean nothing to them. Money is all they care about.”

  Father Fjodor paused for several seconds, as if struggling inwardly. He seemed about to say something else, but stopped himself and said nothing.

  “Father, may I ask why you came to us? You obviously know more than you have told us so far,” Hellen said. Tom watched the priest intently.

  “Stealing the cross makes no sense at all. The cross won’t help them find Kitezh. I have no idea why they are even after it,” Father Fjodor said, almost to himself.

  Tom and Hellen exchanged a suspicious look. The priest knew more about Kitezh than he was saying, that was clear. And Hellen knew Tom well: he did not like it at all if someone tried to lure him down a false trail, let alone into a trap. In Tom’s world, withholding information was tantamount to lying, so his reaction came as no great surprise to her.

  “With all due respect, Father Fjodor, whatever reasons you might have had not to reveal everything you knew, now’s the time to tell us the whole truth. Or we’ll be sitting in a plane to Vienna faster than you can say nostrovia.”

  Hellen grinned. Tom, like many others, was unaware that “nostrovia” was not how the Russians said “cheers.” She decided that now was not the time to disabuse him.

  “Yes, of course. You’ve earned the right to know the whole story.” Father Fjodor took several deep breaths and closed his eyes before continuing: “It was me who placed the Cross of Kitezh on the Tomb of Saint Peter.”

  37

  Sheremetev Castle, Yurino

  Father Lazarev had reached the limit of his endurance. In the last few hours, various men had screamed at him, beaten him, tortured him. He had had nothing to drink for hours. Sweat and blood covered his aging body. He hurt everywhere. And he could no longer bear the mental pressure they had put him under.

  All that kept him alive was the duty he had been entrusted with long ago. That, and the thought that he was not alone in ensuring that the secret of Kitezh would continue to be guarded—because he had taken the precaution of giving the casket to Arthur for safekeeping many years earlier. He could rely on Arthur completely. The casket, he was convinced, was safe somewhere on the other side of the world. It was hardly likely that the men holding him captive had picked up the trail that led to Arthur. Father Lazarev closed his eyes, leaned back and breathed calmly.

  Let them kill him. Even if he told them what he knew, it would not get them any further. In itself, the way was only one part of the whole, and they would not be able to bring together the others. Despite the terrible pain wracking his body, Father Lazarev smiled. The legacy of Kitezh would survive.

  The door opened and the hairless man, the one who had inflicted most of the pain on him in the last few hours—who even seemed to take pleasure in it—entered the small room. Father Lazarev prayed to God that this would be the end, that he would be freed from his suffering. He knew that he could allow himself to be weak, because he did not need to take his secret with him to the grave.

  “Something you are familiar with has come into our possession, old man,” the Kahle said.

  A dark premonition took root in Father Lazarev’s mind. Before he could even ask himself what the man meant, he was holding a cell phone in front of his face. On it was a clear image of the casket. All color drained from the priest’s face. He could not keep his emotions under control—sheer horror gripped him.

  The man smiled. “It was a coincidence that led us to it. Sadly, fate is not always on the side of you churchmen.” He turned around and shouted to someone outside. “Bring him something to eat and drink and patch him up. We need him a little longer. He needs to get his strength back. It looks as if he still has a lot to tell us.”

  The Kahle’s face twisted into a diabolical grin. “No one has ever been able to withstand my methods, and you’re not going to be the first, old man. I’ll break your will, too.” He left the room then, and a few minutes later another man entered, carrying water and a bowl of warm soup. Father Lazarev’s heart raced. He was afraid, but his spirit had returned. So it was up to him now, after all. He began to pray. With God’s help, he would continue to endure the torture. Suddenly, the old man felt overcome, as if God himself were speaking directly to him. He sensed that this was not the end. He sensed that God would send his angels to help him. He just had to hold on a little longer.

  38

  Kulibin Park, Nizhny Novgorod

  Tom and Hellen looked at each other again, this time in surprise.

  “Why?” Hellen blurted.

  “I did it to get attention,” the priest admitted.

  “Whose attention?”

  “Yours.” He looked at Hellen and Tom, his gaze steady. “I have followed your archeolog
ical successes in recent years, Ms. de Mey. And your own deeds, Mr. Wagner,” he said, turning to Tom, “have not escaped my notice, either. I was convinced that you were the right ones, and—”

  “The right ones for what?” Tom said, cutting him off.

  The priest ignored his interruption and went on calmly. “God saw to it that you . . .” he nodded toward Tom, “. . . were responsible for the Pope’s security. Everything fell into place. I had to act on the spur of the moment.”

  Hellen was growing impatient. “Please answer the question! For what, exactly, are we the right ones? If everything fell into place, then what for?”

  “The city of Kitezh still exists. It is no myth!” Father Fjodor suddenly burst out.

  Tom and Hellen were speechless. They first had to digest the priest’s revelation. Hellen was the first to find her voice.

  “Really? And . . . I mean, I have a thousand questions. Where? How do you know? When can we see it?”

  Hellen was suddenly bubbling with enthusiasm. Tom placed a hand on her forearm to try to bring her back down to earth a little. The priest was still holding out on them. There had to be more. Father Fjodor was obviously struggling inwardly.

  “Kitezh exists, but only one person knows where it is.”

  “Who?” Hellen could hardly contain herself. Her cheeks were flushed red. She wanted to know everything then and there.

  “My father. Only he knows the way there.”

  “Your father?” Hellen asked in astonishment.

  Father Fjodor sighed. “Yes. He is also a priest. And he is the guardian of Kitezh. The guardianship has been in my family for a very long time, passed from generation to generation.”

  “Wow,” Tom said, the best he could manage for now.