by Mitch Silver
The third one, a farmer’s hay wagon, seemed muffled in comparison with the first two, though the wooden bed of the wagon did a spectacular cartwheel, sailing off in one piece even as the next two trucks were going off.
Boom! Boom!
Each new explosion rattled the dishes and the glasses on the tables and over the bar. By now everyone—the diners, the waitstaff, even the host who doubled as bartender (was he adler01?)—had jumped up from the tables and had their faces plastered against the panoramic windows, looking at the precisely spaced fires in the farmers’ fields down on the floor of the valley.
Boom! By the sixth explosion, halfway through Alexei’s handiwork, Chernuchin and Suslov were already in the entrance alcove on the opposite side of the restaurant from the windows, with the elevator doors open. The kid had sent the cab up to the restaurant level when he’d disarmed the elevator’s call button down below.
The big cowhide-covered book was now in the sack, the one Chernuchin had kept hidden under his jacket during the meal. The doors closed and they were on the way down.
“What was that crap about cookies?”
Suslov let the heavy sack lean against a corner of the elevator. “Just having some fun. You remember fun, don’t you?” Suslov straightened the lapels on his jacket and shot his cuffs, the way he always did. “Computer cookies, get it? The ones on the eBay site that remember your name and password, the ones that led us right to adler01. If you were the least bit tech-savvy, you’d be laughing your ass off.”
Chernuchin didn’t think so. Jeopardizing a job never struck him as humorous. “And you’re Mr. Black. I’m Mr. Johnson.”
“Yeah right, the Russian Mr. Johnson. To be honest, I was thinking of calling you Mr. Pink. Spice things up with a little Quentin Tarantino.”
Chernuchin was doing a slow burn, matching the maddeningly slow pace of the elevator down the inside of the mountain. Of course, the slowness was the beauty of the thing. It would be just as slow going back up, so no one would be following them for at least ten minutes. Certainly not the cops, who were at that moment still rushing to the scene with the volunteers of the Feuerwehr to help put out a burning necklace of a dozen car fires. Would the police be on to them fast enough to stop a tour bus that had been parked at the base of the mountain along with a half-dozen others, a bus with three drivers going out for a beer while their tourists were having dessert? Hardly.
He looked over at Suslov, with his bullet head and his impossibly large neck distorting his shirt collar. “If anyone is Mr. Pink, it’s you.”
Chapter 53
Prudhoe, Alaska
Discharged bright and early from America’s northernmost medical facility, Lev Klimt hobbled outside in his walking boot and lit up his first cigarette of the day. A confirmed night owl, he needed the hit to get himself going. And then he remembered Craig and why he’d come up here. The pictures! He took out his recharged phone and was scrolling down to Lara’s name when the dark green Land Rover pulled up to the curb.
Uh oh.
He barely had time to attach the material and hit Send before the first guy to reach him took away the phone.
Chapter 54
Moscow
All those mental tumblers tumbling, but still the vault door wouldn’t budge. If Tatiana the Weather Girl wasn’t working for Kasparov, she must be playing the Black pieces for The Powers That Be. But then, who was the red-headed kid, Alexei—the one with the tattoos and the muddy shoes who’d given her the recordings—playing for? Kasparov? He obviously knew about the Bible.
Lara sat down on the broad granite steps of the House of Chess and pulled out her trusty iPad. She’d let her brain stew over that one while she quickly caught up on her mail.
The most recent message was from Lev, except there was no message at all, just a bunch of attachments. Pictures of an oil field, and others of an abandoned carnival somewhere, all empty tents and stuff. She’d have to call her brother later and find out what the story was.
The next thing down was a three-hour-old reply from adler01, who turned out to be a German restaurateur named Ulrike Preisz. The news was decidedly mixed: Yes, we still have Hitler’s Bible here at the Kellsteinhaus in Bavaria, but no, we have no thought of selling, as it’s “an integral part of our presentation.” Sure enough, when Lara Googled “Kellsteinhaus,” the first thing visitors saw on the restaurant’s virtual tour was the Bible in its place of honor in the foyer.
With a sigh, Lara headed for the Metro. There was still the little matter of a conspiracy to control the world’s energy, and therefore the world.
Half an hour later, Lara was walking up the steps from the Kitay-gorod stop. At Moscow’s latitude the sun, having dropped below the horizon, still managed to illuminate the late summer sky above her head with two hours to go to midnight. So, a block from home, Lara was easily able to see the extra-long, late ’90s Russian Army cargo van, the insignia inexpertly painted over and the rear doors wide open: Viktor’s.
And there was Viktor coming out of their building, several jackets on hangers in one hand and their living room floor lamp in the other. Their floor lamp. His and hers.
Gerasimov, Kasparov, an antique Bible, and all the carefully worked-out plans tumbling around in her brain were replaced by the latest image, of Katrina, leaving the building with her own rolling suitcase, the one she’d originally shown up with, and handing it to Viktor, who put it in the truck. So that’s how it was.
There was no light or crosswalk, so Lara had to wait for a break in the four lanes of traffic. Viktor and his new girlfriend—Lara’s behind-in-the-rent tenant—were back in the building by the time she made it across.
Lara looked inside the open rear doors. They worked fast. Her floor lamp and the carved wooden wall clock … the one she’d haggled over that time at the Izmailovo flea market … were already stowed in the old van’s cargo area. He was taking everything. She closed the truck’s doors, hurried around to the driver’s side and looked in. Damn, no keys. Okay, she’d wait.
It wasn’t that comfortable leaning with her back against the rear doors, blocking them. The handles met in the middle of her spine. She tried just standing in front of the doors, but after five minutes that was uncomfortable too. To make matters worse, it was starting to rain.
Then Viktor and Katrina appeared again, carrying his old Army footlocker between them. He was facing the street and saw her first. In his surprise he dropped his end of the trunk. “Lara, what do you think you’re doing? Stopping us?”
Katrina let go of her end, and the footlocker dropped with a thump.
Lara didn’t budge. “What do you think you’re doing … with my stuff?”
“Our stuff.”
“Okay, our stuff. Not yours. Ours.”
Katrina wasn’t saying anything. She just stood there with her mouth hanging open.
Viktor marched up to Lara. Was he going to hit her? She flinched, but he was reaching around her, trying to open the truck doors. Lara pressed back against his hands, pinning them.
Viktor said, “I’m taking half of our stuff and all of my stuff to Trina’s new place; she found a studio right near the store. I thought you’d be happy we were going.” With that he walked deliberately back to Katrina and picked up his end of the trunk, motioning for her to do the same.
They came toward her and stepped down into the street. At a signal from him, they dropped the trunk an inch from the toes of her shoes. Now Lara was pinned.
Gerasimov’s Alfa Romeo chose that moment to pull up behind Katrina, boxing everyone into a two-meter space between the vehicles. He approached the group on the run. “Is there a problem, Lara?”
It was Katrina who spoke first. “Who the hell are you, gorgeous?”
Gerasimov acted as if he didn’t hear. “You must be Viktor Maltsev, the about-to-be-ex-husband.”
Army officer Viktor Maltsev stepped up to go chest to chest with the taller broadcast executive. It was no contest; Viktor’s chest won. ”So this is
the druga,” he sneered, dragging out the first syllable of boyfriend.
Still backed against the van, Lara asked, “Grigoriy, what are you doing here?”
“I’ve been calling you about tomorrow. When you didn’t pick up, I thought something might be wrong. So here I am.”
“I was in the Metro.”
Ignoring the intruder, Viktor turned back to his wife. “Lara, step out of the way.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I’m doing what you asked me to. I’m taking my woman and going.”
That last bit was too much. “Your woman? You’re still married to me.”
Viktor reached for something in his jacket pocket. “No, I’m not. Here, I signed it.” He threw the divorce decree at her.
Lara sat down heavily on the footlocker, the breath knocked out of her a little.
Viktor sneered. “Oh wait, here they come, the one-eyed tears.”
“Stop it, both of you!” It was Katrina, who was in the process of dropping down onto the trunk alongside Lara. “I want to be with Viktor, Lara, and you don’t. And unless I miss my guess,” she nodded toward Gerasimov, “you want to be with Ivanhoe here. Can’t we do this like adults instead of fighting in the street?”
She was right, of course. But fighting in the street felt a lot better.
Chapter 55
The floor lamp was back in its place next to the couch. The clock was back on the nail in the wall. Viktor was packing the last of the things from his side of the dresser in an Army duffel bag and giving the stink eye to Gerasimov, who was booting up the iPad borrowed from Lara.
Katrina had tuned out. Instead, she was watching the week’s last contestant on Fabrika Zvezd, Russia’s Star Factory—a talent show that was a lot like the American show, The Voice—when she interrupted the staring contest to ask Gerasimov, “As the Director of Broadcasting, do you approve everything before it goes on the air? Do you already know who’ll win tonight’s Factory?”
Grateful to stretch his legs, Gerasimov got up and walked toward the kitchen. “I only see the work we produce ourselves, not the other stuff.” He took the carafe of coffee Katrina had just burned and started filling the four cups set out on a tray. “Fabrika’s a live show; it’s this Conception Day thing that takes all the work ahead of time.”
Now that he was on his feet, Lara could look over and see what he was working on: her iPad screen showed the log-in box for the Conception Day extravaganza set to air tomorrow night.
At the dacha he’d told her how teams of video artists, music directors and sound mixers labored for much of the summer to supply the recorded content for the three-hour show. And that, as each segment was finished, it was posted online at a password-protected site so the various bigwigs could sign off or suggest changes wherever they happened to be around the city or country. Gerasimov, as the boss, had the final okay. “It’s one of the reasons they gave me such a nice media room,” he’d said.
Having handed out the coffees, Gerasimov sat down again at the iPad, inputting his ID and password on the keyboard. Viktor commented, “Romantika and then Deti. Very good.”
Gerasimov frowned. “You’re not supposed to see the show’s password.”
Viktor ignored him. “‘Romance’ followed by ‘Babies’. Someone at your place has a sense of humor.”
All Gerasimov said was, “Thank you.”
For years, the world’s biggest light show has been the one mounted by Russian leaders every May 9 on Victory Day, marking the end of the Great Patriotic War in 1945. Swathing the four palaces and an equal number of cathedrals that make up the northeast façade of the Kremlin in a dazzling display of colored floodlights and projected images to the music of the great Russian composers, the show—paid for and coordinated by the government through Gosteleradio, which broadcasts it live to every viewing device in the country—is usually the most-watched TV event of any year.
With the growing popularity of Conception Day and the state’s interest in promoting population growth, a second annual son et lumière event was inaugurated. Lacking the military parades, Air Force flyovers and other trappings of Victory Day, the organizers determined that this new production would be even larger and more spectacular, inviting celebrities to intone selected texts and dignitaries from around the world to join the celebration, including—this year—America’s new president and other world leaders. And maybe, just maybe, it would give the protesters in the streets something else to do.
Ballet legend Mikhail Baryshnikov would be leading off the evening, reading his favorite poem about—what else?—a pair of dancing lovers. Gerasimov pressed Play on the computer and Baryshnikov’s still picture came up. The Broadcast Director fast-forwarded through the five minutes of airtime the ballet star would get.
Next there was the now-completed montage of scenes from the career of torch singer Alla Pugachova, including the image Lara saw at the dacha. She’d sold as many records, all love songs, as the Beatles ever did, though not many recently. The images from her life and career would accompany her singing “Dreams of Love” and “Million Roses.”
Viktor glanced at Gerasimov. “Pugachova? I thought she was dead.”
Gerasimov shrugged. “It wouldn’t be Conception Day without her.”
Next came the section a team of young artists had been struggling to get done, a series of psychedelic images set to Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite that would play as fireworks filled the night sky over Moscow. Gerasimov murmured to himself, “Better. Much better this way.”
Lara, sitting apart from the others, was letting her coffee get cold. She was worried about a dozen things at once. Was Lev all right? What about those photos he’d sent? And what about the kid with the red hair and muddy shoes? And Tatiana Ivanova, the weather lady on the video? And Viktor and her divorce … how did she feel about that, now that she finally was free? And back to Lev, was he all right?
“Oh, look at this! It’s the thing you’re doing tomorrow morning!” On TV, Fabrika Zvezd was over and Channel One had moved on to the news. Katrina swiveled the little television on the counter so the others could see it.
They were showing stock footage of schoolchildren in class, with the now-familiar image of the smiling US president juxtaposed next to them in a split screen. Trina dialed up the sound. The anchorwoman was saying, “… an online press conference, in effect, for five million students, after which the American leader will meet with ours.”
“That reminds me,” Gerasimov said, “I’ll have to pick you up early.”
The anchorwoman had moved on. “In a fitting touch, we’re told the Americans’ visit has been extended a few hours so the president can attend the Conception Night light show tomorrow evening at the Kremlin along with other leaders of the G20. Fitting, because he’s also the father of five. In other news …”
The image was now a string of evenly placed fires glowing in the night as firemen played their hoses over them. “In Berchtesgaden, Germany, a string of car and truck fires apparently was started to distract authorities from the theft of memorabilia from Adolf Hitler’s wartime headquarters. An old book with Hitler’s initials in it was stolen from the restaurant that now sits on the site. The book, a Bible, is valued at 2000 euros.”
Lara stared at the screen. “Bozhe moi! Oh my God! That’s the thing I was looking for all week—Hitler’s Bible!”
“What are you saying?” Viktor got up. “That you were trying to find something … a Bible … that just got stolen?”
“Yes, exactly. I just can’t believe the coincidence.”
“Was it valuable? I mean, to a private collector? More valuable than they say?”
The screen was showing a gilded plate and a pen-and-pencil set on a table with an empty space between them. Then the scene cut to a view looking from the valley below back up to the restaurant. It was eerily similar to the one she’d seen on the eBay page.
“Not the book itself. What’s written inside. Someone offered me two million rubles
to find the thing.”
“Really? Wow!” Touching the iPad lying on the table, Viktor asked, “This computer of yours … have you been sending emails from it?”
“A couple. And feedback to a guy on eBay.”
Without asking Gerasimov’s permission, Viktor closed out the Conception Night file. Then he began typing on the iPad’s virtual keyboard like a madman.
Lara said, “Do you know what you’re doing, Viktor?” She didn’t mean it as a putdown, but that’s how it came out.
He didn’t look up. “You said you don’t believe in coincidence. Neither do I.”
He kept entering things on the keyboard, pulling down various windows and opening files on the operating system even as he replied to her question. “I’m an intelligence officer, a pretty good one, actually. In the twenty-first century, nobody passes little pieces of paper around with codes written on them, or gives up state secrets in bed.” Viktor looked up briefly at the two women, one his ex-wife and one his new lover, and added, “Of course, we still try.”
He entered another something, continuing his thought. “These days we run electronic intelligence sweeps, hunt for cyber-terrorists, that sort of thing.” He stopped and peered at the screen. “Okay, there’s your problem.”
The three others looked at him, uncomprehendingly. Gerasimov asked, “Do you mean it’s okay, or that there’s a problem?”
Instead of answering, her ex swiveled to face Lara. “You have a key-logger.”
Katrina said, “Is that bad?”
“Well, if you want the bad guys to know everything you’ve entered on this computer since you’ve had it, it’s perfectly fine.”
Katrina sat down in the chair next to Viktor. “But how can they? It’s a portable; there aren’t any wires.”
“Okay, my little noodlehead, since you asked … right this minute, there are at least five ways a software programmer can hack into this computer from another one. There’s Blue Pill, though that’s mainly for Windows, not Mac. It sort of runs underneath the operating system, taking it over. There’s also hooking, there’s polling, there’s—”