Temple of Spies

by Ian Kharitonov

  Sokolov wouldn’t budge. He wasn’t worried about the guard yet, who was holding the AK too casually at his hip. If the soldier wanted to make good on his threat, he would have to come closer and get a better aim. Instead, the guards were backing away, AKs at the ready.

  They’re keeping a safe distance, he realized a moment too late.

  The loudspeaker crackled with Song’s voice for the last time.

  “Final Round!”

  Abruptly a succession of explosive charges went off around the ring’s perimeter. The blast knocked Sokolov down. He fell sideways near the edge of the ring, a whisker away from getting electrocuted by the barbed wire. But as he got back up, he saw that it was only a matter of how he would be fried and not if. A continuous wall of fire surrounded the ring from all sides. The detonations had set blaze to fuel containers hidden in the sand. The heat was so ferocious that Sokolov felt as if he were stuck inside a furnace. The flames were creeping toward the ringposts. Before long, the conflagration would reach the canvas and roast him alive.

  He heard a guttural cry behind him.

  Despite the damage he’d suffered, Wim Nieuwenhuizen still came at Sokolov. It was kill or be killed. He was dragging his crippled leg. His lacerated skin was bleeding profusely. By Sokolov’s rough estimate, the list of inflicted injuries also included a bruised kidney, fractured collarbone, cracked sternum, broken jaw and smashed nose. Any other man would have required immediate medical attention. Not the Dutch fighter.

  He’s definitely pumped on dope, Sokolov thought. But the Bloodbout was never meant to be a fair fight!

  Like a wounded beast, he threw himself at Sokolov in one last desperate attack. He clawed savagely at Sokolov’s face with one hand and swung the other, stabbing with a jagged fragment of broken glass. There was no style or strategy involved, just the desire to survive by any means necessary, driven by a primeval instinct.

  Sokolov spun out of the way and kicked the Dutchman’s upper back with a hooking kake geri. Wim lost his footing and the added momentum carried him straight into the fence of barbed wire. Sparks showered. The deadly electric current made quick work of him. The body jerked convulsively. Then the corpse sagged, arms hanging grotesquely, caught between the strands.

  One way or another, Wim Nieuwenhuizen had died.

  Sokolov gasped for breath. Smoke from the encircling fire filled his nostrils.

  The Bloodbout was over. Yet the loudspeaker remained silent. Song never announced the result.

  Sokolov remembered Frolov’s gloating.

  Once you enter the ring, you won’t make it out alive. There will be no winner.

  Sokolov checked his Breitling, still intact on his left wrist, and counted the seconds.

  The bomb beneath the ring was about to detonate.

  His eyes searched for an escape route.

  If the bomb doesn’t kill me, then the flames, electricity or the guards will.

  No more time to think and no options to choose.

  He dove to the canvas and rolled over the sharp-edged fragments, underneath the taut barbed wire … and into the raging blaze.

  An explosion blew the ring apart.

  11

  Only seconds after the fight ring exploded, a hovercraft appeared offshore, speeding across the surface of the Andaman Sea at forty knots on a mantle of churning froth. The Red Star on its hull was menacing. It was a Yuyi-class LCAC (Landing Craft, Air-Cushioned), operated by the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Navy.

  The LCAC landed on the beach of Billionaire Island, its huge gas turboprops whining, sand blowing around it. The Chinese hovercraft sprayed seawater from its inflated skirt and 14.5-millimeter rounds from its two twin machine guns. The bullet storm raked the beach, cutting down the patrolling Burmese soldiers, their bodies dropping in red puffs.

  Measuring thirty-three meters from bow to stern and sixteen across the beam, the medium-sized LCAC was roughly as large as a gray whale, but unlike a beached sea creature, this monster glided along the coastline effortlessly.

  No sooner had it hit the shore than Chinese troops disembarked and deployed around the beach. They numbered at least a platoon of two dozen men, all dressed in blue camouflage uniforms and brandishing Type 95 automatic weapons in search of targets. An armored personnel carrier rolled out in support.

  Sokolov lay behind the debris of the fight ring. His position helped him remain unnoticed. He had covered himself in sand, smothering the flames which had caught the left pant leg during his jump. His ears were still ringing from the bomb blast.

  All five guards keeping watch over the Bloodbout had been shot by the machine guns mounted on the Chinese hovercraft. Miraculously, a volley of rounds buzzed just over his head and snapped a palm tree a few meters behind him into half, as if it were a toothpick.

  Sokolov watched the scene unfold in shock. He’d seen a Russian Zubr-class hovercraft, the world’s largest with a 150-ton capacity, up close. Although dwarfed by the four-story-tall Zubr, the Chinese Yuyi-class LCAC was every bit as intimidating in action, as Sokolov had just witnessed first-hand. By their uniforms, Sokolov identified the troops as the Chinese Marine Corps. Probably the Special Operations Force Battalion, which carried out commando missions for the PLA Navy.

  They split up into several groups. A four-man protective detail remained at the hovercraft. Eight men entered the APC through the door in the rear. The rest followed the APC on foot. Smoke and the flickering flames obscured Sokolov’s view of the LCAC over a hundred meters away. He doubted that any of the Chinese troops could see his figure, much less determine that he had stayed unscathed in the carnage, but he took no chances. He didn’t dare move until he’d made sure they were out of sight. In a well-organized formation behind the APC, the Marines proceeded along the beach in the direction of the Billionaire Casino.

  The main force advanced toward their objective. So far, the Chinese had shown no interest in searching the demolished Bloodbout venue for survivors, but everything could change at any moment. Billionaire Island kept throwing surprises at him, and he wasn’t going to lie around waiting for the next one. His left leg hurting like hell, Sokolov crawled in the sand, avoiding the scattered debris. He picked up an AK from a fallen Burmese.

  Then he made a dash for the growth of tropical vegetation.

  12

  Stacie felt his rancid breath, reeking of alcohol, as Philemon hissed in her ear.

  “Just so that you’d know, I was never in favor of killing your aunt. But Father Mark was right, it did bring you out to San Francisco. That old foolish woman signed her own death warrant when she turned the Oltersdorf notebook over to me. Little did she know that by telling me about you, she signed your death warrant, too. Tonight you will be sold to the highest bidder among the villa guests. You’re useless now. Mark has found the codebook.”

  She heard a distant thunderclap carried over from the beach. A pre-planned explosion, according to Song’s microphone-amplified commentary echoing from within the palatial walls of the Casino.

  She shivered, her breathing hurried. Reclining in the deck chair, she scanned the beachfront and saw black plumes of smoke drifting from the location of the fight venue, isolated from view by a row of palm trees. Philemon squeezed her wrist to get her attention.

  “It’s a shame that your suffering will serve no higher cause. But it won’t end anytime soon. You’ll remain a prisoner on the island until you die from abuse.”

  After the extremely intense but short-term euphoria induced by the drugs, her heart raced and she felt as though insects were crawling under her skin, all over her body. The evil priest’s words added to her growing psychosis.

  “If you feel so sorry,” she murmured, “then why don’t you kill me now?”

  Philemon laughed. “Murder is a sin. I’m here merely to grant absolution from it. Besides, your destiny is out of my hands. It’s for Mr. Song to decide. The Bloodbout is losing its shock value, so a new attraction will be required shortly. A fatal gang-rape in
front of spectators, perhaps? Now that’s something I’d pay money to see.”

  Another blast sounded, louder than the previous one.

  “A lamb for slaughter like that clueless fool Sokolov. He’s also paid the ultimate price for not minding his own business. You two share this stupid altruism that has gotten you in the same predicament. Oh, well. Sometimes the blood of Abel needs to be shed for the world to remain in order.”

  Sickened by him, Stacie averted her eyes from the old man. Now she was hallucinating. She saw a huge vessel approaching the island. Some kind of hovercraft—rather ugly with a pair of massive propellers at the back—was gliding over the water.

  Just as it came to a stop at the beach, a strange staccato of sharp cracks sounded.

  Gunfire?

  It can’t be real, she thought. Why would the island security or the hovercraft shoot at each other?

  It didn’t make sense unless … the island was under attack!

  Her doubts evaporated as slugs hit the Casino, pockmarking the nearest wall and shattering windows. And few stray bullets zipped in the air, rippling the surface of the swimming pool in tiny splashes.

  Everything was happening so quickly that she just sat there, paralyzed by fear and the sudden realization.

  In panic, the Asian call girls ran around screaming. One of them was shot at the edge of the pool and her limp body plunged into the water, diffusing a red hue.

  Releasing Stacie’s hand, Philemon turned his head sharply toward the beach. In the next instant, his left eye socket exploded in a spray of gore. The bullet exited through the back of his head and he collapsed, going straight to hell. There wasn’t a doubt in Stacie’s mind about that.

  Almost catatonic, Stacie stared blankly at his corpse, blood oozing from his skull on the sundeck. Then she willed herself to snap out of her trance. Overcoming her disgust, she bent down to frisk the dead body. She patted the side pockets of his cassock.

  The car key! There it was!

  Stacie snatched it. She rolled over, getting up from the other side of the lounge chair and ran barefoot across the sundeck as fast as he could.

  She knew she had to run away from the Casino, instead of trying to hide inside it, to stand any chance of survival. She darted behind the palace, finding the Range Rover Sport parked exactly where Philemon had left it. The car’s sensors picked up the signal from the electronic key in her hand, recognized it and unlocked the doors remotely. She climbed in the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut, mashed the engine ignition button, yanked the gear lever and floored the accelerator.

  The Range Rover lurched forward. But before she managed to break away, a pair of soldiers cut off her escape route. Unlike the island guards, the attackers wore blue uniforms. She turned the wheel sharply. The soldiers fired automatic weapons. The windshield erupted with a web of fractures. Stacie let out a cry and cowered as the car skidded. More bullets peppered the car. Her terror-gripped mind took a moment to register the fact that none of the slugs were penetrating the vehicle. Abruptly, the gunfire ended with two loud pops as the soldiers dropped, taken out by well-placed head shots. Stacie directed her gaze toward the dense tropical growth where the shots had come from. To her astonishment, an AK-toting man dressed in a once-white karate outfit approached the Range Rover. It was the Russian fighter, she realized, and he had just saved her life. He presented a shocking sight, covered in blood and sand, his left trouser scorched. Yet his azure-blue eyes projected equanimity. It made her feel secure. He was her only hope of making it out of there alive.

  She reached over to the front-passenger door and pushed it open.

  “Are you Eugene Sokolov?” she asked him in Russian.

  “Da,” the tall man grunted as he climbed into the seat next to her. “And what’s your name?”

  “Anastacia. Stacie.”

  “You’re doing great, Stacie. Keep your cool. But listen, we need to get off the island, fast.”

  Weakly, she murmured, “There’s a seaplane jetty further down the shore.”

  “Good. I’ll drive us there. Fortunately, the car is fully armored. Just get in the back and don’t worry about anything. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  13

  Inside Billionaire Casino, the gathering of dignitaries turned into a massacre. Smoke and fire filled the palace as 30-millimeter shells hit from the turret-mounted cannon of the Chinese APC. Explosions rocked the Casino, echoed by a cacophony of muted moans and cries from the decimated human mass. Blood slicked the jumble of debris, dead bodies, overturned game tables and torn-off limbs. The bombardment relented as the Chinese Marines stormed the building, gunning down a trio of disoriented Korean officers. A Burmese official hobbling away was dispatched by a quick burst to the forehead. Fanning out, the Marines killed off all survivors methodically. North Korean or Burmese, military or civilian, call girls or croupiers—all were annihilated without mercy.

  Song had every wish to avoid a similar fate. Just as the Chinese Marines swarmed the Casino, he pressed a button to activate the on-stage fog machine. Concealed by artificial haze, Song vanished backstage.

  He scrambled to safety down a secret passageway, bathed in white fluorescent lighting. It would take him to the beach from the other side of the palace. To save his skin, he had to reach the jetty before the Chinese seized it. A single plane remained after Frolov’s departure. There was no alternate escape route.

  He clutched the porte-monnaie, which contained the Oltersdorf notebook. He could not allow it to fall into the hands of the Chinese. No doubt it was the reason behind the attack. Billionaire Island had been compromised—but how?

  The answer awaited him at the end of the passageway. As he was punching a keypad combination to unlock the hidden back door, a gun pressed against the nape of his neck.

  “Leaving so soon? I’d like to collect my winnings.”

  “Chatchai,” Song hissed. “How much are the Chinese paying you?”

  “More than you ever offered.”

  “You’ve won. Name your price and let me go.”

  “Oh no, I’m not as stupid as you think,” said Chatchai. “It takes some brains to become a triple agent.”

  Chatchai’s brains splattered all over the floor as Song pivoted, wrenched the gun from his grip and blasted his skull.

  14

  Stacie, I need you to keep your head down. Lie as low as possible to make sure nobody can see you. Understand?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She shifted from the rear seat and crouched on the car floor. The position was less than comfortable as the Range Rover sped over beach sand, but she did as he told her without complaint. Slouching low, she pressed her weight against the seat and held tight. Sokolov admired her unfazed response to the life-threatening circumstances. To him, she was an innocent bystander somehow caught up in this mess and he couldn’t allow her to get into harm’s way. Even though the car was bullet-resistant, no armor was truly bullet-proof. Getting Stacie out of a possible line of fire was his first priority. The tinted windows would help her stay out of sight and avoid detection as an easy target. Sokolov’s main goal was getting them both safe and sound to the lone seaplane moored at the jetty. He nestled the AK in his lap. Like cars in Thailand, the Range Rover was a left-hand-traffic model, so sitting on the wrong right side again felt awkward—but it freed his right hand to shoot.

  “How many planes did you see when they brought you here?”

  “At least a couple. I can’t remember for sure.”

  “We’ve got the last one to catch.”

  “But who’s going to pilot it?”

  “I am,” said Sokolov as he rolled down the window.

  A pair of Burmese sentries were on the prowl, alerted by the distant sounds of raging gunfire. Approaching the jetty, Sokolov stuck out the AK through the open window and fired a few short bursts in their direction. Sand geysered at their feet where the bullets hit. Panic-stricken, the hapless guards entertained no thoughts of returning fire and dropped th
eir weapons cowardly. Holding their hands up, they sprinted away from the advancing Range Rover and vanished behind a cluster of palm trees.

  “So much for security,” Sokolov said, stopping the car next to the old wooden jetty. Uncertain whether the rickety structure would support the Range Rover’s weight, he didn’t risk driving onto the boards.

  “Stay put until I give you the all-clear sign,” he told Stacie.

  “Okay.”

  Sokolov didn’t have time to waste. He got out of the car and jogged along the deserted jetty. Loose boards creaked under his feet. Above, the crystal-clear sky was all his. He only had to reach the plane, get Stacie inside and fire up the engines.

  The plane sat low in the water thanks to its buoyant hull. Sokolov’s trained eye identified the aircraft as a Dornier Seastar. It was a turboprop-powered flying boat. Above the parasol wings, its propellers were mounted facing forward and backward in a push-pull layout. He peered into the Dornier’s empty cockpit. With his experience aboard EMERCOM’s own Beriev amphibians, Sokolov felt confident about his ability to handle the Dornier.

  With just a few more paces separating him from the aircraft, he heard a creaking sound behind him. Caught by surprise, he spun around to see a trapdoor swinging open a couple of meters away. Emerging from the hatch, a man barged forward and shoulder-tackled Sokolov before he could unleash a volley from the AK.

  The jetty wasn’t as dilapidated as it had seemed. The old wooden boards concealed an engineering feat. Some sort of an underground tunnel ran underneath, providing a safe passage in the event of any contingency. It must have connected the jetty directly with the palace, because the man attacking him was none other than Song. Knocked back by the momentum, Sokolov lost his footing. The AK broke from his grip, sailing over the edge of the jetty, and plopped into the seawater.

  Keeping his distance, Song aimed a gun square at Sokolov’s forehead. He sized Sokolov up with triumphant glare of his demonic, multicolored eyes. He wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger; the white tuxedo was already stained with someone else’s blood.