by James Barney
William nodded and watched as the lance corporal descended the steps to a landing about six feet below, turned, and disappeared around the corner. It was at that moment that William realized something awful.
The metallic noise had stopped.
That thought had no sooner crossed William’s mind when chaos suddenly erupted below. He heard Manchester shout, “What the f—!” followed immediately by scrapes, thumps, and grunts, and then a strange gurgling noise. These noises echoed loudly throughout the stone stairwell.
William hesitated for just a moment. Then he bounded down the stairs, rounded the corner at the landing, and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the gruesome spectacle below him. Manchester was lying faceup at the bottom of the stairs, his throat slit wide open from ear to ear, his body writhing as blood gushed from his neck in all directions.
William recoiled in horror, his heart nearly bursting through his chest. At the edge of his vision, he saw something moving away in the room beyond. Someone, or something, had just ducked out of sight.
Panicked, William clambered down the steps and dropped to one knee beside his comrade’s body. “Oh, God,” he whispered, not knowing what to do. The lance corporal’s spasms continued for several seconds, then faded and finally stopped. He was dead.
Terrified, William scanned the room for any movement. Nothing. Everything was still now.
The room, which appeared to be a meditation or prayer hall of some sort, was a large rectangular space with two rows of six marble columns supporting the ceiling in a network of symmetrical arches. A massive brass candelabra hung low in the center of the room, bathing the columned space in dancing yellow light. The floor was an intricate mosaic of red, black, and white stones arranged in a traditional Arabic pattern of intertwining geometric shapes.
William’s training had not prepared him for this. He had to get help. He stood to leave, but something in the room suddenly caught his eye. On the far side of the room, in an alcove partially obscured by one of the marble columns, an old wooden ladder was propped up against the wall. William leveled his rifle and took one cautious step into the room to get a better view. He could now see a chisel and hammer on the floor near the ladder, surrounded by a white circle of debris. His eyes followed the ladder to the wall, where someone had chiseled out a small hole just above the keystone of the arched alcove. Strange.
Suddenly, there was motion nearby.
William turned to see a uniformed Nazi officer charging out of the shadows a few yards away, shrieking and wielding a bloody dagger above his head.
William backpedaled but immediately found himself pinned against the stone wall adjacent to the stairwell. He struggled to get his rifle into firing position as the Nazi attacker bore down on him like a crazed animal. In a panic, William squeezed the trigger of his rifle without aiming. A deafening shot exploded out of the barrel and ricocheted off a nearby column.
He’d missed.
The Nazi officer paused for a second, curled his lips into a mocking smile, then moved in for the kill.
William fumbled the bolt lever of his rifle upward and cycled it rapidly back and forth as the Nazi officer lunged savagely at him with his dagger. Squeeze the trigger! The dagger flashed past William’s eyes at the exact moment he fired his weapon, again without aiming.
The report of the rifle echoed throughout the columned space. But this time, there was no ricochet.
The Nazi officer stumbled backward as the .303-caliber bullet tore into his stomach, the sharp tip of his swastika-emblazoned dagger just barely missing William’s chest. To William’s amazement, the man regained his footing a few feet away and slowly stood upright. A widening circle of blood was already soaking through his olive drab tunic. Wincing in pain, the man muttered something in German and began advancing unsteadily toward William, the dagger held feebly in one hand.
William frantically chambered another round and stared in disbelief as the bloodied German officer stumbled toward him. What was wrong with him? With no other option, William fired another bullet into the man’s torso at close range. The officer’s eyes bulged as he absorbed the impact of the second shot and retreated backward several steps. He wavered on shaky legs for a moment, then crumpled to the floor.
William stood for several seconds with his back against the wall, trembling and hyperventilating. His ears were ringing loudly, but from somewhere outside, he could hear distant voices yelling in English. His platoon mates had apparently heard the gunshots and were on their way.
William gawked at the dead Nazi officer on the floor. The man was still gripping the dagger in one hand. A pool of blood was spreading out around his body, onto the mosaic floor. William glanced up at the chiseled hole in the wall and wondered what this was all about. Haltingly, he approached and used his foot to roll the man over onto his back. The dead man’s face was thin and clean shaven, his wire-rimmed glasses broken and askew. He looked intelligent, as if he could have been a college professor somewhere. What was he doing in this mosque? Surely he must have known that Rommel had surrendered to the Allies.
William spotted a prominent lump in the front pocket of the man’s bloody tunic, and he cautiously crouched down and retrieved an object from inside. It felt strange between his fingers. As he held it up to the candlelight, he saw that it was a jagged black stone, about two inches in diameter, with an irregular shape and a bit of mortar debris still clinging to its edges. He placed the object in the palm of his other hand and gasped at the resulting phenomenon. Impossible!
Just then there were heavy footsteps in the hallway upstairs.
“British army!” someone yelled from above. “Announce yourself.”
William’s heart skipped a beat. He quickly rose to his feet and shoved the mysterious object into his pocket. “P-P-Private William Haroldson,” he yelled back. “Eleventh Hussars, second platoon, first squad.”
There was a pause. “Is the area secure, Private?” shouted the voice.
William looked around at the two dead bodies on the floor. “Yes,” he answered. “But we need a corpsman.”
14
ABOARD THE BELYI PRIZRAK, SEVERODVINSK, RUSSIA
PRESENT DAY
What did your father do with the stone after that?” asked Vladamir Krupnov.
Stephen Haroldson had just completed the story of his father’s experience during the British liberation of Tunis. “He kept it until the end of the war. Then he turned it over to the authorities when he got home. The amazing thing is, he never got any kind of reward or credit for discovering that stone and turning it over. No special recognition. Not even a medal.” Haroldson let out a sardonic laugh. “Instead, they told him to forget he’d ever seen it. That it was top secret and that there’d be repercussions if he ever told anyone about it . . . even his family.” Haroldson’s voice cracked on the last word. He cleared his throat and continued. “But what my father never told anyone, until just hours before he died, was that he’d actually broken off a small piece of that stone for himself. As a souvenir.”
“Your father was a smart man,” said Krupnov.
“He kept it hidden all those years in a small tobacco tin in the attic, in a box with all his army uniforms and his medals, and other souvenirs from the war. He never told anyone about it because he was afraid he’d get in trouble.” Haroldson sighed, apparently still sensitive about the recent loss of his father. “Anyway, after he passed, I found the piece of stone in the attic, right where he said it would be. And as soon as I saw it, I knew . . . my God, that must be worth a lot of money. I contacted Mr. Fulcher and he got back to me right away. And, well . . . here I am.”
“Yes, here you are,” said Krupnov with a crooked smile. He let those words sink in, as if weighing their significance. Then he raised his glass high above the table. “Gentlemen, a toast.”
The other two men followed suit a moment later.
“To Mr. Haroldson,” said Krupnov.
“Cheers,” said Fulcher, as they all clinked
their glasses together.
“And to your father,” Krupnov added reverently.
“Thank you,” said Haroldson.
Krupnov drained his glass and carefully refilled it with more cognac. “Notice the rocking?” he said as he poured. “We’re in open water now.” He rose from his seat and looked out both windows. “Yes, we’re in the Dvina Bay, north of Severodvinsk. See there?” He pointed out the starboard window to the lighted shoreline in the distance. “Sevmesh is about four kilometers that way. And in this direction . . .” He pointed into the darkness out the port window. “ . . . is the White Sea, which extends north about two hundred kilometers to the Arctic Circle and the Kola Peninsula. The sea to the north is already frozen over by now.”
The other two men nodded and admired the view of the sparkling Severodvinsk shoreline.
Finally, Krupnov resumed his seat, set down his glass, and leaned forward on one elbow. “Now, Mr. Haroldson. If you’ll hand me the material, we can complete our transaction, and you and your wife can get on with your lives and all of your exciting travels.”
Haroldson swallowed hard. “What about the rest—” He cleared his throat. “The rest of the money?”
Krupnov laughed. “You’re not much of a businessman, are you, Mr. Haroldson?”
“Sorry?”
“You see, you’ve put yourself in a very vulnerable position here with no bargaining power at all. A better strategy would have been to demand that the full amount be placed into escrow before you boarded your flight from Helsinki.”
Haroldson looked stunned. “But I . . . I thought . . .” His skin was getting paler by the second. He looked back and forth between the two men at the table.
Krupnov laughed again and slapped the table loudly, causing Haroldson to flinch. “Relax, Mr. Haroldson. I’m a man of my word. I have every intention of wiring the remainder of the money into your account. I can do so in thirty seconds using my phone. But first, I need to see that material with my own eyes.”
Haroldson breathed an audible sigh of relief and slowly retrieved a small glass vial from his pocket, placing it on the table in front of Krupnov.
Krupnov picked up the vial with great care and held it up to the light. “Magnificent,” he whispered, staring in wonder at the tiny object inside. It was a shard of black stone, about the size of a small watch battery. And it was floating inside the vial, suspended inexplicably in midair. “It’s quite small,” said Krupnov, casting a sideways glance at Haroldson. “You’re sure this is the entire fragment that your father told you about?”
“Oh, yes. I’m sure.”
Krupnov appeared mesmerized as he twisted the vial back and forth between his thumb and finger, watching the object inside bouncing lazily off the sides. Finally, he put the vial down and stared at Haroldson curiously, as if sizing him up. The silence stretched into several seconds and became quite uncomfortable.
“So . . . what about the wire transfer?” asked Haroldson, breaking the silence. He glanced at Fulcher beside him and then back to Krupnov. “You . . . you said you were a man of your word.”
“So I am.” Krupnov retrieved his cell phone from his breast pocket and pressed a single button. He held it to his ear for a few seconds, then spoke into it in Russian, his voice calm and quiet: “Da. Zaydi.” He hung up the phone and smiled at Haroldson. “It’ll just be a minute.”
Thirty seconds later, there was a knock on the door and Misha, the husky sedan driver, entered the dining room. “Vyzivali?” he said to Krupnov.
“Gospodin Haroldson khotel by iskupat’sya,” said Krupnov.
The sedan driver nodded and immediately walked over to Haroldson and grasped him firmly by the arm, helping him to his feet.
“Wh—what’re you doing?” said Haroldson in a confused tone, rising to his feet. “Where are we going?”
“Go with Misha. He’ll take care of everything.”
“But . . . I don’t understand.” Haroldson’s voice was quickly giving way to panic. Misha prodded him toward the door, less politely now. “Wait!” exclaimed Haroldson, trying in vain to resist. “Please!”
Seconds later, Haroldson and Misha were out of the room.
Krupnov and Fulcher remained seated at the dining room table. They looked at each other in silence for a long while, as the sound of Haroldson’s struggling and pleading in the hallway gradually grew more distant. Half a minute later, he could still be heard shouting from the forward stairwell thirty feet away: “I don’t want the money! You can keep it. Please, just let me go! I have a wife!”
“A shame,” said Fulcher, shaking his head.
Krupnov nodded. He rose to his feet and walked over to the dining room door and gently closed it, shutting out the sound of Haroldson’s voice altogether. Then he returned to his seat. “So, do you think this is enough material?” he asked, picking up the glass vial.
“Enough to demonstrate the concept, yes.”
Krupnov frowned. “I’m not interested in ‘demonstrating the concept.’ I’m interested in making money.” He held up the glass vial containing the floating chip of stone. “So, is this enough to make our reactors work or not?”
Fulcher sighed. “No. We’ll need more seed material than that. Which is why it is so critical that we find Malachi. With the material from the Thurmond lab, we should have enough for at least one self-sustaining reactor. Maybe two. And once we find the rest of the Joshua Stone . . .”
“Yes, about that,” said Krupnov. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a folded sheet of paper, which he quickly unfolded and spread out onto the table. The sheet was a photocopy of a tattered and stained notebook page with the following annotated drawing:
“Do you believe Malachi will be able to explain this?” Krupnov asked, somewhat doubtfully.
“Aside from Franz Holzberg himself, Malachi is our best bet.”
“You’d better be right,” Krupnov intoned sharply. “The posrednikov have invested a great deal of money in this project. You originally asked for five million euros, I got you five million. Then you asked for another ten million, and I got it for you. You asked for a reactor, we now have two reactors nearly completed. But not enough seed material to make either of them work. And, along the way, I have made certain assurances to the posrednikov, not to mention the Russian government. Do you understand what I mean?”
Fulcher nodded.
“I’m not sure you do. This is not England. The posrednikov expect results. If we fail . . .”
“Vlad,” said the older man calmly. “We won’t fail. Are you seriously doubting me now? After what I’ve just delivered to you?” He pointed to the glass vial on the table. “I was right about that chip, wasn’t I?”
Krupnov nodded.
“And I was right about Malachi, too. My timing was just a little off. All we need to do is find him. Quickly.”
“Da,” said Krupnov. “I am leaving for the United States tomorrow morning to supervise that operation myself.”
“Good. So you see? This is all going to work out just fine. It has to. It’s fate. And this is just the beginning. Soon, we will be in possession of the most powerful technology the world has ever known. Our reactors will revolutionize energy production and make oil and gas obsolete in a matter of years. Think of it: unlimited, clean, renewable energy with no radioactive waste. And the byproduct . . . a material with properties the world has never seen, with limitless applications for military, aerospace, transportation, and more.”
“Yes. It will instantly become the world’s most valuable commodity,” said Krupnov.
“And we alone will possess the critical seed material needed to make it.”
“I do like the sound of that,” said Krupnov with a smile. He raised his glass and took a sip.
“By the way,” said Fulcher after a pause. “What did you tell Misha?”
“Hmm? Oh, I just told him that Mr. Haroldson would like to take a swim tonight.”
“Ah.”
Seconds later, the flai
ling body of Stephen Haroldson suddenly flew past the dining room’s port window on its way into the frigid waters of the White Sea.
“Well, that eliminates one loose end,” said Krupnov.
“What about his wife?”
Krupnov took another sip of his cognac, savoring its smooth, intoxicating flavor. “She’s been dead since this morning.”
15
DULLES, VIRGINIA
I don’t trust him,” said Ana Thorne to Admiral Armstrong and Dr. McCreary. The three of them were standing on the tarmac in front of Landmark Aviation, one of four fixed-base operators (FBOs) at Dulles International Airport that provided private jet services for corporate clients and wealthy individuals. Thirty yards away, a gleaming white Cessna Citation CJ3 was preparing for takeoff, its twin turbofan engines whirring to life. The object of Thorne’s concern, Michael Califano, gazed inquisitively from his window aboard the private jet as the trio conversed about him on the tarmac.
All FBO flights originating from Dulles were required to file publicly accessible flight plans, and this one was no exception. If anyone had bothered to check the Cessna’s registration, they would have learned it was registered to the Constellation Aviation Group of Wilmington, Delaware, a full-service aviation company with a highly discreet clientele. The business dealings of Constellation’s clients ran the gamut from casino operations to private equity management to commercial real estate. But they all had one thing in common: they were all fake. Or more specifically, they were all front companies for the CIA. Constellation Aviation Group was, in fact, the CIA’s private airline, operating around the world twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
“First of all,” said Ana, nodding subtly toward the plane, “where did he learn to speak Croatian like that? He sounded practically fluent. And I can tell you, unless you grow up a native speaker, you don’t pick up that level of proficiency without some serious language training. Where’d he get it? And more important, how did he know I spoke it? He would’ve had to crack into my agency files to get that information, which is illegal.”