The Kremlin Phoenix

by Renneberg, Stephen

  “My phone?” Valentina said, handing it to him with a puzzled look. Translating every word for Craig had been tiring, but she’d suspected he was buying time, although she didn’t know why. “Who are you calling?”

  Craig removed the air force pin he’d recovered from the grave site and polished it on his jeans. “See the inscription, Libertas vel mors. I don’t recognize it. My father’s unit was the 49th Fighter Wing. It’s motto was Tutor et ultor: protector and defender.”

  Valentina looked stunned. “But you found the tags with the body!”

  “They had to be planted. It would have worked too, if I hadn’t spotted this pin.”

  He logged into his Twitter account on her phone, then typed: #90045884 What US air force unit had the motto, Libertas vel mors?

  “What’s the name of this town?” he asked

  “Lesosibirsk,” Valentina said, spelling it for him.

  Craig added the name of the town and the hotel, and then ‘Manager’s Office’ so Mariena could fix his location.

  “Is this really the time to be tweeting?” Valentina asked.

  “It’s the perfect time,” Craig said, then hit enter.

  A moment later Mariena appeared almost facing the manager’s desk. Valentina looked up startled to see a woman appear out of thin air.

  “Hello Craig,” Mariena said. “The motto Libertas vel mors means Freedom or Death. It was the motto of the 388th Tactical Fighter Wing which fought in World War Two, Vietnam and Iraq. Why is this important?”

  “How did you get in here?” Valentina demanded of Mariena’s apparition.

  “She can’t hear you,” Craig said, then tweeted, Thanks. Just getting my facts straight.

  Mariena continued, “Based on your computer’s time stamp, you are now entering the Second Russian Revolution. You must transfer the money to Valentina Petrovna immediately, while there is still time.”

  “How do you know my name?” Valentina demanded. She glanced at Craig. “How does she know me?”

  “I guess you’re . . . a historical figure,” Craig said.

  Mariena continued, “Once they kill the Russian Prime Minister, it will be too late for you to break the timeline.”

  “Kill Gundarovsky?” Valentina whispered, shocked. “How do you know this?”

  “I told you, she can’t hear you,” Craig repeated, then tweeted again, Did Yarol Tupitsyn work in the KGB archives?

  Mariena listened as his message was read out, then she vanished, only to reappear a few seconds later. She now wore a freshly pressed uniform and her hair had changed slightly, signaling days had passed for her. “There is no record of anyone with that name ever being associated with the KGB archives.”

  “I knew it! We’re being played!” Craig said. He wanted to get away, but something Mariena had said stopped him. What did you mean, break the timeline?

  “It’s the only way to trigger a new reality.”

  Why do you want to do that?

  “Because anything would be better than this reality,” Mariena said soberly. “Even if it means we are never born.”

  You could die?.

  “No. Never having existed is not the same as dying. But others will exist, and their reality will be better than ours.”

  “That’s nuts,” he said, then decided to continue the conversation later. I’ll be in touch, Craig tweeted. He held up Valentina’s phone. “Mind if I keep this for a while?”

  Valentina pointed to Mariena, “If you tell me who that woman is and how she knows so much?”

  “I barely understand it myself, but trust me, she’s on your side.” He scooped up the KGB file. “Let’s get out of here.” He started for the door, partially passing through the holographic image, surprising Valentina. A moment later, Mariena vanished as Craig opened the door to find Fenenko hovering outside.

  Tupitsyn stood down the hall, talking on his cell phone. Hearing them emerge from the office, he ended the call and hurried toward them. “Are you finished?”

  “Definitely,” Craig said, holding up the air force pin. “Wrong grave, asshole!”

  Tupitsyn reached into his coat pocket for his gun, but Craig lunged forward, hurling a wild punch into his jaw, knocking him to the ground. Tupitsyn rolled, shrugging off the blow and bringing his gun up. Years of Spetsnaz training took over. He aimed instinctively for Craig’s torso, the highest probability shot. Before he could fire, a single shot rang out, and Tupitsyn fell back dead.

  Craig turned to Valentina, thinking she had saved him, but her hands were empty. He then saw Fenenko, holding his Makarov still aimed at Tupitsyn. “I couldn’t let him kill you,” Fenenko said, thinking, Or we’d never get the transfer code! In a split second, he’d guessed Nogorev would not want Craig dead, leaving him no choice but shoot Tupitsyn to keep the mission alive.

  “Thanks,” Craig said. Before he could say more, they heard the distant squeal of tires.

  Valentina rushed to the window. A large white truck was racing down the street toward them. “It’s the refrigeration truck!”

  “And I bet it’s not full of frozen food!” Craig said.

  They retrieved the minivan keys from Tupitsyn’s pocket, then raced through the hotel, out into the carpark. Valentina took the minivan’s wheel, as Craig and Fenenko jumped in behind her. Before they had the door closed, the van surged forward. A moment later, the refrigeration truck lurched around the corner, trying to block the hotel drive. Valentina swerved towards the refrigeration truck, turning aside at the last moment and plowing through the hotel’s garden. The truck screeched to halt, its wheels smoking as they locked up, then the back door opened and Nogorev appeared. He fired at the minivan’s tires as it bounced onto the road and raced away.

  “Where are we going?” Craig asked, seeing the truck starting to turn, too big and slow to catch them.

  “Away from them!” Valentina declared.

  Craig glanced through the rear window apprehensively. “It’s been hours since we saw that truck, but they knew exactly where we were. How do you figure that?”

  “Right!” Valentina said. “We’ve got to dump this van fast.”

  They drove across town to the freezing blue-brown waters of the Yenisei River. Valentina turned onto a road that ran down to the water front, stopped and ordered them out.

  Fenenko hesitated. “We can’t escape on foot!”

  “We can’t escape if they’re tracking us. Now get out unless you want to swim.”

  Craig and Fenenko climbed out while Valentina put the minivan into first gear and let it motor toward the water. She jumped out, then watched it roll down the dirt road and splash into the water. The gentle current caught the van and carried it away from the shoreline as water flooded in through the open doors. The van nosed forward and glided beneath the surface twenty meters from shore. Before it hit bottom, they were running north through quiet streets, intent on putting distance between themselves and the minivan’s watery grave.

  * * * *

  The white refrigeration truck pulled up at the minivan’s last recorded location. Inside the truck, the tracking specialist pulled off his headphones. “We’ve lost the signal. They must have found the transmitter.”

  “Impossible!” Nogorev snapped. “They would have had to tear the vehicle apart.” He pushed the rear door open, jumped down onto the road and scanned the water front, wondering where the van had gone, then his gaze settled on the river, guessing what had happened. “They’re on foot! We’ll have to cover the roads out of the city.”

  “Can we use the local police?” Corporal Marat Chernykh asked as he jumped down beside him. He’d served under Nogorev in Chechnya, and while he didn’t count him as a friend, he knew his temperament well.

  “No, we can’t trust the police. Get on the radio. That FSB officer will contact us as soon he has an opportunity.”

  “Yes sir,” Chernykh said before climbing back inside the truck to listen for Fenenko’s signal.

  Nogorev watched the river in frustr
ation. For once, Balard and his Sledkom accomplice had done something smart.

  * * * *

  Valentina translated the words on the poster beneath a stock photo of President Tokarev for Craig. It had obviously been pasted to the wall by someone opposing the Emergency Committee.

  Craig touched the paper, finding it still wet. “It hasn’t been up long.”

  “Whoever put that up can help us,” Valentina said, looking for any sign of the bill poster.

  “There’ll be informers everywhere,” Fenenko said. “We’re safer on our own.”

  Craig took a few paces to the corner of the street. A block away, on the other side of the cross street, a man was using a roller to spread glue on a wall, then he slapped a poster over the glue.

  “There!” Craig said, starting to run toward the man. Valentina hurried after him, while Fenenko followed more slowly, weighing up whether to risk radioing their position.

  The man putting up the poster finished and walked toward a nearby car. Another man waited in the car. It’s engine was idling, ready to move off fast at the first sign of trouble. When the poster man saw them, he reached for the car door, thinking they were security.

  “Wait,” Valentina called in Russian, “We’re pro-Tokarev!”

  The man hesitated, speaking inaudibly to the driver, who climbed out of the car and leveled a shot gun at them. Both men had short military style haircuts, although they wore civilian clothes. Craig raised his hands, showing he was unarmed while Valentina held up her identity card.

  “I’m an SK investigator, working for Prime Minister Gundarovsky. We need your help!”

  The poster man glanced suspiciously at her identity card. “You’re a long way from home.”

  “We need transport. Pro-coup agents are after us.”

  The poster man looked around the streets carefully. “I don’t see anyone after you.”

  “They’re Spetsnaz.”

  “Why do you warrant such attention?”

  Valentina nodded to Craig, “This man has important information the Coup leaders want.”

  The poster man studied Craig uncertainly, then returned his gaze to Valentina. “Are you armed?”

  “Yes, both of us,” she said, indicating herself and Fenenko.

  “Hand over your guns.”

  “I can’t surrender my weapon,” Fenenko said. “It’s against regulations.”

  “If you want our help, you will hand over your weapons until I can verify your story.”

  Valentina nodded, then handed her gun to the poster man, while Fenenko defiantly refused to comply. Valentina stepped over to him, lifted his sweater and pulled the gun out of his belt. “You’ll get it back.”

  Fenenko scowled, but said nothing.

  Valentina handed Fenenko’s weapon over. “The guns are police standard issue.”

  The man glanced at the weapons, unconvinced. “Makarov’s are common weapons. Any street thug can get one.”

  “You’re police?” Valentina asked.

  “No, air force,” the poster man said pocketing their guns. “Get in the car.”

  * * * *

  While the plain clothed air force men drove, Craig handed the KGB document to Valentina. “Can you find out when my father really died? I didn’t want to look while I was trying to get Tupitsyn to leave.”

  Valentina quickly found where they’d been up to, then continued flicking through the document. “There’s a medical report here. He had pneumonia in 2004, but he recovered.”

  “When did he die?”

  “He was moved in October 12, 2005, when Camp 497 was closed. This is a transfer order to a different facility. I guess by then, they couldn’t release him.”

  “Not just him,” Craig said digging the 388th TFW pin out of his pocket. “Whoever wore these flew in Vietnam,” he said, certain no pilots had been lost in Iraq, and World War Two was too long ago. “A lot of pilots went missing in that war.”

  “It was the peak of the Cold War. A lot of strange things happened back then.” She turned to the final page. Slowly her cheeks flushed as she read a seemingly unimportant order transferring custodial authority to an innocuously sounding organization guarding the darkest secret of a dead empire. “He was transferred to something called the Supernumerary Management Bureau.”

  “He’s alive?” Craig asked incredulously.

  Valentina read the deceptively bland document with growing excitement. “I know where he is!” Valentina leaned forward and spoke to the driver in Russian. “We want to go to Zamok Branka.”

  “Never heard of it,” the poster man replied. They now knew his name was Sergeant Siyansky, a stocky technician from the air base outside Krasnoyarsk. He and his companion, Corporal Yashin, had been ordered by the local air commander to put up posters at small towns and cities north of the regional capital to foment resistance against the coup.

  “I have,” Yashin said. He was lanky compared to his tough little companion, and spoke with the slow drawl typical of one from the far eastern parts of Russia. “It’s about fifty kilometers east of here, on the Angara River.”

  “Can you take us there?”

  Yashin shook his head. “No, it’s a restricted zone.”

  “Why?” Valentina asked.

  “I’m a corporal from Primorky Krai,” Yashin said. “How would I know?”

  They were cruising along in light traffic, keeping mobile while the two air force mechanics considered what to do with their three passengers.

  “It’s important,” Valentina said.

  “So is my dinner,” Yashin said, thinking it was time to return to their base.

  “This is for Prime Minister Gundarovsky.”

  Siyansky snorted. “Gundarovsky? In Moscow? As if he cares what happens out here in the middle of Siberia! We only do this because the Base Commander ordered us to. We don’t care about Gundarovsky. Argh! Politics is trouble.”

  Craig couldn’t follow the exchange in Russian, but he saw Valentina’s frustration was rising. “No luck?”

  “No.”

  “Is there someone higher up who can order them to help us?”

  Valentina turned back to Siyansky. “If Marshal Vochenko knew we were here, he would order you to help us.”

  Siyansky laughed. “Of course he would, a Marshal of the Air Force!”

  “Ask him!” Valentina said with a tone that unnerved the pugnacious Siyansky.

  “You want me, a sergeant, to ask Marshal Vochenko for orders?” Siyansky asked incredulously. “He would not even speak to me!”

  “Vochenko is helping the Prime Minister, so he will order you to help us. If you doubt me, call your Commander and ask him to ask for instructions. I will tell you what to say!”

  When Siyansky realized she was serious, he pulled out his cell phone. “OK. I, the great and important Sergeant Siyansky will call Marshall Vochenko of the Russian Air Force and we will have a conversation.” Siyansky gave her an amused look as he dialed his base commander. “What will I say?”

  * * * *

  Sergeant Siyansky stopped for food and fuel while they waited for instructions from their commander. Fenenko ate quickly, then excused himself to buy cigarettes. Once out of sight, he slid the speaker into his ears and spoke into the microphone.

  “Fenenko here” he whispered. “Are you listening?”

  Chernykh replied immediately. “Yes. One moment.”

  There was a brief pause, then Nogorev’s voice sounded in Fenenko’s ear. “Where are you?”

  “On the southern side of the city.”

  “Bring them in now!”

  “I can’t. I don’t have my weapon and there are now two air force men helping them. I’m outnumbered four to one.”

  “Four to one? Where’s Tupitsyn?”

  “Dead. He was going to kill Balard. I had to shoot him to keep Balard alive. I had no choice.”

  There was a pause then Nogorev said, “You did right. Keep him alive at any cost – for now.”

  Fenen
ko breathed a silent sigh of relief. It had been a split second decision, and he’d hoped he’d guessed correctly. He glanced through several stacks of shelves to where Valentina and Craig were finishing their meals. “We’re going to a place called Zamok Branka.” Fenenko knew Zamok meant castle, but he’d never heard of a castle by that name. “Do you know it?”

  “No, but I will find it.”

  “Fenenko out,” he said, then switched off the radio.

  At the table, Siyansky’s phone rang as he finished his meal. He listened briefly as his base commander told him Marshal Vochenko had ordered him to provide all possible assistance to the SK investigator. When the call ended, Siyansky looked genuinely impressed. “Hmph! Twenty years in the service, and I have never been given a direct order from a Marshal of the Air Force – until today!” He handed Valentina her gun. “Should I call you sir, or ma’am?” he asked with a grin.

  Chapter 10

  Corporal Yashin drove them along a dirt road through dense forest to a small parking area below the crest of a hill overlooking the Angara River. Several years ago, Yashin had driven a lorry to the parking area, delivered satellite receiving equipment to plain clothed men, who transported it over the hill to the facility beyond. Yashin had not been allowed beyond the parking area, and never saw the facility down by the river.

  Beyond the small parking space was a sign warning they were entering a restricted area, and proceeding beyond that point would result in the most severe penalty. They drove past the sign, over the crest of the ridge and parked by the side of the dirt road. On the flood plain below, a small cluster of buildings lay far enough back in the forest that they couldn’t be seen from the river. The facility had a drab alpine appearance, with high roofed buildings and stone walls punctuated by large picture windows. In front of the buildings were two tennis courts and a glass walled structure housing a heated pool and a gymnasium, all encircled by landscaped gardens.

  “A gilded cage?” Craig said, surprised by its pleasant appearance. It was clearly more comfortable than Camp 497.