by Susan Mann
“It’s okay.”
Although they walked in silence, the tension between them had dissipated. By the time they hurried up the marble steps at the front of the hotel hand in hand, rain had begun to spit down.
Once they were safe in their room, Quinn hung up her coat, grabbed her CIA-issue pajamas, and changed in the bathroom. She wasn’t going to bed yet, but she might as well be comfortable.
She tossed her clothes on top of her suitcase, removed her laptop from the safe, and made her way across the mattress. She rearranged the pile of pillows behind her, settled back, and opened the computer.
Taking a cue from Quinn, James rifled through his suitcase, snagged some clothes, and marched to the bathroom. A couple of minutes later, he emerged wearing a pair of plaid flannel pajama bottoms dotted with brown moose, and a long-sleeved T-shirt.
She looked up and grinned.
“Don’t start with me,” he said and dumped his dirty clothes in his suitcase. “I didn’t pick them.”
She held her hands up as if in surrender. “I didn’t say a word. Honestly? I think they’re pretty adorable.”
He smiled. “I can live with that.” He took the manuscript and Professor Dudley’s notes from his briefcase and handed them to Quinn. Then he set up his secure computer on the desk, sat down, and got to work.
She bubbled with anticipation as she reviewed the notes. She had no idea how any of the information there or in the manuscript could possibly connect to Yevgeni Dobrynin, Ben Hadley, Roderick Fitzhugh, or a stash of hidden weapons. Still, it seemed Ben had given the manuscript special scrutiny. She was bound and determined to figure out why.
She thought through her search strategy. She decided to start with “Eugenius filius de Johannes” and go from there. That exact phrase returned nothing in her first search. Removing the quotation marks garnered links to a few ancient charters with the names Eugenius and Johannes sprinkled throughout, but nothing helpful. She decided to search the research databases available through the Westside Library. There, she found an interesting journal article about the papal patronage of musicians. She also learned there had been a number of popes named Eugenius, the fourth and last was elected in 1431. Had Eugenius been the pope, and not Leo as they originally surmised? From the text Gemma translated, there was little chance that Eugenius had been a pope.
She switched gears and decided to see what she could learn about the popes named Leo. The first was called Leo the Great, which tracked with the exact words in the text of the manuscript. The problem was he lived much too early to be connected with any of the Crusades. She didn’t dismiss him, though. Eugenius being tied to a Crusade was just a hunch. They could be wrong.
Quinn opened a blank text document and made some notes about Leo the Great. More research revealed the second Leo was only pope for a couple of years. The third was noteworthy because he’d crowned Charlemagne emperor in 800. While interesting, it didn’t seem pertinent to her search.
The fourth Leo had a problem with the “Saracens,” a synonym for “Muslims” in medieval Latin literature. He warranted a closer look. She made a note and moved on.
Poor Leo V, upon becoming pope, was almost immediately tossed in prison by an antipope. He wouldn’t have had anyone bowing before him, so she moved on. Leo VI hadn’t even made it a full year as pope before he died, and Leo VII’s fate wasn’t much different than the previous two Leos. His papacy only lasted three years. She snickered when she read what the article said about the unofficial circumstances surrounding his death.
James twisted in his chair and gave her a look. “What are you snickering at?”
“Rumor has it the seventh Pope Leo died of a heart attack while, ah”—an eyebrow rose suggestively—“his mistress rode the papal bull.”
He busted up laughing and shook his head. “Not the most pious way to go, is it?”
“It’s really not.”
He turned back toward his computer and said, “Bet they were never able to wipe the smile off his face.”
Quinn beamed.
“Nice research, by the way,” he said, his tone playful.
“Hey!” she replied in mock offense. “I don’t go looking for this stuff. I go where the trail takes me.”
“Uh-huh.”
She was tempted to bean him with a pillow, but they’d decided to keep it professional—she chalked up their make-out session on the train as a momentary, albeit spine-tingling, lapse—so her only retort was a mild “Uh-huh.”
Quinn sat straight, raised her arms up over her head, and twisted her torso first one way and then the other. Then she hunched forward and elongated her upper body similar to the way she’d seen Rasputin do it a thousand times. When she got back to L.A., even if she had to take out a loan, she’d spring for her and Nicole to get massages.
She flopped back against the pillows and found the duet of James tapping on his computer keys and the rain pelting the window to be rather soothing. She couldn’t allow herself to get too complacent, however. There was still a mystery to solve.
Back to the popes, Leo VIII was another with an incredibly short papacy, so she moved on to Leo IX. German by birth, he eventually ended up a hostage in southern Italy after a defeat by Norman mercenaries. The manuscript indicated that Eugenius had been held captive as well, so maybe there was a connection with this Leo. She typed up her musings and kept at it.
She skimmed the entries for the rest of the Leos. Other than the pope who’d contended with both Martin Luther and Henry VIII, nothing was especially noteworthy.
Now finished with the popes, she reviewed her notes. Seven on her list warranted closer inspection if the rest of her research was a bust.
She mentally changed lanes and decided it was time to find out more about Richard the Lionheart. She really hoped to stumble across a Eugenius, son of Johannes, who had gone crusading with him.
She went back to the encyclopedia in the reference database and started reading the article on Richard I of England. When she got to the section about the various attempts by Richard’s parents to arrange a politically advantageous marriage for him, Quinn’s eyelids drooped and the words swam on the screen. She checked the clock. It was 1:30.
“I’m so fried I can’t see straight,” she told James. She closed her laptop and set it on the nightstand. “My brain is mush and I’m afraid I might miss something.”
He turned and asked, “Will it bother you if I don’t come to bed right away? I have a little more work to do.”
A shiver raced through her. She knew what he meant. But his question sounded so routine, like they were an actual married couple who usually went to bed together every night. She slid off the bed and fussed with the covers. “No. That’s fine.”
His gaze remained on her while she rearranged her pillows. “How’s the Leo research going?”
“I have about a half dozen on my list of suspects. I also might be on to something with Richard the Lionheart. During his traipsing about on the Third Crusade, he got into a spat with Leopold V, Duke of Austria. He imprisoned Richard in Dürnstein Castle for a while.”
“It checks the ‘held captive’ box. And Austria has plenty of places that could be called a ‘blizzard village.’”
“That’s my thinking, too.” She slipped under the covers and switched off the lamp. “I’ll dig into it again in the morning.”
“I have no doubt of that.” The pale glow of James’s computer illumined his smile. “Good night, Quinn.”
“Good night.” She was out the moment her head hit the pillow.
* * *
Quinn woke in the exact same position she’d fallen asleep six hours before. She became aware of the steady breathing from the other side of the bed, flipped over, and found James asleep, lying on his side with his back to her. He was actually under the covers this time.
She allowed herself to enjoy the moment. The warmth, the quiet intimacy—waking up next to James was something she could definitely get used to. At the same time, i
t stirred in her physical longing. The memory of their heated kisses the night before sent warmth spreading through her body. She yearned to breach the space between them, to roll him on his back and crawl atop him and kiss him senseless and...
She drew in a sharp breath. Her mind and body had led her deep into dangerous territory. She couldn’t go any further. “Keep it professional, Quinn,” she whispered and abandoned the bed.
She peeked through a crack in the curtains. The world outside was wet, gray, and dreary. It was just as well they would most likely be spending the day indoors trying to unlock the mysteries of the manuscript.
She grabbed some clean clothes and stole a glance at the still-sleeping James on her way to the bathroom. At the flare of heat, she realized her shower would have to be on the colder side. By the time she left the bathroom, she’d wrestled her thoughts away from James, mostly anyway, and on her research. And to preserve this frame of mind now that he was awake, she studiously reviewed her notes while James showered and readied.
After a quick breakfast together, Quinn reassumed her position on the bed with her computer perched on her lap. James mirrored her, the open manuscript on his. Gemma Dudley’s notes sat on the bed between them.
While James scrutinized the illuminations and maps, Quinn stared at her laptop screen, deep in thought. She still had plenty of research to do regarding Richard the Lionheart, but something had occurred to her at breakfast. They’d assumed the term “great lion” meant the name Leo or some variation of it. But she didn’t know what Eugenius meant.
With this new tact in mind, she opened a browser and searched “Eugenius name meaning.” She clicked on one of the links and read what she already knew. It was the Latin form of Eugene. She read further and learned it came from the Greek word “eugenes” which meant “well born.” She remembered hearing Gemma read those very words in the opening text.
She sighed in frustration, not having learned anything new. She was about to click the tab closed when a name on the page caught her eye. She cocked her head and stared at it. There was a nearly audible click in her mind when the puzzle pieces fell into place. To test her theory, she typed the name John into the search box at the top of the page. When she saw the results, a prickly sensation crawled over her scalp. She managed to keep her tone measured when she said, “James?”
He turned a page in the manuscript and didn’t look up. “Hmm?”
“Dobrynin. The Soviet general. Was his middle name Ivanovich? Or maybe his father’s name was Ivan? Maybe both?”
“I don’t remember. Let me check his file.” He bounded off the bed, grabbed his laptop, and returned to his spot. After a half minute of typing, he narrowed his eyes. “How did you know his middle name was Ivanovich?”
“Because Ivan is the Russian form of John.”
“Right, and Ivanovich means son of Ivan. That doesn’t answer my question. How did you know that was Dobrynin’s middle name?”
“Because a Russian form of Eugene is Yevgeni.”
James’s eyes widened.
“I think Eugenius, son of Johannes, is Yevgeni Ivanovich Dobrynin.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Quinn and James sat on the bed and stared at each other, completely dumbfounded. Had she really connected the manuscript directly to Yevgeni Dobrynin?
She picked up the manuscript and turned the pages. “This is going to sound crazy, but I remember reading somewhere a lot of times the person who commissioned a manuscript would have a miniature of themselves inserted into it somewhere. Do you have a picture of Dobrynin?”
“Yep.” James tapped at the keyboard and swiveled the laptop so she could see the black-and-white photo on the screen. Broad-faced and scowling, Dobrynin glared at the camera from under caterpillar eyebrows.
She located the miniature of the knight supplicating himself before his liege and held up the book next to the screen for easy comparison. He had the same dark hair combed straight back and the same thick eyebrows. “He’s the knight.”
Inspiration flamed in James’s eyes. He started typing. “Find that initial with the noblewoman in the middle of it.”
“On it.” Quinn flipped to the page and when she compared the woman in the large, fancy letter with the one James called up on the screen, she said, “Holy crap! It’s the same woman. Who is she?”
“Dobrynin’s wife, Svetlana.”
Quinn felt like she was about to come out of her skin. “Who’s the guy Dobrynin’s kneeling in front of? The ‘great lion’? Leo? Leopold? Leon?”
“In Russian, it’d be Leonid.”
They looked at each other and at the same time said, “Leonid Brezhnev.”
James checked his computer. “Dobrynin was born in Novgorod in 1947 and joined the army in 1965.”
Quinn had already pulled up information on the former Soviet supreme leader on her laptop. “Brezhnev came to power in 1964.” She looked at James. “His loyalty was to Brezhnev, and then ‘the lion’s successors’.”
“He was born in 1947.” His voice grew more excited when he quoted the manuscript. “‘Soon after the invaders from the west were vanquished.’”
“The Germans in World War II.” She tilted her head in thought. “You think the ‘hated empire to the west’ is the U.S. during the Cold War?”
“Yeah, although I wouldn’t be surprised if he lumped all of Western Europe in there. He also fought in Afghanistan.”
She nodded. “‘The infidels of the mountains to the east.’ Let me guess. He was captured at one point and escaped?”
“Yeah.” James covered his face with his hands and his head thumped against the headboard when it fell back. “Oh God, Quinn. I’m such an idiot. I’d read Dobrynin’s file. I should have picked up on the parallels right away.”
“You’re not an idiot and why would you have picked up on the parallels?” She pulled a hand away from his face and held it with both of hers. “A twentieth-century Soviet general has his life story written so that he comes off as some random Crusader knight running around Europe in the Middle Ages. The story is scribed onto parchment in medieval Latin using all kinds of vague imagery and then turned into a manuscript, complete with authentic-looking illuminations and a wood-and-leather cover. Of course you wouldn’t assume the story was about Dobrynin.” Incredulous, she added, “Who even does that? It’s insane.”
James bolted upright and blurted, “Novgorod.”
“What?”
His eyes were wild, like a mad scientist about to reanimate the dead. “Novgorod. Dobrynin was born there. It literally means ‘new city’ in Russian.”
“Yeah? So?”
“They didn’t use Novgorod in the manuscript, they used the literal translation of it instead. If they used Novgorod, we would have known he was Russian right away.”
“Okay,” she said slowly.
“What if they did the same thing for all of the places mentioned? Do you remember when we were driving to LAX and were looking for clues in the letter? You had the idea that maybe Summerfield should be translated into Russian.” He jabbed his finger at Professor Dudley’s list. “Right idea, wrong document.”
“Blizzard village,” she said. “What’s that in Russian?”
“Blizzard is ‘buran.’ Add the suffix either ‘ovo’ or ‘ovka’ and that makes it village or town.”
“Got it.” Mentally crossing her fingers, she opened a map website and as she began to type ‘Buranovo’ into the search box, that very word appeared as a suggestion. She clicked on it and when the little red flag appeared on the map, she stared in disbelief. “It’s a town in Russia, about five hundred miles or so due east of Novgorod.” Unblinking, she gazed at James and said in awe, “Holy smokes. I think we figured it out.”
“I think so, too.” He picked up the notepad and put his finger under the next entry. “‘Great John’s Town.’ Try ‘Bolshoi Ivanovo.’”
She typed it into the search box. “It wants it to be spelled with a ‘y.’ Either way, nothing.�
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He frowned and thought for a moment. “Okay, try ‘Bolshaya.’”
“How does ‘Bolshaya Ivanovka’ grab you?”
“Works for me.”
“The closest city is Volgograd. It’s seventy, eighty miles south of Bolshaya Ivanovka.”
Over the next twenty minutes, they worked together and located the other three places on the list. Two were in Russia, although they were closer to Mongolia than Moscow. The final town was in western Kazakhstan.
Quinn studied James’s face as he stared at the screen of her laptop. “This is it, isn’t it?” she asked. “The rumors about Dobrynin coding information about some mysterious weapon or weapons in his art collection are true. We found it.”
“I think so. We can’t spike the football yet, though. We might know where the weapons are hidden, but we don’t know what they are. These could be anything from secret labs that were developing nasty bioweapons to huge stockpiles of conventional munitions.”
“Would whatever it is still be there twenty years later?”
“With how remote these towns are, I don’t see why not.” He slid the computer from his lap and opened the manuscript again. “The answer’s got to be in here somewhere.”
“If it’s in the text, we’ll never see it,” Quinn said. “We’ll need to get a complete translation of the Latin.” She shook her head. “Although I gotta think Gemma would have mentioned it if she’d run across something really off.” She blew a raspberry. “On the other hand, if Dobrynin and his scribe used the same vague language for whatever kind of weapon he hid, Gemma might not have noticed. An AK-47 could be ‘an apparatus that used exploding Chinese black powder to expel small projectiles of ore at high velocity from a long metal tube.’”
While Quinn carried on her one-woman argument, James squinted at the illustrations in the manuscript. “It might be in the text, but if Dobrynin put himself and his wife”—he pointed to a miniature with a squire and a young maiden speaking with the knight—“and probably his kids in the pictures, he might have hidden intel there, too. We can’t rule that out.”