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“One hundred eighty years. It belonged to Otto von Bismarck himself.”
“You don’t say.”
“It’s a piece of living history,” Bondaruk replied as though Arkhipov hadn’t spoken. “Look down there.” Bondaruk pointed southeast toward the lowlands along the coast. “You see that series of low hills?”
“Yes.”
“In 1854, during the Crimean War, that’s where the Battle of Balaclava was fought. You’ve heard of the poem by Tennyson—‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’?”
Arkhipov shrugged. “I think we read it in elementary school.”
“The actual battle has been overshadowed by the poem—enough that the average person today has no idea about the story. Seven hundred British soldiers—cavalrymen from the 4th and 13th Light Dragoons, 17th Lancers, and the 8th and 11th Hussars—charged a Russian position fortified by cannon. When the smoke cleared, less than two hundred of those soldiers were left alive. You’re a military man, Vladimir. What would you call that? Foolish or courageous?”
“It’s hard to know what was in the mind of the commanders.”
“Another example of living history,” Bondaruk said. “History is about people and legacies. Great deeds and great ambition. And great failures, of course. Come, both of you, walk with me.”
Shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm, Bondaruk strolled through the high grass, casually blasting the occasional pheasant that popped up.
“I don’t blame you for losing them,” Bondaruk said. “I’ve read about the Fargos. They’ve got a taste for adventure. For danger.”
“We’ll find them.”
Bondaruk waved his hand dismissively. “Do you know why these bottles are so important to me?”
“No.”
“The truth is, the bottles, the wine inside, and where they came from aren’t important. Once they’ve served their purpose you can smash them to pieces for all I care.”
“Then why? Why do you want them so badly?”
“It’s about where they can take us. It’s what they’ve been hiding for two hundred years—and for two millennia before that. How much do you know about Napoleon?”
“Some.”
“Napoleon was a shrewd tactician, a ruthless general, and a master strategist—all of the history books agree on that, but as far as I’m concerned his greatest trait was foresight. He was always looking ten steps ahead. When he commissioned Henri Archambault to create that wine and the bottles that held it, Napoleon was thinking about the future, beyond battles and politics. He was thinking of his legacy. Unfortunately, history caught up to him.” Bondaruk shrugged and smiled. “I guess one man’s misfortune is another man’s good luck.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t.”
Bondaruk started walking away, calling to his dogs after him, then suddenly stopped and turned back to Arkhipov. “You’ve served me very well, Grigoriy, for many years.”
“It’s been my pleasure.”
“As I said, I don’t blame you for losing the Fargos, but I need your pledge that it won’t happen again.”
“You have it, Mr. Bondaruk.”
“You’ll swear to it?”
For the first time, Arkhipov’s eyes showed a trace of uncertainty. “Of course.”
Bondaruk smiled; there was none of it in his eyes. “Good. Raise your right hand and so swear.”
After only a moment’s hesitation, Arkhipov raised his hand to shoulder height. “I swear I will—”
Bondaruk’s shotgun spun in his hands and the barrel spat orange flame. Arkhipov’s right hand and wrist disappeared in a spray of blood. The former Spetsnaz stumbled backward one step, staring for a few moments at the gushing stump before letting out a moan and dropping to his knees.
