The Lost Relic

Chapter Twenty-Six

Georgia

The airstrip was a long straight tongue of concrete running through the middle of the shallow valley on the edge of the isolated Shikov estate. It was deserted except for a black Humvee with tinted windows, and two men. One of the men sat at the wheel of the hulking vehicle, gazing idly into space. It wasn’t his job to be concerned with who they might be waiting for out here, or why.

The other man had a great deal to be concerned about. Yuri Maisky stood a few metres away from the Humvee with the warm morning sun on his back, and gazed west. The snow-capped mountains were crisp and clear against the blue sky, but he hadn’t come out here to take in the beauty of the landscape.

Maisky had been working for his uncle for nearly twenty-five years, and in all that time he’d had no illusions about the nature of the business. They were all soaked in blood. If he’d been a religious man, he’d have felt damned to hell.

But fourteen months ago, things had changed. One of those unexpected events that could turn a man’s life around.

It had been during a business trip to Moscow that he’d met Leyla in the empty bar of his hotel one night. She was a sales rep from Kiev, there for a conference. One drink together had turned into three. One night together became a week. Two months later, they were married and Leyla had quit her job and moved to Georgia to live with him on the estate. He’d told her that his uncle was involved in government work.

Within a year, Leyla had given birth to little Anja. The day he’d held his newborn baby daughter in his arms had been the happiest of Maisky’s life.

But with the responsibility of fatherhood had come the beginning of Maisky’s problems. For the first time in his life, he’d become afraid. Afraid of his uncle’s increasing un predictability. Afraid of what would become of his wife and baby daughter if anything happened to him. He was a new man, and suddenly he was terrified.

He was even more terrified at this moment.

His watch read 7.06 as he heard the incoming light aircraft. Just a low buzz in the distance growing steadily louder, before his eyes picked out the white dot in the sky a hundred metres above the forest. He kept his eyes on it all the way as it approached and the pilot banked steeply in to line it up with the airstrip. The landing was perfect. A yelp of rubber as its fixed undercarriage touched down, then the pilot taxied the craft to within a short walking distance of the Humvee. The side hatch opened, and Maisky walked over to meet the man who was getting out.

Just one man.

Spartak Gourko’s face was expressionless as he stepped down from the plane. His only luggage was the black rectangular padded case hanging from a strap over his shoulder.

They didn’t shake hands. No greetings. No explanations. No ‘glad you made it’. No ‘sorry about what happened’.

‘Where is he?’ Gourko said.

‘In his study. He hasn’t come out since we heard. Hasn’t moved. Hasn’t spoken.’

Gourko said nothing. They got into the Humvee. As they drove away, the pilot was taxiing the plane around 180 degrees for take-off. Twenty minutes later, the Humvee passed through the gates of Shikov’s complex and pulled up in the concrete yard. The two men got out and walked towards the boathouse. The sun was getting warmer. Clouds of midges floated over the shimmering lake behind the house.

‘You’re very quiet, Yuri,’ Gourko said.

Maisky glanced into the man’s inscrutable eyes. He found it hard to look at Gourko without staring in disgust at the scar on his face. ‘It’s been a difficult time,’ he said.

Gourko didn’t reply.

They reached the boathouse. Two guards armed with AKS assault rifles opened the wrought-iron gate for them, and they stepped through into the ante-hall and down a broad, marble-floored passage filled with the scent of tropical plants and flowers. Another armed guard stood at the heavy oak door. Maisky waved him aside and showed Gourko into the study.

Shikov still had not moved from behind his desk. His face was as ashen grey as the rumpled suit he’d been wearing all night. White stubble coated his jaw and his hair was in disarray. An empty container of his pills lay in front of him, and next to it a whirring notebook computer showing the large, full-colour photograph of the man being hailed as a hero on the website of the Italian paper La Repubblica. On the small TV screen on the sideboard to his left was a muted DVD playback of yesterday’s RaiUno news, playing on a loop. It had been playing all night. Over and over.

Maisky motioned to Gourko to stay back. He cleared his throat nervously as he approached the desk. Shikov seemed not to register their presence at first; then his gaze came into focus. His breathing sounded laboured.

‘Are you all right, uncle?’ Maisky asked hesitantly, glancing at the empty pill bottle. He knew the answer to that. The old man’s illness was growing worse all the time.

‘You have it?’ Shikov asked Gourko. His voice was a hoarse whisper.

Gourko said nothing, just nodded.

‘Bring it to me,’ Shikov said softly.

Gourko stepped over to the desk. He unslung the pouch from his shoulder, laid it down carefully and unzipped it all the way around before stepping away. Shikov shoved the laptop to one side and peeled back the lid of the pouch to reveal the framed picture. He ran his fingers over the glass, and for a few moments he seemed lost in thought. Then his eyes snapped upwards and fixed intensely on Gourko.

‘I want to know,’ he said. ‘Tell me everything.’

And Gourko did, in a flat tone that conveyed no emotion. He described Anatoly’s idea to change the original plan. Said how he’d wanted to honour his father by bringing home the trophy more efficiently. How he’d proved his strength of leadership and his tactical skills. And how the man called Hope had somehow managed to trick him and then murder him.

As Gourko spoke, Maisky was watching his uncle with growing horror. Shikov’s face seemed to collapse into itself, as if a silent, slow-motion nuclear mushroom cloud was unfolding inside him. The light in his eyes dulled. He faltered, then gradually crumpled lower and lower, inch by inch, until his forehead was resting on the desk.

Maisky had never seen him this bad. He raised his hand, and Gourko stopped talking.

‘Uncle? Are you OK?’

No reply. For a few seconds, Maisky was convinced that the old man had suffered another heart attack. The big one they’d all been grimly waiting for. Visions of him lying dead in his casket, of the long winding funeral procession, unfolded in his mind’s eye. A hundred black limousines crawling in single file towards the cemetery.

On the sideboard was a carafe of water and some crystal tumblers. Maisky hurried over to it, poured a glass of water and was about to start opening desk drawers to look for another bottle of pills when he saw the old man raise his head and open his eyes. No tears. No red. Just a depth of silent rage that sent a chill down Maisky’s backbone.

Shikov drew in a long breath. He held it for what seemed like forever, then let it out, slowly. His lips rolled back from his teeth. He reached down and tore open the middle drawer of his desk, thrust his hand inside.

And came out with a gun.

His old Mauser automatic pistol. An ancient nineteenth-century collector’s piece, but still in perfect condition. The weapon gleamed dully with oil. Its barrel was long and tapered. Maisky stared at it, and for one terrible moment he believed the Tsar was going to shoot them both. Gourko, for having failed to save Anatoly’s life. Him, Maisky, for having failed to warn him against sending his son to Italy.

Unfair. Brutal, even. But then, unfairness and brutality were traits Grigori Shikov was well known for. Maisky waited for the muzzle of the gun to swing his way. Waited for the explosion of the shot, the punch of the high-velocity 7.63mm bullet ripping into his body.

It didn’t happen. Instead, Shikov flipped the pistol over in his right hand, gripping it like a hammer by its long barrel. He reached out with his left, grabbed the edge of the framed sketch and smashed the rounded wooden butt of the gun into the glass. Kept hitting it over and over again, until the frame was hanging in pieces, the card mount was battered and buckled and the picture itself was a crumpled mess.

Then Shikov dropped the ruined artwork down on his desk among the broken glass and splinters and dust, breathing hard. The sketch tore in two as he ripped it from the wrecked frame. He shoved his fingers between where the sketch had been and the twisted backing board, and with a deep grunt of satisfaction he drew his hand out clutching a yellowed old piece of folded paper. His hands trembled with excitement as he unfolded it. He hunched over it, studying it intently.

Maisky had never seen Gourko look baffled before. Only Shikov and his nephew had known what had lain hidden inside the sketch’s frame for more than eighty years.

Shikov finally tore his gaze from the paper and looked up at Maisky.

‘Get the Gulfstream ready,’ he rumbled.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To a ruined church near St Petersburg, in Russia,’ Shikov said. ‘To bring back the Dark Medusa.’