Temple of Spies

by Ian Kharitonov

  Sokolov gripped the AK, thumbed the safety lever down, and pulled the charging handle, chambering a round.

  From the sitting position inside the dangling basket, he struggled to maintain balance as he brought the stock to his shoulder. He steadied his breathing to the rhythm of the locomotive’s rattling wheels. Mischenko had brought the basket within a couple of meters of the scout train. From such a close distance, the driver’s cabin was impossible to miss. The cabin was so near that Sokolov managed to see his adversary through the side window.

  A North Korean soldier in winter uniform was sitting at the controls. His peripheral vision caught the tethered basket looming outside. His head jerked in surprise a moment before he met his death.

  Sokolov squeezed the trigger. The AK chattered on full auto, spitting fire from its muzzle. The 5.45x39mm rounds tore through the driver’s cabin, piercing steel and smashing glass as Sokolov emptied the magazine. He ejected it and snapped a fresh one into the receiver with an audible click.

  Slinging the AK diagonally across his back, he drew himself up. Precariously, he leaned forward, placing a foot over the top tube of the frame. Pushing his body away from the basket, he propelled himself toward the train.

  In mid-air, his heart froze for a split second as he felt that his leap was destined to fail and he would crash against the ground. With the agility of an Olympic gymnast, he clutched the handrails outside the driver’s door with his fingertips. Swinging his legs, he got a foothold on the loop step below. Hanging on one-handed, he pulled open the bullet-riddled door and jumped inside.

  The heated train cabin reeked of gore and motor oil. The dead driver sat sagging behind the steering wheel, red patches of blood surrounding the bullet holes in his head and chest. The Trans-Siberian Railway wasn’t safe for North Koreans, after all.

  The scout train was still chugging along the tracks. Sokolov gave the ancient instrument panel a quick glance. He only had a vague idea of the meaning of each gauge and dial, but his general knowledge of train operation would have to suffice. The speedometer needle jittered at the 30 km/h mark. Sokolov threw the master controller handle from acceleration to braking. The train decelerated, wheels squealing, but the drop in velocity wasn’t sharp enough. Sokolov pushed the emergency brake button. The locomotive shuddered as it came to a complete halt. Staying on his feet, he twisted the bezel of his Breitling to mark the time.

  Sokolov had only gotten the job half-done. Next, he shifted the gear into reverse and set the controller handle to acceleration. As the 2000-horsepower diesel pushed the 120-ton locomotive into backward motion, Sokolov rushed to the door and hopped out of the cabin. He somersaulted to cushion his landing on the rock-hard frozen earth, and sprang to his feet.

  The Kamov buzzed, floating in the air a few meters away, ready to scoop him up with the rescue basket. Sokolov sprinted toward it. Every second counted. Reaching it, he hauled himself over the frame and collapsed onto the solid platform in a heap. No sooner had he scrambled into it than the rescue basket lifted off the ground, tugged by the rapidly-ascending Kamov.

  He hadn’t dragged himself over the finish line just yet. The Ka-32 had to gain maximum distance, breaking away from the railroad. Sokolov’s breathing came in ragged puffs of vapor. The basket pitched and swayed as the electric winch hoisted it at full speed. Once it drew level with the helicopter door, Zubov snatched Sokolov by the lapel of his parka and yanked him inside the chopper. They both toppled onto the deck.

  “Watch it! You’re choking me!”

  Zubov groaned. “I’m glad that you’re fitter than Mischenko, but I’m not doing this ever again. Find someone else to literally drag your hide out of the fire next time.”

  “If there is a next time. The fire won’t get us but we might still die from the radiation.”

  “Love your optimism,” said Zubov, getting up.

  He hurried back to the co-pilot’s seat.

  The engines roared.

  Sokolov flicked his wrist, checking the chronometer as he made a rough calculation. The ten-minute delay between the scout train and the LNG freighter meant that the time would be cut in half if they traveled on a collision course. He’d managed to get back into the chopper inside ninety seconds, so he estimated that the crash would occur in three more minutes. The chopper should be ten kilometers away by that time.

  Despite his fatigue, Sokolov rose, pulled the rescue basket back in and slammed the door shut. At the port window, he watched the tundra recede from view as the Ka-32 climbed to cruising altitude.

  He counted down the seconds, thanking the Lord for their escape to safety as a flash streaked across the horizon.

  18

  The train crash left no survivors.

  The freight train was coming out of a curve when the two-man crew suddenly saw the scout train closing in at full speed. They engaged the hand brakes, trying to restrain the freighter’s momentum, but nothing could have prevented the collision. The two trains rammed into each other head-on. The impact heaved the scout locomotive skyward and killed the crew inside the freight train’s cabin, turning it into a mass of corrugated metal. The diesel caught fire immediately.

  In a chain reaction, forty of the fifty-six freight cars derailed, including the tank cars which rolled sideways. Almost every tank car was breached, spilling liquefied gas.

  A mist of vaporizing gas shrouded the wreckage.

  The freight locomotive had broken free from the rest of the train. The fire from the burning diesel ignited the leak, blowing up fifteen hundred cubic meters of LNG.

  A series of explosions quaked the Siberian tundra. Gigantic fireballs erupted in quick succession, the flames shooting more than fifty meters high. The approaching church train was engulfed in flames before any of its occupants knew what hit them.

  The LNG detonation created a blast radius of over one kilometer.

  The radioactive contamination from the destroyed nuclear device was spreading even farther.

  19

  The Patriarch of Lubyanka banged his fist against the mahogany table.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  Spittle flew from Galaktion’s mouth.

  “I’m asking you, Saveliy Ignatievich! Care to explain?”

  The mood inside the Red Room was less than jovial compared to their previous meeting.

  “Nobody knows for certain how it happened,” Frolov replied. “It’s too early to reconstruct the chronology of the accident. Only a full investigation will reveal all the details. At the moment, preliminary findings show that the trains somehow crashed into one another. The resulting fire caused a massive explosion. It prompted a response from emergency crews, who arrived on the scene within a few hours. The Defense Minister has privately told me that they detected traces of radioactive pollution. A red zone has been cordoned off and huge numbers of EMERCOM and Army personnel have moved in to secure the area. All trains running on the Trans-Siberian Railway have been cancelled indefinitely.”

  “Do they have anything that may put the blame on me? Any incriminating evidence?”

  “Nothing so far. They’ve recovered several bodies from the wreckage.”

  “What bodies? Can any of them be identified and linked to the Patriarchate?”

  “No, Your Holiness. The train convoy was one hundred percent North Korean.”

  “To hell with the North Koreans! Incompetent bastards, the lot of them. Where’s the damned bomb? Did it remain intact?”

  “It was aboard the freight train when the liquefied gas detonated.”

  Galaktion’s bloodshot eyes watered.

  “Operation Temple is finished,” he uttered ruefully.

  “It’s gone up in smoke, so to speak. We must regroup.”

  The Patriarch pointed a crooked, arthritic finger at Frolov.

  “You … you …! It’s all your fault! You dragged me into this! You told me that the plan was foolproof! And now you want to back out?”

  “Don’t forget yourself, you old foo
l. Nobody could have predicted such a force-majeure event as a train derailment. It was an act of God.”

  “Your irony is inappropriate,” Galaktion said through gritted teeth. “Did your man retrieve the Oltersdorf books, at least?”

  “No. He’s vanished without trace. And so have the papers, as well as the girl.”

  “It’s unacceptable! I made promises to some very dangerous people. This setback makes me more vulnerable than ever.”

  “There are few people more dangerous than me. I also gave my word to men in high places. We may have lost the battle, but not the war. I prepared for any eventuality, no matter how outlandish. Trust me, I’ve got all bases covered.”

  Cooling off, the Patriarch asked, “So, what’s your backup plan?”

  “Damage control is the first priority. Thankfully, keeping the whole affair under wraps won’t be a problem. The Kremlin has already enforced a media lockdown on the rail disaster story. My FSB ties will help me influence the investigation to make sure that your name never crops up.”

  “And after that?”

  “We’re still in this together. Despite our failure to transform Russia into a theocracy, I count on your continued support. We have every chance of seizing power by other means. It’ll take more time and effort, but with your commitment nothing is impossible.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’ll need your money, human resources, and above all, your public backing.”

  “We’ve known each other for a long time. Throughout the years, you’ve always avoided publicity. What scheme would require it, all of a sudden? Saveliy, don’t tell me that you’re plotting a revolution.”

  “Why, we live in a free and democratic society. The Constitution says that any Russian over the age of thirty-five can be elected as the country’s President. Your Holiness, may I have your blessing to run for office?”

  EPILOGUE

  We are fighting against the Bolsheviks in a mortal struggle which cannot end in a treaty or an agreement, for in this fight we are protecting the Motherland against The International, freedom against tyranny, and culture against savagery.

  —Admiral Alexander Kolchak, July 1919

  The three-man council convened in the sanctuary of the government office opposite the Bolshoi. The secret meeting continued long into the night as its participants decided the fate of the gold treasure.

  Each of the three group members had just returned to Moscow: Constantine, who’d recovered from injuries; Eugene, whose blood tests had shown no radiation exposure; and Nikolai Klimov, back after his inspection of the disaster area on the Trans-Siberian Railway.

  As the senior man, it was the general who had the final say on the matter.

  Constantine read out the Oltersdorf statement in full. He’d spent the previous week holed up in the mobile command unit, decoding the notebook by hand. It was an extraordinary document. Of all the theories surrounding the mystery of the lost gold, the evidence revealed by Peter Oltersdorf confirmed the wildest one.

  With the city of Omsk, the capital of Kolchak’s government, about to fall to the Bolsheviks, the Admiral had ordered the evacuation of the gold reserve. Gold bullion worth 250,000,000 rubles had been loaded into wagons and sent across the frozen Lake Baikal. The winter of 1920 had been particularly harsh, with temperatures dropping below -60 degrees Celsius. The caravan had frozen to death crossing the world’s largest lake. The coming of spring had thawed the ice, sending the gold-laden caravan to its watery grave.

  The remainder of Kolchak’s treasury had been transferred to pay for the support of the Allies: monies allotted for military procurement but never spent. The funds had been accruing interest across numerous accounts in British, French, American, and Japanese banks. Baron Oltersdorf had provided a detailed list of every bank and every account.

  “A century later, there’s little chance of winning any legal battle against these financial institutions,” Constantine concluded. “After the revolution, the Soviet government declared all of the financial obligations of the Russian Empire null and void. Technically, the Russian Federation is the successor of the USSR. As a rightful heiress, Stacie could file a lawsuit and try to claim the accounts held by Peter Oltersdorf personally, but I think her case would be difficult.”

  “She’s home safe, and that’s the only thing that matters to me,” Eugene said. “I’m glad she’s no longer burdened by these notebooks, which fell upon her like a curse.”

  “Or perhaps a blessing in disguise. Without the Oltersdorf legacy, you would never have met.”

  “True. God works in mysterious ways.”

  “The gold caravan,” said Klimov. “Did it really sink to the bottom of Lake Baikal?”

  Constantine put aside the sheaf of papers.

  “The hunt for the Russian gold started way back under Stalin. And by the 1970s, the KGB had already searched Lake Baikal for the gold. They wouldn’t have mounted an expedition without sufficient proof that the gold was located there. But without the exact coordinates, they failed to discover it. The bullion is more than a legend. It’s real and tangible, and now we know where to look for it.”

  Silence fell. Klimov was lost in thought and the Sokolov brothers awaited his verdict.

  “It’s within my capacity as the EMERCOM Minister to set up a salvage operation. The Mir submersibles can reach the deepest point of Lake Baikal. If the gold is really there, we will find it. And yet … I believe that the Oltersdorf secret should not leave these four walls.”

  Eugene nodded in agreement. “Even if we did salvage it, the gold would ultimately fall into the hands of Frolov, Galaktion and their ilk.”

  The decision was unanimous.

  “The gold belongs to Russia,” said Constantine. “Not the Russian government or the Russian people, but the Russian Empire which died fighting communism. We shall let it rest in her crypt.”