Arkangel, page 20
Tucker could get no closer to inspect the vehicles or the mansion’s rear. Tall electric gates closed off the parking lot.
But he didn’t need to.
Kane whined next to him, lifting his nose high, pointing his muzzle toward the gate. That was enough.
“Good boy,” Tucker whispered and added, “STAND DOWN.”
This rescinded Kane’s prior order: SCENT MARCO.
Tucker knew that if Marco had been hauled all the way here, the dog would need to relieve himself after the journey, going for the nearest post or bush.
Kane—who had lived for the past eight months with his new brother, eating, sleeping, playing, and training with the young Malinois—knew Marco’s scent as well as he did Tucker’s.
With this confirmation, Tucker continued past the gate. Kane followed with him, but the shepherd glanced over a shoulder with the faintest rumble of complaint.
Right there with you, brother. He patted Kane. Don’t worry, we’re not leaving Marco behind.
Tucker radioed Seichan. “They’re here. Kane caught Marco’s scent, like I told you he would. I’ll meet you at—”
She cut him off. “Stay in position.”
Tucker slowed as he reached the mouth of the back alley. “Why?”
“Sister Uliana suggested we make a house call.”
“Why?”
“To go begging for funds for their convent. Apparently, they do that a lot. It seems little of that new orthodox money ends up with them. They’ve approached Sychkin in the past and been rebuffed. So, what’s one more attempt?”
Tucker balked. “We were told to back off after we had confirmation.”
He could almost hear Seichan shrug. “This will give me a chance to look inside. Assess the security and manpower. Until then, stay close.”
He didn’t have to ask why again.
He motioned to Yuri and drew him into the alley.
“Chto sluchilos’?” Yuri asked, remembering to speak Russian this time.
From the security chief’s worried expression, the translation was easy.
What’s wrong?
Tucker tried to stare through the brick wall and mansion to its front stoop.
“We’re about to find out.”
8:32 a.m.
Seichan climbed the steps toward a wide stone porch. She followed behind Uliana, Maria, and Natalia and kept her head bowed.
It was Sister Uliana—a scrappy seventy-two-year-old—who had suggested this course of action. Seichan had balked at involving them, but Uliana had waved away her concern with a mischievous glint in her dark eyes. The other two had nodded vigorously in agreement. While still paranoid, Seichan had sensed no deception in these women, only impish glee.
They must really detest Sychkin . . . or maybe they watched The Sound of Music too many times.
Regardless of the reason, Seichan wanted a peek inside—and not just with her eyes. She also palmed a matte-black spherical listening device. If given the opportunity, she would roll it across the threshold into a dark corner of the mansion’s vestibule. While her team had secured the mansion’s floorplans, the blueprints offered no intel on the level of security inside.
Time to find out.
Uliana led their brigade through the garden gate and up to the front doors, which were carved out of oak, patinaed darkly by age, and studded in iron. The nun pressed a buzzer. Chimes echoed out to them.
As they waited, Seichan noted a security camera and kept her face turned away. She shifted closer to the hinges and stayed behind Natalia’s shoulders.
Loud footsteps reached them through the thick wood. A moment later, the door swung open. A huge figure filled the doorway, blocking the view. The giant was dressed in an ankle-length black cassock, the same as he had been wearing before, but he had shed his cap, showing black hair shorn in a pious tonsure. His exposed scalp formed the shape of a cross.
Even Uliana knew the commanding figure. “Brother Yerik,” she greeted him in Russian, offering a slight bow. “I see from the limo that the Reverend Archpriest Sychkin has graced our town once again. We were hoping to beseech his generosity. Our need has grown most dire.”
Seichan tried not to roll her eyes.
Yerik merely stared under heavy brows. The left side of his face and neck were scarred and pocked from an old burn. Seichan had heard about his past with an apocalyptic cult. His small black eyes took in the women, showing little regard for them. He lifted a palm, plainly telling them to remain on the stoop.
Seichan pictured his use of sign language back at the monastery. He was plainly continuing his vow of silence here, too.
He turned his back and stepped away, clearing the doorway.
Finally . . .
Past the foyer, which was darkly paneled and lit by gas wall sconces, a long hallway crossed the length of the building. Bulky men in black suits stood guard before a door at the far end. She also spotted the glowing eyes of security cameras high on the walls, both along the hall and in the parlors to either side.
She leaned down as if to scratch a knee.
With Yerik’s back to her, she rolled her listening device across the threshold, aiming for a pedestal that supported a marble figure of the Virgin Mary. She quickly lost sight of it as it vanished into the shadows.
Unfortunately, something was far more eagle-eyed and noted the intrusion.
A siren burst across the mansion, winding into a screeching wail. Her bug’s electronics must have tripped off a counterintelligence scanner inside.
Seichan swung around, pushed the shocked trio of nuns back, and pointed toward the steps. “Go!”
To buy the others time, Seichan did what she had wanted to do all along.
She rushed low across the threshold and ducked into a side parlor.
She radioed Tucker.
“Looks like we’re done hiding.”
20
May 12, 8:33 A.M. MSK
Trinity Lavra of St. Sergius, Russian Federation
Gray followed their tour guide across the expanse of the religious wonderland. Sister Anna led the way, walking backward with a clipboard in her hand. Bishop Yelagin came outfitted in the vestments of his office, including a silver-plated staff topped by a cross. He nodded piously as the nun extolled about the Lavra’s history with much drama.
She spoke in Russian, but the team’s earpieces translated her words. Monk and Jason flanked Gray. All of them were bundled into jackets, scarves, and hats against the crisp spring morning. The clothing also helped mask them.
Father Bailey was similarly attired, but with a white Roman collar showing above his scarf. He scanned the spread of baroque churches with wide eyes, looking astounded.
“A lavra,” Anna instructed everyone, continuing her role as guide, “was originally a term used to describe a monastery formed by a cluster of caves where hermits or monks would seclude themselves, usually with a small church at its center. Later, such a designation was only given to monasteries of great importance, true cultural centers.”
She waved an arm to encompass the breadth of the sixty acres. “Like the Trinity Lavra here. It was founded in 1337 by the monk Sergius of Radonesh, our most venerated Russian saint. Back then, the site was little more than what it was originally termed: a group of caves—with a few sacred springs—surrounding a small wooden church built by Saint Sergius.”
She kissed her fingertips and lifted her hand high in thanks, then pointed to a white basilica topped by golden domes and onion-shaped towers. “In 1422, the wooden church was replaced by a stone one—The Holy Trinity Cathedral. Inside, you’ll find the relics of Saint Sergius and icons painted by Russia’s most esteemed medieval artists.”
She stared meaningfully at Gray. “Unfortunately, you’ll not be able to visit there today, as the cathedral is closed to the public for a special project.”
Gray understood. Sychkin’s team from the Arkangel Society must be excavating beneath such an important landmark.
And not just there.
Anna sighed with a mournful expression. “Alas, such work is also being done at the Church of the Holy Spirit, built by Ivan the Third in the fifteenth century.” She nodded toward a smaller, squat church with an onion dome of bright blue and adorned with gold stars. “And sadly, the same is true of the Cathedral of the Assumption, which was constructed by Ivan the Fourth in the sixteenth century.”
Gray could appreciate Sychkin’s interest in those two buildings. Ivan the Great had secured the Golden Library, and his grandson Ivan the Terrible had hid it away.
So, of course, the archpriest would pick such places to search.
Anna drew them onward. They continued across the sprawling religious complex, aiming for a site far to the right of the Lavra’s main gates. So far, Sychkin had shown no interest in the Zvonkovaya Bashnya—the Ringing Tower—a relatively nondescript structure among the baroque richness of the monastic complex.
Still, another belltower had drawn the archpriest’s attention.
They circled past the Lavra’s tallest structure. A blue-and-white tower speared three hundred feet into the sky. Its conch-shaped golden belfry shone brightly in the morning light. Under it lay one of those sacred cave springs, said to have been summoned forth by Saint Sergius himself.
But no one will be sipping from those holy waters today.
Currently, the belltower’s entrance was cordoned off, guarded by a cadre of Russian soldiers with assault rifles. So, either an excavation was underway, or one was about to be started.
Anna led them past the tower and over to a tree-lined street, paved in bricks. The crowd of tourists dwindled around them. This corner of the Lavra was devoted to a theological academy. Three hundred monks still worked and lived here, maintaining the Lavra as a working monastery. Such academic pursuits drew little interest from the public.
Away from the crowds, Anna halted her act as a guide. There remained only a few people idling around this section’s meditative gardens. She led their group toward the towering white walls that surrounded the Lavra.
The Ringing Tower rose directly ahead of them.
Gray searched, but he spotted no military presence. Clearly Sychkin had not solved the riddle drawn in the old Greek text.
But will we fare any better once we’re inside?
Gray crossed with the others, passing by a small fire station to reach the tower’s entrance. His left ankle throbbed in his boot. He had swallowed several tablets of ibuprofen, but the long walk challenged the meds’ effectiveness.
To distract himself, Gray inspected the tower’s four white tiers, all rising to a green-tiled belfry, some sixty feet above. Its elegant façade, decorated with arches and pilasters, was pierced by arrow slits, a reminder of the era when the Lavra needed such fortifications. Still, when this tower’s bell would ring out during the eighteenth century, it was not to warn against intruders, but to mark the beginning and end of classes held at the Trinity Seminary, a theological school that continued to this day.
“We can enter through here,” Anna said.
She drew everyone toward stone steps that led up to an archway. The tower’s stout door stood open, but a small souvenir shop next to it was shuttered, a testament to the lack of interest in this remote corner of the Lavra.
They all crossed through the archway and into a cavernous entry hall. The white plaster walls and vault of the roof were decorated with a few faded frescoes of haloed figures. A single wall sconce cast a sad, bluish hue over the space.
“Looks like we have the tower to ourselves,” Bailey noted, staring around the deserted space.
Jason frowned. “Just as well. We have no clue where to even begin looking for a lost library.”
Bishop Yelagin inspected an alcove to the right, where a stone staircase spiraled upward. A rope closed off access to the heights.
“I don’t hear any footsteps or see any lights up there.” Yelagin brushed cobwebs from the velvet rope with his silver staff. “Definitely looks undisturbed.”
Gray stepped to the opposite side, to another alcove, only this one’s staircase led down. “If there’s a library here, one that’s remained undiscovered after so many centuries, it’s likely under us.”
He unhooked the rope barrier, careful not to disturb the dust, lest it give away that they had passed this way.
Monk headed down first, withdrawing a flashlight from his pack. “Nothing creepy about exploring a tower dungeon.”
Jason followed next, trailed by Anna, Yelagin, and Bailey.
Gray took up the rear, resecuring the rope behind him as he set off down the winding staircase. He also deployed his own flashlight. Underfoot, the steps had been worn smooth, slightly depressed in the center, eroded by centuries of sandals traversing up and down. The walls were initially made of brick, part of the tower’s foundations, but they eventually turned to raw limestone.
“How far down does this go?” Monk asked, his disembodied voice echoing up from the turns below.
“Each tower is different,” Yelagin answered him. “This one had a wine cellar beneath it, where the monks stored hundreds of casks, enough to serve the whole compound.”
“That may be why it’s so deep.” Anna ducked her head from the low roof. “Summers can be stifling, and winters bitter. But underground, an even temperature would protect the wine.”
“And maybe books, too,” Bailey astutely added.
Gray glanced up the steps. He pictured the religious school that was still operating as it had been during the time of Ivan the Terrible. Had the tsar picked this site due to its proximity to that place of learning? He remembered how Ivan had employed scores of scholars to translate the old books. If he ever wished to reopen his library, having it located here, steps from a school of higher learning, would make sense.
“Finally,” Monk called back, clearly having reached the bottom.
They all wound down to him, spilling into a vaulted space carved out of the limestone. Someone had tiled the floor long ago, but it was cracked and aged, pocked with missing sections, showing raw rock. Niches had been carved into the walls, possibly to secure the most precious casks of wine.
Jason slowly circled in place. “I wonder if this could’ve been one of the caves that the monks had used during the Lavra’s founding.”
“It could be,” Anna admitted.
Monk cast his flashlight’s beam around. “If so, then they must have believed in communal living. It’s a regular maze down here.”
Other limestone caves—or wine grottos—extended in every direction, spreading past the reach of their lights.
“If we hope to search this place in a timely manner,” Gray said, “we’ll have to—”
“Don’t say it,” Monk pleaded with him.
Gray ignored him. “We’ll have to split up.”
Gray checked his watch and looked upward, remembering his team wasn’t the only one on a mission. He imagined that Seichan and Tucker must have completed their canvass of Sychkin’s mansion by now, but he had no way to confirm. Their radios had lost signal after descending into the wine cellars.
He stared toward the maze.
I hope they’re having better luck than us.
21
May 12, 8:44 A.M. MSK
Sergiyev Posad, Russian Federation
Kowalski cringed as an alarm blared throughout the mansion. The sound ate into his skull—which still felt cracked after being battered inside the trash bin last night. It had left him bruised all over. His neck still had a throbbing kink to it.
He grimaced and rose from his cell’s cot. He did his best to shrug off his aches and pains.
Eh, I’ve had worse hangovers.
Knowing something was wrong, he stepped over to the metal door. A tiny, barred window allowed him to peek out into the next room. When he had been hauled down here in the wee hours of the morning, along with Elle and Marco, he had done his best to get his bearings. He had noted a boiler room, running with copper pipes, then they had descended another level, to some subbasement dungeon, maybe part of a secret S&M club.
The latter was suggested by the handcuffs hanging from chains bolted to the wall.
At least, I hope it’s a sex club.
Out in the hallway, a broad-shouldered man in a black suit guarded the steps that led up to the boiler level. The bulge under his jacket left no question that he was armed. The siren finally cut off, replaced by muffled gunfire echoing from above.
A trio of figures came rushing down. Two were cloaked and cassocked: a thin man with a prominent black beard and a hulking scar-faced giant.
The third was well known.
Valya Mikhailov scowled, her pale face darkening with anger. She carried her left arm in a sling, her shoulder heavily bandaged.
Someone must’ve tagged her.
Kowalski could guess who. Prior to the attack on the embassy, he remembered spotting Seichan slipping off and heading to the neighboring apartment building.
Once in the room, Valya grabbed the arm of the older robed figure. “Sychkin, I warned you. You should’ve let me bring in more of my team.”
“No need.” The man spoke with a calm assurance. “We’re barricaded down here. My security team will deal with the intruders. Plus, we have a contingency plan already in place.”
Another five men, all dressed in dark suits, rushed down the steps behind them. They were accompanied by a tall, muscular woman in motorcycle leathers. Her dark hair was drawn back in a ponytail. A thin scar ran across one cheek, from hairline to chin.
Sychkin turned to the cassocked giant, speaking in clipped Russian. Kowalski heard the name Yerik, and though he couldn’t follow the rest, it was clear the man was being ordered to move the prisoners.
Yerik turned to the men and signed to them—which was weird, as the giant had clearly understood his boss, so he wasn’t deaf. Maybe mute? No matter, the crew clearly understood, likely having worked with Yerik in the mansion. Pistols were pulled from holsters, and a pair of guards strode toward the next cell. The grating slide of a bar could be heard as the neighboring door was unlocked.
