The voice rasped in her ear again. “That isn’t your concern. You will go to Tarkovsky tomorrow. You will convince him to bring you on the voyage. When you leave, you will take this phone instead of your own. Talk to anyone, and we hand you over to the police. We’ll be watching you. But if you do precisely as we say, you can walk away from this as if nothing had happened.”
Maddy looked at the house in the distance. The sickness in her stomach had spread to every corner of her body. “And if I say no?”
“See for yourself,” the voice said. “You can get out of the car now and find out.”
The phone fell silent, aside from the faint rustle of the pitch modulator. “And how am I supposed to get on board?”
“Tarkovsky likes you,” the voice replied. “I’m sure someone as resourceful as you can come up with a way. Call us when you’ve done it. Keep this phone on and charged. There’s a tube station just up the road.”
The hiss of the modulator ceased. Maddy held the phone to her ear for another moment. Then she flung it away so that it struck the back of the driver’s seat, bounced off, and fell to the floor of the car.
Keeping her eyes on the house in the windshield, Maddy reached across her lap and undid her safety belt. Nothing happened. Gathering up the pictures, she slid them back into the envelope. She picked up the cell phone. Then she opened the passenger door and stepped out in stocking feet onto the dead grass.
As soon as she was out of the car, she found herself retching, bending almost double, but nothing came out. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to wake up, but when she looked around again, she found herself exactly where she had been a second earlier, her head throbbing with exhaustion and anger as the reality of her situation swept across her once more.
Maddy straightened up and looked back at the car, a Ford Focus, the most common model in the country. The license plates were missing. Going over to the driver’s side, she saw that the keys were gone, but a few crumpled pound notes had been left on the seat, enough for a ride home.
If there had been a rock on the ground beside her, she would have smashed all the windows, but instead she turned again to the house by the trees. She took a step forward, then paused.
When she spoke, it was nothing more than a whisper, if indeed she said anything at all. Whatever the words were, they were quickly carried away by the wind and lost at once in the silence.
Opening the door, she gathered up the money. She checked the glove box and found it empty, as were the remaining seat pockets. Going to the backseat, she snatched up the hood as well.
Maddy closed the door, then turned to face the road, which was a hundred yards behind her. She began to walk slowly across the field, not looking back, knowing all the while that she was still being watched.
On the upper floor of the house by the trees, a shadow was outlined against the glass. As Maddy moved away, it withdrew from the window.
Inside the house, a watcher in a leather jacket lowered the binoculars through which he had been observing the car. He turned to the figure beside him. “Are you sure she’ll do it?”
Asthana nodded. Her cell phone, a voice changer still attached to the mouthpiece, was clutched in her right hand. “She’ll do it. And if she doesn’t, we can always get to her in other ways.”
28
The overnight train from Paris to Munich, known as the Cassiopeia line, waited on the platform at the Gare de l’Est. Among the passengers boarding its twelve coaches were two men who had arrived at the station some forty minutes earlier. They were dressed in a similar fashion, in casual traveling clothes, and did not attract any particular attention as they entered a sleeping car toward the front of the train.
Walking down the narrow passageway, they reached their compartment. The man in front slid the door open and went in, followed a moment later by his companion, who walked briefly up and down the car, checking their surroundings, before entering and closing the door behind him.
Putting down his bag, Ilya looked around the compartment that he and Bogdan would be sharing. Two berths had been folded down, each set with a pillow and a white duvet. To his right, a door opened into a private bathroom with a tiny toilet and shower. Above the sink, the mirror confronted him with his unfamiliar reflection. His hair had been cut short earlier that day.
Ilya turned back to the main compartment, where his companion had set down his own bag. Going to the small table in the corner, Bogdan raised the window shade, revealing a view of the station outside, and folded the chair down from the wall. Taking a seat, he drew his bag toward him, opening it, as Ilya sat across from him on the edge of the bed.
Without speaking, the men began to lay out cheese and sausages bought during the walk from the Gare du Nord. From the pocket of his bag, Bogdan extracted a folding knife and used it to slice a piece of sausage for himself. Keeping the knife open, he gave it to Ilya, handle first. After a pause, Ilya took it, knowing that this was not quite the gesture of trust it seemed. Bogdan’s real knife, his pike, was somewhere else, probably in his pocket.
They ate in silence, passing the knife back and forth as necessary, as the train left the station. Their journey so far had been uneventful. At St. Pancras, their passports had been stamped without a second glance, and two hours later, they had arrived in Paris. From there, they would travel overnight to Germany, then east to Budapest and Romania. At that point, they would reunite with the rest of the group for the next phase, which would take them, Ilya had gathered, to Moldova.
Bogdan, for his part, had not volunteered any additional information, either out of his own natural wariness or because he, too, was waiting to see where they were going. So far, the other man had struck Ilya as intelligent and careful, and he knew that Bogdan was watching him with the same degree of scrutiny. They had been unable to bring any guns through the metal detectors in London, which meant that they would make the next leg of their journey unarmed.
Once their meal was finished, Bogdan put the leftovers away, then pulled a bottle and two plastic cups out of his bag. Ilya kept an eye on how much the other man poured into each cup, noting that he gave them both generous amounts. Glancing out the window, he saw that they were heading northeast, the train rolling serenely beneath the steel overpasses. It was shortly before sunset.
Bogdan was looking out at the view as well. Now that the most uncertain stage was behind them, he appeared to relax, although an underlying watchfulness remained. “You spend much time in Paris?”
This was the first time he had asked about Ilya’s past, or, indeed, had spoken of anything aside from practical matters since leaving London. “Once or twice,” Ilya replied. “You?”
“Not for a long time,” Bogdan said. “But I would often pass through in the old days.”
Remembering what Bogdan had said earlier about his background, Ilya made an educated guess. “You were a driver?”
Bogdan took a sip of vodka. He was careful, Ilya saw, not to drink to excess. “How did you know?”
“I’ve known many such men,” Ilya said. Sensing that the other man was waiting for him to drink as well, he raised his cup to his lips, keeping his eyes on his companion. “How often?”
“Once a month or so.” Bogdan looked out at the darkening sky as the train picked up speed. “After the army. I would drive there from Corjeuti. The only way a man in my village could see any money.”
Ilya knew that a network of such drivers made the journey by car on a regular basis between Moldova and France, delivering parcels and picking up cash and groceries from illegals in Paris. “And then London?”
Bogdan smiled for the first time since their departure. “Yes. For a girl. Even after she was gone, London seemed more open, shall we say, to fresh talent. And I had my Romanian passport, so . . .”
He trailed off, since there was no need to spell out the rest. Moldova had been Romanian between the wars, and aft
er it achieved independence, many Moldovans had applied for Romanian nationality. “But now you’re going back?”
Bogdan grinned more broadly, although there was a faint tinge of anger there as well. “No money to send home these days. Soon all these places will be the same. Easier to be home when the worst of it comes. And after we are done here, it may not be so bad for us after all.”
Ilya watched as Bogdan drank again. “Is that why you want to kill Tarkovsky?”
Bogdan did not reply at once, although the smile lingered strangely on his face. Outside, night was falling. “I do not blame him. He took advantage of the hand he was dealt. Better him than the dogs in the Kremlin.”
Ilya sensed an obvious question hanging in the air. “Yet you’re ready to let him die.”
Bogdan shrugged slightly. “I have no quarrel with the man. But where his money goes is another matter. Hard times are coming, and I intend to be ready. Better to be on the winning side. You see?”
Ilya only finished his drink. It was not hard to read between Bogdan’s words. What was happening now was only the latest chapter in a secret history that had unfolded in Russia for years.
Glancing at his travel companion, Ilya wondered how much of this Bogdan had seen firsthand. In the aftermath of the war between Moldova and Transnistria, Russia had sent troops to the latter, unasked, and in order to survive, the local criminals had been forced to reach an accommodation with military intelligence. In response, their rivals in Moldova had thrown in their lot with the civilian side, which had also meant establishing alliances with the network of thieves of which Vasylenko was one of the last remaining representatives.
Looking at his own face, which was reflected darkly in the glass, Ilya considered his predicament. He had been hoping to get close to Vasylenko, learning what he could about the vor’s plans before making his final move. So far, however, the others had been careful, and he doubted that he would be left alone with Vasylenko long enough to end things in the way he had intended.
He had wanted to see this through on his own, but now he saw that this was no longer possible. As soon as he had the chance, he would contact Wolfe with what he had uncovered. He had left her one message already. And perhaps, with enough patience, other opportunities would present themselves in the meantime.
The view from the train had grown too dark to see. Lowering the shade, Ilya glanced over at Bogdan. “Do you want to sleep?”
In response, Bogdan switched on the light next to the table. Reaching into his bag, he removed a book of military history that he had bought at the train station and opened it to the first page.
Seeing the shadow of a smile on his companion’s face, Ilya understood that he had no intention of sleeping tonight. For a moment, the two men regarded each other in silence. At last, Ilya said, “You can’t watch me all the time.”
“I know,” Bogdan said, not lowering his eyes. “Fortunately, that won’t be necessary.”
29
“I’ve spoken again with the museum director,” Maddy said. “A board meeting is scheduled for next week, but it’s unclear how many votes he has. There’s an unwritten rule that once something goes into a museum, it doesn’t go out. But I’ll keep following up while you’re gone.”
“Good,” Tarkovsky said, keeping his eyes on the view of the garden. It seemed to her that he had something on his mind, although this may have been because she, too, was working up her courage for what she had to say.
They were alone in the sitting room on the second floor of the mansion. All four walls were lined with books, while up ahead, a door, slightly open, led into Tarkovsky’s private office. It was the first time Maddy had ever been inside the main house. After getting the call that afternoon, she had put away the files, her hands trembling, and gone up the gravel path through the gardens to the front gable, where a security guard had ushered her inside.
Looking around, she had found herself in a large entrance hall, its exposed beams and thick carpet reminding her, in passing, of another house she had visited many years ago. Before her had stood a massive fireplace with a stepped fireback of cast iron, its shield engraved, inevitably, with the familiar image of a man on horseback, slaying a basilisk with a spear.
It had struck her as an omen, or at least as a sign as to which of two paths to take. And this feeling had only grown stronger as the guard led her upstairs, past a room where someone was endlessly playing the piano, the notes drifting in clusters throughout the great house.
She could faintly hear the piano now, through the closed door of the sitting room, as her employer turned away from the window. “You’ve done well,” Tarkovsky said. “And there are other projects you can work on while I’m away. Assuming that you decide to remain.”
Maddy saw the opening she needed. Without hesitation, she took the plunge. “That all depends on you.”
Tarkovsky seemed amused by her reply. “And what is it you need from me?”
Maddy paused. From here, she knew, there were two ways she could go. One was safer but less certain, while the other would leave her exposed forever, and in the instant before she spoke, she found herself taking the more cautious approach. “If I’m going to do my job effectively, you need to be honest with me. We need to talk about the real reason you want this egg.”
Tarkovsky had listened without visible reaction. “And what reason would this be?”
“I don’t think you care about it at all. I think you care more about the horse and rider inside. You mentioned this at the museum, when you said that you saw it as a symbol of Russia’s future, but there’s more to it than that. And you hired me because you thought I’d see the truth sooner or later.”
This was nothing but a stab in the dark, but as he listened, Tarkovsky seemed to grow more watchful. “And what have you seen?”
“The word on the side of your yacht,” Maddy said simply. “Rigden. It’s the name of a line of legendary kings of Shambhala, a mythical hidden kingdom in inner Asia. The final king, Rigden Djapo, is destined to usher the world into a new age. When he’s born, white lotuses, like the one painted on the yacht’s hull, will fall from the sky. And when he appears, he’ll be riding a white horse.”
Tarkovsky’s features relaxed into a smile. “Very clever of you. But anyone who reads up on the subject for more than a few minutes will uncover the same information. And I don’t see how it affects your work.”
“Then let me explain.” She hesitated, knowing that she was entering dangerous territory. “You’re careful to express no interest in politics. You’ve seen what happens to businessmen with political aspirations. They’re killed or they’re thrown into prison, like Khodorkovsky. But I know that you care about the future of Russia. Your foundation funds organizations that are pushing for transparency and financial reform. You want to see your country move peacefully into the next stage of its history. And this is what the name of the yacht means.”
Tarkovsky was no longer smiling. “And what does that name have to do with this?”
“Shambhala is a political symbol,” Maddy said. “A perfect society, ruled by enlightenment and science. It began as a legend in Buddhism, an allegory for spiritual change, but later, people began to wonder if it might actually exist, hidden away in Central Asia, or somewhere to the north, or underground. Its symbol is the color white, especially the white horse and lotus. And if you, of all people, are interested in this story, it means you think these symbols still have meaning.”
Tarkovsky turned back toward the window, the panes of which were now lightly dotted with rain. “It has nothing to do with me. Russia has always returned to the same handful of symbols. The Soviet Union once claimed to be Shambhala, the hidden land of plenty, to influence regional politics. Putin himself takes an interest in such myths. There is nothing exceptional here. The idea of a northern paradise goes back to the warriors of the steppes—”
“But symb
ols have power. You wouldn’t have named your yacht after the legend if you didn’t think the story was meaningful. It may be a myth, but it stands for something real. A promise that change is coming. I think you want this egg because if you bring it back to Russia, along with the horse and rider inside, the people you want to reach will understand its significance. It’s the same reason you’ve acquired works by Nicholas Roerich. He’s a minor painter, but he was also an activist and mystic who took a great interest in the political implications of Shambhala.”
Tarkovsky’s eyes flicked back to hers. “You’re quite good at finding meaning where it might not exist.”
“You knew this when you hired me,” Maddy replied. “And I’ve seen enough to make me skeptical of secret forces working to change the world. But I also know how powerful a symbol can be. And if there’s a deeper meaning behind this egg, you can’t go away for two weeks before we’ve had a chance to discuss it.”
Tarkovsky remained silent. Watching him, Maddy wondered if the approach she had taken was having any effect. Her only hope, as she had seen so clearly last night, was to arouse his curiosity. And the one place where this conversation could continue, given his impending departure, was the yacht itself.
At last, Tarkovsky turned back to her, and this time, he did not look away. “Have you ever heard of a man named Gleb Boky?”
Before she could respond, the door at the far end of the room opened, and Elena entered. Maddy had not heard the assistant approach, and something in her face as she drew closer made Maddy suspect that she had been listening. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s time for your call to Argo.”
Tarkovsky nodded, falling back into an expression of nonchalance, although his eyes remained fixed on Maddy. “Thank you. I’d say that we’re done here. Elena will walk you back in a moment.”
“Of course,” Maddy said. Rising from her chair, she headed for the door of the sitting area, sensing Elena watching her as she departed.
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