Arkangel, page 11
“And Dr. Stutt?”
Valya shrugged. “She has not been seen all day—not at her research lab, not at her apartment.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’ve been exposed.”
The archpriest stiffened. “By who?”
“Another party must’ve intervened.”
“How could that be?” Sychkin reached to the cross on his chest. “Only a handful of people know what we found in that old book.”
“Regardless, I took precautions after failing to hear from the others this morning. In fact, the intrusion by these others was not wholly unexpected, especially as I all but invited them here.”
“What are you talking about?”
Gray knew the answer. He pictured the black-and-white footage of the attack on Red Square. Seichan cursed next to him. She had warned that the brazen attack could be Valya’s attempt to lure Sigma into Russia, to get them involved.
But it wasn’t just that.
“I knew Radić would be easy to break,” Valya said calmly. “It’s why I picked him as a courier. Especially as I knew he was compromised and likely to be watched.”
Gray dropped his spyglass and grabbed Seichan’s arm, but she was already moving, retreating from the window. Even without the scope, Gray noted Valya turn and face the old dyehouse. Her words, now in English, reached his earpiece from the parabolic microphone.
“But they will be dealt with.”
Gray took another two steps when a series of explosive detonations tore through the building. The floor jolted under him, throwing him headlong. Flames brightened the darkness. Billows of smoke tried to smother it.
More blasts erupted, timed and positioned to gut the inside, to collapse the crumbling infrastructure into the basement.
Gray reached for Seichan—only to watch her fall away from him, tumbling down into the jagged ruins.
8
May 11, 6:12 P.M. MSK
Moscow, Russian Federation
Jason Carter recoiled from entering the morgue. He had seen dead bodies before, but the stench of wet flesh, bleach, and embalming fluid made him balk.
He and Monk, along with Father Bailey, had driven straight from the airport to a beige brick building that had a mouthful of a name: Federal’nogo Mediko-Biologicheskogo Agentstva Rossii Byuro Glavnoy Sudebno-Meditsinskoy Ekspertizy. It was Moscow’s Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. The morgue was in the building’s basement, where the ventilation system dated back to the Soviet era.
Monk and Bailey led the way, flanking the chief medical examiner, a skeletally framed man named Dr. Lev Grishin. The examiner’s face was etched with a perpetual scowl, as if disappointed in the world and his place in it. As such, he showed little patience or interest in these ambassadorial investigators from the Vatican.
“The causes of death are obvious,” Grishin said, in fluent English. “For both men.”
Jason reluctantly followed the group into the morgue. It was lined with five stainless-steel tables, two of which were occupied by draped bodies: Monsignor Alex Borrelli and the Russian archivist, Dr. Igor Koskov.
Grishin turned to Bailey. “Father, your team is welcome to examine your colleague’s body, but you’ll need permission from the family to do the same with the other.”
Monk stepped forward. “That won’t be necessary. Confirmation of the cause of death is a mere formality in this investigation.”
Grishin’s stiff demeanor softened. He was likely worried that his judgment would be contested.
According to Monk’s forged credentials, he was a pathologist, which was not far from his true field of study. The man had been a medic with the Green Berets, but he had undertaken a doctoral program in forensic medicine after being recruited by Sigma. He eventually expanded his studies into biomedical engineering—though the latter was more of a personal interest. Monk had lost his left hand during a Sigma op and now wore a DARPA-designed prosthetic that was nearly indistinguishable from the real thing.
Bailey lifted an arm toward the doorway. “Dr. Grishin, if we could indulge your patience to allow us some privacy to perform our exam and to pay respects to the deceased.”
“Of course.” He appeared more than happy to oblige. He pointed to an intercom on the wall as he headed out. “You can call me when you’re finished. In the meantime, I’ll ready the paperwork to have the monsignor’s body prepared for transport back to Italy.”
Jason watched him hurriedly exit the room.
Clearly, he wants us out of here as soon as possible.
Once the examiner was gone, Bailey turned to Monk and Jason. “I asked Bishop Yelagin to join us here.” He checked a wristwatch. “He should be arriving momentarily.”
“At the morgue?” Jason asked. “I thought we were meeting the bishop at your embassy, to help solidify our ambassadorial role with the Holy See.”
Jason was uncomfortable with this sudden change in plans. After working for five years under Kat Bryant, he had grown inflexible, preferring every detail of an operation to be prescribed and followed.
He had not always been that way. When he was nineteen, he had been trained as a systems analyst for the navy, but he had chafed at the military’s endless rules and regulations. Especially considering the incompetence of those dictating those orders. His defiant attitude eventually got him discharged—that and the fact that, upon a dare, he had hacked into DoD servers with nothing more than a BlackBerry and a jury-rigged iPad.
Afterward, he had been offered a deal: join Sigma or serve time.
It was an easy choice, but one he had rankled against for months. It was Kat who eventually instilled in him a regimented work ethic—mostly because he had learned to respect her ethos and intelligence. Still, he couldn’t fully shake his rebellious streak. He blamed his parents. Throughout his youth, Jason had been raised at the adrenaline edge of life. His mother was a paleoanthropologist, who often took Jason out into the field. His father—an Australian caver and diver—was known for his high-value rescue operations.
So, when this opportunity arose to head out with a Sigma team, he took it. With all that was happening—with the possibility of Sigma being disbanded—he didn’t know if he’d get another crack at a field op.
Now, standing in a morgue, he began to question his life choices. He caught a reflection of himself in the polished bank of refrigerated storage cabinets. With his rail-thin physique and light blond hair, many mistook him for a teenager. Still, from the very beginning, Kat had never questioned his value or worth, respecting his analytic mind and his oily way of thinking through problems. She had also never doubted his physical prowess. They often worked out together in the gym or sweated through a marathon.
Before departing D.C., she had laid an extra assignment upon his shoulders. “Keep Monk out of trouble,” she had warned. “That’ll be the hardest part of this mission.”
Her husband certainly looked perturbed now. Monk’s brow crinkled as he pressed Father Bailey further. “Why did you change the venue of our meeting with Bishop Yelagin?”
Bailey winced. “Of late, friction between the Russian Orthodox Church and the Holy See has escalated. Especially considering the patriarchate’s growing ambitions toward building a new—”
Monk cut him off. “In other words, you don’t trust Bishop Yelagin.”
“Let’s say I’m being judicious. At least, until I get a better handle on him. By having Yelagin come here—to be face-to-face with the deceased, men he sent to their doom—perhaps he’ll be more forthright with us.”
Jason noted how Bailey’s gaze lingered on Monsignor Borrelli’s pale face. The priest clearly struggled with his own guilt.
“Plus,” Bailey mumbled, “I do have a way to judge how willing Yelagin is to cooperate with us.”
“What do you mean?” Monk asked.
Bailey shook his head. “All in due time.”
Jason scowled, discomfited by the priest’s obtuseness.
Monk simply shrugged and crossed to the table. He folded back the drape covering each body. Without touching either of them, he eyed their wounds. The monsignor’s throat had been cut deep, exposing the white of his larynx. The Russian archivist had an exit wound mid-chest. The round had likely pierced the man’s heart, killing him almost instantly.
Monk returned their shrouds to their respective chins. “The examiner is right. The causes of death are plain enough. Not that there was ever any doubt.”
Bailey used this time to cross to a table and examine the monsignor’s personal effects. Blood-stained coveralls had been neatly piled next to a pair of boots. Someone had piously wound a chain around a silver cross, forming a spiral atop the clothing.
As Bailey touched the crucifix, his shoulder sagged.
Jason hated to intrude upon the other’s grief, but he had a pressing question. “Did they ever recover Monsignor Borrelli’s phone?”
Bailey shook his head. “I reviewed the list of my friend’s belongings. There was no phone.”
Jason had hoped the attackers had abandoned the device. If he could’ve retrieved fingerprints or DNA evidence from the phone, then maybe he could’ve definitively confirmed that Valya Mikhailov was involved with all of this.
He stared over at the body of Monsignor Borrelli, picturing the deep slice across his neck. He did not doubt Seichan’s assessment about who wielded that blade. He found his hands wringing together as time passed and his anxiety grew—not due to where he stood, but from one nagging certainty.
We’re running out of time.
6:35 P.M.
Muffled voices rose from the hall outside the morgue.
Finally . . .
Jason let out the breath he had been holding. They all turned toward the door as it swung open.
Grishin led in two others. The medical examiner showed far more deference to these newcomers. The weary disdain had drained from his voice, replaced with a reverence.
“Vot ty, Yepiskop Yelagin,” Grishin said, with a slight bow of his head.
“Spasibo, Doktor,” the tall man acknowledged.
They shared a few more exchanges, then Yelagin raised a hand in a clear blessing. Afterward, Grishin backed out of the room and quietly closed the door.
Alone with the newcomers, Bailey crossed over with his arm out. “Thank you for agreeing to meet us here, Bishop Yelagin.”
The man shook Bailey’s hand. “Anything to help bring the murderers to justice.”
Jason heard the slight catch in the bishop’s voice as his gaze fell upon the two bodies behind Bailey. His face was pale above his long gray beard, his dark eyes haunted. A hand clutched the cross hanging from a chain over his black cassock.
Jason flicked a look at Bailey. It seemed the good father might have made the right choice when it came to leveraging the other’s guilt.
Bailey introduced Monk. “This is Dr. Kokkalis, a forensic pathologist with Europol.” He shifted his hand toward Jason. “And Dr. Carter, a lawyer and criminologist from the Hague, who specializes in cyber- and organized crime.”
Yelagin nodded to them both. “The Moscow Patriarchate appreciates your help in this matter.”
Jason turned his attention to the bishop’s companion. A slender woman stood a step behind Yelagin’s shoulder. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, maybe a year or two younger than Jason. She was dressed in a somber black dress that reached her ankles. Her hair was entirely covered by a discreet head scarf.
“This is Sister Anna,” Yelagin introduced the woman. “A novice with the Novodevichy Convent in Moscow.”
The woman trembled, but not due to the number of gazes turned upon her. In fact, she ignored them all. Her focus was on the bodies atop the steel tables. A small hand lifted to cover her mouth.
The reason for her distress became clear.
“Igor Koskov was her older brother,” Yelagin explained.
Jason read the ache in the pained squint of her eyes, the tremor in her raised hand, the shortness of her breaths. He suddenly wished Bailey had stuck to their original meeting place at the embassy.
Yelagin continued, “Before heading here, I was informed by Dr. Grishin that you would need a family member’s permission to examine Igor’s body. Sister Anna is his only living relative. While she could’ve transmitted that consent, she asked to see him. I could not refuse her.”
Guilt spiked through Jason. Their bit of subterfuge in luring Yelagin to the morgue had inadvertently trapped another, someone already grieving who didn’t deserve to have her suffering stepped upon.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Bailey intoned, looking equally regretful about this circumstance. “If you’d like some time alone with your brother . . .”
She shook her head, lowering her hand. She opened her mouth to speak, but she had to swallow hard to get her words out. “Thank you, Father,” she said softly. “But I will find a time to grieve more fully. For now, I wish nothing more than to uncover the bastards who killed my brother.”
Bailey’s brows rose at her harsh tone.
Yelagin touched the young woman’s arm. “Such language—”
She stepped away, her back straightening, refusing to apologize for her words. She circled the group and crossed stiffly to her brother’s side. Unlike Jason, she did not balk. Fingers rose to touch her brother’s cheek. She then gently shifted the drape more securely, as if tucking her brother into bed.
A prayer whispered from her lips.
Bailey drew them to the far side of the room. “We’ve already completed our examination of the bodies,” he told Yelagin. “We don’t have to stay long. But there is another matter I wanted to discuss with you before we retired to the Apostolic Nunciature.”
“Of course, anything. You’ve all had a long day of travel, and I know how dear Monsignor Borrelli was to you personally.”
“Thank you.”
“What do you need from me?”
“It concerns a photograph that Monsignor Borrelli dispatched to the Vatican archives prior to his death. We had hoped you might be able to help us about one aspect of it.”
Jason kept his expression stoic. Bailey had not warned them about his intent to share this level of intel with Bishop Yelagin.
“Let me show you,” Bailey said and drew out a tablet from a satchel.
The priest tapped open a file to reveal the photo of the ancient Greek book’s gilded frontispiece. The image glowed brightly on the screen, only the good father had cropped out the top section that showed the golden book. All that was visible was the sketch of a building and part of the annotations surrounding it.
“We were hoping you might help us identify this place,” Bailey said.
Yelagin held out a hand. “If I may?”
The father passed him the tablet. As Yelagin studied it, Bailey cast a quick glance over to Monk and Jason, his look heavy with import.
Jason understood.
This is the test that Bailey had mentioned earlier, to judge Yelagin’s level of cooperation.
“I don’t understand,” the bishop said. “What does this have to do with the men’s deaths?”
“We believe Monsignor Borrelli photographed a page from one of the books found in the vault under Moscow. For him to have dispatched it with such haste, I feared it might be important.”
Yelagin’s eyes narrowed as he mumbled, “Perhaps he believed it was some clue that would lead to the Golden Library of the Tsars.”
Jason inwardly flinched.
How had the bishop made that leap? Especially without seeing the gilded book at the top of the page?
“Why do you say that?” Bailey asked, feigning confusion.
Yelagin sighed. “It was Monsignor Borrelli’s hope—all of ours, actually—that the books hidden in that vault might be part of the lost library of Ivan the Terrible.” He lifted the tablet. “This certainly makes me wonder if that might not be true.”
“Why’s that?” Monk asked.
“This sketch. If I’m not mistaken, it’s an early rendition of the Holy Trinity Lavra in Sergiyev Posad, a town seventy kilometers outside of Moscow.”
“Truly?” Bailey retrieved the tablet and tapped through to a search browser. He finally brought up a photo of a cluster of onion-shaped bell towers, fortified walls, and clusters of buildings. He positioned it next to the sketch. “You may be right.”
He shared the photo with Monk and Jason to confirm.
Jason compared the two. The photo’s main architectural landmarks certainly appeared to match the sketch—though the passing centuries had changed the religious site somewhat.
Bailey lifted one brow toward Jason and Monk. Plainly, the father had already deciphered this bit of the mystery. By getting confirmation from Yelagin, it suggested the bishop was willing to cooperate and not stonewall them.
Still, Jason had a question. “I’m familiar enough with the legends of the lost Golden Library. But, Bishop Yelagin, why did you ask about it when you saw this sketch just now?”
“Mostly because I know Monsignor Borrelli had been intent to look for clues that could tie the cache of books to the lost library. If he had sent this photo with such haste to the Vatican, it would suggest he had discovered something.” The bishop frowned with clear disappointment. “Yet, I don’t understand why he wouldn’t have shared it with me. We had been on good terms, especially as I allowed him to accompany the archaeology team down into the vault.”
“You said this was mostly the reason that you made a connection to the Golden Library,” Jason pressed him. “What else made you think so?”
Yelagin pointed to the sketch glowing on the tablet. “The Holy Trinity Lavra was one of the locations outside of Moscow that many believe could be where Ivan the Terrible hid his library.”
Bailey studied the tablet closer. “I thought everyone was convinced it was lost somewhere under the city.”
“That was the consensus for a long time,” Yelagin agreed. “The most ardent advocate for this location was a Russian archaeologist—Ignatius Stelletskii—who spent all his life looking for the Golden Library under Moscow. He searched until his death in 1949. Perhaps based on his lack of success, the search eventually extended outward. Since the 1990s, others have been looking farther afield. Mostly scouring any sites with historical ties to Ivan the Terrible.”
