Page 199 of Lethal Obsession

“Are you kidding?” He still has the engine running and takes off before I’m seated, moving so fast that Andrew’s dark figure is swallowed by the darkness in minutes. “I love it. Haven’t done a midnight run in years. Miracle I can remember how to drive the boat.”

“Given your advancing years, I was more concerned about your ability to see at night. Although dementia is also an option, I guess.”

“At least I still have both my eyes, you ugly prick.”

“And whose fault is that, motherfucker?”

Bickering contentedly, we speed toward the shore, then dock the boat with the silent efficiency of long practice before melting into one of the underground tunnels leading into the compound.

“Get ready for some changes,” Dima warns me as he touches a biometric lock to open a heavy metal door. “You said you wanted the basement done fast. The boys took you at your word. And while they may never be construction workers,” he adds as the door swings silently open, “they know a thing or two about making other people get shit done in record time—and they haven’t been shy in exercising those skills.”

“Holy hell,” I say, as the watertight blast-style door closes behind me with the weighted finality of a submarine hatch.

Dima grins as I step over the low steel flood lip at the threshold. “Told you.”

It’s the cold I notice first. After the muggy warmth of the Miami night, the dry air and aggressive chill is like stepping into an industrial freezer.

Next I’m hit by the deep, relentless, all-encompassing roar of the cooling fans, a white noise so total it feels almost physical.

The grim chipped concrete and waterlogged basement I knew is utterly gone.

I stare in amazement at the vast industrial space that has replaced it. Row upon row of server racks—tall louvered metal cabinets—are arranged in long parallel aisles, blinking with amber and green LEDs like a living thing. Overhead a tangle of cables runs the length of the rows like parallel rivers.

“If you remember that brief I sent through,” Dima says as we walk down the raised antistatic floor above the concrete base, “the existing concrete wasn’t good enough quality. We removed most of it and replaced it with a waterproof membrane and a rubberized tanking system, applied to every wall, floor, and ceiling. No more dripping,” he says, casting me a sideways look.

Both of us have spent more nights than we’d prefer to remember watching blood mingle with the ever-present damp on the cell walls down here, the dank stench of fear and violence seemingly embedded in every surface.

I smile coldly. “That’s a change I can get behind.”

“No shit.” Dima stops. “Can you hear that thud behind the fans?”

I nod.

“That’s the sound of multiple sump pumps getting rid of the groundwater before it can accumulate. The engineers wouldn’t shut up about the insanity of building this on top of Biscayne Bay.” Dima grins. “Our boys now know more about flood barrier systems, watertight doors, and compression gaskets than they do about weaponry, I shit you not. The rack cabinets are anodized aluminum,” he says, running an almost affectionate hand over a nearby surface, “to stave off rust. Anything structural is encased in hot-dip galvanized steel, and cables are sealed at every penetration point, for the same reason. We’ve got enough diesel generators to run a third world country—which we need because of hurricane season—and more battery backup than a hooker’s vibrator on a busy night.”

He pauses at a section of server rack, deep in the middle of the rows. “Get ready for the best part.” He presses a button, and a panel slides aside, revealing a biometric lock. He presses his finger to it, and the entire server rack slides silently to one side, no more than a false front.

Beside it, glowing in exquisite handmade beauty beside the hard industrial decor, is Aleksander Borovsky’s original wrought iron vault door, designed to hold the Naryshkin treasures.

“You said you didn’t want to lose that door,” Dima says, glancing at me. “And you approved the plans, so I’m assuming this is okay—”

“It’s brilliant.” My voice is slightly rough. Amid the enormous construction job, someone has taken the time to lovingly restore the vault door, removing any trace of rust or degradation from the curlicued iron twining in intricate patterns over the floor-to-ceiling construction.

“You can do the honors, if you like.” Dima nods at the lock built into the door. “We’ve updated the biometrics, obviously.” His eyes settle on me with silent understanding. “It doesn’t take all three of you to open it anymore.” Along with two separate keys, Aleksander had designed the door so that opening it required the combined fingerprints of Roman, Darya, and me, a legacy for which we were all tortured and hunted, in our own ways, for the duration of the Orlovs’ occupation. The remaining Naryshkin treasures that don’t belong to either Roman’s family or my own were moved during the construction of this new bunker to a secure location in Spain, a dealership run by Dimitry Volkov and his father. Dimitry has spent years restoring the treasures to their owners and is by far the best person to take responsibility for them.

I knew the vault had been emptied, gutted, and massively expanded. But when I press my finger to the panel and the door swings open, I’m still not remotely prepared for the high-tech revolution lying behind the old door.

A curved central console containing three tiers of workstations, each with multiple monitors, is arranged in a shallow arc around a dimly lit hexagonal space. The main display wall at the center runs from the floor to the ceiling, tiled screens showing everything from live data feeds to geography, communications intercepts, and constantly changing social media feeds. Its glow is the dominant light source in the room, casting everything in shifting blue and white. Opposite the entrance is an elevated standing command position for the senior operator, complete with a stand-up desk, top-of-the-range office chair, and a wide glass writing surface. The temperature here is slightly warmer than the server center beyond, calibrated for human comfort rather than machine efficiency. The room is acoustically isolated; the roar from outside is immediately dimmed when the door closes behind us.

This is Phantom, I think, looking around with mingled pride and pain. Pride that the basement is gone and a future built in its place.

Pain that Lars isn’t here to enjoy it and that the future it was built for seems more out of reach than ever.

We did it, brother. I miss Lars with a physical ache. We fucking did it.

This shit is giving me a hard-on, motherfucker. I can almost feel him rubbing his hands gleefully beside me.

I reach instinctively for the flask in my pocket, rubbing the smooth surface slowly until the dizzying, sick feeling recedes. Touching it, I’ve discovered during the journey here, calms me more than drinking the contents inside.