“Stop complicating things,” Volkovsky snapped. “I told you what Repin’s ex-mistress said. There is a history there we didn’t know about.”
“Perhaps, but it doesn’t mean that –”
“Repin’s still away, but Zaitsev’s trying to find a way to contact him,” Volkovsky cut in. “Till then, or till we can catch Slava, we must assume the logical thing: that Repin is behind all this, and his absence proves it; he wouldn’t want to be in the country when it all occurs.” His tone changed. “Have you made any progress on the other leads?”
“Not yet,” said Maxim, stiffly, stung by the manager’s tone. Volkovsky sensed it and said, “I’m sorry, Maxim Antonovich, I am tense and apt to snap. I know you’ve been doing the best you can, as have we all. Now, can I ask you a favor?”
The favor was to call on Foma the next morning, to check in person on the progress of the decoding of the Koldun file. Well, now it was the next morning, but after his bad night Maxim had slept in rather later than he normally would, and so it wasn’t till nearly 9.30 that he presented himself at the cryptographer’s door. He knocked once. Twice. No answer. He was about to knock a third time when an elderly woman came out of the next-door apartment and said, “You’re wasting your time. He’s gone away with friends. I saw him leave this morning, very early. I’m awake much too early these days,” she said, a little defensively.
Maxim was instantly on alert. “What did the friends look like?” When she hesitated, he pulled out his ID and showed her, hoping she wouldn’t clam up. But instead she said, promptly, “One was middle-aged, average looks, thin face, balding. The other was young, blond crew cut, big muscles, sunglasses, you know the type.”
Yes, he did. Slava, thought Maxim, grimly. The other one didn’t ring any bells, though. He said, “What did Foma do?”
She stared at him. “Do? He just went along with them.” Then she caught his meaning. “Oh you think he was being forced – no, no, he was quite willing. They seemed on the best of terms.”
“Was he carrying anything?”
“A suitcase. And that computer bag of his,” she said, instantly.
Maxim sighed. “Did you happen to see their vehicle?”
“I’m not very good on cars. The makes I mean. But it was one of those foreign jobs. Black. New.”
The Mercedes. Hurriedly, he thanked her and left. He needed to know the identity of the third man, so he called Ilya Orlov from Trinity and asked if the description given by Foma’s neighbor might tally with that of one of the intruders who had attacked the Trinity’s offices. But Orlov told him he’d not seen the men’s faces, he’d only be able to remember their voices and general build. And then he added, hesitantly, “It’s stupid of me – but actually the person that description most makes me think of is Pasha – that is, Pavel Dutov, our senior investigator. But, of course, it can’t be him.”
There was no of course about that, thought Maxim, hurriedly hanging up after getting Pasha’s number and address. The investigator didn’t answer his phone so Maxim went round to his place – only to find that the bird had flown. He called police headquarters to have an alert put out for the Mercedes and the three men, and discovered that the car, which had already been reported as stolen from Uglich, had been found abandoned at a Metro station on the outskirts of Moscow. It was a Metro line that went to one of the airports, and he called through there at once. There was no record of the men having taken a plane, at least not in their own names, but Maxim gave a description of them anyway, in case. He wasn’t confident they’d be found – they could easily have slipped out of the country on false passports – or taken a train instead, or bought a car – but he had to do something.
Next he called the bank manager to find out if any attempt had been made to check the memory card out from the vault. None had, but he warned the manager about the men anyway. Maybe they didn’t know yet about the card or where it was; but he could not be sure they wouldn’t find out, somehow. A Repin spy had been caught red-handed at Alexey’s, the house might well be bugged, and the young man’s cell phone was possibly compromised as well. It wasn’t impossible that these traitors would find out that the printout – whose code Foma must have cracked, it was the only explanation for his sudden departure – was linked to a mysterious memory card found in the Trinity office. After all, everyone knew something important had been found. And the printout itself might have yielded clues that it was printed from a memory card file.
If all this doesn’t stop soon, thought Maxim, grimly, Alexey Makarov will have no company left to helm. Between deceitful betrayers and scared deserters, it will have self-destructed, and his beautiful dream will be at an end.
Not long ago, Maxim would have shrugged his shoulders and thought that was how the world worked. He’d have thought that the likes of Trinity wasn’t worth fighting for. He’d have thought that a wealthy young man like Alexey was a mere dilettante who would soon move on to something new; that he was cushioned by his privilege from the fallout of shattered dreams. And that in fact he had invited his troubles by his recklessness and impulsiveness. Yet now Maxim was filled with rage at the cold manipulation and deceit that was so carefully and relentlessly white-anting the company poor Alexey had put so much passion and trust in. For the first time, he felt a real sense of fellow-feeling for the young man. It wasn’t all that long ago that he himself had been Alexey’s age; not so very long ago that he’d had stars in his eyes and fire in his belly. The stars had faded now, and the fire was mere embers. But they hadn’t gone out. And he was damned if he was going to let it happen.
He called Alexey’s number. No reply. So he called Volkovsky, and told him very quickly what he’d learned. Volkovsky said, bleakly, “No. Oh no. It can’t be true. Foma’s neighbor must have made a mistake.”
“I’m afraid she didn’t. Put me on to Alexey, please, I need to speak to him directly.”
Volkovsky cried, “But I can’t. Alexey’s missing.”
The shock of it punched through Maxim’s veins. “He’s what?”
Volkovsky explained. Maxim said, sharply, all his suspicions returning, “Where’s the girl?”
“With me. She’s in a dreadful state.”
“Of course.”
“Don’t take that tone. There’s no doubt it’s true. I saw the text he sent her. And they were definitely due to pick up something in Rostov. But they never made it. I’m beginning to be afraid he’s had an accident and –”
“There is another possibility than an accident,” broke in Maxim, grimly. “If her story is true …”
“It is, I’d wager my life on it.”
“Very well then. Let’s say they set off for Rostov – but on the road were ambushed and abducted.”
Volkovsky gasped. Then he said, “My God. You could be right. But it can’t be Slava, we know he was in Moscow at Foma’s apartment this morning. Repin may have had other men in place though.”
Maxim interrupted him. “Is the girl’s mother with you?”
“No. Why?”
“Where is she?”
“Maxim …”
“Ask the girl where her mother is.”
“Speak to her yourself, then.”
Helen’s voice sounded very small, broken, infinitely sad, and for a moment Maxim felt a qualm. But it had to be done. He said, sharply, “Where is your mother, Miss Clement?”
“My – my mother? Why?”
“Where is she?” he repeated.
“She – she went to Kostroma. With Sergey. But I don’t under—”
“Who’s Sergey?”
“The taxi driver. Sergey Filippov. He’s a friend, and …”
“Her number, Miss Clement. I’d like her cell phone number.”
“What for?”
“I want to call her.”
“Well, you can’t. She forgot her phone at Irina’s house.”
“I see. Does Filippov have a cellphone?”
“Yes. But I don’t know the number.”
“What is th
e registration of his car?”
“I have no idea. It’s a blue Lada. That’s all I know. Please, I don’t understand. Why are you asking all these questions?”
Words from Lev Kirov’s manuscript flashed in Maxim’s mind. Different in body and soul, word and deed, tongue and heart. Why hadn’t he seen that straight away? It wasn’t just a nice phrase, it was a clue. Tongue as in language. Makarov spoke Russian. The other, not. So, a foreigner.
He said, “Why did your mother come to Uglich? And why did she bring you with her?”
Her voice trembled as she replied, “What has that to do with –”
“Answer me!”
“She’s writing travel articles. On the Golden Ring.” Her voice dropped even lower. “And I – because I needed – a holiday.”
“And you had never heard of the Makarovs before.”
“Of course not. What is this?”
“You didn’t get … encouraged to take up with Alexey? Encouraged to get close to him?”
“What? Are you crazy?” Then her voice rose. Sharpened. “No. You’re worse than that. Much worse. You’re clever. Very clever, Maxim Antonovich.”
It was his turn to falter, “What?”
“You’re trying to confuse Nikolai, aren’t you? To make him think – for God’s sake – that we – that Mam … that she could be involved in – in abducting Alexey. Because that’s what you’re driving at, isn’t it?”
“It is the only thing that makes sense to me.”
She yelled down the phone at him, “It makes no bloody sense at all! Why should Mam want to – to do such a thing? Why should she have anything against the Makarovs? She’s French, not Russian! And what about Sergey? What about Irina? Are you saying they’re in it too? Or that Mam would be prepared to sacrifice her old friend to get to Alexey? You bastard. I know what you’re doing. You’re just trying to divert suspicion from yourself. But I know what you’ve been trying to hide. I know about your real family, I know about Antonov!”
Chapter 39
Now Helen’s words tumbled over one another, as she told them what she’d learned about Antonov from Irina’s book. She was driven by fury and fear, and a hatred so scalding and profound that it felt as though it was burning away her insides. Nobody else spoke. They were more than halfway back to Uglich by now but Volkovsky had pulled up the car on the side of the road and was staring at her as though he’d never seen her before, while on the other end of the phone Maxim was completely silent, though she could hear him breathing.
And then, when she’d come to a shuddering, desolate stop, he whispered, “Dear God …”
She looked at Nikolai Volkovsky. He was very pale. He said, “You found this information in Professor Bayeva’s study?”
She nodded. “I’ll show you, if you don’t believe me. You can read it for yourself.”
Before he could speak again, Maxim said, in a very different tone, “Miss Clement – I – please forgive me.”
It was the last thing she’d expected.
“I have shamefully traduced you and your mother, and for that I am profoundly sorry,” he went on, quietly. “But you must believe me when I say that I am guilty of nothing more than bad manners, stupid prejudice and jumping to conclusions. This man Antonov – I swear I knew nothing about him. He is not only not even vaguely related to me. I had no idea he even existed. If I had – everything might have been different.”
“How can I believe you?” she cried.
“Please – if you care about Alexey as much as I believe you do – please listen to what I am about to tell you,” he said, without answering her question, and then he briefly told her and Volkovsky what he’d seen in Kirov’s papers. “I will take the first plane to Yaroslavl and get back to Uglich as soon as I can. But you can’t afford to wait for me. You must return at once to Professor Bayeva’s study and search it thoroughly. It’s possible there may be a lead to where he’s been taken.”
“But I don’t understand …” Helen began, and suddenly gasped as it all clicked – and in a flash she saw something so terrible – a monstrous picture so blindingly clear – that it was like the moment when she touched the double’s hand. The phone dropped from her nerveless hand as she moaned, “No – no – oh no … no …no …”
*
Afterwards, she didn’t remember the journey back or how Volkovsky had broken the speed limit. How he’d stopped off briefly at Alexey’s house to collect Mikhail Makarov’s service pistol and ammunition. Didn’t remember getting back to Irina’s study, or Volkovsky clicking through the files on Irina’s computer without success. She remembered nothing except the blizzard of papers and documents strewn over the floor after Volkovsky had prized open the filing cabinets ...
For a while, they found nothing. No hit lists, no coded plans, no revealing diaries, nothing like that. Just masses of material on bear folklore, none of which appeared to have any relevance to what they were seeking, and she was beginning to think that they’d made a terrible mistake when all at once she found the pictures. Not the ones she’d been half-expecting – no “trophy” photos of bodies, not even any of the Trinity partners. But first, an old black and white photo, a small head-and-shoulders shot, probably from an ID document of some sort, showing a thin-faced man with deep-set dark eyes and springing dark hair. On the back was written, in Cyrillic script, A. И. A, 1934. A.I.A. She knew who it must be. Anton Ilyich Antonov. Nothing showed on that face, no clue as to the true nature of the man. No clue as to why … why …
But the other photos – the small handful of colored, modern ones – she’d seen them before. And not as stills, but as part of a moving clip. And she knew then there was no mistake. For the photos showed a sparrow, in a cage. A sparrow caught in a spasm. A pitiful little bundle of feathers at the bottom of a cage. She knew now who had done it – whose eyes had held the bird so still – whose terrifying psychic energy had reached into the poor creature’s body and stopped its heart – but she couldn’t think about that right now, only set it to one side.
Because Alexey’s heart hadn’t stopped – he wasn’t dead – she could feel it – deep within her, faint on the air, she could hear a whisper now – the faint, faint trace of his voice – the lingering note of his presence – which told her that somewhere, somewhere, he was still alive. Weakened, yes, but not dead, and not far away – and she clung to the hope that somewhere in Irina’s things there was something which might lead them to where he was being held.
Volkovsky shot her a glance. Looking to see if she wasn’t going to pass out or go to pieces again, she thought, blankly. The horror of knowing how ruthlessly Alexey had been ambushed and deceived – and how she herself had innocently contributed – had left her utterly numb. Hatred, fury, even fear, it had all gone. All she clung to was that faint whisper of his living presence...
Silently, Volkovsky passed a piece of paper to her. She scanned it almost without understanding. It was an English translation of a short Russian document, dated 17 March 1936, with the heading of “Report, termination HF”.
As ordered, immediate steps were taken to terminate the experiment. Operation successful. Animal destroyed along with surviving subjects. All traces eliminated. The criminal in charge was arrested and under interrogation confessed to false science and deliberately conspiring to bring the State into disrepute.
In its bald way it told a terrible story. But it wasn’t that which drew Helen’s eye. It was the signature at the bottom. Lt. P.A. Makarov.
So Pyotr Makarov had been there on that awful day when Antonov’s fantasy world had come crashing down. Pyotr Makarov, secret policeman, had led the operation to “terminate” the Homo Ferens experiment. It was Pyotr Makarov’s signature on the document. And that was why, in the twisted logic of an insane mind, a Makarov had to pay for the destruction of Antonov. Any Makarov. All Makarovs. Because the murderous, long-dead Pyotr Makarov was unreachable, but his family had continued. Had even flourished. And that was unbearable, to the killer. Thi
s was personal. Antonov was no random stranger. No long-gone mad scientist. He was related to the killer. Closely related. Not a father, but maybe a grandfather. And his death, and the destruction of all his hopes, had to be avenged.
I was warned to keep away from Alexey, thought Helen, desolate. Why? Not because I was in danger from him. But because the killer didn’t want to hurt me.
And that sudden thought gave her hope. A tiny hope ... because now she thought she knew where they might be.
She blurted out, “The stream in the woods. Oh God, it’s her favorite place. I think that’s where she’s got him. I think that’s where we must go.”
*
You and I, he’d said, we are keyed to the same music.
It was still faint, the whisper, but the sense of his presence was getting nearer. Helen could feel the other thing, too, could sense its massive power the deeper they went into the wood, but she desperately struggled to block it out. She must not be afraid. Must not despair. She must think only of him. Must concentrate only on holding on to him. To that faint thread of his life. Clinging to the fact he was still alive, that there was yet still time ...
Then Volkovsky halted. He pointed to something by the side of the path. It was the motorbike, half-hidden in the undergrowth. “I think they must have gone in that way,” he said. Before he even finished speaking, Helen had already plunged off the path into the heart of the woods, and he followed, through the thickly growing tall trees and deep leaf-litter, and over rocks and the occasional fallen log that blocked the way.
It was very quiet. It was as if the wood held its breath. Or was under a spell. There were things watching them, Helen knew. Animals, yes – but other things too. She could feel them in the prickling of her skin, the running of her blood: things old as time, as the earth, the rocks, the sky, and the water. Spirit-things that lived in every pore of the wood’s skin, that inhabited its ancient flesh, its timeless bones. And they were uneasy. For there was something else within the wood, something that should not be there – the stench of dark magic, a menacing energy that disturbed the timeless spirit-patterns of the woods.
Trinity: The Koldun Code (Book 1) Page 32