B00DSDUWIQ EBOK (15 page)

“Colonel?
You say this Fedorov was passing himself off as a Colonel? Where?” Volkov almost
stood up, but felt the hard hand of a soldier on his shoulder. He gave the man
a look of real annoyance and continued, pressing his question on the man. “Where
did you see this Fedorov?”

“We
are asking the questions here!” Colonel
Lysenko pointed at him with his cigarette, but to his astonishment Volkov
swiped it from his hand, real anger on his face now.

“Get
that filthy thing out of my face! Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?
What in God’s name are you trying to pull, eh? You will pay dearly for this
little prank, I assure you.”

Volkov
reached up, pinched his collar button and spoke, eyes on Lysenko the whole time.
“Jenkov…where the hell are you? Get down to the dining room at once. Bring the
entire section!”

Colonel
Lysenko gave him a wide eyed look, his surprise quickly transitioning to
disdain as he waited. “Such theatrics,” he said with a sneer. Then he struck
Volkov full on the face with the back of his hand. “You take me for a fool? Who
do you think you were talking to? A ghost?”

There
looked to be a scuffle, but the two other soldiers were quick to press the muzzles
of their weapons to Volkov’s head. Then Lysenko leaned in, his breath foul with
tobacco as he spoke. “The next time you try anything like that I will
kill
you—understand? I will take my pistol and blow your brains out!”

Lysenko
composed himself, reaching in his pocket for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Now…”
He placed a cigarette in his mouth, flicking a silver Ronson lighter he had
taken from someone in the course of his many official interrogations. “Just who
is this Jenkov you spoke of? I see no Jenkov here? What is this section he is
to bring with him?”

Volkov
was steaming, his eyes like coals. Every reflex in his body wanted to reach out
and choke the breath from this man. But the feel of the hard steel of the muzzle
of an automatic weapon at his temple gave him pause. His mind began to work,
controlling that reptilian reflex, and oddities of the encounter began to filter
in through the anger he felt. People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs? That
was the name of the old NKVD! What was this man talking about? Yet the Captain
was a wolf of a man, and not one easily threatened or frightened. He narrowed
his eyes.

“You
will kill me, you say? Blow my brains out, is it? Do you know who I work for? Do
you have
any
idea who I report to? And what is this drivel you are spouting?
There
is
no People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs!”

Lysenko
listened, arms folded, face tightening with each word Volkov spoke. He could see
that this was going to take stronger measures. His impulse was to do what he
had threatened and simply draw his pistol and shoot this impudent man where he
sat, but this business with Lieutenant Surinov…this part about a man called Fedorov
aroused both suspicion and curiosity. Something was clearly wrong here, and he
was going to find out exactly what it was. He decided to take another tack with
this man.

“Fedorov,”
he said. “You say you are looking for a man named Fedorov… Why? Who is he that it
should be of any concern to you?”

The
tension in the room subsided as Volkov composed himself, his mind trying to determine
what these men could possibly be up to. “That is a matter of state security,”
he said quickly. “And your interference is going to come with a very high price
tag.”

“So
you claim to be an intelligence officer? You have been ordered to find this man?
Then let us approach this another way, comrade. I am intelligence officer as
well. You are either drunk or delusional if you do not recognize this uniform.
And my Lieutenant here tells me a man calling himself Fedorov is masquerading
as an NKVD Colonel and causing trouble. In my district any trouble eventually
comes to my attention. So we came looking for this Fedorov as well. Who is he?”
Lysenko wanted to find out what this man knew before he decided what to do
here.

“Suffice
it to say he is of special interest to Russian Naval Intelligence.”

“He
is a spy then? He is attempting to infiltrate the NKVD?”

“NKVD?”
Now Volkov suddenly recognized the insignia on these mans caps—yes, the light blue
cap with the thin red band—the hammer and sickle of the old Soviet regime.

“NKVD?
That institution hasn’t been in existence for decades. Where did you get those stupid
uniforms, at an army surplus store? You think this is some kind of a joke here?
You don’t know who you are fooling with. Well gentlemen, if you persist in this
I will tell you that you have chosen the wrong man for your little fun and
games, and I have had quite enough of this nonsense.”

Lysenko’s
anger rose again, and he stood up, very slowly, his hand drifting to his side holster.

Volkov
met his narrowed eyes, unflinching. “I’m warning you one last time,” he said
coolly, his voice low and edged with threat.

Chapter 15

He
had been eight days tunneling,
working hard in the rain these last few hours to be certain any sound of the
digging would be well masked. The rain would also lessen traffic at the site
above, which was another advantage, but it made for cold, dank work in the
trench below the site. Yet Ian was a man accustomed to the elements, and well
suited to the hard labor his project would require. In the end it would pay off
handsomely, and the end was well in sight. Today was the ninth day, the payoff
day. He had but another eight to ten inches of vertical drilling now, straight
up through the hard bottom and into the center of the plot, and then he would
finally have the prize.

This
was the hard part of the job, the risky part. He would have to wait out the weather,
hoping for a real torrent to mask the noise of the drill. His power cabling
would be stretched out behind him, along sodden wet ground in spite of his
effort to lay in a plastic tarp for cover. Here and there, he noted places along
the length of the tunnel where water was seeping down from above, finding its
way through cracks in the cobbled roadway between his rented cottage and the
target site.

If
the Duke only knew the trouble and toil he had gone to these last days to secure
his prize. Yet he knew the Duke could care less. The only thing he wanted was
at the other end of Ian’s drill bit, soon to be laboring up through the last
earthen and concrete barrier that separated him from his goal. Who would ever
think the moldered remains above would be put to any good use beyond the
novelty they offered tourists, a bit of history tucked away in a backwater hamlet.

Ian
Thomas waited out the moments, squinting at his perfectly timed watch as the second
hand swept in its endless round. Thirty seconds more and the clock on St.
Martin’s would begin its midnight toll, twelve long notes that would give him a
full minute to complete his task. The high speed drill was perfectly positioned,
and mounted on a small hydraulic jack that would apply just the right amount of
pressure as the bit worked. He had applied the most expensive lubricant he
could find for this job, to be sure the bit would not squeak, and he had
muffled the drill itself with sound absorbent bale. That, along with the tolling
of the clock tower, should be enough to mask the noise.

Ten
seconds… Five. He quickly adjusted his face goggles and breathing mask, then switched
on the drill holding his breath at the noise it made in spite of all his
precautions. It began to cut upward, showering the area in the tunnel below with
a chalky powder. In exactly sixty seconds he would switch off and take his measurement.
With any luck he would be within half an inch of breakthrough, and the last bit
would be done with hand tools. Once the breech had been made he would have to
insert his camera probe and document his position. GPS was telling him he was
right on target, but one never knew for certain. The restoration work they had
done here in the 90s could have changed things. Some idiot workman could have
nudged something the wrong way—but the camera would tell him what he wanted to
know. Then, if all was well, it would be a simple matter to insert his vacuum
tubing and finish the job.

It
was only a matter of time now, but he hadn’t counted on the devotion of Mary Perkyn
that night, or the gracious accommodation of the Rector at St. Martin’s. It was
going to be a very long night. He still had a lot to accomplish, but he was
well on his way to success, and his patience would eventually pay him a handsome
dividend.

Even
now he imaging the look of profound satisfaction on the Duke’s face when he handed
him the parcel he would soon be packing diligently in his cottage. And even
more so he imagined the look of profound satisfaction on his own face when the
Duke handed him a check for a million pounds Sterling. The world could go to
hell in a handcart, but at least he would enjoy the trip after he got his hands
on money like that!

Yet
he wasn’t the only one to hear that last whining sound of his drill that night.
Other ears were listening, and would complicate his little project in ways he did
not yet know.

* * *

The
Rector
hastened down the cold
stone floor to the east entrance, frowning as he listened to the insistent
knocking on the door. Who in the world would be out on a night like this?
Another poor soul come to beg a warm night out of the rain? No, the knocking
had an urgency about it that gave him cause for concern. There was something
harried about it, and there was fear in the sound. He hurried past the alcove
shrine, forgetting to bless himself at the holy water fount, drawn to the
insistent pounding at the door.

“There,
there,” he said as he slid back the door bolt. “Hold on a moment, you’ll shake loose
the shingles with that racket.”

The
door opened with a squeak, and he squinted out into the dark landing, a cold breath
of rain on his face. The caller lurched forward out of the heavy rain, but with
an animated fretfulness that pricked an instinct of fear in the Rector. He was
startled to see that it was old Mary Perkyn, a regular parishioner, her gray
hair sodden under what passed for a rain bonnet.

“There
now, Mary. What’s gotten into you?”

“Oh
Rector, you must come to the chapel at once! Oh, my lord, such a dreadful sound!”

“What’s
that you say? Whatever are you talking about, Mary? Here, come in out of the rain
and let me close this door or we’ll both likely be blown away with the storm.”

The
Rector managed to usher the poor old woman inside, closing the door hard against
the intruding weather and pushing the bolt home again for good measure. “Now,
Mary,” he began when he had caught his breath. “You come into the sitting room
and have a spot of tea. Do you good. Settles the nerves and warms the belly,
right? Then you can tell me all about it.”

“Such
a dreadful fright I’ve had. A sound, like the wailing of a demon it was, and with
all this storming and rain about to make it all the worse. You must go to the
chapel and hear for yourself, Rector. I was praying me nightly votives, I was.
Then all at once it comes, up from the ground itself, a wailing and gnashing
and moaning, all just when the bell tower struck midnight!”

“Devotion
aside, Mary, this is no hour to be out in such weather. Did you mean to sleep in
the pew? I should think you would have been long at rest in a nice warm bed at
home. Which is just where you
should
be, and I hope where you soon will
be, once I get some tea into you.”

“But
Rector—”

“Now,
now… just listen to that rain and wind…” he rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “The
lord is wrathful tonight. It was likely nothing more that the wind in the trees
you heard, rattling against the headstones in the grave yard.”

Mary
listened, but her eyes betrayed her doubt. There was real fear in them, and the
Rector knew it would be some time before he could quiet the old woman down. She
was getting on in years now, and taken to wandering at all hours like this. It was
a shame that she had no relations close by to care for her but, that being the
case, he made it his duty to look out for her, one of his long time faithful
parishioners.

“Wind
in the trees?” Old Mary gave him a frightful look. “I’ve heard the wind,
Rector, and sat up many a night at prayers through storms worse than this. Oh,
no sir, this was something more. Ungodly it was! The way it wailed after that
bell. And now that you mention, it
was
comin’ from the churchyard. Such
a disturbance! I’d know wind in trees, and this was something else altogether.”
She crossed herself with a shiver, yet allowed herself to be guided along the hallway
and into the sitting room.

“Well
now,” the Rector decided to compromise. “If you’ll promise me to sit here and take
in a bit of tea, I’ll do you the kindness of having a look at the chapel. It’s
more than likely a stray cat in a quarrel, but if it will set your mind at ease,
I’ll see that all is well.”

“Would
you, Rector? Such a fright it was, chasing a poor old woman from her votives. It
would comfort me if you would go and make your blessing. But have a care! I know
the wind when I hear it, and I know cats. Something in that churchyard let loose
with a howl that was like to disturb the dead!”

The
Rector smiled, reassuringly as he sat Mary down near the hearth. “Well, we mustn’t
have that,” he said. “Not with such distinguished company resting in the yard.”
He was referring, of course, to the grave sites of the Churchill family, for
the famous Prime Minister was laid to rest here at St Martin’s, in the hamlet
of Bladon, close to his birthplace at Blenheim Palace.

“Now
you just sit tight, and drink this tea. Fortunate for you I’m even up this night
but, as you can see, I was restless with the storm and reading to quiet my
mind.” He gestured to a thickly bound copy of Dante. “Talk of wailing and moaning!
I was well absorbed in Dante’s Inferno, with the good lord’s harrowing of Hell,
when you come to the door in such a fit. Warm yourself now, and if we get a
break in the storm I’ll see you safely back to your cottage on the Green.”

“But
you’ll not forget the churchyard,” Mary persisted. “It’ll need your blessing for
certain, Rector. For what I heard this night had little respect for the dead,
no matter how many lordships and ladies may sleep in those graves.”

“In
a little while,” the Rector placated her with a calming gesture of his hand. “Looks
like the rain may ease a bit after midnight. Then I’ll go and have a look if it
will set your mind at ease. After that it’s off home with you. I’ve an early
day tomorrow.”

The
rector gave a reassuring nod and went on his way, down the long cold hallway to
the cloak room so he could throw on a warm wool overcoat. The things I do in the
tending of my sheep, he thought. Old Mary is getting a bit daft these days. She’s
taken to keeping odd hours in the chapel, fitfully watching that graveyard as
though she had an appointment to keep there soon. Don’t we all, he thought. Yet
the cold rain on his cheeks and the bite of the wind made him feel alive when
he was finally out the door and headed over to the chapel.

He
stood for a moment, looking at the iron fence around the churchyard, and thinking
of the man who was laid to rest there. Ah, Winston, you were a man for your
time. The world was falling into the inferno of the Second World War and you
were there to catch it and hold the damn thing up on your shoulders like Atlas.
What would have come of Western civilization without a man like Churchill to
keep watch with his steely resolve and bull headed perseverance?

He
went in through the side entrance to the chapel, listening, as though he thought
he might hear the wail of a demon, but all was calm and quiet, save the quiet
stippling of the rain on the roof as the storm abated. It was just daft old
Mary, he thought. He’d best get back to her and see her off to her cottage in
the village.

But
it wasn’t daft old Mary…It was Ian Thomas and his drill, and even as the Rector
finished up and was making his way back along the gleaming wet cobblestone walkway,
collar pulled high against the wind, a few yards beneath his feet Ian Thomas
was creeping silently through the long tunnel he had dug, a night stalker
making off with his ill gotten gain.

Stalking
through history, he thought to himself as he reached the end of his narrow
tunnel, slipping up the ladder and up through the floor boards of the cottage
he had rented for just this little mission. He shivered, glad to be out of that
long damp passage and back in a room that promised some warmth. But he had it
now, the canister was well packed with enough ash to fulfill the Duke’s purpose
nicely enough.

Ian
held up the sealed metal container, smiling. “Begging your pardon, Sir
Winston,” he said aloud with a grin. “I wouldn’t be one to pilfer a man’s
grave, but the pay is so good that I could do nothing else. My, my…you don’t
look nearly as imposing sitting here in my metal jar—not at all like that
towering figure you were in your day, champion of the West; bulwark of the
British Isles. Look at you now…”

The
edge of his lips was already tipped up in a devious smile, and that look of profound
satisfaction was settling onto his features as he contemplated his reward. All
he had to do now was retrieve his drilling equipment and shovel, and fill in
the hole again. No one would be the wiser. Then it would be off to see the
Duke. There would be the usual rigmarole, of course—the DNA testing, the
weighing and measuring of the sample, but he knew he would satisfy on both counts.
Then he would hear the same old litany again, that he was not to breath a word
of this to any living soul. Well of course not! Who would believe it?

Then
his favorite part…the check, the million pounds tucked neatly away in his jacket
pocket. This little caper was going to make his life very comfortable for the
foreseeable future. Nine days of back-breaking work, a little stealth and
imagination, and he was a wealthy man. Now he had the rest of his life to spend
that money, and he was already thinking just what he would want to buy first.

But
he did not know then that the rest of his life could be very, very brief. For the
world was digging its own little tunnel at that moment—nine days on the journey
to hell.