The Invisible City (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 3)

by M. C. Roberts

  Without warning, a boulder struck them, shaking the vessel and its occupants.

  “Head for the light, over there,” said Tom, pointing toward the place where the church tower had loomed from the water, and Father Lazarev steered the submersible in the direction Tom pointed, skillfully dodging sinking rocks.

  “Watch out!” Hellen cried, throwing her hands over her face. The sub tipped to the right, then back to the left. Again and again, stones crashed against the hull.

  “The possibility of successfully navigating an asteroid field is approximately 3,720 to 1,” Cloutard said.

  “Nice one,” said Tom, and he and Arthur nodded appreciatively.

  “Could you please save the film quotes until we’re not all about to die?” Hellen said, and everyone laughed, if only briefly.

  “Hold on!” Father Lazarev cried as he sent the sub suddenly into a vertical dive. A section of the roof the size of a football field had broken free and was plunging toward the bottom of the lake. A rock that size would crush them like an insect, but at the last second the submersible scraped past the enormous piece of the roof. Once they were safely on the other side, brilliant sunlight flooded the tiny cabin. The occupants of the submersible raised their hands protectively to shield themselves from the light. Like a rubber duck, the vessel popped to the surface and floated, bobbing on the lake.

  Everyone cheered and hugged—the earthquake was over, and they had made it. They were alive. Tom opened the hatch and looked out. It was a beautiful day, the sun high in a cloudless sky.

  He looked around in amazement. A new and much larger lake had been created by the earthquake and the collapse of the cave. He smiled when he saw the Church of Our Lady of Kazan, which seemed to have made it through the quake in one piece. Tom pointed Father Lazarev in the right direction, and they motored toward the church. At the shore, they all climbed out.

  “I have to ask: where the hell did you get a submarine?” Tom said as they climbed the embankment that led to the church.

  “It’s like I told you: I made it my life’s mission to explore Kitezh. And this seemed like the right vessel for the job.”

  “I asked him the same question,” said Arthur. “And I didn’t get a clear answer either.” He paused, then went on casually, “If you ask me, he got it from one of his KGB buddies.”

  “The KGB?” Hellen, Cloutard and Tom asked as one.

  “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” the old priest said with an impish smile. “But I can tell you this much: after the USSR disintegrated, you could get almost anything on the black market . . .”

  Tom and Cloutard nodded. They’d heard this before.

  “. . . including this prototype submersible. I had—”

  But Father Lazarev did not get to finish his sentence. Without warning, an enormous explosion destroyed the jeep, which had been parked in front of the church. The blast knocked all of them off their feet.

  69

  Suite at the Hotel Astoria, Leningrad, 1987

  Berlin Brice opened his eyes just as the woman emerged from the bathroom. He was an atheist, but at the sight of her he could almost believe there really was a God. A body so flawless, so stunningly beautiful, uniting style and charisma in one perfect being—that could only be the handiwork of the Almighty.

  They had been living in the suite for almost three months, enjoying the life that Leningrad offered. Brice’s shady business ventures had provided him with excellent contacts in the Communist Party. As a result, they enjoyed countless privileges and could live in luxury.

  “Why do you look at me that way, solnishka?" she asked, slipping back into bed.

  “Because you’re perfect. And because I have never been happier than I am with you. You know me. I’m not one for sentimentality, and love has always been a foreign word for me. But with you . . .”

  They kissed passionately. And though they had made love not even half an hour before, their desire instantly flared again.

  Such a pity this woman is married, Brice thought. A real waste, especially when I think who she’s married to.

  But their embraces drove all thought from his mind. She rolled him onto his back and positioned herself on top of him. Every time he entered her he found himself wishing it could be forever. If there were a perfect way to die, it would be in the arms of this woman.

  She leaned down to him and whispered in his ear. “I have bad news. I have to leave tomorrow.” Her words hit Brice like a bolt of lightning. “My husband is coming home from his travels . . .” She faltered, and Brice saw immediately that she was struggling inside.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” he asked, and he stroked her cheek.

  “I have to sleep with my husband as soon as I can,” she said, regret filling her words.

  “Why in the world would you have to do that?”

  “To make him believe that the child in my belly is his.”

  Suddenly, fury welled up inside Brice. If she was truly going back to the priest, then she would come to regret it. Berlin Brice would not be rejected.

  70

  Present day, in front of the Church of Our Lady of Kazan, Lake Svetloyar

  Tom was the first to recover from the shock, only to look up into the barrel of a Kalashnikov, behind it the eyes of Father Fjodor. It took Tom a few moments to realize what he was seeing. As Hellen had suspected, Father Fjodor’s injury had been no more than superficial—he was very much alive now.

  “I hope I have your full attention now,” Father Fjodor said.

  When Father Lazarev realized what had happened, he gazed at his son with sad eyes. “Does it still surprise you that I did not pass the legacy of the guardians of Kitezh on to you?” he asked. His words were full of reproach and regret.

  “Give me the chest with the Nibelung treasure,” Fjodor snapped at his father. “It would have made no difference what I did—it was never good enough for you anyway.” Father Lazarev said nothing. “The guardianship must be passed from father to son. You robbed me of my rightful inheritance.” Father Fjodor’s voice was filled with hatred.

  “I hate to butt in, but the way you’re carrying on, all I can say to Father Lazarev is: congratulations, good decision,” Tom said.

  “Se taire,” said Cloutard placatingly to Tom. He, too, had just recovered from the shock of the blast, but with his injured leg he stayed on the ground. The others were all back on their feet.

  Arthur laid a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Tom, he’s got a gun,” he said. Tom turned to his grandfather, and the old man could see it in Tom’s face: I know, and I don’t give a damn. “I just wanted to make sure,” Arthur said.

  Father Fjodor moved to Tom and pressed the barrel of the Kalashnikov against his forehead.

  “Stay out of it. This is between father and son,” Fjodor snarled through bared teeth. “Bring me the chest,” he said, his voice again under control.

  Tom, his hands raised, went to where the chest lay. It had fallen off to one side after the explosion. He picked it up and dropped it at Father Fjodor’s feet, then took a step back.

  “How do you open this thing?” Fjodor said, turning back to his father.

  “Only the pure of heart—”

  “Shut up with that pure-of-heart shit!” Fjodor shouted.

  “All you are doing is continuing to prove how unworthy of the guardianship you are.”

  “Unworthy? Me? Why shouldn’t I be worthy?”

  “You have no idea how difficult the decision was for me. For years, I tried to see righteousness in you. For years, I tried to make you understand the duty that would fall to you, and how important it would be to use the power responsibly. To my disgrace, I failed. I never understood why you turned to the cloth and took your vows. The priesthood does not suit your nature.”

  “What do you know about it, old man? You always made me feel that I wasn’t good enough, not for you or for the world. But religion isn’t just about faith. It’s about politics, too. Do you think I co
uld have made it as far as I have with good deeds and piousness?”

  Father Lazarev sighed with disappointment. Tom looked into his face and saw the anguish he was suffering.

  “And unlike you,” Fjodor went on, snarling at the old man, “I’ve never been responsible for another person’s death.”

  Father Lazarev looked at him in confusion.

  “Did you think I didn’t know?” Fjodor bellowed. “I know everything!”

  “What do you know? I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Father Lazarev said, perplexed. He looked at the others around him, as if one of them might be able to help.

  “You killed my mother. You murdered your own wife.”

  “I . . . what?”

  “You sent a KGB killer to poison her.”

  Father Lazarev shook his head. He tried to say something, but his son spoke first: “Don’t try to deny it. I know the truth, all of it. You found out Mother was having an affair and that I was not your son. So you took revenge on her and handed the dirty work to a KGB assassin.”

  The old priest’s face turned white. He struggled for words and air. He seemed not only stunned, but also completely unable to understand what Fjodor had just thrown at him.

  “What do you mean, you’re not my son? What do you mean, your mother had an affair?” His words came in short bursts, he was having trouble breathing, and he suddenly looked years older.

  “Don’t act like you haven’t known about it for years. My true father told me everything. He sent me the letters Mother wrote to him, and he showed me proof that your KGB contacts were responsible for her death.”

  “Then . . . then who is your true father?” The old man’s voice was a resigned whisper.

  “Berlin Brice!”

  “Wow,” Tom whispered to Cloutard. “Father Lazarev can be happy this guy’s not his son. He’s not only a psychopath, he’s also exceptionally stupid.”

  “You’re a self-righteous old man. And a damned murderer,” Fjodor spat.

  Father Lazarev had given up the fight. These revelations were too much for him, and he closed his eyes. A tear trickled down his cheek.

  “And now I’d finally like to find out how to open this damned chest.”

  A crash made Fjodor spin around. The church door had banged shut, out of the blue. Fjodor turned back to the others.

  “Where’s your friend? Where is Hellen?”

  71

  Church of Our Lady of Kazan

  Everyone looked around, but Hellen was nowhere in sight.

  “Do you know where she is?” Cloutard whispered to Tom.

  “Nope,” Tom replied. “But I hope she’s not doing anything silly.”

  Father Fjodor looked around in confusion. He pointed the barrel of the rifle toward the church.

  “All of you come with me!”

  The small group headed for the church. Tom, arriving first, went to open the door.

  “Nice and slow,” said Father Fjodor. Tom opened the door and went in first, then Father Fjodor hustled his father and Arthur, with Cloutard supported between them, inside. They looked around. The church was empty. Cloutard and Tom looked at each other, puzzled.

  “Miss de Mey,” Father Fjodor called. “Come out, come out, wherever you are. You have no chance. Your friends will die if you don’t show yourself.”

  In one corner of the church, a tall candle holder crashed to the floor. Fjodor spun around and fired into the corner, but there was nothing to see. Father Lazarev smiled slyly.

  “Miss de Mey, I’m warning you,” Fjodor said. “I’m prepared to go to any length. I haven’t been searching for the Nibelung treasure for so long to give up now. If you don’t come out—”

  Another sound, this time from near the entrance. Father Fjodor whirled around and fired several shots. He was growing more and more nervous. Cloutard had stretched out on a pew, resting his leg. Arthur and Tom exchanged a surprised look. Slowly, they moved apart, putting the priest between them. Suddenly, a window over the small altar shattered. Tom and Arthur immediately seized the opportunity. Cloutard had already realized what they were planning to do, and he tossed his cap across the church, past Fjodor on the right. Fjodor saw the motion from the corner of his eye and spun around, by now so confused that Tom’s job was easy. He threw himself on the surprised priest from behind and in less than a second had disarmed him and pinned him to the floor. Injured and fighting a trained soldier, Father Fjodor had no chance at all. Tom handed the AK-47 to Arthur, who immediately pointed it at Fjodor. Just then, Hellen ran in through the front door.

  “Did I miss anything?”

  “Where have you been?” Tom asked.

  “I was knocked out. What happened? I didn’t see anything.”

  She was grinning broadly, and Tom knew that she was lying through her teeth.

  “Only the pure of heart . . .” Father Lazarev murmured as they left the church.

  “You used the cloak of invisibility and now you are denying it,” Cloutard chided Hellen.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hellen said, giving him a wink.

  “And my damned Louis XIII is empty. Where am I going to find a decent bottle of cognac in the Russian boondocks?” Cloutard said with a sigh.

  “Maybe the cavalry can help you with that,” said Tom, and he pointed at the convoy of Russian military vehicles just turning off the main road and heading in their direction.

  “Mother will bail us out,” said Hellen, smiling at Tom.

  “She has to be good for something,” said Tom. Then he pulled Hellen close and kissed her on the forehead.

  72

  Banquet hall at the kremlin, Nizhny Novgorod

  “I think I would’ve preferred the Russky-Cossacksocks opera,” Tom sighed.

  “The composer’s name is Rimsky-Korsakov, you heathen,” said Hellen.

  The Russian president had been delivering a speech in his native language for the last thirty minutes. Finally, however, he handed the microphone over to Theresia de Mey, who stepped up to the podium amid a round of applause. She was there on behalf of UNESCO, and to hand over the cross of Kitezh to the Russian state.

  “Let’s hope your mom sticks to the old rule about speeches at parties,” Tom whispered.

  “You can talk about anything, as long as you keep it under five minutes,” Tom’s grandfather said from the row behind.

  “Right on the money, Grandpop,” Tom said.

  And, in fact, Theresia merely handed the cross to the governor of Nizhny Novgorod, said a few words of thanks to the team, shook a few hands, and exited the stage again.

  “I had no idea anyone in your family could keep it short,” Tom said to Hellen, and smiled. Hellen’s reproachful eye roll was obligatory, as was Cloutard’s grin.

  “Time for shots!” the Frenchman said, stopping a passing waiter and relieving him of an entire tray of chilled vodka shots. Cloutard immediately downed two of the small glasses and distributed the rest among Tom, Hellen, Arthur, Father Lazarev, and Theresia de Mey.

  “Tvoye zdorovie,” Cloutard cried as they clinked glasses. They knocked back the vodka together, and then as one made the same face: Oooahhh. Without warning, Cloutard smashed his empty glass on the floor with all his strength.

  A deathly silence settled over the hall. Every one of the hundred or so invited guests turned and stared at Cloutard.

  “Merde,” he murmured, looking around sheepishly. “I thought that was still a custom here.”

  “Tvoye zdorovie!” the Russian president called, breaking the painful silence. He emptied his glass in a single draft and, like Cloutard, smashed it on the floor.

  “Tvoye zdorovie!” the other guests shouted as one, raising their glasses—and then all hell broke loose as a hundred glasses shattered on the floor. Cloutard let out a sigh of relief.

  “Thank you for bringing something for Blue Shield this time, a wonderful artifact that we can loan to the museums,” said Theresia proudly, embracing her daught
er.

  “The Sword of Siegfried,” Hellen murmured, shaking her head: she still could not believe it. Until just recently, she had considered the Nibelung story to be no more than what it always had been: a legend. Now she knew that the cloak of invisibility and Siegfried’s sword actually existed. What else was out there? What else would they discover in the name of Blue Shield? Hellen looked dreamily around the room, sipping slowly at the second shot Cloutard had handed her just moments earlier.

  Arthur seemed to have read Hellen’s thoughts and came over to her. “It is truly impressive just how many wonders the world has in store for us. I do believe that you are at the very beginning of a journey to rediscover the great secrets of the past. A pity, really, that I can’t keep helping you with it.” Tom’s grandfather’s eyes were aglow with enthusiasm.

  No wonder Tom’s such an adventure fanatic—even his grandfather can’t get enough of it, Hellen thought.

  “I agree. I also hate being stuck behind a desk,” said Vittoria Arcano, Theresia’s right-hand woman, who had just picked her way across broken shards of glass and through a throng of guests to join them. Cloutard immediately handed her a shot.

  “Well, now that we have this little side trip behind us,” said Theresia, smiling around the group, “do you think you might finally turn your attention to your actual assignment?”

  Vittoria handed each of them a dossier—the files that the three of them already knew only too well.