The Romanov Cross: A Novel (41 page)

As he approached the rear of the stockade, Harley could hear the cawing of crows and noticed that a pair of red hawks were circling lazily in the sky. If he could have avoided cutting through the colony again, he would have, but the wind on the cliffs was so strong—and his memories of the specter he’d seen there so fresh—he felt the risks
were better just scuttling across the campground and out through the main gates. Despite the bitter cold, he was sweating inside his parka.

There were even more birds circling in the sky above the side of the old church, and a whole flock of them on the ground strutting and pecking around a spot close to a jagged hole in the foundation. A snowdrift had been blown up against one wall, but just as Harley crept past, the birds reluctantly took flight, and he could see that there was something lying there, mostly hidden under the crust of snow. It appeared that other animals had been burrowing into the drift, too, and he could see that the snow had a faintly pinkish cast … and that what he’d thought was a twig sticking up was actually the toe of a boot. He moved a little closer, and with the tips of his glove brushed some snow away. He didn’t need to see anything more than the torn shreds of a propane company work shirt to know that these were the remains of Russell, and that the local critters had been heartily chowing down.

Just as the crabs had probably made the most of Eddie by now.

It wasn’t that he was completely heartless—after all, he’d known these guys a long time—but it couldn’t help but occur to him that whatever the diamonds in the icon were worth (and it had to be plenty), he’d now be splitting the money only two ways, instead of four. Charlie would probably claim it was all the hand of God at work.

Staying low to the ground, he hurried past the colony tents, through the main gates, and over to the side of the cliff. The mist that clung to St. Peter’s Island was lying a hundred yards offshore, but on the beach below he could still see the yellow RHI, firmly tied and clamped between makeshift davits made out of driftwood logs. It was just about the first piece of luck he’d had since this whole damn nightmare had begun, he thought.

The steps that some crazy Russian must have carved into the cliff a hundred years ago were only a few inches wide at most, and zigged and zagged their way down to the waterline. Even if he hadn’t been feeling peaked, the descent would have been a bitch. The wind, skirling off the Bering Strait, forced him to flatten himself against the rock and shimmy his way down, putting out one foot at a time and
nudging it around until he had cleared the snow and scree—and sometimes the birds—from the lower perch, then gingerly placing his weight there. More than once, the birds came back, flitting around his head, defending their turf, but he didn’t even bother to bat them away. He needed both hands to cling to the slippery rock.

The backpack, even with its contents stripped down, was more of a burden than he expected, and the weight of it kept threatening to throw him off-balance. He tried to control his breathing and not to look down any more than he had to; if he panicked, he was a goner. His arms ached from embracing the rocky walls and his knees started to quiver from the strain, but eventually he could hear the waves sloshing on the sand and pebbles, and he could feel the ocean spray blowing onto his face. When the stone steps gave out, and he felt his boots crunching on the hardscrabble beach, he collapsed in a heap, his head down, his hands splayed on either side.

Never again
, he told himself,
never again was he going to get involved in something this stupid
.

Still conserving what little strength was left in his legs, he crawled, breathing heavily, across the gravel and sand. The fog had drifted in, which was going to make it that much harder to steer a course through the rocks and shoals that rimmed the shoreline. But then that figured—this island had been bad luck from start to finish, and he couldn’t wait to get off it.

Slapping a hand on the firmly inflated side of the RHI, he hoisted himself up onto his knees, enough to groggily assess the craft. A waterproof and heavy-duty black tarp had been tightly sealed across the interior, but as he fumbled at the snaps and knots that kept it in place, he had the discomfiting feeling that there was something under it. Once or twice, under the rumble of the crashing waves, he thought he heard a furtive noise, the sound of something scuttling for cover. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and focused on loosening the rest of the stays. Once, he even thought he heard the crunch of a boot on the sand behind him, and whirled around groping for his gun, but all he saw was a rolling column of fog … and no one in it.

Eddie was gone, he reminded himself. Splattered on the rocks on the other side of the damn island.

And Russell … well, Russell was just that lump under the snowdrift.

He untied the last of the straps holding the tarp down, and yanked it back.

Two startled eyes were staring back at him, and before he could even register his shock, the creature flew past him, a blaze of wet brown fur and black claws.

Harley stumbled backwards, as the otter scampered up the beach, its tail swishing, before abruptly changing course, turning toward the water again and slipping silently into the icy wash.

It was all over in a matter of seconds, but it took Harley a minute or two to calm down again and get back to work.

Damn otter
. He vaguely recalled some legend about otters, some native bullshit, but since they were probably bad luck—like everything else out here—he didn’t try too hard to remember it. On the Vane’s Holy Writ broadcasts, Charlie was always trying to prove how the Inuit stories had something to do with Jesus, but Harley didn’t buy it. He thought his brother was just trying to con a few more bucks out of the locals.

With frozen fingers, he freed the clamps holding the boat to the davits, then, tugging the braided rope, dragged it down to the water.

The bright yellow boat bobbed on the surf like a rubber ducky, and it took him three tries before he could hoist himself, boots and pants dripping wet, onto its fixed seat in back, and get the motor running.

Turning the boat parallel to the shore, he took it away from some jagged rocks, and slowly out to sea. He knew that no one in his right mind would be trying this, which was precisely why he’d probably get away with it. The fog was so thick it was like churning through clam chowder, but it would dissipate once he got a little farther from the island. His plan was to run parallel to the cliffs, then due southwest to Port Orlov. But he wasn’t so dumb that he’d sail it right into the harbor; no, he was going to put in at the old family wharf a few miles
away, then, when everything had blown over, maybe he could strip the boat and sell it for parts.

The spray was blowing into his face and even when he wiped it away with his sleeve, he couldn’t see much better—his coat, too, was sopping. And he was starting to feel truly shitty. He coughed, and he didn’t like the sound of it. What he needed was a good hot meal at the Yardarm, and Angie Dobbs back in his bed. Yes, a little Angie in the night would cure whatever ailed him.

His progress was slower than he thought it should be, and he gunned the engine higher.

Although the boat was carrying so little weight that it should have been skimming along, the current was either stronger than he estimated, or the prow was weighted down somehow. The wind was howling so loudly in his ears that it seemed like he could hear voices; it would have been okay if it had been Angie telling him how good he was in bed, or Charlie—the old Charlie—telling him how to pull off an easy con.

But it wasn’t, and they weren’t.

It sounded more like Eddie, asking him why he’d cut the goddamned rope … or Russell, screaming as the wild animals had taken him apart.

Fuck Eddie. Fuck Russell. They’d taken their chances. Harley wasn’t their keeper.

The boat bucked a wave, and Harley clutched the throttle tight.

Christ Almighty he was cold. He pulled the loose tarp all the way up to his waist.

And in the billowing fog that engulfed the boat, he could swear that for just one instant, he saw them both—his two accomplices—sitting toward the bow, waiting for him to ferry them back home. Deadweight, he thought, as always.

When he blinked, they were gone—Harley knew an hallucination when he was having one, and this damn island seemed to specialize in them.

But when he blinked again—oh, sweet Jesus—there they were again, looking at him like it was all his fault somehow.

It was the hardest call Slater had ever had to make, but with lives hanging in the balance—Eva’s for sure, and possibly Nika’s, too—he called Dr. Levinson in D.C. Apparently, he had caught her at a dinner party, and until she had moved into a private study, he could hear the sounds of clinking glasses and cutlery in the background.

As succinctly as he could, he told her what was happening on the island, and with every word he uttered he could imagine the expression of mounting disbelief, and anger, on her face. She had gone to bat for him at the court-martial, she had given him this golden opportunity to redeem himself, and he had blown it sky-high. When she finally spoke, he could hear the steel in her voice.

“So you have not one, but two, compromised team members?” she said. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he might make a third.

“Yes. And I will need them to be evacuated immediately to a mainland hospital, where a strict quarantine can be established.”

“Why didn’t you call for it already?”

“I did, but we’re having a priorities problem. It looks like the Coast Guard may need a kick in the pants from AFIP headquarters, or an assist from the Air National Guard.”

“Consider it done.”

He thanked her.

“Don’t thank me, Frank. You know what this means, don’t you?”

He could guess, but she told him, anyway.

“Once we get this straightened out, I’ll want you back in Washington for a full debriefing. When we’re finished with that, your civilian status with the AFIP will be considered terminated.”

The same as his military status had already been withdrawn.

“I understand.”

“Do you?” It was the first time real emotion cut through the icy reserve she had maintained so far. “You’re the best we had, Frank, and I went out on a limb for you. And now you’ve cut off the damn limb, too.”

When she hung up, he stood there in the communications tent for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts, watching as his entire career went up in smoke, until Sergeant Groves, covered with snow, came through the flaps. Slater quickly slipped his face mask back on, and held up a hand to keep Groves at a distance.

“The lab tent’s clear?” Slater said. “No sign of the wolf?”

“Long gone,” Groves replied, fitting his own mask back over his mouth and nose. “I left Rudy on watch. But there is something you’ve got to see.”

“Is it about Eva? Is she okay?”

“No change, as far as I know.”

“Nika?” He had confined her to her tent until further notice.

“No, it’s none of that,” Groves said. He beckoned Slater to follow him out of the tent.

Slater, who’d had no more than a couple of hours’ sleep, pulled his coat and gloves on over his fresh hazmat suit and followed Groves out into the storm. There was only a feeble light in the sky, and to keep the wind from blowing him off his feet he had to cling to the ropes lining the pathway. Groves plodded across the colony grounds to the church, but detoured at the front steps to go around the side. There, he stopped beside a patch where the snow, much disturbed, had a raspberry tinge. It didn’t take long for Slater to make out the mangled remains of a body and the shreds of a blue work uniform … or to
recognize them as belonging to that guy named Russell, whom he’d first seen at the bar, then at the memorial service at the Lutheran church. He was part of Harley Vane’s pack.

“How long do you think he’s been here?”

Groves shrugged. “Can’t be that long. We’d have seen it on the regular patrols.”

Slater wondered if he’d been alone on the island, or if he’d brought Harley. Or the third musketeer, the one named Eddie something. Were the others, in fact, possibly still around?

And if they were, what were they doing here? Had they been responsible for that hole in the cemetery? Why on earth would they have been trying to dig up graves, much less now, with his own contingent there?

“Looks like the wolves got him,” Groves said.

“Among other things,” Slater replied, solemnly. He wasn’t sure what these guys were capable of, but Nika would have a much better idea. For now, it was just another wild card to add to the rapidly accumulating stack. In the snow, he saw a soggy old book, with a torn binding, and picked it up. It looked like a ledger, in Russian.

“Dry this out, then let Kozak take a crack at it.”

“Will do. And the body?”

“Bag it, under hazard wraps, and we’ll send it back to Port Orlov when the chopper gets here.”

“When’s that?”

Slater wished he knew. Looking at the sky, he saw nothing but roiling gray clouds, giving way to banks of blacker thunderheads moving in across the strait. Whenever the helicopter arrived, it would be a bad time.

“And don’t mention it to anyone else yet,” Slater said. Groves nodded. On missions like these, they both knew, information was given out only on a need-to-know basis.

Going into the church, he was surprised not to see Kozak sitting on the stool outside the quarantine tent that had been set up around Lantos; he’d been assigned to guard the premises and listen for any sign that Lantos had become conscious again. The Demerol drip
should have kept her quiet and sedated, but you never knew. Slater looked toward the far end of the church, where he could see a flashlight beam moving back and forth across the great heap of broken pews and tangled ironwork.

“You’ve abandoned your post,” he said, as he approached the professor. “In wartime, you could be shot for that.”

Kozak was supposed to be wearing a gauze face mask, too, part of the costume Slater required for quarantine duty, but he’d let his dangle down around his neck. Slater gestured for him to raise it again, but before he did, Kozak declared, “Do you know what this is?”