Having no legitimate counter argument, Jake simply answered her sobering thoughts with a nod.
“What are you going to do if they’re waiting for you?” Sam asked.
Jake thought for moment and then shook his head. “I honestly don’t know, but I know it’s a risk I’ll have to take.”
11
Russ Dawkins had been through the hassle of St. Petersburg’s Pulkovo International Airport enough times to consider himself a pro. As he strode past a group of workers finishing up a new section of tiled flooring, he looked around and noted that the cosmetic repairs to Terminal 2 were nearing completion. They had been working on it for at least three years. Although it had improved the dank interior of the aging structure, it had done little to enliven the oppressive Soviet architecture that he so hated. Honestly he hated everything about Russia—the food, the smell, the people. St. Petersburg was always just a connecting stop for his excavation work in Mongolia. If only that were the case this time.
As he walked past the baggage claim carousels on his way to ground transportation, he was at least thankful not to be lugging cases of tools and equipment. All that he had in his backpack this time was a change of clothes, a small shower kit, and a toothbrush. He hoped for a short stay. For once maybe the Russians would have all the paperwork done correctly, and he would be on his way back to the States in less than 24 hours.
That was the plan anyway. But he seriously doubted it would end up that way, especially with the mysterious nature of his instructions.
The taxi driver first in line at the curb was a hairy, dark complexioned man who appeared to be Turkish or Middle Eastern. His mass of black curly hair and thick eyebrows framed a plump face that was greasy from a hastily consumed sausage. When the man spied Dawkins, he quickly shoved the remaining food in his mouth, pointed to his car, and mumbled something unintelligible before walking around to open the door.
With no patience for the translation from English to Russian to whatever language would be the driver’s native tongue, Dawkins simply handed the man a slip of paper on which was written the museum’s address in Russian. The driver studied the paper, grumbled a low tone of recognition, and stepped on the accelerator. Before his passenger could unzip his backpack to secure his passport, he was thrown against the back of the seat as the old Moskvich taxi plunged into the heavy flow of traffic.
Dawkins’ only extended visit to St. Petersburg had been to pay a courtesy call to Russian officials before his first dig in Mongolia. Even with the separation between the two countries since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Russian influence in Mongolia was inescapable. From the language to imported goods, ranging from automobiles to toothpaste, Mongolians relied heavily on their neighbors to the north. If you wanted to do business in Mongolia, you were going to deal with the Russians at some level.
As Dawkins stared out the window at the passing shades of gray made bleaker by the drizzle of rain that was starting to fall, he contemplated his new standing with Kirk Hoffmeyer. He barely knew the man. Aside from his initial interview, he had only spoken with Hoffmeyer at infrequent staff meetings. As head of the tenure committee, Hoffmeyer’s power was felt by all young PhDs. It was a process that Dawkins despised since it was beneath him to suck up to anyone. He had made his way in the world with no one’s help and he was determined to achieve his goals without bowing to anyone, certainly not someone like Kirk Hoffmeyer.
Dawkins reached into his backpack and removed a notepad and his cell phone. Opening the pad, he read the name Sergei Baranov and dialed the number beside it. After several rings, a woman answered.
“Ethnography Museum,” she answered in Russian.
“Hello. Do you speak English?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m Russell Dawkins. Sergei Baranov is expecting me. I need to speak with him.”
“I’m sorry, but Dr. Baranov has left for the day. Would you like to leave a message?”
“That cannot be right,” he snapped. “I am from the Natural History Museum in New York. Kirk Hoffmeyer, a curator there, has sent me to retrieve an item from Dr. Baranov. It is urgent. Dr. Baranov should be expecting me.”
“Let me check his calendar.”
After nearly two minutes, the woman returned to the phone.
“I am sorry, Mr. Dawkins, but he does not have you listed in his calendar, nor a Mr. Hoffmeyer. He should be in the office tomorrow if you want to try back then.”
Dawkins could feel his anger rising.
“Listen to me,” he demanded. “I’m going to give you a phone number, and you are going to have Baranov call me today! I am sick of this Russian nonsense. Do you understand me? I will not tolerate it and you tell that to Baranov. He will not get one dime more than he has been promised. Is that clear?”
There was no response, but Dawkins gave his phone number anyway and repeated it.
“Do we have an understanding?” he asked coldly.
“I’ll give the number to Dr. Baranov” was the reply, followed by a click.
Dawkins sat back in his seat and rubbed the sore muscles in his neck. Outside the window, he noticed that their drive had taken them outside the city into a flat expanse of sparse buildings and undeveloped countryside. Beneath the power lines that followed the roadway, a small hawk glided effortlessly, rising and falling through occasional gusts of wind as it pursued an unseen prey in the tall grass. Completely absorbed in the amusement of its aerial acrobatics, the hawk seemed unconcerned by the speeding taxi as it travelled beside it. Dawkins watched as the bird climbed higher upon the sturdy gusts, before turning sharply for the ground below. Having spied its quarry, the hawk plunged headlong into the grass, ending the game. A slow smile crossed Dawkins’ face.
In the light of his current situation, the scene brought a pleasant image to mind. There were rats in his world—big ones, little ones. But without warning, everything could suddenly change for any one of them. One swoop from above and it would be over. Soon he would be on top. He was certainly sharp enough and a clever operator. Given enough time, simpletons like Hoffmeyer would have to answer to him. He relished the thought.
12
When the Tracey Michelle docked in Taipei, the usual crew of TERA researchers who exited the ship did not include Jake Evers. The helicopter that had been scheduled to deliver him to the embassy medical clinic brought him instead to the Taoyuan Airport. Although his deeply bruised leg ached and the stitches pulled sharply at the edges of the wound, he could not allow his personal discomfort to distract him. After unsuccessfully trying the number that Sam had retrieved from the satellite phone once more, Jake entered the main terminal, walked quickly to the check-in counter, and glanced down at the flight itinerary in his hand.
Taipei-Seoul. Seoul-Tokyo. Tokyo-Tomsk. Tomsk-St. Petersburg. Projected travel time: 23 hours, 8 minutes.
It was going to be a long day, but he knew there were no other options. His only hope was that he would not be too late.
13
“Baba,” Katie called out to her grandmother, apprehensively opening the door to the small apartment. Trying the light switch, she realized that the power was out. Likely a tripped breaker, she concluded. That was common in the antiquated structure, especially in the room that contained both the TV and the microwave oven. “Are you home, Baba?”
From the darkened interior, there was no response. Katie gently pushed the door open and slowly entered. As sunlight filled the primary room, she gasped in horror at the sight before her. The contents of the room were scattered all around—pages torn from books that had once rested on a large bookshelf now littered the floor, and every cabinet and closet door stood open. Even boxes of food from the pantry lay broken in every corner where they had been thrown. All around her was evidence that an angry and violent person, or persons, had invaded her home.
“Baba,” she whispered a faint cry as she looked toward her grandmother’s bedroom.
With little concern for her own safety but for fe
ar of what she might find, Katie was hesitant to go any further. She paused for a moment to consider her options but then knew what she had to do. As she carefully stepped through the debris and approached the central hallway leading to the back bedrooms, she could feel her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She had never been this afraid, not even in Mongolia.
The first room on the right was a small bathroom where light dimly filtered through a curtained window. As she drew near, Katie glanced in and was relieved to see only the clutter of items pulled from the medicine cabinet strewn about the floor. She swallowed hard and contemplated the two rooms ahead, her bedroom on the left and her grandmother’s on the right.
The back section of the apartment seemed darker than usual. It was then that she realized the nightlight between the two rooms had been broken in the attack. Closer inspection showed the faint edges of broken glass from the shattered light bulb lying around the edges of a book that had been thrown against it. Katie reached down and took hold of the leather binding. It was her Bible.
Allowing the remaining shards of glass to fall from the cover, she tucked the Bible beneath her arm and approached the door to her grandmother’s bedroom. Katie’s first instinct was to flip on the light switch, but she stopped herself from doing so. Surely the invaders had gone, but had Baba been here when they ransacked the house? What was she about to find?
Suddenly she heard the rustle of paper coming from the bedroom. Someone was walking in her direction. Katie spun around and started to run when a small, familiar figure emerged out of the corner of her eye.
“Katrina?” the woman spoke in a soft voice.
“Oh Baba!”
Katie threw her arms around her grandmother and they embraced for a long moment, tears flowing down their cheeks.
“I was afraid something awful had happened to you,” Katie said, grasping her grandmother’s hands. “I’ve been worried about you. I tried to call you several times. Seeing all this, I thought you were…” She couldn’t finish the thought.
As the older woman looked up at her granddaughter through soft blue eyes, Katie noted her tired look. It appeared as if she hadn’t slept in days. Her usually clean apron was wrinkled and dusty, and her silvery hair was uncharacteristically mussed beneath a plain brown scarf.
“All is well now, daughter,” she replied. “You are safe. God has answered my prayers.”
“Who did this?” Katie asked.
“I don’t know,” the older woman said in a tone that seemed somewhat guarded to Katie. “I found this mess yesterday when I returned from the grocery. I was afraid to go in so I went to Anechka’s house and spent the night. I came back today to see what I could salvage.”
“Did you call the police?”
Baba wrinkled her forehead, “I have never found a reason to trust the police.”
“It’s time to come clean with me, Baba,” Katie argued. “You know more than you’re telling me!”
Her grandmother retrieved her sweater from the arm of an overturned chair and stepped toward the door. “We’re going to leave today. It’s no longer safe to stay here.”
“I’m responsible for this,” Katie said dourly. “This is because of Grandfather’s journal, isn’t it? If this is going to cost me my life, I need to know the truth. What did Dmitri find that was so important?”
Her grandmother made no response.
“They tried to kill me,” Katie suddenly blurted out. She had planned to break the information to Baba gently but she could contain it no longer. “There were men who followed me to Mongolia. They killed my guide. A man saved me, but they may have killed him as well.”
“We should go,” her grandmother spoke with no emotion.
“What about our things?”
“Nothing we own is worth our lives. I came back only to save this.” The older woman held up a wooden box.
“What is it?”
“Some of the answers you’ve been searching for, but more likely, only additional questions and pain. I’m sure it’s what our home invaders were searching for.”
Katie wrinkled her brow. “Is this more of Grandfather’s things, more of his writings?”
“I never intended for you to find the first one,” Baba said with regret.
“Who was my grandfather?” Katie pleaded. “You have to tell me the truth! If this is going to cost me everything, I have to know. Who was Dmitri Petrovich?”
Baba’s face softened as she looked up solemnly at her granddaughter. “He was the enemy of darkness.”
14
Rune Dietrich was a much younger man than Sergei Baranov had expected. Three men approached Baranov from the arrival gates. Assuming that Dietrich was the tall, immaculately dressed one in the middle, there was something about him that unnerved the Russian curator. He was clearly a powerful man. Well over six feet tall, as were the two men who flanked him, he wore a dark gray suit, which was awkwardly stretched across his broad chest. The suit was at least two sizes too small and obviously designed to emphasize his muscular physique. An unpleasant image came to Baranov’s mind. Dietrich’s hard features looked like an icon of German strength from a previous age, specifically a Nazi propaganda poster.
“I hope you gentlemen had a good flight,” Baranov greeted them, extending his hand. He felt like a dwarf. “I’m Sergei Baranov.”
“Rune Dietrich,” the man in the center answered. “These are my associates.”
Baranov nodded at the two men. Bodyguards he assumed. Everyone had them. You couldn’t do shady business in Europe without someone watching your back.
Baranov motioned the men toward the exit where a rented black Mercedes complete with driver was waiting to take them to his office. He had spared no expense to pull off the façade of the shrewd businessman he had always thought himself to be. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for his entire career. He was going to be rich, dump that incessant nag of a wife, and run off with his secretary to someplace where it didn’t snow.
“Mr. Dietrich,” Baranov said as they pulled away from the airport. “It is fortunate that you contacted me when you did. The Natural History Museum in New York is sending a representative to meet with me this afternoon. They are interested in my discovery as well and…” he paused for effect, “it is my understanding that Walter Holtz is their financial backer. He has a strong personal interest in securing the item.”
There was a protracted silence which made Baranov uncomfortable. He wondered if he had played his hand too early.
“Understood,” Dietrich finally responded. His deep, monotonous tone fit his persona. “It is a unique item and one which my employer does not intend to let slip through his fingers.”
If Baranov had realized the underlying meaning of Dietrich’s statement, he would have immediately withdrawn from the game. But reading it merely as confirmation of a bidding war, he allowed the words to play like Puccini in his ears. Although Dietrich had never told him the name of his employer, he had guessed it was Adelbrecht Engel, one of the wealthiest men in Europe. When a small Chaldean fertility idol had fetched the highest price ever auctioned at Sotheby’s—$62 million dollars—everyone involved in the world of elite antiquities had assumed the buyer was Engel. He was known for his curious if extreme desire to possess ancient religious artifacts. The bid had been placed anonymously and the item had not resurfaced since its purchase. Baranov had an acquaintance, working in the business office at Sotheby’s, who had transacted the exchange. When he had gotten his hands on the item from Mongolia, Baranov called New York to ask, or rather pay for, the name of the person who had finalized the sale of the idol. That person was Rune Dietrich.
Baranov could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Without question, he was about to become the richest man he personally knew.
15
Jake Evers was jarred from his sleep by the sudden screech of tires striking the runway, followed by the abrupt shuddering of the plane as it came to a stop. His injured leg had fallen asleep during the flig
ht, but as he adjusted his position, the feeling slowly returned and it began to burn with growing intensity. He winced as he reached beneath the seat to grab a bottle of aspirin from his backpack. It wasn’t going to help much, but it was all he had managed to buy between his connecting flights.
As he popped the medication in his mouth he chased it with the remaining contents of his bottle of water. He checked the section of his pant leg covering the wound and was relieved to find that it had not bled through the bandage as it had on the previous flight from Tokyo. What he most needed now was a shower and a comfortable bed at the hotel. Over his nearly full day’s journey, he had slept maybe two hours.
Mechanically following his fellow passengers through baggage claim and passport control, he eventually found himself at the main exit. As the automatic doors opened, a brisk wind abruptly caught his attention. It instantly reminded him of his first trip to Russia when he was a new employee at TERA. That trip had also been in late autumn, and a sudden weather change had caught him off guard. On final approach into Novosibirsk, the most populated city in Siberia, he had been surprised to see at least a foot of snow covering the ground. With only a couple of long sleeve shirts and a sweater in his backpack, he had learned a lesson in preparedness that he had never forgotten.
Searching through his limited Russian vocabulary, Jake approached a taxi driver standing by the curb and asked the olive complexioned man with a thick mat of black hair to take him to the Dostoevsky Hotel. It was an economical three-star hotel centrally located near Nevsky Prospekt, the main thoroughfare in St. Petersburg. He had stayed there several times before, and it was within walking distance of the subway. That was a convenience he certainly welcomed in this breezy St. Petersburg weather.
“Will you be staying long, sir?” the driver asked, looking at Jake through his rearview mirror.
The Genesis Conspiracy Page 7