“I was overwhelmed when he told me about the guardianship. But he never showed me where it was located or told me about it, and we had a falling out.” Sadness filled his eyes. “But if he dies now, the secret dies with him.”
“Is he ill?” Hellen asked.
Father Fjodor shook his head.
“Then where is he? Is he in danger?” Tom could already see where this was headed.
“That is one of the reasons I came to you. A few days ago, several armed men forced their way into the church where he usually prays. The bodyguards with him were killed, and he was abducted.”
“Do you know who took him?” Tom asked.
“No. But it has to be the same people who tried to steal the cross yesterday.”
“The Welshman and his mob. Was this reported to the police?”
“Yes, of course. But it will do no good. We’re in Russia. The kidnapping of an old priest is not very high on their agenda, even with the Patriarch’s intervention. Besides, I don’t trust the police. Whoever kidnapped my father is surely part of the Bratva, or something like it. They will have the police in their pocket.”
Tom nodded knowingly.
“This is why I need your help, and I was afraid that I could not simply ask you. The cross was the means to an end, to get you both involved. I beg your forgiveness for that.”
Tom’s mind was racing. He ran through everyone he could think of who might be behind this.
Hellen looked at him. “You think AF is involved? Noah? Hagen?”
“Hard to say, but I wouldn’t be surprised. We have to ask Cloutard. He knows all the players in this particular game,” Tom said. He could see that the whole affair had suddenly become a great deal more complicated, especially if the shadowy organization that called itself “Absolute Freedom” was involved. They had completed their circuit through the park and were back at the hotel.
“My father is an old man. He is not as mentally strong as he used to be. We have to hurry. The secret cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of these people, but nor it cannot be lost forever, either. I am sorry I have no more clues to give you,” Father Fjodor said.
“Don’t worry,” Hellen said. We will do everything we can to find your father.”
Tom nodded, looking into Hellen’s eyes, when an explosion on the third floor of the hotel shattered the morning quiet. All three ducked reflexively. Bits of rubble and glass rained down around them, car alarms wailed, and people ran away screaming. Tom, Hellen and Father Fjodor looked up in dismay. All of them knew immediately which room no longer existed.
“I’m happy to see they didn’t just target my apartment,” Tom suddenly heard a familiar voice say. He spun around.
“Grandpop!” he cried with relief as he wrapped his arms around the old man.
Hellen greeted Cloutard, who was looking with concern toward the hotel. “Did everything go smoothly?” she asked.
“I would not say ‘smoothly,’ but we are here and still in one piece,” Cloutard replied with a smirk.
The priest was still in shock at the damage done to the hotel. People were streaming out the front door now, and in the distance they could hear the sirens of police cars and fire engines. The rising smoke could no doubt be seen from all over the city.
“Déjà vu,” Cloutard murmured.
Tom had recovered from his joy at seeing his grandfather again. “This whole thing is getting uglier and uglier. Exploding apartments and hotel rooms, some mystery man shooting at me, people trying to steal the cross. Who knows what’s next?”
Hellen and Cloutard nodded. They knew Tom only too well, and both had seen enough in their recent adventures to know that the moment had come when Tom had had enough.
“Let’s get out of here before someone takes it into their head to interrogate us for hours. We need a place where we can talk this through,” Tom said, his eyes locked on Father Fjodor.
39
A cheap hotel in Nizhny Novgorod
“How are we going to find out where they’ve taken Father Lazarev?” Hellen asked. Together with Father Fjodor, all four had checked into the first hotel they found. They needed peace and quiet to put together a plan.
“You’re a cutting-edge crew, aren’t you? Don’t you know someone who knows their way around a computer? Push a few buttons and voilà, the information’s on your screen like magic,” Arthur joked, waving his hands like a conjurer. Father Fjodor smiled.
But Hellen, Cloutard and Tom looked dejectedly at one another.
“Merde!” Cloutard swore, upset. It was too soon: the wound was still raw. Noah had been their man for just that kind of thing. But those days were over.
“We’re in Russia. Don’t hackers practically grow on trees here?” Hellen said, trying to lighten the suddenly dismal mood.
Tom was staring into space, but a hint of a smile played across his face. He stood up and excused himself for a moment.
“Where are you going?” Hellen asked.
But Tom disappeared into the bathroom without a word.
“So, no hacker,” Arthur said, and leaned back on his chair.
Ten minutes later, Tom emerged from the bathroom and silently joined the others. He put his laptop on the table in front of him, opened it, and looked around at the others. They exchanged baffled looks, then all eyes finally came to rest on Tom.
“What?” Tom said, surprised to see everyone staring at him.
“What was that just now?” Hellen asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Why all the secretiveness?”
“What secretiveness? I went to the toilet.”
Hellen, Arthur and Cloutard were getting annoyed.
“Tom, if you’re trying to jerk us around, you’re going to have to try harder than that. You didn’t even flush!” his grandfather chided.
“Nor did he wash his hands. Terriblement!” Cloutard shook his head.
“Tom, we’re not back in our big suite here. The walls here are reeeeaaally thin,” Hellen added.
He knew he’d been caught. Angry at himself, he tried to salvage what he could.
“I had an idea, and I wanted to follow it up before I said anything and got your hopes up,” he said. “If this works out, we’ll soon know what happened,” he glanced at Father Fjodor, “and where your father ended up.”
His friends’ mystification only grew.
“And?” Hellen asked.
“What do you mean, ‘and’?” Tom didn’t want to say any more, but no one was about to let him off the hook. Arthur was practically glaring at his grandson.
“Okay, okay! I got in touch with a guy at the Pentagon, one of my uncle’s colleagues, and I asked him to send me satellite images of the area around the lake you told us about,” he said, looking at Father Fjodor.
The mystification on the faces around him changed to amazement.
“Just like that?” Hellen asked.
“Uh, yes, just like that,” Tom said defensively. “The guy still owed Uncle Scott a favor, and they’ve been watching Russia very closely from space for a long time. That hasn’t changed a bit,” he continued. Just then, his email chimed, and he opened the message.
“Let’s take a look,” he said, clicking on the link in the email. A new window opened.
“Google Earth?” Hellen asked. She decided to keep any more misgivings about Tom’s secretiveness to herself for now. At first glance, the window that opened did look like Google Earth, except that the quality and controls were different.
“Not exactly. When exactly was your father kidnapped?”
“Tuesday night,” Father Fjodor said.
Tom’s fingers flew over the keyboard, and the results came back instantly. High-resolution satellite recordings in thermal-imaging mode flickered on the monitor. Hellen’s, Cloutard’s and Arthur’s curiosity had been aroused. They were on their feet now and peering over Tom’s shoulder.
“That’s a terrifying level of detail,” Hellen murmured. “Okay, not Google
Earth.”
The screen showed a forested area surrounding a small lake. Not far from the shore stood a church. The video showed two people in front of the building and one more inside. A car was parked in front of the church.
Suddenly, four more figures, glowing orange, moved into the picture from the edge of the screen, heading toward the church. There was a flash and the two figures stationed at the front of the church fell to the ground. Three of the new arrivals broke into the church. A few seconds later, a van appeared and pulled up out the front.
Father Fjodor sighed and covered his mouth with one hand. Tom realized how painful this must be for the priest and he fast-forwarded a few minutes to spare him the scenes that followed. Before long, the van was driving away.
“We’ll find your father,” Hellen said, putting one arm reassuringly around the man.
Arthur nodded and said, “My grandson is the best at what he does. He’ll get your father back, I’m sure of it.”
Tom had now followed the van to its destination and was already doing a little research online.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he announced after a couple of minutes. Once again, he had their undivided attention.
“Mon dieu . . . that is the Welshman!” Cloutard said when he recognized a picture of Berlin Brice on Tom’s monitor. “He is the revolting version of me.”
“I knew there was a reason he seemed suspicious,” Tom said. On the screen was as article about Berlin Brice, a report about how the British businessman had bought the legendary Sheremetev castle in the small town of Yurino, on the banks of the Volga River. According to the official statement, he was planning to renovate the place and restore it to its former glory.
“That’s where they’re holding your father.” Tom pointed to the castle in the background of the picture.
“I know that place,” Father Fjodor said. “People call it the ‘Pearl of the Volga.’ It was built by the Sheremetev family. They were old nobility, relatives of the Romanovs. And if I remember correctly, the previous owner of the castle is buried in the nearby Church of the Archangel Michael.”
Tom was studying the satellite images closely. “It looks like the Welshman has a small army stationed there. I count more than fifty men swarming around the place. This is not going to be a picnic.”
“We need plans of the estate,” Cloutard said.
“There was something in there about renovations, wasn’t there? Maybe the plans are in the architect’s office?” Tom’s grandfather said. He had been standing quietly in the background the whole time.
“Okay, thanks for volunteering. Hellen, you and Grandpop can find the plans,” said Tom. His voice had taken on a tone of command that took them all by surprise. “There’s just one thing missing. We can’t just knock on the front door and tell them we’re there to inspect the tapestries.” He paused, and his grandfather smiled at him encouragingly. “We need guns. Lots of guns.”
“Settle down, Neo,” said Cloutard, and he patted Tom placatingly on the shoulder.
Father Fjodor frowned and held up his hands as if surrendering. “I’m a man of God. I can’t help you with that.”
“But I can,” said Cloutard.
“Let me guess,” Tom said with a smile. “You know someone who knows someone who earns a not-exactly-legal living buying and selling things that reduce one’s life expectancy.”
“We are in Russia. Arms trading here is as normal as vodka and borscht.” The Frenchman grinned broadly and began to scroll through the contact list on his phone.
40
Nizhny Novgorod
Hellen, Arthur and Father Fjodor sat in their small rental car and looked at the office building across the street. Father Fjodor, who knew the streets of Nizhny Novgorod well and refused to just sit and wait at the hotel, had appointed himself chauffeur. His father’s life was on the line, and he wanted to help.
Hellen had done a little online research of her own and, with Father Fjodor’s help—Google Translate had been no help at all—had managed to find their destination on the internet. She had discovered that, prior to being bought by the Welshman, the castle had been partly converted to a hotel. Before that, it had stood empty for decades. Even further back in its history, it had served as a hospital in both the First and Second World Wars. A local architectural office had been commissioned to transform the run-down castle into a hotel, but a lack of money and guests had opened the way for a foreign investor on good terms with local corrupt politicians. Berlin Brice had bought the place for a pittance, and done God only knew what with it since.
After analyzing the satellite images more precisely, Tom had concluded that Brice had surrounded the entire estate with electric fences that traced the route of the old walls.
Hellen’s and Arthur’s plan was to find the original plans of the castle, in hopes of finding an alternative way to get inside.
“Let’s go. Time is pressing,” Hellen said, and she climbed out of the car. She and Arthur crossed the street together. Reluctantly, Father Fjodor stayed in the car.
The Mostostroi Architecture and Construction Company had its offices on the top floor of the modest building. As Hellen and Arthur walked from the elevator toward the glass door, it was clear to both of them that they were not in London or New York. The reception area was small and stuffy. The secretary at the reception desk took a long drag on her cigarette and coughed. When she saw Hellen and Arthur approaching, she quickly stubbed out the cigarette and sprayed air freshener around wildly.
“Dobry den,” the young woman said, forcing a smile.
“Hello. Do you speak English?” Hellen said.
“Yes. How can I help you?” the woman replied with a strong accent.
“My name is Hellen de Mey. I work for Blue Shield, a partner of UNESCO. We would like to speak to one of your engineers, Mr. Mischa Kusnezov. UNESCO is considering adding Sheremetev Castle in Yurino to its list of World Heritage sites. I would like to discuss this with Mr. Kusnezov as soon as possible.”
The secretary did her best to take in every word, but Hellen could see that the simultaneous translator in her head was suffering a slight delay. But at the word UNESCO, the woman straightened up a little, and when she saw Hellen’s Blue Shield ID, she jumped to her feet.
“Of course. At once! Please have a seat.”
“It is very urgent,” Hellen said, and she let herself be shooed into the waiting area only with great reluctance. She and Arthur both brusquely turned down the offer of coffee.
“I will be right back!” said the woman, then she excused herself several times and ran down the corridor toward her boss’s office at the back of the building.
“We are definitely in Russia,” Arthur murmured, looking up at the pictures and plans decorating the walls.
A minute later, the man came hurrying from his office, his assistant circling him like a satellite, plucking and brushing at his suit. As he stuffed his shirt into his trousers and ran his fingers back through his hair, she quickly straightened his tie. Nervous muttering in Russian underscored the surreal scene.
“Good afternoon! Welcome!” said Mischa Kusnezov, shaking Hellen’s and Arthur’s hands excitedly. “Please come this way.” He barked something in Russian to his assistant and she disappeared into the kitchen for refreshments. The engineer ushered Hellen and Arthur toward his office.
41
Cheap hotel in Nizhny Novgorod
“I have set up a meeting in fifteen minutes.”
Tom frowned up at Cloutard. “A meeting? Who with?”
“With someone who can supply us with the necessary equipment. Or did you think they were going to do home delivery for you?” said Cloutard.
“I’m looking forward to this,” Tom said as they made their way to the elevator. “Are we going to meet the Russian Cloutard?”
“Not exactly. There can be only one, you know.”
“Tell that to the makers of Highlander 2, 3 and 4,” Tom shot back.
�
�Tom, enough of the film trivia, please. We have to think about what we are going to do when we have the necessary equipment. You made a solemn promise to the priest that you would find his father. But if I know you, you have no idea how we are going to do that.”
“First things first,” Tom replied calmly, waving for a taxi.
Twenty minutes later, the taxi dropped them at an old, dilapidated and deserted-looking farm compound on the outskirts of Nizhny Novgorod. Everything around them looked abandoned. Almost everything . . . Cloutard pointed to the roofline above a gate in the wall surrounding the property. “Camera.”
Tom raised one hand to block the glare from the sun. “Shit. I never would have spotted that.”
Cloutard approached the left side of the old wooden gate and knocked several times below the bottom hinge. “Good old Morse code,” he said.
Tom looked at him in surprise. “You know Morse code?”
Cloutard looked back and raised his eyebrows. “You do not? Amateur! Good help is so hard to find these days.”
“Tell me about it,” Tom said, grinning. A buzzer sounded and the old wooden gate began to move. “Well, Inspector Clouseau, shall we get back to more important things?”
Tom was already heading through the gate and the yard beyond, where three bizarre-looking vehicles stood. They looked like makeshift hybrids of tank, helicopter, boat and amphibious vehicle, each assembled from a random collection of individual parts. They looked more like sculptures than actual functioning military vehicles, in fact. Only now could Tom and Cloutard see that the yard inside looked very different from the exterior—less like a decaying farm and more like a modern-day army base. A monstrous Rottweiler trotted out of a doorway. It stopped and stared at them, then bared its teeth and barked, although it sounded more like the roar of a bear or lion than the bark of a dog.
“Down, Isidor,” a voice said, cutting through the air. The barking stopped, and the dog lay down, the look on its face transforming from threatening to curious.
The Invisible City (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 3) Page 10
