The 14th Colony: A Novel (6 page)

Every village had once provided a
banya
similar to this one, a place to escape Siberia’s nearly year-round cold. Most of those, like his former world, were now gone.

His guest was a stolid, brutal-looking Russian at least ten years older with an agreeable voice and teeth stained yellow from years of nicotine. Receding blond hair swept back from a steep forehead and did nothing to strengthen an overall weak appearance. His name was Vadim Belchenko and, unlike himself, this man had never suffered exile.

But Belchenko did know rejection.

Once, he’d been a person of great importance, the chief archivist for the First Chief Directorate, the KGB’s foreign intelligence arm. When the Soviet Union fell and the Cold War ended, Belchenko’s job immediately became obsolete, as those secrets mattered no longer.

“I am glad you agreed to come,” he told his guest. “It has been too long, and things must be resolved.”

Belchenko was nearly blind, his eyes wearing their cataracts like acquired wisdom. He’d had the older man brought east two days ago. A request that would have turned into an order, but that had proved unnecessary. Since arriving, his guest had stayed inside the black bath most of the time, soaking in the silence and heat.

“I heard a plane,” Belchenko said.

“We had a visitor. I suspect the government is looking for you.”

The older man shrugged. “They fear what I know.”

“And do they have reason?”

He and Belchenko had talked many times. Nearly every person they ever knew or respected was dead, in hiding, or disgraced. Where they all once proudly called themselves Soviets, now that word bordered on obscene. In 1917 the Bolsheviks had cried with pride
All power to the Soviets,
but the phrase today would be regarded as treason. How the world had changed since 1991 when the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics dissolved. What a magnificent state it had been. The world’s largest, covering a sixth of the planet. Over 10,000 kilometers from east to west across eleven time zones. Seven thousand kilometers north to south. In between lay tundra, taiga, steppes, desert, mountains, rivers, and lakes. Tartars, tsars, and communists had ruled there for 800 years. Fifteen nationalities, a hundred ethnic groups, 127 languages. All ruled by the Communist party, the army, and the KGB. Now it was the Russian Federation—which had evolved into barely a shadow of what had once existed. And instead of trying to reverse the inevitable and fight a battle that could not be won, in 1992 he and a hundred others had retreated east to Baikal, where they’d lived beside the lake ever since. An old Soviet dacha served as their headquarters and a cluster of homes and shops not far away became Chayaniye.

Hope.

Which seemed all that remained.

“What of the plane?” Belchenko asked.

“I ordered it shot down.”

The old man chuckled. “With what? British Javelins? MANPADs? Or some of those ancient Redeyes?”

Impressive how the old mind remained sharp for details. “I used what’s available. But you’re right, what we fired was defective. It still managed to accomplish the task.”

He bent down to a pail of cold water and tossed a ladleful onto the hot stones. They hissed like a locomotive, tossing off welcomed steam. The candle across the room burned bluer through a deeper halo. Temperatures rose and his muscles relaxed. Steam burned his eyes, which he closed.

“Is the pilot alive?” Belchenko asked.

“He survived the landing. An American.”

“Now, that is interesting.”

In decades past they would have spread their bodies out on the lowest of the pine benches while attendants doused them with hot water. Then they would have then been scrubbed, rolled, pounded, and drenched with cold water, then more hot, their muscles pelted with bundles of birch twigs and washed with wads of hemp. More long douses of cold water would have ended the experience, leaving them cleansed and feeling disembodied.

The black baths had been a wonderful thing.

“You know what I want to know,” he said to Belchenko. “It’s time you tell me. You can’t allow that knowledge to die with you.”

“Should this not be left alone?”

He’d asked himself that question many times, the answer always the same, so he voiced it. “No.”

“It still matters to you?”

He nodded.

The older man sat with his arms extended outward up to the next level of bench. “My muscles feel so alive in here.”

“You’re dying, Vadim. We both know that.”

He’d already noticed the painful breathing, deep and irregular. The emaciated frame, the rattling in the throat, and the trembling hands.

“I kept so many secrets,” Belchenko said, barely in a whisper. “They trusted me with everything. Archivists were once so important. And I knew America. I studied the United States. I knew its strengths and weaknesses. History taught me a great deal.” The old man’s eyes stayed closed as he ranted. “History matters, Aleksandr. Never forget that.”

As if he had to be told. “Which is why I cannot let this go. The time has come. The moment is right. I, too, have studied the United States. I know its
current
strengths and weakness. There is a way for us to extract a measure of satisfaction, one we both have craved for a long time. We owe that to our Soviet brothers.”

And he told his old friend exactly what he had in mind.

“So you have solved Fool’s Mate?” Belchenko asked when he finished.

“I’m close. The documents you provided last year were a great help. Then I found more. Anya is in Washington, DC, right now, attempting to locate a critical piece.”

He could see that the ancient archivist seemed fully conscious of his remaining influence. And forty years of keeping the KGB’s secrets had definitely empowered him. So much that the Russian government still kept watch. Which might explain their visitor.

But an American?

That puzzled him.

For twenty years he’d fought time and circumstances, both of which had tried hard to turn him into a corpse. Luckily, that had not happened. Instead, vengeance had kept him alive. What remained unknown was how much hate still lingered inside his guest.

“I thought Fool’s Mate a dead end,” Belchenko said.

He’d not been sure, either. But thankfully, his dominant characteristic had always been boundless energy and an immovable will. And if exile had taught him nothing else, it had crystallized the value of patience. Hopefully, Anya would be successful and they could move forward.

“The time to strike,” he said, “is soon. There will not be another opportunity for years.”

“But is it relevant anymore?”

“You hesitate?”

Belchenko frowned. “I merely asked a question.”

“It matters to me.”

“The zero amendment,” his guest muttered.

“That’s part of it. What I need is what you personally know. Tell me, Vadim. Let me be the one to use what’s out there.”

For so long he’d felt like a man buried alive who suddenly wakes and pushes against the lid of his coffin, all the while realizing the futility of his efforts. But not anymore. He now saw a way out of that coffin. A way to be free. And this was not about the pursuit of his own legend or politics or any specific agenda. No other purpose existed for what he was about to do save vengeance.

He owed the world.

“All right, Aleksandr, I will tell you. He lives in Canada.”

“Can you direct me to him?”

Belchenko nodded.

So he listened as everything was explained. Then he stood from the bench and checked his watch. Sequins of sweat glistened across his skin.

Only 56 hours remained.

An urgency enveloped him, choking, yet electric, quick spasms to his muscles and brain urging action. The years of dull, nerve-grinding non-accomplishment might finally be over.

“I have to go.”

“To find out why that American is here?” Belchenko asked.

“What makes you think I will see him?”

“Where else would you be going?”

Indeed. Where else? But an American being here at this precise moment was no coincidence.

“I might require your help with him,” he said.

“An adventure?” Belchenko asked, doubt in the voice.

He smiled. “More a precaution.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

F
RANCE

Cassiopeia stared at the phone and saw a second text appear from Stephanie Nelle, this one with a phone number and the words
CALL ME.

The past few weeks had been anything but calm. Life for her had taken a 180-degree turn. She’d made some major decisions that had deeply affected others, particularly Cotton. At first with all that happened in Utah she’d thought herself on the side of right, but hindsight had allowed her to see that she may have been wrong. And the results? A man she’d cared about in her youth was dead, and a man she loved now had been driven away.

She’d thought a lot about Cotton. His last phone call came a few weeks ago, which she’d not answered. Her reply by email—
LEAVE ME ALONE
—had obviously been heeded since there’d been no further contact. Cotton was a proud man, never would he grovel, nor would she expect him to. She’d made her feelings clear and he’d obviously respected them.

But she missed him.

Everything still weighed heavy. Part of her psyche screamed that Cotton and Stephanie had simply done their jobs and circumstances had left them little choice. But another part of her was tired of the lies that came with working intelligence operations. She’d been used. Even worse. She’d used herself, thinking she could keep things under control. But she’d been wrong and people had died.

She read Stephanie’s first message again, hoping the words might be different. No mistake, though. Cotton was in trouble. Stephanie had been the one who’d drawn her into Utah. She blamed Stephanie more than Cotton for what ultimately happened. In response, she’d cut off all contact with Stephanie, too. If she never spoke to the woman again that was fine by her. But where was Cotton? What was he doing? And why had Stephanie felt the need to call for help? She should follow her own directive and leave it alone, but realized that was not an option.

She retreated from the commotion in the quarry, back down a tree-lined path toward her château. Bright rays of morning sun rained down from a cloudless sky through bare winter limbs. In summer the leafy oaks and elms high overhead closed into a natural cloister that cast a perpetual evening-like gloom. Purple heather, broom, and wildflowers would carpet the dark earth on both sides. But not today. All was winter-dead, the air brisk enough to warrant a coat, which she wore, now streaked in limestone dust. She knew what had to be done and tapped the blue number in the text, allowing the smartphone to dial.

“How have you been?” Stephanie asked her.

She wasn’t interested in small talk. “What’s wrong?”

“Cotton is in Russia, doing something for me. He was piloting a small plane that was attacked from the ground. He went down.”

She stopped walking, closed her eyes, and bit her lip.

“I’ve lost all contact with him.”

“Is he alive?”

“I have no way of knowing.”

“Send an agent.”

“I don’t have any more agents. The Magellan Billet is over. All my people are gone. Our new president has different priorities, which don’t include me.”

“Then how did Cotton get to Russia?”

“We have a developing situation here, one that warranted action. The White House okayed me hiring him to have a look. He’s done a couple of jobs for me since Utah. But something went wrong.”

That seemed a recurring theme in her life, particularly when fate was so consciously tempted. Luckily, she wasn’t fooling herself anymore. The past few weeks of quiet reflection had brought things into sharp focus. She now knew that she bore as much responsibility for what had happened as Stephanie and Cotton. Which, more than anything else, explained why she’d called.

“The Russians asked for our help,” Stephanie said.

“Help with what?”

“A look at some living, breathing relics from the past that might be a big problem.”

“If you want
my
help, tell me everything.”

And she hoped Stephanie understood what had not been said.
Not like last time when you held back, then lied to me.

She listened as Stephanie told her that after the 1991 fall of the Soviet Union, most communists inside Russia assumed a low profile and kept to themselves. A small group of diehards, though, migrated east and settled on the shores of Lake Baikal. The Russian government periodically kept a watch but by and large left them alone, and the favor was returned. Then something changed.

“One of them is here, in DC,” Stephanie said. “Luke Daniels is engaging her, as we speak.”

She recalled the handsome, young Magellan Billet agent who’d been there in Utah with the rest of them. “I thought you didn’t have any more agents?”

“The president enlisted him.”

She knew the uncle–nephew connection. “Why are the Russians so cooperative?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. But I’m about to find out.”

“You and I have a problem,” she said.

“I get that. But I did what had to be done. I’m not making any apologies for what happened in that cave.”

Nor had she expected any. Stephanie Nelle was tough. She ran the Magellan Billet with dictatorial efficiency. They’d first met right here, on her estate, a few years ago. Since then she’d several times been involved with Stephanie, never regretting any of that until a month ago.

Her nerves were still rattled from the incident on the scaffolding. None of the people who worked for her knew the extent of her extracurricular activities. No one was aware how she could handle a gun and deal with trouble. She kept all of that to herself. That was another reason Cotton had been so special. They were so alike.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked Stephanie. “I’m a long way from Russia.”

She heard the far-off baritone beat of rotors pelting the air, growing louder. She squinted through the trees and saw the outline of a military helicopter sweeping in from the north across the nearby foothills.