The 14th Colony: A Novel (11 page)

The SUV came to a stop and Stephanie emerged on one side, another man in a dark overcoat from the opposite side.

“Tough night?” she asked.

The Mustang sat with the passenger side facing out, which bore the evidence of his encounter.

“Anya Petrova,” the other man said, “is quite dangerous. She was trained by the police and worked as one for several years.”

Which explained some of what had happened. She definitely knew how to handle herself. “And who might you be?”

The man introduced himself as Nikolai Osin, then Stephanie added, “He’s head of station for the SVR.”

“Officially, I am a trade delegate and know nothing of any SVR.”

“I like that,” Luke said. “We’ll go with it. But would you mind telling me more about Anya Petrova?”

They stood alone in the lit lot, among a deserted heap of cars.

“She is connected to a man who could cause this country many problems. He sent her here for a reason, which is why I advised Stephanie to watch her carefully. Apparently, Petrova did not appreciate that.”

Luke was still trying to figure out how she’d made him. He’d been real careful, but sometimes crap happens. And though his question had not been fully answered, he decided to let it pass and said, “We need to check out that house.”

They drove back south into the Virginia countryside and found the same wrought-iron-topped entrance. At any other time Magellan Billet headquarters could have traced ownership in a matter of minutes, but he knew that was now impossible. Of course, the White House could accomplish the same thing, but that required his reporting in. Stephanie had suggested they wait before making that call and he hadn’t argued. Perhaps they might even learn enough to soften the sting sure to come from Uncle Danny over screwing up the one thing he’d asked him not to do.

The SUV stopped in front of the abandoned dwelling and they climbed out.

“Virginia’s loaded with relics like this,” Stephanie said.

“Such a large place,” Nikolai said.

“And it appears,” she said, “to have been abandoned for a while.”

During the drive Luke learned that Malone might be in trouble and that Cassiopeia had been sent to see about him, which seemed both good and bad. He hoped everything was okay, but their SVR ally had not been able to gather much new information from folks in Siberia. Of course, the $64,000 question that nobody would answer was why someone would shoot down Malone’s plane in the first place. Whoever
they
were, they possessed surface-to-air missiles, which meant far more was going on here than the Russkies wanted to admit—and far more than Uncle Danny had revealed.

Their driver produced a flashlight with a bright halogen beam. A faint hint of dawn was beginning to form to the east, but it would still be another two hours before the sun rose.

Luke grabbed the light and led the way back inside, which still cast the hollow atmosphere of a mausoleum. “She came straight here and knew exactly where she was going.”

“Any idea what she was after?” Stephanie asked Osin.

“Can I reserve that answer until after we have a look? I’ll try to be as direct as possible.”

Luke doubted that observation. From the few times he’d encountered the SVR,
coy
would be the most generous word he’d use to describe them. Totally untrustworthy? Liars? Both fit them to a T. But he understood that this was supposed to be sort of a joint operation, one he wanted to be part of, so he kept his comments to himself.

They followed him down the hall and into the study, where the light revealed the gash in the paneled wall.

“She knew how to handle that ax,” he said, pointing to it on the floor.

He was anxious to see what was beyond the opening, so he shone the beam inside. The room was small, maybe ten feet square, lined floor-to-ceiling on three sides with shelves. But unlike the ones out in the study, which sat empty and askew, these were brimming with books. A table sat in the center, on which rested a wooden easel, under glass, that displayed an open volume. A small chandelier dangled from the ceiling, sparkling in the light, its dusty bulbs useless without power.

“Some sort of concealed chamber,” he muttered. “Which sweet Anya knew all about. She busted through exactly where she needed to.”

He stepped inside, followed by Stephanie and Osin. With the flashlight he surveyed the shelves, studying the exposed spines. Most were books, others bound manuscripts, still more were wooden file cases holding loose sheets. He caught a few of the labels.
MILITARY COMMAND CORRESPONDENCE. BATTLE OF PRINCETON. SIEGE OF BOSTON. CAPTURE OF TICONDEROGA.
He scanned the entire room and read more spines.

One theme rang clear.

“It’s a Revolutionary War library,” he said.

“More than that,” Stephanie added. “These books are late-18th- and early-19th- and 20th-century histories of that time, leading up to the War of 1812.”

He estimated they were looking at several hundred volumes, everything sheathed in a thick coat of dust. Clearly, no one had been here for a long time. Here and there, sections of the shelves were empty, books that had once been there lying askew on the floor, their dust clearly disturbed.

“That’s what I heard,” Luke said. “Lots of thuds. She was raking those off.”

“Tell us, Nikolai,” Stephanie said. “What was she looking for?”

Osin did not reply. Instead, he removed the glass dome that protected the book on the easel and slowly turned the pages. He then closed the book so that its cover could be read.

Gold letters were etched into a black leather binding.

THE

ORIGINAL INSTITUTION

OF THE

GENERAL SOCIETY OF THE

CINCINNATI

AS FORMED BY THE OFFICERS OF THE ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES

AT THE CONCLUSION OF THE

REVOLUTIONARY WAR

WHICH GAVE INDEPENDENCE TO

AMERICA

Stephanie stepped closer and reopened the book, reading from a few of the pages. “It’s a history of the society. Its general proceedings, minutes of meetings, and constitution. The copyright is from 1847.”

“What’s the Cincinnati?” Luke asked her.

She ignored him and restudied the shelves that surrounded them. “This is an archive, one I bet the Society of Cincinnati has no idea still exists.” She paused. “Otherwise it would have been retrieved.” Stephanie faced Osin. “Why is Anya Petrova interested in something like this?”

No reply.

“Earlier, you mentioned Forward Pass,” she tried. “To my knowledge, that operation is still classified. The only way you could know anything about it is from your own records.”

“We know exactly what was done,” Osin said.

Which Luke immediately wanted to know, too.

“Does that mean Aleksandr Zorin knows?” she asked.

“I’m sure he does. And Belchenko knows even more.”

“Including where those missing nukes are located?”

Luke stood silent and allowed the sparring to continue uninterrupted. But had he heard right?
“Missing nukes”
? He figured Stephanie would clue him in when the time was right.

She turned toward him. “Did Petrova leave here with anything?”

He shook his head. “Not that I saw.”

“Then this was a dead end for her. Nikolai, you said you would be direct. Why did she come here?”

Uncharacteristically, Stephanie’s voice had risen.

“I will answer that after I speak with Moscow. Some things I must discuss in private first.”

“I sent my man to Siberia on your request,” she said. “He went in blind, and now he’s missing.”

“We’ve allowed you to send another asset to investigate.”

“Not good enough. What’s going on?”

“I cannot say. At least for the moment.”

Luke heard concern in the voice, which seemed genuine, and unusual for the SVR.

“I have to report all of this to the president,” she said. “It’ll be his call what to do next.”

“I understand.”

The Russian left the secret room without saying another word.

Luke stared at his former boss. “This is a deep pile of crap, isn’t it?”

She carefully replaced the glass dome atop the book and the easel. Dust gently cascaded off the sides and onto the tabletop, glistening in the light.

“That’d be a good way to describe it,” she whispered.

“Do you know what the Cincinnati is?” he asked again.

She slowly nodded.

“Can you tell me?”

She turned to leave.

“Not here.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

L
AKE
B
AIKAL

7:50
P.M.

Zorin returned to the dacha and immediately headed into the main house. He’d been told on arrival that the American, Malone, had been captured. So he took his time removing his coat and gloves. He’d be glad to leave this weather behind. Summer was so fleeting in this part of the world, and he longed for a steady warm breeze. What the next few days held for him was hard to say. All that he could hope for was that his recollections were correct, his research accurate, his planning thorough, and his resolve intact. He’d been idle far too long and he liked the feeling of being on the move again. Everything about him was primed and ready. Only this new wrinkle—the presence of an American—had proved unexpected.

Yet even that excited him.

He passed through the great room with its high ceiling and unobstructed views of the frozen lake. A welcomed fire burned in the hearth. He found the staircase to the basement and descended to where Malone stood handcuffed to a thick iron pipe. Light came from bare bulbs wrapped in iron cages that cut sharply etched shadows. The American’s coat had been removed, as had apparently a weapon since a shoulder holster hung empty.

“You killed two of my men,” he said.

Malone shrugged. “That’s what happens when you start shooting at someone.”

“Why are you here?”

“To find the old man, Belchenko, who clearly doesn’t want to be found. My mistake.”

“And two of my men are dead.”

“Whom you sent to kill me.”

“Are you a spy?”

“I’m a bookseller.”

He chuckled. “You told me on the radio that you are Cotton Malone. Where did you acquire such a name? Cotton.”

“It’s a long story, but since we have the time I’d be glad to tell you.”

“I have to leave.”

“Are you one of the Red Guard?”

This man was informed. “I served my country until the day my country dissolved.”

“And then you ended up here—in the middle of nowhere.”

“I came on my own, with others who believed as I did. We founded this place and have lived here peacefully for a long time. We have bothered no one, yet the government feels a need to spy on us.”

“I imagine millions of dead, innocent people would have said the same thing about the USSR.”

“I suppose they might. We did have a tendency to overdo things.”

Which seemed an understatement. Torture and death had been Soviet mainstays. He and every other KGB officer had been trained in their subtleties. Millions had indeed perished. When he first started with the KGB pain and violence had been its main tools of persuasion. He’d been trained extensively in how to twist their levels until the mind screamed. Then drugs became the more common tool to open closed mouths. After that, psychological tricks took over. Toward the end, physical stress rose in popularity. He’d read all about the CIA’s “enhanced interrogation techniques.” Just a fancy way to say torture. Which he, personally, didn’t mind. But judging by the look of this American—who appeared strong and confident—breaking him would take effort.

And he simply didn’t have the time.

“America has no idea what it meant to be Soviet,” he said. “Seventy-five million of us died in the 20th century, and no one gave a damn.”

“Most of whom were killed by either corrupt or stupid leaders. The Nazis were rank amateurs when it came to slaughtering people. You communists became the real pros. What were you, KGB?”

He nodded. “I led a
spetsnaz
unit, preparing for war with the United States.”

Which he liked saying.

“That’s all over now,” Malone said.

“Maybe not.”

He clearly remembered that horrible August day in 1991, watching from KGB headquarters as a mob stormed Lubyanka Square, spray-painting
HANGMAN
,
BUTCHER,
and swastikas across the building. They’d shaken their fists and cursed, then tried to topple Dzerzhinsky’s statue but could not bring the Iron Felix down. Finally a crane arrived and completed the task, leaving only a bare pedestal. Not a single person that day feared any retribution for desecrating the memory of the once feared head of the state police.

Their message came loud and clear.

Your time is over.

He recalled the paralyzing horror that had gripped him. The shouts, requests for calm, then a cacophony of sirens and chaos. For the first time in his life he had felt fear, that chilly sliver in the small of his back, something he’d made a career out of instilling in others. The incomprehensible possibilities in the future had sent a wave of doubt surging through his body that finally settled at his bladder, which voided. He’d stood at the window, watching below, feeling the shame of warm urine saturating his crouch and pant legs.

An awful moment.

Which he’d never described to anyone.

“Reagan was quite clever,” he said. “Much more so than Gorbachev. He set out to destroy us, and he accomplished the task.”

Thank goodness Americans believed in openness. Democracy thrived on a clash of ideas, a tolerance of viewpoints, and robust debate. Its proponents foolishly believed that truth would always prevail and the people were its best arbiter. The widest circulation of information was deemed good. Many American documents, once classified, had come to light thanks simply to the passage of time. Books had been written, which he’d read, that hinted at how the White House and the Vatican had worked together to bring Moscow to its knees. But where those books dealt only in speculation and conjecture, he knew things those authors did not. There had indeed been a plan, a conspiracy, a concerted effort to undermine the Soviet Union.