The Crypt Trilogy Bundle

by Bill Thompson

  And it did. It had performed exactly as advertised.

  On his computer, Edward observed Roberto’s phone activity. He saw the recent single word “Nine” texted from a blocked number. He saw the response “Oui.” Edward searched online for the cell number but got nothing.

  He was enthused. He’d wondered what his partner was up to and now he’d know. He had already looked into Guinevere’s private life. Now he got to peek into someone else’s!

  Roberto said he was going to Lucerne tomorrow. Edward hoped he’d booked the trip on his phone. And he had – thanks to his new spy program Edward saw the flight itinerary.

  The man’s excitement was like that of a kid with a toy. He felt like a secret agent and wondered if Roberto might be one too. If Roberto actually did have secrets in his life like he claimed, Edward was going to find out what they were!

  According to Roberto’s reservation, he was going to Lucerne tomorrow. But then Edward saw something interesting. Roberto wasn’t going to the office several days for meetings like he’d said. He was spending tomorrow night only. The next day he’d be on the afternoon flight from Zurich to Moscow.

  Thanks to his new toy, Edward was in the middle of a mystery. He was ecstatic.

  I’ll get to Moscow first!

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  It was winter in Lucerne. Philippe and Roberto walked from the office to lunch in a brisk, chilling wind. Rain was beginning to fall; gray clouds turned to ominous thunderheads as the men ducked just in time into Roberto’s favorite restaurant, La Belle Fille. As they entered, the skies opened into a torrential thunderstorm that lasted all afternoon.

  One great bottle of Puligny-Montrachet led to another as thunder crashed and the rain poured outside. Inside the restaurant an inviting fire crackled. They picked one of the specialty fish dishes for which the chef and proprietor was famous. Afterwards they moved to a couch next to the fireplace for a cognac. It was late afternoon; the owner asked permission to begin preparing for the dinner crowd; soon a vacuum quietly buzzed in the dining room behind them. Roberto was totally relaxed, enjoying one of the most pleasant times he’d had in weeks. Philippe, on the other hand, struggled to maintain an appearance of normalcy around a man he no longer considered even a friend. A man he now hated. He masked the knot in his stomach as he forced a smile.

  Roberto talked about the diaries and the trip to Glastonbury Abbey. “The good news is there’s no proof Arthur and Guinevere are buried there. After getting us to sign an NDA, the administrator of the trust admitted he and his board don’t think they are. Since 1278 no one’s been able to find the bodies, but the town has done a great job ignoring that fact. They want tourists to keep coming to see where the bodies are today. Even though they’re not there!”

  Despite his feelings toward Roberto, he found the story fascinating. Thoughts of betrayal still simmered just below the surface, but he couldn’t mask the excitement at what Roberto was doing in London.

  “I’m surprised you’ve been able to keep these discoveries quiet,” he reflected.

  “Neither of us has motivation to reveal them. I eagerly anticipate everything we do every day – you just don’t know what’s going to turn up next – and Edward, as odd as he is, looks forward to it too. He and his grandparents should have involved the antiquities people ages ago but didn’t. I don’t think he’ll do it now. At the moment he has nothing to lose by keeping quiet. Neither do I. Some day that may change, but that’s the plan for now.”

  “I hope I get to see it soon,” Philippe mentioned again, as he had done before. “It certainly sounds intriguing.”

  Once again Roberto ignored the less-than-subtle request for an invitation. “It is for sure. And here’s something else you’ll find interesting – a modern addition of sorts to the historical aspect of all this.”

  Roberto had wrestled with revealing that there were bodies Edward had buried. He decided Philippe was his partner and there was no harm telling him. Without mentioning he’d been Edward’s prisoner, Roberto told about how the GPR accidentally led him to something much more recent in the ancient crypt.

  “They’re still using it for burials today?”

  “Yes and no. ‘They’ aren’t using the crypt anymore – there’ve been no sanctioned burials in a thousand years. But someone is.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s Edward. This guy vacillates from scholarly wimp to calling me with threats to offering you drugged tea. What’s going on with him?”

  “It is Edward. I’ve decided he’s schizophrenic – sometimes meek, sometimes maniacal. I guess all of us have something to hide, but he tells me there are bodies – plural – buried in the crypt. I can’t investigate while he’s there every day, and I’m also not going to ruin everything by calling the authorities. Not with our knight’s sarcophagus sitting right there in the same room. If the police considered the place a crime scene, then we’d lose everything that’s there.”

  Roberto further explained that if there actually were bodies, they’d have to deal with them once they were ready to bring in the antiquities people.

  Changing the subject slightly, he instructed Philippe to exercise the option he had on the vacant building and buy it outright. He explained, “I don’t know where this is all going, but I need to be the owner, not a tenant. Put it in the real estate trust that we established in Mauritius.”

  As they lingered over coffee, Philippe casually said, “You’re here for only one night. Where are you off to tomorrow?”

  “I’ve got a quick trip to Moscow. I’ve reconnected with an old friend from Zurich who’s based there now. He’s come up with a telecom opportunity that might prove lucrative.”

  “Moscow, eh?” Philippe’s mind raced as he thought of everything the Russians had told him. “Have I heard you speak of this friend before? I don’t recall a telecom connection…”

  Philippe’s tone this afternoon concerned Roberto. The man seemed uncomfortable and distant. Now he was challenging and distrustful. A tinge of concern crept into Roberto’s mind. He hoped what he saw in Philippe had nothing to do with the discrepancies he hadn’t brought up yet.

  Roberto chided his partner. “Come on, Philippe! Don’t get paranoid on me. No secrets anymore – right? You’ve never heard of this guy. I hadn’t thought of him myself in years until the other day when he dropped me an email. I’ll be sure to keep you in the loop this time.”

  Philippe lowered his head, angry at how smoothly his former friend could lie to him. Keep me in the loop? Right. You haven’t told me the truth yet. Whatever this trip’s about, it’s not about investing in telecom. That’s for sure. You haven’t researched a new investment idea in two years. That’s my job. Everything you’re telling me is a lie. Why are you really going to Moscow? And who are you this time? Slava Sergenko? Juan Carlos Sebastian? You’re a killer – a man with something to hide yourself – and you’re trying to say that Edward Russell killed people and buried them? If there are bodies buried, I’d bet they’re your dead bodies. Edward may be crazy as hell, but he’s not a murderer. You, on the other hand, are.

  There was a period of uncomfortable silence. Roberto cleared his throat then brought up the last thing he had to discuss – the accounts. He’d waited until the end on purpose, and he tried to sound upbeat. Until and unless he found out otherwise, there was no need for concern.

  “I have a few questions about the last weekly report. I found a few entries I can’t understand. I guess I’ve been away too long; maybe I’m losing my touch!”

  He studied Philippe’s body language. Despite Roberto’s initial reluctance to think his partner was involved in wrongdoing, he saw Philippe stiffen imperceptibly and lean away slightly.

  There’s something going on.

  Philippe forced himself to remain calm. He’d prepared himself for this and he was ready. But he was nervous; he’d never done this to his partner before and it made him uncomfortable.

  Today was the first time in months Roberto had asked even
a single question about the vast sea of numbers he received weekly. It was also the first time there actually was something wrong with them. His partner was sharp and on top of the financials – that was certain. But everything was completely under control. This was not a problem – it was a test. It was a critical part of Philippe’s plan for the future.

  “I’m glad to help. Do you know offhand which entries you’re asking about, or should we go over everything at the office?”

  Philippe’s discomfort was more and more evident, but Roberto still wanted there to be a simple explanation.

  “I hardly expect you to know a thousand transactions by heart! I’ll email you my questions so you can show me what I’m missing. It’s not a big deal – not even big money involved. It’s just something I need to understand.”

  At home that evening Philippe poured a nightcap. He looked at Roberto’s email for the tenth time and relaxed. His boss had immediately picked out the few small errors. Philippe wasn’t surprised at Roberto’s diligence – the man was a genius. But he’d learned something – he had to be extremely careful. The good news about all this was the one large transaction Roberto hadn’t caught. That one had been hidden much deeper than the others. His boss had missed that entry at the moment, but Philippe would wait a couple of weeks to be sure. Then that two hundred thousand dollars would be transferred to his offshore account. Even two hundred grand was a pittance in Ciprian Investments’ vast holdings. The transaction would easily go unnoticed as long as Philippe was careful.

  So far so good; make this work and there’ll be much more to come!

  That evening Philippe called the Russian and told him about Roberto’s upcoming trip to Moscow. He didn’t know the travel details, but his new associate seemed pleased with the information.

  “Keep me advised,” he told the Russian. “I want to know what happens.”

  His so-called “partner” wouldn’t leave Philippe in the dark any longer.

  ——

  Philippe’s email quickly explained the four errors Roberto had caught. Expecting this level of scrutiny, Philippe actually did create offsetting entries – in different amounts and different currencies just to muddy the waters – and funds had been deliberately moved into incorrect accounts. Philippe explained there had been a few mistakes made by people in the accounting department. Nothing was missing and he pointed out the offsetting entries that made things match up.

  The trial run had gone perfectly. Four obvious little mistakes caught, one huge error overlooked.

  ——

  After a candid self-assessment the other day, the man had chosen a clever nickname for himself.

  The Bad Man.

  He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before. He was very good at keeping secrets and a master at ensuring none of those around him knew what and who he really was. All the outside world could see was the façade. Nobody knew the Bad Man was inside. Only an unlucky few ever saw him emerge.

  He’d keep the Bad Man secret, of course. He wouldn’t even say it to himself. Only his alter ego could call itself that name.

  Today he sat in business class on the Moscow flight and sipped a glass of champagne. He had a tough project ahead. With decades-old information, he wanted to learn about a boy who disappeared long ago. There was much to learn in order to see what he was up against. This person was creating a problem today – years after his disappearance from Russia – a situation the Bad Man intended to correct.

  ——

  Edward stayed one night at the Aerostar Hotel a few miles from Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport. Since he would be standing at International Arrivals the next evening, he chose a hotel nearby. Presuming Roberto’s itinerary didn’t change, Edward would switch to the National Hotel next to the Kremlin tomorrow. That was where Roberto would be staying.

  The next morning Edward checked his phone. TrickTracker revealed an update from the airline. Roberto’s flight was delayed a half hour and would depart from Zurich’s Flughafen Airport at 1:30 p.m. Thanks to the GPS feature on Roberto’s cellphone, Edward could see he was already at the airport.

  At 7:10 p.m. Moscow time, Swissair Flight 441 landed and taxied to the gate. Edward stood at a barrier separating the passengers exiting the secured arrivals and customs area from a crowd who waited to meet them. He watched as GPS tracked Roberto’s progression through customs and immigration. Finally the exit doors swung open and the man came through, briefcase over one shoulder and rolling a carry-on bag. Roberto passed within twenty feet of Edward and looked directly at him. Edward smiled broadly at the man who couldn’t see him.

  Edward was dressed head to toe in a black burqa. A veiled slit for his eyes was the only thing anyone could see. He was a Muslim woman, just one of dozens milling about the busy international airport.

  He congratulated himself on being clever once again. Any attempt to change his appearance would have to have included shaving his long gray beard. That would require an explanation when Roberto returned to London. So he decided to go in costume instead. No one ever talked to Muslim women; they were basically treated as if they weren’t there. That was perfect.

  ——

  After Juan Carlos checked in and went to his room, the front desk clerk placed a call to the number on his computer. When he had brought up Juan Carlos Sebastian’s reservation, the clerk couldn’t miss a notice emblazoned on his screen. The FSB – the Russian security service previously called the KGB – wanted to know when the man checked in. No one failed to obey the FSB.

  ——

  Edward knew Roberto had a dinner reservation at nine p.m. at Skorpio, a quiet place around the corner from the hotel. It was for one person, TrickTracker told him. He saw no need to waste an evening. He’d pick up his quarry in the morning.

  Once Roberto was at dinner, Edward checked into the hotel using his own name and passport. He had no alternative and figured it didn’t matter anyway. As long as he didn’t run into Roberto, no one would ever know he was staying here. As far as Roberto knew, Edward was in the crypt doing his fieldwork.

  At seven the next morning, Edward sat in the lobby wearing the burqa. There had been nothing on Roberto’s schedule for today, so Edward had planned to follow Roberto using GPS. That had all changed around 6:30 when he woke, went to the bathroom then crawled back in bed with a cup of coffee. He checked GPS and was astonished to see Roberto had left the hotel. He’d missed him!

  At first he thought of going outside to find Roberto, but at this early hour it was too risky. There were few people on the streets, he figured, and his prey might spot either Edward himself or the woman in disguise he’d created.

  Instead he put on the burqa, sat in the lobby and followed Roberto’s movements until he returned. Around nine he walked back into the hotel.

  What the hell? What had he been doing for over two hours? Edward cursed to himself for possibly missing an opportunity. It was essential to know what Roberto was up to, and he’d completely blown what might have been a chance to find out.

  He watched Roberto come through the massive front doors, walk through the lobby and enter an elevator car. Edward waited a few minutes, saw no movement on GPS and figured the man was now in his room. He went upstairs himself.

  Roberto had been wearing a jogging suit but wasn’t out of breath. On the surface that wasn’t significant – he could have spent the last half hour cooling down from an exhausting run. But had he been jogging at all? According to GPS, Roberto hadn’t gone more than twelve blocks from the hotel during his entire two and a half hours away. And he’d been stationary much of the time. So he wasn’t out jogging. What the hell had he been doing?

  Frustrated, Edward jotted down two addresses where Roberto had stopped along his route. He had no idea what they were, but both were nearby. He’d see for himself where Roberto had been so early.

  ——

  When he awoke today, Roberto had become Juan Carlos. When that happened, his entire being – his mind, actions and movements –
transformed into those of the assassin. His alarm woke him at six a.m. He dressed totally in black – ski cap, gloves, T-shirt, jogging pants, lightweight jacket and running shoes. There were similarly dressed joggers in the lobby and outside under the porte cochere. It was drizzling and the temperature was in the forties – he was chilly, but after running only a couple of blocks, Juan Carlos’s system was warmed up and in high gear.

  Last evening before dinner he’d picked up a cheap cell phone with prepaid minutes from a street vendor. He used it to dial a number he’d memorized long ago. Thirty minutes later he received a text message. He jotted down the information he needed; then he took the phone apart. This morning as he ran he dropped its pieces in one trash can after another along his route.

  The text message told him everything he needed to know about the target – who he was, where he lived and worked, what his routine was. Armed with this information, he was ready to reconnoiter the area.

  Juan Carlos ran through massive Red Square, the colored domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral behind him and the glittering GUM department store on the right. It was oddly reassuring to see the lone sentry guarding the Tomb of Lenin outside the forbidding walls of the Kremlin. Every time he’d been here he’d seen the guard, twenty-four hours a day.

  He ran once around the square then back to the east, slowing to a walk in Nikolskaya Street that ran alongside the huge GUM store. Nineteenth-century buildings lined the picturesque avenue; before the Russian Revolution, the area was home to the Enlightenment and had been a center of learning and culture.

  At the far end of the street there were imposing three-story structures that once had been mansions for wealthy industrialists in the early and mid-1800s. After the fall of Communism in the 1990s, the houses had been converted to condominiums for a new generation of wealthy Russians – the former government elite who had been in the right place at the right time. When the Soviet Union collapsed, they grabbed what they could, made use of extensive political and social contacts, and transformed easily from Communism to Capitalism. The only difference now was that they were free to accumulate wealth publicly, at least until their activities caught the negative attention of someone more powerful than they. Today the condos housed wealthy foreigners from many countries.