The Gods' Gambit (8 page)

“I do what I can for the good of Your Majesty and the
empire. My job is to advise. The decision is yours.”

The Tsar was thoughtful for a moment. Then he released a
deep sigh and said, “Yes. Let’s do it. Go and talk to Ivan. I will instruct my
hussars.”

After hearing Ivan’s nickname from the mouth of the careless
mercenary, Semeon Laptin easily put two and two together and realized who had
saved them from sure death. Many reports had been delivered to his desk
outlining the activities of the uncrowned king of the Russian bandits, Batka
Ivan. He had sent alarming reports himself to the ministers’ committee
regarding the increasing threat from the gang led by Batka. Police reports from
different parts of Russia asserted that in the underground world nothing
happened without Batka or his affiliated local ringleaders’ ‘blessing’. Many
merchants had to pay him a so-called ‘bandit tax’ if they wanted any shipped merchandise
to reach its destination, or their shops not to ‘accidentally’ catch fire one
night. For a moment, the adviser of the crown amused himself with the funny
thought that from now on the influence of Batka Ivan would extend to the Tsar
himself. In an exceptional way he had indebted the Tsar as well.

Laptin had listened to the conversation between the Tsar and
Batka, while he was combining different versions for the eventual outcome of
this extreme situation. His intuition hinted to him that fate had crossed the
paths of three great men not by chance – he included himself in this number. In
fact, only two of them possessed true greatness, God’s gift – he and Batka
Ivan. The Tsar had acquired his high status by birth, not because of his
personal qualities. Laptin came up with the ideal solution at once, as though
it had been dropped into his mind from outside. It would satisfy everybody
here. It was also good for the country, although that was not Laptin’s prime
interest. The truth was that for some time he had served his Tsar and country
less and less and himself more. Not that he did not care about Russia. He was a
patriot, but he could foresee that dark times were coming for the empire. The
worst of it was that he and a few others who knew were unable to change
anything. The country was heading inevitably towards a bloody purgatory, and he
didn’t want to be one of the scapegoats. And here was the chance for him to
secure his salvation. In the turbulent times ahead, a partnership with a man
like Batka would be much more useful than blind service to the Tsar and laws.
He only needed to convince Ivan of the authenticity of his intentions.
Regarding the cover-up of what had happened here, Laptin did not doubt that
Batka Ivan would accept it, because it gave him much-needed anonymity.

Laptin went back to Batka and said in a low voice,
“Commander, let me introduce myself. My name is Semeon Laptin. I am a colonel
of the Secret Police and personal adviser to His Majesty. I’ve got an offer for
you…”

When the Tsar’s adviser finished, Batka had already decided.
The nature of the proposal had earned his approval. It had been forged by a
mind similar to his. The motives behind it were logical and understandable.
Batka had put himself in Laptin’s place. He would most probably do the same is
those circumstances, and he saw the proposal as a win-win situation. For Batka,
Laptin was a boon. Although the list of government people he ‘fed’ was not
short, there was no one so high up in the state hierarchy.

“I’ve got the feeling that we will co-operate very well,
Excellence,” said Batka.

Laptin, who had waited, frozen, for his response, sighed
with relief. “Call me Semeon,” he said and went again to the Tsar, who had
moved to the sleigh with the wounded hussars. “All has been arranged, Your
Majesty.”

“Ivan, come close,” the Tsar said. “My intention is that you
and your people will be awarded for your bravery. Semeon will take care of
this.”

“Your Majesty does not owe us anything. We fulfilled our
duty,” said Batka.

“That’s why we are in debt to you.” The Tsar took off his
belt together with his sword and handed them to Batka. “With our gratitude,” he
said ceremoniously.

“Thank you.” Batka took the sword and bowed. “Your Majesty
can travel quietly to Vladimir. My people will ride ahead until the forest’s
end.”

“Look after the wounded until we send people for them,” said
the Tsar. “Farwell, Ivan.”

‘Fatherland’ underground facility, location unknown

The present day

The giant platform elevator started to glide towards the
ground level of the spacious cave chamber. It carried an elongated electric
cart in which several people sat. The man in the driving seat was young, with
blond hair and glasses and he wore a neat white apron. In the seats behind him,
two armed guards sat opposite a man and three women dressed in long,
light-brown robes.

A panoramic view opened out of the platform. Numerous
luminescent lamps fixed to the ceiling illuminated the underground chamber. The
vaulted ceiling was about thirty metres high. A three-storey complex, housing
rooms and offices with large glass-panelled front windows, was built along the
cave walls. There were stairs linking the storeys, with platforms in between
constructed of heavy iron beams held together with steel bolts and welds. At
one side of the cave there were about ten people bustling around long tables
piled with papers, books, computers, monitors and other electronic devices.
They were of different nationalities and ages and wore a mix of different types
of clothing. Some wore ironed white aprons, others, baggy jeans and sweaters or
Asian-style caftans. Above their heads was a huge rectangular display divided
into smaller sections – each showing different images and TV programmes. At the
other end of the cave, there was a monumental twenty metre tall stone sculpture
of a horned serpent with widespread wings that dominated the space. It entwined
around a topless pyramid.

The elevator-platform reached the ground. Its protective barrier
lifted up automatically and the cart slowly moved towards the central parking
area which comprised about twenty rectangular parking bays. Motorbikes, jeeps
or other electric carts occupied some of the bays.

The driver of the cart turned towards an armed man in the
parking area and said in Russian, “It’s a group exchange time. Make sure the
test rooms are ready.”

“Yes, Georgie Ivanovich,” said the man and walked away.

The cart continued ahead. The driver took a device out of
his pocket and pressed some buttons. There followed a metallic sound and then a
well-camouflaged gate in the cave wall slid open. The aperture stood out dark
against the background of the strong luminescent light in the cave, although
weak multicoloured light from some inner source could be seen. The cart slowly
disappeared into this twilight as if it had been swallowed by it.

Twenty minutes later, it popped back out again, but now it
carried four new passengers, two women and two men, dressed in brown linen
robes like the previous group. Three of them were of mid-Asian ethnicity from
nations that had become autonomous after the Soviet Union crumbled. The fourth
man was Russian. His name was Vitali Sorokin, a one-time psychic of
international repute, famous for his popular interactive TV show on which he
foretold the future and revealed the past. A couple of years ago he had
disappeared from TV screens and his celebrity had long waned. Sorokin and his
fellow travellers seemed distant, distracted. They were all sitting stiffly
with their eyes looking upwards, as if fixed on an invisible object above them.

The cart stopped in front of a large glass panel, behind
which was a room full of laboratory apparatus and computer equipment. In the
room, there was a metal chair with cables and devices attached to it.

The driver helped the Russian psychic disembark and then led
him inside the room to sit on the metal chair. He proceeded to position several
semi-flexible tubes a few centimetres away from the psychic’s head, arms and
chest. While he was doing that, a guard jumped in the driving seat of the cart
outside and drove it to a group of lab assistants who waited for the other
passengers.

The psychic sat passively and appeared unconcerned about the
activity that was taking place around him. The young driver took a wireless
touch-keyboard from the table and tapped his fingers on it. A flow of white gas
emanated from a small plastic tube that pointed at Sorokin’s nose. He inhaled
and seemed to liven up; his eyes sparkled.

The young man sat on a swivel chair. “Sorokin, how do you
feel? Is everything all right?”

The psychic cleared his throat and answered in a quiet
voice, “What does it matter, Georgie? You’re going to do what you intend to do
anyway.”

“Yeah,” drawled Georgie, “but we have to follow procedure.
You’re doing very well. Your work here will soon be over and you can rest
afterwards.”

“Is there rest for a seer?” The psychic spoke in a low,
faltering voice. It was clear that he didn’t expect his questions to be
answered.

“You could make trips to any place you want.”

“I need to see. You know that.”

 “I believe you’ll be fine with a short trip. Why not
go to the Bahamas. I imagine you sitting there on a beach. Lots of girls in
flowered skirts around who’re drinking cocktails with you,” joked Georgie.

The psychic stared indifferently into space. Georgie changed
his mood, becoming more serious. He moved his chair closer to the psychic.

“Although you’re an old hand at this, I’m still obliged to
read out the rules to you, okay?” he began. “The chair you’re sitting in will
track your brainwaves, the activity in your irises, your pulse and your
heartbeat. These readings will monitor your physical state as well as interpret
the truthfulness of what you’re saying. On your left is a table on which is a
pen and some paper. You’re free to draw or write on it at any time you wish to
help me understand what you’re talking about. So, now we begin.”

The young man started to ask a series of questions in a
bored and indifferent tone, as if he had done it a hundred times before. The
psychic replied with short answers in a soft whisper; his eyelids were half
closed and his eyeballs moved erratically. From time to time, his eyeballs
turned upwards which indicated that he was going into a trance.

Suddenly, after hearing one of the psychic’s answers,
Georgie jumped out of his chair, reached for the pen and a piece of paper and
shoved them into his hands. The psychic drew something, and when he was
finished the young man quickly snatched the paper from him and ran out of the
room.

“Hey, you,” he called out to the armed man standing in the
parking area. “Guard the door. Do not let him out or anybody in.”

The young man dashed into a nearby room, closed the door and
quickly lowered the blinds. Then he picked up the phone and began dialling
feverishly.

* * *

The call was answered by a middle-aged, slim man with a
shaved head who sat at the main workspace onboard a luxury jumbo jet. On a
glass table in front of him was a large digital display showing statistics,
graphs and charts representing activity on the major stock markets of the
world. The study and work area in the jet housed state-of-the-art technology.
Postmodern paintings adorned the walls and silver oval drop-like sculptures had
been tastefully used to decorate the interior. Cream furniture was organized in
an oval configuration, and an artistically designed steel spiral staircase
formed a central feature, leading up to the main control cabin.

The man picked up the ringing phone and said tersely, “What
is it? Be brief.”

As he listened, his expression changed; sparks lit up his
blue eyes and his cheeks started to blush with excitement. He interrupted the
young man on the other side of the connection: “Details?” Then he listened for
another half a minute, and then said: “Isolate the entire team and interrogate
them separately. Nobody else but you must talk to them before I arrive.” He
paused before adding, “Well done.” He hung up and pressed some buttons on the
table. A video connection was established in a matter of seconds with a
red-haired man in his mid-thirties.

“Good morning, Prior. How can I be of service?” the
red-haired man spoke with strong Scottish accent.

 “Greetings, brother.  I just got great news from
‘Fatherland’. They’ve found him … the
one
himself,” said Prior
jubilantly.

The Scottish man hit the table with both fists. “We’ve done
it! But, Prior, is this for sure?”

“A hundred per cent. A seer has spotted the rainbow-coloured
man,” Prior replied.

“I suppose it’s still not clear who he is. The seers
normally get their first views blurred.”

“We start the search with what we have. The seer got three
certain details. The man has a black hair. He lives in the UK, or he has strong
ties with your country. In addition, something closely related to him is called
‘White Path’, or ‘White Road’.”

“This could be a street or house name—”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“Yes. There is more than enough to begin with.”

“Alert all our people there. Some of them will go into
action immediately after you find out who he is. But one of the cells has to be
the vanguard.”

“The five that finished the Bulgarian could be used again.
They’ve proved themselves.”

“Good. Get into action!” ordered Prior.

“I’m already on it,” the red-haired man responded and then
quickly cut off the connection.

Prior picked up the phone again and pressed a button. He
heard the patter of feet running up the staircase, and then a man dressed in a
short-sleeved shirt and holding a gun entered the room expectantly.

“Change course to ‘Fatherland’. High velocity,” Prior ordered.