The Crypt Trilogy Bundle

by Bill Thompson

  Juan Carlos slowed as he passed number twelve, the most elegantly restored of the former mansions. He glanced up and to the right. The third-floor flat to the south was awash in light. Excellent. He wouldn’t have to wait long.

  At seven Juan Carlos walked into Cappuccino Express across the street from number twelve, ordered a nonfat latte and a croissant. As he waited, he read a copy of the Russian-language newspaper Izvestia. At 7:50 a trim Arab in his late thirties dressed in a tailored dark suit, white shirt and red tie entered the shop. He ordered, pulled rubles from the pocket of his Burberry trench coat, paid and walked out.

  Juan Carlos followed him at a comfortable distance. Given the considerable foot traffic on the sidewalks around Red Square, he was unlikely to be spotted, especially by a target who had no idea he was being tailed. Besides, Juan Carlos knew exactly where Sami Terzi was going.

  Terzi walked several blocks before turning onto Mokhovaya Street. Thirty feet down the street he entered a gleaming, modern high-rise with Arabic and English above its doors.

  البنك الدولي من سوري

  THE INTERNATIONAL BANK OF SYRIA

  Juan Carlos watched through the bank’s enormous front windows as Terzi flashed his badge to a guard then walked to the elevators.

  Sami Terzi was the bank’s primary money-mover. He was an expert in creating huge transactions that stayed under the radar of the world’s money watchdogs. ISIS, the militant Islamic State of Iraq and Syria, kept its ownership of the bank a closely guarded secret. Almost no one knew the International Bank of Syria was Terrorism Central – no other institution on earth funded more atrocities worldwide. Sami was starting another routine day at work. By day’s end he personally would have facilitated the transfer of a hundred million American dollars from a huge Saudi conglomerate’s secret bank account directly into the waiting arms of the brutal group of kidnappers and executioners called ISIS.

  Hope he enjoys his day, Juan Carlos thought grimly as he walked back to the National Hotel. He has so few left.

  Typically Juan Carlos kept his political persuasions separated from his job. But this time there was a tinge of pride. Soon he would rid the world of a person who funded murderers, rapists and torturers – men who killed not only their enemies but also their own people. As the redneck joke went, “He needed killing” sometimes truly was a justification for homicide.

  Juan Carlos walked into the hotel lobby at nine. Ever alert, the assassin took in the surroundings as he walked to the elevators. The public area was busy – couples were heading to breakfast, men at tables were engaged in earnest conversations, fashionably dressed women were preparing for shopping in the area’s high-end boutiques.

  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a figure dressed in a black burqa. She was seated by herself, apparently waiting for someone, perhaps her husband.

  Something about her … what was it? An alarm in his brain said something wasn’t right.

  He got off the lift only one floor up. On the second floor a balcony circled the huge lobby below. Juan Carlos walked to the railing and looked down.

  The woman in the burqa was gone.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Edward stayed in his room for a while. It was risky venturing out – TrickTracker showed nothing on Roberto’s calendar for today and that was troublesome. With no itinerary there was no telling where and when he might go. The GPS feature was all Edward had, but at least he could stay several blocks away from his quarry while keeping up with his activities. The burqa was a good disguise, but it was hot as hell and a lot of trouble – he kept tripping on the bottom of the flowing robe. But he donned it one more time and walked through Red Square on his way to Nikolskaya Street.

  Edward stopped in front of number twelve, a beautiful old building and the spot where Roberto had spent an hour earlier this morning. With the exception of a coffee shop on the corner across the street, this area consisted of nothing but old, stately structures that had been converted to upscale housing. A discreet sign offered two-bedroom condos for sixty million rubles – around a million US dollars at today’s inflated exchange rate.

  Chastising himself for sleeping when his quarry was already out on the street, he tried to imagine what could have kept Roberto here for an hour. The coffee couldn’t be that good – there were a dozen other shops much closer to the hotel than this. Finally he gave up, looked at the map he’d pulled up on his phone and walked to Mokhovaya Street, the second of Roberto’s stops. He arrived at the address where Roberto had spent twenty minutes and gazed at a soaring skyscraper.

  What the hell had he been doing at the International Bank of Syria?

  He had little time to ponder the question. TrickTracker suddenly sprang to life – Roberto Maas was on the move again.

  ——

  Juan Carlos spent his day on the Sami Terzi project. Entering the banker’s condo had been child’s play. A dingy service entrance in the back, an unlocked door and a dusty sign in Russian saying “Freight Elevator” made it almost too easy. Once upstairs, a lock pick was all it took. If the man’s alarm had been set, Juan Carlos would have simply left. But it wasn’t. This was a safe, secure building with a concierge and a locked front door. People got lazy. It happened all the time; human carelessness was a weapon in the assassin’s arsenal.

  The condo yielded nothing of interest except two tickets to Alexander Pushkin’s most famous play, the drama Boris Godunov. It happened to be one of Juan Carlos’s favorites. With the tickets was a receipt that contained Sami’s address, the last four digits of the credit card he’d used and, most importantly, his cell phone contact number.

  On a Friday night in two weeks two people would be at the Bolshoi Theatre. All Juan Carlos needed was to find out who they were. He called Sami’s number.

  Sami Terzi’s phone rang. He glanced at the number but didn’t recognize it.

  “Da?”

  The caller said in Russian that he was with the Bolshoi Theatre. “We appreciate your attending the play Boris Godunov soon. If you and your guest would enjoy a bottle of champagne before the performance, I’d be happy to offer you a nice French one at a fifty percent discount.”

  At a price of less than fifteen American dollars, Terzi couldn’t refuse. He thanked the man and laughed. “My girlfriend will enjoy that very much.”

  Bingo. Sami was going to the theater with a date. Juan Carlos would be there too.

  He was standing across the street when Terzi left the bank around three. He followed him home and waited until Sami went out for a jog. Roberto left him at that point and returned to the hotel, comfortable with the plan that was almost finished.

  The woman in the burqa had preyed on Juan Carlos’s mind all day. What was it? At last he remembered. He’d noticed another woman in a burqa, covered head to toe and with the same veiled eyes, when he arrived at Sheremetyevo Airport yesterday evening. Nothing special on the surface, but the woman looked almost identical to the one in the lobby today. Height, weight, everything. But again, a burqa was a burqa. That woman at the airport was apparently waiting for someone just like the person in the lobby this morning. So she’d disappeared as soon as Juan Carlos came through – no big deal.

  His brain kicked into overdrive when he returned to the National Hotel at four p.m. Sitting in the same chair in the lobby was the woman! Suddenly every instinct – every red flag in his being – went on high alert. The assassin had learned from experience there was no such thing as coincidence.

  He walked nonchalantly through the lobby to the elevators and went to the second-floor balcony. He watched for a few minutes until he saw the woman get up and head for the lifts. He pressed the button to go up and waited to see if things would work as he hoped. And they did.

  Within seconds a ding indicated one of the three elevator cars was stopping. The doors opened; the only occupant was the woman in the black burqa. She shifted to one side as Roberto entered the car. Now it was time for a little test.

  He noted whi
ch floor she’d selected, a higher number than his. He surreptitiously pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket then swooped his hand to the floor next to the woman.

  “Excuse me, is this yours?” he asked the woman in Arabic as he showed her the cloth.

  Startled to have Roberto suddenly so close, Edward reflexively jumped and muttered, “Shit!”

  “I’m sorry if I surprised you.” Again in Arabic.

  No response. She merely shook her head and turned away.

  Juan Carlos got off on his floor. He knew that many Arab women simply ignored strangers. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she had said nothing. But this one knew the word shit in English.

  In a male voice. A voice he knew well.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Damn the luck!

  Edward had gotten flustered when Roberto suddenly showed up in the elevator car. He tried to be unassuming, but the damned man had surprised him with the handkerchief. He’d said shit before he even knew it had come out. Dammit. Now it was possible Roberto, or Juan Carlos, or whatever he was, knew Edward was the woman in the burqa.

  He’d followed Roberto this afternoon and stayed far out of his way. GPS on Roberto’s phone made it easy to know his every move. Edward saw him go into the building at 12 Nikolskaya Street, across from the coffee shop where Roberto had spent an hour yesterday. In ten minutes he came out again and went over to his other destination yesterday, the International Bank of Syria building.

  At three p.m. a man came out of the bank, and Roberto appeared to spring to life, following him back to the same building on Nikolskaya Street! Edward had no idea what Roberto was doing, but he appeared to be interested in the Arabic-looking man from the bank.

  The banker went into his building while Roberto waited outside. There were few people on the street and it wasn’t safe for a burqa-clad woman to be here. Edward would easily be noticed; he decided to call it quits for this afternoon. He went back to the hotel lobby and waited for Roberto to return, which the man did at four.

  Even though Roberto had surprised him in the elevator, one thing continued to be his salvation. TrickTracker was incredible. Edward saw Roberto’s reservation on the morning flight tomorrow from Moscow to London, so he booked a later flight on Alitalia from Moscow to Rome, connecting to London. He’d land five hours after Roberto’s nonstop on British Airways, plenty of time to avoid an accidental face-to-face encounter. And from now on, as long as this lasted, he couldn’t run into Roberto again.

  TrickTracker showed him something else interesting. Two weeks from now Maas would return to Moscow, arriving on Thursday afternoon and staying again here at the National Hotel. He’d be back in London Saturday.

  He’s back in two weeks for only two nights? What’s that all about?

  It took only a moment to find out more. Using the name Juan Carlos Sebastian, Roberto purchased an online ticket for Alexander Pushkin’s play Boris Godunov at the Bolshoi that Friday night.

  The man’s coming back to Moscow as Roberto Maas. He’s flying for hours all the way across Europe just to go to a play? And Juan Carlos, an alias he said he hadn’t used for a long time, is the man going to the theater. Intriguing!

  Edward decided to come back too. This was getting really interesting. It was a mysterious adventure he wasn’t about to miss. He’d be more careful and he’d keep quiet about all this when they were together again in London.

  He booked one night at the Metropol, a few doors down from the National Hotel. That was safer than risking running into Roberto, and there was no need this time to stay extra days. That Friday night at the theater appeared to be the only reason for his visit – Roberto was back to London the next day.

  Edward was giddy with anticipation.

  Just call me Bond. James Bond.

  ——

  “Alison, this is Roberto Maas. Is Edward there?”

  The helpful clerk at The Necromancer’s Bookshop said, “Sorry, Mr. Maas. He’s away for a few days, but he didn’t say where he was going. I’m sure you can reach him on his mobile. You have that number, right?”

  “I do. I just hadn’t heard from him in a day or so. Do you think perhaps he’s ill? I don’t want to bother him if he is.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. He seemed fine when he left. Maybe he ran up to Oxford for a few days. He does that sometimes.”

  Next Juan Carlos walked to the hotel’s front desk and asked, “Can you tell me if Edward Russell from London is staying here?”

  The clerk checked his screen and said, “Yes, sir, he is. Would you like to go to a house phone and I can ring his room?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Thank you.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  As he was leaving the hotel the next morning, Roberto glanced around the lobby for Edward, but he wasn’t there. He called Philippe from the airport lounge. His partner’s phone rang once and went to voicemail.

  It’s unusual for Philippe not to have his phone handy. He left a message that he was checking in and asked his partner to call if he needed anything.

  As Roberto waited for the plane to depart, he began to finalize plans for Sami Terzi’s last night on Earth two weeks from now. There was no remorse for his upcoming victim. Instead, his underlying thought was how much he’d enjoy seeing the play Boris Godunov again. This murder would be timed so Juan Carlos could watch the entire performance first.

  Three hours after Roberto’s flight left Moscow, Edward was in Alitalia’s departure lounge. This TrickTracker program was the key to his domination over Roberto. Now that he could see everything on Roberto’s smartphone, he had a powerful secret weapon. A weapon for your mass destruction, Juan Carlos.

  ——

  The Bad Man was satisfied with his trip to Moscow. He had accomplished what he needed to do, and the next steps would be put in place shortly. It was hard to believe he’d be here again in two weeks. He made a few notes and a call, then picked up a newspaper. Soon his flight would be called for departure.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Edward planned his strategy as he flew back to London. It was very possible Roberto knew the burqa-clad woman was him, but there was nothing he could do about it. He’d said shit out loud through his burqa, but maybe Roberto hadn’t even heard it. Whether Roberto knew it was him or not, Edward’s involvement in the crypt project was critical for several reasons. Roberto wouldn’t hurt him, at least for now. Edward concocted a plausible story in case Roberto confronted him. And whenever he saw Roberto today, he’d know immediately if the man was onto him. He’d be ready.

  Edward had looked forward to resuming Guinevere’s diary last evening. Instead, jet lag took its toll; he fell into bed exhausted and slept soundly for nine hours. This morning he was refreshed and ready to go. He was at the shop two hours before it opened, the diary on the table in front of him. With a cup of tea in hand he began to read. When he stopped ninety minutes later, things were beginning to all come together. Everything he read made the picture clearer and brought them closer to the answers both men wanted.

  Edward heard footsteps on the wooden stairs. The basement door across the room opened and Roberto came in. He’d entered the crypt on his side, walked through and come up on Edward’s.

  Everything’s completely normal, he coached himself. “You’re back,” he said in as nonchalant a voice as he could muster. “Would you like some tea?”

  Roberto didn’t accept drinks from this lunatic any more. “Not a chance.”

  He wanted to interrogate Edward about Moscow, but that had to wait. The most important thing right now was the crypt project. Edward’s work on the diaries was key to solving this mystery.

  “Did you learn anything new while I was in Lucerne?”

  Lucerne. Right. Edward relaxed, confident that Roberto wasn’t aware he’d been in Russia. “I do have some news from the diaries. But first, how was your trip and how’s Philippe? Did you and your partner get caught up?”

  “Absolutely. We knocked out the busin
ess things first; then we took Friday afternoon off and went sailing on the lake. It was very relaxing.”

  Roberto had decided to pretend everything was normal until the time was right. Edward had been in Moscow and therefore knew Roberto wasn’t in Lucerne Friday afternoon. Now as Edward warily watched Roberto, Roberto did the same to him. He noted how Edward reacted to his lies. All this came easily to Roberto – after all, there was one professional in this room and only one. It wasn’t Edward.

  Edward’s face was impassive as Roberto continued. “So tell me what you’ve learned since I was away.”

  His face suddenly brightened with excitement. “Sit down. I need to read you Guinevere’s latest entries! This is getting really good!”

  Edward opened the journal to the pages he’d read before Moscow. He skimmed the notes that said King Pellinore was buried in the St. Mary Axe graveyard and his son Lamorak at Camelot. Then he turned the page and began to read the words he’d translated this morning.

  ——

  Camelot, 17 August 500

  My husband’s heart is hardened.

  At this point he never speaks to me. Upon his victorious return from the battle at Badon, someone, probably that old man Merlin, told Arthur about my attempts to seduce the stable hands. The magician had warned me earlier to leave Camelot. But I am the Queen. Even he, my husband’s trusted advisor, cannot force me to leave. But I am fearful every day. By rights my husband could have me hanged. Perhaps he still loves me, as I do him. However, I will understand if he cannot stay with me now. I am a bad person. My lust overpowers my conscience, my devotion, my love. Why, I do not know. I cannot stop pursuing forbidden things. In doing so I hurt the man who loves me.