by Sean Heary
“In your dreams,” Cathy said, clambering up unassisted.
“Entirely right. You’re far too heavy.”
61
Rossi and Cathy sighed with relief when the door of the blacked-out Escalade slammed closed.
“How’d it go?” Special Agent Brodzinski asked, planting his foot on the accelerator pedal.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
Cathy’s eyes were on Rossi. “We did.”
“Congratulations, Inspector General. Now all that’s left is to get you safely back to Rome.”
“God knows I’m ready.”
Cathy punched Rossi in the arm. “And your tour of the Metro?”
“Gone right off that.”
“But why? We had so much fun.”
Brodzinski grabbed the small canvas backpack lying on the passenger seat and tossed it back to Cathy. “From the chief.”
“Has Volkov gone mad?” Cathy said, gazing at a long column of T-14 Armata tanks passing them in the opposite direction.
“It wasn’t Volkov – he’s dead.”
Cathy turned to Rossi with wide disbelieving eyes. “No friggin’ way.”
“Information’s thin on the ground. But from what we’ve found out so far, there was a detonated explosion inside the Presidential Box at Olympisky.”
Cathy removed her beanie and shook out her hair. “That would’ve been ugly.”
“Volkov, Kalinin and Chernik – all gone to meet Lucifer.”
Rossi felt a strange sense of remorse. “And Patriarch Pyotr?”
“I suspect so, though no official word. Russia’s cut itself off from the rest of the world. The internet is dead and all radio and television stations are playing Tchaikovsky.”
“Ai mali estremi, mali rimedi.”
“Enzo, this is not the time.”
“An old Italian saying. ‘For severe ills, severe remedies.’”
Cathy rested her hand on Rossi’s thigh. “Getting you out has just got a lot more complicated.”
Brodzinski shot Cathy an impish look over his shoulder. “You’re going with him.”
Cathy’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking?”
“After the Metro debacle, and High Noon at Kitay Gorod, I’m afraid you’re persona non grata.”
“Who decided this?” Cathy growled.
“Ask the chief.”
Not listening to a word of Cathy’s conversation, Rossi grumbled to himself, “They’ll blame the Vatican.”
A long silence, then Brodzinski spoke first. “Cathy, who’s behind this?”
“Not Revealing Light, that’s for sure. They don’t have the skill sets for such an operation. More into saving souls than toasting them.”
“With a little luck, and plotters close enough to the throne – it’s possible,” Rossi countered. “Besides, it’s what we assumed Father Arkady was up to. So why the surprised look?”
“The Patriarch, sure. But not the whole ruling class. It’s got to be a coincidence.”
“A bloody big one,” Rossi said.
Cathy removed the small bottle of water from the seat pouch and took a mouthful while she thought. “Maybe the real assassins piggybacked onto Revealing Light’s operation – unbeknown to Father Arkady.”
“It would help if we knew who the target was,” Brodzinski joined in. “The Patriarch or Volkov?”
Cathy nodded. “If they’re smart, it would’ve been everyone in the box. The Russian ruling class is like crab grass. You’ve got to remove every last trace, if you want to stop the scum returning.”
“Ai mali estremi, mali rimedi,” Rossi repeated.
“Unfortunately the ruling class is deeper and wider than those that died tonight,” Cathy said. “Communism taught them how to survive and reinvent themselves. They’ll quickly pick a new leader, redistribute the wealth, and carry on as though nothing has happened.”
“Who do you think will replace Volkov?” Brodzinski asked. “With Chernik and Kalinin dead, there’s no one obvious.”
“They will most likely pluck someone out of obscurity, like they did with Volkov. But this time someone weaker. Someone they can control.”
“You keep saying ‘they’. Who the hell are ‘they’?” Rossi asked.
“The Gatekeepers,” Cathy said, in a mysterious tone. “They used to be the real power behind the throne – until Volkov outmanoeuvred them. They’re like the Freemasons on steroids.”
“I’m hearing this for the first time. Did I sleep through something or did you forget to mention it before?” Rossi said, with a look of astonishment.
“They’re a group of nameless, faceless individuals that choose the preferred candidate for President,” Cathy said.
Brodzinski scoffed. “And we all know the preferred candidate wins the general election.”
“No one knows who they are?” Rossi asked. “Sounds fanciful. Do they have a secret handshake too?”
“Well at least no one knows for sure – not even the CIA or the FSB. But the Gatekeepers do exist. If you follow the capital flows, you can guess the identity of a few. Others you can eliminate by what they do.”
“For instance?”
“If you’re paying the multimillion-dollar salary of the Russian national football coach, or buying Fabergé eggs to donate to the Hermitage – it’s likely you’re a beneficiary of the Russian system, but not a Gatekeeper.”
“Is it conceivable the Gatekeepers are the assassins?” Rossi asked without waiting for a response. “Or perhaps they teamed up with Revealing Light. If Volkov usurped their authority and influence, they’d have a good reason for wanting Volkov dead.”
“Yeah, but if they did, Revealing Light didn’t know about it. The Gatekeepers and Revealing Light are anchored at opposite ends of the ideological spectrum. In fact, as long as the Gatekeepers exist, the crab grass keeps growing.”
“And the Russian Orthodox Church remains an appendage of the Kremlin,” Brodzinski added.
62
Not since the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis had the US Embassy in Moscow seen such frantic activity.
Chief James sat at his desk with Agent Lawrence. Between them an empty pot of coffee. They’d called every contact they had, trying to piece together what had happened at Olympisky forty-five minutes ago. The story was anything but clear.
“We seemed to have underestimated Revealing Light,” Lawrence said, smoking his first cigarette in ten years.
“I refuse to believe it,” the chief said, shaking his head. “It’s hard to imagine men of the cloth doing something like this. Technically and morally it doesn’t fit.”
“Technically? Father Arkady had an exhaustive knowledge of the whole shooting match. He only needed to find a chummy ordnance guy and sit back and wait.”
Chief James glanced over at the television mounted on the wall. A smile. In the midst of the chaos the Russkies had failed to jam the satellite signal. Breaking news flashed across the screen. He turned up the volume.
‘Good afternoon, I’m Cecil Jones reporting. We have breaking news from Moscow. CNN has received unconfirmed reports that the Russian President, Alexander Volkov, has been killed along with several high-ranking officials in an explosion at a sporting event in Moscow city centre.
‘A Kremlin spokesman has described the claim as baseless and mischievous and part of a broader US plot to destabilise the country before upcoming regional elections.
‘The spokesman conceded that there had been a minor incident at the Olympisky Stadium where the President was scheduled to open the World Judo Championships. However, the spokesman insisted that President Volkov was not in attendance at the time due to a bout of influenza.
‘There are also reports coming in that troops and heavy equipment have been de
ployed in and around Moscow, and that all airports and border crossings are closed.
‘The White House said that the President was monitoring the situation. As a precautionary measure, the US Navy is stationing five warships in the Black Sea to promote peace and stability in the region.
‘The NATO Secretary General, Knut Soltenberg, subsequently announced that NATO forces in Eastern Europe and the Baltics have been put on heightened alert.
‘CNN will continue to follow this story and bring you updates as soon as they come to hand.’
“Hasn’t anyone told the Russians that blanket denials don’t work any more,” Lawrence said, turning down the volume.
The chief might not have heard. He searched his cluttered desk for the memory stick his PA had brought in while he was speaking on the phone. He found it in his pocket.
“Look at this,” Chief James said, swinging his monitor around to face Lawrence. “The bullpen downloaded it from social media just before the internet was brought down.” The video taken on a mobile device was grainy and faded, but of sufficient quality to identify faces in the Presidential Box.
“Volkov, Chernik, Petrov,” Lawrence said, writing their names on a scrap of paper, “Sokolov, Patriarch Pyotr…”
“Kalinin’s missing,” the chief said, excitedly, already at Lawrence’s shoulder. “Ah, he’s there… these pricks stole Russia.”
Lawrence seemed pleased. “And they’re leaving with nothing.”
Suddenly a flash of bright light; the screen went white. Silence as they waited.
“That’s fairly conclusive,” the chief said, as the camera refocused.
Through the smoke and dust they could make out the Presidential Box. It was empty, no windows, no furniture, nothing, just colour.
“And a power vacuum of unprecedented proportions – I hope you’ve got a good plan for getting Rossi and Cathy out.”
63
Rossi was surprised. “Leave now? Wouldn’t it be safer to lie low for a couple of days?”
“Just the opposite,” Brodzinski said, searching for Rossi’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. “We need to take advantage of the chaos.”
“Makes sense,” Cathy said, examining the contents of the rucksack. There was an escape plan, two Australian passports, a handheld GPS device, a satphone, a topographical map, a large torch and a stack of cash: US dollars in large denominations.
Brodzinski sat upright, his eyes straight ahead, as a convoy of canvas-covered troop trucks passed going the other way.
“Who’s the enemy?” Rossi asked, looking straight ahead. “Rogue generals?”
Brodzinski scoffed. “There’s no such thing. In the Russian Army, by the time you make colonel you are so thoroughly brainwashed the mere thought of opposing the state would cause your brain to explode.”
“Maybe that’s what happened at Olympisky?”
“Exploding brains?” Brodzinski said. Laughter.
“A distinct possibility but I don’t think I’ll include that in the official report,” Cathy said, continuing the joke.
Rossi turned to Cathy. “So what’s the plan?”
“We drive to Orsk in the Southern Urals.”
“That’s a hell of a long time to be out in the open.”
“The plan was devised before Volkov’s assassination,” Brodzinski said. “But it’s still good. In fact, with all airports and border crossings closed, I can’t think of an alternative.”
“Why Orsk?”
“Your destination’s the Kazakh border, a few kilometres south of Orsk. It’s circled there,” Brodzinski said, throwing his arm back, pointing indiscriminately at the map opened on Cathy’s lap. “You’ll cross by foot and rendezvous with one of our agents who’ll drive you to Aktobe where we’ve got a jet waiting to fly you home.”
A look of concern crossed Rossi’s face. “I’m not sure I’m up to that?”
“Cathy’s going too. She’s no longer welcome here.”
“Great.”
Cathy frowned. “How kind of you.”
“I meant, um – I’m glad you’re coming with me,” Rossi said apologetically.
“I’m teasing you, Enzo.”
A half smile. “Are the Kazakhs in on this?”
“Why complicate things?” Brodzinski said, over his shoulder.
“You make it sound so simple. Is it?”
Cathy shook her head. Her expression serious. “But what choice do we have?”
Ahead, a squad of soldiers were unloading a truck. A makeshift checkpoint they figured. Brodzinski drove slowly past, unchallenged.
“I don’t want to be the perpetual black hat,” Rossi said, “but won’t we look a little conspicuous criss-crossing the countryside in a blacked-out SUV while Russia’s on high alert?”
“You’re right. That would be obvious,” Cathy smirked. “That’s why we’re travelling incognito.”
“As?”
“The Georgian bandit.”
“Stalin?” Rossi said, nodding his head, playing along. “So where do we find a ZiL limousine at this late hour?”
“We won’t need one. Brodzinski’s been contracted to deliver two bronze statues of the man himself to Orenburg.”
“Let me guess. We’re travelling inside them?”
Cathy nodded.
Nervous smile. “I thought the CIA was more high tech than that.”
“They’re hollow with concealed hinges and hydraulic gas strut lift supports,” Brodzinski said, glancing again in the rear-view mirror.
“Hollow’s good.”
“If I spot something suspicious, I’ll bang on the bulkhead. That’ll be your signal to climb in. When it’s all clear, you climb out again.”
“It’s not as dumb as it seems. Volkov was rebadging the psychopath,” Cathy said, “so no one will think the story odd. A Stalin statue for every town square – to be erected next to the great political theorist Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov.”
“Who?”
“Lenin.”
“Who dreams up this stuff?”
“A group of highly intelligent misfits.”
“Agent Lawrence,” Rossi mouthed.
Cathy smiled and nodded.
“And how long’s the drive?”
“Twenty-five hours, if we’re not delayed at one of the police checkpoints,” Brodzinski said.
“And if we’re stopped and detained while we’re still inside the statues?”
“What does the chief say?” Brodzinski asked.
Cathy rechecked the escape plan. “He doesn’t mention it.”
“That’s excellent,” Brodzinski said. “That means you’re free to improvise.”
Rossi rolled his eyes. “A half-baked plan is better than no plan, right?”
Cathy laid her hand again on Rossi’s thigh. “Come on, Enzo, don’t be like that. It’ll be fun. While you’re saving the Catholic Church, we’ll get to see some of the Russian countryside.”
“Now you’ve put it like that, I don’t see how I can refuse.”
Fifteen minutes later, the Escalade pulled into a small warehouse on the outskirts of Moscow. Inside, a Volvo 4x2 box truck was fuelled and ready to go.
“We leave in five minutes – so if you need a pee, it’s out the back,” Brodzinski said, climbing in and firing up the engine.
Despite being behind the wheel of a nondescript vehicle, Brodzinski felt no less conspicuous. The normally congested Moscow streets were quiet, making it difficult to blend in.
In the back, it was cold and uncomfortable. The truck was not designed for transporting passengers halfway across Russia, especially during the height of winter. But neither Cathy nor Rossi complained. They were happy in each other’s company. And after all that had happened, they were grateful for the respite.
“You know it’s far
from over, Enzo?” Cathy said, cuddling up next to him. “Even after you’ve presented the evidence, there’s nothing to stop the Kremlin from turning round and producing another original, claiming the Vatican’s version is a fake.”
“That’s good for Krotsky. He gets to stay alive,” Rossi said, with a tired smile.
“And it goes without saying they’ll blame the Olympisky attack on you.”
“But isn’t it equally possible that the surviving ruling class turn on each other? Surely Volkov’s dream of a Holy Russian Empire is dead in the water for now?”
A loud thump on the bulkhead. “Police checkpoint,” Brodzinski screamed through a piece of piping he had crudely installed through to the cargo area.
“I hope I don’t turn claustrophobic suddenly,” Rossi said, helping Cathy to her feet.
Cathy opened her Stalin first. “Good God!”
“Lawrence?”
The interior of the statue was lined with purple quilted velour fabric, fitted tightly over a moulded polyurethane foam base. It was difficult not to associate it with death.
“Handy in the event that something goes wrong. Just dig a hole and bury us.”
“Smart that,” Rossi said, climbing in.
“See you on the other side.” Cathy lowered the lid.
Brodzinski approached the DPS control station slowly. He realised this was only the first of many such stops, but given what was at stake he was anxious all the same.
The responsibility of the DPS police was the enforcement of the road traffic regulations. But Brodzinski knew, in reality, each checkpoint was a thriving enterprise – operated for the benefit of the robber police who ran the stations. Their main undertaking was the collection of bribes from vulnerable motorists for minor breaches of the deliberately vague traffic code.
Out of the hundreds of vehicles that passed each hour, only high potential customers were ever stopped. This evening, with so few vehicles on the road, Brodzinski’s brand new Volvo was flagged down in a desperate attempt to make up for a slow night.
“Junior Sergeant Grasny, papers please,” a haggard-looking policeman said, a hand-rolled cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth.