Library of Gold

by Alex Archer

  It sounded suspicious to Danislov. An artist? Who actually tried to support himself as an artist in this day and age? He suspected Travino’s occupation was actually a cover for something else, but Danislov hadn’t been with the Federal Security Service long enough to be able to ferret that out.

  No matter, he thought. I’ve got their names and descriptions, which is all I really need to issue an alert. Half the city would be looking for them moments after he did that. That would make it difficult for Creed and Travino to move freely in the city and hamper any actions they might take to locate the library, which would not make Colonel Goshenko happy.

  In the end, that was the only thing that really mattered to Danislov. When Goshenko was happy, Danislov’s life was considerably easier.

  His attention returned to the notation that Creed and her companion had been detained upon arrival. There wasn’t any indication of what had happened to require the FMS officers to do so—just a quick note that they had been detained for questioning.

  Curious, he had the aide write down the home number for the shift supervisor from that day, a man named Yuri Basilovich. Perhaps he could shed some light on the issue.

  Danislov also had her print out copies of the fugitives’ passport photos, then thanked her for her help and headed back to his office in the Kremlin. There he gathered the twenty-five men Goshenko had placed at his command and divided them into teams of five. Each team member was given copies of the passport photos and then the teams were assigned various sectors around the city and sent to begin searching.

  The chance that any of them would actually strike gold and stumble upon the fugitives was slim, but it was better than doing nothing.

  Once everyone was gone, he pulled out the phone number he’d gotten from the aide and moments later had Mr. Basilovich on the phone. The conversation was short but not very sweet, at least not for the immigration supervisor. When Basilovich tried to dither in his answers, Danislov had no choice but to threaten him with reassignment to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia. Danislov himself didn’t have anything against Mongolia; it was simply the first place he could think of in the moment.

  Basilovich cracked like an egg, revealing why he had been reluctant to answer Danislov’s questions.

  He was a fan.

  A Chasing History’s Monsters fan. The biggest one in all of Russia, he proclaimed with enthusiasm.

  Danislov had been hoping Creed had said or done something suspicious, something they could use to build a case against her if they were required to do so at a later time. Instead, he’d gotten the blatherings of a lovesick idiot.

  But then Basilovich said something useful.

  “I bet that laptop is full of information about whatever she’s searching for now. I’d give anything to see what’s on it.”

  Laptop…whatever she’s searching for now.

  Danislov hung up without another word, snatched the photos of Creed and Travino off his desk and dashed out of his office. The Marriott was only a few blocks away so he didn’t bother with his department-issue vehicle, making the trip on foot instead, berating himself the entire time. He’d been watching the hotel for their return, but hadn’t thought of examining their belongings for information relative to the search for the library.

  You’re an idiot, Danislov.

  Once at the Marriott he summoned the manager, flashed his credentials and asked to be let into the fugitives’ rooms. The manager was used to keeping the FSS, and before them the KGB, happy and didn’t hesitate in providing access to each of the adjoining rooms.

  He started with Creed’s, which, as it turned out, didn’t take long because she hadn’t bothered to unpack. She was living out of her suitcase, as if expecting to leave at a moment’s notice. Even her toiletries—soap, shampoo, toothbrush and toothpaste—were still inside one of her roller bag’s outer pockets.

  In contrast, Travino’s room looked as if he intended to stay awhile. His clothes were neatly put away in the drawers of the armoire and his shaving kit and other toiletries were carefully arranged in the bathroom.

  Nowhere, however, did Danislov find a backpack with a laptop in it.

  Perhaps she put them in the hotel safe, he thought, and returned to the front desk a second time.

  After checking the records, the manager said, “Yes, Miss Creed did place something in the safe recently, but it was retrieved a few hours ago.”

  “Retrieved?”

  “Yes. She sent a courier with signed authorization and the proper ID for a pickup earlier today.”

  Danislov cursed and headed for the front door, angry with himself for not thinking of this sooner. He’d been right here, watching the entrance when the courier had come in, he guessed. He had inadvertently let their best lead slip from their fingers without even knowing it was happening right under his nose.

  He had just stepped outside when his cell phone rang.

  “Danislov.”

  “We’ve got them, sir. We’ve got them!”

  Danislov knew the caller was one of his search team leaders but didn’t know which one.

  “Identify yourself and where you are.”

  “Lieutenant Chernov, sir. We’re in Manege Square, sir. The fugitives and another man, a Russian national from the looks of him, are entering the ventilation shaft on Doheni Prospeckt. We’re going to follow them.”

  “What? Wait! I want you to…”

  There was a beep and the line went dead.

  What the…?

  “Yebat!” he yelled savagely, and nearly smashed the phone on the ground. An elderly woman walking nearby gave him a dirty look.

  Manege Square was on the far side of the Kremlin, adjacent to Red Square. It wasn’t more than a twenty-minute walk on a good day.

  Danislov took off down the street at a run, cursing his earlier decision to leave his staff car behind.

  Chapter 18

  Two hours after deciding to continue the search, Annja, Gianni and Vladimir were back in the Volkswagen minivan, headed for a sidewalk ventilation shaft near the crumbling remains of what had once been Moscow State University in Manege Square.

  Back in the fifties, the main university had relocated to Sparrow Hill in southwest Moscow, leaving only a handful of faculty buildings operational at the original site a few blocks from the Kremlin. Vlad assured them that they would be able to slip into the underground without a lot of difficulty. From there they would descend two levels while gradually making their way south about half a mile, until they reached the starting point designated on Fioravanti’s map.

  It sounded like a plan to Annja.

  She sat up front, dressed in clothes borrowed from a female friend of Vladimir’s. The jeans were a little too long and the knitted sweater hung loosely on her athletic frame, but Annja knew how cool it could be underground and she was glad to have the warmer clothing.

  At least I’m not swimming in my clothes, she thought with a glance in Gianni’s direction. He was wearing borrowed clothing, too, both of them having lost their luggage in their rapid departure from their hotel. The normally well-dressed Italian was not happy about it, either.

  After a half-hour drive Vlad pulled into a narrow alley behind several decrepit-looking buildings. He parked the van right up along the sidewalk to block anyone passing by from getting a good view of the grate covering the ventilation shaft only a few feet away. He pocketed the keys and turned to his companions.

  “Time to suit up,” he told them.

  For Vlad, that meant donning a dirty yellow fireman’s jacket, a battered motorcycle helmet without a visor and a pair of rubber wading boots that made Annja want to gag at the smell. He pulled similar gear from the back of the van for Annja and Gianni.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Gianni asked, staring in dismay at the horrible green boots he’d just been given.

  Vlad laughed and slapped Gianni on the back hard enough to make him stagger. “You look good in boots!” Vlad exclaimed. “Like real member of Urban Underground.”


  While Annja and Gianni got dressed in the relative cover of the van, Vlad strapped headlamps to their spelunkers’ helmets, checked to be sure the batteries were fresh and stashed extra sets in the pockets of his voluminous coat.

  It wouldn’t do to be a few hundred feet beneath the surface and run out of light, Annja thought as she watched him.

  Wouldn’t do at all.

  He gave each of them a small waist pack containing four chemical light sticks, two bottles of water and a handful of granola bars. He slung a nylon climbing rope—just in case, he told them—over one shoulder and, last but not least, grabbed a hefty iron crowbar from a bucket of them in the back of the van.

  Vlad scanned the street, double-checking that they were alone. The van would be picked up by another member of the Urban Underground, but for now it kept what they were about to do from wandering eyes. He jammed one end of the crowbar between the bars of the grate, turned it to set the hook and then pulled the end of the grate up a good three feet off the ground.

  “Quickly!” he said. “Down the ladder.”

  Annja found herself descending a carbonate-encrusted ladder that looked as if it had been there for half a century or more. The air was filled with an ancient sulfurous stench tinged more recently with sewage. Annja had to take shallow breathes through her mouth. When she reached the bottom of the ladder, she stepped away from it in the darkness and flipped on her helmet light.

  She was standing in a brick-lined sewer tunnel. It was dry, indicating it hadn’t been used in many years, and extended in both directions as far as she could see.

  Gianni stepped down off the ladder and took a moment to turn on his own headlamp, as well. Above, they heard a scraping sound as Vladimir replaced the ventilation grate. He then joined them at the bottom of the ladder.

  “This way,” he said, setting off.

  Vlad kept to the center of the tunnel, his lamp lighting the way ahead. They hadn’t gone very far before they began to see evidence that the tunnels weren’t deserted. Discarded trash, sleeping areas made of cardboard and cast-off clothing, occasional piles of human waste.

  “Gypsies, criminals, political refugees, ex-soldiers, the mentally ill—the underground is haven to them all,” Vlad explained. “Entire communities have moved down here to escape the rat race up above. And, of course, those who like to prey on such people have found their way down below, as well.”

  Annja had been in places far more dangerous than this, but something about the darkness of the tunnels and the knowledge that there might be people out there watching them under cover of that darkness made her uneasy. She kept her right hand free, just in case she needed to call her sword in a hurry.

  It wasn’t long after Vlad had answered Annja’s unspoken question that they had their first encounter with Moscow’s underworld. They had been making their way down a rounded six-foot-wide tunnel that reminded Annja of a giant aqueduct when they turned a corner and were suddenly in the middle of a homeless encampment.

  People lined either side of the hall—some standing, some sitting, some curled up in blankets and trying to get some sleep. The lights of a cooking fire or a Bunsen burner broke the darkness here and there, causing shadows to dance and sway along the walls like a crowd of ghosts watching them pass.

  Vlad didn’t stop or acknowledge the presence of the people in the tunnel in any way. He just kept moving, so Gianni and Annja had no choice but to follow.

  It was the silence that bothered Annja the most. No one moved; no one said a word. With that many people in a confined area there should have been background noise—coughing, shifting of positions, talking—but this group was so quiet, Annja could hear each step that the three of them made. It was downright eerie and the feeling of being watched took a long time to leave her.

  They made several turns, descended two more ladders, advanced another few hundred feet and then came to a halt. Glancing past Vlad, Annja could see the tunnel ahead was blocked by a giant turbine, its three-foot-long blades menacing despite the thick layer of dirt and dust that showed how long it had been since the blades were operational.

  “Now what?” Gianni asked, clearly not relishing the idea of retracing their steps to find a different route.

  Vlad’s only answer was to put both hands on the center portion between the blades, and push. The entire turbine assembly swung outward on noisy hinges. With a glance at Gianni and a half-hidden smirk, Vlad waved them through the opening. Once they were on the other side, Vlad pushed the turbine back into place with the same noisy shriek.

  “Ten-minute rest, then we go on,” he told them.

  Annja sat with her back against the tunnel wall. She no longer felt ridiculous in the fireman’s coat and rubber boots, especially given the amount of muck and sludge they’d had to move through to get this far. She unzipped her waist pack and pulled out a bottle of water and a granola bar.

  Beside her, Gianni was doing the same.

  “How much farther, do you think?” she asked Vlad.

  “Twenty, maybe thirty minutes before we hit lower levels of the Kremlin. After that, it depends on how good is your map.”

  Fair enough.

  When the break was over, they got under way, this time with Annja bringing up the rear. They left the wide tunnel behind and moved into a narrower one with long stretches of spaghetti-like green cables running along the ceiling. The cables were more modern-looking than anything they had seen so far, which gave Annja hope that they were getting closer.

  A sound split the air somewhere in the darkness far behind her.

  What was that?

  She stopped and listened carefully.

  At first, all she could hear was the tramp of the men’s booted feet as they moved up the passage away from her.

  She stood still, listening.

  Then, after what felt like forever, it came again.

  A muffled shriek.

  She knew that sound.

  Had heard it just a short while ago.

  Someone had just pushed the turbine out of the way and was coming down the tunnel behind them.

  Chapter 19

  It’s one of the homeless people we saw earlier, Annja told herself. Probably looking for a place to bunk down for the night. Nothing to worry the others about.

  As they continued, she kept an ear out for whoever it was behind them. After a while, Annja began to get the sensation that she was being watched. Again. It was like an itch in the center of her back that she couldn’t scratch, but each time she turned around and shone her light in the tunnel behind her, she didn’t see anything.

  She didn’t like it. If they were being followed, she wanted to know why. This creeping through the dark in their wake had to stop.

  A few minutes later the tunnel bisected a natural cavern and Annja saw her chance. Several stalagmites rose toward the roof near the exit on the far side of the cavern. As the other two continued forward, Annja slid behind one close to the exit.

  She switched off her light, summoned her sword and settled in to wait.

  It didn’t take long.

  Just a moment or two after Vlad and Gianni had moved out of sight, Annja heard someone moving along stealthily behind them. She kept her back to the stalagmite she was hiding behind and held her sword in front of her with both hands. She held the blade perpendicular to the floor, edge downward, ready to swing it in a low, flat arc.

  She could feel the intruder getting closer. Ten feet…eight…six…

  She could hear the shuffle of booted feet against the earth floor.

  Four feet…three…two…

  Annja resettled her grip on the broadsword, took a breath and then spun out of her hiding place, bringing the flat of the blade crashing into the head of their pursuer.

  There was a sharp ringing sound as the blade struck something metallic, then the tinkle of broken glass followed by a stifled cry.

  Now that she knew exactly where the intruder was, Annja didn’t give him time to respond. She spun bac
k the other way around the stalagmite and brought her blade flashing forward once again, this time smacking it against the back of her opponent’s knees, knocking his legs out from under him and leaving him flat on his back before he even knew what was happening.

  She knelt on his chest and with her free hand flipped the lamp of her headlamp back on.

  The light caught the newcomer in the face and shone directly into the night-vision goggles he wore. The man uttered a shriek and tore the goggles off to keep himself from being blinded by the magnified light.

  He wore civilian clothing and a good pair of hiking boots. But he was either government or military. Somehow she just knew it.

  While he was still dazed, Annja hauled him to his feet and slammed him against the cavern wall. She pressed the edge of her sword against his neck hard enough to draw a line of blood.

  “Don’t move or I’ll slit your throat,” she told him in a clear voice, so that he wouldn’t misunderstand and try to escape. She didn’t want to kill him but she would if he did something stupid.

  She reached inside his coat and yanked a pistol out of the shoulder holster she found there. Realizing that her companions might come looking for her at any moment, she let the sword vanish back into the otherwhere and held the pistol on her captive instead. She dug around on the intruder’s other side, finding a worn leather credentials case. A glance at the ID inside told her she was holding a member of the Federal’naya sluzhba bezopasnosti, or Federal Security Service.

  Always a nice way to spend an afternoon.

  She took a step back, keeping the gun out but not pointing it directly at him.

  “Who are you and why are you following us?” she asked him.

  He answered her in Russian.

  She didn’t understand the words but she got the gist. Sorry, don’t speak English.

  She brought the gun up and pointed it in his face. “Cut the crap. I know you understand me perfectly. All FSS agents are required to speak and understand English.”

  It was a total bluff. She had no idea what the language requirements were for being an agent but she figured it was worth a shot.