The 14th Colony Page 8

  “Not a clue. Care to tell me?”

  Belchenko chuckled. “Why would I do such a thing?”

  Good question, one he decided to leave for another time. “I have to go. Nice to meet you.”

  “Did you know that every story ever conceived by the human mind can be whittled down into three parts?”

  He didn’t like the sound of that odd statement.

  “A beginning. Middle. Then, the end,” Belchenko said. “There’s a symmetry and satisfaction that occurs when those three parts ultimately join to form a complete tale. It’s truly magical. We have already had the beginning, then a long middle. Now, Mr. Malone, it is time for the end of the story.”

  Nothing about this seemed right. He’d thought himself clever avoiding Zorin, coming straight here, but something told him that his move had been anticipated. The old man’s left hand held the cigar, but the right arm reached back behind to the bench and a gun appeared.

  “Don’t think, Mr. Malone, that I can’t see you clearly enough to shoot.”

  Movement caught his attention. The fur blanket across the jamb had been disturbed. He turned to see two men, dressed in winter gear, both toting automatic rifles.

  “And why would you shoot me?” he asked.

  Belchenko shrugged. “Because Zorin says there’s no way you can leave here alive.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Cassiopeia squirmed in the backseat of a French fighter, the pilot settled in the front. She’d flown in the helicopter from her estate to an air base, where the high-performance jet had been waiting. They were cruising at 2200 kilometers per hour nearly eight kilometers up, following the same route Cotton had taken less than twelve hours ago.

  She disliked high places, avoiding them wherever possible. The scaffolding earlier had been bad enough, but flying was a necessary evil that she endured. At the moment she was stuffed into an ill-fitting flight suit and packed tight into a cockpit with little to no room to maneuver. They’d already dropped to a lower altitude and taken on fuel from an airborne tanker that had met them along the way. She’d never witnessed that operation firsthand and it had been fascinating to watch. It had also helped take her mind off the fact that she was presently a long, long way up in the air.

  The entire trip from France to Siberia would take a little over four hours, which was amazing. The world had truly shrunk. Stephanie had read her perfectly, knowing that she did indeed still love Cotton. There’d been many men in her life, a few of the relationships quite serious, but none was Cotton Malone. They’d met at her château a few years ago, at the same time she’d first been introduced to Stephanie Nelle. A mutual friend, Henrik Thorvaldsen, had made all of that possible. Sadly, Henrik was gone, murdered in Paris, another of those unfortunate circumstances that seemed to follow her life.

  When she’d broken off all contact with Cotton, she’d known even then that it would not be permanent. He was too much a part of her. She felt comfortable in his presence. He treated her as an equal and respected her as a person. True, he could sometimes be an ass. But she was no angel, either. That was the thing about relationships. A constant give-and-take. She’d wondered how they might reconnect. Both of them were proud, and a lot of bitterness had passed between them. It had taken many months for either of them to say the L-word. But finally, it had been spoken, then acted upon. Hopefully, the division between them had not grown past the point of no return.

  Stephanie said she would advise her if anything new developed. She’d also told her about a dacha and a village named Chayaniye. Hope. An interesting designation, but fitting for the expatriates who’d created the place.

  Communism was truly a dead theology. No such thing as a workers’ paradise with no social classes, where everyone owned everything. What the old USSR created had all been an illusion, a place where fear and force had been the only means for it to survive. That so-called classless society evolved into haves and have-nots. The ruling privileged enjoyed the best and everyone else fought over the leftovers. Far from everyone owning everything, a select few had enjoyed it all. Only lies had kept the masses from revolting, along with daily doses of terror and violence. In the end, though, nothing could prevent the truth from causing its downfall.

  And fall it had.

  She’d been fifteen years old when it happened, living at her parents’ estate in Spain. Her father had always remained apolitical, but she recalled his utter joy at the dissolution of the Soviet Union. And something he said. A quote from the American Thomas Jefferson. “A government big enough to give you everything you want is strong enough to take everything you have.”

  She never forgot that.

  Her entire adult life had been one without the pressures of the Cold War. Instead, threats and terror today came from other places, East and West finding common ground, as those new enemies did not discriminate between Russians and Americans.

  So what had Cotton been drawn into?

  “I hired him to have a look. He’s done a couple of jobs for me since Utah.”

  That’s what Stephanie had said on the phone. So Cotton had become an agent-for-hire. “Since Utah.” Maybe that was his way of trying to forget. She’d tried business and her castle, neither one of which had done much to quell her anxieties. Throughout her nearly forty years she’d thought herself in love several times. But now she knew that only one of those relationships had meant anything.

  “Something went wrong here.”

  Her heart had sunk at Stephanie’s words. Was Cotton hurt? Or dead? She hoped neither, wishing this jet could fly faster.

  “How much longer?” she asked the pilot in French through her headset.

  “Less than two hours. We’re making good time.”

  Her mind drifted back to the first conversation she and Cotton ever had. At her estate, on a warm June afternoon. Prior to that their encounters had been quick and violent, each taking gunshots at the other, she looking after him, he unsure just exactly who she was. On that day she’d followed him outside into the bright sunshine, walking with him down the same tree-shaded lane from earlier toward the construction site.

  “When I’m finished,” she said, “a 13th-century castle will stand exactly as it did eight hundred years ago.”

  “Quite an endeavor.”

  “I thrive on grand endeavors.”

  They kept walking and entered the construction site through a broad wooden gate and strolled into a barn with sandstone walls that housed a visitor reception center. Beyond loomed the smell of dust, horses, and debris, where a hundred or so visitors milled about.

  “The entire foundation for the perimeter has been laid and the west curtain wall is coming along,” she said, pointing. “We’re about to start the corner towers and central buildings.”

  She led him through the construction site and up the slope of a steep hill to a modest promontory, where everything could be clearly seen.

  “I come up here often and watch. One hundred and twenty men and women are employed down there full-time.”

  “Quite a payroll.”

  “A small price to pay for history to be seen.”

  “Your nickname, Ingénieur,” he said. “Is that what they call you? Engineer?”

  She smiled. “The staff gave me that label. I’ve designed this entire project.”

  “You know, on the one hand, you’re awfully arrogant. But on the other, you can be rather interesting.”

  She was not offended by his observation, which bore truth, and asked, “You’re retired from the government?”

  “You never really quit. You just stay out of the line of fire more often than not.”

  “So you’re helping Stephanie Nelle simply as a friend?”

  “Shocking, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all. In fact, it’s entirely consistent with your personality.”

  “How do you know about my personality?”

  “I’ve learned a great deal about you. I have friends in your former profession. They all spoke highly of yo
u.”

  “Glad to know folks remember.”

  “Do you know much about me?” she asked.

  “Just the thumbnail sketch.”

  “I have many peculiarities.”

  That she did, the worst of which was an inability to say what she felt. Cotton suffered from the same malady, which helped further explain why they found themselves currently estranged. They cared deeply for each other, but neither was willing to admit it. There was that one time, though, high in the mountains of China, after another ordeal, when they both gathered the courage to say how they felt.

  “No more games,” she said.

  He nodded and cupped her hand in his.

  “Cotton—”

  He silenced her lips with two fingers. “Me too.”

  And he kissed her.

  She remembered that moment, both of them knowing without either actually uttering the word love. But she did love Cotton. The past month had made that abundantly clear.

  Was it too late?

  With all her heart, she hoped not.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  VIRGINIA

  Luke stood propped against his Mustang, watching as a black SUV eased through the open gate into the tow lot. He’d just checked his watch, which read a little after 5:00 A.M. The predawn air was freezing but he felt only anger at one, being bested by a stranger, and two, the demise of his most prized possession. The tow truck operator had just shaken his head when he arrived at the scene, loading the Mustang’s hulk onto the back of his truck and ferrying it here among a litter of other cars that had definitely seen better days.

  The SUV came to a stop and Stephanie emerged on one side, another man in a dark overcoat from the opposite side.

  “Tough night?” she asked.

  The Mustang sat with the passenger side facing out, which bore the evidence of his encounter.

  “Anya Petrova,” the other man said, “is quite dangerous. She was trained by the police and worked as one for several years.”

  Which explained some of what had happened. She definitely knew how to handle herself. “And who might you be?”

  The man introduced himself as Nikolai Osin, then Stephanie added, “He’s head of station for the SVR.”

  “Officially, I am a trade delegate and know nothing of any SVR.”

  “I like that,” Luke said. “We’ll go with it. But would you mind telling me more about Anya Petrova?”

  They stood alone in the lit lot, among a deserted heap of cars.

  “She is connected to a man who could cause this country many problems. He sent her here for a reason, which is why I advised Stephanie to watch her carefully. Apparently, Petrova did not appreciate that.”

  Luke was still trying to figure out how she’d made him. He’d been real careful, but sometimes crap happens. And though his question had not been fully answered, he decided to let it pass and said, “We need to check out that house.”

  They drove back south into the Virginia countryside and found the same wrought-iron-topped entrance. At any other time Magellan Billet headquarters could have traced ownership in a matter of minutes, but he knew that was now impossible. Of course, the White House could accomplish the same thing, but that required his reporting in. Stephanie had suggested they wait before making that call and he hadn’t argued. Perhaps they might even learn enough to soften the sting sure to come from Uncle Danny over screwing up the one thing he’d asked him not to do.

  The SUV stopped in front of the abandoned dwelling and they climbed out.

  “Virginia’s loaded with relics like this,” Stephanie said.

  “Such a large place,” Nikolai said.

  “And it appears,” she said, “to have been abandoned for a while.”

  During the drive Luke learned that Malone might be in trouble and that Cassiopeia had been sent to see about him, which seemed both good and bad. He hoped everything was okay, but their SVR ally had not been able to gather much new information from folks in Siberia. Of course, the $64,000 question that nobody would answer was why someone would shoot down Malone’s plane in the first place. Whoever they were, they possessed surface-to-air missiles, which meant far more was going on here than the Russkies wanted to admit—and far more than Uncle Danny had revealed.

  Their driver produced a flashlight with a bright halogen beam. A faint hint of dawn was beginning to form to the east, but it would still be another two hours before the sun rose.

  Luke grabbed the light and led the way back inside, which still cast the hollow atmosphere of a mausoleum. “She came straight here and knew exactly where she was going.”

  “Any idea what she was after?” Stephanie asked Osin.

  “Can I reserve that answer until after we have a look? I’ll try to be as direct as possible.”

  Luke doubted that observation. From the few times he’d encountered the SVR, coy would be the most generous word he’d use to describe them. Totally untrustworthy? Liars? Both fit them to a T. But he understood that this was supposed to be sort of a joint operation, one he wanted to be part of, so he kept his comments to himself.

  They followed him down the hall and into the study, where the light revealed the gash in the paneled wall.

  “She knew how to handle that ax,” he said, pointing to it on the floor.

  He was anxious to see what was beyond the opening, so he shone the beam inside. The room was small, maybe ten feet square, lined floor-to-ceiling on three sides with shelves. But unlike the ones out in the study, which sat empty and askew, these were brimming with books. A table sat in the center, on which rested a wooden easel, under glass, that displayed an open volume. A small chandelier dangled from the ceiling, sparkling in the light, its dusty bulbs useless without power.

  “Some sort of concealed chamber,” he muttered. “Which sweet Anya knew all about. She busted through exactly where she needed to.”

  He stepped inside, followed by Stephanie and Osin. With the flashlight he surveyed the shelves, studying the exposed spines. Most were books, others bound manuscripts, still more were wooden file cases holding loose sheets. He caught a few of the labels. MILITARY COMMAND CORRESPONDENCE. BATTLE OF PRINCETON. SIEGE OF BOSTON. CAPTURE OF TICONDEROGA. He scanned the entire room and read more spines.

  One theme rang clear.

  “It’s a Revolutionary War library,” he said.

  “More than that,” Stephanie added. “These books are late-18th- and early-19th- and 20th-century histories of that time, leading up to the War of 1812.”

  He estimated they were looking at several hundred volumes, everything sheathed in a thick coat of dust. Clearly, no one had been here for a long time. Here and there, sections of the shelves were empty, books that had once been there lying askew on the floor, their dust clearly disturbed.

  “That’s what I heard,” Luke said. “Lots of thuds. She was raking those off.”

  “Tell us, Nikolai,” Stephanie said. “What was she looking for?”

  Osin did not reply. Instead, he removed the glass dome that protected the book on the easel and slowly turned the pages. He then closed the book so that its cover could be read.

  Gold letters were etched into a black leather binding.

  THE

  ORIGINAL INSTITUTION

  OF THE

  GENERAL SOCIETY OF THE

  CINCINNATI

  AS FORMED BY THE OFFICERS OF THE ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES

  AT THE CONCLUSION OF THE

  REVOLUTIONARY WAR

  WHICH GAVE INDEPENDENCE TO

  AMERICA

  Stephanie stepped closer and reopened the book, reading from a few of the pages. “It’s a history of the society. Its general proceedings, minutes of meetings, and constitution. The copyright is from 1847.”

  “What’s the Cincinnati?” Luke asked her.

  She ignored him and restudied the shelves that surrounded them. “This is an archive, one I bet the Society of Cincinnati has no idea still exists.” She paused. “Otherwise it would have bee
n retrieved.” Stephanie faced Osin. “Why is Anya Petrova interested in something like this?”

  No reply.

  “Earlier, you mentioned Forward Pass,” she tried. “To my knowledge, that operation is still classified. The only way you could know anything about it is from your own records.”

  “We know exactly what was done,” Osin said.

  Which Luke immediately wanted to know, too.

  “Does that mean Aleksandr Zorin knows?” she asked.

  “I’m sure he does. And Belchenko knows even more.”

  “Including where those missing nukes are located?”

  Luke stood silent and allowed the sparring to continue uninterrupted. But had he heard right? “Missing nukes”? He figured Stephanie would clue him in when the time was right.

  She turned toward him. “Did Petrova leave here with anything?”

  He shook his head. “Not that I saw.”

  “Then this was a dead end for her. Nikolai, you said you would be direct. Why did she come here?”

  Uncharacteristically, Stephanie’s voice had risen.

  “I will answer that after I speak with Moscow. Some things I must discuss in private first.”

  “I sent my man to Siberia on your request,” she said. “He went in blind, and now he’s missing.”

  “We’ve allowed you to send another asset to investigate.”

  “Not good enough. What’s going on?”

  “I cannot say. At least for the moment.”

  Luke heard concern in the voice, which seemed genuine, and unusual for the SVR.

  “I have to report all of this to the president,” she said. “It’ll be his call what to do next.”

  “I understand.”

  The Russian left the secret room without saying another word.

  Luke stared at his former boss. “This is a deep pile of crap, isn’t it?”

  She carefully replaced the glass dome atop the book and the easel. Dust gently cascaded off the sides and onto the tabletop, glistening in the light.

  “That’d be a good way to describe it,” she whispered.

  “Do you know what the Cincinnati is?” he asked again.