“Semeon, I leave the traitor to you,” said the Tsar.
“I’ll make him cough up his mother’s milk.” The Secret Police officer gnashed his teeth.
Suddenly, a muffled gunshot was heard. The Poruchik tilted sideways. A red speck appeared on his grey tunic and grew.
“The heel killed himself, Batka,” the man riding next the sleigh said in astonishment. “He had a hidden revolver.”
Anger dimmed Batka’s mind at once, but he immediately regained composure. In other circumstance, he would have killed on the spot the man who had stupidly revealed his well-known nickname. “You should have searched him. Both of you give up your weapons to Stephan. I’ll deal with you later.” Batka’s tone was low and cold. “Apologies, Your Majesty. I accept the blame for this.”
“Don’t be too harsh on them. Anybody can make a mistake,” said the Tsar.
Batka smiled inwardly at the Tsar’s softness. In the underground empire Batka had built during last ten years, such a man would only be able to give commands to his horse. “As Your Majesty wishes,” he responded.
During their conversation, the wounded hussars had been brought up on the Tsar’s sleigh and the dead ones put on the second sleigh next to the body of the Poruchik. Stephan approached, bowed clumsily to the Tsar and reported that only two of the attackers were still breathing but unconscious, dying.
Semeon Laptin looked around discreetly and said, “May I talk to Your Majesty?” He took the Tsar by his arm and they walked several steps away. “Your Majesty, what I’m going to say may sound strange. But I’d like you to consider it well.”
“Say it, Semeon.”
“I think we must keep what happened here secret.”
The Tsar looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “What are you talking about?”
“Please, consider it. The news about one almost successful assassination attempt against Your Majesty will demoralize the ordinary people. Our internal enemies will become more embittered. I already told you that the socialists want to start riots in Petersburg, Moscow and other towns. Now divisions tear them apart, but such news could unite them. Also, the anarchist factions – they will rise as well. We cannot afford to have riots now when war in Europe seems inevitable.”
The Tsar pursed his lips and was thoughtful for some time. “I can’t say you’re not right. A chain reaction of unrest would be pernicious for our country.”
“I know you wouldn’t want your subjects to connect the three hundred year jubilee of the great Romanov Dynasty with such an event,” said Laptin.
“Let’s say I agree,” said the Tsar. “Look around. Tens of dead bodies. Amongst them my guards. And a detachment of mercenaries for witnesses.”
“The corpses do not speak. Could Your Majesty guarantee the hussars?”
“My soldiers would walk through fire for me,” the Tsar said proudly. “What about the mercenaries? They have to be officially awarded. I also don’t believe that they would miss showing off how they had saved their Tsar.”
“They will stay silent if their commander orders them to. I dare to believe that I have a way to make him do that.” Laptin sounded confident.
The Tsar raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “That Ivan looks as hard as flint. It’d be difficult, even for you, to make him do something he doesn’t want to.”
“I will simply give him something he wants in exchange for his silence. It’ll be as I say. Have I ever disappointed Your Majesty?”
“Never, Semeon. That’s why I honour you as a brother,” the Tsar said emotionally.
“I appreciate that enormously.” Laptin bowed slightly.
“What’s the plan, then? I believe you already have one.”
“First, it’s clear that official awards for the mercenaries are not an option. If Your Majesty agrees, I will award them later on your behalf. I’ll talk to Ivan right now, with your permission.” The Tsar nodded. “We need a story that will replace what happened here,” Laptin continued. “Now. Your Majesty, I, and one of the unwounded hussars will return to the town with one sleigh. We will say that an urgent matter made us send the rest of our group to Nizhny Novgorod. An hour or two later, the sad news that our men have been attacked in the forest will reach Vladimir. The hussars killed the attackers but most of them fell, too, including the Poruchik.”
The Tsar looked at his adviser with a mixture of amazement and joy. “You never fail to surprise me, Semeon. It’s remarkable how you rewrote history in just a few minutes.”
“I do what I can for the good of Your Majesty and the empire. My job is to advise. The decision is yours.”
The Tsar was thoughtful for a moment. Then he released a deep sigh and said, “Yes. Let’s do it. Go and talk to Ivan. I will instruct my hussars.”
After hearing Ivan’s nickname from the mouth of the careless mercenary, Semeon Laptin easily put two and two together and realized who had saved them from sure death. Many reports had been delivered to his desk outlining the activities of the uncrowned king of the Russian bandits, Batka Ivan. He had sent alarming reports himself to the ministers’ committee regarding the increasing threat from the gang led by Batka. Police reports from different parts of Russia asserted that in the underground world nothing happened without Batka or his affiliated local ringleaders’ ‘blessing’. Many merchants had to pay him a so-called ‘bandit tax’ if they wanted any shipped merchandise to reach its destination, or their shops not to ‘accidentally’ catch fire one night. For a moment, the adviser of the crown amused himself with the funny thought that from now on the influence of Batka Ivan would extend to the Tsar himself. In an exceptional way he had indebted the Tsar as well.
Laptin had listened to the conversation between the Tsar and Batka, while he was combining different versions for the eventual outcome of this extreme situation. His intuition hinted to him that fate had crossed the paths of three great men not by chance – he included himself in this number. In fact, only two of them possessed true greatness, God’s gift – he and Batka Ivan. The Tsar had acquired his high status by birth, not because of his personal qualities. Laptin came up with the ideal solution at once, as though it had been dropped into his mind from outside. It would satisfy everybody here. It was also good for the country, although that was not Laptin’s prime interest. The truth was that for some time he had served his Tsar and country less and less and himself more. Not that he did not care about Russia. He was a patriot, but he could foresee that dark times were coming for the empire. The worst of it was that he and a few others who knew were unable to change anything. The country was heading inevitably towards a bloody purgatory, and he didn’t want to be one of the scapegoats. And here was the chance for him to secure his salvation. In the turbulent times ahead, a partnership with a man like Batka would be much more useful than blind service to the Tsar and laws. He only needed to convince Ivan of the authenticity of his intentions. Regarding the cover-up of what had happened here, Laptin did not doubt that Batka Ivan would accept it, because it gave him much-needed anonymity.
Laptin went back to Batka and said in a low voice, “Commander, let me introduce myself. My name is Semeon Laptin. I am a colonel of the Secret Police and personal adviser to His Majesty. I’ve got an offer for you…”
When the Tsar’s adviser finished, Batka had already decided. The nature of the proposal had earned his approval. It had been forged by a mind similar to his. The motives behind it were logical and understandable. Batka had put himself in Laptin’s place. He would most probably do the same is those circumstances, and he saw the proposal as a win-win situation. For Batka, Laptin was a boon. Although the list of government people he ‘fed’ was not short, there was no one so high up in the state hierarchy.
“I’ve got the feeling that we will co-operate very well, Excellence,” said Batka.
Laptin, who had waited, frozen, for his response, sighed with relief. “Call me Semeon,” he said and went again to the Tsar, who had moved to the sleigh with the wounded hussars.
“All has been arranged, Your Majesty.”
“Ivan, come close,” the Tsar said. “My intention is that you and your people will be awarded for your bravery. Semeon will take care of this.”
“Your Majesty does not owe us anything. We fulfilled our duty,” said Batka.
“That’s why we are in debt to you.” The Tsar took off his belt together with his sword and handed them to Batka. “With our gratitude,” he said ceremoniously.
“Thank you.” Batka took the sword and bowed. “Your Majesty can travel quietly to Vladimir. My people will ride ahead until the forest’s end.”
“Look after the wounded until we send people for them,” said the Tsar. “Farwell, Ivan.”
CHAPTER TEN
‘Fatherland’ underground facility, location unknown
The present day
The giant platform elevator started to glide towards the ground level of the spacious cave chamber. It carried an elongated electric cart in which several people sat. The man in the driving seat was young, with blond hair and glasses and he wore a neat white apron. In the seats behind him, two armed guards sat opposite a man and three women dressed in long, light-brown robes.
A panoramic view opened out of the platform. Numerous luminescent lamps fixed to the ceiling illuminated the underground chamber. The vaulted ceiling was about thirty metres high. A three-storey complex, housing rooms and offices with large glass-panelled front windows, was built along the cave walls. There were stairs linking the storeys, with platforms in between constructed of heavy iron beams held together with steel bolts and welds. At one side of the cave there were about ten people bustling around long tables piled with papers, books, computers, monitors and other electronic devices. They were of different nationalities and ages and wore a mix of different types of clothing. Some wore ironed white aprons, others, baggy jeans and sweaters or Asian-style caftans. Above their heads was a huge rectangular display divided into smaller sections – each showing different images and TV programmes. At the other end of the cave, there was a monumental twenty metre tall stone sculpture of a horned serpent with widespread wings that dominated the space. It entwined around a topless pyramid.
The elevator-platform reached the ground. Its protective barrier lifted up automatically and the cart slowly moved towards the central parking area which comprised about twenty rectangular parking bays. Motorbikes, jeeps or other electric carts occupied some of the bays.
The driver of the cart turned towards an armed man in the parking area and said in Russian, “It’s a group exchange time. Make sure the test rooms are ready.”
“Yes, Georgie Ivanovich,” said the man and walked away.
The cart continued ahead. The driver took a device out of his pocket and pressed some buttons. There followed a metallic sound and then a well-camouflaged gate in the cave wall slid open. The aperture stood out dark against the background of the strong luminescent light in the cave, although weak multicoloured light from some inner source could be seen. The cart slowly disappeared into this twilight as if it had been swallowed by it.
Twenty minutes later, it popped back out again, but now it carried four new passengers, two women and two men, dressed in brown linen robes like the previous group. Three of them were of mid-Asian ethnicity from nations that had become autonomous after the Soviet Union crumbled. The fourth man was Russian. His name was Vitali Sorokin, a one-time psychic of international repute, famous for his popular interactive TV show on which he foretold the future and revealed the past. A couple of years ago he had disappeared from TV screens and his celebrity had long waned. Sorokin and his fellow travellers seemed distant, distracted. They were all sitting stiffly with their eyes looking upwards, as if fixed on an invisible object above them.
The cart stopped in front of a large glass panel, behind which was a room full of laboratory apparatus and computer equipment. In the room, there was a metal chair with cables and devices attached to it.
The driver helped the Russian psychic disembark and then led him inside the room to sit on the metal chair. He proceeded to position several semi-flexible tubes a few centimetres away from the psychic’s head, arms and chest. While he was doing that, a guard jumped in the driving seat of the cart outside and drove it to a group of lab assistants who waited for the other passengers.
The psychic sat passively and appeared unconcerned about the activity that was taking place around him. The young driver took a wireless touch-keyboard from the table and tapped his fingers on it. A flow of white gas emanated from a small plastic tube that pointed at Sorokin’s nose. He inhaled and seemed to liven up; his eyes sparkled.
The young man sat on a swivel chair. “Sorokin, how do you feel? Is everything all right?”
The psychic cleared his throat and answered in a quiet voice, “What does it matter, Georgie? You’re going to do what you intend to do anyway.”
“Yeah,” drawled Georgie, “but we have to follow procedure. You’re doing very well. Your work here will soon be over and you can rest afterwards.”
“Is there rest for a seer?” The psychic spoke in a low, faltering voice. It was clear that he didn’t expect his questions to be answered.
“You could make trips to any place you want.”
“I need to see. You know that.”
“I believe you’ll be fine with a short trip. Why not go to the Bahamas. I imagine you sitting there on a beach. Lots of girls in flowered skirts around who’re drinking cocktails with you,” joked Georgie.
The psychic stared indifferently into space. Georgie changed his mood, becoming more serious. He moved his chair closer to the psychic.
“Although you’re an old hand at this, I’m still obliged to read out the rules to you, okay?” he began. “The chair you’re sitting in will track your brainwaves, the activity in your irises, your pulse and your heartbeat. These readings will monitor your physical state as well as interpret the truthfulness of what you’re saying. On your left is a table on which is a pen and some paper. You’re free to draw or write on it at any time you wish to help me understand what you’re talking about. So, now we begin.”
The young man started to ask a series of questions in a bored and indifferent tone, as if he had done it a hundred times before. The psychic replied with short answers in a soft whisper; his eyelids were half closed and his eyeballs moved erratically. From time to time, his eyeballs turned upwards which indicated that he was going into a trance.
Suddenly, after hearing one of the psychic’s answers, Georgie jumped out of his chair, reached for the pen and a piece of paper and shoved them into his hands. The psychic drew something, and when he was finished the young man quickly snatched the paper from him and ran out of the room.
“Hey, you,” he called out to the armed man standing in the parking area. “Guard the door. Do not let him out or anybody in.”
The young man dashed into a nearby room, closed the door and quickly lowered the blinds. Then he picked up the phone and began dialling feverishly.
* * *
The call was answered by a middle-aged, slim man with a shaved head who sat at the main workspace onboard a luxury jumbo jet. On a glass table in front of him was a large digital display showing statistics, graphs and charts representing activity on the major stock markets of the world. The study and work area in the jet housed state-of-the-art technology. Postmodern paintings adorned the walls and silver oval drop-like sculptures had been tastefully used to decorate the interior. Cream furniture was organized in an oval configuration, and an artistically designed steel spiral staircase formed a central feature, leading up to the main control cabin.
The man picked up the ringing phone and said tersely, “What is it? Be brief.”
As he listened, his expression changed; sparks lit up his blue eyes and his cheeks started to blush with excitement. He interrupted the young man on the other side of the connection: “Details?” Then he listened for another half a minute, and then said: “Isolate the entire team and interrogate
them separately. Nobody else but you must talk to them before I arrive.” He paused before adding, “Well done.” He hung up and pressed some buttons on the table. A video connection was established in a matter of seconds with a red-haired man in his mid-thirties.
“Good morning, Prior. How can I be of service?” the red-haired man spoke with strong Scottish accent.
“Greetings, brother. I just got great news from ‘Fatherland’. They’ve found him … the one himself,” said Prior jubilantly.
The Scottish man hit the table with both fists. “We’ve done it! But, Prior, is this for sure?”
“A hundred per cent. A seer has spotted the rainbow-coloured man,” Prior replied.
“I suppose it’s still not clear who he is. The seers normally get their first views blurred.”
“We start the search with what we have. The seer got three certain details. The man has a black hair. He lives in the UK, or he has strong ties with your country. In addition, something closely related to him is called ‘White Path’, or ‘White Road’.”
“This could be a street or house name—”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“Yes. There is more than enough to begin with.”
“Alert all our people there. Some of them will go into action immediately after you find out who he is. But one of the cells has to be the vanguard.”
“The five that finished the Bulgarian could be used again. They’ve proved themselves.”
“Good. Get into action!” ordered Prior.
“I’m already on it,” the red-haired man responded and then quickly cut off the connection.
Prior picked up the phone again and pressed a button. He heard the patter of feet running up the staircase, and then a man dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and holding a gun entered the room expectantly.
“Change course to ‘Fatherland’. High velocity,” Prior ordered.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Brighton, UK
The Gods' Gambit Page 6