Eternal Empire (16 page)

“I
've spoken again with the museum director,” Maddy said. “A board meeting is scheduled for next week, but it's unclear how many votes he has. There's an unwritten rule that once something goes into a museum, it doesn't go out. But I'll keep following up while you're gone.”

“Good,” Tarkovsky said, keeping his eyes on the view of the garden. It seemed to her that he had something on his mind, although this may have been because she, too, was working up her courage for what she had to say.

They were alone in the sitting room on the second floor of the mansion. All four walls were lined with books, while up ahead, a door, slightly open, led into Tarkovsky's private office. It was the first time Maddy had ever been inside the main house. After getting the call that afternoon, she had put away the files, her hands trembling, and gone up the gravel path through the gardens to the front gable, where a security guard had ushered her inside.

Looking around, she had found herself in a large entrance hall, its exposed beams and thick carpet reminding her, in passing, of another house she had visited many years ago. Before her had stood a massive fireplace with a stepped fireback of cast iron, its shield engraved, inevitably, with the familiar image of a man on horseback, slaying a basilisk with a spear.

It had struck her as an omen, or at least as a sign as to which of two paths to take. And this feeling had only grown stronger as the guard led her upstairs, past a room where someone was endlessly playing the piano, the notes drifting in clusters throughout the great house.

She could faintly hear the piano now, through the closed door of the sitting room, as her employer turned away from the window. “You've done well,” Tarkovsky said. “And there are other projects you can work on while I'm away. Assuming that you decide to remain.”

Maddy saw the opening she needed. Without hesitation, she took the plunge. “That all depends on you.”

Tarkovsky seemed amused by her reply. “And what is it you need from me?”

Maddy paused. From here, she knew, there were two ways she could go. One was safer but less certain, while the other would leave her exposed forever, and in the instant before she spoke, she found herself taking the more cautious approach. “If I'm going to do my job effectively, you need to be honest with me. We need to talk about the real reason you want this egg.”

Tarkovsky had listened without visible reaction. “And what reason would this be?”

“I don't think you care about it at all. I think you care more about the horse and rider inside. You mentioned this at the museum, when you said that you saw it as a symbol of Russia's future, but there's more to it than that. And you hired me because you thought I'd see the truth sooner or later.”

This was nothing but a stab in the dark, but as he listened, Tarkovsky seemed to grow more watchful. “And what have you seen?”

“The word on the side of your yacht,” Maddy said simply. “
Rigden.
It's the name of a line of legendary kings of Shambhala, a mythical hidden kingdom in inner Asia. The final king, Rigden Djapo, is destined to usher the world into a new age. When he's born, white lotuses, like the one painted on the yacht's hull, will fall from the sky. And when he appears, he'll be riding a white horse.”

Tarkovsky's features relaxed into a smile. “Very clever of you. But anyone who reads up on the subject for more than a few minutes will uncover the same information. And I don't see how it affects your work.”

“Then let me explain.” She hesitated, knowing that she was entering dangerous territory. “You're careful to express no interest in politics. You've seen what happens to businessmen with political aspirations. They're killed or they're thrown into prison, like Khodorkovsky. But I know that you care about the future of Russia. Your foundation funds organizations that are pushing for transparency and financial reform. You want to see your country move peacefully into the next stage of its history. And this is what the name of the yacht means.”

Tarkovsky was no longer smiling. “And what does that name have to do with this?”

“Shambhala is a political symbol,” Maddy said. “A perfect society, ruled by enlightenment and science. It began as a legend in Buddhism, an allegory for spiritual change, but later, people began to wonder if it might actually exist, hidden away in Central Asia, or somewhere to the north, or underground. Its symbol is the color white, especially the white horse and lotus. And if you, of all people, are interested in this story, it means you think these symbols still have meaning.”

Tarkovsky turned back toward the window, the panes of which were now lightly dotted with rain. “It has nothing to do with me. Russia has always returned to the same handful of symbols. The Soviet Union once claimed to be Shambhala, the hidden land of plenty, to influence regional politics. Putin himself takes an interest in such myths. There is nothing exceptional here. The idea of a northern paradise goes back to the warriors of the steppes—”

“But symbols have power. You wouldn't have named your yacht after the legend if you didn't think the story was meaningful. It may be a myth, but it stands for something real. A promise that change is coming. I think you want this egg because if you bring it back to Russia, along with the horse and rider inside, the people you want to reach will understand its significance. It's the same reason you've acquired works by Nicholas Roerich. He's a minor painter, but he was also an activist and mystic who took a great interest in the political implications of Shambhala.”

Tarkovsky's eyes flicked back to hers. “You're quite good at finding meaning where it might not exist.”

“You knew this when you hired me,” Maddy replied. “And I've seen enough to make me skeptical of secret forces working to change the world. But I also know how powerful a symbol can be. And if there's a deeper meaning behind this egg, you can't go away for two weeks before we've had a chance to discuss it.”

Tarkovsky remained silent. Watching him, Maddy wondered if the approach she had taken was having any effect. Her only hope, as she had seen so clearly last night, was to arouse his curiosity. And the one place where this conversation could continue, given his impending departure, was the yacht itself.

At last, Tarkovsky turned back to her, and this time, he did not look away. “Have you ever heard of a man named Gleb Boky?”

Before she could respond, the door at the far end of the room opened, and Elena entered. Maddy had not heard the assistant approach, and something in her face as she drew closer made Maddy suspect that she had been listening. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but it's time for your call to Argo.”

Tarkovsky nodded, falling back into an expression of nonchalance, although his eyes remained fixed on Maddy. “Thank you. I'd say that we're done here. Elena will walk you back in a moment.”

“Of course,” Maddy said. Rising from her chair, she headed for the door of the sitting area, sensing Elena watching her as she departed.

Maddy left the room, closing the door behind her, and stood for a moment at the head of the staircase, listening to the muffled notes of the piano playing down the hall. For a moment, she thought about throwing herself over the balustrade. She had been so close. Another minute, and she might have been able to bring the conversation around to the yacht.

Looking down the stairs, she saw clearly what she had to do now. Her second option was all she had left. She had been holding it in reserve, knowing that it amounted to a full confession, but even if the consequences were severe, they were nothing compared to the alternative.

Since yesterday, she had gone more than once to call Powell. Each time, standing at the pay phone, she had wavered. Glancing around the street, she had reassured herself that she was alone. Yet she could never shake the sense that she was being watched, and that someone was waiting patiently to see what she would do next. And if she failed to do what they asked—

As she began to gather her courage again, the sound of the piano abruptly ceased. Looking up, Maddy saw a slender girl of twelve emerge from the parlor down the hall. It was Nina, Tarkovsky's daughter. As the girl headed along the landing toward the other end of the house, she glanced back, her dark eyes briefly brushing Maddy's. Then she turned away.

A voice came from over her shoulder. “I don't know what you said, but it worked.”

Maddy turned to see Elena standing behind her, a look on her face of mingled disdain and admiration. She had emerged noiselessly from the other room. “What are you talking about?”

Elena smiled tightly. “You're coming with us. Vasily wants you on the yacht. He says that he'd like me to keep an eye on you. So it appears you and I will be sharing a cabin.”

At first, Maddy couldn't believe what she was hearing. “He said this to you?”

Ignoring the question, Elena headed for the stairs. “You will pack tonight, and bring your passport. We need to get your visas in order.” She glanced down at Maddy's pencil skirt. “And you might want to find something nice to wear. We're leaving tomorrow for Romania.”

C
lifford Hughes was short and muscular, his face mottled with freckles, a scruffy growth of ginger stubble beginning to appear on his face and shorn head. Wolfe observed that he was still wearing his clothes from the day before, although his red jacket was gone, and that a smile was playing across his lips as he studied the three photographs set before him on the table. “Mare Street, innit?”

“That's right.” Asthana tapped a figure in one of the shots. “Could this be you?”

Hughes leaned forward. In the photo, a screen capture from a cell phone video taken during the riots, a figure in a red jacket could be seen. “Can't really say. Could be me. Or someone in similar clothes.”

At Asthana's side, Wolfe remained silent, her hand resting lightly on a folder on the table. She was tired, but there had been little time to rest since the events of the previous day. In the aftermath of the riots, police stations in the city were packed to capacity, with arrestees sent to outlying areas as the court system worked through its backlog of cases. Even here, in Watford, all the interrogation rooms were occupied, so they had been forced to squeeze into the kitchen, where the door frequently opened and closed as officers came in for cups of tea.

Asthana resumed her questioning. “And what were you doing at Mare Street? Hoping to break an officer's skull?”

Hughes rubbed the top of his head. “I live there, don't I? King Edward's Road.”

“And you aren't working these days. Wormwood Scrubs for burglary, wasn't it?”

“If that's what you want to call it,” Hughes said easily. “I was alone that morning, watching the telly. Heard the noise and thought I'd go for a look. It seemed like a bit of fun.”

Asthana pointed to the second photo. “What about this shot? It looks like you're talking to a group of men near the park. Or is this a different person in the same kind of jacket?”

Wolfe shot Asthana a look. Although she knew that her partner was under a great deal of stress, this was still a leading question. Not surprisingly, Hughes took the hint. “That's right. Lots of jackets like those.”

Asthana pointed to the last picture, which showed the man in red throwing something visible only as a blur in the air. “Whoever he was, he threw a piece of wood at an officer at the scene. You're still saying it wasn't you?”

Hughes gave a shrug. “What can I say? It's all a mistake. I've been saying this since I got nicked.”

As Hughes leaned back smugly in his chair, Wolfe did her best to tamp down her frustration. Since the prison break, she had been presented with one setback after another. Dancy had gone into hiding, evidently out of fear for his own life, and they had been unable to bring the solicitor in for questioning about his knowledge of his clients' intentions.

She fought away a fresh wave of anger. This was the hardest part of all. She had never pretended to know Ilya well, but she had believed that he would rather die than fall in with Vasylenko. Now, instead, witnesses were claiming that Ilya himself had unlocked the old man's shackles. She was also aware that given her history with Ilya, questions had been raised about her failure to stop him on Mare Street. And the only way to silence these doubts was to bring him back herself.

Wolfe spoke up at last. “Clifford, do you remember the forensic examination you were given after your arrest? It would have been conducted by a scenes of crime officer. He took a sample from the inside of your cheek—”

Hughes's face lit up. “Right, a little man. Pulled a comb through my hair, didn't he? And wiped off my hands.”

“Yes. It was a nitrate test. And the results came back a few hours ago.” Wolfe opened the folder in front of her, which contained a single printed page. “The tests found traces on your hands of penthrite, a chemical used in high explosives. Similar traces were found on your jacket. And both tested as a match for another set of chemicals found at a scene in Woolwich. Does any of that sound familiar?”

Hughes's eyes were on the printout. His smile was gone. “Can't say that it does.”

“Let me explain, then. There was a prison escape that morning. The explosives they used left a residue that perfectly matches the nitrate test I have here. It was all over your jacket, Clifford. And both of your hands.”

This was largely a bluff. In the confusion, Hughes's hands had been swabbed only after he had spent the night in his holding cell. Normally, the samples would have been taken immediately, before there was a chance of contamination, and in any case, such chemicals could have come from any number of sources.

Hughes did not seem aware of this fact. He looked with pointed calm at Wolfe, but his hands trembled slightly where they rested against the table. “I don't know about any escape.”

“That's hard to believe. As I see it, there are two explanations. Either you were there in Woolwich, with the others, or you encountered them in some other way.” Wolfe pointed to a face in the second picture. “I'm most interested in this man. Ilya Severin. Perhaps you spoke to him briefly, and one of the others brushed past you. A moment of contact is all it would take.”

Hughes studied the picture. At last, he said, speaking slowly: “Maybe. But—”

“So you were there,” Wolfe said. “In that case, you should tell us what you remember about these men.”

Hughes hesitated again, as if wondering how much he could safely give up. Finally, he shook his head. “I don't remember anything. And I have nothing to say to the likes of you.”

For a moment, Wolfe weighed whether to push things further, then decided that Hughes might be more receptive after another day or two in holding. After they had gone through the closing formalities, a police officer came to take custody of Hughes, who did not say another word. Asthana gathered up the photos, then rose with Wolfe and left the kitchen.

As Wolfe went to find the duty officer, Asthana remained in the hallway of the custody area, checking the email on her phone.

It was lucky, Asthana thought, that Hughes had held his tongue. Listening to him talk, she had wanted to smack him across his blotchy face. He thought he was being clever, but if he were really smart, he wouldn't have said anything at all. Clearly he didn't fully understand the situation, or that the last thing he needed to worry about was the police. And although he knew nothing that could put them at risk, it would still be necessary to keep an eye on him, and perhaps to pass a message along to his parents in Lower Clapton.

Asthana slid the phone back into her purse, then, glancing around, removed a second phone, which had been set to silent mode. There were no new messages, but she wasn't particularly concerned. Before the end of the day, she suspected, she would have the answer she needed.

Rogozin, she saw now, had gone wrong in several ways. He had put too much trust in a single man. Sometimes, for reasons of simplicity or security, you had no other choice, but you also had to take other precautions. And she was about to put a very useful safeguard into place.

Even as this thought passed through her mind, Asthana saw Wolfe turn away from the duty officer and come quickly up the corridor. There was a grim look on her face. “What's wrong?”

“Word just came over the radio,” Wolfe said. “They've found Andrew Ferris.”