The Firebird, perhaps.
That was a mystery that would remain unsolved. Volos and everything else in the city that bore his name, had almost certainly been reduced to radioactive slag. If by some fluke, enough of the monster’s tissue remained intact to begin the regeneration process, whatever eventually resulted would be imprisoned in a tomb of molten rock.
After the initial blast of thermal radiation and the physical effects of the explosion, the next greatest danger was from exposure to fallout. Radioactive particles would soon begin falling like black snow from out of the cloud. There was only a minimal risk from skin contact. The real danger was inhalation or ingestion. So as long as they avoided breathing any of it in, the chances for survival were good, provided they got clear as quickly as possible.
Knight pointed them in what King assumed was the direction where they would find the rest of the team. They set off at a jog, each man alone with his thoughts until their hearing gradually returned.
When they at last caught sight of the others, Peter rushed ahead, embracing Lynn as if it had been ages, rather than mere hours, since they had last seen each other. King arrived just as his mother drew back and asked the question he had been dreading.
“What about Julie?”
King exchanged a glance with Peter. “That woman—Catherine—might have had her face, but she wasn’t Julie. Julie died in a plane crash, twenty years ago.”
As far as King was concerned, it was the absolute truth.
54
Novo-Ogaryovo, Russia—Four Days Later
The Russian President listened intently as the men arrayed around the large oval-shaped conference table gave their reports. He studied their faces, reading their emotions. Each one was an open book to him.
The generals and admirals, in their immaculate dress uniforms festooned with ribbons and decorations, were barely able to conceal their excitement at the prospect of what lay ahead. Not since the Great Patriotic War had there been such an opportunity to wrap themselves in glory. Everything else, the skirmishes in Georgia and Crimea, the long and utterly futile campaign in Afghanistan—some of these men had been junior officers in that meat grinder—and before that, the shadow wars in Southeast Asia and Central America, all would pale into insignificance alongside this: a war to truly end all wars.
An expeditionary force of motorized riflemen from the Sixth Army and tank divisions from the Twentieth Guards Army were poised on the border of Estonia. A hundred Sukhoi Su-27 fighter jets stood ready to provide air support as needed. The balance of the nation’s forces were on high-alert status, ready to meet reprisals from any quarter, on land, in the air or at sea. The full arsenal of RT-2PM Topol mobile strategic missile platforms were deployed, constantly on the move and conducting round-the-clock readiness drills. The same was true of the officers and crew of ballistic nuclear missile submarines positioned in deep waters around the world. More than a hundred thousand reservists had been activated and ordered to report for duty. All that was needed was the order to execute.
The men in plain suits—bureaucrats and cabinet ministers, the apparatchik—were less sanguine. He could smell their apprehension. They wanted to believe his promises that the Americans and NATO would simply look away as the tanks and troop transports rolled into Estonia, but these men were perennially cautious creatures, incapable of bold and decisive action. They were inherently fearful of anyone who was.
They told him that emergency meetings of NATO and the United Nations Security Council had been called for. American forces around the world were at an unprecedented Defense Condition Two. The Bulletin of Atomic Scientists had moved the hands of the infamous Doomsday Clock to two minutes to midnight. Stock markets around the world were in free fall. The American President was still waiting for someone in the Kremlin to pick up the phone.
All of which, the men in suits told him, choosing their words carefully, meant that he’d won. ‘You’ve reminded them that Russia is not a former-anything, but a superpower, not to be trifled with.’
‘Glory is a fine thing,’ they went on, ‘but think of the expense, not merely in the short term, but down the road, if the conflict went on for a year or ten years.’ Defeat was unthinkable of course, but victory would be costly, too.
He smiled and thanked them for their diligence, wondering which of them, if any, possessed the backbone to attempt a coup.
Who is Cassius? He thought. Who is Brutus?
It was a pity that his Ice Queen had not survived to see this. She would know who was plotting against him, and which of them had the inner fortitude to wield the knife. He did not doubt that secret negotiations with the Americans were already underway, but he also knew that the men in suits believed that eventually he would back away from the brink of total annihilation.
Fools and weaklings, he thought.
When the last report was concluded, he stood. “A sealed package has been sent to your respective duty stations. It is to be opened only by you, and only in the presence of your immediate second-in-command. The package contains seven sealed envelopes, each marked with a specific code designator known only to me.”
The generals and admirals all nodded eagerly. They understood the need for such elaborate security measures. Three of the envelopes contained detailed war game scenarios. Live fire exercises conducted on, but not across, the Estonian border. The other four contained elaborate invasion plans, likewise with scales of time and intensity. Only one of them—code-designation: Perun, named for the Slavic god of thunder and fire, the counterpart of Volos, god of the underworld—was the actual mission. The others were just misdirection, in case the enemy got their hands on the package.
“At precisely 19:30 this evening, you will receive a call on your secure line with a matching code designator. At that time, you will open the package, select the corresponding envelope and follow the instructions contained therein.” He gestured to the door. “Go. You are dismissed.”
Nineteen-thirty in Moscow would be three-thirty a.m. in Washington, D.C. When the sun rose over the American capital, the North Atlantic Treaty Organization would already be history. The nations of Europe would renege on their obligations under Article Five, and the greatest alliance in the history of the world would be broken. The American President, Chambers, would threaten unilateral military action, but without popular support from his own people, he too would step aside and let it happen.
And then the true war would begin.
While the eyes of the world were on Eastern Europe, Russian Airborne and Spetsnaz units would sweep across Washington, D.C. capturing the American leadership in one fell swoop.
The unexpected discovery of the supply base in Virginia had accelerated his timetable, but the loss of its contents would have little impact on the overall strategy. The seven remaining bases in the D.C. metro area contained enough food, water, fuel and ammunition for several months of sustained operations. He did not expect the Americans to hold out that long. They were a fractured, contentious populace, and if opinion polls were to be believed, many of them thought he—the Russian President—was a stronger leader than their own elected Chief Executive.
They would welcome his empire with open arms.
It would be a bittersweet victory, though. The true prince of the Russian empire, the chosen one of God, precious Alexei, was gone.
Part of him secretly hoped that NATO and the Americans would find the nerve to stand against him. Then he could cleanse the world with fire.
As the last of the men left the room, another man wearing the uniform and rank of an Army colonel stepped inside and quickly closed and locked the French doors.
The Russian President looked up, his bland expression mostly concealing his irritation at this unwanted intrusion. “Get out.”
The colonel turned to face him, removing his peaked hat and tossing it aside with a flourish that, as intended, diverted the Russian’s attention away from the gun that seemed to materialize in his hand.
The President
’s eyes widened in surprise, not because of the weapon pointed at him, but because of who held it. He tensed, filled with a primal urge to leap across the table and throttle the intruder. It was the man who had killed his precious Alexei. “You!”
The man—Jack Sigler, Peter’s son, the American operative known by the callsign: King—gestured with the gun. “If you want to go another round with me, fine, but first we talk.”
“There is nothing to talk about.” He pushed away from the table, rising to his feet. “I don’t know how you got in here, or what you hope to accomplish, but you of all people must realize how futile this is.”
King wagged his head ruefully. “I guess it’s true what they say. You can’t choose your relatives.”
This gave the Russian pause. “Peter told you the truth?”
“He told me what you told him, which I think we both know wasn’t quite the whole truth, but close enough for me to figure the rest out.” He cocked his head to the side. “You should be taller.”
“Taller?” The President felt some of the fire leave him.
“Did she know who you really were?”
“She?”
“Julie. Catherine. She’s the one who told me the story about Brother Makary and the Children of Adoon, but I don’t think she understood how it really connected to you. I should have realized it right then, but I had other things on my mind. The clues were so obvious. The story of how you supposedly died…poisoned with cyanide, shot in the head, then dumped into the river to drown or freeze or both. I read somewhere that they cut…it…off. Is that true?” King shuddered in mock horror, but then his face became deadly serious. “Knowing what I know about the immortal—the man you call Adoon—it was pretty easy to recognize the signs. I knew him by a different name: Alexander. I also know that he was very protective of his secrets. What I don’t get is why he chose to share it with you.”
“You knew him?” The Russian President settled back into his chair. His gaze was still fixed on King, but his thoughts were being inexorably drawn into the gravitational singularity of memory. “You are right about him. He knew from the very start that I was his descendant. He revealed to me the truth about my heritage. Showed me that I was meant for greatness. He taught me many things. He showed me how to make use of my extraordinary natural abilities. But you are wrong about one thing. He did not give me the elixir. Not until…after.”
“After you were dead.”
“Two and a half months dead. I don’t know why he did it. To soothe his conscience, perhaps.” The Russian narrowed his eyes. “You are right about one other thing also. I was as tall as you before I went in that coffin.”
“I’d say you lost more than just a few inches,” King said, coldly.
“When I awoke, the world I knew was gone. It had been utterly swept away.” He fell silent, still caught in the memory.
“That’s why you wanted to bring Alexei back,” King said, and this time there was no judgement in his tone.
“They murdered him. That precious child. If I had been there, I might have been able to stop them.” He shook his head, trying to push back the upwelling of emotion. “He gave me the elixir, but he would not share the secret of how to make it. I raged at him, threatened him, but he spurned me. Laughed at my despair and cast me out. I spent years searching for the formula. Decades studying science, history, theology. That is how I learned of the city of the Originators. I thought I had discovered the gates of hell, guarded by the devil himself.”
“Volos.”
“That is what I called it. In truth, I don’t know what it was. A genetic experiment, left behind by the Originators. It assimilated the genetic traits of anything it came into contact with.”
“Starting with you,” King said. “Your immortality transferred to it, made it unkillable. Then you fed it the scraps from your humanzee experiments and turned it into King Kong.”
“Volos made it possible for me to synthesize the serum I used to bring your sister back to life.”
“That thing wasn’t my sister,” King said, his tone suddenly sharp again.
The Russian President ignored the outburst. “I was able to reconstitute her from just a few grams of DNA, but I could not replicate the effects with Alexei. She was a child of Adoon. Alexei was not.”
“Obviously, you found a workaround.”
“With the help of Richard Ridley. I believe you and he were acquainted.” The mere mention of the maverick geneticist had clearly ruffled King’s feathers. “But Ridley’s serum was flawed as well. Alexei returned to me, but his body was not healed of the affliction he had inherited from his mother.”
“Hemophilia,” King murmured.
“Nor was he made immortal. In fact, he barely survived the process. When he eventually recuperated, his mind was not what it once had been.” The Russian smiled sadly. “But he was Alexei, the Prince of Russia, and I loved him just as I loved him a century ago.”
King shook his head. “Alexei Romanov, the son of Tsar Nicholas II and Tsarina Alexandra. Now I understand why you were so fond of him, despite the fact that he was obviously batshit insane. Or maybe that was something you two had in common. In any case, it was another clue I should have picked up on right away. Just like your name. It was right in front of us all the whole time…Rasputin.”
He said it with a faint pause after the ‘s,’ to emphasize what followed.
The Russian folded his arms across his chest. “You know who I am. You know that you cannot kill me. And you must know that you cannot escape. So why come here? What foolishness possesses you?”
“Two reasons,” King replied evenly. “First, I didn’t know for sure. I had my suspicions, but there were still a lot of questions I needed answers to. Like whether Alexander—the man you knew as Brother Makary—gave you the formula for the elixir of life.”
“You want it for yourself?” The Russian allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. “I would never give it to you, not after what you did to Alexei.”
“Been there, done that,” King replied. “You think you’re old? You’re practically a toddler compared to me.”
This unexpected revelation caused the Russian to sit up a little straighter. “You are the son of Peter and Lynn. I know this to be true.”
“It’s a long story.” King leveled the gun at him. “And I’m afraid your time is about to become very precious.”
The Russian laughed. “Go ahead. Shoot me.”
“Which brings me to the second reason,” King said, and to the Russian’s complete astonishment, King did exactly that.
The gun in his hand gave a loud pop—though not nearly as loud as an unsuppressed pistol—and the Russian felt a sharp pain as something struck him in the chest. His hand came up reflexively, but instead of a wound gushing blood, his fingers encountered a cool metal cylinder, tipped with a needle that was stuck in his skin. He pulled it free and stared at it in consternation. “A tranquilizer dart? I give you credit for creativity, but you must not know as much about the elixir as you think, if you believe that you can drug me.”
“It’s not a drug. It’s a counter-agent to the elixir. Alexander gave me the formula for it. I think you’ll find mortality to be very liberating. I know it’s taught me to appreciate the little things.”
The Russian threw the dart down as if it was a scorpion trying to sting him. “You are lying.”
King shrugged. “If you don’t believe me, we can go a few rounds. Finish what we started in Volosgrad.”
“So this was your plan? Make me mortal, so you can kill me?” The Russian chuckled, but behind his façade of indifference, his heart was hammering with fear. He did not feel any different. Perhaps King was lying. Perhaps this was a bold bluff.
Easy enough to test, he thought.
“I’m not going to kill you,” King said, derailing his train of thought. “Actually, I’m done here. I needed to know if you had the formula to counter the counter-agent. Obviously, you don’t. Whatever happens next is up to y
ou.”
“What happens next is that I will have you executed as a spy.”
King shrugged. “You can try. But I made it in here without any trouble. I think I can find my way out again.”
He turned for the door and opened it, but stopped before going through. “You’re mortal now,” he said. “You can die like everyone else. And if you go through with this plan to start a war, you very well might, along with everyone else. That’s one possible ending for this story.
“Another is that you stand your forces down. Tell the world that you’ve made your point: that Russia is still relevant, a force to be reckoned with. It’s a win and you know it.
“It’s your move now. Destroy the world out of spite and everyone loses. Take a step back and you get to keep everything you’ve already won, and live out the rest of your days like a king. Either way, your empire will die with you. It’s just a question of when.”
Then he was gone.
The Russian jumped to his feet and ran to the door. “Arrest him,” he shouted, pointing his finger at…
King was gone.
“The man who just left,” he said, answering the questioning faces of the military officers and bodyguards waiting outside the conference room. “The colonel. Where did he go?”
More blanks stares and an exchange of nervous looks.
“Lock down the grounds. Blockade the roads.” His mind raced to frame the appropriate response, but even as the people around him began moving, frantically trying to carry out the vague orders, he knew that it would be in vain.
He turned back into the room, closed the door to seal out the tumult and returned to the table.
‘You’re mortal now.’
No, it can’t be true.
He seized hold of a crystal water pitcher, emptied its contents and dashed it against the edge of the table. Then he stooped to retrieve a glinting shard. He raked his thumb across the sharp edge, then squeezed the digit until a steady flow of blood was dripping from the cut, splattering the table top.
Empire (A Jack Sigler Thriller Book 8) Page 33