A pair soldiers, AKs slung over their shoulders, splashed bucketfuls of ice-cold water into the cage. The shock cut Sokolov’s breath short.
The soldiers unlocked the cage and shoved him outside the shed. Holding him at gunpoint, they motioned for him to move forward. He gulped the fresh air, trudging along a footpath through tropical undergrowth.
His senses were slowly recovering from the claustrophobic confinement. As he cleared the shrubbery, he struggled to fully appreciate the scenic view of Billionaire Island. Turquoise waves lapped the pristine, crescent-shaped beach. The sandy coastline curved around a bay, separated by a coral reef from the sapphire-blue mass of the Andaman Sea beyond. Palm trees swayed in the gentle breeze, offering shade from the scorching sun.
The warm sand soothed his bare feet. He scanned the shore. The unspoiled landscape offered no means of escape. He lacked the strength to mount a resistance and he had nowhere to run. Knowing it, the two soldiers took their convoy duty with slackened discipline. Along the way, they chewed the mildly narcotic khat leaves which hued their teeth vampire-red. As far as he could tell, their uniforms identified them as Burmese infantrymen. They encountered a group of three other Burmese soldiers patrolling the beach, who exchanged jokes with Sokolov’s escorts, no doubt at his expense.
Up ahead, he saw a sprawling palatial structure with a multi-tiered roof, reminiscent of a Thai royal residence. Preceding it was a row of smaller villas built in similar style. Each white-walled villa had a private infinity pool stretching from its sun terrace. For some reason, the guards were leading Sokolov to the nearest villa. He had no idea what his captors might want from him. The swinging polarity of the prisoner’s condition was a common interrogation tactic. Whatever they were going to do to him, he’d rather they did it inside a luxury villa than a cage in a jungle shed. Swiping the card-key, one soldier held the door open, and the other thrust the barrel of his AK at Sokolov in a less-than-jovial invitation to enter.
As if transported from hell to paradise, Sokolov crossed the threshold. The door slammed shut behind him. He was welcomed by a cool blast from the air-conditioner. Padding across the marble floor, he inspected the house. The spacious rooms were interconnected by archways. A glass wall separated the living room from an indoor spa area, overlooking the sea. A giant Jacuzzi was built into the teak decking. He slid a panel open, slipped inside and immersed himself in the water.
Soaking in the tub, he lathered his skin with lemongrass-fragranced shampoo, scrubbing away the grime. It felt like the most refreshing bath he’d ever taken. Toweling, he became aware of his complete nakedness. He found no bathrobe or a single item of clothing apart from a gi kimono and pants hanging in the bedroom wardrobe. The karate gi outfit was not unlike those he owned. The gi came with a pair of Japanese wooden flip-flops called geta, and there was no kind of other footwear in sight. Reluctantly, he put the whole costume on.
Odder still, he discovered two objects left for him atop the perfectly-made king-size bed. One was his Breitling Superocean chronometer. The dial showed that he’d stayed inside the shed for thirty-six hours. Had someone tampered with the date on his watch, pranking him? Or had he actually remained locked in that cage for a day and a half? His captor showed a dark sense of humor in either case. The second object was his Russian passport, which had Alex Grib’s mugshot stapled over his own. Very funny, Sokolov thought mirthlessly. He clasped the Breitling’s familiar bracelet on his wrist and hid the passport in a fold of the gi.
Returning to the front door, he twisted the knob but it was locked. Outside, the Burmese soldiers guarded the villa. He was a detainee all the same, despite the upgrade of prison conditions, and even that seemed temporary. He proceeded to the dining room, allured by a savory aroma of food wafting from within.
The massive dining table was stacked with enough dishes to fill the menu of an Asian restaurant. Steaming bowls of tom yum soup and fried rice, assorted platefuls of dim sum, chicken curry, shrimp rolls, and chili crab were the most tantalizing among others, topped off by a fruit platter of papaya, mango, yellow-flesh watermelon, and red bananas.
He resisted the urge to jump at the table and devour all the food at once. Gorging might make him throw up. Contrary to what his stomach told him, he poured himself a glass of pineapple juice and sipped it carefully. There were no utensils on the table apart from a set of ivory chopsticks. A knife, fork or spoon were deemed too dangerous in his hands. Deftly using the chopsticks, he ate a small portion of vegetable fried rice.
Suddenly, he heard a knock at the front door. The show of courtesy amused him. Was he supposed to rush to the door and ask his visitors inside? He wiped the corners of his mouth with a silk napkin, leaving the table just as the unexpected guest entered the villa.
Unexpected was an understatement—it was the last person he’d hoped to see.
“You?”
“Well, well, Major Sokolov. We meet again!”
The elderly man, well into his seventies, had the wrinkled face of a Shar-Pei, with a bulbous nose ridden with broken capillaries, puffy eyes and the stare of a dead fish. It was a face Sokolov had seen numerous times on TV and in person. Saveliy Ignatievich Frolov, former head of the KGB Fifth Chief Directorate, former Director of the FSB, paced the marble floor, nodding approvingly at the rich furnishings. Uncharacteristically, in lieu of a gray suit, Frolov was dressed in a flowery shirt, Bermuda shorts, and sandals which he wore over black socks.
“No offer of a handshake, I see,” said Frolov. “Understandable, really. Mind if I join you for lunch?”
“Be my guest.”
“Ah, thank you, Eugene.”
Frolov followed him back into the dining room and immediately helped himself to a pile of minced pork noodles.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Sokolov asked, eying the old man with disdain.
“Lots of retired KGB officers have settled in Thailand, didn’t you know? I happen to own a bungalow in Pattaya. Not as ritzy as this villa, of course, but I’m a man of modest needs. So I just wanted to drop by as soon as I learned that you got involved in our operation.”
“So you’re the one running this little show here? But I thought that you were—”
“Finished? Gimme a break, Sokolov. You didn’t actually think that just because your boss, Klimov, forced me to resign from my post, I would be down and out, did you? You’re both not very bright, then. In a country where eighty percent of the government is run by former KGB men, how long could I stay out of a job, with my experience? Leaving my position of FSB Director wasn’t some sort of fall from grace. Hell, it meant nothing. Heading the FSB wasn’t even the highest status I attained in my life. I was once a candidate member of the Soviet Politburo. Everything else is a step down in comparison. I wielded so much power, your stupid Minister couldn’t dream of —and I still do wield it. It’s only that I’m now out of the spotlight as special adviser to the Kremlin.”
“Advising them on what?”
“Religious affairs.”
“How to sell one’s soul to the devil?”
“You’re far too bold and cheerful for a condemned man like yourself,” said Frolov. “As a matter of fact, I’m Grand Commander of the Order of Holy Orthodox Knights.”
“Sounds like a Masonic lodge.”
Frolov swallowed a mouthful of noodles. “Like I said, its affiliation is Orthodox.”
“Orthodox what? Orthodox Stalinism? Should be right up your alley.”
“Fool, it’s a non-profit organization that supports the cooperation between the Church and the Kremlin.”
“Non-profit? Beggars belief. So, Grand Commander, was that priest one of your men?”
“He had to be eliminated, unfortunately. And the person running the show, as you phrased it, is Mr. Song. You may have seen him when he shot the priest. Billionaire Island is his domain: he’s a god here, pardon the pun. The North Korean government put him in charge here, leasing the island from the Burmese.”
“And Al
ex Grib? Eliminated like the priest? Did you also have a hand in killing him?”
“Alex punched above his weight, so to speak. Mr. Song hired him for the fighting tournament, a great source of entertainment for Song’s guests. Somehow, Alex broke into Song’s computer and stole valuable business information. He blackmailed Song, threatening to relay the information to the CIA. Huge mistake, as Alex soon learned, feeding the fish. You persist in being just as pesky. Song was going to send you to your doom, just as he dispatched your former friend. Only this time, your body would never be found.” Frolov pushed away his plate. “Luckily for you, I dissuaded him. And I went to great lengths to get you from that cage to this lovely villa. There are only twelve guest villas on Billionaire Island, and each stay costs fifty thousand dollars per night. So you should be a little more appreciative of my concern.”
“I’m practically weeping from such generosity. What gives?”
“Don’t kid yourself, Eugene. You will die today, but your death will be a little more dignified. You see, Alex Grib’s untimely demise has presented Song with a bit of a problem. His brawls were a huge attraction, not least because Alex claimed your pedigree as his own. However, now the man impersonating Eugene Sokolov is dead. So you will take his place in the Billionaire Bloodbout. The real Eugene Sokolov stepping in for the impostor, what a cruel twist.”
Frolov reached across the table, handing Sokolov a rolled-up strip of thick, black cotton. Sokolov unwound it to see that it was an exact replica of his fourth-level black belt, complete with his name sewn in golden katakana.
“Fighting dressed as your own copy.” Frolov smirked. “But you’ll do it just once. I regret to inform you that you won’t survive the Bloodbout, even if you manage to beat today’s opponent. Once you enter the ring, you won’t make it out alive. There will be no winner.”
With that, Saveliy Frolov—former FSB Director, KGB Directorate Head, Politburo candidate and current Kremlin adviser on religion—rose from the table.
“Oh, and do try the spicy beef salad, it’s delicious,” he said, departing. “After all, this is your last meal.”
6
Stacie Rose awoke to a killer headache, her mind hazy. She had been chloroformed repeatedly, parts of her memory blanked out. She found herself sprawled atop a bed in some sort of a boudoir. The room was dimly lit and colored in maroon and gold hues. She realized that her clothes were gone. In the ceiling mirror she saw that she was wearing nothing but a one-piece swimsuit. It was a black monokini which accentuated her curves with cut-out sides. The deep plunge revealed her navel.
She had no recollection of changing her clothes or ending up wherever she was. She was sickened by the mere thought that someone might have stripped her naked, made physical contact with her nude body, or worse …
She touched her bare neck where the pendant should have been. The day’s events came back in nightmarish fragments. The abduction aboard the Gulfstream. The repulsive stench of chloroform. The transfer to a different plane, an amphibian. A hypodermic needle piercing her skin. The airframe rattling as the plane rode foam-crested sea waves, plowing the teal water, taxiing to moor at a jetty. Father Philemon barking out orders to a trio of Asian soldiers who hauled her into the back of a metallic-painted SUV. The beach drive taking her to a palace with Burmese-style pyatthat roofs layered like umbrellas.
Her mind slid back into darkness …
Father Philemon spearheaded the procession as the armed soldiers half-carried, half-jostled her across marble-floored halls and up a massive teak stairway. Stacie shuffled her feet groggily, stabs of pain piercing her liver with each step. On the top floor, she was brought to a carved teak door. Under the eye of a surveillance camera, Father Philemon banged on the wood with a gilded doorknocker. The lock clicked, the priest opened the door, and the soldiers tossed her on the hard padauk parquet. She landed awkwardly on her elbow, gritting her teeth from the pain and anger as she tried to pick herself up.
An Oriental man sitting behind an antique desk scrutinized her. He was dressed in a brilliant white tuxedo. His heterochromial glare was the most chilling she had ever experienced, the eyes soulless, full of predatory malice toward his defenseless prey. With a servile bow, Father Philemon approached him, set the Oltersdorf notebook on the desk and stepped back.
“Ms. Rose, I presume?” the Asian asked in English.
“Who are you? Is this some sort of a cult?” Her voice quivered. She had no idea what to expect from her kidnappers.
“You may call me Mr. Song. Unlike Father Philemon, I can’t claim that I formally belong to any religion. I believe in no deity apart from our supreme leader, Kim Jong-Un.”
She frowned. This was madness. She wouldn’t have anything to do with North Korea! How did she get caught up in this mess?
“What do you want from me? Whatever it is that you’re interested in, I know nothing beyond what this man told me,” she said, referring to the priest.
Song flipped through the notebook.
“You’re lying. A secret message is encrypted in this notebook. There is a second notebook—a codebook—which deciphers it. You will tell me where it is.”
Her mouth felt dry. “What? You’re mistaken. I’ve never heard about any such codebook.”
“Confess!” hissed Song. “You have the key! It’s in your best interests to give me the codebook or else you’ll die suffering!”
“Anastacia hasn’t yet realized the gravity of her situation,” said Father Philemon.
Song laughed wickedly.
“She will, soon enough! She’ll also realize she’s inside the area known as the Golden Triangle. She’s about to experience the meaning of the term in full. A few more injections, and she’ll become a heroin addict. Then she’ll beg to tell us everything we want to know.”
In panic, Stacie gaped at the small bruise on her forearm.
7
Father Philemon steered the metallic Range Rover Sport along the turquoise edge of the Andaman Sea. The luxury SUV made for an excellent beach buggy, spewing sand from under its wheels, the four-wheel-drive managing the terrain effortlessly. Philemon was heading back toward the jetty, where a couple of identical seaplanes bobbed on the water surface.
“Are you sure you won’t be staying for tonight’s performance?” he asked his passenger.
“Unfortunately, no,” Frolov replied. “I must return to Moscow without delay. It’s a shame I won’t get to witness Sokolov’s death with my own eyes, but I have to oversee the final phase of Operation Temple.”
“Mr. Song has promised to send you the full video of the Bloodbout via the Dark Web.”
“I appreciate that. Give him my regards.”
“And you, Saveliy Ignatievich, please pass along my greetings to His Holiness.”
“I will. The Patriarch will be delighted to hear how you handled the Oltersdorf affair. It’s game-changing. Speaking of the girl, you must break her as soon as possible. Use any means necessary. She’s expendable, but make sure she gives up the location of the codebook before she dies.”
“Anastacia can’t tell us something she doesn’t know. Father Mark believes he has a different lead. She may have given us the key unwittingly. The clue is in her pendant.”
“That would be a major breakthrough. As a last resort, use brute-force decryption. Analyze the text for vulnerabilities. If Peter Oltersdorf made even a single error in his cipher, we must find it.”
“Rest assured, we’ll crack the code one way or another.”
“You’d better. Otherwise the notebook is as useful as a doorstop. Don’t forget, there’s two hundred billion at stake. The odds will swing massively in our favor.”
“Operation Temple is of paramount importance to the Moscow Patriarchate. I assure you that each of us will work tirelessly until we triumph. Nobody shall stand in our way now.” The priest stopped the car. “Have a safe journey, Saveliy Ignatievich.”
“Thank you, Father Philemon.”
Frolov got out of
the Range Rover and marched to the jetty.
8
Shanghai
Father Mark felt swelling excitement as the Gulfstream touched down in Shanghai and he took a chauffeured Mercedes to Xinle Road in Xuhui District. Should his hypothesis prove correct, it would propel his career to great heights. The Patriarchate was growing desperate for success in the Oltersdorf affair. And he would be the one to bring it.
Analytical thinking was a skill which he had developed decades before at the KGB spy school in Minsk. He also considered himself an adroit reader of human behavior. He preferred psychological rather than physical methods of coercion. Unlike Song, who only utilized brute force, Mark wasn’t a sadist. Prior to his posting to Hong Kong, Mark had worked at a church in St. Petersburg, recruiting young radicals for a pro-Kremlin paramilitary group. He’d learned to crack body language, eye expressions and other nonverbal signals instantly. Anastacia Rose was an open book. From her stunned reaction, he could tell that the girl had been completely oblivious to the existence of the Oltersdorf codebook. The North Korean would torture her to death, without any result. Her fate didn’t bother Mark, he only cared about achieving goals.
Again, he inspected the golden pendant. It had to be the key. The single object transferred to the girl by her aunt. Etched into the back of the pendant was the number: 1937.
‘Thirty-seven, the year of Stalin’s Great Terror which had swept millions.
But 1937 also marked a different date which Father Mark was aware of.
As instructed, the Chinese chauffeur parked the car at Xinle Road, and Mark got out. Shanghai’s Xuhui District had belonged to the French Concession in the 19th century, its boulevards almost Parisian in style. Once a premier residential district, it had been turned into a factory zone and subsequently redeveloped as the city’s major commercial and shopping area.
Xinle was a narrow, low-rise lane of tightly-packed colonial buildings. Stores and cafés sprawled along the leisurely sidewalks, shaded by plane trees lining the street, still carrying the old-world romance of the French Concession.
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