“What else is there?” he asked.
“Nothing interesting in terms of files,” Netto replied. “No apps installed beyond the stock software.”
“Contacts?”
Netto swiped a finger across the touchscreen and shook his head.
“The address book is empty.”
“Phone calls? Messages?”
“The owner must have cared about privacy, clearing all of his recent activity. No calls logged in history, no texts. Nothing in the inbox. Hold on … a single email sent.”
“I want to read it.”
Netto disconnected the phone from the cable, and gave it to Sokolov. He expanded the email body, noting the sender and recipient fields as he read the brief message.
From: Rezler
To: Chagin & Associates, Ltd
Shipment received. Cargo is safe. All documents are in order. Looking forward to next month.
Sincerely,
S. Rezler, Avarus S.A.
The email had been sent last night. Sokolov drew a breath, remembering how close Rezler must have been to deleting it as well.
He showed the email to his brother. “There he is. Chagin.”
“Son of a …”
“Let's try something.”
“Such as?”
“Composing an email to Chagin.” Sokolov hit the REPLY button and enunciated each word as he tapped on the virtual keyboard. “Need to talk face-to-face urgently. Please reply.”
Then he pressed SEND.
“I can't figure out if we're setting up a trap or walking into one,” Constantine said.
“We can bait them with disinformation. They believed they could terrorize us, now it's time to turn the tables. Chagin is there for the taking. Trust me. Even if they already know about what happened in Paris, we'll put them on the back foot.”
The phone chimed a notification. The reply came almost instantly.
Where do you want to meet?
He wrote the directions.
“Do you have a suitable location in mind?” Constantine asked.
“Yes. Bitsa Forest. Easy approach and escape routes. No bottlenecks, no checkpoints. If anything goes wrong, we'll just vanish.”
“You know I'm with you no matter what, Gene. And I feel we can actually pull this off.”
“Faith moves mountains.”
No sooner had he said it than the phone buzzed with a new reply from Chagin and Associates.
I'll be there in an hour.
4
TRACKING THE SOKOLOVS POSED little challenge to Imran.
On his laptop, he went through the traffic police and mobile operator databases he had acquired in the black market. Comparing log entries, he determined that Sokolov's Audi Q5 was equipped with a third-party GPS/GSM tracker in addition to the basic alarm system. In the event of a carjacking, the tracker would transmit its position and automatically contact the owner or the security firm servicing it.
Sold at a premium, such embedded devices were usually cheap and primitive, consisting of just the respective GPS and GSM modules which themselves had no protection. With a bit of technical skill, the alleged security boost became a security backdoor. A car tracker had enough vulnerabilities that could be exploited remotely.
Imran ascertained which one of Sokolov's SIM cards was inserted in the tracker. He texted a special command to override the default settings and intercept the GPS signal. The tracker was now relaying location data to his laptop. All the while, nobody would even suspect that he was doing this.
The map showed the Audi's position moving south. He had no idea why his targets were driving towards the city's outskirts, but he would bring them to bay.
He started the engine of his Hyundai and gave chase.
5
NIGHTFALL LOOMED. THE SKY grew darker, allowing for a short window of time to make the rendezvous. Few remaining visitors strolled along the main pathway of Bitsa Park, which incorporated the forest of the same name. It was not the safest place in Moscow when darkness fell, largely owing to its gigantic territory. Sokolov marveled that such an isolated, forested expanse ten times the area of Monaco could still exist within the capital's boundaries. Beyond the well-maintained walkways lay a natural preserve measuring twenty square kilometers of wilderness traversed by rivers and ravines. Sokolov had familiarized himself with the local geography during his frequent trips to the EMERCOM search-and-rescue department headquartered nearby in the city district of Yasenevo.
At the western outskirts of the Bitsa Forest, the 17th-century Yasenevo estate stood abandoned. The once-glorious Baroque mansion, now cracked and dilapidated, served as a landmark for the rendezvous.
As he and Constantine ventured deeper into the park, away from the pedestrian pathways, they spotted a footpath leading into a linden grove which provided a good view of an adjacent clearing. Hiding behind the trees, they waited in their makeshift ambush.
Sokolov glanced at the luminous dial of his Breitling. The designated hour had elapsed. The quarry wasn't showing up. Uneasiness began to set in. Suddenly, the phone vibrated, receiving a new text message.
I'm here. Where are you? ~ Shimko
He noted the signature. The disappointing twist made matters even more complicated.
“It's not Chagin after all,” he whispered to his brother. “We contacted someone named Shimko.”
“Do you want to call the meeting off?”
“Not yet. Let's see what this Shimko is made of. We have nothing to lose.”
He typed a reply.
Go to next intersection, turn left, 50m.
MESSAGE SENT.
“Whoever that is, he's desperate to meet. Our bluff should pan out.”
In the dead stillness, he could almost hear their footsteps rustling on the gravelly path before he saw them. Three figures came to the clearing, the setting sun casting long shadows.
The numerical strength hardly surprised Sokolov, but he was taken aback by Chagin's liaison being female. Shimko turned out to be a middle-aged woman. Accompanying her, the two fit men clad in overcoats were acting like bodyguards. They scanned the surroundings as she stood waiting with phone in hand.
“Let's go,” Sokolov said.
He and Constantine emerged from the trees. The guards tensed, seemingly prepared to react to any danger. The coats were loose enough to conceal weapons.
“Are you Shimko?” Sokolov asked.
“Yes,” the woman replied. “Margarita Shimko.”
“A pleasure, madame,” Constantine said. “My name is Jean-Pierre Youdine. From now on, I'm representing Avarus in France.”
Advancing, Shimko motioned the all clear to her goons, who stayed behind until they were out of earshot. Margarita Shimko was a buxom lady with stubby legs. She was dressed in a pricey fur jacket over a business suit and skirt. Wavy, red hair fell to her shoulders around a rectangular face that hinted at the wrong side of fifty.
“What's going on?” she demanded.
“Rezler was killed in Paris last night.”
An audible gasp escaped her lips.
“How … How could it happen?”
“As his replacement, I've been tasked with investigating that. Have you heard any details about Rezler's death?”
“No …” She shook her head. “No, this is a complete shock to me!”
“So you have no clue as to who the perpetrators might be?”
“Absolutely not. I … surely you don't suspect that I'm somehow complicit in—”
“By no means, Margarita, I assure you.”
She needed a moment to calm down. Sokolov himself observed the conversation with bated breath, astounded by his brother performing the ruse so skillfully. He was stamping his authority without even knowing what Avarus was, while speaking convincingly on its behalf. Already he had extracted valuable information as he forced her onto the defensive. A subtle hint, a half-truth, a veiled threat and he could indeed pull it off. Thus far, Sokolov had assumed the role of a silent security man.<
br />
“Right now we are trying to determine the motives behind it.” Constantine added extra stress on we. “Whether it was a personal score settled with Rezler, or an attack against our entire operation. He did have enemies.”
“Enemies? Well, yes, Rezler was the kind of a man who did have plenty, but he became untouchable when he started working for Avarus, for Dedura.”
Constantine nodded. “True. So this is an attack against us, against what we're all doing.”
“But … but nobody would cross Dedura himself. That's crazy. Suicidal! I still can't believe it.”
“So I must first learn why it happened. I know that the previous shipment was going to be the last in a while?”
“Yes. A modest art dealership like mine wouldn't provide cover for something as large-scale as the upcoming batch.”
“And I assume Chagin was aware of it?”
Confusion crossed her face.
“Chagin? What Chagin? I don't understand what you're talking about. Chagin is just the name of the company.”
One false move and their masquerade was about to be blown. The error could be costly enough for them to be shot and buried for it right there in the woods.
“I mean everyone from your side, how many knew about what was coming up?” Constantine recovered quickly.
“Oh. Not many. And nobody would have the means or the guts to compromise the operation, that's just laughable.”
Constantine nodded again pensively and glanced at Sokolov. They both understood that they had ventured onto thin ice. This charade needed wrapping up.
“Well then, I believe that things will clear up once I get to Paris. But I think I already know the perpetrator.”
“Who?”
“Alik. Has there been any word from him?”
“No, not since yesterday. But it couldn't be him. Alik?” Shimko stared, wide-eyed. “That vicious brute? He's practically eating out of Dedura's hand. He's as loyal to him as a dog.”
“Then the enemy force must be wielding enough power to trump that loyalty,” Constantine said cryptically. Sokolov recognized the trick. Divide and conquer. Create chaos and confusion to make the foes paranoid about each other.
He probed further. “In the end, it's a big shipment. Quite a coup.”
“Yes,” she said. “I imagine that many would be tempted by history's greatest treasure. It's impossible to resist the Golden Fleece.”
Just then, Sokolov spied a silhouette moving at the edge of his vision. A man wearing a baseball cap, his features indiscernible in the dusk, lurked in the woods across the clearing. Materializing, he noticed his detection by Sokolov and hurled an object at Shimko's bodyguards.
It was a hand grenade.
Throwing himself to the ground, Sokolov grabbed his brother and they tumbled together.
A few meters away, the grenade exploded.
6
IMRAN LOBBED THE STUN grenade and ducked behind a thick tree bark, clasping his ears, eyes shut. The flashbang, true to its name and purpose, detonated with a thunderous report, radiating an intense burst of light.
Although the grenade's concussive effect diminished in open space, using it against five enemies provided an immediate advantage. Feeble cries sounded from the clearing.
He drew his heavy TT semiautomatic.
Dazed and temporarily blinded, one of the men started firing wildly. From his cover, Imran shot back, and one of the rounds hit the target. He strode forward and finished the wounded man off with two quick gun blasts. Another man and a woman knocked down by the flashbang lay disoriented, unable to recover. Spending the cartridge, Imran killed them both at close range.
He reloaded and aimed as two human shapes scrambled away, blurring in the gloom. He pulled the trigger repeatedly, the TT spewing slugs at the running figures of Eugene and Constantine. They went down, never having a chance to reach the safety of the thicket.
DIVING OUT OF EFFECTIVE range when the flashbang went off, Constantine and Eugene had escaped its full force. The deafening roar made Constantine's ears ring but he managed to pick himself up shakily. Stumbling, they raced across the clearing but he felt his head spin, spots dancing in his eyes. He lost his footing in the tall grass and slid down a steep incline.
The ground sloped towards a gorge that the clearing abruptly ended in. Rolling down uncontrollably, Constantine crashed over the edge and his brother landed next to him. They found themselves in the dried-up mouth of a freshwater stream.
Standing on the precipice some ten meters above them, the shooter fired, the muzzle of his gun flashing.
His body sore from the fall, his heart banging in his chest, Constantine dashed along the river mouth, Gene following right behind him.
IMRAN UNLEASHED THE LAST of his ammo into the yawing blackness of the gorge. His shots were hopeful at best as the targets quickly vanished. He cursed. Pursuing two men over two thousand hectares of wildland was like searching a needle in a haystack. He didn't have much desire to climb down the slope in the darkness, when a awkward step could result in a twisted ankle. The risk was unnecessary. He knew where they were likely to go. He'd wait for them in the vicinity of the Audi.
He turned back to the clearing, pausing over the woman's corpse. He'd only seen her from behind as he shot her, but now, even with her face contorted and blood-splattered, he identified her. The dead woman was Margarita Shimko. If she had divulged too much about Avarus, then a bullet to the head was all that she deserved.
7
CONSTANTINE RAN HARD UNTIL they reached the woods. Panting, he propped against a tree. Even for a man in fine physical shape like him, the combined shock of the flashbang blast, the shooting and the lung-busting run proved excessive. His head was no longer splitting from pain though, and his hearing returned to normal. Steadying himself, he scanned the area, but nightfall had set in so swiftly that it was almost impossible to see anything.
At his side, Eugene was also breathing heavily.
“Where are we?” Constantine asked.
“I figure we've moved deeper into the forest.”
“And how do we find the car?”
“Forget the car. No turning back now. Even if it's a team of assassins, they might try to track us or watch the Audi—but they can't control the entire perimeter of Bitsa. Our best bet is skirting the forest westward until we exit the park at the nearest point. We must get out of here as quickly as we can. I'll fetch the car later.”
“We need to find a shortcut,” Constantine agreed. “There's one person I need to talk to immediately after what we've heard.”
Eugene fished out Rezler's phone. It hadn't fared well.
“The screen's cracked. Worthless junk.”
He put it back into his pocket and powered up the Sonim handset. With the LED torch shining, he led the way past the trees.
“I'm not quite sure I heard it right,” he said as they walked on. “Did Shimko really mention the Golden Fleece?”
“Yes. That's right.”
“Did she mean it?”
“I think she did, absolutely.”
“I never considered the Golden Fleece story to be within the realm of possibility. Certainly never expected to be shot at because of it.”
“It's always been more than a myth. History's most sought-after treasure. And now it's become tangible. We've come closer to the Fleece than many mortals who have coveted it over the last several millennia.”
Eugene broke off a tree branch obstructing their path.
“That's an epic achievement, but how have we managed it?” There was a hint of skepticism in his voice.
“According to ancient Greek lore, Jason and the Argonauts set out on a quest to steal a divine gold-haired ram sacrificed to Zeus. That's how the legend goes. But in real life, why bother sailing across seas for a mythical object that doesn't exist? What's so special about some smelly lamb hide?”
“So if it's not a precious sheepskin, then it must be a metaphor for something else.”
; “A bit of both, in fact. Back in the day, Greece was a bit cash-strapped, just like now. With no natural resources available at home, the Greeks had to search for riches to plunder elsewhere. Why a fleece and why was it golden? Along the Black Sea coast, the mountain rivers were rich with gold. Local prospectors used a method to collect gold dust which involved placing a fleece in the stream so that it trapped the particles. Hence, it's an idiom for gold-washing.”
“I remember that Jason sailed to Colchis. Isn't that in modern-day Georgia?”
“The Colchis valley is located there, but not necessarily the fabled Colchis kingdom. The geography of the Georgian coast doesn't match the Argo's destination from the Greek myth. If anything, the description of the mountainous scenery is closer to the shores north of Georgia.”
“For example, Sochi.”
“Yes, in what is presently the Russian Caucasus. At the time, the area belonged to the Scythian civilization—the Sarmatians, to be precise. So the Greeks went after Scythian treasures, nicknamed the Golden Fleece.”
“Jason, savior of the ancient Greek economy. That story makes sense. And less than twenty-four hours ago, I was holding Scythian gold in my own hands. Crazy.”
“Shimko confirmed my growing suspicion that the relics were Scythian in origin.”
“And she paid the greatest price for it. Just like Nina did. But what did Nina or our great-grandfather, Grigory, have to do with lost Scythian art? How could it be the reason for a bomb blast on Theater Drive?”
“To answer these questions, we must visit Professor Fisenko.”
8
THEY FOUND THEIR WAY out of Bitsa Park a few hundred meters from the Metro and walked to the station down a wide, tree-lined avenue. Constantine's mind raced. His personal knowledge, academic training and intuition all combined to form a picture of what was going on. The fractured, disjointed pieces were finally coming together. He needed the final missing link. Strangely, their father's words echoed in his mind. “Always remember that you are Cossacks.”
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