Eternal Empire (14 page)

D
uring the riots in London, a number of observers in the media noticed an increase in sales of baseball bats, both online and at sporting goods stores, which was unusual for a country where baseball had never been particularly popular. One of these bats was leaning against the wall just inside the front door of Maddy's apartment. Buying it hadn't made her feel any better. Instead, it had given her the uncomfortable sensation that she had succumbed to the atmosphere of fear.

She had not gone to work that morning. When she telephoned to call in sick, Elena's response had been frosty. “You should give us more notice in the future. Vasily is leaving for Constanta in two days, and we need to sort out your duties before his departure. We want to make sure that you'll have enough to do—”

Normally, Maddy would have responded with something slightly chilly of her own, but she had more important things to consider. After confirming that she would be in tomorrow, she hung up, glancing at the riots on television, and turned back to the image on her laptop, a picture of
Ovid Among the Scythians
.

As she studied the image on the screen, Maddy wondered what Elena would have said if she knew her real plans for the next two weeks. Tarkovsky's impending departure had left him vulnerable. Until his return, she would be left on her own with the files, which, beneath their surface accretion of detail, contained traces of a darker narrative that she was slowly piecing together.

The first clue had been before her eyes the entire time, hanging in the hallway outside her office door. She had begun to assemble other fragments from the records of Tarkovsky's art transactions and filings for his public holdings, but the picture was still unclear. And she would share it with no one, not even Powell, until she had seen its full shape for herself.

In the meantime, however, she had been presented with another part of the story, the nature of which was still a mystery. Yesterday, the first official photographs of the damaged canvas had been released. The pictures had resulted in another flurry of news coverage, some of which had mentioned her by name, along with other famous acts of artistic vandalism.

Maddy was familiar with these cases, of course. She had read up on the subject years ago, after realizing that she would be numbered among them. Yet the man at the Met seemed different. Arkady Kagan had been born in Russia, served in the army for several years, and emigrated at the age of twenty. In New York, he had worked at a number of undistinguished jobs, mostly in data entry, and according to his friends and coworkers, he had been single, fairly private but not antisocial, and without any obvious signs of mental illness.

And there was another point, not mentioned in any of the news stories, that put his case in a somewhat different light. This was the fact, according to Powell, that the dead man had been an agent of Russian intelligence.

Closing the article on her computer, Maddy remembered something else that Powell had said. Since last year's attack, the networks within military intelligence had been destroyed, with illegal agents left stranded without any means of contacting their handlers. Which explained why the dead man had been found with a number in his possession for a phone that no longer worked.

And this, in turn, led her to another idea, one that had been gathering slowly over the last day. For much of that time, she had tried to ignore it, but as she considered it now, she was unable to think of anything else.

Maddy rose from the table and began to pace around the room, feeling like a caged animal in its confines. This was a dangerous state of mind to be in. She had been here before, reading meaning into facts and events that had no real significance. But she couldn't let it go.

Arkady Kagan had been abandoned in New York. With his handler's phone disconnected, he would have had no way of sending a message. But there was one other possibility. A dramatic act of vandalism would be widely reported. And if his face and name appeared in the news, sooner or later, it would be seen by the right people. Perhaps he had only intended to be arrested, trusting that the story and the painting's image would be carried overseas.

Which implied that the painting's destruction had been a sort of code. He had chosen this particular work for a reason. And to see what this message was, and whether it had gotten through, she had to look at the incident through the eyes of those who had been meant to see it.

There was, of course, one obvious interpretation. Maddy knew a man who had once been called the Scythian. The more she thought about it, however, the more doubtful she became. Ilya was already in prison and certainly known to military intelligence. Drawing their attention to him would have been beside the point. Moreover, this message, if it existed, had to be one that would be clear to its intended recipient but not to most other observers.

Maddy opened a new window on her laptop, switching to a view of the painting as it had been before its desecration. Here was the poet reclining on the ground, the perfect image of an exile. No one knew why he had been banished. He had offended the emperor in some unknown way, and ever since, his fate had remained one of the most mysterious episodes in classical history.

Whatever it was, Maddy thought, it had been serious enough to send him as far away as his adversaries could imagine. Deprived of his books, he had been exiled to a country where he did not speak the language, at the edge of what was then known of the civilized world, on the shore of the Black Sea—

Maddy paused. On the table, next to her laptop, sat a pile of reference books she had checked out of the library shortly after talking to Powell. One of the volumes was already open. Picking it up, she flipped to the passage that gave the name of the place where the poet had been exiled. She had read it earlier that morning and still remembered its position on the page. At last, she found it.

Ovid, it said, had been exiled to Tomis, now the port city of Constanta in Romania.

Maddy shut the book. Rising from the table, she went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her, and turned on the cold tap. The water on her face was freezing, but it had the desired effect, and the world, which had threatened to blur out of existence entirely, snapped into focus again.

She stared at herself in the mirror, the water glistening on her face, as the pieces came together. Tarkovsky was going to Constanta in two days. From there, he would take his yacht across the Black Sea to a signing ceremony in the Russian resort town of Sochi. This was public knowledge, and had been for weeks, long before the deal itself had been concluded.

What was not public knowledge, at least not yet, was what Powell had told her. Tarkovsky had long been connected to elements of military intelligence. In fact, he was their last remaining source of capital, a relationship that would become all the more lucrative after the Argo deal.

Which meant that a number of rival parties, especially on the civilian side, had good reason to go after Tarkovsky himself.

She tried to consider the problem one point at a time. If Arkady Kagan had learned that an operation was being readied against Tarkovsky in Constanta, he might well have seen only one way to get the message out. He had destroyed a painting that depicted the location in question, in a manner that would make headlines on both sides of the ocean. Only then could he transmit the name of the city above the noise of his own agency's collapse.

Maddy reached out for a towel and dried her face. Then she ran her fingers through her hair, opened the door, and left the bathroom.

As she returned to the living room, she reminded herself that it was necessary to take things slowly. The coincidence of locations was striking, but it might still mean nothing. And it would not be the first time that she read something into a work of art that wasn't there.

All the same, she owed it to Powell to tell him. Her phone was on the kitchen table. Picking it up, she was about to place the call when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye.

Her front door, which led to the hall outside, was open. It had not been open before.

She lowered the phone, then took a step forward. The baseball bat she had bought a day earlier was still leaning against the wall. It was only a few feet away. She took another step.

Behind her, the floor creaked softly. And even as she realized that she was no longer alone, the hood came down over her head.

AUGUST 8–14, 2011

The Scythian princes . . . dispatched a herald to the Persian camp with presents for the king: these were, a bird, a mouse, a frog, and five arrows. The Persians asked the bearer to tell them what these gifts might mean, but he made answer that he had no orders except to deliver them, and to return with all speed. If the Persians were wise, he added, they would find out the meaning for themselves.

—Herodotus,
The Histories

I clearly understand that I am responsible for what I did and do not ask you to soften my fate. Yet let me draw your attention to the fact that I discovered a physical phenomenon unknown to modern science.

—Alexander Barchenko, in a private letter to
Nikolai Ezhov, December 24, 1937

T
hr
ee years earlier, shortly after the series of events that led to her abrupt departure from the art world, Maddy had moved from Brooklyn to a smaller place in Astoria. As she descended from the subway platform on a cold evening near the end of November, she was one of the last passengers remaining on the train. Trudging home through the slush, she glanced back every minute or so, in order to reassure herself that she wasn't being followed.

When she arrived at her front door, which was a rental on the first floor of a tidy brick row house, she paused under the awning, key in hand. As usual, whenever she returned from her latest temp job in the city, she had to spend a moment convincing herself that no one was waiting for her inside.

In the end, she inserted the key firmly into the lock and turned it. Going into the darkened entryway, she shut the door and set down her purse. As she removed her boots, her heart rate began to slow. There was no one here. The danger, as always, was all in her head.

She switched on the light. In the living room, seated in an armchair, was Ilya Severin.

Maddy must have screamed, because before she was aware of any movement, Ilya was out of the chair and holding her firmly by the shoulders. His voice was low but urgent. “I'm not armed. I did not come to hurt you. I only need a few minutes. Then I will go.”

She stared at him, heart juddering, her mind still catching up to the fact that this was happening at last. All the while, a more detached part of her brain was already ticking off the relevant points. Her landlord was on vacation. The windows were closed against the chill. If she screamed again, there was no guarantee that anyone outside would hear her in time.

He released her and took a step back. She felt tears come, more instinctive than emotional, and was surprised at the steadiness of her own voice. “If you aren't fucking armed, then prove it.”

Ilya seemed to grant the reasonableness of this request. He backed up slowly, his eyes on hers, and undid his overcoat. Beneath it was a rumpled suit, but nothing resembling a weapon.

They regarded each other in silence. It was the first time she had ever really studied his face. He was younger than she remembered, certainly short of forty. His features were nondescript but more angular than before, and his eyes were as black as always. “What do you want from me?”

“Only to talk,” Ilya said. “I'm sorry to come see you like this. It was the only way.”

Maddy opened her mouth again. She found that she was shaking, her head somehow loose on her shoulders, and she was not entirely prepared for what she said next. “I need a drink.”

She took a step forward, still in her coat and scarf. Ilya fell back, giving her space, as she moved on autopilot into the kitchen. Keeping him in sight, she had to remind herself to breathe as she headed for the refrigerator, her eye briefly caught by the snapshot posted to the door as she opened it.

Maddy bent down, the refrigerator door hiding her from view. Half a bottle of white wine stood on the first shelf. Reaching behind it, she felt for the handle of the boning knife she had placed there weeks ago, one of several she had stashed around the apartment, a form of security born in equal measure from caution and her lingering chemical paranoia.

Glancing at Ilya, she saw that he was looking at the bookshelf by the dining table. She slid the knife quietly into the pocket of her coat. Then she took out the bottle and straightened up.

A used tumbler lay next to the sink. Closing the refrigerator, she pulled out the plastic cork and poured three generous inches of wine. When she turned to face Ilya again, she saw that he had taken out a book to examine it. He put it back, then indicated the table with its two folding chairs. “You can sit if you like.”

Maddy managed to pick up the glass, but she remained where she was. “I'll stand.”

Ilya only nodded and sat down. He pulled off his gloves, laying them side by side on the table before him. “It's strange, but I don't really know you. Even after our paths have crossed so often—”

Maddy put the wine down without drinking it. Ten feet of faded linoleum stood between her and the Scythian. “Why are you here?”

“I'm looking for Alexey Lermontov,” Ilya said. “He has left the country, but it is still too dangerous for him to return to Moscow. Once he goes home, he will be out of reach. I have come to the end of my own resources. And I thought you might have some idea of where he could be found.”

Maddy slid her right hand into her pocket, her fingers closing around the knife. “Why would I know this?”

“Because you worked for him. And there are some things a man cannot hide. His habits, his tastes, his affectations. I hoped you might have some insight into this.” He glanced again at her books. “I can tell you what I have gathered so far. Perhaps you can say if I am right or wrong.”

When she said nothing, Ilya began to speak slowly, occasionally pausing to search for the right word. “You worked at his gallery for several years. It must have been a good position. He was one of the leading dealers in the city, with important clients. And he liked you. He would have kept you on, but you left to start a gallery of your own. It did not go well.”

He waited to see whether she had any response, then continued when none seemed forthcoming. “You took a job at an art investment fund, where you were asked to look into a painting purchased by the oligarch Anzor Archvadze. You went to his mansion to see his collection for yourself. It was there that we first met. Of course, I was there to steal the picture.”

Maddy found her voice at last. “You were also there to poison Archvadze.”

She saw something harden in his dark eyes. “Yes. At the time, I did not question it. I did not learn the purpose of the theft until I was betrayed. The painting was evidence that Lermontov was dealing in stolen art. Archvadze bought it to build his case. Lermontov ordered him silenced and the picture stolen. Later, he killed another man who had also discovered the truth—”

“He was my colleague,” Maddy said. “A friend of mine. His name was Ethan.”

“I know.” Ilya paused. “In the end, Lermontov fled after being exposed. But certain questions remain. It is unclear how Archvadze learned he was working for the security services. Do you have any thoughts on this?”

“No. And Archvadze, unfortunately, isn't around to tell us.” Looking down, Maddy found that her free hand had picked up the wine, apparently of its own accord. “And if you find him?”

“I will do what is necessary,” Ilya said. “Lermontov may have vanished. But he's still a useful man. His role will be less visible, but his influence will remain. And this is something I cannot allow.”

The wine was bad, but it seemed to clear her head. “And why should I help you?”

“You know the answer already. At the museum, I saw it in your eyes. I understand what it means to lose everything. As long as this man is alive, you will never be safe. Sooner or later, he will seek to silence those who threaten or inconvenience him. It's why you're so afraid to put your life back together. And why you keep so many knives in your house.”

Ilya rose, picking up his gloves, and set a folded scrap of paper on the dining table. “I won't bother you again. You can contact me here if you wish to talk. But it has to be soon.”

Maddy set down the wine, the glass trembling in her hand, and turned away. As she began to see what Ilya's offer really meant, she hated him for coming to her, after she had tried so desperately to face her fears on her own.

But what frightened her the most was the realization, deep down, that she wanted it.

Maddy turned back around, sensing that her decision was already made. “If I agree to this, it won't be for you—”

She broke off. Hearing the sound of the door closing softly, she saw that the chair was empty. Ilya was gone.