Eternal Empire (31 page)

A
minute later, the radio crackled in the dacha. When the alarm went off, the men and women inside had withdrawn into an inner room, without windows, its only furnishings a table, two chairs, and a bed, on which Maddy was now seated. Bogdan, who was holding her at gunpoint, looked sharply at the radio on the table as a voice came over the speaker: “If you're listening, pick up now.”

These words were the first they had heard since the two men guarding the front of the house had gone around to check on the initial gunshot. Reaching out slowly, his pistol still trained on Maddy, Bogdan picked up the radio and pressed the button to talk. “Who is this?”

“My name is Rachel Wolfe,” the woman on the other end said. “Your men outside are dead. I want to talk to Asthana.”

Bogdan glanced over at Asthana and Vasylenko, who were seated in the corner. After a beat, Asthana extended her hand for the radio. Holding down the button, she paused for a moment, her eyes on Maddy as she finally spoke. “We have someone you know here. If you try to move in, you know what will happen.”

“I do,” Wolfe replied. “I imagine you've thought this through very carefully. You've always been careful, as long as I've known you.”

Asthana sensed that Wolfe was testing her, trying to see if a reference to their past together would arouse any reaction. She pressed the button again. “I could say the same of you.”

“Which leaves us with a problem,” Wolfe said. “If you have any ideas, I'm all ears.”

Asthana took a moment, as if thinking, although she had decided long ago what her course of action would be. “I'll go to the sitting room. You can see it from the rear yard. I'll open the blinds and turn on all the lights. You can watch to make sure I'm unarmed. Then I'll go on the deck, carrying the radio, nothing else, and walk down to the pier in plain sight.”

After a pause of a few seconds, the radio crackled again. “See you in five minutes.”

Asthana set the radio down. Maddy had been watching the entire time. “So what does that really mean?”

Ignoring the question, Asthana spoke in Russian to the others. “I can take care of this. There will be no deal.”

Bogdan was clearly agitated. “I don't like it. We should kill the girl and go.”

He spoke in Russian, with no sign on his face of what he might be saying. Asthana did not look at Maddy, who had continued to watch them in silence. Part of her knew that Bogdan was right, and that it would be best to end things now. Yet she also knew Wolfe. And she was aware that the other woman would never rest if the night somehow concluded with both of them still alive.

She looked over at Vasylenko, who was reloading the bullets into his revolver one by one. Asthana knew that he understood, from personal experience, how costly such an unresolved issue could be. “I can assess the situation. If she's on her own, this won't take long.”

Vasylenko loaded the last remaining bullet, then snapped the cylinder closed. “Very well,” the
vor
said. “Meet with her if you must. I trust that you will do what is necessary—”

Five minutes later, outside the house, Wolfe waited alone in the dark, lying on the ground leading up from the water.

In her hands were the binoculars she had taken from the guard Ilya had shot. Through the lenses, she studied the dacha as someone drew back the curtains in the sitting room. As Asthana came into view, she observed that her partner had cut her hair, but her face was still that of a woman she had loved, and for a second, she felt another stab of anger and regret.

Wolfe watched as Asthana stood in the center of the sitting room and turned around slowly, raising her jacket to show that she was carrying nothing but the radio. Going to the sliding door, she opened it and went out on the deck. Then she closed the door behind her and headed down the steps, barely looking at the bodies, the radio in one hand as she descended the narrow path.

Lowering the binoculars, Wolfe rose and began to move back toward the water, keeping Asthana in her line of sight. She halted on the pier, next to one of the covered boats, and watched as her partner drew closer, coming carefully down the slope of the embankment. It seemed to take a very long time.

At last, Asthana paused a few steps away. For a moment, the two women stood there in silence, looking across at each other on the pier, the water sparkling to either side in the moonlight.

Asthana was the first to speak. “If you're ready to do business, show me your hands.”

Wolfe responded by unslinging the binoculars from her neck and setting them down. Raising her arms, she turned around to prove that she was carrying nothing else. “I didn't expect it to end like this. Did you?”

“No,” Asthana said. “I can't say that any of this has gone according to plan.”

In the other woman's voice, Wolfe heard a false note, as if she were confessing to a regret that she did not really feel. “Tell me. What would have happened if I hadn't found out?”

It might have been her imagination, but she thought she saw Asthana smile. “Nothing. I would have been a good wife. You would have been close to my children if you had stayed. How is Devon?”

Wolfe wondered if she really cared or if this was another tactic to distract her. “He's not doing well. He thinks it was some kind of mistake.”

“And he's right. I never wanted to hurt him.” Asthana paused. “None of this was personal, Rachel. I hope you understand that—”

Wolfe felt her anger rise again and pushed it away, knowing that any emotion would only play into Asthana's hands. “What was it, then?”

“It was about being on the right side,” Asthana said, as if this were the most reasonable sentiment in the world. “About surviving what we both know is coming. If you saw things as I did, you might have done the same.”

“Don't be so sure,” Wolfe said, hating the tremor in her own voice. “It's no good being on the right side if you can't share in the victory. Tarkovsky may be dead, but there's no way out of this. At least not for you.”

“Is that what you really believe?” Asthana took a step forward, bringing her face into the moonlight. “Let me tell you what I think. If you made it this far, it had to be on your own. You figured I was heading for Sochi and tracked me here based on what you could guess about the attack. Am I right?”

“Close enough,” Wolfe said. “You were careless. I knew from your computer records that you were interested in Maddy.”

“And I have you to thank for that.” Asthana smiled. “You always were a smart one, Rachel. Too smart, I think, to share information with the police. And if you had a team flown in, we would have heard the chatter. Which means you're by yourself. It's impressive that you took out the guards. But if you're really alone, there isn't much else you can do here.”

“That may be true,” Wolfe said. “How many men do you have in the house?”

“The two you've left standing,” Asthana replied. “Along with the girl. You can work out the numbers yourself.”

Wolfe, who had already known the answer to this question, wondered if Asthana's honesty on this point came from calculation or overconfidence. “No. But it still leaves the problem of how we're going to do this.”

Asthana's smile grew even more glittering than before. “It doesn't matter. It's done.”

Raising the radio in her right hand, Asthana released the button on the side, which she had been holding down throughout their conversation. “You see, they're already gone. They went out the front door as soon as they heard there was no one else. And as for the rest, we can settle it ourselves.”

As she spoke, she put both hands behind her back. Wolfe heard the sound of adhesive coming loose as Asthana pulled free what was taped to the bottom of the radio, the blade a bright gleam in the moonlight.

Wolfe saw the knife coming and fell backward, not fast enough, the slash grazing a point just below her breastbone as she landed hard against the boat at the pier. She felt a white line of pain from the cut and remembered the two wounds they had found on Garber, one on the side, one in the throat—

Asthana flicked the blood from the blade and took another step forward. “I'm sorry, Rachel, but I can't just let you walk away. It's your own fault. You were always too trusting—”

“I know,” Wolfe said. She went down on one knee as Asthana came forward again, her shirt sticky with blood as she reached beneath the edge of the tarp and pulled out the pistol stashed inside, bringing it up and around to squeeze off two shots even as the blade sought her neck.

Asthana halted, staring down at the pair of holes in her chest, and dropped the knife. She looked back at Wolfe, eyes wide, and seemed on the verge of saying something very important as she fell dead to the pier.

Wolfe rose, knees trembling, and kicked away the knife, which went sliding over the edge into the water. Looking at her partner's body, she opened her mouth to speak, but the words died on her lips. Then she remembered where she was and ran up the embankment toward the dacha.

A minute earlier, soon after word came over the radio that Wolfe was alone, the front door of the house had opened from the inside.

Bogdan emerged first, gun raised, and checked the area around the porch, which was clear. The car was parked to one side of the driveway, twenty feet away. He took a step forward, then another, finding that all was quiet, and finally signaled for the others to follow.

Maddy was the next to appear, walking slowly because of the revolver that Vasylenko was pressing into the small of her back, his other hand clamped on her arm. Her face was calm and still. She knew very well what was coming. From the moment it became clear that Wolfe was here on her own, she had known that neither of them was going to survive.

And yet her first thought, as she stepped out on the porch, was how beautiful the trees were in the moonlight. The night was peaceful, with no sound except for the murmur of insects, and for a moment, she found herself thinking of the evenings in her childhood when she would fall asleep in the car and her father would carry her inside, even if sometimes she had only been pretending.

As Maddy headed for the car that was waiting for her now, she became aware, all at once, of a decision she had made long before. She would not get into that car, no matter what they said. After the fever of her life so far, if it had to end like this, it might as well be here.

Maddy was still coming to terms with this realization when Bogdan halted before her, as if struck by a sudden thought, and fell to the ground. Her mind caught up to the sound of the bullet only later, and at first, the two events did not seem connected. When she looked down at Bogdan, however, she saw that the back of his head was gone, his feet making small hyphens in the gravel.

Vasylenko clutched her arm more tightly and raised the revolver so it was pointed at the side of her skull. They turned in a tight circle, as if they were partners in a dance, and looked out at the trees as Ilya stepped into the light, his gun drawn and aimed at the
vor
's head.

Maddy felt the pressure of the pistol at her temple as Vasylenko spoke in a whisper. “Another step and she dies.”

Ilya halted, but he did not lower the gun. On the ground, Bogdan made a choking sound that was almost a chuckle, then grew still.

Maddy saw Ilya's eyes flick toward hers. In the instant of shared comprehension that followed, she found herself thinking of a moment at a museum, long ago, when she had asked him to spare another man's life.

Looking into his eyes, Maddy asked a silent question. Ilya seemed to understand, and he gave her an almost imperceptible nod.

Maddy began to speak. There was no need to raise her voice, since these words were meant only for the man at her side. “It won't work. You were wrong about Ilya. He never cared about me. If he went along with the plan, it wasn't for my sake. Tarkovsky is still alive.”

A convulsion of disbelief seemed to pass through the old man's body. For an instant, Vasylenko's revolver fell back a fraction of an inch. “Even if that were true, it only tells me that he would never let you die. You see yourself as an honorable man, Ilyuha. But let me remind you of what you really are. You—”

Maddy did not see Ilya fire. She only heard Vasylenko fall silent before he could finish his sentence, his head snapping back as the bullet passed between his eyes, Ilya watching with no change of expression as the man he had once seen as another father collapsed in the dust.

Ilya put his foot gently on Vasylenko's hand, which was still clutching the gun. When he looked up, Maddy saw that his eyes were glistening, although the rest of his face was as impassive as before. “Are you all right?”

Maddy managed to nod, overcome by a sense of unreality that might have been due to physiological shock. “And Tarkovsky?”

“He's alive,” Ilya said. When he blinked, the shine that had appeared so briefly in his eyes was gone.

Hearing the sound of steps, they both looked to see Wolfe approaching from the side of the house, gun drawn, her eyes on the bodies on the ground. There was fresh blood on her shirt. Taking in the scene, she said nothing, but only lowered her pistol as she turned to face Ilya.

For a moment, Maddy saw something pass between the two of them, an unspoken exchange in which she had no part.

A second later, Ilya turned away, the gun still in his hand. Wolfe stood looking after him in silence as he walked toward the gate at the end of the drive, which led out to the road beyond.

Just before he was out of sight, he removed the clip from his pistol and let it fall to the ground. Clearing the chamber, he tossed the gun off somewhere into the woods. Then he vanished into the darkness.

W
olfe had been in this neighborhood before. As she walked down the narrow street in the Shoreditch Triangle, she noticed a familiar building to her left. Although the upper floors had been repaired of all traces of fire, she recognized it as the apartment house where Karvonen had lived. She thought about mentioning the coincidence, then decided against it, given the nature of the errand she was here to run.

The morning was typical December. Arriving at the gallery, Wolfe paused for a moment to check her reflection in the window, then went inside. The gallery itself was in disarray, with canvases leaning against the walls where temporary labels had been taped. Through a door at the rear, she could see a storage room in which a television was playing the news.

As Wolfe began to leaf through the catalog proofs on the counter, Maddy came smiling through the doorway. Wolfe sensed that the other woman had seen her coming, but had retreated into the back room to make a more appropriate entrance. “Sorry about the mess. We're still getting ready, you know—”

For a moment, the two women hesitated awkwardly on the verge of a hug, then settled for a handshake instead. “I've been meaning to stop by,” Wolfe said. “It's been busy on my end.”

“I'm not surprised.” Maddy indicated a pair of folding chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

Wolfe sat down as Maddy went over to an electric kettle in the corner. She liked what she saw. In a white blouse and jeans, Maddy looked comfortable in her own skin, if not exactly relaxed. “How's the gallery coming?”

“Lots of fires to put out,” Maddy said, pouring two cups of tea. “Elena seems to enjoy it. Of course, she doesn't know half of what can go wrong. But she's been a good partner. We have a lot in common. She wants to make a name for herself, and she knows most of the Russian buyers.”

“It must be hard to break into that world, especially if you're not from around here.”

“It could be worse.” Maddy lowered herself into a chair. “When I left my gallery job, after the story broke about Arkady Kagan, I took a flash drive with my employer's contacts. I figured it might be useful one day.”

Wolfe accepted a cup, which she set on the nearest box to steep. “What does Tarkovsky think of that?”

Maddy toyed with the label of the tea bag. “He doesn't know. Tarkovsky isn't really involved. He helped me get the lease, but if I succeed or fail, it'll be on my own terms. That's all I've ever wanted.”

Wolfe reflected that this was probably true. She didn't really know Maddy at all, although they had spent a fair amount of time together, both during their departure from Sochi, taken under diplomatic cover, and in the ensuing political fallout, which was just beginning to die down. A ship could be salvaged, a painting could be restored, but systems did not easily heal.

“I suppose Tarkovsky is busy enough as it is, with a new boat to build,” Wolfe said, lifting out the tea bag and setting it neatly on the saucer. “And I heard the announcement last week. Oil rights in the Kara and Barents Sea, in partnership with Argo and Exxon. Those concessions will be worth a lot more as the ice melts. It sounds like he got what he wanted.”

Wolfe watched Maddy to see if she would take the bait. After a second, she did.

“That isn't entirely true,” Maddy said slowly. “I think he wants more. I've spent a lot of time wondering about this, and he doesn't tell me anything, of course. But the answer was right in front of me.”

“You mentioned this on the phone,” Wolfe said. “I'm still not sure what you meant.”

“It's Shambhala.” Maddy paused, as if gathering her thoughts, then said, “I never understood why it meant so much to him. Tarkovsky isn't a romantic. He only cares about his own interests, which happen to involve a more open society in Russia. I didn't realize that Shambhala wasn't just a symbol, but a specific plan of action. And the clues were in the story itself.”

Maddy looked around her unfinished gallery. “Shambhala is an ideal society. It embodies the kind of social change that Tarkovsky wanted for Russia. But it only works because it's hidden away. In the real world, there are always complications. Shambhala has it easy. It can prepare itself in secret, untouched by politics, and will show itself when it's ready. That's why the stories always put it in some faraway place, in the Altai Mountains, in Tibet—”

Wolfe suddenly knew what Maddy was going to say next. “Or the North Pole.”

Maddy nodded. “That's the thing about the pole, right? It's pristine. The last empty spot on the map. Tarkovsky can build something there without interference. He even designed his yacht with this in mind. The government is willing to tolerate this because it doesn't have the technology to get the oil on its own. But in the meantime, something else is growing.”

“An example,” Wolfe said, seeing her point. “A stable partnership between a Russian company and foreign partners. Any closer to home, and it would be assimilated. But up there, in the ice—”

“—Tarkovsky can make something that can't be touched,” Maddy concluded. “He knows the government will leave him alone as long as it needs him. The ice will buy him some time, at least a few years, to lay the groundwork for a change that needs to happen either way. When the state finally sees what he has done, it will be too late. Other investors will demand the same transparency and accountability. It's the only way Russia will ever move forward. Or so he hopes.”

As Wolfe listened, she caught a glimpse, not for the first time, of the qualities Powell had seen in Maddy. “Will it work?”

Maddy paused again. “I don't know. Most attempts at reform have been crushed. But the need for change is there. It's deep underground, but sometimes it breaks out. The hard part is knowing what shape it will take.”

“I know,” Wolfe said, thinking back to the violence she had seen on the streets of this city. London itself had grown quiet again, but similar convulsions had continued in more distant lands, and as she considered the impulses that brought them to the surface, she thought of Asthana, who had been willing to do whatever it took to hasten the change she was convinced was coming. If she was ever tempted to forget this, the scar on her chest was reminder enough.

There was an extended silence, not altogether comfortable, as Maddy went to refill their cups at the electric kettle.

While Maddy added more hot water, her back turned to Wolfe, she reflected that she had not told the entire truth. Part of her work for Tarkovsky would forever remain a secret, but as far as the public was concerned, she had done well. Virginia had agreed on a deal, allowing the egg to spend half the year in Richmond and half in Moscow, a compromise suited to its divided nature.

Afterward, Tarkovsky had expressed gratitude for what she had done, and he had offered to back her gallery openly. Maddy had declined at once. Change, she knew from experience, could not be imposed from the outside but had to come from within. She suspected that Tarkovsky knew this as well, which was why she believed his investments at the pole were only part of the story.

This, she knew, was why the color white had always been associated with Shambhala, where white flowers were supposed to rain from the sky whenever a new king was born. White was the color of ice, but also of purity and rebirth. Shambhala was a symbol of transformation, a process that took place invisibly, one soul at a time, before you were aware it was coming. But it could take hold only when a country, or a person, had the freedom for change to endure.

As Maddy returned to where Wolfe was seated, she decided to learn how much freedom she really had. “How's Powell doing?”

“He's right where he wants to be,” Wolfe said, taking back her cup. “Keeping an eye on events, trying to see past the veil. The official position in Moscow is that it was a terror attack, but rumors of an intelligence angle are everywhere. Powell thinks that heads are rolling, and the fallout will last for decades.”

Maddy, who had guessed as much, knew that this would buy Tarkovsky breathing room as he continued to build his vision in the north, as well as closer to home. “What about the gangs?”

“Powell is under the impression that the state has broken off all ties with the
vory
,” Wolfe said. “They were on their way out anyway. When Moldova, of all places, is cracking down, you know you've outlived your usefulness. The attack just happened to hurry it along.”

Maddy thought of the respected young solicitor, Owen Dancy, who had been found at his club with a plastic bag over his head, a peculiar suicide that had been widely reported in the press. “And Ilya?”

Wolfe set her cup down untouched. “Personally, I don't think we'll hear from him again. He waited until we had enough evidence to connect the plan to the system that set it in motion, then took out the last of the old thieves. Without Vasylenko and his kind, the brotherhood is dying. Even if it emerges again, it will be very weak. That's all he wanted, ever since he went after Lermontov. But he's the only one who understands his reasons. That's why he always worked on his own.”

Before Maddy could respond, she saw Wolfe glance out the window. “Looks like my friend is here.”

Following her gaze, Maddy saw a man standing on the pavement outside. She had met Lester Lewis briefly before, shortly after her return to London. Seeing them, Lewis raised a hand in greeting but lingered on the street, perhaps sensing that the two of them wanted to be alone.

Wolfe rose from her chair. “I'm staying here, you know. The agency is being pulled apart, but I should still have a job when the dust settles.”

Maddy stood as well. “I'm glad to hear it. I was hoping you'd stay in the city.”

“Well, we'll see how it goes.” Reaching into her pocket, Wolfe fished out a business card. “Before I forget, I should mention that I'm looking for someone to consult on cases, on a freelance basis, involving art crime. Fraud, art trafficking, that sort of thing. It's still a big headache at the agency, and we don't always have the expertise we need, so we're always open to outside help. If you can think of anyone who fits the bill, you should let me know.”

Wolfe handed her the card, then turned to leave the gallery. Maddy remained where she was, watching as Wolfe went to join Lewis, who took her by the arm as they strolled together up the street.

Maddy glanced down at the business card, studying it with a faint smile, then looked at the television in the next room, which was turned to news coverage of recent protests over parliamentary elections in Moscow. Tens of thousands of demonstrators were chanting in the snow, filling most of a city square with flags and signs. She had seen these images before, but as she watched the footage now, one small detail caught her eye. The protesters were wearing white ribbons.