Arkangel, page 10
She gave him a furious look.
He hoped she spoke English. “We’re trying to make sense of all this, too. We were tailing the man who met your assailants.”
She lifted a finger to a purpled welt under an eye.
“He was hired to take you to Moscow.”
“Moscow?” She frowned, then took a deep breath. “Why?”
“I don’t know. We believe there is far more at stake here. If you return home, I fear you’ll remain a target.”
The muscles of her jaw tightened as she considered his words. “Then what am I to do?”
“You can stay here,” Bogdan offered. “You will be safe.”
She glanced around and looked little consoled.
Tucker suggested another path. “There must be a reason you were grabbed. Whatever it is could be important. We have a team arriving in Moscow this afternoon. If you’re willing, they might help us determine your role in all of this.”
She frowned, clearly no happier with this plan. Then again, why should she trust any of them? They were all strangers to her.
Tucker stared at her. “If you come with us, I promise we will do our best to keep you safe, to get you back to your life as soon as possible.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who is we?”
Tucker waved an arm to Kowalski, who gave a slight bow of his head.
Bogdan motioned to his head of security. “Yuri, too. You may need his expertise.”
Tucker accepted the wisdom of this.
Dr. Stutt remained tense, clearly still unsure.
Finally, the last two members of the team joined Tucker. Kane slid up on his right side, Marco on his left. Tucker absently brushed their napes with his fingertips. It was a reflexive gesture of affection and brotherhood.
The woman stared from the dogs to him. “They’re coming, too?”
Tucker grinned. “Always.”
She considered the matter for two more breaths, then nodded. “I will meet with these others. But if they have no answers, that will be the end of it.”
Tucker nodded his agreement. “Thank you, Dr. Stutt.”
“Call me Elle?” She then qualified this offer. “For now.”
The botanist turned to the physician and spoke rapidly in Russian.
Bogdan used this moment to draw Tucker aside. “Now that’s settled. We must reconcile the other matter. With me lending Yuri to you—”
“It will further unbalance the scales between us,” Tucker said.
“Da, but there is an easy way to right that imbalance.” Bogdan glanced down. “Last time you were here, you came with only one dog. Now you have two. Maybe leave one. It will make us even.”
Kowalski overheard this. “Buddy, you’d have more luck asking for one of his balls.”
Bogdan scoffed, “I have no need for any more of those.”
Tucker scowled at the two men. “My balls and my dogs are staying where they are.”
“Then know I’m willing to pay . . . very well.”
Tucker suspected Bogdan was seldom refused his desires, but he’d have to live with disappointment this time. “No deal.”
Bogdan’s face darkened, and his lips thinned, but he simply waved Tucker off. “We will talk again.”
Tucker shoved past, hoping that he had not soured their relationship, or worse, made an enemy. He leaned down and brushed the flanks of his two dogs. No matter the cost . . .
I’ll never part with my brothers.
Tucker joined the botanist as she finished conversing with the doctor. “We should get moving.”
She nodded, but her hands wrung nervously as she followed.
Tucker flashed a signal to Kane. The shepherd rounded to her side, his tail wagging, ears tall. He pranced a bit on his paws.
His antics drew a small smile from the woman. She freed a hand and reached to rub his neck. As she did, the tenseness in her shoulders relaxed.
Watching her, Tucker noted the nametag on the woman’s coveralls. It reminded him of a question that had been nagging him, one he had failed to ask.
“Dr. Stutt—Elle—you’re a research botanist at the city’s gardens. But what were you studying there?”
She brightened as she faced him, clearly happy to talk about her work. “It’s a special interest of mine.”
“Which is what?”
She grinned. “Carnivorous plants.”
Second
7
May 11, 5:07 P.M. MSK
Moscow, Russian Federation
Gray rattled his motorcycle through an abandoned construction site that bordered the Moskva River. Other dirt bikes and ATVs sped across piles of sand and rock, using the area as a makeshift motocross track.
He did his best to blend in, riding a Russian-made IMZ Ural. The heavy-duty cycle had been designed for rugged terrain. He had also picked it for another reason. The Urals typically came outfitted with sidecars.
“Ahead of us,” Seichan warned from the neighboring seat. “On the left.”
Gray had spotted it, too, and sped faster. He turned away from the river, sending up a roostertail of dirt behind him. Seichan hunched under the sidecar’s windscreen.
A wooded slope bordered the far edge of the construction site. Above its tree line rose the crumbling red-brick remains of an old fortress wall. A massive round turret—topped by a tall spire—loomed above everything. It was one of the surviving towers of a sixteenth-century monastic fortress. The Simonov Monastery had fallen into disrepair centuries ago. All that was left were sections of deteriorating walls, a trio of towers, and a handful of outbuildings. Attempts at reconstruction and repairs had been sporadic. The site had eventually been given over to the Russian Orthodox Church, where they had refurbished a small corner of the sprawling grounds, turning one building into a shrine dedicated to Theotokos of Tikhvin.
That church was their destination.
It matched the address that Tucker had obtained from one of the attempted kidnappers—which made no sense. Why a church? But the spot still had to be checked out, and the timetable was tight, if they were not already too late.
Two hours ago, Gray’s team had landed in Moscow. While in the air, Gray had arranged for him and Seichan to canvass this area. According to what Tucker had overheard, the botanist had been scheduled to be delivered here at noon today.
That was four hours ago.
So even if the address was accurate, whoever had ordered the kidnapping was likely long gone.
Still . . .
Gray guided his motorcycle along the edge of the wooded slope, then nosed into a break in the forest. He cut the engine, which clicked and tapped as it cooled. He removed his helmet and turned to Seichan.
“Ready?”
She climbed free of the sidecar and tossed her helmet onto her seat. “Let’s get this over with.”
He dismounted, shouldered a small pack, and checked the SIG Sauer secured in a holster under his jacket. The two set off up the slope.
Gray hoped he had something to report to the others.
Back at the airport, Monk and Jason Carter had headed off with Father Bailey to meet with a representative of the Russian church: Bishop Nikil Yelagin. He was the man who had dispatched the doomed researchers into the labyrinth under Moscow. Their goal was threefold: to retrieve the body of Monsignor Borrelli, to establish their bona fides as part of the Vatican’s investigative team, and to circumspectly question Bishop Yelagin.
The other part of their contingent, Tucker and Kowalski, would be arriving in Moscow in another hour. They were traveling from Saint Petersburg aboard a high-speed train, secured in a private car, courtesy of Tucker’s Russian benefactor. It was quicker than flying and less problematic, especially with a pair of large shepherds in tow. The group was escorting Dr. Elle Stutt here for safekeeping, accompanied by the security chief of the Russian oligarch.
Gray stared up the slope toward the crumbling fortress wall.
What does a botanist have to do with any of this?
Her kidnapping could be unrelated—except for one intriguing detail. Gray had been pondering it ever since Tucker had reported in. It was one of the reasons Gray had headed directly here.
“There’s scaffolding to the right,” Seichan reported.
He looked to where she pointed and nodded. The watchtower—the Bashnya Dulo—was in the midst of a restoration. According to legend, it had gained its name after an invading Dulo khan was slain by an arrow fired from an upper tower window.
Now, the structure was circled by planks, ladders, and metal scaffolds.
As they drew closer, the need for repairs grew obvious. The steeple had already been restored, but the red-brick façade had huge cracks running from foundation to roofline. In an attempt to protect it, steel rings had been secured around its circumference, corseting it all together.
Gray climbed the last of the distance, but he paused at the edge of the woods. The tower and its steeple rose fifteen stories. He removed a small pair of binocs from his pack and scanned those heights. By now, all the construction workers should have left for the day. Still, he wanted to be certain there was no watchman left behind.
Then again, what’s there to guard?
He kept a vigil for five minutes, until an exasperated sigh rose from his side. Seichan passed him and headed toward the nearest ladder. She mounted it and quickly scaled upward. Gray hurried to keep up with her. Upon reaching the third landing—which rose to the height of the flanking walls—they clambered across its planks to the tower’s far side.
A panoramic view opened up.
Behind them, the curving expanse of the Moskva River swept off into the distance, its waters turned a rosy silver by the glare of the low sun. Ahead, the breadth of the monastic fortress revealed itself. The southern wall stretched ahead of their position, interrupted by two more watchtowers. A small park lay outside it to the right, but the grounds inside the walls lay steeped in shadows.
Directly ahead and nearly as tall as the tower stood a five-story outbuilding. Its red-brick exterior was lined by rows of windows—mostly toothed by broken glass. From his study of the layout, he knew the dilapidated structure was the monastery’s old “malter,” or dyehouse, one of the oldest industrial buildings in Moscow.
For Gray and Seichan, it would serve as the perfect observation post.
Fifty yards beyond the dyehouse, the Theotokos of Tikhvin Church rose in all its majesty, one of the prime examples of Moscow Naryshkin Baroque. Its series of red-brick wings and stories were decorated with white limestone pillars and fanciful pediments, all roofed in blue-gray slate.
Gray studied the structure.
Why bring a botanist here?
The two set off down the tower’s scaffolding and into the thick shadows of the grounds. They hurried toward the rear of the dyehouse, keeping the building between them and the church. They reached a broken-out window in the lowest level and ducked inside, cautious of the sharp shards that rimmed the opening.
“Now what?” Seichan asked, her voice frustrated.
He understood why. The interior of the old malting house had fallen into ruin, far worse than the exterior had suggested. Inside, the floors had collapsed across several levels, creating a labyrinth of broken beams, ribbed joists, and gaping holes. The nearby staircase was a pile of stone rubble, though someone had left a rickety ladder that looked as if it could have been original to the building.
Gray nodded toward it. “We’ll get as high as we can.”
They continued upward through the building, chasing a scurry of rats ahead of them. A few pigeons took flight with a flutter of wings and a pebbling of droppings. The place stank of urine and rotting wood.
“You sure know how to spoil a lady,” Seichan whispered as they finally reached the fourth floor.
“I pick only the best places for you, sweetheart.” Gray wiped a drape of sticky webbing from his face, then pointed ahead. “That window should offer a good enough vantage.”
He feared going any higher. While this level was mostly intact, the floor had buckled with age. Still, they reached the window safely. Its jamb was empty of glass, but rusty bars had been sealed over the opening.
Gray took a deep breath of fresh air.
Seichan simply scowled.
From this high vantage, the view allowed them to spy on three sides of the church, which was circled by a narrow road and a small parking lot. Any closer approach would leave them exposed and in the open. The plan was to assess the area for anything suspicious and proceed accordingly.
“We’re clearly too late,” Seichan said. “Assuming this is even the right place.”
Gray sighed, unable to argue. The tiny parking lot was empty. The only person in sight was a lone elderly man who swept the front steps with a broom. While some exterior lamps glowed in the shadows, the church’s windows remained dark.
Gray passed a pair of binoculars to Seichan. “We’ll keep watch for a half hour. If there’s no sign of any activity, we can move in, circle the church once to be sure—then head back to meet Tucker’s group.”
Gray prepped some gear from his pack, including a digital monocular spyglass, one that was capable of taking pictures. He then set up a tactical parabolic microphone for eavesdropping. It had a range of six hundred yards, more than enough to cross the distance to the church.
But will I need any of this equipment?
Minutes ticked past with no sign of anything suspicious.
Even the rats got bored and traipsed past the interlopers with brazen disregard.
And apparently it wasn’t just the vermin who needed some distraction.
“Our wedding,” Seichan said abruptly, her voice neutral.
Still, Gray heard the slight catch in those two words. “What about it?”
“Maybe we should postpone.”
He lowered his spyglass. “Why? July twenty-fourth is perfect. It’s when we first met.”
She gave him a sidelong look. “If you recall, we shot each other back then.”
He shrugged. “It’s our meet-cute.”
She cast him a withering glare. “With everything in flux, with Sigma on the edge of termination, maybe we should wait until matters settle. Who knows where we’ll be when—”
The growl of an engine cut her off.
They both turned to the window, lifting their respective scopes.
A black limousine wended through the monastery gates. Rather than heading to the church’s portico, the vehicle circled to the back of the building.
“Maybe someone is preparing for an evening wedding,” Gray mumbled. “Someone who hasn’t gotten cold feet.”
The driver climbed out and opened the door for a figure dressed in an ankle-length black cassock, sashed in gold. Even in the shadows, a large orthodox cross glinted under the man’s prominent, oiled beard.
“If it’s a wedding,” Seichan whispered, “there’s the priest.”
Using his spyglass, Gray snapped a few pictures of the man.
From the other side of the limo, another figure exited, unfolding his large frame. He had to stand seven feet tall. He was dressed in a dark robe. As he straightened, he adjusted a cylindrical flat-topped hat, a clerical chapeau called a kamilavka, typically worn by an orthodox monk. Gray only knew such details because he had studied up on the owners of this place—the Russian Orthodox Church.
The tall fellow crossed around to the other, his shoulders and head dropping in clear deference to the priest. The monk’s arms and hands fluttered for a moment. It appeared to be sign language.
Gray continued taking pictures.
“Too bad Kowalski’s not here,” Seichan whispered.
Gray understood what she meant. Kowalski—who had a deaf younger sister—was fluent in American Sign Language, but the Russian version was distinctly different due to cultural and linguistic variances, though likely a few phrases were shared.
The priest clearly understood the monk and waved to the church’s rear. The large man headed up the steps to an arched doorway, which was flanked by ornate iron wall sconces. The priest remained below.
Gray wondered if the monk had any ties to this church. From his research, he knew the building had been turned into a museum in the twenties, then a cinema in the thirties, before becoming a school for the deaf and hard of hearing in the nineties. Even the services held in the current church were accompanied by sign-language interpreters.
Still, there was only one way to know more about these new arrivals.
Gray raised the microphone’s parabolic dish to the window. The device was wirelessly patched to the earpieces that both he and Seichan wore and had been equipped with real-time translation.
The monk tapped an iron knocker on the old door. The amplified sound was loud enough in Gray’s ear to make him cringe. The monk stepped back, folding his arms. He glanced back to the priest as he waited for a response.
Finally, the door swung open.
A tall, slim woman stepped out onto the landing. She was dressed in clothing that matched the monk, only her flat-topped kamilavka had a veil at the back, demurely covering her hair, marking her as an orthodox nun.
But this was no nun.
Seichan tensed next to Gray.
“Valya,” she hissed.
Though the Russian’s features were heavily powdered, covering her facial tattoo, the stark white of her hair could be seen in wisps from under her kamilavka’s veil. But it was her manner more than anything that gave her away. She stepped dismissively past the tall monk to confront the priest, who remained at the foot of the steps, as if he had no desire to move any closer.
“Archpriest Sychkin,” she said with a note of bitter disdain. “You should’ve been here hours ago.”
“I had other tasks that required my attention.” The priest’s voice was deep and forceful, perfect for preaching from a pulpit, but the translation came out a robotic monotone. “Why was your summons so urgent, requiring my personal presence?”
“The man I hired in Saint Petersburg never showed. Acquisition of the botanist was confirmed last night, but then nothing. Repeated attempts to reach the others also failed.”
