At an intersection, an immense white edifice materialized from behind the trees. The glorious structure had been the Shanghai Orthodox Cathedral, its design fashioned after the destroyed Cathedral of Christ the Savior in Moscow. Today all that remained was a ghost of the church which St. John had built in 1937.
St. John of Shanghai and San Francisco.
Two churches constructed under the supervision of St. John and the support and sponsorship of Peter Oltersdorf, together with the entire Russian community.
Two notebooks. One discovered in San Francisco. The other had to be in Shanghai. Inside the cathedral.
Former cathedral, Mark noted with a smirk. Since taking over, the Red Chinese had used it as a warehouse for twenty years, then converted it into a restaurant and nightclub, and later a part-time gallery.
A good place to eat according to fen shui, Mark mused cynically.
The restaurant still operated in the narthex—the western end of the cathedral—and the rest of the 35-meter-tall church building stayed shut down most days of the week. It opened to the public occasionally to display the works of local artists and otherwise stood neglected. The celestial domes had turned an eerie black. The Christian crosses had been toppled from the spires by the Chinese decades ago.
Mark entered through the main liturgical doorway on the eastern side. A uniformed Chinese guard shot him a bored look. The cavernous space of the church, capable to hold an attendance of 2,500 Christian worshipers, had been stripped bare, given a fresh coat of paint and divided by a maze of partitions. The partitions were burdened by evenly-spaced depictions of the Cultural Revolution hanging in massive frames. From his limited knowledge of Chinese he’d picked up in Hong Kong, Mark read a sign which identified it as an exhibition of Maoist art. Only a couple of indifferent visitors loitered.
Electric light blazed from a succession of chandeliers. His footsteps echoing as he crossed the stone floor, Mark paused in front of a Chairman Mao portrait, feigning interest. He glanced at the guard, who paid no heed to the Westerner in civilian attire. Mark knew he could roam the cathedral while drawing no suspicion.
Apart from its architecture, the interior was ideologically sterile, bearing no trace of its religious origin. Flower pots and trash cans occupied the alcoves meant for crosses and icons. Mark gathered his bearings and proceeded to the spot where the altar should have been. The whole area was as empty as the rest of the cathedral. There wasn’t a nook and cranny to hide anything. Mark muttered a desperate curse under his breath. The last thing on his mind was accepting defeat and flying to Hong Kong empty-handed. He lifted his eyes and then he saw it.
Beneath the cupola was a mezzanine intended for the church choir. Glancing over his shoulder at the single guard, Mark slipped behind a partition which separated the area from the restaurant’s backdoor. Next to it, he found a spiral staircase, sealed off with barrier rope. An attached sign read: NO ADMITTANCE, CLOSED TO VISITORS. The staircase led to the abandoned inner balcony. He pushed aside the stanchion and climbed up the stairs.
Dust billowed in the rays of light filtering from the cathedral’s tall windows. Nobody had set foot on the mezzanine in years. Located at least fifteen meters above ground level, it offered a view of the entire cathedral floor below. Mark looked around the walls of the mezzanine. The ancient paint had cracked and crumbled. On the opposite wall across from the staircase, the underlying layer of paint revealed a … No, not a fresco, Mark decided as he approached it. A faded emblem.
The Oltersdorf crest.
Mark knelt and produced a pocket knife, rapping the floor tiles with the handle, one by one.
He almost missed it. A hollow sound.
He rammed the blade under a loose tile and pried it open. It yielded a cavity in the floor. A secret cache.
There was an object inside. A satchel. With bated breath, Mark pulled it out and opened it.
It contained a notebook. Bound in black leather.
Even before he examined the wax seal, he knew that he’d found what he’d come for.
The Oltersdorf codebook.
9
The patrons had already filled the ornate hall of Billionaire Casino for the big mid-afternoon event. At the poolside entrance, Thai girls in floral bikinis welcomed a few tardy guests with trays of champagne. Several pricey hookers were lounging on the pool’s sundeck with only the most minuscule slivers of fabric on their enticing bodies. Chatchai recognized a few of them. But it was a young woman he’d never seen before who made him stop cold. The only Caucasian, a beautifully proportioned blonde, she lay soaking up the sun in a strappy bathing suit. She was no call girl, that much was certain. She had too much class about her, which made her stand out from the flock of prostitutes. Even her swimwear looked like a luxury-brand item. But something else about her appearance had caught Chatchai’s attention. He noticed needle marks and bruises on her right forearm. He didn’t need his prior experience at the Narcotics Suppression Bureau to tell that she was stoned on drugs. The position of the bruising suggested that she had struggled as someone had injected her. She had no sunglasses on. Her eyelids were heavy, the gaze distant.
A cassock-clad Russian priest kept vigil next to her like a medieval sentinel. Catching his mad glare, Chatchai felt uneasy and proceeded inside.
Chatchai entered the casino and sat in front of a slot machine, the last unit in a row of blinking and jingling electronic contraptions. The position gave Chatchai an excellent view of the entire gaming area. Traditionally dressed Asian waitresses roamed between tables, serving drinks. Two distinct groups occupied the game tables: North Korean and Burmese delegations. Top-ranking military officials and their cohorts, aides, and civilian cronies. He recognized the ancient North Korean generals by their tan uniforms. The Burmese brass wore swamp-green tunics and their non-military associates were clothed in white shirts with skirt-like lungis.
Together, they had funneled billions off their oppressive regimes, milking their respective countries dry. Now they were throwing away that money at roulette, craps and blackjack tables. A single gaming chip could feed a starving Burmese or North Korean village. With stacks of chips being shuffled on the tables, the corrupt generals never seemed troubled by pangs of guilt, discussing deals with their counterparts.
Tension hung in the air despite the noise of loud conversation and occasional roars of laughter breaking out from different corners. Not one among the two dozen men inside the Casino had come here to try their luck at cards or dice. The stakes were much higher. Everybody was anticipating the Bloodbout. There was an atmosphere of growing excitement. Chatchai mopped his brow, perspiring despite the Casino’s frosty air-conditioning. As he fed his last credit to the hungry slot machine, he stole a nervous glance at his watch.
ETA ten minutes. Chatchai swallowed. His own gamble had to pay off if he wanted to survive.
The main event was about to start shortly. Chatchai looked around the gilded interior of Billionaire Casino, rich with carvings, marble columns and golden statues, all worthy of decorating a royal palace. A presentation stage was situated at the far side of the hall, with a backdrop of three huge rear-projection screens.
As if on cue, epic cinematic music blared from the on-stage speakers. Fountains of sparks jetted in a grand pyrotechnic blast.
No sooner had the smoke cleared than Song appeared on the stage in a white tuxedo. All eyes turned to him. His emphatic entrance made the crowd gasp collectively.
The gigantic screens behind Song lit up with a captivating seascape. Slender palm trees traced the tip of Billionaire Island. Beyond, the expanse of the Andaman Sea blended with the celestial blue. On the pristine sand, a fight ring had been set up. Chatchai turned to the casino’s wall-sized windows, which offered an equally-stunning beach view. Comparing the scenery, he ascertained that the video feed was coming from a camera mounted on the palace rooftop. Through the bullet-resistant glass, he could make out the silhouettes of soldiers guarding the ring. It was a few hundred meters f
urther down the shore, a safe distance away.
“Esteemed guests!” Song spoke into a microphone, his English clipped. “I’m very proud to welcome you here for this special occasion. You are about to witness the most spectacular combat in all of martial arts. The Billionaire Bloodbout!”
Isolated claps grew into applause.
Song held up his hand in mock humility.
“It’s all about today’s contestants! First up, a man unbeaten in all tournaments. Originally from Suriname, the Dutch master of Muay Thai … Wim Nieuwenhuizen!”
The black Dutchman’s intimidating, muscular frame appeared on the left screen in 3D glory, together with his profile. Aged 29, 186 centimeters tall, weighing 97 kilos.
“And fighting against him is the Kyokushin karate champion, the first Russian to complete the 100-man kumite! Eugene Sokolov!”
The right screen showed an image of a white man in karate uniform. According to the fighter profile, he was slightly older, taller and lighter than his opponent.
Song retrieved a tablet from his Louis Vuitton porte-monnaie to read out the full fighter data, including their illustrious achievements on the martial arts circuit.
“Today, they have the honor of battling at this venue.”
The middle-screen camera zoomed in on the fight ring. Although standard in shape and size, it was no ordinary boxing ring. Instead of ropes, Chatchai saw strands of barbed wire strung out tightly between the ringposts. Glinting in the sun, shards of broken glass lay strewn all around the canvas.
“Allow me to recap the rules. The Bloodbout is a no-holds-barred match lasting three rounds, ninety seconds each. No referee. Any attempt to escape the ring will be squashed by gunfire. The match continues until the time runs out, or one or both fighters die. The challenge will rise as the fight progresses. At the end of Round One, the barbed wire will be energized to 3,000 volts, forming a lethal electric fence. At the end of Round Two, explosive charges will go off in the danger zone surrounding the ring. Should the tie produce no winner at the end of Round Three, a powerful bomb will detonate in the center of the ring.”
Awed murmur spread among the audience.
The extra screen on the left switched to a close-up of Song.
“Gentlemen!” Song exclaimed. “Now is the last chance to place your bets! You can cash out at any time in foreign currency or Bloodcoin. Millions are to be made!”
Indeed, each of Song’s guests could easily stake several hundred thousand U.S. dollars at once. The right-hand-side screen displayed the betting odds. The fight seemed evenly balanced. Sokolov to win at 7/4, Nieuwenhuizen a slight favorite at 7/5, and a draw at 23/10. Bonus factors, such as predicting the winning round or defeat by electrocution, promised to multiply the amounts wagered.
From opposite edges of the main screen, soldiers shepherded the two fighters toward the raised platform of the ring.
Song’s guttural cry boomed around Billionaire Casino.
“Begin the Bloodbout! DO OR DIE!”
10
The foul-smelling, khat-chewing soldiers prodded Sokolov’s spine with the muzzles of their AKs, pushing him toward the ring. His body still felt sore after the ordeal inside the cage and he could barely stand on his feet. His jailers and their three comrades secured the beach area around the perimeter of the ring. Trying to flee would spell death. He’d heard the match rules, or lack thereof, over a loudspeaker mounted on a nearby palm tree. He was forced to fight for his life—literally.
Climbing over the barbed wire, he suppressed a wave of anxiety. It was gone as soon as he stepped into the ring. His mind went into mission mode, a familiar zone where nothing else existed apart from the task at hand. He became calm and focused. He’d survived tougher battles. He knew what to do.
Broken glass crunched under his geta shoes. Sokolov squinted in the sun, posture relaxed, hands on belt. From the opposite corner, his adversary sized Sokolov up. The Dutch fighter was a mountain of steroid-fueled muscle clothed only in red Muay Thai trunks bearing his name in large white letters, WIM, adorned with a dragon design. His hands and feet were wrapped in tape. Wim grimaced, giving Sokolov a vicious stare.
“Round One!” blared Song’s voice from the loudspeaker, forgoing any pre-match routine.
Instantly, Wim charged across the ring and leaped forward, attacking Sokolov with a flying knee strike. Sokolov raised his arms in a block, absorbing the blow. Both came out of the collision drawing first blood. Wim nicked his foot, landing awkwardly on the shard-strewn floor. Sokolov staggered back from the impact, pressing against the barbed wire and grazing his arm. Mentally, he registered no pain from the cut. Gone, too, was the crushing fatigue, his reflexes as sharp as ever.
The founder of Kyokushin karate, Mas Oyama, had fought any challenger in no-holds-barred bouts. Likewise, Sokolov was well-versed in different fighting styles and feared no opponent. Wim bounced on his toes like a typical Muay Thai practitioner, his motions fluid. His long limbs offered great reach, probing with jabs and kicks. The threat kept Sokolov pinned back to the edge of the ring. Sokolov flirted dangerously with the barbed wire, his back brushing against it a couple of times. Sensing an opportunity, Wim pounced. He came to close range with a quick jab, low kick combo, which Sokolov parried and countered with his own mawashi geri roundhouse. Wim evaded, springing away and immediately slashed at Sokolov’s supporting leg. The kick to his tendons jolted Sokolov like a snake bite. He unleashed a series of punches but Wim blocked and dodged them all, dancing around the ring. Sokolov chased him to deliver a killer blow but a thrusting teep kick held him back every time. Finally Sokolov came within striking distance and aimed a bare-knuckled lunge punch to the bridge of the nose. He fluffed it by a millisecond and left himself open. Wim ducked, the blow glancing off his head, and punished Sokolov with a spinning backfist which he followed through with a rising axe kick. The backfist jarred his abdomen but Sokolov reacted to Wim’s heel crashing down on his face by shooting his arms up, wrists crossed. He trapped the swinging foot between his hands locked in jyuji uke and kicked low inside the rear leg which buckled. Wim toppled like a felled tree onto the layer of shattered glass. The Dutchman rolled backward to escape the takedown and sprung to his feet. Glass shards rained off his body as he brushed them off. Specks of blood seeped from the multitude of tiny cuts on his skin.
“Round Two!”
During the One-Hundred-Man Kumite, it had taken Sokolov less than two minutes to defeat each opponent. So far, in ninety seconds, he hadn’t managed to get anywhere near his agile adversary, who became even more motivated by his sluggish start. Grinning, Wim taunted from the other side of the ring, using obscene gestures. For such a hulk of a man, his speed and endurance were unbelievable. Performance-enhancing drugs? Sokolov needed to raise his own level regardless of whatever was giving Wim the edge.
And he could almost hear the 3,000 volts of electricity now buzzing through the barbed wire.
Circling the ring, Wim prepared his onslaught. Sokolov sidestepped, drawing him in. Then Wim lunged with a powerful cross punch and clinched. Grappling around his neck, the Dutchman pummeled Sokolov with a barrage of diagonal knee strikes and elbow chops. Guarding against hits, Sokolov felt like a practice dummy. In rapid shuto moves, he first broke free from the clinch with the circular arm motion of mawashi uke, rammed the ridge of his knife-hand into Wim’s left kidney, and knocked him back with a palm-heel strike to the collarbone. As his opponent reeled, losing balance, Sokolov propelled him across the ring with a sidekick planted into the chest. The sheer force of Sokolov’s yoko geri sent Wim into a tumbling slide through the razor-sharp glass.
The big Muay Thai fighter grunted in pain as he picked himself up, eyes bulging wildly. He dashed forward in a relentless all-out attack. The strikes descended one after another from every direction, all intended to maim or kill. The Dutchman targeted the vital points of the human body. Landing any of the blows cleanly would crush the throat, neck, solar plexus, temple, kidneys, groin, or ribs for l
ung damage.
A chaotic melee ensued. Wim’s jabs and hooks broke against Sokolov’s knife-hand blocks. Sokolov defended from each roundhouse with a shin block and deflected the teep kicks by swinging his leg in a hooking motion. He hit back after every parry, but none of his tsuki connected with accuracy. The exchange of offensive and defensive actions between the two fighters was frenetic. His opponent’s intensity pressured Sokolov to retreat closer to the now-lethal barbed wire.
A fraction of a second gave Sokolov an opening he sought. In his frenzied assault, Wim lingered to pull his leg back from an unsuccessful kick. Sokolov countered. From the blocking sune uke position, leg raised, he snapped a front kick into Wim’s standing leg which carried his full weight. Sokolov’s wooden geta heel crushed the kneecap. The Dutch fighter’s own 97-kilo mass did the rest.
Roaring in agony, Wim went down like a sack of bricks.
Sokolov twisted his hips, spinning in an unstoppable pirouette of ushiri mawashi geri, whipping his leg out, the sole smashing through the opponent’s jaw.
Relieved of several teeth, Wim collapsed face-first, kissing the canvas. He would remain sprawled for a while, knocked out. The Dutchman’s helpless, prostrate form was completely at Sokolov’s mercy. Yet he hadn’t the slightest inclination to kill the defeated Muay Thai fighter. He had never intended to murder another man, before or after the Bloodbout. He knew that his opponent wouldn’t have shown the same respect and sportsmanship toward him, but the fact couldn’t sway Sokolov’s principles.
Sokolov doubled over, chest heaving from exhaustion. The extreme physical effort had taken its toll. Seconds passed. Outside the ring, he heard the all-too-familiar sound of an AK charging handle being pulled back to load a 7.62-millimeter round from the magazine.
“Finish him, you idiot!” a Burmese guard shouted to Sokolov in English, training the AK at him. “Or I’ll shoot you!”
Temple of Spies Page 9