Eternal Empire (25 page)

H
alf an hour earlier, Ilya had emerged from the cabin of the expedition tender. The lights in the bay were dark, and it was with considerable care that he climbed onto the foredeck and lowered himself from the cradle. He was dressed in a deckhand's evening uniform with long pants and epaulets, which Maddy had taken from the laundry room the night before.

Over the last two days, he had come to know the tender bay well, so he made his way through the darkness with ease. He was wearing blue latex gloves and a set of earphones that connected to nothing. In his right hand, he carried a tool bag from the tender's hold, with a screwdriver tucked into his back pocket. Across his face, he had tied a white dust mask.

Going to the door that led to the lower deck, he put his ear to it, listening. He could hear the faint sound of music from two levels above, but otherwise, the ship was silent. Opening the door, he went into the companionway, glancing from side to side. The corridor was empty, but to his left, he heard voices from the galley, where it was the busiest time of night.

To his right stood the main staircase, but he knew better than to approach it, knowing that it would be frequented by the passengers and crew. Instead, he would take the second set of stairs, which stood at the fore of the ship, one hundred feet away. From there, it was three decks and twenty yards to his destination.

Closing the door behind him, Ilya crept along the companionway, passing the crew mess, which was deserted, and the room housing the ship's huge air conditioners. When he reached the steps, he ascended in silence, arriving first at the main deck, where the music was louder. Without pausing, he went on to the next level, ignoring the voices drifting his way from the party.

From above, he heard a set of footsteps. Moving quickly, he went through the nearest exit from the stairs, which led to the guest cabins on the lounge deck. Without turning, he knelt in the hallway, next to an electrical outlet, and smoothly set his tool bag on the floor by his side. Then he fished the screwdriver from his back pocket and pretended to examine the fixture.

Keeping his back turned to the staircase, he listened as someone came down. Whoever it was would see only a deckhand working on the outlet, a pair of headphones in his ears. In the end, the figure on the steps did not stop, continuing down to the main deck. Ilya waited until the footsteps were gone. Then he rose with his bag and resumed his ascent.

He emerged on the bridge deck. Behind him was the wheelhouse, but he did not look back as he went along the companionway, heading toward the owner's office at the end of the hall.

From around the corner ahead of him came a pair of voices. Ilya ducked at once into a nearby doorway, which led to the ship's library. Withdrawing into the shadows, he saw two security guards walk by. He waited until they had passed and the sound of their conversation had faded, then continued to his final destination, which was only a few steps away.

He arrived at the door of the owner's office, which was locked. Earlier, he had cut away the part of the glove covering the first knuckle of his right index finger, which would allow him to use the touchscreen without leaving prints. Glancing back to make sure he was alone, he pressed the screen, which greeted him with a request for a password.

Ilya entered the four digits, then pressed the enter key. Maddy had seen only the first three numbers, but she had been able to guess the fourth. It was the date of the founding of Russia's most beautiful city, visible in the scrollwork of the egg that she had spent so long trying to obtain:
1703
.

A second later, he was rewarded with the option of opening a menu or unlocking the door. He chose the latter and heard the bolt retract. Looking around one last time, he went inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

He crossed the floor of the darkened office, the blinds of which had been drawn. A door next to the desk led to the stairs. Climbing the steps, he found himself at the owner's suite, alone, for now, at the highest point of the ship.

The stateroom was pitch-black, but he kept the lights off. He had studied similar designs by Fincantieri, so he knew the layout well. Closing the door, he could make out the bed and table, the doorway to the dressing room, and, at right angles, the owner's head, with its fixtures of marble and gold.

Ilya went to the table by the window, which looked out on a view of the darkened sea. In the distance, he could see the lights of Sochi. He removed his headphones and mask, leaving on the gloves, and opened the tool kit. Inside were the gun, camera, and silencer, all of which he put aside for now, and the video signal repeater box, which he took out and set on the table.

Turning the repeater on, he checked to make sure that there was a clear line of sight from the box to every point in the room. Looking out again at the view of Sochi, which lay peacefully under the stars, he reflected that in order for the repeater to work, Vasylenko and the others had to be close. Then he drew the curtains and turned away from the window.

He was about to make his remaining preparations when his eye was caught by something at the other end of the suite. Going closer, in the dim light, he saw a large section of pottery, perhaps a ewer, pieced together from several fragments and mounted in a glass case. On it was the image of a warrior on horseback. He was wearing a pointed helmet and a hauberk with long sleeves, and he carried a spear in one hand, while the other was clutching the hair of a captive.

Ilya studied the warrior's face for a long moment, as if trying to commit it to memory, before finally looking away. Taking a chair from next to the dresser, he set it facing the closed door and brought over the rest of his equipment. He screwed the silencer onto the pistol and fixed the camera on the rail mount. Pressing the button to turn it on, he watched as the green light appeared. He slid the range switch to its proper setting and held down the button again. When the light went from green to red, indicating that the signal was being transmitted, he passed the camera once across the room, as instructed, and settled in to wait.

He sat there in the dark, the pistol resting against his knee, his eyes on the closed door of the stateroom. Years of experience had taught him to be patient at such times. It was best, he knew, not to think of the task ahead, and especially not of what would come next. Instead, as his gaze strayed again to the image of the warrior behind the glass, he recalled his last conversation with Maddy. He had mentioned the Khazars, and although they had spoken of many other things at that meeting, he had not told her the significance that their example held for them both.

After their conversion, the Khazars had extended their empire from the Black Sea to the Caspian, building castles of limestone and brick. Yet a more savage nation was growing to the north, making greater incursions into its territory, until, at last, it erased it from the map overnight.

In the end, Russia broke the Khazars. It seized Kiev, then sacked Atil and Sarkel. History had overtaken the tribe of horsemen who, until their conversion, had moved too swiftly to be caught by surprise. With their palaces in ruins, the Khazars melted again into the confusion of tribes from which they had emerged. Travelers said that the few who had not fled to other countries lived in a state of perpetual mourning. The grand experiment had failed.

Looking at the warrior in the display case, Ilya reflected that the lesson was clear. The Khazars had begun as wanderers and had ended by being scattered again, swallowed up once more by the steppes. They had modeled themselves after the children of Israel, but they had not managed to avoid their own fate—

Even as these thoughts passed through his mind, Ilya heard steps on the stairs. He rose from the chair and trained his pistol at the door, holding it at eye level in a combat stance. His heartbeat was as steady as always.

A moment later, there was the sound of the knob turning. The door swung inward. In the darkened opening, Ilya could see the figure of a man, and he closed one eye to protect his night vision just before the lights came on.

It was Tarkovsky, in black tie, his jacket draped over one arm. His face was tired, but when he caught sight of Ilya, he fell back a step. For a fraction of a second, the two men stood eye to eye.

“Forgive me,” Ilya said. Then he pulled the trigger and shot Tarkovsky twice.

Tarkovsky did not fall at once. For a moment, he remained standing, his eyes fixed on Ilya's, an emotion unfolding on his face that might have been recognition, a realization that this was the ending that had awaited him all along, his wealth and power no argument against the logic of a machine that would move serenely past him into a future in which he could play no part.

At last, he fell to his knees, toppled sideways to the floor, and grew still. Around him, the yacht continued to function as perfectly as before, a masterpiece of foresight and design surrounded on all sides by night.

Ilya took a step forward. Looking down at the oligarch, he briefly opened his mouth, as if to say a final benediction for the dead. But he only raised his pistol and shot that unmoving body one last time.

E
arlier that night, a car had pulled up before a dacha on the outskirts of Sochi. The house had not been easy to find. It was surrounded by a brick wall topped with barbed wire, a set of surveillance cameras trained on the area before the entrance. The night was warm and humid, so the guard on duty was in his shirtsleeves, seated on a folding chair outside the gate, a shotgun within easy reach.

At the sound of approaching tires, the guard picked up his shotgun and stood. A moment later, the car came into view, crawling forward along the curve of the driveway, and slowed to a stop, its headlights on. Keeping his shotgun raised, the guard went up to the driver's side, where the window rolled down to reveal the solitary figure behind the wheel.

It was Asthana. “You already know who I am. Are you going to let me inside?”

The guard lowered the shotgun. In his eyes, Asthana saw more curiosity than respect. Then he turned away, slinging the gun over his shoulder, and went to draw the gate back. Asthana rolled up her window again and drove through, watching as the gate closed behind her in the rearview mirror.

She crept along the driveway toward the house, which appeared at the next turn. In her headlights, the dacha was a big summer home with clean Scandinavian lines, the verandah at the front entrance balanced by a wooden deck to the rear. The open layout was bad for security, she thought, but at least the broad windows facing her had been kept dark.

Two cars were parked out front. Asthana pulled up beside them and turned off the engine. Taking a bag from the passenger seat, she slid out and locked up the car. As she went up the narrow path, the gravel crunching underfoot, the door of the house swung open. Inside, there stood a second man, also holding a shotgun, who studied her in silence as she entered.

The man closed the door and motioned for her to follow. Going into the next room, Asthana saw an array of security monitors with views of the grounds in a rack against one wall. Beyond this was a comfortable sitting area with a floor of pale oak. Through the glass of the sliding door that looked out on the deck, she could see the ember of another guard's cigarette.

There were three men in the room itself. The guard who had led her inside was standing behind her. On the sofa, an old man was sipping from a glass of tea, his shoes and socks removed. Another man was seated at a table at the far end of the room, his laptop set next to an array of electronic equipment.

As Asthana entered, the others looked up. Before any of them could speak, she addressed the figure on the sofa in Russian. “Tell your man to stop pointing the shotgun at my back. It isn't polite.”

Turning slightly on the couch, Vasylenko observed that she had a view of the entire room in the reflection in the sliding door. He nodded at the man behind her, who withdrew into the hall.

For a moment, as the others regarded her in silence, Asthana had no choice but to see herself through their eyes. Since her unexpected departure from Kensington, her hair had been cut, and only a few traces of henna remained on her hands. Yet she was still a woman, and her skin was still dark, and she knew that she would never truly be welcome within this dying circle.

At last, the
vor
rose from the sofa, his tea still in hand, but did not come any closer. “You're late.”

“Actually, I'm right on time,” Asthana said, meeting his gaze easily. “You don't have the feed ready yet. So unless I've missed the main event entirely, which I doubt, you're still looking for a signal.”

She went over to the table without waiting for a response. The man at the laptop was studying the screen. “The repeater isn't on yet,” Bogdan said. “He's still getting into position.”

Asthana bent over the computer, which displayed a black rectangle with a time code. “You've been in contact with him?”

“No,” Vasylenko said, lowering himself to the sofa again. “But he knows what to do.”

Asthana set down her bag, sensing the others watching her warily. They had not met in person before tonight, and until recently they had been on opposite sides. In any case, she did not expect to remain among these men for long, and she wondered what part they really expected to play in the order to come.

Bogdan pointed to the screen. “We just got a signal from the yacht. He's activated the repeater. But the camera isn't on yet—”

Even as he said this, the laptop blinked into life. The image that appeared was being taken in low light, the details rendered in black and gray. There was no sound. Looking closely, Asthana could make out the stateroom, the outlines of a bed and dressing table visible as the camera panned across the cabin. Finally, it steadied against the image of a doorway, and it did not move again.

Vasylenko came for a closer look, standing just behind Asthana as the three of them watched the feed. Asthana remained silent, afraid of breaking the spell that had sustained her all the way from London. It was a transition for which she had always been prepared, and she had embraced it, pausing only long enough to buy a new knife in Solingen.

Somewhat to her surprise, she had found herself thinking less of her abandoned husband than of Rachel Wolfe. Devon had at least been a clean separation, one in which she had never let her mask slip, but her partner had seen through it, if only for an instant. Part of her hated Wolfe for witnessing this moment of exposure, but this was nothing but a sign of weakness. She was moving into a new state of being, as was the rest of the world, and if she failed to accept such a change in her own life, she had no business being here at all.

Even as these thoughts passed through her mind, the image on the screen began to move. The camera bounced for a moment, leaving gray streaks on the video feed, then steadied again on the closed door of the stateroom, as if the man sending the signal had risen. A second later, the door swung open, the image blown out by sudden illumination. For an instant, there was nothing but white. Then the camera adjusted and a figure came into view. It was Tarkovsky.

They watched the rest in silence, the image jumping each time a shot was fired. When it was over, the camera held for another second on the oligarch's body. Then it clicked off and the screen went dark.

As Bogdan sat back from the computer, exhaling, Asthana felt curiously empty. She had imagined this triumph for so long, only to see it reduced to a few noiseless gunshots, and in these first deflated moments, it hardly seemed worth the effort. Later, she knew, it would be seen as her greatest success, one that would allow her to finally assume the role left vacant by Lermontov's death. But she was also aware that it was at times like this that someone like her became expendable.

Vasylenko was looking at her. Without turning her head, Asthana gave him a nod.

The old man took a phone from his pocket and dialed a number. Turning away, he went to the glass door of the dacha, looking out at the view from the deck as he spoke quietly in Russian.

A second later, Vasylenko lowered the phone. When he turned back, his eyes were still fixed on Asthana's face. “It's done. Bogdan, tell the others. I want to go down to the water to watch.”