Black Harvest (The PROJECT) (8 page)

"Excuse me," Korov said in English. Anyone behind that desk would have to speak English. He took out his wallet and showed her identification stating he was Inspector Allon Dubois of Interpol. He was wearing a dark suit of European cut, the kind of suit an international cop might wear.

"I am here to interview a prisoner, Gelashvili. Can you tell me where he is?"

Korov held the ID close so she could read it. It would have gotten him into Interpol HQ. The forgers at SVR were the best in the world. It was a source of comfort to agents in the field.

"One moment, Inspector." She entered a few keystrokes. "He's in 4003. Fourth floor." She pointed. "Take the elevator down the hall. On the fourth floor, turn left, go to the second corridor, turn right and you'll see it on the left."

"Thank you. You've been very helpful." He smiled at her and turned to the elevators.

"Your colleagues are already here."

"Oh?" Korov turned back. "Both of them?"

"Yes, about a half hour ago. Shall I call up and let them know you're coming?"

"No, thank you. I'll just go on up. They knew I'd be late."

He walked away toward the elevators. He glanced back at the helpful clerk. She'd gone back to her computer. Good. No phone call. He had to make a choice. Abort and try again later? What if the agents were here to move Gelashvili to a secure location? He couldn't take the chance.

He might need the Drotik after all.

C
HAPTER FIFTEEN

Outside Nick and Selena's hotel the wind had picked up. Nick stood in front of the windows looking out. The drizzle had changed into hard rain. The Aegean Sea was almost invisible through the sheets of water pounding against the window. Somewhere across the waters lay Homer's Troy. He could hear heavy surf driving up against the shore below. Selena sat in an armchair with her laptop. She'd been sitting there for the last hour.

Nick was beginning to think they were at a dead end, caught up in a wild goose chase. The chances of finding the urn or any part of Alexander's treasure were slim to none. How long could something like that remain hidden? This was Europe, plundered and pillaged and raped by armies, jacked up kings and brutal emperors for thousands of years. No one could conceal that kind of wealth for all those centuries. Then again, no one had ever found the Templar treasure. Maybe it was possible.

He watched Selena. Her face was a study in concentration. He thought about the condo in D.C. and moving in together. He had no clarity in his thoughts about it. The lease on his apartment didn't run out for another year. He decided he'd hold onto it for now.

"Look at this." Selena broke into his thoughts. He went over to the screen. It showed a tourist portal for Bulgaria.

"Bulgaria."

"Yes. Or Thrace, if you prefer."

"What did you find?"

"I went looking for something to match that inscription. Remember? 'By the springs of Thrace, where the two rivers cross.' I think I know the general area. There are a lot of springs in Bulgaria."

She moved the mouse, clicked. A picture appeared on the screen of a large city with big churches, cobbled streets and happy people. The churches were dome shaped and old. The people were young. None of them were dome shaped.

"Sofia?"

"It's Sofia, accent on the first syllable. The capitol of Bulgaria. It was settled in the seventh century BCE and built around a mineral spring."

"What about the rivers?"

"Sofia sits in a big valley at the foot of a mountain. There are two rivers that run through the city, the Vladaiska and the Perlovska."

"Two rivers crossing and a spring. I think you got it. But we're going to need more than that. It still doesn't pinpoint an exact location."

"It's all we've got. The inscription might have been left for someone besides the Romans."

"Someone who needed to know where the treasure was taken."

"Yes." She stretched.

"Doesn't mean it's still there or we can find it."

"No, but we're a step closer if I'm right. Maybe we could smoke out someone with this."

"How do you mean?"

"We could let the idea about Sofia slip out. Maybe someone turns up where they shouldn't and we can track them back to the source."

"And pin it down." He thought about it. "It's a good idea. We'll run it by Harker. She can decide how to do it."

She stood and walked to the window. It was still raining. The wind had died. The sea was gray and uninviting. She thought about Homer's description of the Aegean as the "wine dark sea". It was dark, all right, but it wasn't the color of wine today.

Nick came up behind her. "What's going on with Steph?"

"What do you mean?"

"She seems different somehow. Lighter."

"You really don't know?"

"Know what?"

"She's sleeping with Lucas. I think she's in love with him."

"You're kidding. He's CIA."

"What difference does it make?"

"Security comes to mind. Plus he works for Lodge."

"Lucas has high security clearance. And he doesn't work for Lodge, he works for Hood. Steph isn't going to tell him anything. I don't think he'd talk to her, either."

"Harker know about this?"

"I'd be amazed if she didn't. She hasn't said anything. Steph deserves to be with someone if she wants. It's not easy in our work. "

"Tell me about it."

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes." He reached for her and drew her close. He slipped his hand down inside the back of her skirt. "I'm hungry. For you."

"Me too."

They undressed each other. She ran her hands down his right side, down his leg, feeling over ridges and welts of scar tissue left by the grenade. She touched the puckered scar where a round had gone through his shoulder.

"You should duck more," she said.

"Don't have to, when I'm lying down."

It wasn't long before neither one of them was standing.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Korov stepped from the elevator and turned left. Ahead he spotted two orderlies and a
doctor
. in blue scrubs talking with an elderly couple. Two more men in white coats and stethoscopes, interns or
doctors
. The nurse's station was about fifty feet from the elevators. An exit sign marked the stairs at the end of the main corridor.

The place smelled like every hospital he'd ever been in, of antiseptic and worry and illness and efficiency. The floors were polished and clean, light colored, synthetic. The air was too warm.

He passed a set of swinging doors emblazoned with red and yellow radiation signs and warnings in Greek, English and French. Two men and a woman in green came through the doors talking. They ignored him and walked by. He started past the nurse's station.

"Sir."

It was the nurse on duty.

Korov showed his Interpol ID. "I'm going to 4003."

He kept walking. The nurse started to say something. Her phone buzzed. She picked it up. Korov continued down the hall. As he came to the second intersecting corridor he slowed. Ahead, the hallway was empty except for a gurney standing against one wall. He reached the intersection and glanced quickly to the right. A bored policeman sat in a plastic chair outside one of the rooms.

That's it. One cop. The others must still be inside.

In his mind, Korov pictured how the room would be. The bed would be to the left or right, it made no difference. There would be a bathroom on the other side. The bed might have a curtain. If the curtain was open, no problem. If the curtain was closed, it could be a problem. It could slow him down.

Korov eased the PSS from his holster and palmed it in his hand. In his other he held the false ID. He walked up to the cop, the ID displayed in front. As the cop read the ID Korov shot him in the chest. He slumped forward. The noise was no more than a gentle sneeze. In Korov's mind, a clock began ticking down.

Arkady reached out and settled the corpse upright in the chair. Anyone looking down the hall would see a policemen sitting on duty. It would do for the next two minutes. That was all Arkady needed. If anyone raised an alarm, he had the Drotik.

He opened the door of the room. There was a curtain. It was open. He held his ID out in his left hand. Two men stood by the bed where Bagrat Gelashvili lay. Their eyes went to the ID. Arkady extended his right arm and shot the first man in the head, then the second before he could react. The bodies hitting the floor made more sound than the shots.

Gelashvili was awake. His right arm was in a cast, his left handcuffed to the bed. He stared at Korov and opened his mouth to shout. The next shot entered his right eye. It exploded with a soft pop. The wall behind turned red and gray with bits of brain tissue and blood. Korov fired again, into the left eye. Just to make sure.

Orderlies could clean up the blood and mess. They were used to it.

Korov put the PSS away and moved the Drotik to his gun hand, keeping it in his pocket. He stepped out of the room and closed the door. The dead policeman sat in his chair. Korov reentered the main corridor and walked casually to the stairway at the end. That was one of the good things about hospitals. There were plenty of exits. He opened the door and moved quickly down the stairs.

Four dead. Korov checked his watch. Four minutes since he'd killed the guard, more than he'd allotted. He was slipping. Five minutes later, about the time a nurse discovered the dead guard and began screaming, Korov pulled out of the hospital parking lot and disappeared into the traffic of Thessaloniki.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Zviad Gelashvili was at his desk. One of his lieutenants came into the room. The desk was an antique, a glowing masterpiece of 18th Century craftsmanship. Its delicate beauty formed a curious contrast to Zviad's coarse bulk. It was the sort of thing that might have inspired a Japanese Zen master to write a poem.

Behind Zviad two of his bodyguards stood against the wall. They were always present. They were always silent. They were not there to talk.

The man was nervous. Zviad believed in instilling loyalty through rewards. It was profitable to work for Zviad, but there was a second part of the loyalty equation.

Fear.

Zviad had been known to kill the messenger. Looking at his man, he knew something bad had happened.

"Boss..."

"What is it, Iosif?" Zviad had never seen Iosif look nervous. The news must be very bad. He reached for a bottle of vodka and poured two large glasses.

"Drink. Then tell me why you are here."

Iosif gulped down the clear liquor. The words rushed out. "Boss, it's Bagrat. He's dead."

Zviad paused with the glass halfway to his lips. He set it down, carefully. Now he knew why he hadn't heard from his brother. His first thought was disbelief. Bagrat. He was indestructible. His second thought was an odd memory of when they had been children, fighting in the rows of the vineyard. His third thought wasn't a thought. It was feeling that swept over him. Rage.

"How?" His voice was quiet.

"He was in a Greek hospital. Someone shot him. The shooter killed a guard in the hall. Then he went in Bagrat's room and shot a Greek cop and an Interpol agent. Then he shot Bagrat."

"Why was Bagrat in a hospital?"

"A woman put him there. An American. Bagrat tried to grab her. She fought back. Grigor is dead. Bagrat was badly injured, so they took him to the hospital."

"
A
WOMAN?
"
His shout could be heard throughout the house. Outside the study, his wife listened.

Zviad brought his huge fist down on the antique desk top. It split and sagged. He hit it again. The desk shattered into two parts. The vodka, papers, glasses fell to the floor. The bottle rolled away, gurgling vodka behind it.