Arkangel, page 44
He rushes to meet it.
As it comes down, he jumps high, twisting his length, muscles stretching. His teeth catch and clamp. He savors this victory, landing in the warm grass. He spins a circle, showing his triumph.
He then rushes back, flipping the ball high.
His packmate catches it just as deftly.
They are one.
Always.
Kane prances away, dancing his jubilance, knowing down deep it can’t be forever. It won’t be always.
But for now . . .
He faces his man.
One more time, one more time, one more time . . .
11:44 a.m. EDT
Takoma Park, Maryland
“Sixteen minutes until D-day,” Monk sounded off.
Gray paced the small room off the main chapel. The ceremony was set to begin at noon. He checked his watch, then shook down the sleeve of his black Armani suit. He straightened his tie, clipped with a silver ∑ symbol. He ran a hand over his slicked hair, but a stubborn cowlick defied his efforts.
“Quit fussin’,” Kowalski said. “You’re not gonna get any prettier.”
The two men were his groomsmen, as stiffly dressed as he was. None of them looked comfortable in their suits. They were built for tactical gear and boots. He scowled down at his polished dress shoes. He rubbed at the toe of one with the heel of the other.
“If you scuff that,” Monk warned, “Kat will murder you in your sleep. She’s already read the riot act to the wedding photographer.”
“Because she’s taking her maid-of-honor duties seriously.”
Monk feigned offense. “Are you slighting my efforts as best man?”
Kowalski grunted. “That bachelor party sucked. You ran out of alcohol.”
“A problem very much due to you,” Monk reminded the large man. “I ordered enough for a small platoon.”
Kowalski rubbed his forearm where he had been stabbed. “It was for medicinal purposes. For the pain. Doctor’s orders.”
Monk scowled. “It’s been two months and—”
They were thankfully interrupted by Painter as he knocked and entered. “The bridal party is all set,” he reported.
“So, Seichan didn’t make a run for it,” Kowalski noted.
Gray knew the man was joking, but that worry did lurk at the back of his mind. Still, even with the pressure of the wedding, Seichan had seemed more settled over the past months. There was a new calmness to her. It was not necessarily a sense of peace—that was not Seichan—but more the impression of an inner resolve, a centering that had escaped her until now.
He knew a large part of that had to do with Sigma regaining its footing. The group had identified and eliminated the bomber of the Smithsonian Castle. The remainder of Valya’s organization was systematically being picked apart and snuffed out. Likewise, the events in Russia, especially on the polar ice cap, had been acknowledged by those in the upper echelons in D.C. Through Sigma’s efforts, a global war had been avoided. Since then, all talk of dissolving the group had faded.
Still, Gray knew Seichan’s calmness was not solely due to the firming of Sigma’s standing in D.C. With the fall of Valya and her organization, Seichan was less shadowed and haunted. Gray and Seichan had talks about this, usually in bed, in the dark, where it was easier to bare one’s heart. Her past with the Guild had scarred her deeply. It was never going away, but by finally burning away the last vestiges of the Guild, those lingering shadows left behind, represented by Valya and her group, Seichan now felt freer, able to heal that old wound.
Maybe not fully, but enough.
Painter crossed to Gray, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t know if you want to hear this now. I got news from Russia about an hour ago.”
Gray frowned, worried, but happy for any distraction. “What is it?”
“Archpriest Sychkin hung himself in his gulag cell. His body was found this morning.”
Gray nodded, not surprised, only disappointed. The bastard deserved to suffer longer, but the world was better off without him drawing air. Gray suspected that Sychkin’s activation of the failsafe device, calling hellfire upon Hyperborea, had nothing to do with preserving Russia’s position in the Arctic, and was all about ending his own suffering—and taking down as many people with him as possible.
Dying alone in his cell?
Gray could live with that, especially knowing the lingering effects of that selfish act. He had seen photos of the blast’s aftermath. The residual heat of the explosion and the radioactive glow continued to keep the ice melted for miles around the site. The peaks had been shattered or damaged, marking the grave of those ancient people.
Still, Jason’s recordings of what had been found below were being studied by academics around the globe. Likewise, there was renewed interest in the unusual genetics of bowhead whales, and their ties to longevity. As to the sarkophágos species, it was not likely any plants survived, but for now, no one would get any closer to look, not until it all cooled down.
Gray inquired when that might be. “Any further word about the radiation levels up there?”
Painter sighed. “It’ll remain hot for years. And the environmental effects will last even longer. Still, the act has forced the Russians to throttle back their ambitions in the north. After the NOAA satellite recorded and broadcast what had happened, the Russians have been more cooperative, maybe begrudgingly so. Still, that accommodating attitude has extended to another site.”
Gray looked at Painter. “Where?”
“The Golden Library—or at least what remains of it. Russia has opened its doors to researchers around the globe, including those from the Vatican. Likely it’s their attempt at regaining a measure of goodwill.”
“Has Father Bailey had a chance to revisit the site?”
Painter lowered his eyes. “Not yet. And I’m not sure he’ll ever want to. Lots of ghosts there. Plus, his rehab continues. He’s having a hard time of it.”
“Understood.” Gray tried to change the subject. “I heard that Captain Turov has been named as the new admiral of Russia’s Northern Fleet.”
“He has. Nothing like being cheered as a national hero after he saved all those lives aboard the Ivan Lyakhov. The world all watched that daring rescue. While a few of his superiors might have resented some of his choices and actions, none dared challenge the surge of public opinion. Especially for a country that needs to make amends to the world.”
“What happened to his boss, the former commander of the Northern Fleet?”
“Glazkov?” Painter shrugged, showing a slight smile. “He’s vanished, but I don’t believe it was of his own volition.”
Gray nodded.
Good riddance.
“On better news,” Painter said, “the Polar King is again plying the seas. As I understand it, they are being greeted at every port with raucous celebrations for their efforts. And not a single member of the old crew chose to abandon the icebreaker.”
Gray was happy to hear it.
“Two minutes,” Monk warned them all, tapping at his wrist.
Painter headed for the door. “Which means I’m needed elsewhere.”
Once the director was gone, Gray took a deep breath. Monk’s countdown reminded him of Byron ticking down the time left to them on the Polar King. Only this time hopefully it wouldn’t end in a nuclear explosion.
He pictured his last sight of Hyperborea, burning under the polar sun. He recalled a discussion he’d had with Sister Anna back in the Golden Library. It concerned Catherine the Great’s decision to keep the lost archive hidden, along with the secret it held: the location of Hyperborea. According to Anna, the Russian empress must have believed that her world wasn’t ready for the wonders and horrors of Hyperborea. All of Catherine’s puzzles and hoops were aimed toward one goal—as a test to prove some future generation was wise enough and cautious enough to receive such knowledge.
Gray shook his head.
After all that had happened, the answer was grimly clear, as plain as a fiery plume mushrooming into the Arctic sky.
We were not.
“Time’s up,” Monk announced.
Gray stirred back to the present. He gathered with the other men. There were some final congratulations and jokes as they departed the room and crossed the short hall to the front of the chapel.
Once there, Gray took a breath and stepped before the altar, where a priest clutched a book to his chest. The man nodded to him, as if checking to make sure he didn’t have cold feet.
Gray turned away. He had leaped through fire, been shot at countless times, stabbed even more, and faced down ferocious beasts, and now—he had survived a nuclear blast.
I can do this.
He faced the small gathering, forty or so of their closest friends and family. Monk and Kowalski stayed at his side. As the music started, his gaze fell upon his son, Jack. The boy fidgeted next to Jason, whose sole wedding duty was to keep the young boy out of trouble, likely one of the hardest chores.
Jason nodded back to Gray. Sigma’s tech expert had recovered after everything and had even put in a request with Painter for future field assignments.
The kid must be gunning for my position.
Gray returned Jason’s nod.
Fat chance.
Motion drew his eyes as the rear doors opened. The first through were two flower girls, the daughters of Monk and Kat. They cast petals from baskets and crossed with all the solemnity of priests at a high mass. But halfway down, the pair started throwing petals at each other, and much giggling ensued. Still, they made it to the front and were scooped up by an aunt and uncle.
The bridal party came next, floating in billows of crimson chiffon, with Kat trailing the last of the bridesmaids.
Monk whispered next to Gray. “I’m the luckiest man.”
“I might argue with you about that,” Gray said as Seichan stepped into the chapel.
Painter presented her, holding out an elbow.
Seichan rested a hand delicately on his forearm. She was dressed in dark crimson, her veil and train snow-white lace. Her bodice was snug, sculpted of oil-black leather that accentuated her every curve.
Gray gaped at her approach down the aisle, at her leonine grace. When they had first met, she had been dressed in motorcycle leathers. He appreciated this small nod to that moment, marking the anniversary of their first encounter, a meeting that ended in a fierce firefight.
He silently promised to never let that passion wane.
Upon reaching the end of the aisle, Painter stepped aside to let Seichan cross the last steps to the altar on her own. She turned and squeezed the director’s arm, not to hold him there, but to express her thanks.
Kowalski used this moment to lean and whisper to Gray, “Last chance, buddy. Getting married? Sure that’s wise?”
In the big man’s words, Gray heard an echo of his earlier ruminations.
As Seichan climbed toward him, he reached down and took her hand.
Wise or not . . .
Gray didn’t care and smiled with all his heart.
And to hell with being cautious.
He stared into her eyes, challenging her.
Let’s throw caution to the wind.
Epilogue
Early autumn
In an apartment overlooking the Pontifical University of the Holy Cross, Bailey sat in the comfort of a deeply cushioned chair. A small hearth glowed with a few embers, holding back the evening’s chill, a kiss of the winter to come.
The warmth soothed the aches that had settled into his bones. Dusty shelves surrounded him. A book lay open on his lap. He reached to turn a page, but there was no finger to do so. He cringed at his body’s betrayal, at its stubborn refusal to accept what he had lost.
He clenched a fist of three fingers. His left hand was also missing a digit, its middle finger. But that was not the worst damage. He lifted a palm to his right eye, or where it had been. A patch covered it. He was still adjusting to how it had changed his depth perception. He had trouble even climbing the stairs up here.
The cane hadn’t helped much. But he continued to need it as his left ankle had mended poorly and would require a second surgery.
But that could wait.
It had taken him a long time until he was fit enough to reach this apartment on his own. A doorknob rattled in the next room. He sat straighter. The apartment door creaked open, a light clicked on, followed by footsteps. A soft whistling of breath approached this room. Then those footfalls stumbled near the threshold, expressing worry, concern.
The door into the study swung open.
A tall, gray-haired man stood framed against the light, his body stiff with fear, but then he relaxed with recognition.
“Prefetto Bailey,” Cardinal Samarin gasped out. “What are you doing in my apartment? Do you need some help?”
The cardinal eyed the cane resting next to the chair, which remained comfortable and warm. Bailey settled deeper.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Bailey said. “I’m glad you were late returning home from your evening classes at Holy Cross. It gave me a chance to search your apartment more thoroughly.”
“But why?”
“It’s taken me months, far too long, to finish this investigation, even with Monsignor Borrelli only keeping a small circle of confidantes. Those whom he might trust with information concerning a discovery in Moscow.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Back in Moscow, Monsignor Borrelli must have been suspicious after being ambushed in Red Square. He must have feared someone had betrayed him, someone he spoke to in Rome, someone he thought he could trust.”
“You can’t think that I had—”
Bailey pointed at the cardinal’s desk, where a drawer showed a broken lock. Bailey lifted what was hidden under the book in his lap, what he had found in that locked drawer. As he raised it, the gold shone in the glow of the hearth. The ring carried an embossed emblem of wings and a sword.
Bailey read what was inscribed on its inside, translating the Russian Cyrillic. “Arkangel Society.” He tossed the ring at the cardinal’s toes. “Apparently, the Vatican isn’t the only Church with its own intelligenza. It seems the Moscow Patriarchate has their own, too.”
Cardinal Samarin took a step back, raising a hand. “Let me explain.”
Bailey sighed, knowing there could be no explanation. After all that had happened, the injuries and agonies that he had sustained, he had no patience. He pictured Bishop Yelagin, Monsignor Borrelli, Igor Koskov, and so many others.
Bailey reached to his lap, to what else was hidden under his book. He pulled out the Glock 19 fitted with a silencer. He squeezed off two shots, which sounded like sharp gasps. Samarin stumbled two steps away, then crashed to the floor.
Bailey shoved out of the comfortable chair with a small grunt of complaint. He pocketed his weapon, collected his cane, and headed for the door, which required stepping over Samarin’s body.
As he did, he did not look back.
He knew this act was a mortal sin.
He would seek absolution with a confessor from his intelligence group. Even with such an ally, he would undoubtedly have to recite hundreds of rosaries to wash away this sin—which he would do.
For a simple reason, one that had nothing to do with forgiveness. Those rosaries would serve as a reminder of the justice served here this evening.
So I’ll savor every one of them.
Author’s Note to Readers: Truth or Fiction
At its core, Arkangel has been a puzzle-box of a story—one with a nuclear blast of an ending. It’s been a tale of maps and legends and how they can blur the line between fact and fiction. But now, here at the book’s conclusion, I thought I’d share how much of my story is fact and how much is fiction. I also thought I’d dig a little bit deeper and tell how this story came about: the inspirations and strange tangents that became this novel.
Let’s start at the beginning.
For decades, I’ve collected all manner of esoterica in my “idea box.” Typically, it’s pieces of history that end in a question mark, something I can try to answer within the pages of a book. Or it’s scientific articles that make me go “what if” and allow me to speculate where they might lead.
In this case, I had notes and articles regarding all the Hyperborean legends, which seemed to blend historical mysteries with scientific speculations—but I had no idea how to build a story around it.
Then I learned about Aleksandr Dugin, a Russian philosopher who believed the roots of the Russian race stretched back to a lost continent, what the Greeks called Hyperborea. As mentioned in the opening notes to this novel, Dugin’s ultranationalist viewpoint led to the man’s work being required reading by the Russian military and at the country’s top political science academies. It is said this theological view of Russia’s destiny was used to justify the invasion of Crimea and Ukraine. So much so that Dugin is often referred to as “Putin’s Brain.”
Likewise, there is indeed an offshoot of Dugin’s philosophies—the New Scythians—who seek the origins of the Russian people elsewhere: among the nomadic tribesmen of Eurasia.
To me, this supported what Anna Koskov espouses in this novel: Myths can move mountains. And thus, it gave me the jumping off point for this story.
But before we move on, and further separate truth from fiction, I thought I’d share another small inspiration, one not birthed from that “idea box.” Instead, it sits behind me as I write this afterword.
In the prologue, explorers discover a mammoth tusk that had been inscribed with a hidden message, turning that artifact into a large piece of scrimshaw. Years ago, I had obtained a mammoth tusk at an auction for the estate of an archaeologist. It, too, had been inscribed, becoming a piece of art. I thought I’d share it here, too.
This artifact inspired that moment in the prologue. And while that tusk is more than two hundred thousand years old, I don’t think we need to go that far into the past to dig deeper into this novel’s historical subject matters.
VASILY CHICHAGOV & CATHERINE THE GREAT
