The Serpent's Curse (12 page)

It was when the man's eyes turned on Wade that he noticed Boris Volkov's real distinguishing feature. It was neither his plump lobster face nor his short chubby fingers, but the two large dark eyes that were severely misaligned. The left one slanted to the left, while the right one stared straight ahead.

Which one do you look at?

And did it mean anything that this guy
and
Galina Krause both had eye things going on? Hers, two colors; his, wandering around?

“So, so,” the man said, turning his head completely to Wade's father, which didn't help answer the question of which eye to address. “Promenade safe place. Over there, deputy head of MI6, British Secret Intelligence Service. At table alone, British foreign secretary. Safest place in all of London, right here!”

“Thank you for meeting us,” Wade's father said. “And yes, I agree, a good location.”

The Russian arched up in his seat. “You want to know who is Boris Volkov, yes? Why is Russian in the country of Wimbledon and Big Ben?” He shrugged and breathed out a flammable gust. Wade was glad there were no candles on the breakfast table.

“I graduate Moscow State University,” he said. “Scholar for many years. Dead languages. Boris love dead languages. Russia is land of the dead, no? But, I say wrong things at wrong time. Government not like so much. I spend time in famous Lubyanka prison, yes? Not serious. Just questions, you see? I notice there the wood floor. Oak. Very nice. Like this, yes?” He paused, flattening his big hands and angling them, one to the other.

“Parquet,” Darrell said.

“Yes!” Boris boomed, patting Darrell's hand on the table. “You very smart American boy. How you know parquet?”

“My mom's office in the archives at the University of Texas has parquet floors,” he said.

“Ah, yes. Mother. She in this, too. Terry tell me. Sad, sad.”

Wade didn't know what Boris knew, but wondered once again what exactly Terence had told him.

“So, future of Boris is not in Russia. Zoom-boom! I come London, yes?” He slapped his chubby palms on the table. “I perch now in small flat owned by friend. Is beautiful little birdcage. Tiny. Top floor. Five stairway. No elevator. Is hard for old legs, but this is way I live now. Boris walk everywhere. He never take car. Car take you to Lubyanka, yes?”

I don't know, does it?

Boris paused a moment to move the sugar bowl from one side of his place setting to the other. “But enough. You call me Uncle Boris now, yes?”

No,
thought Wade,
we don't
.
You're not our uncle
.
I had an uncle, Uncle Henry, and he was murdered by the Teutonic Order, and so was nice Mr. Chen on the plane to San Francisco, and we don't know if you're with the Order or not.

It wasn't that Wade wanted his mind to go there, accusing everyone, suspicious of everyone, but how could he do anything else? Heinrich Vogel's death had been sudden and brutal—an old man murdered in his home. It was fresh, barely a week and half in the past, and, like Sara's kidnapping, Wade realized it was hovering like a shroud over everything they thought and did. It was Uncle Henry's murder that had sent them on the relic hunt in the first place, the quest that had quickly become their urgent mission. The quest that was changing them in ways he didn't fully understand.

After a few pleasant remarks with Roald about the weather and hotels and so on, Boris Volkov tapped his meaty fingers on the tabletop. His smile dropped away.

“You see, it is this. History of Russia is history of pain. Invasions? Countless invasions. Poland. Napoleon. Hitler. Then invasions from inside—Lenin, Stalin, demon masters buried now with honors in Red Square. Horrible history. Still Russia survives.”

“We know that the Teutonic Order was friends with the Duke of Moscow,” Becca said. “Vasily the Third had an alliance with Albrecht.”

“Teutonic Order of Ancient Prussia.” Boris's face reddened. “This is the way of the Order. They seep everywhere, like poison.” He lowered his voice. “In Russia, you see, the Order is known as Red Brotherhood. Keplens, you do not know this, but Teutonic Order kill Boris's brother. Galina Krause murder him while she in Russia. Yes, is true! Dental records prove it. I see his teeth. I
have
his teeth.” And he raised a finger behind his open collar and tugged out a chain on which hung a blackened molar. “It belonged to Aleksandr in his mouth. Alek was doctor, very fine doctor. His tooth is all I carry. No money. No wallet. No key. See, I have nothing.” Boris tugged at his pants pockets to show they were empty. “Of course, Alek's name not really Volkov. Nor he, nor me.”

Meaning what, exactly?

“I'm so sorry to hear that,” Roald said. “We didn't know. Terence did tell us about your knowledge of the Order in Russia. It's part of the reason we've come here today. We need to do research there. In Russia. Terence said you might be able to help us.”

“Yes, yes.” Boris tucked the tooth back behind his collar. Then he slid his hand inside his voluminous jacket and produced a narrow manila envelope. He set it on the table and pressed a stubby finger on it. “Documents necessary to get into Russia this very day. Terry phone me with names, so these ready to use. Russian tourist visas. Completely genuine. Notarized by Russian embassy. Smuggled, of course, but what is little smuggling among friends, yes? After you are settled there, I must take side trip, but is not for some days. All us go tonight, yes? You pay? I tell you I have no money.”

They went quiet.

“All of us?” said Wade finally. “I didn't think we
all
had to go.”

“Perhaps Mr. Ackroyd didn't explain our journey to you,” his father added. “It's, well, rather a private family project. We actually don't need—”

“You must have me,” Volkov said. His face darkened and his misaligned eyes flashed with anger. “You need Boris. Boris has urgent journey. Boris have friends you require. I did not suffer Lubyanka prison for nothing. I go. I help. For price.”

Here it is,
Wade thought.
He doesn't do anything for nothing.

Volkov leaned over the teacups toward them, fixing his eyes on both Darrell and Wade at the same time. “I am collector of unique objects. I want Copernicus dagger.”

Wade's blood froze.

How does Boris Volkov—or whatever his real name is—know about the dagger? Is he a Teutonic Knight? Is this a trap?

“I . . . don't know exactly what you mean,” Roald said, lying. “A dagger?”

Boris Volkov snorted angrily. “Then go back to Texas, USA. No tea. Good-bye. You are liars, try to trick Boris. Like all the rest. You have nothing!” He slumped back into his chair with such force the table shook. Again, the room hushed.

Texas? How much does he know about us?

“No. Wait,” his father said. “We don't actually have . . . what you want.”

“But you can get it? As sign of good faith?”

“Let me call Terence.” Roald rose and pulled away from the table. “I'll get in touch with him right now.”

“More like it,” Volkov said, mopping his brow with his napkin, then bouncing right back with a big grin. “Take moments, Dr. Roald Keplen. Time, she does not matter, does she?”

At the word
she
, Darrell fidgeted in his chair, and his face darkened even more than the Russian's had a moment before. “Oh, yeah?” he said. “Yeah?”

“Darrell,” Becca whispered. “Not here.”

Surprisingly, he calmed down, but Wade could feel his legs pumping under the table.

Right. The real point of meeting this guy is to get Sara back. Time, she does not matter? Time matters more than anything.

His father disappeared into the lobby with his phone at his ear. Volkov stood to massage his right leg as if he weren't in public. It was hard to look at. “Old body hurts, yes?” He thundered back into his chair and pressed his giant bulk across the cups and plates, gesturing the four of them closer. Given how he took up so much table space, there was hardly any room to
be
closer.

“You,” Boris said, apparently looking at Wade. “You are Vade, yes? Vade Keplen?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You are scientist, yes? I hear it from Terry in New York. And Darrell, you are brother of Vade. I tell you story about scientist and his brother.” He set his wandering eyes on the kids, one after the other. “I amuse American children with little story.”

The words were sinister enough, but they were nothing compared to the way his wild eyes beckoned them. When he began to speak, slowly and almost in a whisper, the sounds of clacking cutlery and plates, the tinkle of glassware, the murmuring of voices around them—all seemed to fade away.

Even with his seriously broken English, Boris Volkov became suddenly—and inexplicably—a master of words, losing the trappings of the blustery, moody exile. Right there in the middle of a bustling London restaurant, amid the whirl of modern life, he conjured up another time, a forgotten world.

“Listen. Listen to words. Listen to Boris. . . .”

P
erhaps you know this already, but long ago there was a man and his brother. Nicolaus and Andreas Copernicus. A scientist and his brother. Andreas was, alas, dying. Illness took people young in those days.

Wade and the others had learned the story of Andreas Copernicus in San Francisco. In fact, it was precisely
because
Andreas had become ill from handling the deadly Scorpio relic that Copernicus had asked his friend Tomé Pires to hide it inside a jade figurine. Wade and later his father believed Andreas might have died from radium poisoning.

“We know a bit about that,” said Lily, shooting Wade and Darrell a glance.

Ah, yes, the bond of brothers is strong. My own brother, Alek, was very skilled doctor. We grew up together in coal mine. A strange place to grow up, is it not?

You see, after Russia's Great Patriotic War, in 1945, our father was sent to labor camp to dig coal day and night in a mine in the gulag. Forced labor, for what they said was his defiance of the government. Camp is far away in Siberia, north of Arctic Circle. You do not know cold like this. Pray you never do.

Two years later, we are born. Twins. Mother dies in childbirth, so Father names us. Alek born first, so he
A,
for Aleksandr. Me. I am
B,
for Boris. Is humor. You get?

His eyes bounced back between Wade and Darrell. Did this old Russian see something in them, a kinship that proved they were all Guardians in this together? Or was he weaving a story like a spider weaves a web, drawing them in and snaring them before they realized it was too late? Words mattered, Wade knew. Words had power.

As boys we send message to each other, even in . . .

Boris said something then that Wade wrote in his notebook as
log punked
.

World-famous code is solved when we are boys. Is joke to us, yes? A and B? He send code to me, me send to he. Even when we grow up and go our ways, we send messages. Oh, the vastness of Russia. Me to Moscow, then here, never to return to dark circle of Mother Russia. He to Saint Petersburg, jewel on the Gulf of Finland.

Then the real horror begins.

Four years ago, Galina Krause appears out of the night. Alek works for her. What he does for the Order no one knows; he is doctor! But there is fire. Alek vanishes, is never heard from. Messages stop. I ask friends in Russia, what happen to my brother? They say the girl, Galina. His teeth are sent to me to prove he is dead. Me? I feel something break inside my heart. I cry—“Alek is dead! Galina has killed him!”

The restaurant hushed momentarily, then resumed its noise.

Galina Krause has murdered my brother, Aleksandr. In my heart, all is gone. Father, mother, Alek, even log punked is gone. But from London, I can do nothing. Until now today with you Keplens. We shield each other, yes? I have traced Red Brotherhood. I arrange gift for Galina. We go together in group, me to avenge my poor brother, Andreas . . . I mean Aleksandr . . .

The large Russian paused to wipe his eyes and his cheeks, then slumped back into his chair, making the table quake. “Me, I am nothing. I am like brother with disease. Leper. I am like dead languages that I study. My brother, he is the real one. He had pain. Much, much pain. He was the great one of these two brothers. Then Galina kill him.”