Callsign: King - Book 3 - Blackout (A Jack Sigler - Chess Team Novella)

by Ellis, Sean; Robinson, Jeremy

  See the Mona Lisa. Check. What’s next?

  She wondered how many of them would, fifteen minutes hence, even remember what they had seen in this room. Few, if any, would grasp its significance, or recognize that they had glimpsed a part of human history that predated Leonardo Da Vinci by nearly a thousand years.

  Unlike the pyramids of Egypt or the Acropolis of Athens, the Buddhas of Bamiyan were monuments that relatively few of the planet’s inhabitants had been privileged to gaze upon. In the early sixth century, the Hazara occupants of the Bamiyan Valley had carved two monumental statues from the native sandstone, modeling details upon the rock foundation using a traditional composite of mud and straw, covered with stucco. The statues had been noteworthy for being the tallest images of Buddha in a standing pose—the larger of the two measured one hundred and eighty feet—but because of their remote location, eight thousand feet above sea level in Afghanistan, they had not achieved the same level of notoriety as other monumental constructs. Time and weather had worn at the statues, scouring away much of the original detail, but it had been a deliberate act of vandalism that ultimately brought down the Bamiyan Buddhas. In March of 2001, just a few short months before the events of 9/11 plunged the turmoil-prone region back into a state of war, the oppressive Taliban regime, reversed an earlier position that the Buddhas were of historical value and deserving of protection. They had declared the statues to be idols, forbidden by Islam—even though there was not a single Buddhist in the country who might have venerated them—and ordered their destruction.

  Following the subsequent overthrow of the Taliban, an effort had been made to restore the Buddhas, but progress had been hampered by the ongoing war, funding problems and international politics. A further complication had arisen in late 2011, when the United States had, in protest of UNESCO’s decision to recognize Palestine, withdrawn financial support from the United Nations’ cultural agency, which had designated the Bamiyan Valley a World Heritage Site. The traveling museum exhibition, represented a last ditch effort to raise awareness of the flagging restoration effort.

  On a technical level, the exhibition was spectacular. It featured state of the art full-sized holographic reproductions of the Buddhas as they would have appeared at the time of their completion. A museum visitor could stand at the foot of the statues and gaze up at the eighteen story high likeness of the Buddha, never realizing that it was an illusion created by lasers and mirrors. Of even greater significance, at least to Julia’s way of thinking, were the countless fragments of the actual statues that had been painstakingly collected from the floor of the Bamiyan Valley, and which now rested in dozens of glass display cases. Most of these pieces were nothing more than chunks of sandstone, scarred and scorched by the barrage of artillery rounds and dynamite charges that had reduced the Buddhas to rubble, but on a few it was still possible to see where ancient craftsmen of the Gandhara Empire had carved the folds of the Buddha’s robes.

  Yet, for all the technological sophistication and cultural relevance, the exhibition was plagued by the same general apathy that had stymied the restoration effort. Julia had watched museum visitors come and go for several days now; their indifference was almost palpable. But every once in a while, someone would stop and she could see the glimmer of appreciation in their eyes as they read the placards, gazed in awe at the dioramas, and then, almost reverently, placed their hands on the glass display case containing the fragments, as if wishing they could actually touch this part of history.

  Her gaze alighted on one figure, a man, who seemed to be taking more than just a passing interest in the exhibit. As she watched, he moved from one display to the next, carefully perusing the descriptive passages before studying the contents. Edging closer, Julia noticed first that the man’s silvery-blue eyes were turned to the paragraphs written in English. Then she noticed the handsome face around those eyes.

  The eyes shifted ever so slightly, catching her reflection in the glass display case, and then the dark haired man straightened and turned toward her.

  Mildly embarrassed at having been caught staring, she hastily tried to deflect his attention. “Tragic, isn’t it?”

  The corners of the man’s mouth tugged up a little into a rueful smile. “That’s one word for it,” he replied, seeming to agree.

  She nodded. “That these marvelous statues could endure the ravages of time for so long, only to be destroyed in a cowardly display of ignorance.”

  “Cowardly,” the man echoed, thoughtfully. “Perhaps. But I don’t think ignorance was a factor. The men who destroyed the Buddhas understood all too well the importance of symbols. This was no mere act of vandalism.”

  “That’s a very astute observation.” Julia stuck out a hand. “I’m Julia Preston, curator-at-large for the Global Heritage Commission.”

  The man accepted the proffered hand, holding it gently rather than squeezing it. “Curator-at-large? That sounds very important.”

  Julia resisted an impulse to giggle. Her title certainly sounded more important than it actually was. In reality, she was more of a glorified handyman, assigned to manage the logistical side of the traveling exhibition. That meant liaising with museum staff—the Louvre was just the first of a dozen museums on the two-year long tour—and making sure that all the moving pieces moved together correctly. It was a far cry from the research and field work that she had dreamed of doing as a graduate student, but it would look very good on her CV.

  “You’re American?” the man continued.

  She nodded.

  “Thank goodness. I can get by in French, but anything more complicated than ordering a coffee gives me a headache.”

  His smile gave her a little thrill. An attractive woman, she had grown weary of fending off the almost predatory advances of Louvre staffers who seemed intent on reinforcing the stereotype of the amorous Frenchman, but somehow she didn’t quite feel so ambivalent about a flirtatious exchange with a fellow American—a very attractive and evidently intelligent one at that.

  “Your accent,” she said, trying to break a little more ice. “There’s a bit of Russian there, if I’m not mistaken?”

  For just a second, the man’s beautiful eyes seemed to darken, but the smile did not falter. “Very perceptive. You’re the first person to catch that. As a matter of fact, you’re right. I was born in Saint Petersburg, but my parents emigrated to the United States when I was very young. I must have picked it up from them.”

  “Oh, it’s barely noticeable. I’m good at catching accents.” Worried that she was only exacerbating the evident faux pas, Julia tried to navigate to a different subject. “Are you vacationing in Paris?”

  He shook his head. “I’m here for work. But I couldn’t pass up a chance to see the Buddhas. My father saw them when he was in the army—the Soviet Army. Three years he served in Afghanistan. He told me all about them and was deeply troubled by their destruction.”

  She noted that his speech seemed more halting, his accent more pronounced, as if both the unexpected revelation of his origin and the subsequent reminiscence had left him a little shaken. “That’s remarkable. I would have loved to have seen them before…” She waved a hand toward the fragments. “Your father must have a unique appreciation for history.”

  “Yes, and he raised me to have the same appreciation. How does the old saying go? ‘Those who don’t know history are destined to repeat it.’”

  “Edmund Burke.” She nodded. “That’s sort of the unofficial slogan for historians, and a lesson that we still can’t seem to get right. We seem to keep making the same mistakes over and over again.”

  “As my father is fond of pointing out.” The man’s eyes turned to the display. “Afghanistan, for example. It has been called ‘the place where empires go to die.’ Invaders may conquer her armies, but the effort of trying to possess the country is too costly. It destroyed the Soviet Union, but now, only a few decades later, we Americans think our adventure there will end differently.”

  Juli
a registered the emphasis he placed on “we Americans,” and wondered again if she had somehow inadvertently offended him with her observation about his origins. She wished desperately that she could rewind the encounter and start over, especially since he seemed to share her passion for history. Before she could formulate a response, she glimpsed the familiar figure of Mr. Carutius entering the gallery. She offered a rueful smile. “I’m terribly sorry, but my boss just walked in and I should get to work. But the museum closes just before ten, and I’m not doing anything after…”

  She let her voice trail off hopefully. Technically, Carutius wasn’t really her boss—she worked for the Global Heritage Commission, an agency adjunct to UNESCO—but inasmuch as he was the chief representative for the private organization that was bankrolling the exhibition, she was pretty much at his beck and call. Carutius was an odd fellow and very hands-on when it came to the nuts and bolts of managing the exhibit. He and his organization had conceived of the idea of taking the fragments of the Buddhas on tour. They had, through generous contributions to Afghanistan’s cultural ministry—an agency that existed as little more than a bureaucratic appointment and a way for the corrupt and barely functional government of the beleaguered nation to apportion money received from international aid payments—arranged permission for the shattered remains of the statues to be taken out of the country.

  The man matched her smile. “Unfortunately, I have a late business meeting and will be unavailable tonight.”

  Her mind grappled with his reply. Unfortunately? What did that mean? Was he trying to let her down gently, or was he interested in…? “A pity. Another time perhaps. I would really love—” She almost faltered. Love? Coming on strong, aren’t you Julia—“to sit down and…you know, talk about history a little more.”

  “I would like that. And I know where to find you.”

  “I just realized, I never asked your name.”

  The smile did not waver. “Trevor.”

  She raised a curious eyebrow, but before she could inquire, he continued: “Not the name my parents gave me when I was born, of course. They changed it when we came to the United States.”

  Julia nodded in understanding and decided not to press further. “A pleasure to meet you, Trevor. I hope to see you again.” She winced inwardly. God, I sound so desperate.

  But Trevor’s smile seemed sincere and when he shook her hand again, it was with the same gentle firmness as at their first meeting, which she took as a good sign. She sighed as he strode from the gallery, then composed herself and went over to where Carutius was rummaging in the large equipment case he had brought in.

  Though dressed in an immaculate and expensive Brooks Brothers suit, the tall rugged Carutius, with his curly mop of hair and bushy beard, looked more like an escapee from a biker gang than either a researcher or a financier—Julia wasn’t exactly sure which he really was. He glanced up as she approached. “Dr. Preston. I’m glad you’re still here. I need to perform some radiometric dating tests on the fragments. We’ll need to close the exhibit early tonight.”

  The man delivered the words with casual indifference, as if he had asked for nothing more complicated than the time of day. Two thoughts immediately raced through Julia’s head.

  First, why on earth did Carutius want to close the exhibit on a Friday evening, one of the museum’s busiest times? How was she supposed to explain to the staff that the much-publicized headlining exhibition, which admittedly had not drawn as much attention as might be hoped, would have to be shut down with no advance notice? If it were anyone but Carutius making the demand, she would have laughed at the very idea.

  The second thought was regret that Trevor—or whatever his real name was—had a previous appointment, because now it seemed her evening was free.

  “I see,” she answered slowly, not seeing at all.

  “I’ve already spoken to the museum director and made all the necessary arrangements,” he continued.

  Julia felt some relief at that news, and her curiosity gradually got the better of her disappointment. “Do you need any help? What exactly are you hoping to establish with radiometric dating?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Take the night off.”

  “The fragments are under the protection of the GHC and we’re responsible for their safety. Any requests for testing should go through my office.”

  “My tests shouldn’t pose any risk to the fragments. Quite the opposite, actually.” He folded his arms across his chest and although he was smiling, there was no humor in his eyes.

  Despite the implicit finality, Julia couldn’t just let it go. “I really would like to know what you’re testing for.”

  “It is a personal project and lies at the very heart of my interest in preserving the Buddhas. Something I’ve been working on for years. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you.” He loosed one arm and gestured to the exit. “Good night, Dr. Preston.”

  7.

  Timur Suvorov replayed his conversation with Dr. Julia Preston—the curator knew him only as “Trevor”—in his head as he stalked through the corridors of the Louvre, and wondered where he had slipped up. His instructors at the cultural immersion training facility had praised him for his pitch perfect English and his command of American dialect, but she had picked up on his true heritage after hearing him say only a few words.

  Suvorov had never actually been to the United States. The closest he had come to that experience was a six-month long stay in a town called Springfield, a perfect middle-American suburb that happened to be located, not in the American heartland but in a remote location on the coast of the Caspian Sea.

  Springfield had been built during the Cold War by the KGB for the sole purpose of training long-term deep cover operatives—sleepers, in the common parlance—who would be able to perfectly blend into American society. Every aspect of life in Springfield had been simulated Americana, at least insofar as the Soviet social scientists understood it. The only language spoken in the mock-city was English. The radios played a wide selection of American music and American television programs were broadcast. Residents could get Big Macs at the local McDonald’s and bought their cigarettes and Coca-Colas at the 7-Eleven. Thousands of KGB sleepers had literally been raised from infancy in Springfield, and many graduates of the program had subsequently been deployed to conduct active espionage or, more often than not, await a critical assignment that would never come. In the post-Cold War era, Russia’s foreign intelligence service, the SVR, continued to conduct operations abroad. But these days there were more expedient methods of getting agents into place, particularly with the advent of globalization and a growing population of Russian expatriates in America and other countries. Nevertheless, Springfield continued to be useful as a training tool for SVR operatives and GRU Spetsnaz soldiers preparing for undercover work.

  Evidently there were still some gaps in the training though, as Julia’s observation had borne out.

  In retrospect, it had probably been a bad idea to visit the museum. To establish their cover stories and blow off a little steam before the final phase of the assignment, Suvorov had directed the members of his team to do a little site seeing. Despite the stereotypical Russian proclivity for alcohol consumption, drinking was strictly forbidden before an operation, as was sexual congress, but there were plenty of other distraction in the City of Lights, and for Suvorov, a chance to see the Bamiyan Buddhas, even if they were now only pieces of rubble, had seemed the obvious choice.

  The lie he had told to cover his dismay at Julia’s revelation was close enough to the truth to satisfy the woman’s curiosity. He had indeed been born in Saint Petersburg—in his earliest memories, it was still called Leningrad—and his father really had seen the Buddhas during his military service. Her discovery nonetheless posed a risk for potential exposure moving forward. When she learned of the operation in the news, would she put two and two together, and perhaps report her suspicious encounter with a man claiming to be a Russian émigré? Probab
ly not, but it was best not to leave such a thing to chance. Julia was a loose end that would have to be tied up, one way or another, and he found that thought discouraging.

  Actually, there was a lot about this mission that troubled him.

  No, that wasn’t quite right. Not just this mission; he’d been experiencing misgivings about everything in his life. The sense of pride he’d once felt in his military service, in excelling in his training and commanding a team of Russia’s very best special operations soldiers, in literally being a part of shaping the future of the Rodina…those ideological concepts just didn’t square with reality. That was another lesson of history. Brave men—his team, and even his father before him—were always the ones who made the sacrifices, while the politicians who sent them to their appointments with destiny were always chasing some selfish agenda. This mission was no different. They would succeed of course, but in the end, would it make any difference?

  He reached the main exit, threading past the idling masses of tourists, and once outside took out his phone and called Kharitonov. When his subordinate answered, he spoke only two words: “It’s time.”

  8.

  1925 UTC/Local

  King took a deep breath as he stepped off the gangplank and onto the reception deck of the riverboat. The vessel was anchored in the Seine about four hundred yards southwest of Île Saint-Louis. King could just make out the French Gothic silhouette of the Notre Dame Cathedral on the nearby Île de la Cité, against the background of the dazzling electric Parisian skyline.

  A score of men in formal attire milled about sipping cocktails and smoking cigars, and vying for the attention of a scattering of attractive women in expensive evening gowns. King guessed the latter group to be professional escorts; even without Aleman’s report on the guest list indicating that not a single woman had been invited to the FLES conference, King observed that they were too attractive, too confident in their sexuality and perhaps most tellingly, too young, to be anything else.