Expiration Date (52 page)

“Give me a minute,” Josee said.

Dmitri stood to the side as she approached the next available teller. He saw her produce ID from a pouch suspended around her neck. He noticed also a wooden crucifix and a necklace of braided twine.

“Okay, Dmitri. All I have to do is sign in, and we can have a look.”

The security guard joined them, smoothed a leather-bound register on a podium near the vault. “Here ya go, ma’am. Print and sign.” He winked and held out a pen.

Dmitri watched her spell out the name: Josee M. Walker.

“And this gentleman’s going in with you?” the guard inquired.

“I hope that’s okay. I asked him to come.”

“It’s your deposit box. Got your key on ya, Ms. Walker?”

“Right here.”

“Lemme see. Number 89.”

The guard’s shoes clacked on marble as he led them past a door of reinforced steel bars into the vault’s tomblike space. A gun poked from the holster on his hip. At the correct box, he inserted his master key into the left slot; when Josee did the same on the right, the door clicked open.

“All yours, ma’am. Be right out here when you’re done. Just holler.”

Dmitri made sure they were alone before turning to Josee. His hand brushed his cell phone. He angled himself so that he would be less identifiable in the camera peering down over the viewing table. Josee had the safe-deposit box open with her hand already dipped inside.

“I have it here.” She hesitated. “Why am I doing this? I hardly know you.”

“You can trust me. We are safe here in the vault.”

“What if this thing’s a fake? I’d almost rather not know.”

“We can look another day perhaps. No need to hurry, Josee.” He shrugged, hoping she was deaf to the thumping of his heart against his rib cage.

“No. I’m not gonna wait any longer. Get over here.”

He stepped to the table. Josee removed a felt bag. Her fingers loosened the drawstring so that he saw clearly a golden eagle stamped beside the Fabergé name. Without warning, a groan escaped his lips as she brought the jeweled egg into view. Translucent turquoise enamel covered the exquisite object. Above gold cabriole legs, rose diamonds formed a glittering band around the four-inch oval shape. A garnet-encrusted stem bore the initials
H.W.
, while other symbols marked the base.

“You think it’s the real thing?”

“Very real.”

“Tell me about it, whatever you know.”

Dmitri quelled a rush of exuberant pride. Outside, in all likelihood, Oleg was waiting to see this prize.

He will see he can trust me. He’ll have no more words to say
.

Dmitri directed his energy to the task of identifying and cataloguing the treasure’s specifics. With Josee’s permission, he lifted it and pointed out assay marks engraved into the bottom. He explained St. Petersburg’s city of origin symbol and the numbers which represented the gold’s
zolotnik
, or carats. He told her the stem’s initials stood for Henrik Wigstrom, Fabergé’s work master at the time of the Bolshevik Revolution, and he detailed the enamel process that had been unique to the House of Fabergé.

“Don’t most of the eggs contain hidden things?”

“Da. Many are ingenious, Josee. Very crafty.”

“Well, I must be freakin’ stupid. I’ve tried, but I can’t get it to open.”

“May I try?”

She nodded.

Dmitri studied the jeweled surface, enamored by its coolness in his hands. Gertrude Ubelhaar had spoken the truth. From Russia, through the hands of the Nazis and a greedy American soldier, this object had ended up here. Nearly eighty years old and still magnificent.

He tried pushing, pulling, poking at the creation.

In the vault’s even light, he detected Cyrillic letters, hovering, almost invisible within the translucent turquoise shell. He swiveled the egg. Spelled the Russian words in his head, but they offered no obvious clues.

“What is it?” Josee asked.

“Words. You see here, very faint. They say, ‘Tmu Tarakan.’ ”

“Even as the phrase left his mouth, the solid garnet stem seemed to loosen between his fingers. He moved with it. Guided and twisted it.

 … k-r-i-k-l-i-c-k …

The sound was barely audible. The stem slipped up into the egg, and the cabriole legs flattened on hidden joints. The section seated above the rose diamonds lifted upward on the center stem as four golden miniatures eased outward. They sparkled, boasting tiny diamond eyes. Yet they were somehow disturbing.

“What are they, some sort of bugs?” Josee whispered.

Dmitri furrowed his brow. “Tmu Tarakan. Some say it as one word,
tmutarakan
, referring to one of Russia’s remote medieval regions. Others use it to mean ‘Place of Darkness’ or ‘Kingdom of Cockroaches.’ ”

During lunch Clay hurried to the downtown police station. He and Officer Kelso referred to the August tenth targets, creating diagrams of each person’s anticipated patterns. Kelso said he was in contact with the police department in Cheyenne, Wyoming, to see what they could do about Jason. Here in JC, the police had been checking residences and job sites, fleshing out details, but at this point they’d made no specific connection between the targets. Nevertheless, an officer would be assigned to cover each individual.

Wendy, Digs, Father Patrick, and Mylisha …

“Time and money,” Kelso said. “That’s what we’re investing.”

“The lives of four citizens are at stake. Maybe more.”

“And that’s why we’ll give it a shot, Mr. Ryker. Let’s hope it’s energy well spent.”

As he drove back to Glenleaf Monument, Clay dialed Jenni’s number. The other night he had caught Jason on his way to bed, and even though this call would be abbreviated as well, Clay wanted to hear his son’s voice again.

Jenni’s in-home day-care provider answered. “Mr. Ryker? Jenni said you might call. Hold on one moment. Jason’s eating a corn dog and watching SpongeBob.”

“Daddy!”

“Jason, little buddy. How you doin’?”

“Good.”

“I wish I could be there to watch the show with you. I haven’t seen that one in ages. Not since … well, not since I moved here. I’m living with Grandpa and Grandma Ryker now. They’re not big SpongeBob fans.”

“When you movin’ back?”

“Uh, that might be a while.”

“You can bring the bus. Mommy says it’s better when husbands and wives are together. Like Adam and Eve. Not good ‘for the man to be alone.’ ”

“She said that, huh? Were you guys talking about me?”

“I dunno. I guess so. Me and Mommy’s comin’ next week.”

“Can’t wait to see you, buddy.”

“Me too.”

“I’m gonna take you to the Scandi-Fest. There’s lots of food and costumes and dancing. Mommy’s been there before.”

“She told me. She says it’s fun.”

“Listen, Jason. I love you. I have to get back to work, okay? See you soon.”

“Love you too.”

“You listen to your mother and don’t do anything too crazy.”

“I’m a big boy now.”

“Yes, you are. Bye, Jason.”

“Bye, Daddy.”

“Cockroaches?” Josee shivered in the vault’s cold space.

Dmitri lifted the Fabergé artifact. The four golden cockroaches were like points of the compass, projected outward by the garnet stem’s smooth corkscrew action. Each bore a mark. A single word on its back. Dmitri swiveled the egg, reading each in turn. Once again, the ingenuity of Henrik Wigstrom’s works impressed Dmitri. He cradled the long-lost treasure with the wild-eyed look of a man possessed.

“What do those words mean?” Josee’s question snapped him back.

“Four words … ‘Black King Is Key.’ ”

“Who is the black king? What’s he the key to?”

“I don’t have an answer,” Dmitri lied. He knew he should hurry this up. He needed to escape from this vault with the 1917 Fabergé egg in hand, and only Josee Walker and the bulky security guard stood in his way.

With gentle pressure on its turquoise point, Dmitri brought the egg’s halves back together. The golden miniatures retreated into the shell, the stem twisted downward, and the cabriole legs stood straight once more, forming a delicate base. Beneath the translucent surface, the ten letters still floated. Still taunted.

Tmu Tarakan … With this, I’ll track down Rasputin’s priceless relics
.

Dmitri set the object back into the felt bag, grasped the drawstring. With the hand hidden from Josee, he powered up his cell phone and slipped it into position.

“I will take the egg now,” he said.

“What? No, that’s all the help I needed. Thanks, though, I appreciate it.”

“I am not asking permission, Josee.”

“But I don’t want it leaving this vault. It’s safe here.”

“Nyet. It is not safe, and you also are not safe. I have a gun, you see? This cell phone can fire four bullets. With only one, it can kill you.”

Josee’s eyes flickered toward the vault’s entryway.

In one motion Dmitri lifted his knee onto the viewing table and launched himself upward, thrusting his fist into the watching camera; he did not need witnesses to this theft or to the murder of a young woman. The device tilted. His finger hooked a cord on his way down and sparks arced from the connection.

Josee clutched at the bag. Yelled out.

“Sarge!”

Dmitri held tight, bringing his loaded phone toward her forehead.

Pain slashed through his arm as Josee’s fingernails dug into his skin. Her other hand flew to his hair like a vicious claw. With a hollow detonation, the Maksalov weapon fired a round, hitting the vault’s corridor wall. Josee drove her head up into Dmitri’s chin so that his teeth clamped into his tongue and colors burst before his eyes. His grip on the bag loosened.

He had never fought a woman. He did not expect such tactics.

He yelled. Then pistoned his knee into Josee’s midsection.

She fell away with a gasp, a muffled cry. And a handful of his hair. His scalp burned. He kicked at her again. She was huddled on the floor, her arms drawn in, and the felt case was nowhere to be seen.

“Sarge!”

“Give it to me!” Dmitri shouted, convinced she had it beneath her. “Or I’ll kill you!”

With one thrust, he flipped her onto her back.

“Okay,” she sputtered through her pain. “Take it.”

He snatched the bag, but the security guard was coming straight for him, gun drawn, deep-set brown eyes assessing the situation.

“Don’t move,” the guard said.

“You’re a fool to stand in my way.”

The guard aimed his gun, but with Josee on the floor he looked unsure about using it. His eyes moved to her. “You okay, kiddo?”

“He kicked me.” She winced. “No big deal, Sarge. He’s a wuss.”

“Give the lady back what belongs to her.”

Dmitri lifted the Fabergé bag. “This? Nyet. It belongs to me.”

“My grandfather gave it to me,” Josee said.

“But it’s property stolen from the Romanovs. I’m from the Brotherhood of Tobolsk.”

“Who?”

“We were commissioned to protect our rulers. We failed once. Not again.”

“The Romanovs are dead.”

“Their bloodline still flows. Here in Oregon, a descendant of the Tsars lives!”

“You’re whacked,” Josee said.

“Do you know this name? Gertrude Ubelhaar?”

Sarge and Josee exchanged glances.

“Da. You do know it.” Dmitri inched toward the vault’s marble passageway. “She’s the mother of the last Tsar. She carried a child as part of Hitler’s strategy to unite nations. I will find this man and usher in a new era for Mother Russia.”

“Sarge, what’s he talking about? Does this have to do with Stahlherz?”

Dmitri came to attention. “Stahlherz? Who is this?”

“Gertrude Ubelhaar claimed he was her son,” Sarge said. “The man joined her in her terrorist plot, but they failed. Not more than a couple of miles from here. Before it was all over, Stahlherz slit his own throat.”

“Nyet!” Dmitri hugged the felt bag to his stomach.

“But I think good ol’ Ms. Ubelhaar’s misled you. Stahlherz wasn’t her son, a Tsar, or anything close. He was the blood brother of my friend Marsh Addison.”

“You cannot prove this. These are lies.”

“I found official documents,” Sarge said, “in the wreckage.”

Josee’s eyes cut to the sergeant’s. “Really?”

“Sittin’ all this time in the mangled helicopter. Right where Stahlherz left them.”

Dmitri shook his head to clear away this nonsense. He was weary of these lies, these attempts to dissuade him from his purpose. He edged along another few inches. Lifted the cell phone.

“Watch out, Sarge! That phone’s his gun.”

Dmitri said, “I’m a man of honest intent. I will not kill you if you let me go now. If you do not … that is your choice.”

“We will let you go, but—”

“No, Sarge! We can’t. That’s my inheritance he’s got.”

The sergeant raised his hand. “Dmitri, you can go. But ya might like to know a thing or two first. I’ve already turned in evidence to the FBI, talked with a field agent. You left fingerprints in Junction City and in your white Taurus rental car. Got sloppy, I guess. Figured your fake ID would protect ya.”

Dmitri chuckled at this turn of events. “You are better than I expected.”