by Tony Abbott
“Hello. Is this Boris Volkov?”
“Ya. Hallo. Who is?”
“Excuse me,” Roald said as they eased deeper into the streets. “This is a friend of Terence Ackroyd’s. He told us—”
“Ah, yes, Terry! Dear friend, Terry. Yes, yes. Family Keplen. Come see me. Is Boris. Boris Volkov.” There was the sound of ice clinking into a glass on the other end. “You come Promenade. Ten thirty this morning. Dorchester Hotel.”
“Uh . . . we would prefer somewhere more private,” Roald said.
“No. Public is safe. Witnesses be there. Public only. Bring item with you, yes?”
“Item?” said Roald. “I’m not sure I know exactly—”
“Park Lane. You find? Yes? Good. You come.”
Click.
“Dad, what does he want?” Wade asked. “We don’t have any item for him.”
Roald tapped the phone and returned it to his jacket pocket. “I think we’ll find out soon enough. Hotel Cavendish, Gower Street,” he told the driver.
“Certainly.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Hotel Cavendish was a small boutique hotel near the corner of Gower Street and Torrington Place in the neighborhood surrounding the British Museum. Wade wondered what their rooms were like. He would continue to wonder. When their taxi wove through a series of narrow streets and passages and finally stopped outside, his father paid their driver handsomely. They entered the hotel, where they booked two rooms, made sure the taxi was gone, then turned and walked right back outside, to the bewilderment of the desk clerk, who was dangling two sets of room keys for no one.
“That looked kind of comfy,” said Lily. “And expensive.”
“Paul Ferrere always books a room he never stays in,” Wade’s father said. “This is the kind of life we’re living right now. Our flat is a few short blocks away.”
He then led the kids up Gower Street, took a left onto Torrington Place, and hung a right into the narrow Chenies Mews, an L-shaped passage whose long side ran parallel to Gower. They walked along the Mews to the corner of the L, where Roald paused in front of a nondescript and, Wade thought, seedy-looking brick building. But the narrow street was quiet and the building more warehouse-like than domestic, both precautions Wade appreciated as Terence’s way of keeping them under the radar.
“Just for a day or two,” said Roald. “And just so we’re all clear: this is our ‘location to be determined.’ Memorize where we are in relation to the neighborhood.”
“Got it,” said Becca.
Wade and Darrell quickly left their bags in their ample rooms inside. It was 10:03 a.m. On their return to the Hotel Cavendish by a different route, Wade kept scanning the neighborhood. He noticed no slowing cars or anyone loitering suspiciously. He saw only a young couple in running gear heading to breakfast and a businessman in a blue suit and bowler hat, shaking out his umbrella under a bus stop shelter. But then, according to Darrell, he wouldn’t see an agent of the Order until it was too late.
They assembled on the sidewalk in front of the Cavendish while the desk clerk gawked from the lobby. Roald hailed a black cab. The roundabout twenty-minute drive took them past the massive and imposing British Museum, which drew an extended gasp from Becca.
“Next time,” she said. “Next time, all the sights.”
“Maybe the Ackroyds have special privileges there, too,” said Darrell.
Becca’s jaw dropped playfully. “Don’t kid me.”
The cold rain continued to fall on the street, on the cars, on the gray buildings. Wade thought it made the city look sadder than it probably was, but they likely wouldn’t get to see much of London anyway. Not if Boris Volkov told them what Wade hoped he would. By this afternoon, they’d be flying to Russia, to find both the relic and Sara.
“We should buy winter coats in London before we leave,” Lily said out of nowhere. “If we leave. For Russia, I mean. We should go back to Selfridges. For parkas and scarves and gloves. And Uggs.”
For what seemed like a day and a half, they drove past the famous and huge expanse of lawn known as Hyde Park before coiling into an area congested by expensive cars, where the cab left them off. A five-minute evasive walk brought them finally to the graceful Dorchester Hotel. Under its broad awning a top-hatted doorman directed them through the revolving doors into the marble lobby. With a quick look around them, they wove their way into the bustling Promenade room.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A tuxedoed man stood behind a tall desk at the entrance to the restaurant.
He nodded politely when they told him who they were there to meet. “Yes, yes. Mr. Volkov has been waiting. One moment.” He stepped out and cast a glance over the restaurant.
The Promenade was a deep, busy room lined with elegant tables and chairs on either side, with a central bank of velvet-cushioned sofas. Short potted palm trees were placed every few feet, and gold-topped columns rose to a tiered ceiling. There was also a lot of gold in the other fixtures and hangings, and a jungle of enormous flower arrangements on tables.
The place boomed with the sound of clinking cutlery and tinkling glass and the bubbling murmurs of dozens of breakfast conversations. It was also filled with the smell of toast and coffee, which was fine, but Wade wondered if they’d ever heard of the basic bacon, egg, and cheese on a hard roll.
The maître d’ adjusted his glasses and pointed. “Mr. Volkov is right over . . .”
He didn’t have to go on. A very big man wearing a very big suit waved both arms from the end of the room as if he were trying to stop traffic.
“You must be Keplens!” he bellowed.
“Great,” Darrell whispered. “Three seconds in a public place and already we’ve been outed.”
By a really enormous guy.
Wade’s antennae went up instantly. “Dad, I don’t get it. Why did he want to meet here?” he whispered. “The whole world sees us.”
“Unless it’s a trap,” Darrell said.
“Maybe,” Wade’s father said. “He is right that being in public might protect us from outright attack. Remember, the Order doesn’t want to get caught, either. Maybe he knows something about being careful that we don’t.”
Boris Volkov was completely huge, and seemed to grow more huge the closer they came. He appeared to Wade every bit as cagey and suspicious as Terence Ackroyd had suggested. Weaving around the tables toward him, Wade kept a lookout for anyone paying special attention to them, but after turning to see who the “Keplens!” were, the other patrons seemed to have gone back to their private conversations. Good, he thought. I’d rather eat than run.
The large Russian bounced up awkwardly when they came over, nearly taking the tablecloth with him, and wrapped his arms around them in a weird group hug.
Wade wanted to trust him, but he didn’t care for the heavy, fumy smell that blossomed from him. Alcohol in the morning? What sort of person had Terence hooked them up with? Everyone, he told himself, every single person was under suspicion until proved otherwise. That was a lesson they’d learned in San Francisco, with the killer Feng Yi, who had betrayed the kids and the Teutonic Order.
His father introduced them all, and Volkov forced them into a very precise arrangement at the table. He asked Becca and Lily, who he called by each other’s name—Lee-lee and Bake-ahh—to squeeze in alongside him, while he gestured Wade, his father, and Darrell to take seats on the other side. Settling in, Wade tugged out his notebook and turned to the first clean page, ready for whatever the strange man told them.
In the few moments that followed, during which they ordered, Wade eyed Boris Volkov as best he could without staring. First off, everything on the guy was sweating. His jowly cheeks, his forehead, the ridge above his chin, his levels of neck. The front of his shirt was soaked through. There was a drop of sweat dangling from the tip of his nose, which he didn’t wipe away, but which never appeared to fall, either.
It was when the man’s eyes turned on Wade that he noticed Boris Volkov’s real dist
inguishing feature. It was neither his plump lobster face nor his short chubby fingers, but the two large dark eyes that were severely misaligned. The left one slanted to the left, while the right one stared straight ahead.
Which one do you look at?
And did it mean anything that this guy and Galina Krause both had eye things going on? Hers, two colors; his, wandering around?
“So, so,” the man said, turning his head completely to Wade’s father, which didn’t help answer the question of which eye to address. “Promenade safe place. Over there, deputy head of MI6, British Secret Intelligence Service. At table alone, British foreign secretary. Safest place in all of London, right here!”
“Thank you for meeting us,” Wade’s father said. “And yes, I agree, a good location.”
The Russian arched up in his seat. “You want to know who is Boris Volkov, yes? Why is Russian in the country of Wimbledon and Big Ben?” He shrugged and breathed out a flammable gust. Wade was glad there were no candles on the breakfast table.
“I graduate Moscow State University,” he said. “Scholar for many years. Dead languages. Boris love dead languages. Russia is land of the dead, no? But, I say wrong things at wrong time. Government not like so much. I spend time in famous Lubyanka prison, yes? Not serious. Just questions, you see? I notice there the wood floor. Oak. Very nice. Like this, yes?” He paused, flattening his big hands and angling them, one to the other.
“Parquet,” Darrell said.
“Yes!” Boris boomed, patting Darrell’s hand on the table. “You very smart American boy. How you know parquet?”
“My mom’s office in the archives at the University of Texas has parquet floors,” he said.
“Ah, yes. Mother. She in this, too. Terry tell me. Sad, sad.”
Wade didn’t know what Boris knew, but wondered once again what exactly Terence had told him.
“So, future of Boris is not in Russia. Zoom-boom! I come London, yes?” He slapped his chubby palms on the table. “I perch now in small flat owned by friend. Is beautiful little birdcage. Tiny. Top floor. Five stairway. No elevator. Is hard for old legs, but this is way I live now. Boris walk everywhere. He never take car. Car take you to Lubyanka, yes?”
I don’t know, does it?
Boris paused a moment to move the sugar bowl from one side of his place setting to the other. “But enough. You call me Uncle Boris now, yes?”
No, thought Wade, we don’t. You’re not our uncle. I had an uncle, Uncle Henry, and he was murdered by the Teutonic Order, and so was nice Mr. Chen on the plane to San Francisco, and we don’t know if you’re with the Order or not.
It wasn’t that Wade wanted his mind to go there, accusing everyone, suspicious of everyone, but how could he do anything else? Heinrich Vogel’s death had been sudden and brutal—an old man murdered in his home. It was fresh, barely a week and half in the past, and, like Sara’s kidnapping, Wade realized it was hovering like a shroud over everything they thought and did. It was Uncle Henry’s murder that had sent them on the relic hunt in the first place, the quest that had quickly become their urgent mission. The quest that was changing them in ways he didn’t fully understand.
After a few pleasant remarks with Roald about the weather and hotels and so on, Boris Volkov tapped his meaty fingers on the tabletop. His smile dropped away.
“You see, it is this. History of Russia is history of pain. Invasions? Countless invasions. Poland. Napoleon. Hitler. Then invasions from inside—Lenin, Stalin, demon masters buried now with honors in Red Square. Horrible history. Still Russia survives.”
“We know that the Teutonic Order was friends with the Duke of Moscow,” Becca said. “Vasily the Third had an alliance with Albrecht.”
“Teutonic Order of Ancient Prussia.” Boris’s face reddened. “This is the way of the Order. They seep everywhere, like poison.” He lowered his voice. “In Russia, you see, the Order is known as Red Brotherhood. Keplens, you do not know this, but Teutonic Order kill Boris’s brother. Galina Krause murder him while she in Russia. Yes, is true! Dental records prove it. I see his teeth. I have his teeth.” And he raised a finger behind his open collar and tugged out a chain on which hung a blackened molar. “It belonged to Aleksandr in his mouth. Alek was doctor, very fine doctor. His tooth is all I carry. No money. No wallet. No key. See, I have nothing.” Boris tugged at his pants pockets to show they were empty. “Of course, Alek’s name not really Volkov. Nor he, nor me.”
Meaning what, exactly?
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Roald said. “We didn’t know. Terence did tell us about your knowledge of the Order in Russia. It’s part of the reason we’ve come here today. We need to do research there. In Russia. Terence said you might be able to help us.”
“Yes, yes.” Boris tucked the tooth back behind his collar. Then he slid his hand inside his voluminous jacket and produced a narrow manila envelope. He set it on the table and pressed a stubby finger on it. “Documents necessary to get into Russia this very day. Terry phone me with names, so these ready to use. Russian tourist visas. Completely genuine. Notarized by Russian embassy. Smuggled, of course, but what is little smuggling among friends, yes? After you are settled there, I must take side trip, but is not for some days. All us go tonight, yes? You pay? I tell you I have no money.”
They went quiet.
“All of us?” said Wade finally. “I didn’t think we all had to go.”
“Perhaps Mr. Ackroyd didn’t explain our journey to you,” his father added. “It’s, well, rather a private family project. We actually don’t need—”
“You must have me,” Volkov said. His face darkened and his misaligned eyes flashed with anger. “You need Boris. Boris has urgent journey. Boris have friends you require. I did not suffer Lubyanka prison for nothing. I go. I help. For price.”
Here it is, Wade thought. He doesn’t do anything for nothing.
Volkov leaned over the teacups toward them, fixing his eyes on both Darrell and Wade at the same time. “I am collector of unique objects. I want Copernicus dagger.”
Wade’s blood froze.
How does Boris Volkov—or whatever his real name is—know about the dagger? Is he a Teutonic Knight? Is this a trap?
“I . . . don’t know exactly what you mean,” Roald said, lying. “A dagger?”
Boris Volkov snorted angrily. “Then go back to Texas, USA. No tea. Good-bye. You are liars, try to trick Boris. Like all the rest. You have nothing!” He slumped back into his chair with such force the table shook. Again, the room hushed.
Texas? How much does he know about us?
“No. Wait,” his father said. “We don’t actually have . . . what you want.”
“But you can get it? As sign of good faith?”
“Let me call Terence.” Roald rose and pulled away from the table. “I’ll get in touch with him right now.”
“More like it,” Volkov said, mopping his brow with his napkin, then bouncing right back with a big grin. “Take moments, Dr. Roald Keplen. Time, she does not matter, does she?”
At the word she, Darrell fidgeted in his chair, and his face darkened even more than the Russian’s had a moment before. “Oh, yeah?” he said. “Yeah?”
“Darrell,” Becca whispered. “Not here.”
Surprisingly, he calmed down, but Wade could feel his legs pumping under the table.
Right. The real point of meeting this guy is to get Sara back. Time, she does not matter? Time matters more than anything.
His father disappeared into the lobby with his phone at his ear. Volkov stood to massage his right leg as if he weren’t in public. It was hard to look at. “Old body hurts, yes?” He thundered back into his chair and pressed his giant bulk across the cups and plates, gesturing the four of them closer. Given how he took up so much table space, there was hardly any room to be closer.
“You,” Boris said, apparently looking at Wade. “You are Vade, yes? Vade Keplen?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You are scientist,
yes? I hear it from Terry in New York. And Darrell, you are brother of Vade. I tell you story about scientist and his brother.” He set his wandering eyes on the kids, one after the other. “I amuse American children with little story.”
The words were sinister enough, but they were nothing compared to the way his wild eyes beckoned them. When he began to speak, slowly and almost in a whisper, the sounds of clacking cutlery and plates, the tinkle of glassware, the murmuring of voices around them—all seemed to fade away.
Even with his seriously broken English, Boris Volkov became suddenly—and inexplicably—a master of words, losing the trappings of the blustery, moody exile. Right there in the middle of a bustling London restaurant, amid the whirl of modern life, he conjured up another time, a forgotten world.
“Listen. Listen to words. Listen to Boris. . . .”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Perhaps you know this already, but long ago there was a man and his brother. Nicolaus and Andreas Copernicus. A scientist and his brother. Andreas was, alas, dying. Illness took people young in those days.
Wade and the others had learned the story of Andreas Copernicus in San Francisco. In fact, it was precisely because Andreas had become ill from handling the deadly Scorpio relic that Copernicus had asked his friend Tomé Pires to hide it inside a jade figurine. Wade and later his father believed Andreas might have died from radium poisoning.
“We know a bit about that,” said Lily, shooting Wade and Darrell a glance.
Ah, yes, the bond of brothers is strong. My own brother, Alek, was very skilled doctor. We grew up together in coal mine. A strange place to grow up, is it not?
You see, after Russia’s Great Patriotic War, in 1945, our father was sent to labor camp to dig coal day and night in a mine in the gulag. Forced labor, for what they said was his defiance of the government. Camp is far away in Siberia, north of Arctic Circle. You do not know cold like this. Pray you never do.
Two years later, we are born. Twins. Mother dies in childbirth, so Father names us. Alek born first, so he A, for Aleksandr. Me. I am B, for Boris. Is humor. You get?