The 731 Legacy

by Lynn Sholes

  A large, round fountain dominated the center of the park. The powerful water jets were turned off, and the pool drained for the winter. Rather than coins, a collection of twigs and rubbish covered the bottom.

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  Cotten wandered over to a bench beneath a statue of Stephen the Great, the fifteenth-century ruler of Moldova. It was a workday and the nasty weather caused the park to be virtually deserted—a few individuals moved in anonymity on their paths to other places. Sitting on the bench, she waited.

  Ten minutes passed before she heard footsteps approaching. Moving toward her was the man from the hotel lobby. He had instructed her to meet him in the park. He motioned toward the bench before getting a nod from Cotten to sit.

  He joined her in silence as his eyes scanned the park, almost as if he were taking inventory of every plant and object.

  Finally, he turned to Cotten. "I am Colonel Vladimir Ivanov, former KGB, now retired."

  "Cotten Stone, Satellite News Network."

  "Yes," he said, shaking her hand. "I recognize you in lobby. I have seen you many times on American television."

  "You speak good English, Colonel."

  "Many of my comrades learn your language. Part of job. I still use English working as part-time tour guide at Museum of History in the Old City."

  "Tell me what you know of Wolf Castle."

  He smiled. "Dracula's Castle is scary place."

  "Because of the vampire legend?"

  Ivanov chuckled. "No, Ms. Stone, vampires are only in movies."

  "How do you know about Wolf Castle?"

  "Place has been used for many years as location to detain and question those suspected to be danger to old Soviet Union. I conducted interrogation sessions there that were... productive. And when special persons like Comrades Andropov or Chernenko visit, I would be in charge of security unit during stay in castle."

  "Are you aware of the recent abduction of the Vatican delegation?"

  "Yes. Although I am retired, I still keep fingers in pie."

  "Then do you believe that could be where the kidnappers are holding them?"

  "Odds are good. It is perfect place."

  "What else have you heard?"

  "Two men shot."

  "What about the others?"

  "They were alive this morning."

  Cotten leaned back against the bench. "Thank God." She felt a swelling of relief rush through her. "You're certain?"

  He shrugged. "Nothing is for certain in this life. But I would stick neck out and say they are still alive. Men who took them want money. Without proof of life, they get spit."

  "The people at the hotel told me that the priests were picked up by the Moldovian military. One was an army general. Is that true?"

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  Ivanov laughed again. "They are gangsters from across border. Everyone there is either gangster or victim."

  "Why isn't the Moldovian government doing anything to help get the delegation back?"

  "Wolf Castle is in Transnistria. Border war already on verge of blowing up again. This would set fuse to explode. Moldovian officials turn away. Say it is not their problem. Priests came at own risk. Very tragic. Too bad. Have nice day."

  "And the Transnistrian officials won't help, either?"

  He smiled at her. "You are not listening to Vladimir. You do not deal with gangsters."

  She stared at the fountain for a few moments. "You could get me into Wolf Castle?"

  "You don't want to go there."

  "I have to help my friend and his colleagues. If the government won't do anything, I will."

  "You are brave soul. I admire your backbone and stupidity."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Not meant to insult, Ms. Stone. But there is nothing you can do against armed gangsters. You would quickly become hostage and your American TV

  company would get ransom demand."

  "So why are we having this conversation, Colonel? If you're not going to help me, then we're wasting each other's time."

  "Didn't say I would not help you." He reached to pat her leg. "Only that you would be stupid to go alone."

  "What other choice do I have?"

  "Perhaps some of my old comrades and I help you get friends back."

  "What do you mean? Who are your comrades? And why would they want to get involved?"

  "So many questions." He paused as a woman pushing a baby stroller walked by. When she was out of earshot, he said, "Many reasons why comrades and I would like to embarrass criminals who take your friends. Despite fact that this is no longer Soviet country, we still have to survive. We had good times before fall of Moscow. After that, life went to shit. But now things are better. We enjoy pretty good life. Plenty food and work, and we rarely have to shoot anyone." He smiled broadly. "Joke."

  "I still don't understand."

  "New Moldova is partner with West. They do not want to have blemish on record with NATO. Want to join European Union. Be big shots. This thing with Vatican priests is best left to others. Out of their hands. But gangsters make fools of my country. Good times may go away. Have to start shooting people again." Another big smile. "Must maintain sense of humor, Ms. Stone."

  As quirky as he was, she began to see him as her only hope to get anything accomplished. And somewhere deep inside, she knew he probably was not joking about shooting people.

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  "What do you have in mind, Colonel?"

  "My comrades go to castle and rescue your friends. Simple plan"

  "I thought it was heavily guarded. How will you get in?"

  "There are many ways in and out of Wolf Castle. Some only known to Vladimir."

  "What do you want in return?"

  "I want to be big hero on American television news. Then maybe I run for office here and become mayor of great former Soviet city of Chisinau."

  "That's it?"

  He shrugged. "Better than part-time guide at museum."

  "You have to take me along."

  "Impossible," he said.

  "No, Colonel, that's the deal. Take me or forget becoming the new mayor."

  He stared at her for a long time. Then with a big smile, he said, "You have bulletproof vest?"

  THE RIVER

  The late 1960s Volkswagen panel minibus rumbled along the back country road past endless miles of farmland. Cotten sat on the floor in the back, feeling every bump and rut. Colonel Ivanov had given her an old boat cushion to use, but it was of little help. She felt her spine vibrating with every pothole and crack in the pavement.

  Ivanov and three of his former KGB friends had picked her up a few blocks from her hotel just before sunset. Earlier that afternoon, she had taken a taxi to a store that sold hunting gear and Soviet-era army surplus clothing. There she bought a pair of rugged hunting pants, a heavy woolen sweater, ski mask, and a thick mountain jacket with a sheep's wool collar. The salesman couldn't find boots small enough to fit her, so she bought additional pairs of extra thick socks to fill up the space. A few hours later, dressed in the heavy clothing with her gloved hands jammed deep into her coat pockets, she tried to keep warm in the back of the VW.

  Sitting across from her was Krystof, a skinny little man with sad eyes and a week-old growth of stubble. He had fallen asleep soon after leaving the city and didn't seem bothered by the bumpy ride.

  To his left was Victor, a white-haired grandfatherly man with thick glasses and crooked teeth. She had learned that he and Krystof were both former officers in the Russian navy before being recruited by the KGB many years ago. His eyebrows were the bushiest Cotten had ever seen, and he spent the time listening to a small radio in his coat pocket, using a single earplug.

  In the front passenger's seat was Alexei. He had a dark, full beard and small black eyes. Cotten estimated he weighed at least 250 pounds, and despite

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  the chilly weather, his forehead had a permanent sheen of sweat. He constantly hummed a nameless tune.

  Colonel Ivanov drove the minibus.
<
br />   All the men wore side arms under their long coats, and Cotten assumed they probably had additional weapons hidden elsewhere on their bodies. When she had asked Ivanov if she needed a weapon, he laughed out loud. Then he patted her arm. "You might accidentally shoot someone." With a wide grin, he pointed to the other three. "Perhaps one of us."

  As the minibus rolled through the dark farmland of eastern Moldova, she wondered if this was really the route she needed to take to help get John back?

  Instead, should she be camped out on the steps of the Moldovian Parliament building demanding that the government conduct a search and rescue mission?

  She had left the SNN Moscow reporter and crew trying to do just that. So far, they had little success. But with other international press starting to hear the news and converge on the capital, perhaps the world would take notice and react with outrage to the reports of the missing Vatican diplomats. Was Cotten's place back in Chisinau instead of somewhere in the backcountry with a bunch of old, burned-out KGB losers from a country that no longer existed? As every mile passed by, she became less convinced that she was doing the right thing.

  Colonel Ivanov turned the minibus off the pavement onto a dirt farm road. Although there were no windows in the panel van, Cotten could raise up enough to get a glimpse of the terrain in the headlights. The farmland had transformed into forest, and the road snaked its way through an ever-thickening wooded countryside. Soon, the forest became so dense that branches scraped against the sides of the van.

  Finally, they descended a gentle slope and ground to a halt. Ivanov switched off the engine and headlights. A heavy silence surrounded the minivan. Krystof awoke. Cotten noticed that he was looking at her. With a toothy grin, he whispered, "River."

  After a full five minutes, the colonel slowly and quietly opened his door. Alexei did the same on the passenger's side. Cotten started to rise, but Krystof motioned her to remain seated. She could hear the low conversation of the two men outside. Then another lengthy wait.

  She wondered if Krystof had dozed off again. Then Ivanov quietly slid the side door open.

  "Everyone out," he whispered.

  "Where are we?" Cotten asked as she stepped down onto the crunchy dirt.

  "Dniester River," Ivanov said. "We go for boat ride."

  Krystof reached inside the van and pulled back a thick sheet of canvas, revealing a stash of weapons. "Kalashnikov," he said to Cotten as he lifted an AK-47 from the pile. "Best in world."

  Ivanov chose a similar rifle from the pile. Alexei lifted a slim Dragunov sniper rifle from the stash along with a bag the size of an attaché case. Victor

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  finished his selection by taking a compact machine pistol with an extra long magazine clip. When all were satisfied with their choices, Ivanov carefully slid the door to the minibus closed. He led the group down a hillside past an old cabin and onto a wooden pier running about twenty feet out over the water.

  Cotten saw the starlight reflecting off the slow-moving water. It was hard to tell, but in the dim light, she estimated the river to be about a quarter of a mile across.

  Tied to the end of the dock was a rowboat about twelve feet long. In the bow rested what looked like a pile of fish netting. Two large oars lay across a pair of wooden benches. Ivanov placed his index finger over his lips and then motioned for everyone to get into the boat. Cotten sat in the stern beside Victor. Ivanov removed the ropes that moored the boat to the dock and pitched them in the boat before positioning himself in the bow on top of the netting. Appearing to move in slow motion, Alexei and Krystof took the fat-shafted oars and eased them into the gunwale guides. Ivanov and Victor gently shoved the boat away from the dock. With an almost unperceivable effort, the other two men lowered their oars into the water and started rowing.

  Silently, the boat rocked away from the dock and headed across the black water. Cotten glanced over her shoulder. The minibus, dock, and cabin faded into the darkness of the riverbank. She wrapped her arms around herself, not from the bitter cold and first flakes of snow that fell, but from the fear that John might already be dead. This was the only way, she told herself. No one else would come to his aid. This was his only chance for survival.

  Her fragile confidence was suddenly shattered as a powerful spotlight swept across the surface of the river and lit up the rowboat like daylight.

  THE ISLAND

  Moon sat alone in her living room, her housekeeper gone for the day. Tired, exhausted, the work was taking its toll on her frail frame. But she was so close. Close enough to count the days, perhaps even the hours until the first wave of attacks.

  Soon.

  She had turned out all the lights. Only the soft glow of the television lit the room. She was about to watch the videocassettes— again.

  Moon had memorized every word. She could close her eyes and recall every scene in amazing detail. To her, it was a living being—a direct connection to the past, to her father, to his work. In the tapes were images of the place where he unknowingly gave birth to the virus that would become Black Needles.

  Aiming the remote, she pressed play.

  The video from the handheld camera was shaky at first as the landmass

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  emerged from the Gaussian blur of the fog bank. It was early morning, but the sun had not yet burned off the blanket of mist over the ocean. Slowly, the pieces of a dark, rocky beach came together to form a wide expanse of headland stretching across the bow of the boat.

  There were three young ethno-botanists aboard the launch— Gina, a brunette with dark-eyes and olive-skin; Stefen, a lanky fellow with hair the color of oatmeal and fair skin who was shooting the video; and Lesley, a tall pecanskinned girl who drove the boat.

  Moon fast-forwarded the tape until the boat's bow knifed into the sandy bottom as they put ashore on the island.

  After disembarking, Stefen aimed the camera at himself, holding it at arm's length. Feigning a British accent he said, "Welcome to Pleasure Island. I will be your host for the day." Stefen gave a theatrical grin, then twisted around and aimed the camera toward the sea, zooming in on the hulky silhouette of thePitcairn anchored in the distance. The Oceanautics research vessel had served as home for the three botanists along with other graduate student-scientists.

  Moon paused the tape and stared at thePitcairn. The ship was only a part of her prize. For three months they had kept the ship in quarantine while it was decontaminated. Today it was moored along the banks of the Taedong River in the middle of the North Korean capital alongside the USS Pueblo—two shining jewels in the General Secretary's political treasury.

  When Moon and her bio-hazmat medical team had first boarded thePitcairn, among the dead they found Stefen's videotape collection, eleven in all, but two of them were what captured her attention. Those two tapes and the ship's log revealed that the research vessel had found the island by accident when a violent electrical storm caused an onboard fire and knocked out the navigation and communication systems. The ship strayed off course for a day until it came across one of the thousands of islands in the vast Korea Bay. With the possible chance of discovering new plant life, the three botanists had set off to explore the desolate volcanic island while the ship's crew worked on repairing the damaged electronics. The repair took longer than expected, giving the botanists a number of opportunities to visit the island over the next few days. Each time, they explored a different section of the twenty-square-mile landmass.

  Moon fast-forwarded through the videotape until she saw Lesley holding a digital SLR camera. She let the recording resume normal play. Stefen was again the videographer.

  "Look," Lesley whispered and pointed. "There's an amur falcon in that tree." Then she refocused her telephoto lens. "How strange." Lowering the camera, she stepped a few paces forward, sweeping back the tall grass with her hand. "Check it out. About forty yards straight out."

  "What the hell?" Stefen said, pointing the video camera and zooming.

  Gina said, "What do you
think it is... or was?"

  "Looks like an old building," Lesley said. "At least what's left of it."

  "But out here in the middle of nowhere?" Lesley used her hand like a sun

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  visor. "You guys want to have a look?"

  "Definitely," Stefen said. Before following the two girls, he panned the camera in a circle, capturing their surroundings. "For posterity, on Pleasure Island we have your basic craggy-faced cliffs, a lot of dark, spooky forest, and thick undergrowth, probably filled with venomous snakes and deadly scorpions."