The Invisible City (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 3)

by M. C. Roberts

  “This way,” they heard a voice from across the corridor, and two soldiers led them into the prison wing, locking them together in one cell.

  60

  Army base near Pigalevo

  Tom had no idea how long he’d been out, but it must have been hours. The sky outside was already growing light.

  His head throbbed. He sat up with difficulty and leaned back against the wall, drained. He was sitting on a wooden cot in a damp cell with bars on the window and a bucket of water in the corner—probably more for bodily needs than waterboarding, he thought. The cell door had a small peephole at eye level and a meal hatch at the level of his waist. He carefully probed the bump on his head left by the butt of a Kalashnikov, then stood up. Still unsteady on his legs, he stumbled to the bucket, sniffed at the contents, then poured the ice-cold water over his head. Better, he thought. He could feel his alertness returning.

  I need to get out of here fast, he thought. Forces of nature didn’t tend to wait for humans or give any consideration at all to their needs.

  Tom went to the door and looked out through the peephole. A wooden table stood in front of the cell. The soldier on guard duty sat with his head resting on his crossed arms, snoring loudly. Tom remembered that he’d hidden the little bottle of aqua regia in a secret pocket of his cargo pants, a small compartment sewn to the inside of the right leg, near the cuff. A perfunctory pat-down for weapons was likely to miss something hidden there, and the small bottle was still where he’d put it.

  Pity, Tom thought. He would have loved to try breaking out like James Bond did in Goldfinger. Tom smiled. He had fond memories of seeing the film for the first time with his grandfather and thinking how cool Sean Connery was as Bond when he tricked the Korean prison guard so cleverly.

  But aqua regia would be quicker. Tom lifted the wooden cot and placed it under the barred window, then climbed up. The acid ate mercilessly through the old bars. He was soon able to pull them out easily, and slipped through the window. Unfortunately, he had used up the last of the aqua regia.

  The base was silent in the dawn twilight. At one corner of the parade ground, a lamp lit the entrance to the officers’ mess, while the spotlight in the guard tower was trained on a fixed point. Tom looked up and saw that the guards in the tower were also sound asleep. They never would have gotten away with that in the Soviet days, he thought. Back then, sleeping on duty would earn a soldier a ticket to Siberia, or worse. Nice to see they’re a bit more relaxed about things these days.

  But Tom knew he could not get careless now. Moving close to the wall, he reached the shadows of a porch roof, where he could take a little time to plan his next moves. Number one: a decent set of wheels. Number two: free his friends. Again. He’d done his best to memorize the layout of the base when they first arrived. He crept along beneath the overhanging roof, following the wall of the main building, and glanced cautiously around the corner. Over there was where they kept the vehicles. The rising sun made even the army base look picturesque, and from where he was he could see several UAZ-3151s, the Russian off-road vehicles manufactured by Ulyanovsky Avtomobilny Zavod—the UAZ-3151 was basically the Russian equivalent of a jeep.

  Wheels: check.

  He waited a few moments, listening, but apart from the rush of the nearby river, he heard nothing. There was no time to waste. The entire camp would be waking up soon. The base was small, just a handful of buildings, so finding their storeroom should not be too difficult, Tom reasoned. And after a few minutes and a few attempts, he found it—along with everything the Russians had taken from them when they were arrested. The only thing missing was the P-90, which had most likely been stolen. The casket, the cross, and even Cloutard’s hip flask were all laid out neatly before him.

  But that was not all he found. Tom quickly stuffed two military rucksacks with a few uniforms and grabbed two Jarygin PJa pistols and a Kalashnikov, a few boxes of shells, some flares and two army knives. Time was getting away from him and he was forced to take greater risks than he knew were sensible in the situation. He looked up to the guard tower and scanned the parade ground. The coast was still clear. It was now or never. Tom slung the two rucksacks over his shoulder and sprinted across the open ground to where the vehicles were parked. He quickly loosened the straps of one of the vehicles’ canvas roof and tossed the rucksacks into the back. Then he went around to the front and checked the winch. He already had a plan for breaking his friends out. If he couldn’t break out of prison like Bond, at least he could break his friends out like John Wayne.

  61

  Army base near Pigalevo

  First he had to make sure no one would be able to follow them after the breakout, which would not go undiscovered for long. With one of the army knives, Tom slashed the tires of the other vehicles, then stood back and eyed his handiwork. Discretion is the better part of valor, he thought. He climbed into the UAZ-3151, pulled the wires out beneath the steering column, and touched them together. The car rumbled to life. He didn’t have much time, he knew, and he steered the vehicle toward the small prison tract where he was certain his friends were being held. He pulled up beneath the barred window, jumped out and looked in through the bars. Hellen, Cloutard, Arthur and Father Lazarev were asleep on wooden cots.

  “Room service!” Tom said in a loud whisper.

  Cloutard was the first on his feet. “Mon dieu,” he muttered sleepily.

  “I know you booked a late checkout, but I’m afraid you’ll have to vacate your luxury suite here a little earlier than planned,” Tom said as he bent down to the bumper of the UAZ-3151, pulled out the winch hook and wrapped the steel cable around the iron bars. “I saw this in a John Wayne western when I was a kid, and I’ve wanted to try it ever since.”

  Grinning broadly, Tom jumped back into the car, backed up carefully until the cable was taut, and floored the gas pedal. At first, the wheels just spun and the winch attachment groaned ominously. Tom eased back on the gas and tried again, this time popping the clutch. The UAZ-3151 jumped backward. The bars held firm in the concrete, but he had succeeded in pulling out half the prison wall, and his four compatriots walked easily out of the cell. Tom freed the hook while the others scrambled into the vehicle.

  Jolted awake by the crash, the man in the guard tower stood up too quickly, bashing his head on a beam. When he saw what was happening, he sounded the alarm and seconds later a light came on inside the officers’ mess. But Tom and the others were already roaring away in the UAZ-3151. The first shots came from the guard tower, and the sentry at the entrance to the base, startled out of sleep by the noise, was still fumbling with his Kalashnikov when Tom pushed the accelerator to the floor and the car smashed through the boom gate. Seconds later, they were out on the road.

  “They’ll come after us,” Hellen said.

  “No they won’t,” said Tom. “Unless they’re as good at swapping out wheels as the pit crews at Monte Carlo.”

  “Let me guess,” said Cloutard. “You slashed their tires.”

  “Correctemente,” Tom said.

  Cloutard rolled his eyes. “Please, Tom, do not mangle the most beautiful language in the world like that. Ton prononciation est horrible.”

  “Your turn, Father.” Tom said, suddenly serious, and he looked Father Lazarev in the eye in the rearview mirror. “Time to come clean. What are we supposed to be saving in Kitezh?”

  Hellen’s eyes sparkled. Not only was she thankful that Tom had broken them free, she was thrilled that she would soon get to see the invisible city of Kitezh for herself.

  Father Lazarev sighed. Everyone turned to him in anticipation.

  “Kitezh is not called ‘invisible’ because it sank and no one could see it anymore. The mythology surrounding the ‘invisible’ city has a different origin.”

  Hellen raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll have to go back a little,” the priest began.

  “You’ve got competition,” Tom said, smiling mischievously at Hellen. �
��Let’s see if Father Lazarev’s history lessons are as gripping as yours.” He looked back at the priest. “You should know that whenever Hellen explains something, she has to work through half of human history first.”

  “Tom, shut up and let the man speak,” Arthur chided, growing impatient.

  “The city of Kitezh was founded by Yuri II, Grand Prince of Vladimir,” Father Lazarev said. “Yuri’s lineage traces back to Rurik nobility.”

  “You mean like the Romanovs, Habsburgs or Babenbergs?” Tom asked.

  “Don’t forget the Palffys,” Cloutard added, nipping at his hip flask.

  “Yes, like that,” said Father Lazarev. “The Rurikid dynasty ruled Kievan Rus and were the first Tsars of Russia, although the family actually had its roots in Scandinavia. The artifact we have to rescue also has Scandinavian connections.”

  “Don’t tell me we’re looking for Thor’s hammer! But who would carry it?” Tom’s interest was growing.

  “You have seen too many films, Tom. Thor’s hammer is truly mythological. If it actually existed then it would mean that the gods associated with it also exist,” Cloutard said. “My favorite is Loki. Now there’s a real crook,” he added. He passed the flask to Arthur, who took a swig. The look on Hellen’s face spoke volumes. “C'est suffisant,” said Cloutard, taking the flask back from Arthur—he clearly didn’t want to part with too much of his three-thousand-dollar-a-bottle liquor.

  “But Thor and Loki don’t exist,” Hellen said grumpily. “That really is a myth. You might as well tell us we’re off to find Siegfried’s cloak of invisibility from the Nibelung saga.”

  Father Lazarev drew a sharp breath and looked at Hellen like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He did not say a word. Silence settled over the UAZ-3151 for several seconds. Everybody stared at the priest.

  “You’re kidding,” said Hellen in disbelief.

  “I assure you I am not. The Rurikids held onto their power because, through their ancestors, they possessed some of the treasures of the Nibelungs. And it’s no accident that the fall of Yuri II’s branch of the family coincided with the fall of Kitezh.” He paused for a moment before continuing emphatically: “These powerful artifacts must never be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. Even if they are buried by the earthquake, the Welshman will never stop looking for them.”

  Tom nodded. He knew better than any of them what the wrong people could do with powerful tools at their disposal.

  “The Nibelung treasure is in Kitezh? C’est magnifique!” Cloutard exclaimed.

  “Forget it, François. You’re not getting any of it for the black market,” said Tom.

  “If the next words you say are ‘it belongs in a museum,’ then I will punch you in your face right now,” the Frenchman retorted.

  “So how exactly do we get to Kitezh?” Tom asked Father Lazarev. “Is there an elevator or something we can take?”

  “The first guardian, by pure chance, stumbled onto a cave that led him beneath Lake Svetloyar, where he discovered Kitezh and the secrets that lie hidden there. He wanted to prevent that power from falling into the wrong hands, so he built a church over the cave entrance to keep it concealed and passed the knowledge on to his son. That was the beginning of the guardians of Kitezh.”

  For the rest of the drive, Hellen was silent. She was going to have to fundamentally reconsider her scientific view of legends and mythology.

  62

  Church of Our Lady of Kazan, Lake Svetloyar

  “Normally I would not tolerate any kind of weapon in my church, but considering how critical our situation is, I am prepared to make an exception,” Father Lazarev said, looking with distaste at the holster strapped to Tom’s leg. Just days earlier, the priest had been violently kidnapped from this holy place. He drove the painful memories out of his mind, crossed himself, entered the church and hurried to the altar.

  The church was constructed entirely of massive logs and was not particularly big. It was just a rough wooden structure in the middle of nowhere, close to tiny Lake Svetloyar and about a hundred miles from Nizhny Novgorod. Tom and Hellen entered with Father Lazarev and Cloutard and Arthur climbed out of the UAZ-3151 and followed them. They were a strange sight in the Russian army clothes Tom had “borrowed” from the base, and which they had acrobatically pulled on in the jeep on the way to the church.

  The church was as plain inside as it was outside. At the altar, Father Lazarev crossed himself again and opened a reliquary, from which he produced a large, ornately bound Bible. Two small locks held the holy book closed. Its cover was pure silver, decorated with elaborate engravings and reliefs. Red gemstones and golden studs had been worked into recesses in the silver.

  The priest then lifted out a chain he wore around his neck. On it hung an oval pendant, or locket, about two inches high and engraved with an Orthodox cross, which Father Lazarev opened. Inside was a tiny key. He used the key to unlock the Bible and opened its magnificent cover.

  Tom, Hellen, Cloutard and Arthur stood around the altar and watched the clergyman’s every dexterous move. Father Lazarev took a goblet from the altar and screwed open its base. A small, coin-like chip fell out. He propped the Bible up and held it open with one hand while the other traced an invisible pattern on the inside cover with the chip.

  To their amazement, seven of the walnut-sized golden studs popped out of their recesses in the cover.

  “Magnets. Like poles repel one another . . .” said the priest with a smile as he gathered the studs. “Would you place the casket there, please?” he asked Hellen, pointing to an empty space on the altar. Hellen took the elaborately decorated box out of the rucksack and did as the priest asked.

  He examined the casket for a moment. For the uninitiated, there was no way to tell which side was the top and which the bottom, and the ornamentation and decorations would not be any help. He picked up the casket and turned it several times, the way one examines a Rubik’s cube before starting to turn the sides. Satisfied, he set it down again and placed the metal buttons, one after the other, at strategic points on the five visible sides of the casket. With each one he placed, the box clicked softly—the magnets were definitely moving some kind of mechanism inside. Spellbound, his audience followed every step.

  “ . . . and opposite poles attract,” he said with a theatrical flourish, dropping the final magnet. As if drawn by a magical hand, it fell onto its assigned place. With a loud clack, the lid sprang open. Hellen jumped at the sudden noise, surprised and delighted, although she had expected nothing less. She beamed at Tom, who seemed as fascinated as she was.

  “Cool,” he whispered.

  Cloutard and Arthur nodded appreciatively. Inside the casket were two metal plates, each about four inches long, an inch across, and an eighth of an inch thick.

  “The cross, please.” Without a word, Tom handed over the cross he had found just a few days before at the Tomb of St. Peter.

  In contrast to the Roman Catholic cross, a Russian, Orthodox or Byzantine cross has not one but three crossbeams. The uppermost beam symbolizes the board on which “INRI”— the Latin abbreviation for “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews”—was inscribed, while the lowest beam, set at an angle, represents the plank supporting his feet. Father Lazarev now added the two metal plates to the lower section of the cross. They clicked into place almost silently.

  “Finished,” he said, presenting the newly created object.

  “With a little imagination it could pass for an oversized key,” Tom said.

  “As I said: the casket holds the key to Kitezh.”

  “And where’s the lock that it fits?” Hellen asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

  “Come with me.”

  The priest led them to the center of the church. A roughly circular relief, consisting of seven triangles, had been worked into the plain stone floor, each of its seven segments covered in metal. If not for the beautiful ornamentation, representing the seven days of the Christian creation, and the fact that it
was set into the floor of a church, it could easily have been mistaken for a fancy manhole cover. More than six feet across, the seven-cornered relief had a small circular cover at its center. Father Lazarev removed this and inserted the long end of the cross into the opening. He turned it counter-clockwise and, creaking all the way, the seven triangular segments swung slowly upwards and outwards. Underneath was a circular, brick-lined shaft five feet in diameter. An iron spiral staircase wound into the depths.

  “How strong are those steps?” Tom asked. “We had a little mishap a year back and—” Hellen shook her head and elbowed Tom in the ribs, and he instantly shut up.

  “Don’t worry. It’s perfectly safe,” Father Lazarev assured him.

  Suddenly, Cloutard pricked up his ears. “A car is coming,” he warned. He ran to the front of the church and bolted the front door.

  “Hurry,” said Father Lazarev, removing the cross. He put it away in a pocket of his army overalls, zipping it closed.

  One after the other, the five quickly made their way down the spiral staircase. Father Lazarev was the last to descend and with the help of a rusty handle set in a hollow in the wall, he closed the entrance again. There was no turning back now.

  63

  Church of Our Lady of Kazan, Lake Svetloyar

  Wood splintered as the church door crashed open. Dust drifted down from from the ceiling, shimmering in the harsh light of the morning sun flooding through the windows. Berlin Brice stepped inside, followed closely by his right-hand man, Qadir, and four Russian soldiers. The soldiers, not especially faithful to the chain of command, were moonlighting with the Welshman to supplement their meager salaries. Brice had informants everywhere, even in the Russian military—it was they who had informed him that Wagner and his people had been arrested. Unfortunately, he’d arrived too late. Tom Wagner had already flown the coop.