Patriot

CHAPTER 25

His destination was plainly visible now, countless lighted windows winking back at him through the dark snow-laden forests. Ten minutes later, the Sno-Cat tracked across an arched wooden bridge spanning a swiftly running river, the water moving black below. For the last half hour, Beauregard had noticed endless miles of dry stone walls, small rural cottages inside neatly fenced fields of snow.

Suddenly, the big Sno-Cat swerved hard left and plowed forward under an arched entrance of stone and black wrought iron. The topmost part was filigreed ironwork surmounted by golden two-headed eagles. The aura of power and opulence grew as they neared the palace entrance, ablaze with light. The driver came to a stop inside a large cobblestone courtyard. At the far end, the colonel saw the entrance: a broad series of formal steps leading upward.

Armed guards stood at attention at the base of the steps.

The colonel climbed out the Cat’s rear door, stomping his cowboy boots on the hard-packed snow, trying to get some feeling back into his feet. Then he grabbed his duffel and started for the door.

His new traveling companions escorted him up the broad marble staircase, and tall double doors were flung open to admit them. Suddenly he’d left the cold and dark of Siberia behind and entered another century in another world. He found himself standing in a gilded and black-marble entrance hall. The ceiling vaulted four stories above his head, upheld by fluted Corinthian columns the size of grain silos. Two curving white marble staircases floated up into the darkness and muted piano music could be heard coming from somewhere on the upper floors.

A liveried steward showed him upstairs and down an endless hallway to his room. It was surprisingly small, but the four walls were covered entirely in blue-and-white Dutch tiles, favored, he knew, by Peter the Great. There was a cozy fire crackling in the tiled dutch oven in one corner and a large four-poster bed that seemed to call out to him.

He pulled his kicks off, shed his buckskin jacket, and stretched out on the bed, reveling in the plush comfort of the deep featherbed. He looked at his watch. His meeting was in one hour. He lay his head back on the pillow for a little shut-eye. He could feel his exhaustion instantly melting away…

There was a sharp rap on his door a second later.

Beauregard sat bolt upright and looked at his watch. One hour had passed! He leaped up and quickly crossed the room to the door. Pulling it wide, he saw his old friend General Vasily Krakov standing there, beaming at him. He was splendidly attired in his full dress uniform and had two glasses of champagne in his hands.

“How do you like our Russian hospitality so far, Colonel?” Krakov said with a smile.

“You boys know how to live, I’ll say that.”

“You must rank very high on the Kremlin’s list of VIPs.”

“Why’s that?”

“This room belonged to Peter the Great himself. It was the only room he would ever sleep in when he was using the palace.”

“You gotta be kidding me.”

“We have just enough time for a chat before I take you to meet your host. May I come in? Those chairs by the fire are very comfortable, if I remember. I, too, slept in this room on my first visit to the palace many years ago. I have happy memories.”

“Please come in, Vasily. You want a real drink, I can tell. None of that local vodka shit. I’ve got us a bottle of best Kentucky bourbon in my satchel over there.”

“Good! Good! We don’t get good bourbon here in Siberia,” Krakov said, settling into the nearest chair. “Come sit down. I need to prepare you a bit for this meeting you’ve come so far to attend.”

“Be my guest. My curiosity is killing me.”

“Nothing to fear. First, I will be with you the whole time. I will act as a translator for our host, who speaks very little English. You will let me do all the talking and—”

“Wait, let’s start with the host. Let me guess. Putin?”

The general was overcome with laughter.

“Putin? Are you serious? He’d never set foot here. He’s too busy conquering the world under the new Soviet banner for the likes of you, Colonel, with all due respect. He has no knowledge of this meeting, nor should he. This whole operation is compartmentalized. It can never lead back to the Kremlin, nor should it. This is the blackest of KGB black ops, pure and simple. Is that fully understood? This operation is never mentioned nor does it exist even on paper.”

Krakov eyed him carefully over the rim of his bourbon glass.

“Hell, yes, it’s understood,” the colonel said. “I’m just trying to find my way here. Know what I’m dealing with kind of thing. You guys fucked with me once, you know. And once is once too often. Because I’m the kind of guy who fucks back.”

“Now, now, Colonel, no need to get excited. You know I personally have had no involvement in Kremlin or KGB politics. I am strictly military. I do what I’m told. That unfortunate business regarding Vulcan all came down from the top, against my strongest objections. I am now, and have always been, in your corner. You are one of a kind. And I have made that plain to my superiors from the beginning.”

The Texan was suddenly very, very tired. He chalked it up to jet lag.

“Fuck it, Vasily. Just tell me what in hell is going on.”

“Tonight, you’re going to be dealing with the Dark Rider. One of my country’s most precious secrets. There has always been a Dark Rider in Russia, since ancient times. He arises in times of trouble to lead Mother Russia through the darkness. When she emerges once more onto the broad sunlit plain and into the light, the Dark Rider fades away, to be replaced by the Pale Rider, who cares for his people in a more benevolent fashion, let us say. Do you understand? It’s just the ebb and flow of our history.”

“What’s his name, anyway?”

“He has no name.”

“No name. We’re off to a bad start already, aren’t we, General?”

“Listen to me. I’m not joking. He literally has no name. Not that I or anyone here would know, at any rate. We call him Uncle Joe. You can call him that as well.”

“This is some weird shit, pal. I’m telling you. Why Uncle Joe?”

“You’re aware of Joe Stalin.”

“Who isn’t? The ugly little shit who succeeded Lenin. Crazy little pockmarked fucker who murdered millions and sent the rest to the Siberian gulags. Right?”

“Well, that’s one interpretation. The great savior of Mother Russia who defeated the Nazis and secured the Soviet Empire is another. Our new Dark Rider got the name because he bears an uncanny resemblance to the real Joseph Stalin. Same height, five foot four inches, same blemished complexion, same demeanor, et cetera. Hell, he even sounds like the original!”

“Where’d you dig this hoary ghost up, anyway?”

“Let’s just say his origins are clouded in mystery, shall we, Colonel?”

“You say it. I don’t really give a damn where he comes from. So long as he pays his bills and doesn’t screw around with me.”

“That will not be a problem.”

“I hope not. So what’s this Uncle Joe want to talk to me about? Aside from apologizing for the fact that his government stuck TNT up my ass.”

“His vision, Colonel.”

“His vision?”

“Yes. For a new and glorious Soviet Empire. One destined soon to reemerge upon the world’s stage and dominate it. Rising imperiously from the ashes of failure that have been Russia’s fate after perestroika and glasnost and all the trappings of democracy given us by Yeltsin and Gorbachev in collusion with you Americans. Two traitors who were responsible for the unforgivable dissolution of the mighty Soviet Empire. The greatest geopolitical disaster of the twentieth century.”

“I get it, I get it, spare me the histrionics. It’s good old empire building, that’s all. So you already gobbled up Crimea and the Ukraine. Estonia next? That’s just the beginning? You and your new boys want it all put back together again, is that it? A massive land and power grab, no matter who gets crushed beneath the tank treads, right?”

“I will let Uncle Joe answer that question. I have no idea how much motive he intends to reveal to you. I know only that he thinks you can be extremely useful to implementing his vision. That is why you are here.”

“So where is our boy Putin in all this? He’s not the type to be sitting on the sidelines.”

“Listen carefully, my colonel. Putin rules the old Russia. The Dark Rider rules the new Russia.”

“And Putin is okay with that? Doesn’t sound like the Putin we all know and love.”

“Let’s just say it’s complicated and leave it at that, shall we? For your purposes, that’s a very wise attitude to take when it comes to internal Soviet politics and—”

They were interrupted by the deep thump-thump-thump of a heavy helicopter descending overhead.

“He’s arrived. We should make our way up to the tower. We do not want to be late.”

“That big-ass tower by the lake? I was wondering about that? Only building with no lights on.”

“It is his residence whenever he visits here. We call it the Dark Tower. There is a helipad on the rooftop. That’s how he comes and goes.”

“He doesn’t like to be seen…”

“Correct. You yourself will not see him. He will be in the room with you and you will hear his voice… but you will not see him. No one does.”

“This is all getting very mysterious, General.”

Krakov laughed in his hearty way, “Yes, it is the Russian way. You should know that after all these years.”

The general stood, pausing to regard his appearance in the large gilt mirror above the fire. Satisfied, he tipped back his glass and drained the rest of the bourbon.

“Let’s go,” he said, motioning toward the door.

There was no elevator to the top of the Dark Tower. The general said the tower was an architectural treasure, that it had been built in the sixteenth century and no one wanted to disturb its integrity.

“God forbid anybody screws around with this old treasure,” the Texan said, taking a whiff of the cold dank air that poured down from above. The two men began climbing the worn stone staircase that wound upward. On every landing was a guttering candle stuck in an iron sconce providing patchy light. Not a lot of light, the colonel thought, minding his step, but enough.

“Which floor is he on, anyway?” the Texan asked over his shoulder, after they’d gained four or five.

“The top one.”

“Of course. He’s Uncle Joe, after all.”

They trudged upward.

Ten minutes later, breathing heavily, they stood outside a heavy wooden door hung on iron hinges that looked to be centuries old. Two armed sentries stood at full attention on either side of the door, wearing fancy black uniforms that the colonel couldn’t place for the life of him. If they were Russian, they were costumes from some earlier century.

“Good evening, General,” one of the two guards said, holding out a small thumbprint scanner. “If you don’t mind, sir?”

“Not at all,” Krakov said, pressing his right thumb on the touchscreen.

The two sentries stepped aside, allowing the general to open the wide wooden door. Inside, the room could only be described as a large cell of gloom. A high ceiling above where flags of the former Soviet states hung lifeless in a ring around the large desk below. There were two plain wooden chairs visible, clearly meant for General Vasily Krakov and the colonel. Between the chairs and the desk hung a black scrim. With little light behind it, it appeared as if the two chairs were facing a blank wall.

“Come in, come in!” a voice boomed, magnified and electronically modulated. The voice sounded as if it were coming from the bottom of a very deep well.

Colonel Beauregard was first through the door. He had to squint his eyes to see in the dim light. There was a worn Persian rug underfoot, barely covering the cold stone floor. There was a minimum of furniture, at least that he could see. And it was cold.

“Come closer,” the disembodied voice called out.

And they did.