The 14th Colony: A Novel (15 page)

She recalled how her late husband had loved attending the annual gatherings held in the ballroom. He’d been a student of history, his own colonial library impressive. She still owned the books, displayed on shelves in her house back in Georgia. She should be there now deciding on what to do with the rest of her life. Instead, she was here, violating a direct order from her immediate superior, plunging deeper by the minute into an ever-widening hole.

“This place is friggin’ amazing,” Luke muttered. “You seem to know your way around.”

She smiled at his attempt to pry information. “Comes from being around a long time.”

“Okay, I get the message. You’ll talk when you’re ready.”

Downstairs they found the library, a more utilitarian space constructed for practicality with padded carpet, acoustical ceiling, and sturdy metal shelving that supported hundreds of books and manuscripts. Three thick wooden tables stood in its center, the air full of the sweet smell of old paper and book bindings. Shadowless fluorescent lighting emitted a faintly bluish glow. Waiting for them was a short, thin man in his late forties, the face creased with lines of good humor, who introduced himself as Fritz Strobl, the society’s curator. A set of eyeglasses hung from his neck by a chain. She explained what they’d stumbled onto in Virginia.

“The owner of that house, Brad Charon,” Strobl said, “was a member of the society all his adult life. It doesn’t surprise me that he amassed such a collection.”

“And hid it away,” Luke noted.

Strobl smiled. “Mr. Charon was a tad eccentric. But he loved America and this society.”

“He died suddenly?” she asked, already knowing the answer, but probing a bit.

“A plane crash. I attended his funeral. It was such a sad time. I read afterward about a probate fight between his heirs, but that was quite some time ago.”

Twenty-plus years in the intelligence business had taught her many things. Among them were hardball politics, covert diplomacy, complicity, and, when necessary, duplicity. She’d dealt with an endless variety of people across the globe, good and bad, and had made too many life-and-death decisions to count. Along the way she’d developed skills, one of which was to pay attention. It amazed her how little people noticed other people. Generally, it wasn’t ego or narcissism that explained the inability. Indifference seemed the most common explanation, but she’d trained herself to notice everything.

Like the slight tremble in Strobl’s hands. Not just the left or the right, which might signal a physical problem. Both of his shook. And there was the tiny line of sweat at the top of his brow that gleamed in the overhead lights. The room temperature was quite comfortable, cool enough in fact that neither she nor Luke had shed their coats. The kicker, though, was the bite of the lip—which, by her count, Strobl had done four times, perhaps to quell their noticeable quiver.

“What agency did you say you were with?” Strobl asked her.

“The Justice Department.”

“And why exactly are you here?”

She decided to dodge that one. “To report the archive we found. There’s a rare book there, displayed under glass, that details the society’s founding. It’s what led us here.”

She showed him a photo taken with her phone just before they left Virginia.

“That’s an original edition of our founding journal,” Strobl said. “Only a few members own one. I didn’t know Mr. Charon possessed this one.”

“It can be yours now,” Luke asked.

Strobl threw them both an odd look, one that said he did not agree. “I appreciate the information you’ve provided. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work that requires my attention. We’re hosting an inaugural reception Monday evening and our ballroom is being prepared.”

“Big affair?” she asked.

“It won’t include the president, but we’re told the vice president and several of the new cabinet will be attending.”

She concealed her disgust and decided not to let this man off that easy. Luke had retreated to the far side of the room, behind Strobl, ostensibly examining the books. But he tossed her a knowing glance that confirmed her own suspicions.

Strobl was lying.

She scanned the room and noticed a small dark globe attached to the ceiling tiles in one corner. A security camera. No surprise. She assumed the entire villa was wired for pictures considering the value of the art and antiques scattered across the upper floors.

“My late husband, Lars Nelle, was a society member.”

She was hoping that tidbit might loosen Strobl some, but it seemed to have no effect.

“He was active in the Maryland branch,” she said. “He and I visited here, Anderson House, several times.”

Still, nothing.

But Luke caught the information.

“You may want to go and retrieve those books at Charon’s house,” she said to Strobl.

“How is that possible? As you say, it’s located inside the estate. That would be stealing.”

“Only if you get caught,” Luke said. “But I don’t think anyone is going to mind. It’s been sitting there a long time. It can be our little secret.”

“I’m afraid that’s not how we operate here. Not at all.”

The obvious strain in Strobl’s voice might be explained by the fact that someone from the Justice Department had appeared on a Friday morning unannounced, flashing a badge and asking questions.

Then again, maybe not.

“On second thought,” Strobl suddenly said. “Perhaps you have a point. That library could be important. Mr. Charon financed the acquisition of many of the books and papers you see here around you. He was himself an avid collector. He
would
want us to have whatever he may have amassed.”

Interesting, the change in tone.

More confident. Less anxious. Even suggestive.

Strobl reached for a pad and pen lying atop one of the tables. “Tell me the location again.”

She did and he wrote as she spoke.

“Is this correct?” he asked, handing her the pad.

She read.

Russian woman in second-floor security office, just past the serving pantry, with a gun. She saw you coming. Told me to be rid of you or she would kill the man who works up there
.

She nodded and handed the pad back. “That’s right. It’s an old house out in the woods. I’d head out there right away. The winter weather will not be kind to those old books.”

“We’ll do just that.”

She thanked him for his time and she and Luke left the library, exiting into a windowless camera-free corridor that led to the stairs.

“Anya Petrova is here,” she said. “On the second floor, in the security office just past the serving pantry. When we get to ground level we’ll split up. She’s going to know you’re coming. Cameras are everywhere.”

“Not a problem. I owe her one.”

She got the message. He’d make no mistakes this time.

They climbed back up and reentered the stylish gallery. The same attendant who earlier had been stationed behind a desk in the entrance foyer was still there. Stephanie turned right and headed straight for her. Luke hustled for the stairway at the other end of the gallery.

The attendant stood and called out, “I’m sorry, you can’t go—”

Stephanie calmly peeled back her coat for the woman to see her holstered Beretta.

Shock swept across her face.

Stephanie kept walking and brought her right index finger up to her lips.

Signaling quiet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Malone needed to report back to Stephanie Nelle. This was much bigger than he’d been led to believe, much bigger than perhaps even Stephanie realized, since when she’d called to hire him she’d openly admitted that she knew only that the Russians had asked for American help in finding Belchenko, and that he might run into Zorin. Unfortunately, he had no cell phone, and three men with automatic rifles now blocked any exit from the dacha.

Belchenko appeared unfazed by what was happening outside. “That’s a
Kozlik.
Means ‘Goat.’ A nickname for the vehicle. It’s military only. These men have surely come on orders from the Kremlin. They are after me.”

“Any idea why?”

“I assume the government decided my usefulness has waned. You need to leave. This does not concern you. I’ll deal with it. There’s a rear door down that hall. Go find Jamie Kelly in Canada.”

“You never mentioned exactly where.”

“Charlottetown. Prince Edward Island. He’s still employed part-time at the local college.”

“Let’s both of us go find him,” he said.

But Belchenko ignored the offer, yanking open the exterior door and opening fire with the assault rifle.

Retorts banged through the house.

He doubted the old man’s vision was near as good as he wanted people to think, and with forty or so rounds a minute spitting out the barrel it would not be long before the clip emptied.

And it did.

Malone lunged, wrapping his arms around the man, propelling them both away from the doorway just as incoming fire arrived. They slammed into the wood floor and he took the brunt of it.

“Are you friggin’ nuts?” he yelled.

A hail of slugs thudded into the walls. The exterior stone façade provided some protection, but not the windows, which began to explode as they were pummeled by shots from the outside. Wooden splinters and flying glass crashed through the room. He stayed down and waited for an opportunity.

“I took one of them out,” Belchenko said.

Darkness had enveloped outside, nightfall coming early in the Siberian winter. Which should help with their escape. The problem was getting out of the dacha without being shot.

The firing outside stopped.

He knew what was happening.

Reload time.

Which would not take long, so he used the moment to bring Belchenko to his feet and they rushed toward a corridor leading deeper into the house, crouching down but moving fast.

One of the men burst in through the kitchen doorway.

Malone whirled and fired.

A hole formed on the man’s face as the bullet pierced the brain. He’d learned long ago to shoot, if possible, for the head or the legs. Too much body armor around these days. And though he’d retired from active service and was no longer required to stay proficient, he remained an excellent shot. The man dropped to the floor, the body wrenching in convulsions. He decided the rifle that clattered away could be useful so he quickly retrieved the AK-47 and noted it held a fresh clip.

Oh, yes. This would definitely come in handy.

He stepped back to the hall expecting to find Belchenko waiting for him, but the wiry old man was nowhere in sight. Only a few lights burned across the dacha’s ground floor, the exterior windows all dark mattes from the night. He slid the Beretta inside its holster beneath his coat and aimed the rifle straight ahead, nestling the weapon snug to his right shoulder. The corridor stretched twenty feet, ending at another room at the far end.

The house echoed with emptiness.

He concentrated on his heartbeat and willed it to slow. How many times had he faced situations just like this?

Too many to count.

Frigid air invaded from the open exterior door and blown-out windows, his exhales now forming puffy clouds. He’d retired from the Magellan Billet to avoid these exact risks, resigning his commission as a naval commander, quitting the Justice Department, selling his house, and moving to Copenhagen, opening an old bookshop. Twenty years in the navy and ten years as a Billet agent over. The idea had been a total change in lifestyle. Unfortunately, his former world found him and he’d been embroiled in enough controversies since retirement that he finally decided that he ought to at least get paid for his trouble. The task here had been a simple meet and greet, then leave. Instead, he’d stumbled into an international hornet’s nest, and now angry bees were swarming in every direction.

He kept moving down the hall, floorboards creaking under his weight, a badly worn carpet runner doing a poor job of muffling his steps. Thoughts of Gary swirled through his mind. His son was growing up fast, nearly out of high school, beginning to decide what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. There’d been talk of the navy, following in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps. His ex-wife wasn’t exactly keen on the idea, but they’d privately agreed to allow the boy to make up his own mind. Life was hard enough without parents forcing choices.

Then there was Cassiopeia.

He wondered where she was, what she was doing. He’d found himself thinking of her more and more of late. Their romance seemed over, his last attempt at contact drawing a curt reply.

LEAVE ME ALONE
.

So he had.

But he missed her.

Hard not to—considering that he loved her.

The corridor ended.

He pressed his back to the wall and balanced on the balls of his feet. He steadied his breathing, keeping the lungs’ rhythm separate from his legs. That trick had saved his hide more than once. Then he tucked his elbows and cocked his forearms, applying light tension to the wrist, fingers closed around the rifle and trigger, but nothing clenched.

He carefully peered around the jamb.

The space beyond was some sort of great room with a high vaulted ceiling and another fireplace where black, smoky logs had died to smoldering embers. A wall of dark windows faced the lake. One light burned on a far table casting a jaundiced glow. Long fingers of deep shadows clutched at every corner. The pine furnishings were austere and included a sofa and chairs facing the windows. Normally, this would be a cocoon of comfort from the cold. Tonight it seemed a trap. A closed door stood on the farthest side, Belchenko standing beside it.

“Is that the way out?” he asked.

Belchenko nodded. “I was waiting for you.”

The old Russian stood partially in shadow, the rest of the room nearly dark. A tense glare signaled trouble. Something wasn’t right.

Then it clicked.

Belchenko no longer held the rifle.

“Where’s your weapon?” he asked, remaining behind the doorway.

“No need for it anymore.”

The words came low and slow. The cat had gotten Chatty Cathy’s tongue. Or maybe—