The Kremlin Phoenix

The
Kremlin Phoenix

By

Stephen Renneberg

Copyright

Copyright © Stephen Renneberg
2013
ISBN:
978-0-9874347-6-0

All
Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the
prior written permission of the copyright owner.

License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal use only. This eBook may
not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this
book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person
you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it
was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy
from a licensed eBook distributor. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

This
novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the
author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is
coincidental.

DEDICATION

For my mother, Lesley,
for always believing

http://www.stephenrenneberg.com/

ALSO BY STEPHEN RENNEBERG

The Mothership

The Siren Project

Vitaly Ilia Nogorev was an assassin of
rare ability.

The few words he exchanged with
the cab driver as they headed towards New York’s Financial District revealed the
barest hint of an East European accent. When the taxi pulled over to the curb a
block from Wall Street, Nogorev paid the exact fare. No tip. One look at his
passenger’s angular face and muscular physique silenced any protest from the
driver.

Nogorev adjusted his tie, then dialed
a number on his cell phone as he approached a gleaming glass and steel tower.
When the connection was made, three beeps sounded, signaling a virus had been
uploaded into the tower’s security system. He pocketed the phone and walked
calmly through the automatic glass doors toward the elevators, flashing a
perfectly forged ID at the guard behind the front desk.

The guard barely glanced at the
ID as he tapped the security screens arrayed before him, wondering why they now
were filled with static. The virus had taken down the tower’s surveillance
system, ensuring there’d be no recordings later for the police to review. The
guard picked up the telephone to report the camera system’s failure as Nogorev
strolled unhurriedly towards the elevators. He knew by the time a technician
arrived, the virus would have erased itself and the cameras would inexplicably
be working again.

Nogorev swiped a card through the
elevator’s electronic reader. The virus ensured the card was recognized, and
that no trace of it would appear in the system log. He absently brushed his
hand over his pin stripe suit, feeling the gun holstered beneath his shoulder, then
waited patiently for the elevator to arrive.

* * * *

March 4, 2276

“Are you sure you have the right
coordinates?” Captain Tom Wilkins asked.

“As sure as we can be,” Dr Mariena
Del Rey replied as she stepped onto the holo-sensor platform. It was a slightly
raised circular dais, surrounded by tiny optical scanners, and located at one
end of the communications center. Like the metal walls, floor and ceiling, it
was pristine white, but immersed in shadow because the ambient lighting had
been dimmed to conserve power. Dozens of display panels lined the walls, but
most were inactive as there were no longer any signals being received to
display on them. “The temporal coordinates are based on the New York Police
Department’s forensic report. We used the building’s architectural drawings and
satellite imagery of 21
^st
century Manhattan to calculate the spatial
location, and we’re orienting the hologram based on pictures of the office from
the police report.”

“But we’ll have no way of knowing
if he gets the message?”

“I won’t be able to see or hear
him,” she said, “if that’s what you mean. This is strictly one way
communication.”

“We have the temporal sensors,” Commander
Zikky said from the L-2S’s control room three levels up. “They’ll detect if
there’s a timeline reset, which would prove he got our message and acted on it.”

“Will we remember the reset?” Wilkins
asked.

“No way to know,” Zikky said.

“No one’s ever done this before,”
Mariena said, “but in theory, it depends on the magnitude of the reset.”

“So how much will you tell him?” Wilkins
asked.

“As little as possible,” she
replied. “If he knows too much, he might not do what we want.”

“So no warning?”

“Definitely not. He might run. I’ll
just tell him not to give them the master list. That’s all.”  Mariena knew
there was no point trying to save a man who had been dead for two and a half
centuries.

“Will he know what that is?”

“He should. He created it.”

“What was his name again?”

“Goldstein,” she said. “Jeremiah
Goldstein.”

* * * *

Present
Day

Jerry Goldstein, a balding, corpulent
lawyer, stood sipping bourbon as he looked out over the lights of New York City
from his opulently furnished office. A large cardboard box filled with document
folders and computer disks sat on the desk. It represented more than twenty
years of work for an intensely secretive and staggeringly wealthy organization
about which he knew almost nothing.

MLI was undoubtedly a front
company, but he’d never discovered what for. He knew his firm, Goldstein,
McCormack & Powell, had done a good job for their client: profitably investing
their funds, delivering consistent returns and avoiding trouble with regulatory
and tax authorities – services for which they’d been extravagantly well paid.
It had been a gravy train of epic proportions, but all that was coming to an
end, although he had no idea why.

He was sure it wasn’t because of anything
he’d done. It had to be something specific to the client, a secret Goldstein
was not privy to. All he knew was a man with a slight accent had called and identified
himself with a MLI recognition code. The man had ordered Goldstein to hand over
all important documents and destroy everything else. There’d been no
explanation, no discussion, no possibility of reprieve. The man had promised to
ring at midnight with instructions on where to ship the files to. He’d been
very specific. Goldstein was to wait for his call, no matter how late.

The aging lawyer shifted his gaze
to the box regretfully.
What a treasure!

“You must not give them the
master list.”

Goldstein spun around, surprised.
He’d heard no one come up in the elevator, no doors opening, no footsteps. Mariena
stood in the center of his office, facing his desk, as if he were seated there.
She was of medium height, late thirties, with shoulder length black hair and
dressed in a light blue jump suit decorated with markings he didn’t recognize.
Her English was perfect, yet he couldn’t quite place her accent.

He stepped toward her curiously. “How
did you get in here?”

Her eyes continued to look
towards his empty desk, as if she were unaware he stood to her right. “Do not
give them the master list. If you do, everything you love will be destroyed.”

Goldstein hesitated, oblivious as
to what she was talking about, but the urgency in her voice and the desperation
in her face were compelling. “Who are you?”

“Place the master list in the top
drawer, on the right side of your desk.”

“How do you know about the master
list?” he asked, alarmed that this stranger had penetrated their security. Was this
why he was losing his most valued client – a security breach?

She looked to her left, towards
the bookcase, yet Goldstein sensed she didn’t see his leather bound books. “Is
there anything else I should tell him?”

Goldstein followed her gaze, puzzled
as to who she was talking to.

Mariena nodded, then turned back
to his desk. “Lock the drawer, and leave the key in your liquor cabinet. Hurry
Mr Goldstein, you must trust me.”

Goldstein walked behind the
woman, growing more certain that she couldn’t see him. “Why should I trust you?”
he asked, then as he stepped towards her, she became transparent and vanished. He
looked around, wondering what kind of trick it was, then gulped down the last
of his bourbon and poured another. Goldstein raised the glass to his lips, but
didn’t drink. Instead he put the glass down and opened the box. Lying on top
was one white page – the master list – the single most valuable document on
Earth.

The old lawyer hesitated, hands
shaking, wondering if after all these years of loyal service, he dared betray
his benefactors. Impulsively, he snatched up the master list, considered
placing it in the drawer as the apparition had requested, then decided if he was
going to steal it, no one else could know. He carried the page out to his
secretary’s desk, slid it into an envelope which he labeled for filing in his
private archive, then slipped the envelope into a stack of folders on her desk.
He wasn’t sure why he did it, but the strange apparition’s urgency and his own
anxieties impelled him to seek insurance.

The elevator bell dinged.

It was too late for the cleaners
or staff, leaving him to wonder who could be arriving at this hour. Goldstein
returned to his office apprehensively, listening for any sound as he gulped
down the bourbon to calm his nerves. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen the
woman before, then the heavy glass front door rattled as someone tested it. Suspecting
a break-in, he called security, then listened anxiously as the phone rang and
rang, unaware that a virus had routed his call to an empty office. The front
door was secured by the best computer coded locking system money could buy, and
the glass was more heavily armored than a Presidential limousine. There was no
way anyone could get it, he silently reminded himself, then he heard a dull
metallic click as the locking bolts slid open.

“Answer the phone!” he murmured impatiently.

He heard the front door open.
Suddenly, the sound of his own breathing grew strangely loud in his ears as the
telephone continue to ring.

“Put the phone down, Mr
Goldstein,” Nogorev said.

Goldstein immediately recognized
the accent as a dark figure stepped into his office. Slowly, he did as he was
told. “You’re the one who called!” It was the first time he’d ever been face to
face with a representative of his secretive client. He stepped past the desk,
offering his hand in welcome, but Nogorev showed no interest in accepting his
greeting.

Goldstein motioned nervously to the
box. “These are the files you asked for. Everything’s there! The old records
have all been destroyed, just as you instructed.”

Nogorev nodded slowly, his cold
emotionless eyes moving from Goldstein to the box.

“If there’s anything we’ve done
you’re not satisfied with, I’m sure we can fix it, if you’d just tell us what
it is. Your organization is very important to us.”

“It’s not about the money.”

Goldstein walked to his private
bar. “Would you like a drink? Perhaps we can discuss how we can help your organization
in the future.” Goldstein shakily poured a whisky, then offered the glass to
his visitor and froze.

Nogorev held a silenced gun, expertly
aimed at the old lawyer’s head, his face impassive and detached. “There is
nothing to discuss.”

“I don’t understand. What have I
done?” Goldstein asked, half questioning, half pleading, gripped with terror. “Please.
For God’s sake, I have a wife and kids!” Goldstein held up his hand, as if it
could shield him.