“Spetsnaz!” Ivanov hissed. “Into the runoff channels, and keep absolutely quiet!”
Holliday dropped down and rolled into the runoff trough on his right. He could hear the equipment rattling on his work belt and prayed that the Spetsnaz patrol was either too far away or talking too loudly to hear it.
They all held their breath as the patrol approached and the voices got louder. Eventually they appeared, five of them walking in file, each with a miner’s light like the one Holliday carried, but brighter and attached to simple plastic headbands. In the bobbing illumination of their lights Holliday could see that they were heavily armed.
Each man carried an assault rifle at port arms, and each had a sidearm holstered at his side. Stun grenades were clipped to a bandolier strapped diagonally across each man’s chest. Each was protected by a black Kevlar bulletproof vest, and they were all wearing heavy black combat boots. The men were all big, Holliday’s height or better. Hell on wheels in any kind of fight.
They finally passed by, the sound of their boots echoing in the distance. Holliday stood and switched on his lamp. All around him the others rose up from the runoff channels and did the same.
“Close call,” said Holliday.
“There may be others,” said the priest. “We must hurry.” He took out the GPS unit, checked it and continued down the passageway. A hundred yards on, he stopped and turned, letting his light sweep over the left-hand wall. There was a narrow archway and another short passage that ended in a concrete wall. At the base of the wall the concrete facing had been chipped away in a rough, two-foot circular patch to reveal a brick wall behind.
“I believe that the way to Ivan the Terrible’s library lies behind this wall,” said Ivanov.
Together, working in two-man shifts, the four worked away at the wall with their climbing axes and Ivanov’s folding spade. Eventually they knocked out enough of the old brickwork for a man to pass through. A wash of pale light came through the hole, which was surprising, but when Holliday wiggled through the small aperture what he found beyond the wall was even more stunning.
“Incredible,” he whispered. “The old stories were true!”
“Amazing!” Holliday said. “A metro station. This is Stalin’s secret subway!”
33
The Leningrad Four-Vladimir Putin, prime minister of Russia; Dmitry Medvedev, the president of Russia; Vladimir Gundyaev, patriarch of Moscow; and Vasilyevich Bortnikov, head of the FSB-sat in their comfortable green leather armchairs drinking fresh tea from the silver samovar at the end of the inlaid oak-and-brass conference table. In the background the four big Ilyushin engines droned on steadily through the night sky over the Ural Mountains. All four men had been at a secret meeting with their “foreign” counterparts at Putin’s billion-dollar Black Sea residence near the tiny village of Praskoveyevka, population four hundred and forty-two. They were now an hour out of Moscow on the Russian version of Air Force One, a luxurious gutted version of an Ilyushin II-96, the work done by the English company Diamonite for a reported ten million British pounds sterling. Another few million euros had been spent in Voronezh, the headquarters of the Voronezh Aircraft Production Association, to protect the aircraft from any satellite, EMP or broadband intrusion. VAPA and a variety of other engineers then installed enough electronic equipment in the aircraft to launch every army, navy and air force group to defend Mother Russia from any foe stupid enough to step into the great bear’s den. It also had the telemetry to launch all sixteen thousand nuclear warheads left in the Russian arsenal.
“A very nice dacha you have, Vladimir,” commented Gundyaev, patriarch of Moscow. “There has been some comment on it in the press lately, foreign and domestic. Very lavish.”
“Not nearly as lavish as Buckingham Palace.” Putin laughed.
“A billion dollars, Volodya?” Medvedev asked, using his childhood nickname for Putin. “A little much, don’t you think, in a worldwide recession, as they call it?”
“And during that same recession the Canadian prime minister, the one with the plastic hair, spends the same amount on a weekend in Toronto for a G8 conference.” Putin snorted, then took a long swallow of the fragrant tea. “At least I built something with the government’s money.”
“The Canadian was reelected with a majority,” teased Medvedev.
“Who knows.” Putin shrugged. “Maybe Canadians like their leaders to have plastic hair. To me he looks like the man who plays the organ at a funeral. He makes me queasy.” Putin laughed. “Not that Canada matters much in the scheme of things.”
“They have enormous natural resources,” said Medvedev.
“What they have, others own. It was the essence of the meeting we just had,” Putin said. “It is no longer a world of governments; we must face that or Russia will fade into history, her best people lost in a diaspora of greed to other nations.”
“You really believe that?” Bortnikov said.
“Certainly,” replied Putin, nodding. “The future of Russia lies in private equity.”
“Do away with government?” Gundyaev said. The patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church actually looked frightened by the thought.
“Why not?” Putin said. “Effectively the world as we know it is run by half a dozen major corporations and another half dozen secret conglomerates the world has never heard of.”
“And the Vatican?” the patriarch asked.
“There have been various audits over the years, rarely placing the value of the Vatican holdings at something just over a billion dollars, which is absurd, of course. In terms of simple real estate they probably have holdings of at least a trillion dollars worldwide, and this doesn’t include their corporate investments, like Fiat automobiles and Bank of America.”
“What about our corporations?” Bortnikov, the FSB chief, asked.
“Gazprom, Rosneft, LUKOIL, Novatek, Gazprom Neft-the top five companies are all oil and gas producers, and the other five making the top ten are steel companies. Natural resources requiring outside buyers-exactly like the Canadians. An economy like that is always vulnerable to the whims of Wall Street and other stock exchanges. Watch CNN or the BBC-how often is the RTS mentioned? Never. We have one billion dollars in the equity trading market; the Americans have more than a
“During the Cold War it was an arms race; now it is all about money,” said Bortnikov wistfully.
Putin angrily rattled his spoon in his teacup, placing another lump of sugar in it. “During the Cold War the Russian bear was a world power to be feared. The Americans shook in their boots when the bear roared. We were a worthy foe. Now the Americans dance in the streets when their military kills one sick lunatic cowering in his compound in Pakistan, watching himself on television. If the Americans think of us at all it is as a source of immigrant organized crime, the
“What you say is all fine and good, Volodya, but I still don’t see how this has anything to do with the Church, Victor Genrikhovich, the American or the Phoenix order.”
“It has everything to do with them,” answered Putin. A white-jacketed steward who was actually a junior officer in the Kremlin presidential guard appeared carrying a tray of freshly made blinis, Golden Osetra caviar, creme fraiche, a bottle of Georgievskaya vodka and four flare-topped crystal glasses. The guard set down the tray, deftly put a glass and a small plate in front of each of the four men, filled the glasses from the bottle and then withdrew as silently as he appeared. In the background the engines of the big jet thundered quietly through the darkness.
Putin took a blini off the stack on the tray, put a big dollop of the pale yellow caviar in the center of the crepe-thin pancake and topped it with another dollop of the slightly sour creme fraiche. He folded the blini into a little package, then popped the whole thing into his mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the wonderful assortment of tastes, then swallowed. He opened his eyes, took a sip of the chilled vodka, then sat back in his armchair with a contented sigh.
“The Church, Victor Genrikhovich and the American,” reminded Gundyaev, spooning a heaping mound of
