by Sean Heary
An hour had passed before Timur switched off the headlights and shut down the engine. Bottle laid waste, Rudoi and Kutin staggered arm-in-arm down the embankment onto the frozen lake.
“How much further?” Rudoi called out over his shoulder.
“There,” Timur bellowed, pointing his torch towards the faint glow of an ice-shelter in the distance.
As they drew near, Rudoi’s dark eyes darted about. He urgently needed a plan, in case he was right. He glanced at the snow sled next to the illuminated canvas shelter. Fishing tackle and not much more. Ten metres to the right a dozen blocks of ice scattered around an ominously large fishing hole. Nearby, three fold-up chairs. Then, something more promising. A wry smile came to Rudoi’s face. Against the horizon, a heavy-duty chisel planted in the ice like an explorer’s flag.
“Where the hell’s Demchenko?” Kutin asked.
“Gone for a piss,” Timur called out from inside the ice-shelter.
“He’s known for his modesty,” Rudoi scoffed almost to himself.
“Take these,” Timur said, handing Kutin the gas lantern and another bottle of vodka. “I’ll get the rods.”
As Timur fossicked about in the sled, Rudoi grabbed Kutin firmly by the arm and steered him towards the fishing hole. “Listen to me, Yuri,” Rudoi said frantically. “This is not a fishing hole. It’s massively too big. That shit plans to drown us in it.”
“Then we’d better hurry up and finish the bottle,” Kutin said in a drunken slur, breaking free.
“That’s right, drink up,” Timur said, dropping the fishing tackle at their feet.
Picking up one of the rods, Rudoi lowered himself lumberingly onto the stool next to Kutin. “Demchenko’s not here.”
Timur turned and inspected the fishing hole. A thick layer of ice had formed over the opening. “Seems that way.”
“Let’s call it a night,” Rudoi said. “Demchenko’s fooling with us. He’s probably in the dacha by the fire.” A smokeless fire in an unlit house.
Kutin wobbled to his feet. “Not till I catch dinner.”
“A man’s got to eat,” Timur said.
Rudoi looked on anxiously as Kutin zigzagged his way to the far side of the fishing hole and pulled the chisel out of the ice.
“I’d better give him a hand,” Timur said. “We don’t want him falling in.”
Rudoi half rose to follow, but sat down again. He watched on helplessly as Timur threaded Kutin’s hand through the chisel’s wrist strap and twisted it tight.
“I’ve got this,” Kutin said, pushing Timur away.
“If you say so.”
Kutin raised the two-metre-long chisel high above his head, and let out a roar as he plunged the blade into the hole. The chisel’s sharp chipping head shot through the ice cover like a bullet, pulling him down with the momentum. Gasping for air, Kutin floated in the frozen water, buoyed by the air trapped in his clothes.
“Grab my hand,” Rudoi yelled, throwing himself forward onto the ice.
Producing a Grach pistol from his jacket, Timur trained it on Rudoi. “Move away from the edge.”
“What ya doing?” Rudoi shrieked, stumbling to his feet.
Timur sneered. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Erasing the trail back to Moscow.”
“The Motherland thanks you for your service.”
The two adversaries fell silent. Their attention turned to Kutin, who was thrashing about wildly in the water.
“Hyperventilation,” Timur said.
Too drunk to think and too cold to fight, Kutin surrendered to his fate. Weighed down by the ice chisel, he sank peacefully to the bottom.
Pistol raised, Timur moved closer.
Rudoi held up one of the foldable chairs. “If this looks anything more than a fishing accident, Demchenko will have your balls.”
“Too late. I lost those years ago,” Timur said, knocking the chair out of Rudoi’s hand.
Rudoi looked ridiculous, holding up his fists. “Come on, let’s have you then.”
Timur couldn’t help but laugh. But it didn’t stop him from whacking Rudoi across the head with the Grach. Rudoi collapsed onto the lake as if he’d been shot.
“Get up you babushka, I hardly touched you,” Timur taunted, laying a boot into his side.
Curled up like a ball, Rudoi felt for the hunting knife he had commandeered from the picnic table earlier. He braced himself for the next blow. But it didn’t come. Instead, pocketing his pistol, Timur grabbed Rudoi by the jacket, and dragged him towards the hole.
It was exactly as Rudoi intended. Lurching forward, he wrapped his huge arm around Timur’s neck. As they rolled on the ice, Rudoi plunged the long blade up under Timur’s ribcage, piercing his heart. Adrenaline surging, Rudoi gripped the knife firmly in two hands, and lifted Timur’s quivering body into the air.
“And the Motherland also thanks you for your service,” Rudoi snarled, dropping Timur’s limp body to the ground.
With the keys and the pistol, Rudoi glanced about as he ran flat out towards the boat shed, lucky to be alive. But for how long?
8
CIA operative Catherine Doherty left home at sixteen. A dead mother and an abusive father was more than she could take. Cathy headed to Los Angeles and waited tables on Hollywood Boulevard. Out celebrating her seventeenth birthday, she made the acquaintance of a wealthy Russian businessman. Despite being thirty years his junior, she became his paramour. Given a second chance, Cathy went back to school to make something of her life.
Their nine-year relationship ended when he divorced his wife and moved in with a two-bit actress. By that time Cathy was financially independent. Fluent in Russian, and with a Master’s degree in International Affairs from Columbia, she was accepted into the CIA’s professional training programme.
Three years ago, much to her delight, she was assigned to the Moscow bureau as part of a deep immersion programme. The programme was introduced following a review of the shortcomings in intelligence analysis, which came to light in the wake of several major intelligence failures. The concept was to train young field agents to better comprehend the subtleties and nuances of certain target countries to improve the insightfulness of their analysis.
Cathy’s specific role was to collect intelligence on Russia’s political elite, in particular President Alexander Volkov and FSB Director, Evgeny Chernik – the two dominant figures in Russian politics.
Now sitting in the CIA Moscow bureau bullpen, Cathy checked her watch, surprised that anyone would call on her office landline so late in the evening. “Hello,” she answered, expecting it to be a wrong number. “Okay, put him through.”
She listened attentively, trying to make sense of what was being said. “Stop, Mr Rudoi,” Cathy demanded. “You’ve been put through to the wrong department. You need immigration. Write this number down…” Cathy hung up and scribbled a record of the call in her notebook.
Cathy worked for another twenty minutes before she decided to call it a night. She thought she’d head down to the gym for a boxing workout and then grab a bite to eat on the way home.
“Hi, Cathy,” came a voice from the dark.
“Charlie, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in the bar?
“I’ve come from there. The boys sent me to fetch you.”
“You make me sound like a dog.”
“In need of a bone.”
“Charlie, I’m perfectly happy here.”
“Come on, Cathy. Play the game. You prance around all day in those sexy tight skirts getting the boys all worked up – then you disappear off home every night. That’s just not done.”
“I’ve got things to do, Charlie. No offence.”
“Bullshit! You think you’re better than us.”
“Charlie, don’t. It’s not worth it.”
“The boys reck
on you’re a dyke. But I know better.”
“That’s rather offensive, Charlie. If you weren’t so drunk I’d kick your pretty little arse.”
“I’m not drunk. I’ll show you,” he said undoing his pants and flopping his pride and joy onto her desk.
Cathy instinctively picked up her iPad and swatted at it as if it was a fly.
“Jesus,” Charlie cried out in pain. “What’d you do that for?”
“The boys reckon you like it,” Cathy said, taking a disinfectant wipe from her desk drawer and cleaning her iPad.
“Fuck you,” Charlie said, pulling up his pants.
“See you tomorrow morning, Charlie.”
9
The rumble of distant thunder played on Rossi’s nerves as he entered the terminal building at Rome-Fiumicino Airport. The departure hall was chaotic. He gazed up at the flight information display. Delayed.
At the airline check-in counter he opened his carry-on bag and removed a small firearm case and checked it in. He had been in two minds whether to pack it, but instinct told him to expect trouble.
He glanced at his watch. Two hours to kill. With the meeting tonight, heading to the bar was not an option. Instead, he took the escalator to the mezzanine floor in search of the pharmacy he had been told was there.
The store was quiet, though not empty. Near the entrance, an elderly couple quarrelled. Further in, an attractive blonde, who Rossi decided was Finnish, studied the label on a bottle of organic shampoo.
“Can I help you, sir?” one of the pharmacists said.
“Sì.” Rossi motioned with his eyes to the far end of the counter.
The woman followed without question.
“Thunderstorms,” Rossi said, smiling awkwardly. “I need something to calm my nerves.”
“Have you tried the bar?”
Rossi pouted. “Teetotaller, I’m afraid.”
“Good for you,” the pharmacist said, glancing suspiciously down at the large bottle of duty-free hanging from the extended handle of Rossi’s carry-on.
Rossi craned his neck as he peered through the doorway to the dispensary. “Surely you’ve got something out the back?”
“Only with a doctor’s prescription.”
“Isn’t there anything?”
The pharmacist led Rossi to a rotating book stand out front. “This comes highly recommended.”
“Overcome your fear of flying.” Rossi flicked through the first few chapters, blew out a breath, and then handed the book back to the pharmacist. “I’m dead.”
“No you’re not,” the pharmacist said, touching him reassuringly on the arm. “Fear of flying is nothing more than negative thinking.”
“Relax and clear your mind,” Rossi nodded politely, having heard it all before.
“Try chatting up the flight attendant.”
“Interesting.”
“Download some New Age music and breathe deeply anytime you feel tense.”
“Deep breathing while harassing the flight attendant?” Rossi smiled. “You’ll get me arrested.”
“You’re funny.”
“More anxious than funny.”
“Wait here,” the pharmacist whispered, before disappearing into the dispensary.
“Good choice,” Rossi said as the attentive blonde brushed past him on the way out. A bottle of obscenely expensive shampoo.
For a while Rossi stood in silence, wondering whether he had misunderstood the pharmacist. Then she reappeared, carrying a pill envelope.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she said, handing it to Rossi. “It’s for anxiety and panic disorders. I’ve written the name of the drug on the envelope – in case you experience any side effects.”
Rossi shook her hand. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Next time, see your doctor first, please.”
“I promise. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. It’s one of mine,” the pharmacist shrugged. “I’ve got two teenage boys at home.”
10
Maximilian Wolf locked his bicycle to the railing next to the circular eastern wall of the Bonner Basilica. Münsterplatz would have been closer, but the Bonn Christmas market was in full swing and access was limited. The light snow that had been falling all day had stopped, and the evening sky cleared. He checked his watch, then lit a cigarette to steady his nerves. It didn’t help. Wolf, a thin-framed man with fragile mental health, had never been good at dealing with authority. And tonight, with so much at stake, he was an absolute wreck.
Since finding the Concordat, Wolf had spent many hours surfing the internet. He came up blank. But he wasn’t discouraged, as he had found thousands of results for a similar treaty dated six years earlier. Wolf was convinced the Roman Catholic Church, the richest and most powerful organisation in the world, had expunged all traces of his document from history. And if this was true, they would be prepared to pay a tidy sum for its return.
Wolf turned his head as a gust of wind peppered his eyes with ice crystals. He shuddered as he realised he was standing in front of the enormous carved stone heads of Roman legionnaires Saints Cassius and Florentius – the beheaded martyrs over whose graves the basilica was built. “Bad omen.”
He took two short, nervous drags and headed towards the basilica’s main entrance on the north side. A homeless man opened the towering wooden door. Wolf flicked his cigarette butt into his begging bowl and entered.
Inside the narthex, he removed his beanie and raked his fingers through his wild brown hair.
The church was dimly lit and empty, except for a woman silhouetted against the yellow glow from candles burning in front of the Magdalene altar on the far side.
Despite being a non-believer, Wolf had visited the church on many occasions, mostly with his students. He knew his way around. Looking anxious, he moved slowly towards the bronze portal behind the Magdalene altar.
As he advanced, his small beady eyes were drawn to the church’s lone worshipper kneeling at the prie-dieu. Her dark auburn hair was covered with a delicate white laced scarf. The glow from the prayer candles burning in the pricket stand shrouded the lady in a halo of light. Seemingly unaware, Wolf stood trance-like staring at her unnatural beauty.
The lady glanced up, her burning amber eyes meeting his.
“Good evening,” Wolf said, looking awkward for having disturbed her.
The angelic lady smiled politely before returning to prayer.
Refocused, Wolf descended the stone steps to the head-high portal. His heart pounded as he pulled open the heavy bronze door and stepped into the cloister.
Built in the mid-twelfth century, the cloister and the accompanying two-storeyed collegiate building had stood largely unchanged for nine hundred years. Wolf walked slowly along the western wing of the arched portico that ran along three sides of the quadrangle.
As he moved deeper, Wolf sensed a blast of warm mouldy air hit him from behind. A strange chill ran through his veins, as though the spirits of those buried in the cloister had awoken. “What the hell was that?” he mumbled to himself, quickening his pace.
Wolf headed intuitively towards a faint blue light that was visible between the eastern portico’s thin columns. As he drew closer, he noticed a door set back from the wall with a sign attached that read ‘Privat’. He slipped the Concordat into his overcoat pocket and with trembling hands knocked lightly on the door. No response, so he knocked again, harder. Still nothing.
He tried the door. It was unlocked.
“Bishop Muellenbach,” he called out, opening the door.
“Herr Wolf, please come in,” a disarmingly pleasant voice echoed from deep inside. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Wolf took a few tentative steps, but stopped short in the small entrance hall.
“Come in and make yourself comfortable,” the b
ishop called out, realising Wolf’s reluctance.
Wolf pushed gently on the door. The room was cluttered with old furniture and books. On his left, a writing desk. To the right, a faded green Chesterfield sofa and a leather tub chair. Religious icons and symbols occupied every free space. Nothing matched and everything seemed out of place.
Removing his overcoat, Wolf hung it next to the door. Before long, the bishop appeared from down a narrow hallway, moving gracefully for a man of his bulk. He was wearing an apron over his black cassock and carrying a tea service for three on a silver tray.
“I thought you might like a nice hot cup of tea and Schokoladen Printen,” the bishop said, placing the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
“No thanks.”
“Perhaps you’d prefer coffee?”
“Tea’s fine.”
The bishop motioned towards the Chesterfield. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
Wolf sat quietly as the tea was poured.
“I’ll let you add your own milk,” the bishop said, sliding the white porcelain jug towards Wolf. “I find it’s such a personal thing.”
“I take mine black.”
“Oh dear! I’m not sure we have lemons.”
“Black – no lemon, no sugar,” Wolf said sharply.
“Then that makes it a lot easier,” the bishop said, lowering himself onto the tub chair opposite his visitor.
“Now how do we do this?” Wolf said, sitting forward.
The bishop picked up his cup and took a sip. “Before we start, let me express my gratitude to you for coming out on such a cold night to do God’s work.”
The suggestion he was here to do God’s work seemed to upset Wolf.
“Schokoladen Printen,” the bishop said, holding up the plate. “Freshly baked by the Ladies’ Auxiliary.”
“No thanks, Bishop. I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
The bishop glanced down at the third teacup. “That reminds me. A gentleman from the Vatican Police will join us tonight.”
Wolf sat bolt upright and gazed anxiously at the bishop.