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“Seems all roads point to this Society of Cincinnati,” Luke said.
She agreed.
“I’m assuming you know where we head next?”
That she did.
But more importantly she wanted to know what was happening in Siberia.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Malone did not like the situation. Zorin seemed quite confident, as evident from the calculation and contempt that filled the older man’s face. He’d also noticed the firm easy strides across the basement which signaled the unmistakable air of a conquering hero. And the voice, clearly sour with bitterness, still held suggestions of energy that belied his years, reinforced by an impressive physical appearance that included bearish shoulders, a thick chest, and huge veined hands.
“I have a debt to pay and I intend to pay it.”
Those words had been delivered with a hard stare and macabre grin, both of which contained only defiance. Outwardly, Zorin gave the appearance of a coarse, uneducated man. And though Malone had spent only a few moments with him there was no doubt that here was a bold and barnacled Cold War veteran. Most likely a dangerous sociopath, too. He knew the type. Highly motivated achievers, alarmingly efficient, with few to no elements of conscience, their greatest fault came from actions governed by faulty reasoning.
And here seemed the perfect example.
Zorin was still fighting the Cold War.
Which ended a long time ago.
He’d been led into the house at gunpoint, a naked Belchenko remaining in the hothouse. His two minders had forced him down to the chilly basement, a windowless space with hewn-stone walls. They’d removed his coat and weapon, cuffing both of his hands with steel manacles between an iron pipe. What they hadn’t touched was the wallet in his back pocket, and that omission offered him hope.
He just needed a little privacy.
Which he now had.
Zorin was gone, back up to ground level. The sound of a door closing above signaled opportunity so he twisted his body, slid his cuffed hands down the pipe, and used the little bit of play that he had to retrieve his wallet. Inside, he quickly found the pick. The cuffs sported a simple lock that should be easy to trip.
Zorin apparently carried a hard-on for the United States. Why he longed for the old Soviet Union seemed odd. Its mortality rate had been nearly 50 percent, the life expectancy dismal. If the communist regime had not imploded it most likely would have died out through attrition. Shortages of goods and services had been epidemic. Alcoholism soared. Prices stayed in orbit, while wages had plummeted and corruption ran rampant. Lenin’s pledge of equality and autonomy for all never happened. Instead, a system emerged that ordained a succession of tyrannies, each existing solely to perpetuate both itself and the privileged few who ran it.
So what was there to miss?
More of that dangerous sociopath faulty reasoning, he assumed.
He continued to work the lock on his right wrist, the damn thing more stubborn than he’d thought it would be. Something Oscar Wilde said came to mind. Truth is rarely pure and never simple. Yet it seemed so to Zorin, who apparently had taken a perverse enjoyment in his former life.
Where was he headed? What was this all about?
Stephanie needed to know everything.
He heard a door open, then a rush of footfalls down the stairs and the two men from earlier appeared. Both were burly and unshaven, with Mongoloid faces and shoulders strong as plowmen.
He slipped the pick from the lock and palmed it in his right hand.
The two wasted no time, pouncing on him, slamming their fists into his gut. Nothing cracked, which was probably intentional. As Zorin had noted, these guys didn’t want the fun to end too soon. He’d prepared himself for the blows, but they still hurt. The men shed their coats, then yanked the sleeves to their sweaters up to the elbow, ready to go to work. They both smiled, knowing there was nothing he could do. He sucked a few breaths of the fetid air, which smelled of dust and heating oil.
“You guys are pretty tough with my hands cuffed,” he tried. “Cut me loose and let’s do this like men.”
Red Sweater drove a fist the size of a small ham into his stomach.
He decided, what the hell, and pivoted with his spine off the iron pipe, driving his right leg into Red’s knee, buckling the joint and sending the Russian screaming to the floor. Black Sweater lunged and tried to plant another fist. But Malone repeated the move, this time using the iron pipe for maximum leverage to drive both feet into his attacker’s chest, sending Black reeling backward.
Red stood and rubbed his knee. Anger filled his eyes.
He doubted he could buy himself enough time to get the cuffs off. Both men readied themselves to attack at the same time. So they weren’t near as stupid as they looked. He figured after a few blows to the head he’d see nothing but stars, which should daze him enough so they could smash at will. And these guys appeared no longer interested in subtlety.
They wanted him dead.
Two loud bangs pierced the cellar.
Both men gasped, their eyes wide open. Blood oozed from Red’s mouth. Then all muscular control ceased and they dropped to the ground, like marionettes off their strings. Behind them, at the foot of the stairs, stood Vadim Belchenko. The older man was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans that would have sagged off save for a belt tightly wrapped at the waist. The right hand held Malone’s Beretta.
Belchenko stepped over the two bodies. The face was even more pale and splotchy than in the bath, the colorless eyes devoid of expression. “I told you I could still shoot.”
“And the reason you killed them?” he asked.
Belchenko produced a key from his pocket and tossed it over. “To help you. Why else?”
He caught the key and freed his wrists from the cuffs.
“I heard what Zorin told you,” Belchenko said. “You realize that he is insane.”
He felt like a shuttlecock in a game of badminton. Confusion swamped him. He wasn’t sure what he realized. “I thought you two were on the same side?” The gun was still pointed his way, so he motioned toward it and said, “You going to shoot me, too?”
Belchenko handed over the Beretta. “I found it upstairs. I hope you don’t mind my borrowing it.”
“Not at all. In fact, you’re welcome to it anytime. I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to get clear of those two.”
“These men are all fanatics. They live down in the village and worship Zorin. He’s the senior man here. Together, they cling to an ideal that really never existed.”
“And you?”
“How could anyone believe that a political system could provide all of the goods and services a people needed without cost? A daily gratification that would eliminate greed, selfishness, miserliness, and infidelity. A place where man could become noble, strong, and courageous. Crime, violence, and social ills would vanish. It’s absurd. The experiment called the Soviet Union only proved that none of that is possible.”
He should be leaving. His mission was done. But a new one was forming, one that involved an obsessed communist. “What is it Zorin’s after? He said he had a debt to pay.”
