Tales of the Scarlet Knight Collection: The Wrath of Isis Page 6

  The phone was silent for a few moments until she thought Becky had fallen asleep. Then her friend said, “Be careful over there.”

  “I will.”

  “See you later.”

  “You too.” Becky hung up the phone to break the connection. Emma looked down at the floor of the limousine and replayed Becky’s words in her head. They hadn’t been exactly heartfelt words, but it was better than what Becky had said a few days earlier when Emma was evicted. She supposed at this point that was the best she could hope for.

  Emma hung up the phone at last. There was no one else for her to call; Jim didn’t have a phone down in the sewers. She wished she could leave him a message, but she wouldn’t have a chance, not with Markova around. She would have to explain things when she got back—if she got back.

  ***

  Markova’s employer had arranged for a LearJet at the city’s smaller, private airport. This meant Emma didn’t have to wait in line or have to take off her shoes and jewelry or allow someone to paw through her unmentionables. The limo pulled up onto the tarmac so she had only to walk ten feet to where the plane waited and then up the steps.

  A stewardess waited in the doorway for her. “Welcome, Dr. Earl. Please sit where you would like. The pilot will be taking off once everything is aboard.”

  The plane was sumptuously appointed with leather seats with enough room for Emma to stretch her legs out fully. There was even a couch in the back if she felt like a nap. The couch beckoned to her, but she couldn’t lie down until they had taken off and were in the air.

  As the stewardess had indicated, this didn’t take long. The limo driver stashed Emma’s bag in the plane and then drove the car away. Once the limo was away, the LearJet began to taxi into position. Emma tightened her grip on the chair’s armrests; she had never enjoyed flying, not even with the indestructible red armor.

  “You needn’t worry, Dr. Earl. This plane is very safe.”

  “I’m sure it is. I just get a little nervous around planes.”

  “This pilot is very good. He flew for the Soviet Air Force for twenty years.”

  “That’s good to know.” The plane rocketed into the air; its engines struggled for just a moment before it reached escape velocity. Though she didn’t really want to, Emma couldn’t help but look out the window at Rampart City and watch the metropolis grow smaller and smaller beneath her. It soon disappeared beneath the clouds, as did Emma’s problems there—at least for the moment. She sighed with relief and then closed her eyes. In no time at all she fell asleep.

  When she awoke, she heard Markova talking to the stewardess in Russian. From what Emma could gather, they discussed what she might want to eat. “Can I just get a cup of tea?” Emma said in flawless Russian.

  Markova and the stewardess turned to look at her. “Yes, of course,” the stewardess said. “Would you like cream or sugar?”

  “No, thank you.” Emma put a hand to her head and then checked her watch: she had slept for five hours. “Where are we?”

  “We are nearing the coast of Norway. We will take on some fuel in Oslo before flying the rest of the way. It will be approximately seven hours before we reach Moscow if you’d like to get some more rest.”

  “No, I’m fine.” Emma straightened in her seat. She turned to the window but there was nothing to see but clouds at the moment. She had never been overseas before, at least not in the traditional sense; she had teleported to an ancient temple of Isis in Egypt nine months earlier. Too bad she wouldn’t have a chance to see much of Europe. She had often yearned to see Paris, Athens, and Rome with Dan on their honeymoon, but that wasn’t likely to happen now, not with his hatred of her other identity. But with that chapter of her life over, maybe they could work things out. Maybe they could finally be together.

  “Are you feeling all right, Dr. Earl?” Markova asked.

  “Oh, yes, I’m fine. I was just thinking of something.”

  The woman took her briefcase down from a storage rack and then pulled out a thick manila folder. “I suppose now that we have some time I can give you a better idea of what this job entails.”

  Markova handed the manila folder to Emma, who began to read through the papers inside. “My employer is Sergei Bykov. He owns many businesses in Russia, the Ukraine, and other former Soviet states. He acquired many of these after the fall of the Politburo. Recently he has begun expanding into oil and natural gas. For this reason he purchased the fields indicated on your map. It is believed there is enough oil and natural gas to supply my country for a decade. But we have been unable to verify this.”

  “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. We have the rest of the team and equipment in place already. These men and women are very experienced in these matters, so it should not be too difficult for you.”

  “And you just need me to lend some scientific credence to it?”

  “You are very astute, Dr. Earl. My employer’s investors require the reassurance of someone with your scientific background.”

  “I see. What if this oil and natural gas isn’t there?”

  “Then it will be a terrible blow to my employer, but he will survive.”

  In the manila folder, Emma found annual reports for some of Bykov’s holding companies, which seemed to dabble in everything from heavy manufacturing to a chain of grocery stores. The man was a true tycoon like Carnegie or JP Morgan. That explained how he could afford to throw so much money at her for what amounted to her signing a report.

  The last page of paper in the folder was a confidentiality agreement. “I am sure you understand that we do not want word of our findings being broadcast before the work is completed. Such a thing could badly damage my employer’s stock.”

  “I understand.” Emma signed the paper; she wouldn’t know who to leak such information to anyway.

  The pilot called back for them to buckle in for the descent to Oslo to refuel. As the plane descended, Emma could see the outline of the city. Only then did it hit her she wasn’t in Rampart City anymore.

  ***

  Another limousine waited for them when they touched down in Moscow eight hours later. Though it was May in the Russian capital, the air still had the chill of winter as the stewardess opened the door. “Thank you for flying with us. I hope you enjoy your stay,” the stewardess said as Emma started down the stairs after Markova.

  A man emerged from the car, his bearish frame wrapped in a heavy overcoat. Markova skipped to him like a little girl and wrapped her arms around him. Emma assumed this meant the man was Markova’s employer, Sergei Bykov. He whispered something into the woman’s ear that prompted her to stand ramrod straight.

  “Mr. Bykov, this is Dr. Emma Earl from America.”

  “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Dr. Earl,” Bykov said in perfect English. “I trust your flight was not too rough?”

  “No, everything was fine.”

  “That is good.” He motioned to the car. “I will take you to my home for tonight. We will have dinner and you will tell me about that wonderful country of yours.”

  “I would be honored.”

  Emma couldn’t help but stare out the window as the limousine traveled along the streets of Moscow. She hadn’t yet been a teenager when the Iron Curtain fell, but she could still remember her father talking about the “Evil Empire” that in recent years had become an ally—too bad her father had not lived to see that day.

  Though she suspected it was out of the way, the limousine went past the Kremlin with its famous onion domes. Emma had only seen pictures of these in books; up close they looked much larger and more impressive. She wondered what it might be like to bounce along those onion domes in the scarlet armor. She wouldn’t get the chance to find out, not anymore.

  The limousine passed through the rest of the city, onto a highway that headed into less populated areas. Along the way, Bykov and Markova chatted about mundane business matters. Emma wished she had brought a camera along, but she had sold hers months ago and
in any case it would probably be seen as a security risk.

  The limousine slowed to make a turn onto a side road. There was nothing but a few trees along this road, which ignited a nervous twitter in her stomach. More ominous were the occasional bright red signs that warned about landmines. “We’re going through a minefield?” she asked her hosts.

  “It is for our protection,” Markova said. “A man of Mr. Bykov’s stature cannot be too careful. There are many who would like to take his assets.”

  “I understand,” Emma said though she really didn’t. Not even Don Vendetta employed a minefield to protect her mansion—at least from what Emma had been able to ascertain. Maybe not all of the Cold War paranoia had died around these parts.

  The road ended at a gate made of solid steel that was maintained by guards with AK-47 machine guns. This added to Emma’s discomfort. She felt as if she were about to enter a prison. One of the guards exchanged a few words with the limo driver before he waved them through.

  Once through the gate, the grounds looked relatively normal, complete with a manmade pond among the lush green lawn. A pair of swans glided around the pond. “Are those pets?” she asked Markova.

  “Yes. We bring them inside when the weather is too cold.”

  “That’s a good idea.” The limousine wound around the drive to the front of a house that resembled a miniature version of the old tsar’s palace in St. Petersburg. “Did you buy this or did you build it yourself?”

  “I built it myself. Do you like it?” Bykov said.

  “It’s very impressive,” Emma said and meant it. Despite the obvious hubris involved, to build such a magnificent house was a monumental achievement. Clearly the reports she had read on the plane had not exaggerated Bykov’s wealth.

  As befitted its palatial nature, the house came with butlers, maids, cooks, and a bevy of other servants. One of these whisked away Emma’s coat and suitcase before she could protest that she could carry her own things. “I am sure you are tired after your long journey,” Bykov said. “Katarina will show you to your room. I will see you for dinner.”

  Markova motioned for Emma to follow her along a corridor lined with paintings of Peter the Great and other Romanovs. “Are those real?” Emma asked.

  “These are not the originals. Those are kept in storage, away from thieves.”

  “I see. You take security pretty seriously here.”

  “We must be vigilant. Mr. Bykov has many rivals.”

  Those words haunted Emma the rest of the way to her bedroom. She wondered if Sylvia was right that this might be a trap. The minefields, armed guards, and paintings kept in storage to avoid thieves certainly didn’t make the place seem like a resort.

  She momentarily forgot this when Markova opened the door to the bedroom. The room itself was enormous, with ancient tapestries and paintings—probably all reproductions—on the walls. The bed that dominated the room was larger than the entire bedroom of her old apartment. As a child she could have bounced on the three-foot-deep mattress for hours, but as an adult she only sat cautiously on it.

  “I will have someone wake you before dinner. If you require anything, the intercom is on the nightstand beside the bed.”

  “Thank you.” Emma waited until Markova had gone to kick off her shoes and lie down on the bed. The silk sheets and soft mattress instantly lulled her to sleep.

  ***

  She awoke not to Markova or one of the house’s servants, but to Marlin. She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. “What are you doing?” she hissed. “Were you watching me sleep?”

  “Oh yes, that would be fascinating,” the ghost said. “I was taking a tour of this museum while you were napping.”

  Emma reluctantly pulled herself into a sitting position. “What are you doing here?”

  “I just came to see how you were getting along. I don’t get much chance to travel outside of the city these days. Did I ever tell you about Oleg Golubovsky? Lived in a small town probably twenty miles from here back in the early 18th Century. Back then most of this was forests and such. I must say this is an improvement.”

  “How did you get here? I thought you had to stay close—”

  Before she could finish this thought, Marlin motioned furiously for her to be quiet. “We are not alone in here,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The room is bugged. I noticed a couple of them in the walls and ceilings on my way through the house. I’d suggest you not mention anything about the armor.”

  “What about you?”

  “They can’t hear me. I’m a ghost. All they’ll get is some hissing and popping—and maybe a headache.”

  “Right. Anyway, I thought you had to stay close to home.”

  “In case you forgot, you bonded with the armor a few years ago. That means I can go wherever you go.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “I thought so. Saves you money on phone calls.”

  “Very funny. Why don’t you leave me alone before someone notices?”

  “Are you really going through with this job?”

  “Yes. Now leave me alone.”

  “Still pouting about that dead wanker, eh?”

  “Shut up.”

  “You realize if anything happens in the city right now it’s on your head?”

  “Then why don’t you find someone else to do it?”

  “That’s not up to me. The armor will decide when it’s through with you.”

  “Well I’m through with it. You understand that?”

  “That’s how you feel right now, but you’ll change your mind eventually.”

  “Just leave me alone.”

  “Fine. I’m sure there’s plenty of more interesting things to do around here than watch you sulk.” The ghost vanished through the wall. Emma watched him go and wondered if one of the bugs was in that wall. She thought briefly of the old song “Hotel California;” when it came time, would they really let her leave or would they keep her here forever?

  ***

  Before dinner, Markova knocked on Emma’s door. She carried with her a garment bag that contained a golden dress as beautiful as anything Ms. Chiostro had made for her. Unlike Ms. Chiostro’s dresses this one didn’t fit exactly right; the skirt came down only to her knees and the shoulders were a little tight as if it were made for a smaller woman. “It’s beautiful,” Emma said to Markova.

  “It belonged to Mr. Bykov’s wife. She was very beautiful.”

  “I’m sure she was. What happened to her?”

  “She died in childbirth. I was thirteen at the time. It was almost like losing my mother.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You did not know.” Markova forced a smile to her face. “Come, let us go downstairs. Dinner is waiting for us.”

  “Of course.” Emma followed the woman down to the dining room that was as large as the main gallery of the Plaine Museum. Alex the mastodon could have easily fit with room to spare.

  Despite that the table could accommodate at least fifty people, only three occupied it this evening: Bykov at the head, Emma at the foot, and Markova in the middle as if to mediate between them. A team of waiters brought out bowls of borscht. The cold beet soup tasted sour in Emma’s mouth, but she tried not to show this. “It’s delicious,” she said. She had to practically shout to be heard.

  “It is my son’s favorite dish,” Bykov said.

  “Where is your son?”

  “Ivan is off hunting. I have tried to interest him in business, but he prefers sport.” Bykov shook his head like any frustrated parent. “When I am gone, Katarina will have to look after the boy’s interests.”

  Emma didn’t know what to say to this, so she took another spoonful of borscht. Bykov asked her, “Did your parents encourage your career in science?”

  “Oh yes, they took me to the museum a lot.”

  “It is good to have a child who takes her future seriously.” Bykov threw up his hands. “I do not know what will become of my son.”

&
nbsp; “I’m sure he’ll find something,” Emma said to remain neutral.

  “I hope you are right.” With a clap of his hands, Bykov signaled the waiters to take away the borscht and bring on the next course. Emma ate little; her stomach had not arrived from across the Atlantic Ocean yet. Her hosts didn’t seem to notice this; he had the waiters bring one course after another until they reached dessert—an apple pie. “I thought perhaps you would enjoy that,” Bykov said. “I had Katarina bring it with her.”

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  “You must tell me of your country. I have long wanted to visit there myself, but there is too much to do here.”

  Emma told him about Rampart City, Illinois, and California. The latter seemed to interest him the most. She hadn’t seen much of the state since she’d spent most of her time there in her dorm. She had to rely on what she had seen on television. Bykov didn’t seem to notice this; he hung on her every word about sunny beaches and turquoise oceans. “A very beautiful country. Not like this one. Russia is a very harsh place. You must always remember that.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. Tomorrow Katarina will take you to the fields so you may begin work.” Bykov lifted a glass of vodka. “May fortune smile on us.”

  Emma lifted her glass of vodka, but didn’t drink from it. She just hoped they hadn’t drugged the food in addition to bugging her room. Russia was a very harsh place indeed.

  Chapter 7

  It came as no surprise Bykov had his own helicopter to ferry her to the site. What did surprise her was the man at either door of the helicopter who operated a heavy machine gun. Clearly Bykov’s paranoia extended beyond his own premises. “Are you expecting trouble?” Emma asked Markova. She had to shout to be heard over the rotors.

  “There is always the chance of trouble,” the woman said back.

  Emma heard Marlin gloat in her ear, “Well, this is turning out to be some vacation.”

  “This isn’t a vacation,” she snapped at him.