Expiration Date (41 page)

Look, I tried doing it my way at Crater Lake … and you sent a whale after me!

In the driver’s seat, he signed the back of his check while his thoughts turned from Sergeant Turney to Detective Freeman. And to Jenni and Jason.

Please, Lord. I’m trying to learn how to trust your voice again
.

Dmitri Derevenko received word Saturday morning. He was in.

He had sent priority mail to Gertrude Ubelhaar, explaining his need for a visit; with Oleg’s help, he had procured new identity cards. Now, as promised, the elderly inmate had submitted a visiting application form for him at the Coffee Creek Correctional Facility.

Dmitri and Oleg drove the distance together.

“Authorities have already screened your information,” Oleg said, as they reached the North Wilsonville exit off Interstate 5. “Your ID is good. The man we use is the best in Oregon, a former art-restoration expert from the Ukraine.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Be careful, though. They will watch as you speak with Gertrude.”

“We don’t want trouble. I understand, Oleg.”

“And she might lie. She’s known for it, with many years of practice.” Oleg’s high voice did nothing to conceal his venomous tone. “She is a blasphemer, same as Hitler, same as Rasputin. She must give back what she took for her own. Our Brotherhood will not rest otherwise.”

High barbed-wire fences rose into view, surrounding a complex of flat, tan buildings. Dmitri stopped at the main gate. He identified himself through the speaker to Control Central staff, who told him to proceed to the parking lot.

Dmitri cleared his throat. “Do not worry, comrade. I will find answers. Here.” He slipped his Maksalov-modified cell phone across the seat. “I cannot take this in.”

After registration forms, a thorough search, and identity confirmation, a female attendant led Dmitri through a series of clanging doors. Cameras scanned the corridors. Sounds echoed with no identifiable source or direction.
In a sterile reception room, he purchased snacks from vending machines before entering a visitation room with a small table.

Two minutes later an elderly lady appeared in institutional garb.

The dossier opened in Dmitri’s mind …

Gertrude Ubelhaar, seventy-seven years of age, born in Mosbach, Germany, daughter of a Nazi biochemist. At seventeen inducted into the SS breeding program as a potential mother of Hitler’s master race. At war’s end US forces falsified her records and arranged for her employment at a military facility in Umatilla, Oregon. In the technological race against the Soviets, the Americans coveted the knowledge of such Nazis. They bent the rules accordingly.

While on the US government payroll, Gertrude Ubelhaar had funneled her anti-American sentiments and post-WWII bitterness into a small group of anarchists. They’d helped mastermind last October’s regional terrorist plot for which she was now incarcerated.

Dmitri scooted a Dasani bottle and a bag of pretzels across the table.

Gertrude limped forward in prison slippers and seated herself. “Dmitri, you’re a dashing young man,” she said, opening the pretzels. “Beautiful Aryan eyes.”

“And you’re a woman with a dark past, Ms. Ubelhaar.”

“Call me Trudi, if you will. I prefer it.” On her nearly balding head, wisps of hair played above powdered wrinkles. Her eyes were intelligent, alert.

“We may speak freely, Trudi?”

“Goodness, yes. At my age there’s no other way.”

“I mentioned in my letter that I’ve found ties to your son. When you added me to the visitation list, I knew you were curious, nyet?”

“I’m amused by this claim; I won’t deny it.”

“Where is he? Your son?”

Gertrude gnawed on a pretzel. “Are you inquiring after his soul or his mortal body? We have time to wax philosophical if you so desire.”

“But your son is alive,” he said. “This I must believe.”

“When you say you must believe, it is time to reevaluate. Unshakable truths inspire trust, but they never demand it.”

“I don’t have time to evaluate such matters,” Dmitri said. “I seek the
bloodline of the Tsars, and you are the mother to this man. I’m not asking. I know it’s the truth.”

“Dmitri, you are too handsome for naive talk.”

“We’ve found documents in this evil program’s classified records. Hitler chose you. He found the Romanov heir, coerced him out of hiding, and used you to breed a final Tsar as a bridge between enemy nations. He thought such a child would bring the Third Reich favor in Russian eyes.”

“You can’t believe everything you read.” Gertrude laid one wrist atop the other on the table. “You intrigue me with these preposterous claims, but I do admire a healthy imagination.”

“Imagination? Nyet.”

“You already know the facts, Dmitri. Under Lenin’s direction the Bolsheviks set out to destroy the imperial line. In one dreadful week alone, in July of 1918, they killed nearly thirty Romanovs—grand dukes and duchesses, princes and empresses. What is this nonsense about a surviving heir? You are jabbing at an old woman’s sorrows.”

Dmitri surveyed the visitor area, spoke in hushed tones. “I am from the Brotherhood of Tobolsk. You know this name?”

“I’ve heard rumors, yes. But it no longer exists, does it?”

“We still wrestle with God, Trudi. This is the mark we bear.” Dmitri thumbed down his trouser material to reveal his angel-wing scar. “My great-grandfather, he tried to save the Romanov family. He and others made plans, spoke with British ambassadors and intelligence agents. Across from the Ipatiev house, the British Consulate dug a tunnel to reach the family for escape, you understand. But the Reds suspected trouble and killed the family in cold blood. Only one child survived, protected by diamonds sewed into his vest. Young Alexei. The Tsars’ bloodline did not end. This is God’s hand showing favor to our Brotherhood.”

“A wonderful tale, I’ll grant you. Yet it’s public knowledge that during an official inquest each of the Romanovs was exhumed and identified. They died in that basement.”

“Guards reported so. If they failed, they knew Lenin would kill them as well.”

“So they perpetuated this deception to protect themselves?”

“Da. And to this day, falsehoods are told by my government. Leaders in the Kremlin do not want the threat of past royalty. They control news reports so that the country does not question. Trudi, I tell you the truth that Alexei escaped. Our Brotherhood smuggled him from northern Russia through Turkestan and into Shanghai. In early 1919 the British warship HMS
Kent
transported him into hiding on Ceylon.”

“So why didn’t you pursue your vaunted imperial leader long ago?”

“It’s our failure. Hitler found Alexei and swayed him with thoughts of glory. Alexei was a young man, isolated and—what is the word?—impressionable. He felt a destiny to lead, but he was an orphan with sickness in his blood. Hitler promised him a cure, recovered from Rasputin’s hidden chamber.”

“A brash lie. Hitler did not know the chamber’s location.”

“But he convinced Alexei to believe. To join with you.”

“I was barren, Dmitri.
Unfruchtbar …
unfruitful.”

“This is what the SS told you. It’s in the records. But Hitler was saving you.”

“For an assignment, you are correct.” Gertrude’s lips twitched with a grin. “You’ve done your research. Yes, Adolf hand selected me as the perfect Aryan mother for Romanov offspring, a blood link to be forged between empires, to consecrate his Thousand Year Reich. Germany has never conquered Russia’s vast steppes. But what if the countries were to be bound together by blood?”

“Madness.” Dmitri rose, his knee jarring the table. “My people would not accept this … this link with Hitler. Nyet!”

A guard’s head poked through the door.

“He’s okay,” Gertrude said. “It’s these tables. More polish and fewer slivers would be nice, don’t you think?”

The guard disappeared.

“So, Trudi.” Dmitri felt short of breath. “The Tsar is alive—you admit this?”

“I carried this child in my womb, yes. Hitler, however, was a weak fool, afraid to use the weapons at his disposal. His final cowardice brought the war to an end.”

“On this we agree. And you gave birth? You had your son here in America?”

“Yes. I was not so barren as first conjectured, eh? My child was born here in Oregon in early 1946.” Her fingers touched her scalp. “I’m an old woman, Dmitri. Does it do me any good to take this secret to my grave? Perhaps my son’s time has come. Certainly your visit seems providential.”

“I believe so.”

“I do not know his exact whereabouts, nor do I know the fabled fortune’s location—Tmu Tarakan. If you’re willing, though, to do the legwork and report back to me, I’ll provide a hint or two. There’s a young woman who possesses a vital element. Start with her.”

“It is my task. I’m listening.”

“Her name is Josee Walker. She has something which is not hers, by rights. Deal with her carefully and do not underestimate her friend, a Sergeant Turney.” A chilly expression crept over Gertrude’s powdered face and broke it, like cracking ice, into wrinkles and fissures. “They’re the ones responsible for my time behind these bars.”

Monde’s report was concise.

“In conclusion, I don’t believe Dmitri Derevenko has Engine 418’s secret in hand, but we know he wants it as desperately as we do. He’ll continue searching, turning over every stone. If we’re patient, A.G., he’ll do our physical labor for us.”

“And you’re positive we can get it from him if he finds it.”

“Once he finds it.” Monde’s eyes gleamed. “He is a persistent man.”

One of Asgoth’s own contacts had delivered news that Clay Ryker was carrying the engine’s treasure when he dove into the waters at Mount Mazama. There was no reason, however, to reveal this. Monde was occupied with his own pursuits; Asgoth would use the information for a separate purpose.

He played along. “But we can get it?”

“Yes,” Monde said. “Trust my skills for that. Using fear, we’ll leverage those around Dmitri until he has nowhere to turn. His Brotherhood believes this secret might help them resurrect the Russian monarchy. They need their
Tsar, and they need Rasputin’s legendary riches to finance such a venture. We, on the other hand, want to buy the soul of a town.”

“Is that what you’d call it?” The phrasing amused Asgoth.

“Call it what you will. The result is the same. If we succeed—”

“Once we succeed.”

“Correction noted,” Monde said with a slight smile. “For long enough hell’s hounds have been held at bay. Once we get our finances lined up and get Clay Ryker out of the picture, we’ll be free to roam.”

“Exactly as I’ve always envisioned it.”

Mylisha saw the sign while returning from an accounting class at LCC.

Eighteen million dollars.

She pulled off Interstate 5, choosing to pass through Santa Clara on her way home. She stopped at a convenience store. There it was. The Oregon Lottery screen over the ticket machine confirmed the billboard’s claim.

She placed her hand over her purse, imagined she could feel the heat of eighteen dollars burning a hole through the brushed, dark purple leather. That morning she’d withdrawn two twenties from the ATM, taken in her car for an oil change, and this was the leftover cash.