Chapter Twenty-Four
Quinn and James sat on the bed and stared at each other, completely dumbfounded. Had she really connected the manuscript directly to Yevgeni Dobrynin?
She picked up the manuscript and turned the pages. “This is going to sound crazy, but I remember reading somewhere a lot of times the person who commissioned a manuscript would have a miniature of themselves inserted into it somewhere. Do you have a picture of Dobrynin?”
“Yep.” James tapped at the keyboard and swiveled the laptop so she could see the black-and-white photo on the screen. Broad-faced and scowling, Dobrynin glared at the camera from under caterpillar eyebrows.
She located the miniature of the knight supplicating himself before his liege and held up the book next to the screen for easy comparison. He had the same dark hair combed straight back and the same thick eyebrows. “He’s the knight.”
Inspiration flamed in James’s eyes. He started typing. “Find that initial with the noblewoman in the middle of it.”
“On it.” Quinn flipped to the page and when she compared the woman in the large, fancy letter with the one James called up on the screen, she said, “Holy crap! It’s the same woman. Who is she?”
“Dobrynin’s wife, Svetlana.”
Quinn felt like she was about to come out of her skin. “Who’s the guy Dobrynin’s kneeling in front of? The ‘great lion’? Leo? Leopold? Leon?”
“In Russian, it’d be Leonid.”
They looked at each other and at the same time said, “Leonid Brezhnev.”
James checked his computer. “Dobrynin was born in Novgorod in 1947 and joined the army in 1965.”
Quinn had already pulled up information on the former Soviet supreme leader on her laptop. “Brezhnev came to power in 1964.” She looked at James. “His loyalty was to Brezhnev, and then ‘the lion’s successors’.”
“He was born in 1947.” His voice grew more excited when he quoted the manuscript. “‘Soon after the invaders from the west were vanquished.’”
“The Germans in World War II.” She tilted her head in thought. “You think the ‘hated empire to the west’ is the U.S. during the Cold War?”
“Yeah, although I wouldn’t be surprised if he lumped all of Western Europe in there. He also fought in Afghanistan.”
She nodded. “‘The infidels of the mountains to the east.’ Let me guess. He was captured at one point and escaped?”
“Yeah.” James covered his face with his hands and his head thumped against the headboard when it fell back. “Oh God, Quinn. I’m such an idiot. I’d read Dobrynin’s file. I should have picked up on the parallels right away.”
“You’re not an idiot and why would you have picked up on the parallels?” She pulled a hand away from his face and held it with both of hers. “A twentieth-century Soviet general has his life story written so that he comes off as some random Crusader knight running around Europe in the Middle Ages. The story is scribed onto parchment in medieval Latin using all kinds of vague imagery and then turned into a manuscript, complete with authentic-looking illuminations and a wood-and-leather cover. Of course you wouldn’t assume the story was about Dobrynin.” Incredulous, she added, “Who even does that? It’s insane.”
James bolted upright and blurted, “Novgorod.”
“What?”
His eyes were wild, like a mad scientist about to reanimate the dead. “Novgorod. Dobrynin was born there. It literally means ‘new city’ in Russian.”
“Yeah? So?”
“They didn’t use Novgorod in the manuscript, they used the literal translation of it instead. If they used Novgorod, we would have known he was Russian right away.”
“Okay,” she said slowly.
“What if they did the same thing for all of the places mentioned? Do you remember when we were driving to LAX and were looking for clues in the letter? You had the idea that maybe Summerfield should be translated into Russian.” He jabbed his finger at Professor Dudley’s list. “Right idea, wrong document.”
“Blizzard village,” she said. “What’s that in Russian?”
“Blizzard is ‘buran.’ Add the suffix either ‘ovo’ or ‘ovka’ and that makes it village or town.”
“Got it.” Mentally crossing her fingers, she opened a map website and as she began to type ‘Buranovo’ into the search box, that very word appeared as a suggestion. She clicked on it and when the little red flag appeared on the map, she stared in disbelief. “It’s a town in Russia, about five hundred miles or so due east of Novgorod.” Unblinking, she gazed at James and said in awe, “Holy smokes. I think we figured it out.”
“I think so, too.” He picked up the notepad and put his finger under the next entry. “‘Great John’s Town.’ Try ‘Bolshoi Ivanovo.’”
She typed it into the search box. “It wants it to be spelled with a ‘y.’ Either way, nothing.”
He frowned and thought for a moment. “Okay, try ‘Bolshaya.’”
“How does ‘Bolshaya Ivanovka’ grab you?”
“Works for me.”
“The closest city is Volgograd. It’s seventy, eighty miles south of Bolshaya Ivanovka.”
Over the next twenty minutes, they worked together and located the other three places on the list. Two were in Russia, although they were closer to Mongolia than Moscow. The final town was in western Kazakhstan.
Quinn studied James’s face as he stared at the screen of her laptop. “This is it, isn’t it?” she asked. “The rumors about Dobrynin coding information about some mysterious weapon or weapons in his art collection are true. We found it.”
“I think so. We can’t spike the football yet, though. We might know where the weapons are hidden, but we don’t know what they are. These could be anything from secret labs that were developing nasty bioweapons to huge stockpiles of conventional munitions.”
“Would whatever it is still be there twenty years later?”
“With how remote these towns are, I don’t see why not.” He slid the computer from his lap and opened the manuscript again. “The answer’s got to be in here somewhere.”
“If it’s in the text, we’ll never see it,” Quinn said. “We’ll need to get a complete translation of the Latin.” She shook her head. “Although I gotta think Gemma would have mentioned it if she’d run across something really off.” She blew a raspberry. “On the other hand, if Dobrynin and his scribe used the same vague language for whatever kind of weapon he hid, Gemma might not have noticed. An AK-47 could be ‘an apparatus that used exploding Chinese black powder to expel small projectiles of ore at high velocity from a long metal tube.’”
While Quinn carried on her one-woman argument, James squinted at the illustrations in the manuscript. “It might be in the text, but if Dobrynin put himself and his wife”—he pointed to a miniature with a squire and a young maiden speaking with the knight—“and probably his kids in the pictures, he might have hidden intel there, too. We can’t rule that out.”
He turned to the page with the castle tower. Quinn wouldn’t have been surprised if thin wisps of smoke curled up from a tiny hole burned in the parchment from the way James’s eyes lasered in on the picture.
At his sharp intake of air, she jerked. “What?”
Wordlessly, he handed off the book to her and set the computer on his lap again. His lips were a thin line as his fingers pounded at the keyboard.
She hated not knowing what had triggered his flurry of activity. But she knew she wouldn’t want to be distracted if she were in his position. She forced herself to be patient.
Goose bumps prickled over her skin when his fingers stopped and hovered over the keyboard. His face had turned a chilling ashen gray. She rested a hand on his arm. “What is it?”
He swiveled the computer so she could see the screen. It displayed a photo of what looked like the turret in the manuscript. Only, it wasn’t a turret. It was a missile.
Her entire body went numb. “Nukes?”
“Yeah. This ICBM is what the Soviets called an RT-23. An SS-24 Scalpel to NATO.” His voice was hollow when he said, “The ice-cream cone at the top of the missile houses the warheads.”
A wave of nausea washed over her. “Warheads? Plural?”
“It’s a MIRV. Instead of one warhead, the missile can deploy ten reentry vehicles, or RVs, each with a warhead targeted to hit a specific location.”
“And Dobrynin got a hold of these intercontinental ballistic missiles and what, just left them in their underground silos?”
“That’s a definite possibility. SS-24 Scalpels had the ability to be deployed from railroad cars, too. The miniature of the guy pulling two caravan wagons makes me think Dobrynin was hinting at trains.”
“So he could have had these missiles trundled off on the railroad to a spur line in some little town out in the middle of nowhere and hid them.”
“My guess is that’s exactly what he did.”
“Those missiles have to be at least fifty feet long. How in the world did Dobrynin think he’d be able to deliver an ICBM or two to some random terrorist group? FedEx?”
James shook his head. “They wouldn’t take delivery of the entire missile. He probably planned to sell the locations of the missiles to a terrorist group or rogue nation. Then they’d strip them for parts. The targeting and guidance systems, even old Soviet ones, would be way beyond anything those groups could have developed on their own. Then there’s the solid rocket fuel, although the fissionable material in the warheads is where the money’s at.”
“James!” Another puzzle piece fell into place. She flipped to the next page with the diagram of concentric circles. “That’s not the medieval solar system. It’s an atom.” She grabbed the hotel pen and notepad from the nightstand. Starting at the innermost ring and working her way out, she wrote down the letter at the center of each sphere on each ring. CCXXXIX. “Two hundred thirty-nine.”
“It’s the isotope Plutonium-239—what’s used in most nuclear weapons.”
They sat unmoving as the magnitude of what they’d discovered settled over them. Eventually, Quinn said, “Now what do we do?”
“I call Meyers and tell him what we figured out. He’ll take it from there.”
“And they roll out a squadron of HALO-jumping CIA commandos under cover of night? Will you need to go?” The thought of him taking off and leaving her alone in London didn’t sit well with her.
“No.” He shook his head. “They’ve got other people who can secure the missiles.”
The chirp from a phone atop the desk drew their attention. It was the “James Lockwood” phone he’d kept with him in case Ben tried to contact him. James scrambled off the bed, glanced at the screen, and showed it to Quinn. Blocked caller. He slipped into his British accent and said, “This is James Lockwood.”
As he listened, his entire body stiffened. At his reaction, Quinn’s blood ran cold. His gaze settled on her and he said, “Yes, I can do that.” James crossed to the bed and sat next to her. He lowered the phone and pressed the speaker icon. “Go ahead.”
“Good morning, Ms. Ellington. Roderick Fitzhugh here. I’m delighted to speak with you.” His accent was polished and aristocratic. “My associate whom you met on Saturday, Paul Shelton, tells me you are highly intelligent and charming. And from the photos taken last night in Oxford, you are exceptionally lovely as well. You and Mr. Lockwood make quite the handsome couple.”
Blindsided, the only words that came to Quinn’s mind were “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” He paused for a moment, shifting gears. “Mr. Lockwood, Ms. Ellington, I’ve no doubt you have an inkling as to why I am ringing you. You see, I am rather disappointed to find I have become a target of your systematic thievery.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” James said.
“Come now, James. May I call you James?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I know you took the letter you found in the secret drawer in the clock you examined at my home in Los Angeles. No doubt you are aware of my attempts to retrieve it.” What could they say? No one but Quinn, James, and Paul knew about the letter. When neither of them responded, Fitzhugh continued. “Your lack of a rebuttal supports my assertion. And now you and your cohort, Mr. Baker, have stolen my manuscript.” The joviality in his voice was pushed aside by a more sinister tone. “I want them back.”
“You have no proof we have those items in our possession,” James responded. “And even if we did, I think we’d deserve a hefty finder’s fee.”
Fitzhugh released a mirthless laugh. “You do, do you? However, I have something in my possession you may be willing to trade for them, if you had them, of course.”
James frowned and cocked his head in question.
A male voice, weak and croaking, said, “James. Don’t do it. Just leave.”
Bile surged up Quinn’s throat.
The voice belonged to Ben.
Fitzhugh came back on the line. “Your partner in crime has been most uncooperative in telling us where my manuscript is. This makes me think it’s of great value. With that in mind, I’m sure you can understand why I’m eager to get it back. I do hope you believe a man’s life is more valuable than a book filled with pages of old parchment.”
“I do,” James replied.
The cheeriness returned to Fitzhugh’s voice. “So you do have my items. Excellent!”
“I have the manuscript. The letter is still in Los Angeles.”
“That is troublesome, but not surprising. I’m sure you know where my estate in Northamptonshire is located. Be here at four o’clock. We can enjoy afternoon tea before we complete our transaction.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Your colleague will meet a most painful and unfortunate end.”
“I’ll be there.”
Quinn scowled at James and whispered, “What about me?”
“Oh dear,” Fitzhugh said with feigned distress. “I’m afraid I’ve given you the wrong impression. I apparently failed to mention it is only Ms. Ellington who is invited to tea. You see, Mr. Lockwood, I no longer trust you will not attempt to steal me blind while you are inside my home. Additionally, I believe you will be on your best behavior until she is safely returned to you.”
“No way,” James stated flatly, while at the same time Quinn said, “Agreed.”
James’s head snapped up and he shook it, glaring at her.
She glowered right back at him with an eyebrow arched.
“Pity. You two seem to disagree.”
“I agreed and I meant it,” Quinn said.
James’s face reddened.
“You said you don’t trust James inside your home. Fair enough,” she said, ignoring James. “Here’s the thing, Mr. Fitzhugh. From here on out, James won’t let me out of his sight, so there’s no way I can get to you even if I wanted to. Let me propose a compromise. James is allowed to travel with me until I get inside your home. Otherwise, believe me when I tell you, you won’t get your manuscript back.”
After a brief pause, Fitzhugh said, “I agree with your astute assessment of the situation, Ms. Ellington. But I have two conditions of my own. One, I’ll have a car waiting for you both at the train station. My team will keep Mr. Lockwood company while we have tea. Two, if at any moment I am informed anyone is lurking about my estate during our meeting . . . Well, let’s just say you don’t want me to finish that sentence.” He paused before finishing. “When I have my manuscript and Paul has succeeded in securing the letter, you three can be on your way. Agreed?”
Quinn gripped James’s free hand and looked into his face, eyes pleading with him. His shoulders slumped in defeat. “Agreed.”
“Agreed,” she said.
“I look forward to our time together, Ms. Ellington. Good-bye.”
James tapped the screen with his thumb, dropped the phone, and leapt off the bed. “What the hell were you thinking, Quinn?” He glowered at her as he stalked back and forth. “That you’ll have a nice cuppa with an arms dealer and then you and Ben will just waltz out and that’s that? That Fitzhugh will live up to his end of the bargain? We can’t trust him.”
“I know, but what other choice do we have? If we don’t go, we may never get Ben back. Besides, we don’t need the actual manuscript anymore. We can take pictures of every page right now, e-mail them to your analyst buddies at the CIA, and let them pore over every word and miniature. He can have the letter, too. We know it’s not important.”
“Of course I’ll send pictures of the manuscript to Langley. I’m not worried about that. But how am I supposed to let you go in there by yourself? That would be an incredibly dangerous thing for a trained operative to do, let alone a civilian. This isn’t paintball.” The knuckles on his clenched hands turned white. “You can’t go in there. I won’t let you.”
“Then you’re signing Ben’s death warrant.”
“What if I’m signing yours, too? I can’t—” He closed his eyes and shook his head, battling his emotions. When he opened them again she had crawled off the bed and on her feet in front of him. Wordlessly, she slipped her arms around his neck. They stood there for a long moment and simply held each other.
She leaned back, rested her hands on the sides of his face, and tipped it down so she could look him in the eyes. “I’m gonna be okay. I promise.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No, I can’t,” she admitted with a sigh and placed her palms flat on his chest. “The train could derail along the way and we could both be hurt.”
“You know what I mean,” he said, frowning.
“I do, but you know I’m right.” Her gaze never wavered. “You know I have to do this. Never leave a man behind.”
He regarded her from under lowered eyelids. “Do you promise to play nice with Fitzhugh and do exactly what he says? No heroics? No channeling spy novels? No Edward Walker or Chance Stryker?”
She drew an X over her chest with her finger. “Cross my heart.”
“I’m not convinced. If Fitzhugh looks at you funny and you bust in his cranium with a first edition of War and Peace, we could all be in a lot of trouble.” He leaned in and gave her a soft, languid kiss. She sank into it. He said in a gruff voice, “Hopefully that’s a bit of incentive for you not to do anything crazy.”
So much for their taking a step back, she thought. “Incentive, huh? You’re pretty sure of yourself.”
“You think you need more than that? It could be arranged.”
She shook her head and bunched his shirt in her hands. Up on her tiptoes, she yanked him to her and kissed him, hard. The pressure from his hands linked at the small of her back mashed her body to his. The kiss left them both panting and her weak in the knees.
“Is that some incentive of your own?” he asked.
“Mmm-hmm. Did it work?”
His emphatic nod came swiftly. “Your wish is my command.”
She smiled. “Good. Now let’s go save Ben.”