Eternal Empire

by Alec Nevala-Lee

  “I know,” Ilya said, holding her gaze. “If you’re lucky, this will be the last time.”

  “In that case, good luck.” Maddy paused. “When you see them, tell them hello from me. I want them to know who it was.”

  Ilya only regarded her in silence. For a moment, he wanted to thank her, but in the end, he said nothing. Instead, he remembered their first meeting, years ago, in a house on the other end of the world. As she looked back, it occurred to him that perhaps she was thinking of the same thing.

  At last, Maddy turned and headed for the door of the office, where Orlov was waiting. The security chief entered a code into the touchscreen to unlock it, and the two of them went into the hallway.

  Just before the door closed, Ilya saw Maddy look back, not at him, but at Tarkovsky, who was still seated at the desk. And as he watched this last exchange of glances between Maddy and the oligarch, Ilya wondered, not for the first time, what had really taken place between them.

  50

  One day earlier, Maddy had gone to see Tarkovsky in his office after dinner. That morning, she had encountered him at breakfast in the main salon, talking to a senior geologist from Argo. When he asked how her work was going, she had replied that she needed to speak with him about a few things, and Tarkovsky had invited her to stop by his office later that evening.

  When Maddy entered the room that night, she saw Tarkovsky seated at his desk with Orlov. The two men had been conversing in Russian, but the oligarch switched to English as she came in. “Thank you, Pavel,” Tarkovsky said, rising. “Please tell Elena that I wish to see her.”

  Orlov nodded and left the office. Going to the urn in the corner, Tarkovsky refilled a china cup he had brought from the desk. “Tea?”

  “No, thank you,” Maddy said. She took a seat, watching as Tarkovsky came back to his chair. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

  Tarkovsky looked at her over the rim of his cup. “And what might that be?”

  Maddy hesitated, looking within herself for something like courage, but as she spoke the words that marked the point of no return, she found nothing but a strange coldness in her heart. “It’s about Alexey Lermontov.”

  Tarkovsky took a sip of tea, then set the cup down. His face displayed no reaction. “What do you wish to know?”

  “I want to talk about your history together,” Maddy replied. “You’ve told me that you worked with Lermontov to repatriate art from overseas, but I think there’s more to it than that.”

  She thought she saw a flicker of interest in the oligarch’s expression. “Go on.”

  Maddy glanced out the window, through which the sun hung like an orange above the sea. “I’ve been looking at the foundation’s history. In the past, you concentrated on issues of social justice and human rights. Then, a few years ago, you abruptly changed course. You began pushing hard for the repatriation of Russian art, and there was no sense that this had ever been an interest of yours before.”

  “In itself, that doesn’t say much,” Tarkovsky said, turning the cup around idly on his desk. “Repatriation of artifacts is an important cause for many foundations. My attention would have been drawn to it sooner or later.”

  “That may be true. But the timing still struck me, because it coincided with your first contacts with Lermontov. I’ve seen the files. You began doing business with him at the exact moment you started to focus on repatriation. Which makes me wonder. I suspect that you developed a genuine commitment to these issues later, but at the time, I don’t think you got close to Lermontov because of your interest in art. I think you became interested in art to get close to Lermontov.”

  Tarkovsky laughed. “An ingenious theory. But why would I have taken an interest in Lermontov?”

  “Because you suspected that he was working for Russian intelligence,” Maddy said. “You discovered that the civilian side was selling looted art to raise money for covert operations, which could be a useful weapon for your allies in the military. But you weren’t prepared to act on this yourself. You still had to work closely with both sides, as far as appearances were concerned, so you passed the tip along to a man who was ready to use it. His name was Anzor Archvadze.”

  Tarkovsky’s eyes narrowed. “I’m willing to indulge these speculations up to a point, but you’re treading on dangerous ground. You should think very carefully before you say anything more.”

  “I already have. Archvadze’s name is in your foundation’s records. You met with him on several occasions in the two years before his death. I always knew that Archvadze had learned that civilian intelligence was dealing in stolen art, but I never understood how he found out. Now I do. You told him.” Maddy paused. “I also think you told him about a certain work of art, a painting, that was being sent overseas. And I know firsthand what happened next.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” Tarkovsky said. “It must make it difficult for you to remain objective. But even if what you say is true, I still haven’t heard any explanation for why I would have done this.”

  “It isn’t hard to imagine. Even at the time, the rivalry between the two arms of Russian intelligence was growing. You saw the chance to take down one of the leading paymasters for the opposing side.”

  Tarkovsky nodded slowly. “I see. You’ve thought through this theory with great care. But the trouble with the plan you describe is that it didn’t work. Military intelligence, as I expect you know, has been damaged by scandals of its own. And if I wanted to embarrass the civilian side, I would have seen that Lermontov was forced to testify in public. Instead, he disappeared—”

  “—and died,” Maddy finished. “Yes. But there’s one more thing I need to tell you.”

  Through the windows of the bridge deck, the sky was growing dark. Maddy kept her eyes on the view of the sea as she continued, hearing herself say words that she had never thought to speak aloud, even as she had rehearsed them so many times in her own imagination.

  “Several months after Lermontov’s disappearance, I was contacted by a man named Ilya Severin,” Maddy said. “I’m still not sure why he came to me. We had only been in the same room together for a few minutes, but I think he saw something there, or sensed that we both wanted the same thing. Lermontov betrayed me. He wanted me dead, and he murdered someone I cared about. As long as he was alive, I would never feel truly safe. Ilya said as much—”

  Tarkovsky broke in. “You don’t need to tell me this.”

  Turning to the oligarch, Maddy saw that his face had lost much of its color. “But I do. You’ll understand why soon.”

  Maddy took a breath, closing her eyes, and said, “Ilya came to me because I knew Lermontov well. I had insights into his behavior that others did not. Ilya wanted to know if I could help track him down. And I did. It took some luck, but I found him in London. A week later, I flew out there, as part of a longer vacation, and went to a house in Fulham. And I was waiting outside when Ilya killed Lermontov.”

  She had hoped that this confession would lift the weight she had carried for so long, but it did not. These were only words, which she had used all her life to get what she wanted, and what really counted was what came next. She hurried through the rest. “I went there to make sure it was really done. And then I walked away. Or so I thought. But now I know that this was never an option.”

  Maddy opened her eyes. Tarkovsky’s expression had remained fixed, but for the first time in their acquaintance, she had the sense that he was having trouble keeping himself under control. “And why come to me?”

  “Because I no longer have a choice,” Maddy said, feeling for that familiar coldness in her heart’s core. “You asked how I knew about your intelligence connections. It’s because I’m working for the Cheshire Group. They hired me to pass along information about your foundation’s activities in advance of the Black Sea deal. I never meant to stay longer than that. But then the situation changed. And t
he only way out is for me to tell you everything.”

  Tarkovsky had listened to this revelation in silence. Some of the blood had returned to his face. “And what is the situation now?”

  “I was abducted from my home. I don’t know who it was. But I suspect they’re involved with the same groups that you implicated years ago, on the civilian side. They knew I was involved in Lermontov’s death, and they threatened to expose me if I didn’t get on this yacht and bring someone else on board. A man I knew from before.” Maddy looked across the desk at Tarkovsky. “It’s Ilya Severin. He’s on the ship now. And he’s here to kill you.”

  As Tarkovsky listened, his face hardened into something like stone. “When?”

  “After the party tomorrow,” Maddy said. “The day before we arrive in Sochi.”

  Tarkovsky did not respond at once. Glancing down at his desk, he picked up his tea, although he did not drink from it yet. When he spoke, his tone was almost casual. “You know, I could call Orlov now. He could easily determine if you are telling the truth. And where Ilya is hiding.”

  “Yes,” Maddy said. “I could give him up to you. But that isn’t the smart move.”

  Tarkovsky finished his tea and set it down with a clink of china. “And the smart move would be?”

  “Let it play out,” Maddy said, feeling her heart rate rise at last. “If you take Ilya now, none of this will mean anything. But if you follow it to its source, you can get the men who did this. I’ve spoken to Ilya. He doesn’t want this any more than I do. He’s here because he thinks it will protect me, but he’s wrong. The only way out is to end it. I have a plan. But I can’t do it myself. You’re the only one with the resources to cut this off at the head.”

  Looking out the window at the sea, Tarkovsky seemed suddenly tired. “What do you have in mind?”

  “First, I need to know I can trust you,” Maddy said. “Why do they want you dead?”

  To her surprise, Tarkovsky began to laugh. “It’s hard to know where to begin. I have not endeared myself to these men by any means. But I suspect you have some ideas of your own.”

  “I do,” Maddy said. “I think it involves the Argo deal. But it’s about more than just the Black Sea. You’ve been meeting with these executives throughout the entire voyage. It’s about something else, isn’t it?”

  After a beat, Tarkovsky nodded. “Yes. Something larger than you know. The collapse of military intelligence has presented a rare opportunity. We’re building something that could change the balance of power in Russia for years. Which is why I refer to it by another name.”

  Maddy began to dimly understand what he was saying. “You mean Shambhala.”

  “Yes,” Tarkovsky said. “An undiscovered empire. But not the kind you think—”

  He was interrupted by a knock on the door. As Elena entered the room, a leather folder in one hand, Tarkovsky glanced over at Maddy, a secret meaning in his eyes. “I’m sorry. Where were we?”

  “We were talking about revising our offer to Virginia,” Maddy said at once. “A new strategy, based on what we spoke about before we left. It’s an unusual approach, but at this point, it’s something I’d be willing to try—”

  51

  That conversation had taken place only the day before, but as Maddy remembered it now, it seemed to belong to another lifetime.

  When she came back to herself, she was walking along the companionway with Orlov, fifteen minutes after the images of Tarkovsky’s apparent death had gone out over the video feed.

  Until then, she had not truly believed that any of this would work. Since their conversation, Tarkovsky had confided only in his security chief. She had not been present at that discussion, but as she glanced over at Orlov now, she sensed that he was as eager as his employer to see this through to the end.

  They arrived at her cabin, where Orlov waited as she unlocked and opened her door. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “No,” Maddy said, going into the stateroom. She kept the door open long enough to look back at the security chief, who had remained in the hallway outside. “Any other instructions?”

  “I advise you to remain in your room for the rest of the night,” Orlov said. “Tell us at once if anyone tries to contact you.”

  “I will.” Maddy managed to smile at Orlov. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”

  Orlov gave her a faint smile in return. “Thank me when we are both in Sochi.”

  He turned aside and headed along the companionway. Maddy watched until he had disappeared up the stairs, then closed the door of her cabin and switched on the overhead light.

  There was no one else there. Going to the bedside table, Maddy picked up her phone. She stood there for a moment, thinking. Then she went to the door again, opened it, and headed back into the hall.

  Maddy glanced around the companionway, seeing that she was alone, and took the stairs to the lounge deck. Around her, the yacht was silent, except for the faraway sound of voices and music from the party on the level below. Moving quietly, still in her black dress, she made her way to the sky deck, which lay at the rear of the ship, the stars shining coldly overhead.

  Going to the railing, she paused to look out at the sea. The moon had not yet risen, but in the distance, she could make out the outline of the shadow boat. Feeling the wind on her face, she stood there for a minute in silence, trying to prolong what felt like the last peaceful moment she would ever have.

  She looked over the railing at the aft deck. For a second, she thought she saw something by the transom, as if a shadowy figure was moving toward the rear of the yacht, but it might have been just her imagination.

  Her phone was still in her hand. She pressed a button to illuminate the screen, in order to see what time it was, and saw that she had a voicemail from hours before, from a number she didn’t recognize.

  Maddy put the phone to her ear, looking out at the shadow boat as she listened to the message. A woman’s voice began to speak: “Maddy, this is Rachel Wolfe from the Serious Organised Crime Agency. I don’t know if you remember me, but I used to work with Alan Powell. You need to call me back as soon as you get this. I believe you’re in great danger—”

  Even as she heard this, there was a high whine, like the amplified sound of an insect’s wings. Something flew across the night sky, leaving a streak of brightness, and then the shadow boat across the water burst into flame.

  Maddy recoiled, feeling the push of heat against her face as the explosion lit up the sea. She stared at the burning ship, the hand with the phone falling to her side, and saw something else in the sky above.

  Outlined against the stars, illuminated faintly by the fire, a dark winged shape was wheeling around again toward the yacht. A second later, there was another insectile scream, a line of white darting straight in her direction, and a rocket struck the Rigden itself.

  The explosion threw her off her feet. Maddy fell to her knees, the cell phone slipping from her hand and skittering along the deck as the yacht listed heavily to one side. She saw the phone slide under the railing, caught for an instant in the glow of the flames, and then it was gone.

  Maddy crawled blindly forward. Screams rose from the salon below as a third rocket hit the yacht, the deck shuddering beneath her fingers. As the world tilted sideways, she tumbled along with it. Her head struck the railing at the edge of the deck, and then she knew no more.

  III

  Darius gave it as his opinion that the Scythians intended a surrender of themselves and their country. . . . To the explanation of Darius, Gobryas . . . opposed another which was as follows: “Unless, Persians, ye can turn into birds and fly up into the sky, or become as mice and burrow under the ground, or make yourselves frogs, and take refuge in the fens, ye will never make escape from this land, but die pierced by our arrows.” Such were the meanings that the Persians assigned to the gifts.

  —Hero
dotus, The Histories

  We love the flesh: its taste, its tones,

  Its charnel odor, breathed through Death’s jaws . . .

  Are we to blame if your fragile bones

  Should crack beneath our heavy, gentle paws?

  —Alexander Blok, “The Scythians”

  52

  Ilya had heard the sound a few moments earlier. On the aft deck, facing the pool, the two levels of the yacht above had cast a rectangle of shadow. Moving silently onto the deck, Ilya crouched down in this area of darkness, not far from the transom where he would lower himself to the water. He was carrying nothing but a life jacket and the bag with the signal repeater and gun.

  Placing the life jacket across his knees, Ilya found the light marker, which was designed to switch on as soon as it hit the water, and tore it off. He was about to remove his shoes and tie them together when he paused, frowning, and turned toward the starboard side. At first, he wasn’t sure what had caught his attention. A second later, he felt it again, more in his bones than anything else, nothing more than the faintest of vibrations on the breeze.

  Ilya rose to his feet, turning to face the lights of the city a mile across the water. The moon had not yet risen. He continued to look toward the harbor, keeping himself very still, trying to trace that rumor of a vibration to its source. Then he heard it at last with his ears, a low, insistent hum carried across the silence of the sea, and knew at once what was coming.

  He dropped the life jacket, keeping only the bag with the gun, and ran forward along the side of the yacht. His first thought was that he had been a fool to believe that they would allow the plan to rise or fall based on his own loyalty. His second thought was that it was already too late.

  A ladder on the starboard side led to the deck above. Ilya climbed to the main deck, then ascended one more level to the bridge. Up ahead, he could see the lights of the wheelhouse, with three crew members on lookout outlined against the window. Without hesitation, he opened the door and went inside, aware all the while of the vibration rising on the wind.