The 14th Colony

by Steve Berry

  “Is this correct?” he asked, handing her the pad.

  She read.

  Russian woman in second-floor security office, just past the serving pantry, with a gun. She saw you coming. Told me to be rid of you or she would kill the man who works up there.

  She nodded and handed the pad back. “That’s right. It’s an old house out in the woods. I’d head out there right away. The winter weather will not be kind to those old books.”

  “We’ll do just that.”

  She thanked him for his time and she and Luke left the library, exiting into a windowless camera-free corridor that led to the stairs.

  “Anya Petrova is here,” she said. “On the second floor, in the security office just past the serving pantry. When we get to ground level we’ll split up. She’s going to know you’re coming. Cameras are everywhere.”

  “Not a problem. I owe her one.”

  She got the message. He’d make no mistakes this time.

  They climbed back up and reentered the stylish gallery. The same attendant who earlier had been stationed behind a desk in the entrance foyer was still there. Stephanie turned right and headed straight for her. Luke hustled for the stairway at the other end of the gallery.

  The attendant stood and called out, “I’m sorry, you can’t go—”

  Stephanie calmly peeled back her coat for the woman to see her holstered Beretta.

  Shock swept across her face.

  Stephanie kept walking and brought her right index finger up to her lips.

  Signaling quiet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Malone needed to report back to Stephanie Nelle. This was much bigger than he’d been led to believe, much bigger than perhaps even Stephanie realized, since when she’d called to hire him she’d openly admitted that she knew only that the Russians had asked for American help in finding Belchenko, and that he might run into Zorin. Unfortunately, he had no cell phone, and three men with automatic rifles now blocked any exit from the dacha.

  Belchenko appeared unfazed by what was happening outside. “That’s a Kozlik. Means ‘Goat.’ A nickname for the vehicle. It’s military only. These men have surely come on orders from the Kremlin. They are after me.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “I assume the government decided my usefulness has waned. You need to leave. This does not concern you. I’ll deal with it. There’s a rear door down that hall. Go find Jamie Kelly in Canada.”

  “You never mentioned exactly where.”

  “Charlottetown. Prince Edward Island. He’s still employed part-time at the local college.”

  “Let’s both of us go find him,” he said.

  But Belchenko ignored the offer, yanking open the exterior door and opening fire with the assault rifle.

  Retorts banged through the house.

  He doubted the old man’s vision was near as good as he wanted people to think, and with forty or so rounds a minute spitting out the barrel it would not be long before the clip emptied.

  And it did.

  Malone lunged, wrapping his arms around the man, propelling them both away from the doorway just as incoming fire arrived. They slammed into the wood floor and he took the brunt of it.

  “Are you friggin’ nuts?” he yelled.

  A hail of slugs thudded into the walls. The exterior stone façade provided some protection, but not the windows, which began to explode as they were pummeled by shots from the outside. Wooden splinters and flying glass crashed through the room. He stayed down and waited for an opportunity.

  “I took one of them out,” Belchenko said.

  Darkness had enveloped outside, nightfall coming early in the Siberian winter. Which should help with their escape. The problem was getting out of the dacha without being shot.

  The firing outside stopped.

  He knew what was happening.

  Reload time.

  Which would not take long, so he used the moment to bring Belchenko to his feet and they rushed toward a corridor leading deeper into the house, crouching down but moving fast.

  One of the men burst in through the kitchen doorway.

  Malone whirled and fired.

  A hole formed on the man’s face as the bullet pierced the brain. He’d learned long ago to shoot, if possible, for the head or the legs. Too much body armor around these days. And though he’d retired from active service and was no longer required to stay proficient, he remained an excellent shot. The man dropped to the floor, the body wrenching in convulsions. He decided the rifle that clattered away could be useful so he quickly retrieved the AK-47 and noted it held a fresh clip.

  Oh, yes. This would definitely come in handy.

  He stepped back to the hall expecting to find Belchenko waiting for him, but the wiry old man was nowhere in sight. Only a few lights burned across the dacha’s ground floor, the exterior windows all dark mattes from the night. He slid the Beretta inside its holster beneath his coat and aimed the rifle straight ahead, nestling the weapon snug to his right shoulder. The corridor stretched twenty feet, ending at another room at the far end.

  The house echoed with emptiness.

  He concentrated on his heartbeat and willed it to slow. How many times had he faced situations just like this?

  Too many to count.

  Frigid air invaded from the open exterior door and blown-out windows, his exhales now forming puffy clouds. He’d retired from the Magellan Billet to avoid these exact risks, resigning his commission as a naval commander, quitting the Justice Department, selling his house, and moving to Copenhagen, opening an old bookshop. Twenty years in the navy and ten years as a Billet agent over. The idea had been a total change in lifestyle. Unfortunately, his former world found him and he’d been embroiled in enough controversies since retirement that he finally decided that he ought to at least get paid for his trouble. The task here had been a simple meet and greet, then leave. Instead, he’d stumbled into an international hornet’s nest, and now angry bees were swarming in every direction.

  He kept moving down the hall, floorboards creaking under his weight, a badly worn carpet runner doing a poor job of muffling his steps. Thoughts of Gary swirled through his mind. His son was growing up fast, nearly out of high school, beginning to decide what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. There’d been talk of the navy, following in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps. His ex-wife wasn’t exactly keen on the idea, but they’d privately agreed to allow the boy to make up his own mind. Life was hard enough without parents forcing choices.

  Then there was Cassiopeia.

  He wondered where she was, what she was doing. He’d found himself thinking of her more and more of late. Their romance seemed over, his last attempt at contact drawing a curt reply.

  LEAVE ME ALONE.

  So he had.

  But he missed her.

  Hard not to—considering that he loved her.

  The corridor ended.

  He pressed his back to the wall and balanced on the balls of his feet. He steadied his breathing, keeping the lungs’ rhythm separate from his legs. That trick had saved his hide more than once. Then he tucked his elbows and cocked his forearms, applying light tension to the wrist, fingers closed around the rifle and trigger, but nothing clenched.

  He carefully peered around the jamb.

  The space beyond was some sort of great room with a high vaulted ceiling and another fireplace where black, smoky logs had died to smoldering embers. A wall of dark windows faced the lake. One light burned on a far table casting a jaundiced glow. Long fingers of deep shadows clutched at every corner. The pine furnishings were austere and included a sofa and chairs facing the windows. Normally, this would be a cocoon of comfort from the cold. Tonight it seemed a trap. A closed door stood on the farthest side, Belchenko standing beside it.

  “Is that the way out?” he asked.

  Belchenko nodded. “I was waiting for you.”

  The old Russian stood partially in shadow, the rest of the room nearly
dark. A tense glare signaled trouble. Something wasn’t right.

  Then it clicked.

  Belchenko no longer held the rifle.

  “Where’s your weapon?” he asked, remaining behind the doorway.

  “No need for it anymore.”

  The words came low and slow. The cat had gotten Chatty Cathy’s tongue. Or maybe—

  “Let’s go out the other way,” he said to Belchenko.

  “That’s not possible—”

  Gunfire erupted from inside the great room, the noise bellowing in the high ceiling. Malone shifted his weight forward and dove, his body stretched outward, and landed on the wood floor, momentum gliding him across in front of the sofa, near the exterior windows. He kept the rifle steady and caught a blur of movement in the half darkness as a form emerged from the shadows. He pulled the trigger and sent a volley of rounds that way. The form recoiled and bucked against the wall, then shuddered and twitched before sliding down into a patch of shadow, losing all shape and identity. He scrambled for a heavy wooden table, uprighting it before him as cover.

  He listened.

  No sounds, other than a low howl from the wind outside. Three men had been on the truck. Three were now down. He slowly came to his feet, keeping the rifle aimed, finger heavy on the trigger.

  He heard a grunt and cry of pain from the far side and rushed over.

  Belchenko lay on the floor.

  He spotted a black mass of multiple bullet wounds. Blood poured out each one in ever-widening circles. Apparently, the first shots had been aimed the old man’s way.

  He bent down. “Was he waiting for you?”

  “Sadly,” Belchenko managed. “And I so … wanted to get out of here.”

  But he wondered about that observation, considering the shooting with the rifle and the risk taken with the warning. “That’s not possible.”

  The alarm from Belchenko’s face must have mirrored his own. Pain took hold and the older man winced, screwing up his eyes in agony.

  “It appears I’m no longer … useful to them,” the older man said. “They seem to have figured things out … without my help.”

  The wounds were bad.

  “There’s nothing I can do,” he said.

  “I know. Go. Let me die in peace.”

  Belchenko gazed at him dully, lips parted, breaths coming in short, uneven gasps, coughing and grunting like a wounded animal. Flaccid eruptions of blood spewed from his mouth. Not good. The lungs had been pierced.

  “I lied … earlier. I know Zorin’s plan.”

  Pink froth bubbled at the corner of the mouth, the body trembling in pain.

  “We spent decades … looking for weaknesses. America … did the same to us. We found one. Fool’s … Mate. But never had the chance … to use it. The … zero amendment. It’s your … weakness.”

  Belchenko tried to speak again, a croaking, gargling sound, like speech, but inarticulate. A flock of spittle appeared on his lips, his eyes bulging. What he had to say seemed important. But the words didn’t come. They remained trapped forever between the tongue and teeth as the eyes dilated with death and every muscle went limp.

  He checked for a pulse. None.

  In repose, the face looked surprisingly old.

  “Fool’s Mate”? “Zero amendment”?

  “Your weakness”?

  What did it mean?

  No time to consider any of that at the moment. His mind shifted into survival mode. He stepped to the door, eased it open, and saw that it led out to the paved area that spanned in front of the dacha, the same space he’d negotiated earlier before entering the hot bath. Before leaving he took a moment and examined the man he’d shot. Middle-aged. Green fatigues. Black sweater. Boots. No Kevlar. Perhaps they thought this an easy kill. He searched the corpse but found nothing that identified either the man or his employer.

  Were these guys military, as Belchenko had declared?

  He fled the house, alert for movement. Bitter cold stung his face and a breeze from the lake dissolved his white, vaporous exhales. In the wash from the floodlights he saw the Goat from earlier parked fifty feet away. He grabbed his bearings and debated searching for a cell phone among the dead but decided that wouldn’t be smart. He saw the fence, the dark skeletons of the trees, and the knoll that led down to where the truck he’d commandeered earlier waited, then decided, Why go there and freeze along the way?

  There’s a vehicle right here.

  He trotted over and saw keys in the ignition, so he climbed inside beneath a canvas roof and coaxed the engine to life. Dropping the gearshift into low he swung the front end around and accelerated. The tires spat snow and the truck leaped forward, headlights searching the darkness as he left the dacha behind.

  He followed the twisting black road down toward the main highway, trailing a billow of exhaust. Halfway, another set of headlights appeared coming his way, which momentarily blinded him. He swerved right and avoided the vehicle, which he saw was similar to his own, two dark shapes visible through the foggy windshield. He found the highway and turned south, the cab swaying with speed, the engine straining. In the rearview mirror another set of headlights amid a plume of snow appeared from the drive and fishtailed in a controlled arc.

  The other Goat.

  Headed toward him.

  He saw a figure emerge from the passenger-side window.

  Then the stutter of automatic weapons fire began.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Zorin drove east on the darkened highway, leaving Lake Baikal behind and heading toward Ulan-Ude. The town had sat beside the Uda River since the 18th century, first inhabited by Cossacks, then Mongols. He liked the name, which meant “red Uda,” intentionally reflective of a Soviet ideology. The Trans-Siberian Railway brought the place prosperity, as did the major highways, which all converged there. Until 1991 its 400,000 inhabitants had been off-limits to foreigners, which explained why so many of the old ways still flourished.

  When the Soviet Union fell there’d been a national rush to eradicate the past. Every statue or bust of any communist leader had been either destroyed or desecrated. There’d even been talk of closing Lenin’s tomb and finally burying the corpse, but thankfully that movement never gained strength. Unlike the rest of Russia, which seemed eager to forget, the people of Ulan-Ude remembered. In its central square remained the largest bust of Lenin in the world. Nearly eight meters tall, over forty tons of bronze, the image itself striking. Thanks to some special coating its dark patina had survived the elements, the area around its base a favorite gathering spot. He’d many times driven the one hundred kilometers to simply have a black coffee nearby and remember.

  Ulan-Ude also accommodated the nearest international airport, which would be his way to Canada. He wasn’t wealthy. His time with the KGB had paid him minimally. When the job ended there’d been no severance, pension, or benefits. Which explained why most operatives chose to go to work for the crime syndicates. They’d offered lots of money, and for men who’d risked their lives for little to nothing the lure had been too tempting to resist. Even he finally succumbed, hiring himself out locally, mainly in and around Irkutsk, being careful never to sell his soul. He had to admit, they’d treated him fair and paid well, enough that he’d amassed twelve million rubles, about $330,000 American, which he’d kept hidden at the dacha, in cash. Some of those funds had gone to pay for Anya’s journey, and the rest he would use now.

  He glanced at his watch.

  The American should be dead by now.

  He’d left instructions for the body not to be found. Whoever sent Malone would come looking.

  Three days ago he’d made arrangements for a charter jet, all pending his conversation with Belchenko. That aircraft was now waiting at Ulan-Ude. He finally knew the destination, except that a visa would be needed for him to enter Canada. Of course, he could not legally obtain one, nor was there time. Instead, he’d developed an alternative, and a promise of more cash to the charter company had secured its muc
h-needed cooperation. He could only hope that Belchenko had told him the truth.

  But why wouldn’t he?

  He kept driving, the frozen blacktop rumbling beneath the headlights. Weather here loomed as alien as outer space. For him winter seemed merely a prison of crystalline cold. This year’s version, though, had been bearable. Perhaps an omen? A harbinger of good tidings that this mission might be successful? He’d been living on frayed nerves far too long. He’d often wondered if he was the last true communist left in the world. The ideology in its purest form seemed long gone—or perhaps it never existed, or at least not as Karl Marx had intended. The Chinese version was unrecognizable, and the various smaller regimes scattered around the globe were communist in name only. For all intents and purposes the philosophy he’d been taught had become extinct.

  He inhaled the roasted air blasting from the car’s heater.

  The pale scimitar of a moon peeked through the clouds. His mouth was dry with tension, old instincts pricking at him in a familiar way. For him there would be no more squandered chances. And though he might be only a shadow of his former self, he no longer felt the fear he had that day in 1991 when the mob stormed Lubyanka. Instead, he was fortified with conviction, and that realization brought him calm.

  Anxiety had dogged him for too long. Nothing provided much in the way of peace. His anger could not be bridled, but it could be temporarily sedated with sex and alcohol. Luckily, he’d never become addicted to either. Those were weaknesses he would never allow. He considered himself a man of heart and conscience. He stayed quiet, rarely quarreled, and avoided disputes. Life had tried to turn him into a zombie, stifling all feeling, but in the end it had only fed his vengeance. The fact that he recognized that reality seemed proof he remained in command of himself. He was not merely a piece of flesh with teeth and a stomach. He was not a relic, either. Nor was he insignificant.

  Instead, he was a man.

  A whiff of memory flew through his mind.

  The day when he first spoke to Anya.

  He’d traveled down this same highway to Ulan-Ude to savor the sounds of the city—engines, horns, sirens—to watch the hunched babushkas in head scarves and shapeless dresses, and to sit with the men in topcoats of rough bleached cloth, sprawled out on benches, most tired, pasty, and strained. He loved the bazaar, a broad paved street shaded by trees and heaved with people. Open booths of wood, turned brownish black by age, lined either side. Most displayed grain, rock salt, spices, or local produce. Some offered clothes and merchandise, others sold canned goods and candles. He’d drawn comfort from the thick smell of the crowd, an odd mix of perspiration, damp wool, garlic, cabbage, and leather.