The 14th Colony: A Novel (10 page)

He found the winding lane he recalled seeing from the air that led up to the perch where the dacha waited. He eased the truck off the highway and into the trees, stopping atop a snowy patch of ground. He parked and trekked up toward the house, scrambling from one tree trunk to another through the drifts, his boots crunching atop dry snow. Evergreen boughs and the spiny tentacles of leafless trees reached for the ever-darkening sky. His eyes smarted from the wind and cold. A daily regimen of squats and sit-ups had definitely kept his muscles toned, but the frigid climb taxed him.

He found the top, glancing back and noticing how the snow betrayed his presence with a trail of footsteps. A rusted, waist-high wire fence blocked the way ahead. A draft of icy air off the nearby lake stung his throat. He settled behind a thick pine and gazed at the dacha. Smoke continued to waft skyward from three chimneys. One of the two vehicles that had been there earlier was gone. Strains of folk music floated through the frosty air. He located the source. An outbuilding, this one round, all of wood, no windows and a single door, a thin spire of vapor steadily escaping from the top of its conical roof.

His mission was to search for Vadim Belchenko. He’d been shown a picture taken a few years back. The man was some kind of former KGB archivist. If found, he was to retreat and report the location. The first part would be relatively easy, the second not so much as his cell phone had been destroyed. But he had the truck and could find a phone somewhere.

He stepped over the fence and scampered across a blacktopped area that spread out from the end of the drive to the house, the smoking round building leaking music situated to one side. He negotiated the pavement with care since he could not afford a fall on black ice. He came to the round building’s doorway and quickly entered, assaulted by a welcomed wave of warm, dry air. Another doorway led farther inside, blocked by a fur blanket that hung from its jamb. He peeled back a small section of the blanket—enough for him to see that the building was some sort of sauna. A fire burned in the center beneath a bed of hot stones. An old man sat on the lower level of a series of pine benches that rose against the far wall. He was naked, laid out with his legs extended straight, gnarled hands intertwined behind his head. The features matched the picture he’d been shown.

Vadim Belchenko.

Music swelled from a small CD player that lay on the bench. He slipped inside and approached the old man. The face looked like a bland mask, broad and flat with skin the color of dirty snow. The closed eyes were set back into wrinkled cups of folded flesh. Wet, blondish hair covered the scalp, and the only indications of advanced age came from the sunken chest and cheeks. The older man calmly smoked on a potent-smelling cigar.

He reached down and shut off the music.

Belchenko opened his eyes and sat up. Both pupils were clouded with cataracts.

“My name is Cotton Malone,” he said in English.

Belchenko stared at him. “And what are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see if you’re okay.”

“Why would I not be?”

“You disappeared and people were wondering.”

“You mean Russian state security was wondering. And why would they send an American to see about me?”

The voice was low and throaty, with no inflection, emotion, or concern.

“That’s a question I’ve been wondering, too.”

Belchenko exhaled a cloud of blue smoke that drifted upward. “Are you a spy?”

“Not anymore.”

The hot air was drying his nostrils, so he kept his breathing shallow and through his mouth. Sweat began to trickle down his spine, leaving a chilly path.

“Let’s just say I’m a part-time spy.”

“We had a few of those in my day. I never cared for them.”

“Where is Zorin?”

“He went to meet with you.”

He hadn’t come to chitchat. In fact, his mission was done. He’d found Belchenko and now he had to report in. But old habits were hard to break, so he had to ask one more question. “Why does the Russian government give a damn what you do?”

“Because I know things, Mr. Malone. And they want to know those things, too, before I die.”

Now he understood. “And you promised to tell them.”

“It seemed a small price to pay in order to stay alive. Once they know, I will have no value. You really do not understand what you have been thrust into, do you?”

“Not a clue. Care to tell me?”

Belchenko chuckled. “Why would I do such a thing?”

Good question, one he decided to leave for another time. “I have to go. Nice to meet you.”

“Did you know that every story ever conceived by the human mind can be whittled down into three parts?”

He didn’t like the sound of that odd statement.

“A beginning. Middle. Then, the end,” Belchenko said. “There’s a symmetry and satisfaction that occurs when those three parts ultimately join to form a complete tale. It’s truly magical. We have already had the beginning, then a long middle. Now, Mr. Malone, it is time for the end of the story.”

Nothing about this seemed right. He’d thought himself clever avoiding Zorin, coming straight here, but something told him that his move had been anticipated. The old man’s left hand held the cigar, but the right arm reached back behind to the bench and a gun appeared.

“Don’t think, Mr. Malone, that I can’t see you clearly enough to shoot.”

Movement caught his attention. The fur blanket across the jamb had been disturbed. He turned to see two men, dressed in winter gear, both toting automatic rifles.

“And why would you shoot me?” he asked.

Belchenko shrugged. “Because Zorin says there’s no way you can leave here alive.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Cassiopeia squirmed in the backseat of a French fighter, the pilot settled in the front. She’d flown in the helicopter from her estate to an air base, where the high-performance jet had been waiting. They were cruising at 2200 kilometers per hour nearly eight kilometers up, following the same route Cotton had taken less than twelve hours ago.

She disliked high places, avoiding them wherever possible. The scaffolding earlier had been bad enough, but flying was a necessary evil that she endured. At the moment she was stuffed into an ill-fitting flight suit and packed tight into a cockpit with little to no room to maneuver. They’d already dropped to a lower altitude and taken on fuel from an airborne tanker that had met them along the way. She’d never witnessed that operation firsthand and it had been fascinating to watch. It had also helped take her mind off the fact that she was presently a long, long way up in the air.

The entire trip from France to Siberia would take a little over four hours, which was amazing. The world had truly shrunk. Stephanie had read her perfectly, knowing that she did indeed still love Cotton. There’d been many men in her life, a few of the relationships quite serious, but none was Cotton Malone. They’d met at her château a few years ago, at the same time she’d first been introduced to Stephanie Nelle. A mutual friend, Henrik Thorvaldsen, had made all of that possible. Sadly, Henrik was gone, murdered in Paris, another of those unfortunate circumstances that seemed to follow her life.

When she’d broken off all contact with Cotton, she’d known even then that it would not be permanent. He was too much a part of her. She felt comfortable in his presence. He treated her as an equal and respected her as a person. True, he could sometimes be an ass. But she was no angel, either. That was the thing about relationships. A constant give-and-take. She’d wondered how they might reconnect. Both of them were proud, and a lot of bitterness had passed between them. It had taken many months for either of them to say the L-word. But finally, it had been spoken, then acted upon. Hopefully, the division between them had not grown past the point of no return.

Stephanie said she would advise her if anything new developed. She’d also told her about a dacha and a village named Chayaniye. Hope. An interesting designation, but fitting for the expatriates who’d created the place.

Communism was truly a dead theology. No such thing as a workers’ paradise with no social classes, where everyone owned everything. What the old USSR created had all been an illusion, a place where fear and force had been the only means for it to survive. That so-called classless society evolved into haves and have-nots. The ruling privileged enjoyed the best and everyone else fought over the leftovers. Far from everyone owning everything, a select few had enjoyed it all. Only lies had kept the masses from revolting, along with daily doses of terror and violence. In the end, though, nothing could prevent the truth from causing its downfall.

And fall it had.

She’d been fifteen years old when it happened, living at her parents’ estate in Spain. Her father had always remained apolitical, but she recalled his utter joy at the dissolution of the Soviet Union. And something he said. A quote from the American Thomas Jefferson.
“A government big enough to give you everything you want is strong enough to take everything you have.”

She never forgot that.

Her entire adult life had been one without the pressures of the Cold War. Instead, threats and terror today came from other places, East and West finding common ground, as those new enemies did not discriminate between Russians and Americans.

So what had Cotton been drawn into?

“I hired him to have a look. He’s done a couple of jobs for me since Utah.”

That’s what Stephanie had said on the phone. So Cotton had become an agent-for-hire.
“Since Utah.”
Maybe that was his way of trying to forget. She’d tried business and her castle, neither one of which had done much to quell her anxieties. Throughout her nearly forty years she’d thought herself in love several times. But now she knew that only one of those relationships had meant anything.

“Something went wrong here.”

Her heart had sunk at Stephanie’s words. Was Cotton hurt? Or dead? She hoped neither, wishing this jet could fly faster.

“How much longer?” she asked the pilot in French through her headset.

“Less than two hours. We’re making good time.”

Her mind drifted back to the first conversation she and Cotton ever had. At her estate, on a warm June afternoon. Prior to that their encounters had been quick and violent, each taking gunshots at the other, she looking after him, he unsure just exactly who she was. On that day she’d followed him outside into the bright sunshine, walking with him down the same tree-shaded lane from earlier toward the construction site.

“When I’m finished,” she said, “a 13th-century castle will stand exactly as it did eight hundred years ago.”

“Quite an endeavor.”

“I thrive on grand endeavors.”

They kept walking and entered the construction site through a broad wooden gate and strolled into a barn with sandstone walls that housed a visitor reception center. Beyond loomed the smell of dust, horses, and debris, where a hundred or so visitors milled about.

“The entire foundation for the perimeter has been laid and the west curtain wall is coming along,” she said, pointing. “We’re about to start the corner towers and central buildings.”

She led him through the construction site and up the slope of a steep hill to a modest promontory, where everything could be clearly seen.

“I come up here often and watch. One hundred and twenty men and women are employed down there full-time.”

“Quite a payroll.”

“A small price to pay for history to be seen.”

“Your nickname,
Ingénieur,
” he said. “Is that what they call you? Engineer?”

She smiled. “The staff gave me that label. I’ve designed this entire project.”

“You know, on the one hand, you’re awfully arrogant. But on the other, you can be rather interesting.”

She was not offended by his observation, which bore truth, and asked, “You’re retired from the government?”

“You never really quit. You just stay out of the line of fire more often than not.”

“So you’re helping Stephanie Nelle simply as a friend?”

“Shocking, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. In fact, it’s entirely consistent with your personality.”

“How do you know about my personality?”

“I’ve learned a great deal about you. I have friends in your former profession. They all spoke highly of you.”

“Glad to know folks remember.”

“Do you know much about me?” she asked.

“Just the thumbnail sketch.”

“I have many peculiarities.”

That she did, the worst of which was an inability to say what she felt. Cotton suffered from the same malady, which helped further explain why they found themselves currently estranged. They cared deeply for each other, but neither was willing to admit it. There was that one time, though, high in the mountains of China, after another ordeal, when they both gathered the courage to say how they felt.

“No more games,” she said.

He nodded and cupped her hand in his.

“Cotton—”

He silenced her lips with two fingers. “Me too.”

And he kissed her.

She remembered that moment, both of them knowing without either actually uttering the word
love.
But she did love Cotton. The past month had made that abundantly clear.

Was it too late?

With all her heart, she hoped not.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

V
IRGINIA

Luke stood propped against his Mustang, watching as a black SUV eased through the open gate into the tow lot. He’d just checked his watch, which read a little after 5:00
A.M
. The predawn air was freezing but he felt only anger at one, being bested by a stranger, and two, the demise of his most prized possession. The tow truck operator had just shaken his head when he arrived at the scene, loading the Mustang’s hulk onto the back of his truck and ferrying it here among a litter of other cars that had definitely seen better days.