The Hunters

by Chris Kuzneski

  There was general chatter as they sat around a large, square table covered in felt, in the center of a large, square room. All four walls were lined with long wooden drawers designed to safeguard coins. The table had several examining devices attached to it, as well as many drawers of its own. Anna did her best to soak it all up.

  ‘The department was created after World War Two,’ Borovsky told Anna, ‘to house the coins and medals from the Imperial Moscow University.’

  ‘But it soon became much more than that,’ Olga said. She appeared to be older than the colonel, but it was hard for Anna to be sure. She had the flat face and granite-like head of an aged Latvian, as well as a shock of Brillo-like white hair. An incongruous but beautiful pearl necklace was around her sagging throat. ‘Presently we have more than two hundred thousand pieces from all over the world.’

  ‘Olga is the curator of the Russian and Soviet portion,’ Borovsky informed Anna. ‘They have one of the best and oldest numismatic collections in Russia.’

  ‘The world,’ she corrected proudly. ‘And Viktor was quite a friend of the department … the entire museum, in fact.’

  ‘Was?’ Anna wondered between sips.

  Olga smiled at him. ‘Well, you can’t be running off on archeological digs all the time with the Soviet Union disintegrating around you.’

  Anna blinked a few times. It was amazing how wrong she had been about the colonel. The more she learned, the more impressed she became. ‘So you went on digs?’

  Borovsky made a dismissive gesture, but Olga wasn’t having it.

  ‘Viktor often joined us in Tuva, the Crimea, even in the Ukraine and Romania.’ She looked at him with affection. ‘And he never failed to help - at least when he wasn’t wandering off on his own.’

  ‘Enough, enough,’ he grunted. ‘As I said to Natalia, this is official business, Olga.’

  ‘I suspected as much, which is why I made you slow down. I know how you get on cases.’ Olga smiled at him and sighed. ‘So tell me, what kind of official business?’

  Borovsky unbuttoned his uniform coat and reached inside. ‘This kind,’ he said, showing the thin box Anna had found in Andrei Dobrev’s apartment.

  The old woman took the box, pulled it under the adjustable arm’s illuminating magnifying glass, and clicked off the lights from a switch under the table lip.

  ‘Inside,’ Borovsky suggested.

  Olga opened the box and peered at the indentation inside the padding.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  She glanced at him from over the edge of the glass. ‘I’m guessing you know as well as I do.’

  ‘I thought so,’ he said.

  Anna was dying to know. She did not ask.

  Olga looked at Anna, but her question was for Borovsky. ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  The curator motioned Anna forward, pointing through the magnifier. ‘See the outlines within the indentation?’ Through the glass Anna saw what seemed to be an etching in the felt of the hollow box. ‘It’s unique, like a fingerprint,’ Olga said. ‘Romanian, gold, first-series leu, twenty lei, 1868.’ There was a moment of appreciative silence before she looked up through the magnifying glass at Borovsky’s wide eyes. ‘Where did you get this?’

  Borovsky took the box back and spoke before Anna could answer. ‘I’m sorry, that’s privileged information.’

  ‘Ah!’ Olga exclaimed. ‘That means we are done.’ She added sadly, ‘I should have taken more time. When will we see you again?’

  ‘Sooner than you think,’ he said cryptically. ‘Come, Sergeant. We have work to do.’

  Anna was about to follow when she felt a hand on her arm. She turned to see Olga looking at her with a concerned expression. ‘Look after him, will you? He likes to think he’s younger than he is.’

  Anna placed her hand on Olga’s and nodded more reassuringly than she felt. When she went through the outer office, she noted that Natalia also looked concerned at the speed of Borovsky’s departure and the brevity of his farewell.

  Anna caught up with him in the middle of the Black Sea exhibit. It showcased ancient sculptures, vases, urns, and other artifacts - some dating back as far as the fourth century BC - that had been recovered by the museum’s staff. But Anna remained silent despite the questions that had started to pile up like the coins on Olga’s desk.

  As they neared the front door, he said suddenly, ‘I want to thank you for your assistance, Sergeant. I will no longer require your services on this matter. You may take the car and report back to your station, discussing it with no one.’

  Anna felt as if she had been punched in the gut. During their walk she had noticed the change in him, but she attributed it to contemplation. Something had set Borovsky off. His gentle humor and paternal guidance had evaporated - all because a suspicion had been confirmed?

  As his subordinate, she knew she should do as ordered. For one reason or another, he didn’t want her help any more. In the past, she would have nodded and gone back to the station. But the new Anna wasn’t going to do that. She was going to risk a big toss of the net.

  ‘No, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you—’

  ‘I mean, “no sir” as in, “I’m not going.”’

  He stopped. ‘You forget yourself.’

  She stopped. ‘Quite intentionally, yes. I believe you still require my services.’

  Now surrounded by stone and wooden sarcophaguses, statues, papyri, vessels, amulets, and stone hieroglyphic friezes, Borovsky’s stern face softened. ‘Go back to your daughter, Anna. Keep her safe. Make her happy. Raise her well.’

  He walked away.

  She caught up to him again outside. He was looking across the street at the church and the Moscow River beyond. ‘How can I do that, sir, if I can’t say to her, “I did what was right, not what was ordered”?’

  She saw regret, then admiration and appreciation fill his features, before he once again settled into the Viktor Borovsky she had come to know.

  He nodded his approval. ‘You are right. A philosophy that is irrefutable.’

  That made her smile.

  ‘Come then,’ he said, ‘we must hurry.’

  ‘Where to?’ she asked as they hustled to the car.

  His answer caught her by surprise.

  41

  Tuesday, September 18

  Kazan, Republic of Tatarstan, Russia

  (523 miles east of Moscow)

  Pavel Dvorkin knew this city well, almost as well as his native Moscow. Since joining the Black Robes a decade ago, he had made hundreds of trips to the capital city of Kazan - trips he usually looked forward to. But that wasn’t the case today.

  Not after his failed mission at the rail yard.

  Dressed in the high-collared black tunic, black pants, black boots, and specially tailored jacket of his sect, Dvorkin noted the eyes of those pedestrians passing him on the bright, sunny street. By now his presence on the streets of Kazan was a familiar sight to many. In them he sensed respect and envy, but also concern. That was only right. That was only fair. They had a reason to be scared. He had served his masters for many years, and he had served them well. That was obvious in his bearing and expression, as well as his clothing.

  The design of their uniform was truly inspired. Had they donned the long, skirted garment that had served as their wardrobe’s inspiration, they would have been seen as pale imitations of the original. But in this modern version of the traditional garb, they were able to declare their allegiance without words, as well as mark themselves as a group to be reckoned with.

  Dvorkin was proud to be a member of the Black Robes. Gone was the stench of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, the Committee of State Security, which he had fought so hard to become part of as a young man. That organization, known everywhere as the dreaded KGB, had been magnificent when Dvorkin had struggled to impress them.

  He had just turned eighteen and had spent his young life preparing for his eventual acceptance into i
ts ranks. He had joined the Communist Party as soon as they had allowed him to and had joined the Party’s security agency shortly thereafter. With the mighty Vladimir Kryuchkov at the helm of the KGB, there was the promise of an even more powerful agency, one in which Dvorkin would’ve had an important role. But somehow that dream never happened.

  By the end of the 1980s, head of state Mikhail Gorbachev launched radical reforms that led to national instability. Naturally Kryuchkov wanted to hold the country together. He gathered all his newest, strongest agents, Dvorkin included, for a coup in 1991. But Gorbachev turned Kryuchkov’s solid ground to sand - and he did it brilliantly. Instead of cracking down on Kryuchkov and his followers, he left them alone. Because Kryuchkov did not have a reason to complain to the Communist Party, the Party would not give him the authority to retaliate, and that led to the smoldering destruction of the KGB.

  In 1991, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics formally dissolved. The KGB was quickly divided into several weaker organizations, all under the direct control of the new Russia - and make no mistake about it: the new Russia was not the Communist Party.

  Pavel Dvorkin, like so many others, was set adrift.

  For a time, he took jobs that suited his temperament and training. A shakedown here, a robbery there - until one day in 2002 when he was asked to obtain incriminating evidence against a high-ranking member of the Politburo. Dvorkin did more than find it; he supplied it in the form of a male prostitute. The scandal that followed was when and how he came to the attention of an exciting new group: the Black Robes. Now, more than a decade later, he was deeply ensconced in their midst and well trusted by his colleagues.

  Some of his fellow congregants were perplexed by their presence in Kazan. Why not work out of Tiumen Oblast, Siberia - once known as Pokrovskoe - where their master had been born? Or what about St Petersburg, where their master had healed Prince Alexi of hemophilia and brought royal-lady-in-waiting Anya Vyrubova out of a coma after a train wreck?

  Instead, their leader had chosen Kazan as their headquarters, a place where their master had lived in 1902 and had begun gathering his first disciples. Known as the ‘third capital of Russia’, Kazan was a splendid, sprawling city at the juncture of the Kazanka and Volga Rivers. Thanks to the diverse, ever-growing population, the town was full of mosques, cathedrals, churches, and temples. Here, amongst pilgrims of many religions, the Black Robes could hide in plain sight.

  Dvorkin walked over the bridge spanning the Bolaq channel - just one of many waterways that reflected, literally and figuratively, the sparkling architecture consisting of white stone buildings with red clay roofs, interspersed with soaring communication towers, stadiums, academies, palaces, and even circuses, complete with elevated ‘big tops’. In the distance, he could see the Millennium Bridge, named for the city’s thousandth anniversary and marked by a giant yellow ‘M’ pylon. In another direction was the Kazan Kremlin, an historic citadel built at the behest of Ivan the Terrible on the ruins of a fallen castle.

  Dvorkin took a final look at the city he knew so well, then directed his attention to their headquarters. It was a relatively small, innocuous building - just three stories tall - that blended into its surroundings. Although it was dwarfed by many of Kazan’s edifices, it remained the biggest building on this block. Its architecture was similar to the others, except it had a slightly sloping brown roof, while the others had slightly pointed reddish ones.

  With eight tall, narrow windows on each side of every floor, plus corner windows allowing for views in all directions, it seemed sedate, civilized, and unassuming. But as Dvorkin approached the nondescript entrance, he knew at least three cameras and a half-dozen people, both inside and outside the structure, were watching him. He pressed the thumb piece of the door’s handle set and waited. No key, code, or identity card was needed. His entry was allowed from the guards within. There was a buzz and click, and then he went inside the plain antechamber. It was a solid steel box, covered with dark wood paneling.

  Dvorkin waited in the eight-foot cube until the door closed behind him, sealing out all light. He stood in total darkness and waited until the infrared sensors had scanned his entire body. Then there was another buzz and another click, and a sliding panel opened in front of him. He stepped through and entered another world.

  It was as if he had been transported to 1916 and was standing in the macabre quiet of the Crimson Drawing Room of the Alexander Palace - the preferred home of Nicholas II and his family. A gilded chandelier hung from the ceiling. Marble columns braced heavily draped walls. The chairs were richly upholstered in crimson cloth. The carpet was deep and crimson. The walls were covered with the same sort of emerald wallpaper that had adorned the royal home.

  At first glance, there were only two major differences between the original room in St Petersburg and this facsimile in Kazan. One, there were no windows looking out on the royal grounds, and two, the building was filled with gorgeous women dressed in white.

  Like angels in a twisted dream.

  Following their leader’s directive, the women adhered to the precepts of the Khlysty sect. It preached salvation through sin, with spirits and sensuality being the devices to divine grace. As such, heavy crystal decanters of brandy were on virtually every other table, and languid women rested here and there, all in attire that sexualized royal refinement. The two women in the crimson room wore tight, white lace shirts over white, whale-boned corsets; long, clinging silk gowns with slits up the leg; white lace, thigh-high stockings; and white, high-heeled, button-up ankle boots. The women were both tall and slim, with long, glossy, light brown hair.

  That was another benefit of headquartering in Kazan. The streets were full of hopeful actresses, models, athletes, and students - many of whom were so frustrated at their lack of success that they were willing to receive a relatively substantial salary to serve the greater good.

  Neither woman looked at him. In fact, their eyes were hooded with heavy lids over unfocused pupils. Dvorkin knew they were most likely sedated, hungover, or both. He hadn’t spoken to the staff members who were responsible for these women, but he did not have to. Their behavior reflected alcohol, leisure medications, and the ‘additives’ thereof.

  Dvorkin had once heard their leader say, ‘If our supplicants require external encouragement to reach internal enlightenment, then they shall have it.’

  Whether they knew about it or not.

  Dvorkin glanced to his left when a short man in a black tunic walked through the far door. He had a severe expression on his face and slicked-back hair. The man said, ‘We’ve been expecting you. He will see you now.’

  ‘Which room?’ Dvorkin asked.

  ‘The sitting room.’

  Dvorkin breathed a sigh of relief. The sitting room was the re-creation of Alexandra’s formal reception area, up on the third floor. That was where their leader customarily had his minor meetings, so that gave credence to Dvorkin’s hope that their leader only wanted to assure himself that all was proceeding on schedule.

  Dvorkin left the other man in the Crimson Study and went up the wide stairs to the third floor. The second floor, as he well knew, was filled with offices and planning rooms where the organization members carried out their leader’s bidding.

  He went left at the landing to walk a wide, well-decorated hall. He passed the re-creation of Alexandra’s Maple Room, her Mauve Room, and the Pallisander Room, before approaching the door of the Formal Reception Room. He stood outside and prepared to knock, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

  He turned to see a pair of the white, high-heeled ankle boots lying, unbuttoned, outside the cracked-open door of Alexandra’s Imperial Bedroom re-creation. He tried to peer into the bedroom but only glimpsed dark hints of the overstuffed interior. He thought he might have heard muffled human sounds, but he wasn’t sure. It appeared as if whoever had stood in those shoes had been pulled right out of them.

  Dvorkin knocked and pushed open the door. The roo
m was like it had been in Alexander Palace. The walls were covered in artificial marble topped with an ornately molded entablature. Heavy, cranberry-colored curtains covered the windows. The floor was of dark gold parquet topped with a French Savonierre-style rug. Scattered around the room’s edges were various chairs, tables, bookcases, and writing desks, all in the style of eighteenth-century France.

  In the middle of the room was a small table, flanked by chairs.

  In one sat Grigori Yefimovich Sidorov.

  The leader of the Black Robes.

  42

  The sight of their leader never failed to affect Dvorkin. There was a palpable thrill, knowing how clever and commanding he was, the power he wielded over the Black Robes and beyond. But that same knowledge also conjured a feeling of unease. Even today, it stopped him in his tracks.

  The hawk-faced man didn’t seem to notice. He motioned for Dvorkin to sit opposite him. Dvorkin nodded gratefully, then paused in mid-step as he noticed another high-heeled boot out of the corner of his left eye. This one, however, was filled with a dainty female foot. It led to a long, shapely leg attached to the torso of another seemingly comatose young woman in white, draped across a sofa along the wall. She, like the others, seemed unconcerned or unaware of his presence.

  Dvorkin looked back to his leader with a silent question. Sidorov stared back, expressionless, then looked over as if seeing the woman for the first time. He seemed to think for a moment, then rolled his eyes, stood, stepped over to the sofa, and perched beside her. He pulled a napkin off a nearby table, folded it carefully, and used it to blindfold the girl. Dvorkin was not overly surprised that she did not react.

  Sidorov was about to get up, but he thought better of it. He leaned over her to open the drawer of a table, removed an iPod and headphones, inserted the earbuds deep into the woman’s ears, turned up the machine, and placed it in the crook of her corseted waist. Then he returned to his seat at the table. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Better?’