Iron Dogs and Caesar's Ruby

By Dave R. Mortensen

Great free gift for the modern-day clandestine corporate agent, WWII history and aviation fan!

Think back to 1997, and the recent death of an American executive in Texas triggers the unraveling of a decades-old mystery – the disappearance of a fortune in Romanov-era jewelry that vanished from the Soviet Union in the early months of The Great Patriotic War.

Only one man with the answers remains alive - and now, after the breakup of the Soviet Union there are those in Russia who are also trying to find him.

Michael Kirkland, his newest clients and a beautiful woman quickly become ensnared in a web of international intrigue and danger as they race to find and protect the man, the family’s secret and the fortune in missing treasure.

Iron Dogs and Caesar’s Ruby blends detailed historical fact with fiction to introduce a new genre of behind-the-headlines operative, the one many of the world’s wealthiest private art collectors and their insurance carriers routinely call on to do what no one else can.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dave R. Mortensen
• Release date: Feb 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301606115

Dave R. Mortensen

From his home in Texas, Dave R. Mortensen's life-long fascination with historic aircraft and aviators provides the foundation for fact-driven action adventure, mystery and even science fiction, tying 'what might have happened' to 'what actually happened' with ramifications that reach across time and challenge the reader's imagination and perception of history.

Book preview

Montgomery County, Texas, February, 1997

Knowing well the route to the address for her next delivery, the FedEx driver was careful not to exceed the speed limit on the farm-to-market road carving its way across the sprawling and irregular patchwork quilt of ranches and farms. On this undulating, two-lane ribbon of asphalt many miles northwest of Houston, an inattentive driver could suddenly come upon almost anything from a semi hauling cattle to gaggles of wildly-colorful bicyclists to a pair of riders loping along on horseback. Worse yet were the tractors or even larger farm implements; in many places the dirt and gravel on the shoulders could be loose enough to ruin your whole day if you had to suddenly swerve around something wider than a highway-lane rumbling along at less than ten miles per hour.

Today was like most of the delivery trips she made to the Calder ranch with one exception – the single, small box was addressed to the owner’s recently widowed mother.

The familiar, gradual turn straightened and she coasted then turned left onto the private road, stopping a few yards from the gate at a stone pedestal. Leaning out of the open door she lifted a phone handset from a covered intercom box and when a voice came on the line she smiled and waved in the direction of a camera embedded in one of the gate pillars. This one’s for you Mrs. C., she responded into the handset. Before she hung up the phone, the heavy steel-barred gate began rolling away to the side on its track.

Little more than a half mile beyond the gates she turned left onto a gradually sloping concrete driveway that veered off toward the home of Cecil and Margaret Calder. Even before she pulled the truck to a stop at the apex of the large loop in front of the porch she saw the woman waiting at the top of the steps. Hi, Mrs. C., she called out with a bright smile. She shut off the engine and soon stepped out of the truck with the small box and her clipboard. Looks like y’all are the important one today.

At seventy-six, with greenish eyes and long, gray-white hair tied back in her usual thick pony-tail, the diminutive woman known to almost everyone as ‘Mrs. C.’ was a little surprised. She couldn’t recall the last time she was the sole recipient instead of acting as the signatory for the packages that sometimes arrived at the ranch when her son and his wife were away from their nearby home.

Hi Deedee, she said warmly with a ring of true Texas drawl to her voice. "Now, don’t tell me they had y’all drive all the way the hell out here for that little thing?"

Oh no, Ma’am ... I’ve got a few stops out this way, the young woman said as she climbed up the low steps of the expansive covered porch. Fact is, weather like this I don’t mind a bit. Handing over the clipboard and pen she commented on how ruthless Mother Nature had been with the south Texas gulf recently. Maybe we’ll get dried out this week ... coupl’a weeks back we even had trucks stuck in town in water up to the headlights. She looked at the box label and her thin eyebrows knitted in puzzlement. This one’s come a ways.

Margaret Calder examined the printed form on the clipboard more closely. Will you look at that ... Colchester, England?

Where’s that?

The older woman thought for just a moment then signed on the line and shook her head. I don’t know ... but I guess I’m gonna find out, she said pleasantly as she traded the clipboard and pen for the package. Thanks, Deedee, she added with a natural, automatic smile.

The driver turned and trotted down the stairs then as she rounded the corner of the truck she called back with a friendly tease, Must be a secret admirer!

Y’all drive careful now! Margaret admonished loudly as the noisy engine started. Instead of waiting on the porch to exchange another wave as the truck rounded the loop she was already opening her front door.

What on earth? she asked quietly as she swung the door closed then went directly through the living room down a hall past the dining area and into the kitchen. Retrieving a pair of scissors from a drawer, she stood at the rectangular table and began attempting to open the heavily-taped cardboard box. After nearly jabbing herself with the scissors she cursed whoever thought it necessary to over-use seemingly impenetrable tape for such a lightweight package.

More-or-less ripping the top flap of the box open caused a handful of foam packing shells to scatter out onto the table and the floor. Damn these things, she muttered as she dug a few more out of the box and raked them into a pile.

The first thing she found inside was a folded page of typewriter paper embedded in the contents. Scanning it confused her thoroughly. This isn’t right, she told herself then read the odd page in more detail.

What is this ... e-b-a-y? she asked, spelling it aloud then read another part: "Congratulations! You’re the winning bidder."

Bidder?

She suddenly remembered her deceased husband talking about computer auctions but she also recalled he refused to use eBay, preferring to stick with the classified ads in a handful of major newspapers where coin collectors dealt with people they knew and could trust. ‘On that computer thing, you don’t really know who you’re buying from or selling to’, he had warned emphatically.

Somebody’s sure as hell confused, she announced firmly then saw something on the page about categories and noticed the words jewelry and costume, then focused on the paragraph labeled ‘Item description’:

Very unusual large ruby colored stone (paste?) pendant with painted leaf and brass wire twig decorations. I don’t know the age but it has been in my collection for over 10 years.

She looked at the black-and-white image of the item she had allegedly bid on and admitted to herself that she had never seen anything like it. Now very curious, she fished around in the package and found a smaller cardboard box wedged among the packing near the bottom. This one was made of a thinner but more rigid material with a dappled dark-green surface and had a lid held in place by old and fraying silk ribbons tied in a bow.

The thought of opening something that might not belong to her was troubling; the fact that the name of the sender, ‘Camilla Farnsworth’ and the town in England were complete unknowns only added to her apprehension. She finally decided it really couldn’t do any harm to look at it before she went to the trouble of having it sent back to the apparently mistaken or simply careless ‘Camilla’.

After undoing the bow and removing the lid she carefully pushed aside the aging and crisp excelsior packing, revealing a small, dark-gray velvet drawstring bag. She studied it as she pulled it up from the clingy packing and realized whatever was in it was fairly heavy for its size. Now even more intrigued, she untied the strings without bothering to pick off the bits and pieces of wood shavings. After pulling the mouth of the bag open she reached in and fished the irregular item from it.

Somewhat smaller than a hen’s egg, it was unlike anything she had ever seen and she sensed it was quite old. The stone itself was like a giant unevenly-formed reddish-purple blackberry and had not only dark leaf decorations at the top but what looked like tiny, gold-colored curling sprouts attached in places.

Oh, my, she said in an admiring whisper. What do we have here?

She was no expert in jewelry; her small collection of valuable pieces rarely left its rosewood cabinet in her bedroom. Rather than gifts of jewelry over the years, her late husband had been more likely to come up with a rare addition for her Lladro collection or something eminently more practical like a saddle, a firearm or a gift to some charity in her name.

The more she looked at the beautiful object the more she began to worry that it might be something of real value and concluded this had to be some terrible mistake – probably a technologically-based one.

Well, you know Camilla, I don’t know what it’s really worth ... but I guess we’re going to have to find out how to get this back to y’all, she said as she prepared to put it back in its box. Only then did she notice the small envelope on the inside of the lid; reading the name written on it in a compact but elegant cursive hand nearly stopped her heart.

Now trembling with a combination of apprehension and excitement, she sat down and managed to remove and open the envelope without tearing it apart. The simple, handwritten, unsigned note had been folded to fit and she held her breath while she read it:

I wanted you to know that you and Cecil will always be in my heart.

I am deeply saddened and truly sorry this has taken so many years to find you.

Alexsandr, she gasped in a whisper as tears began to well up. "My God ... you’re still alive!"

CHAPTER 1

Leningrad, USSR, Winter, 1942

At the surprisingly advanced age of sixty-three, Sergei Molenkov was among the oldest of the unlucky remaining survivors of blokada Leningrada, the on-going siege of Leningrad. As one of the starving but still somewhat useful workers, he had yet to be scraped together into the almost suicidal defense forces resisting German Feldmarshal von Leeb’s Army Group North in the regions around the city.

During the seemingly endless months of the horrifying siege, hundreds of thousands of Leningrad’s citizens that hadn’t been evacuated died of starvation or succumbed to the cold or disease; tens of thousands were killed in the bombing and shelling; thousands had been executed for crimes such as stealing a ration card or carrying a leaflet the Nazis had dropped from the air suggesting the survivors turn on their Stalinist leaders and surrender.

On a stool hunched over his workbench where he fitted parts into and adjusted trigger assemblies, Molenkov looked up when his eye caught his supervisor walking briskly in his direction through the aisles of similar workers. His stomach knotted when he saw the man was accompanied by a Commissar Officer.

Comrade Molenkov, the supervisor said loudly over the shop noise as the two men approached.

Molenkov set the assembly he had been working on down and wiped his hands on a rag then turned and rose from his stool, steadying himself with a hand on the workbench.

The officious younger man in a surprisingly unspoiled uniform stepped in front of the moribund supervisor and stated flatly, Comrade Sergei Molenkov.

When Molenkov did not respond the man eyed him coolly and didn’t hide the frustration in his voice. "You are Sergei Molenkov, yes?"

The old man nodded then looked with some trepidation to his supervisor, who scowled and said, This is Molenkov.

The officer sighed impatiently then leaned in and ordered, Come with me, Comrade.

Molenkov was now more than just wary and confused; being taken away from work could only mean bad things and he wracked his brain to think of what minor infraction on his part might have been discovered. Did someone turn me in for something? he asked himself as he recalled the myriad of typical secret acts of daily survival, any number of which could have been construed as illegal.

He found it difficult to keep up as he followed the officer through the factory and they finally stopped at the floor manager’s office door where papers were handed to a clerk. As he waited, Molenkov noticed two other men standing near one of the exits and after a few seconds he thought he recognized one of them. No, that is not possible, he told himself then decided not to say anything as the three were led outside into the even more frigid cold toward an awaiting truck.

With some assistance from men already in the cargo bed, they climbed into the rear and found places to sit as the heavy canvas tarp at the back was unrolled from the top and tied down. With their eyes not adjusted to the darkness they waited silently in the cold then heard shouted orders just before the truck’s engine seemed to reluctantly growl to life. Moments later as it started moving Molenkov heard a voice ask, Sergei? Sergei Molenkov?

He turned in the direction of the sound but could only make out a shape. Yes? he answered, trying to be heard above the intermittent noise.

It is Boris! the man said excitedly.

The name registered poorly from a part of Molenkov’s memory that had been created long ago, then the truck came to a rather abrupt stop and he leaned further after improving his grip on the wooden slats of the bench. Boris?

The voice came back with a note of exasperation. Boris Tsokolalev. You do not remember?

Someone seated at the back end of the truck bed managed to manipulate a portion of the canvas flap, letting a beam of grey light in.

Tsokolalev? the man holding the canvas open asked in astonishment. You ... you are Boris Tsokolalev?

Molenkov could finally see the man seated across from him but he could not believe his eyes. Tsokolalev? Boris? His voice fell to a whisper. It cannot be.

Tsokolalev didn’t react – instead he continued trying to see the man at the back, shielding his eyes from the glare. I can’t—

The grizzled man at the tailgate said emphatically, "Vatolkin! Illia Vatolkin! Number twenty-four Bolshaya Morskaya."

In an almost shout Tsokolalev said, Illia! then abruptly turned again to Molenkov and pointed to the other man. You remember Illia?

Molenkov’s memory made the connection and he suddenly realized two men he had not seen in decades were riding with him in a military truck. The fact that their shared fate was unknown seemed to be forgotten and he couldn’t conceal the joyous amazement. Illia! Is that you? This is not possible ... we thought you were dead ... how could this be?

Vatolkin adjusted the canvass again and the light diminished, temporarily leaving them all with even poorer vision. Over the noise and pausing when the truck’s abrupt movements jarred him, he told his story of being arrested in 1918, accused of being involved in Madame Fabergé’s escape to Finland. After being sent to a gulag for three years, he was inexplicably freed and had returned to Leningrad, working mostly at repairing watches and clocks. For the last two years he had been assigned to machining parts for telephones.

Boris? Molenkov asked the man across from him, All this time ... were you in the armory ... there in the same factory with me?

The little man laughed grimly. Two days. No, no, three days my old friend. Until Tuesday I was repairing tin ware then they decide I should put sights on guns.

A man further forward in the truck spoke up. You worked at Fabergé?

Everyone turned in the direction of the voice.

Molenkov said firmly, I did.

In the dark, with the irregular motion of the truck it was difficult to tell if anyone else nodded in agreement or was shaking their head.

Another question came from the same man, What did you do?

I cut gemstones and made carvings, Molenkov replied proudly. And you?

Metal refining.

Another voice spoke up. Enamels.

As I did, another said then added tiredly, My name is Yuri Kozhedub.

After another moment of reflection Molenkov asked in wonder, Yuri? ... Do you remember me?

I, I ... it has been so long, the man replied. I cannot say.

Sergei Molenkov – it’s Sergei, he said enthusiastically.

Vatolkin worked the canvas open again, this time providing enough light to allow them to study the faces around them in more detail. The eleven men in the back of the truck quickly realized age had made the task of recognition extremely difficult if not almost impossible; they had not seen each other for well over twenty years and the horror of what Leningrad had become had turned older men seemingly ancient.

Tsokolalev asked loudly enough to be heard by all of them, The House of Fabergé ... we all worked there ... am I right?

Eleven years, Molenkov said. A journeyman under Perchin.

Each of the men followed suit and took their turn stating the number of years they had worked in what had once been the premiere Fabergé production facility.

The sound of the engine quieted slightly and with an alarming screeching of brakes the truck came to a stuttering stop on the snowy road’s surface. As the canvas was rolled up they heard more voices then saw armed soldiers standing nearby.

"Iz, vyyti iz gruzovika," (out, get out of the truck), they heard as the tailgate swung down. Two of the soldiers assisted some of the less agile to the ground then escorted the odd little assembly of old men through the dry, crunching snow to a Commissar Officer who led them into a driveway between two tall buildings and through two heavy doors into a vestibule.

The sentries inside gestured to the group to move into the large, windowless room where more than fifty elderly men were already seated on wooden benches.

Some began recognizing acquaintances and friends from their distant past and the word spread that all of them had worked either for the House of Fabergé or for a number of its suppliers.

A short, fleshy-faced Commissar Officer, wearing thick glasses stepped into the room with a list in his hand and began scanning the assembled group of what could easily have been declared men too old to be of any viable use.

Molenkov watched and listened as the man called two names at a time then perfunctorily gestured toward the door to an adjoining office. On the other side of the door Commissar Officers could be seen, two standing behind tables covered with several stacks of papers and two sitting behind small desks.

When he heard his name he got up stiffly, walked up the aisle and across the room into the office and stood before one of the desks. In moments he was answering questions about his prior work from an impatient man who didn’t even look at him for more than a few seconds at a time. When the list of questions seemed to be completed, a printed paper and pen were passed across the table from the man standing behind it. Sign here, he heard and looked at the pointed finger on a line. You are to start a new work assignment immediately, Comrade.

Molenkov took the pen and unsteadily signed the document then the bureaucrat unceremoniously stamped it and what looked like a copy.

Give these to the Lieutenant outside, the man said then handed him several papers. You will be taken to your residence to collect your personal items. You will be going away. A uniform will be provided. You can bring only one piece of luggage. Keep that in mind. Through that door Comrade.

Molenkov seemed frozen in time. Yes Comrade, but—?

The Officer cut him off with a bored, dismissive glance and a raised hand. One more thing, Comrade. You are to say nothing about your new work assignment. Is that understood?

When Molenkov didn’t respond immediately the official asked more forcefully, Do you understand, Comrade?

Molenkov hesitated for only a second then nodded and said, Yes, Comrade, I, I ... but where am I going?

The man glared at him impatiently and pointed toward the door. There, you are going through that door, he said icily.

Another man was already waiting to take Molenkov’s place in the office and the room he had come from was still half full; he decided it was best to move and not ask any more questions.

In the hallway beyond the office a Red Army Sergeant with a disfigured face and wearing a shabby uniform looked at him dully as he reached out for the paperwork. After only glancing at it he handed it back, turned and pointed toward a door. That way.

Molenkov walked down the hall and went through the door to the outside where an aging enlisted man of undeterminable rank stood in the cold and pointed him to the opening of a parking garage across a small courtyard. There, the man huffed weakly.

Once inside near a line of several parked cars, Molenkov handed his paperwork to a soldier who struggled to read it, adjusting his glasses with one hand and holding the page up close. Mulnikov? the soldier asked.

Molenkov, he corrected

Irritated at having his failed eyesight pointed out the soldier consulted a map for several moments then gestured toward a driver who rose up from leaning on the fender of one of the cars. Give this to him.

Molenkov took the papers and approached the driver and after taking one page and reading it the woman simply pointed to the rear door then got behind the wheel and started the car. The two men already seated inside were strangers and although he was now almost certain they had also been workers at Fabergé, they rode without speaking and were dropped off at their respective kommunalkas, the shared residences most Soviet citizens were forced to live in.

Having gathered what little there was of his possessions from his space in the dingy room, he rudely ignored the prying questions of a busybody woman tenant, then waited at the front door of his building with his suitcase at his feet, opening the door nervously several times in anticipation and with no small amount of trepidation. Fortunately, none of the other residents of the building came or left; he had no need to fabricate some kind of story for them and he hurried outside when he heard the car approach and come to a stop.

The three men rode in silence through the almost deserted streets to the Dvortsovaya Naberezhnaya, the Palace Quay, along the Neva River where the vast complex that was the Hermitage had been established.

The eastern wing of the Zdanie Glavnovo Shtaba, the General Staff Building, had once housed the Foreign and Finance Ministries until those functions had been moved to Moscow; to the men’s shared and growing astonishment, the car pulled to a stop near a portico and the driver ordered them out.

When they got out of the car a man checked their papers then directed them through a door to an anteroom where a bulky, stern-faced woman in a housekeeper’s uniform instructed them to clean the snow and dirt off their boots with brooms that were passed from one to another. Once satisfied with the results, she led them along a broad corridor to a set of stairs and down into a large, windowless room nearly filled with rows of tables and benches.

Molenkov immediately realized the room was not just out of the reach of the frigid Russian winter elements – it was actually heated and the men already there were no longer wearing their collection of rags or tattered outer clothes. He loosened the thread-bare towel that had served as his scarf and opened his coat, relishing the warmth as he looked around. Tsokolalev? he asked aloud amidst the quiet conversations.

Over here, a voice came to him.

Molenkov worked his way over then slid his suitcase under the bench and sat above it. Two of the other men from their original truck journey soon joined them and they began looking around trying to identify any more familiar faces. Conversations in the room were subdued but in some places became almost affable; several more reunions took place as additional men were delivered to the Hermitage.

When the room was nearly full, Molenkov thought he smelled something other than what one would expect in a room with more than fifty men who had rarely worn clean clothes or bathed. What is that smell? he asked under his breath.

I have long ago given up trying to identify such things, someone answered.

The man across the table from him said ruefully, Leningrad has a way of destroying the senses.

Bread? someone whispered.

Not just bread, said another.

A man behind Molenkov turned and said as if he could not believe his own nose, I smell cabbage!

Someone grumbled, Bah ... what you smell is you!

No, no ... turnip ... those are turnip greens, someone else claimed.

The double doors at the end of the room swung open and three servers rolled in a cart of tin plates, bowls and cups that were quickly passed down the rows. Next were pots of hot tea, carried down the aisles and placed among the groups of men who quickly started pouring and drinking.

Two more carts, piled with small loaves of real bread and carrying two huge metal cook pots with aromatic steam rising from them were pushed into the room. Servers began by passing out the loaves then worked their way down the aisles ladling soup into bowls held up by eager, sometimes shaking hands.

Other than the repeated sounds of thanks and awe at what was being given them, talking quickly came to an end. Soon the only sounds in the room were made by hungry men using metal utensils to eat quickly but it wasn’t long before low conversations resumed.

A man not far from Molenkov held up a small piece of what was probably sausage. Where did this come from? he asked before putting it in his mouth and slowly and methodically savoring it.

I don’t believe I want to know, another said under his breath.

The man who asked the question said, I have not even seen a living animal in months.

Molenkov finished chewing a chunk of bread he had dipped in the salty broth. This is not ration bread, he said.

You are right ... there is no sawdust in it, someone whispered.

"Rye ... it is rye," another said.

I had forgotten what real bread tastes like, Molenkov admitted to himself then added in an almost whisper, It seems to me ... I do not think we can do what they want with unsteady hands.

That assessment was gradually met with nods of agreement from the men around him; almost all of them had been weakened if not debilitated by malnourishment. It dawned on Molenkov that any of those who had been rejected were probably beyond any hope of recovery. We are surviving – they will not, he thought.

While they were eating, a well-dressed civilian took a position at the doorway. Comrades – I am Ivan Yeremenko, he said loudly. As the majority of the men raised their heads and turned, he went on. Finish your meal while I deliver my message to you.

There were a number of men in the room who had heard of Yeremenko and the fact that a man of his position was addressing them was yet another surprise in this day of surprises.

Comrades ... you have been chosen to work for the State Diamond Fund. I am its Director. The orders for your work come from the Kremlin ... from Comrade Stalin himself. I have come from Moscow to see for myself what is being done.

He definitely had their attention. To them, this was a man who probably spoke with Stalin frequently, perhaps even dined with him at one of his dachas from time to time. But while the men might have craned their necks or raised their heads to get a look at him more than once, they quickly returned their focus to their bowls. It wasn’t lost on most of them that while Yeremenko lived and dined among their glorious leaders in Moscow, the bread and bowl of actual soup was the most they had eaten in a very long time and at this man’s whim, could very well be their last.

Yeremenko introduced the tall, slender man next to him. This is Comrade Merkulov. He is in charge of this facility. You will be meeting your supervisors shortly. Those supervisors report only to him. They will introduce you to your work assignments. Let me make one thing very clear before I leave – your best work is required. And, at your most rapid pace. If you cannot perform your tasks you will be returned to your previous assignments. As if wanting to make sure the men understood that threat, Yeremenko paused long enough to scan the room, looking at the men for even a hint of confusion. As you will soon discover, Comrade Murkulov is an expert ... and a demanding one. He will accept only your finest work. Only the finest work will keep you here.

At that Molenkov and Tsokolalev shared a knowing glance across the table. Both realized the outlook for those who slacked off or did shoddy work was the eventual death sentence Leningrad had become.

Sounding much like a military officer, Merkulov then proceeded to outline their lives for the still-undeterminable future. They were to be housed in a barracks section near the dining hall they were now in. They would be provided with three sets of work clothes that must be kept clean. There was a facility for them to do their own laundry and failure to use it could mean an end to their assignment. Cleanliness, something that had been so recently foreign to them, was now of paramount concern.

They were not allowed to send letters or communicate with persons on the outside. They would eat in the dining hall in the morning at 0600 before reporting to their work and once again their meal would be served there in the evening at 1900. Their midday bread ration and tea would be brought to them near their work areas at noon each day.

Merkulov finished by announcing, You may have questions but those will be addressed by your supervisors. When you are finished with your meal they will come to direct you to your quarters.

As Molenkov watched the haggard faces around him during the short speech he saw most of the men appeared almost numb – seemingly unable to believe in or understand their good fortune. A few were doing their best to conceal their distrust and cynicism but there were some who seemed eager to begin working.

Hushed discussions sprung up after Yeremenko and Murkulov left the room then the doors opened again and the servers brought out bottles of vodka. As they were being distributed and cups eagerly filled, a group of four civilian managers came into the dining hall.

Comrades! Pay attention, one of them ordered loudly. When you hear your name, bring your belongings and join the man who announced it.

As the names were read off each of the men noted who their supervisor was then quickly finished their vodka and rose. With full stomachs for the first time in many, many months, they gathered what possessions they had then joined one of the four clusters of men. As a group was complete, the supervisor led them out.

In the barracks he was quickly assigned an empty bunk that had a thin mattress rolled up at the head with a small pillow and a single blanket on top of it; the idea that one thin blanket would be sufficient was another introduction to the fact that the space was warm.

Clean work clothes, even stockings and underwear had been folded and stacked on a large table at one end of the room along with a collection of used but serviceable work shoes on the floor.

For the first time he realized there were already men living there; a few of the bunks near the entrance were made up and had clothes hanging on hooks by them.

They thought of everything, a man noted aloud when holding up the pants and shirts. No pockets ... no cuffs.

Unpack. Then you will clean up, the supervisor ordered. Take one set of your work clothes with you. You are to shower and discard what you are wearing in the bin near the lavatory door. You will shave and dress ... you will learn of your work assignments soon.

The supervisor left the long room and the men began following their orders, avoiding any communication other than to exchange glances and shrugs.

Molenkov looked at what he was wearing and quickly decided there was little or nothing he had on that could be salvaged other than a belt; months at a machine parts work bench had permanently rendered his clothing dark with grimy stains. The pores and creases in the thin skin of his aging hands still had residues of dark machine-oil and his cuticles were almost permanently blackened; his old sweat-stained cap had formed a crease in what was left of his thinning, almost white hair.

Crossing the hall to the lavatory, Molenkov placed the new clothing he had chosen in a space on a shelf then got undressed and discarded everything into the rapidly-filling bin of rags that had served so many men as clothes for far too long. To his astonishment the shower room had hot, not just warm water and there were bars of crude soap scattered around. Like all of the men, he lingered, marveling at the experience of hot water and getting really clean for the first time in months.

Razors were on a shelf and after showering they followed the instructions to shave, standing before small mirrors mounted above a long, trough-like sink running along one wall.

This must have been senior enlisted men’s quarters, the man next to Molenkov said quietly.

Molenkov looked around briefly as if someone might overhear than asked quietly, You were in the army?

The man shook his head. Until this morning I was a pipe fitter. I have repaired fixtures in them before.

I have not shaved in ... I cannot say I know now how long, another man said then set the razor down, rinsed the shaving soap from his face and examined the stranger before him in the mirror.

Molenkov, too, could barely recognize himself without the unevenly-shaded gray and white beard he had worn for so long. His sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes along with the blotches that had appeared on his skin made it seem as if he was looking at his dead father in the mirror.

Orders called out by the supervisor got them moving into the dressing area and some trades were quickly arranged among them to improve the fit of the work uniforms and footwear. They soon returned to the barracks where the supervisor eyed them carefully and a few instructions were given to get rid of old caps then the group filed out into the hallway.

Molenkov was not the only one who noticed the armed soldiers at the double-door they were led to and while there were uneasy glances exchanged no one spoke as the guards recognized the supervisor and stepped aside. Beyond was yet another long corridor they filed into then the guards closed the doors.

Molenkov whispered to the nearest man, We are prisoners, and received a hint of a nod in response.

As the supervisor led them further along they could see workshops on each side – rooms that had a definite familiarity. The tools and machinery of fine jewelry making were arrayed in them and a handful of men were already at work.

You can see we are just getting underway, Comrades. We have little or no time for practice.

One of the men from behind Molenkov spoke up. How long will there be work for us, Comrade?

The supervisor was devoid of emotion as he responded. Until Comrade Yeremenko says there is no more to be done.

- # -

Merkulov approached the only man seated at the cluster of workbenches in the otherwise vacant workshops. You have done well, Comrade.

Thank you, Molenkov said gratefully, knowing the only reason he was the last artisan still working in the shops was because of a skill only he had been gifted with. That gift had meant he was tasked with some of the most difficult and important work and he had not rushed.

Without saying a word Merkulov reached out his hand.

Molenkov handed him a fine cotton cloth then deposited the piece he was working on in the center of it. The manager used his magnifying glass to examine the work for nearly a minute. Yes, yes, he said appreciatively. It appears you are nearly finished?

Tomorrow ... maybe the next day you can exchange them back and forth without knowing.

To the eye, of course, the manager said.

Molenkov nodded. With a stone of that color and size it is impossible to truly duplicate ... replicate, yes. But only the most sophisticated of tests could possibly discern a difference between the two as to age.

The enamel? Merkulov asked.

That, yes ... we cannot match it precisely ... and the gold ... there are impurities in the original as well but as long as no destructive test is performed I believe it will be indistinguishable.

Tomorrow, you said?

Molenkov nodded. I believe so. I need just one more comparison to the original, Comrade.

We will arrange it, Sergei. In the morning ... you get some rest now.

Molenkov removed his eyepiece and rubbed his eyes, surprised at the manager’s use of his first name. He had been working alone without taking the kinds of small breaks one naturally did when working among others and found his back and shoulder’s had stiffened. He stretched, flexed his hands and stepped off the stool then walked slowly out of the workshop and down the hall toward the empty barracks.

Murkulov placed the piece back on the pad then turned and walked out of the area to his office. He picked up the phone on his desk, ordered a connection made to Yeremenko and after less than a minute of waiting for the Director to be located he said, Comrade Yeremenko, as of noon tomorrow the order will be filled.

- # -

At noon the following day the manager handed Molenkov’s completed piece to another man who examined it briefly then passed it to another inspector who placed it beside the original. After a thorough comparison with a powerful magnifying glass the man glanced at his compatriots and said flatly, Done.

Merkulov nodded to the two men and they turned and walked away with the items in their possession.

Without looking his supervisor in the eye, Molenkov asked, Comrade, may I speak freely?

Almost casually the man asked, What is on your mind?

Molenkov struggled with the words. I ... I ... what ... what will I do now? I cannot go back to making parts ... making parts for guns ... is there no work I can do here?

Merkulov was forthright in following his orders. We all have our assignments, Comrade. It is not for me to change the orders of the Kremlin.

Again at a loss for words, the old man’s mind struggled with the thought of leaving the relatively luxurious conditions he had been living in. But that wasn’t the only force dragging on him; an indefinable sense of dread was now mixed with a feeling that by making counterfeits of historical treasures he was somehow betraying the Motherland.

The unasked questions were haunting him almost as much as the fear of what would happen if he were to know the answers.

The supervisor shook his head. You and the men who completed their assignments have been provided for. You will not have to fight the Nazis, Comrade, he offered reassuringly then lowered his voice and his tone became almost fatherly. Now, go. Pack your things then come to my office. You will collect your pay and there will be transportation.

Molenkov finally accepted the fact that there was no more to be done. As he walked for the last time back to the empty barracks he began to feel his future was more than just unsettled; they had been so sequestered that he knew nothing of what Leningrad was now like nor the status of the war.

Putting his new clothing in the old suitcase didn’t assuage the sense of worry but as he walked to the manager’s office he gradually resigned himself to having no choice but to go back and find out what work he would be put to. Almost reluctantly, he stood at the door of the office and finally knocked.

Enter, he heard and opened the door into the supervisor’s office.

Guard this carefully, Comrade, Merkulov said as he turned and lifted a burlap sack then passed it to Molenkov. You will find several days worth of rations in it, including a sausage ... I should warn you, men have been killed for much less.

Molenkov’s surprise was obvious. Thank you, Comrade, he said gratefully as memories of what life had been like raced through his mind. He was about to offer his hand to the man he had worked for over the months but thought better of that kind of personal gesture. Instead he simply said, Thank you, again with all the warmth his fears would allow him to generate.

Good bye, Comrade, Merkulov said evenly.

Molenkov turned and walked out of the office and closed the door for the last time. With his pay envelope in his coat, the heavy sack over his shoulder and his suitcase in his hand he followed two enlisted men down a series of corridors to an exit door that opened onto a driveway. They pointed him into the back of a small truck with a covered bed and he set his things over the tailgate then managed to climb in without assistance; months of decent rations had taken years off his apparent age.

He leaned up against the side and was rocked back and forth as the truck navigated a series of long, narrow drives then finally stopped. He could hear the driver say something, then the truck lurched forward again and in the receding view out the back he saw guards lower the cross-bar back into place. When the truck came to another halt at what he estimated was almost a half-kilometer further he heard the driver call out to him. This is as far as we take you, Comrade – your transport is out on the street.

Struggling somewhat with his suitcase and the sack, he managed to get out and walk forward. As he passed the cab with his exhaled breath spinning off into the air he said, Thank you, Comrades.

When he realized the heavy wooden doors of the exit were still closed he turned back toward the truck but the driver waved him on.

Pound on it. They will open it, he heard the man shout.

As Molenkov trudged some thirty meters forward some of the details of the wooden doors became more visible. There were no hinges; the marks and stains were very strange. Now even more bewildered, he asked aloud quietly, Bullet holes? Had there been fighting this close to the palace?

Just as he was going to set his case down to pound on the huge door he realized something else was wrong. What had first appeared to be a set of heavy gate doors was actually a thick wooden wall mounted against the stone; his stomach turned when an unwanted thought surfaced: Those stains – they look like dried blood.

The primitive part of the man’s mind was awakening, telling him to flee but his body remained paralyzed by rational thought. They would not do this! There is no reason for this! All-too-soon it began to make sense; none of the men doing this work could have been left alive to reveal what they had done.

In despair rather than adrenaline-driven panic he slowly turned around to look back. By the time he was facing the truck the suitcase and sack had been dropped to the ground and he saw the driver and passenger already stationed outside the vehicle with their rifles raised.

Fools ... just old fools— were his last, whispered words.

The darkness came instantly and Sergei Molenkov didn’t see the soldiers approach, collect the same well-used pay envelope and sack of food that had been carried there so many times before.

CHAPTER 2

The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, Texas, Wednesday, May 21, 1997

Fortunately for everyone attending the gala on this evening, the deluge that had battered and soaked the gulf region of Texas earlier in the day had finally abated, somehow leaving behind even more humidity than normal but also unseasonably cooler temperatures. Consequently, the benefactors of Houston’s Museum of Fine Arts and their friends and invited guests didn’t need to worry about being dampened or breaking a sweat between the valet parking line and the climate-controlled indoor environs; even those who self-parked nearby risked little chance of being visibly uncomfortable in formal wear.

The invitation-only preview of the Russian Jewels of the Romanovs touring exhibit drew in the art-loving crowd that had either made substantial donations to the institution over the years or were guests of those who had. In addition to the chance to ogle the collection of priceless treasures prior to the public opening, some considered it a social obligation to be there; some viewed it as an opportunity to see and be seen. Then there were those drawn by the curiosity of having honest-to-God formerly communist Russians in town, including a senior bureaucrat of indecipherable political position but seemingly significant stature in the world of art history.

Even with the atypical late-spring cool, a casual visitor would still have been able to tell this was Texas; there are few other states where evening wear routinely includes exotic-skin cowboy boots and margaritas outnumber martinis four-to-one.

The floating sounds of a Paraguayan harpist and a guitarist were seemingly incongruous against the historical Russian theme of the exhibit; the more popular southern flavor presented by the performers had been selected rather than typical attempts at reproducing the less-than recognizable Eastern-European sounds of the prior century; the organizers were not trying to replicate an era – it was a fund-raising party, after all.

Michael Kirkland had come to Houston expecting—among other things—to at least get a first-hand sample of the seemingly unique Texas cuisine, but standing before one of the many serving tables distributed around the huge museum he actually felt slightly disappointed. The quite spectacular offerings prepared by some of the area’s stellar chefs included almost everything but what he was looking for.

My first trip to Houston and I find I’m at a loss, he mused toward one of the uniformed serving staff, deliberately loud enough to get a tall, auburn-haired and elegantly-dressed woman nearby to turn her head slightly. But this is excellent, he suggested pleasantly to the grinning young man on the other side of the serving table.

Elanore Calder balanced a fork on her tiny plate then turned fully to see who it was with the sort-of-British accent. When she did see the man’s face she was a little taken aback. Damn, she said to herself as she smiled automatically then assumed her preferred role as hostess. She stepped slightly closer and extended her hand to the stranger and in a subdued Texas drawl she introduced herself. Well, hello ... Elanore Calder ... welcome ... we are so pleased to see a new face here.

The tall, expensively-dressed man with the almost-chiseled features and short, dark hair took her hand gently but firmly. Michael Kirkland, at your service, he said fluidly with the barest hint of a bow, trying not to overtly study her.

Oh, my, she said with a slight chuckle then charmingly added, You really aren’t from ‘round here are you?

The now less-subtle twang of the woman’s voice gave him a chance to try a poorly-rehearsed cowboy imitation. No, Ma’am, but I arrived as rapidly as possible, he said then quickly asked in his normal, slightly formal diction, Was that the proper form?

Sociable to a fault, Elanore Calder leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, "I really shouldn’t give away state secrets, but it’s, ‘I got here quick as I could ’."

Kirkland repeated it back to her twice, sounding more like a bad version of John Wayne than a native.

She laughed again. You’re a quick study ... but, Mr. Kirkland—

He raised a hand slightly and sounded as if he were pleading. Please ... please, just Michael.

It dawned on her that the nails on the fingers of the large, powerful-looking hands appeared to be manicured and she managed to hide a bit of disappointment. Oh, dear ... so good looking, so polite ... he’s probably gay. Michael – well, that works for me. So, Michael, whereabouts are you from? she asked then took a sip of champagne, noting also there was no ring on the left hand holding his drink.

I’m based in New York ... I’m here doing research.

Research? she asked with a note of surprise. You don’t look much like a researcher, Michael, she tested coyly. Somehow I can’t see you in a lab coat unless you wore it on TV.

He grimaced only slightly. "I should say I’m an appraiser doing research ... and I don’t even own a laboratory smock," he advised.

She avoided snickering at his pronunciation of ‘laboratry’ then asked almost dubiously, An appraiser?

Glancing around he said, I study the values of precious things, then he gestured toward a group of people surrounding a brilliantly-lighted cabinet with a fabulous piece of jewelry displayed in it. That ... that brooch they are studying, for example ... that’s a two hundred carat sapphire. There are fifty-six carats of diamonds around it ... it’s antique to say the least. He turned again and after a quick survey of the not-so-subtle diamond earrings dangling below the woman’s ears he smiled and gazed at her intently. What would you suppose it might be worth?

She blinked a couple of times then gazed at the display and took another sip of champagne before responding honestly and emphatically, I have no clue.

He tilted his head down slightly, raised his eyebrows and pointed at her. "You are not only honest ... you’re not alone."

So you’re in the jewelry business?

Kirkland shook his head then took a sip from his drink. No ... not really, no, most of my clients are involved some way or another with the insurance business, he answered with deliberately incomplete honesty.

Elanore thought about that for a moment and noting the onyx-inlaid gold stud set he was wearing she came to a conclusion that while he was terribly attractive and obviously well off, his line of work must also be terribly dull. Umm, she said while nodding then asked, If I get too nosey, you just please tell me—

Oh, no, no ... not at all—

Whereabouts in New York?

Long Island – Cove Neck. When he saw it didn’t seem familiar to her he added, About forty-five clicks east-north-east of Manhattan.

Clicks? She thought and paused only for a second before asking, You’re a pilot?

He looked quite surprised as he asked, And you?

Single engine, instrument rated, she said proudly.

Instead of appearing astonished he made a point of noticing the rings on her left hand. Is the lucky man a pilot as well?

The compliment wasn’t enough to make her blush but she rolled her eyes slightly. I only share Al with a bunch of pilots and old airplanes ... come with me, Michael, she said as she took his arm and began guiding him in the direction of a group that included her husband. You have to meet Al ... we have to get you properly indoctrinated. Through the sleeve of the tailored tuxedo jacket she noticed his arm felt as unyielding as the neck of a horse. And he works out, too, she added to her assessment of the new stranger in town.

Moments later her husband saw them approaching and recognized the slight tip of his wife’s head that called him to break away from whatever it was he was engaged in. With a well-practiced look and a quick excuse me he moved away.

Al, Elanore said, "you have to meet Michael – he’s just gotten into town and before any of these cougars get to him I have managed to pry out of him that he’s an insurance appraiser and ... better yet, he’s also a pilot."

That’s a good sign ... Alex Calder, the fiftyish-looking man said warmly, extending his hand. Welcome to Houston.

As they shook hands Kirkland realized the man wasn’t what he had expected for a chief executive of a giant technology company and museum trustee. A quick study first convinced him Calder had spent a lot of time outdoors – the tanned, somewhat rugged complexion made him look older than he probably was. The receding, thinning, salt-and-pepper hair swept straight back didn’t exactly subtract any years from the image, but the firm grip and the lack of a gut behind the cummerbund told him Calder was more interested in being fit than trying to appear younger. Michael Kirkland, he said pleasantly.

Well, I see you’ve fallen under the spell of Houston’s most determined hostesses, Alex offered warmly with a slight tip of his head toward his wife, then added conspiratorially, I should warn you she has a reputation for introducing couples.

Kirkland looked as if he had been duly alerted but said, Well ... maybe it’s time to—

With widened eyes and a slight wave Alex cut him off. Let every eye negotiate for itself ... and trust no agent; for beauty is a witch against whose charms faith melteth in blood.

Kirkland couldn’t help chuckling at the quote he struggled to recognize – but especially at the change in the man’s accent which had switched from obvious Texan to stage-worthy Shakespearean English. I’ll try to be less gullible than poor ... poor ... he said then shook his head and snapped his fingers. Ah ... what’s his name—?

Claudio, Alex interjected.

Kirkland nodded then made a toasting motion toward Elanore. I’ll take your word for it ... despite that, being the newcomer, I believe I should place myself at your mercy, Mrs. Calder.

She gave her husband a fleeting, almost petulant smirk then said graciously, Well, I’m off to do what I do while you boys do whatever it is you do when I’m away doing what I do ... it was nice to meet you Michael.

The pleasure was mine, Kirkland replied genuinely.

A moment after she swept away her husband mused, A woman on a mission.

What mission is that?

You married?

Oh no, no, no.

Ah – well then, I’d say sometime in the next half-hour or so you’re going to be introduced to one Catherine Cruz.

Kirkland smiled in anticipation. I suppose I should be looking forward to it.

I’ll let you be the judge of that ... let’s get a drink.

- # -

Elanore Crawford found her way to the side of her former sister-in-law and asked very quietly without turning, Did you see him?

Accustomed to that kind of question from her best friend and confidant, the younger woman swept her eyes back and forth. Him? Who? she asked then casually turned and glanced around, trying to not be obviously on the lookout for what must have been someone impressive enough to garner Elanore Calder’s attention; the bar her friend set was high. Lesser mortals need not apply she reminded herself.

Elanore scoffed – but subtly. "Your radar must be down ... come on ... tell me you really haven’t seen him."

The somewhat shorter woman with almost black hair and large, dark-brown eyes finally looked at her former sister-in-law with a ‘no more bullshit’ expression. Okay, El. Straight up. Where is he?

There was a quickly-issued whisper in response. Don’t turn around – he’s looking this way ... he’s behind you over by the icons, talking to Al and the Engles and what’s his name ... the pizza guy.

Pizza guy?

What’s his name ... the one with the ads—

Oh, I know who you mean—

Hell, I should know this, Elanore said, chastising herself then remembering what she had approached Catherine about. Oh, but, he’s over there by—

I’m supposed to have seen this guy but I can’t turn around to see him?

Give it a bit, Elanore said instructively. I’m gonna go talk with Al.

And just leave me to keep looking around like an idiot?

Not for long, Elanore advised then set her drink flute down on a tray that was passing by. She smiled and waved faintly to another couple she knew then turned back to her friend and quietly fired off a rapid but detailed assessment: Black tux, expensive tailoring ... six two and without boots ... dark hair a little on the short side, he knows how to shave ... blue-grayish eyes ... ah, he’s from Long Island, no wedding ring, about five thousand bucks worth of studs, has manicured nails and arms like iron. He’s also a pilot.

After several casual glances at the men in the immediate area Catherine was still at a loss. Who is he?

He says he’s an appraiser.

Not what he is ... who he is.

Michael Kirkland.

Catherine turned as casually as she could and froze when she spotted the man her friend had described.

Elanore saw the look. Honey, he’s pretty, but—

"Damn, Catherine interrupted admiringly then turned back to her friend before he might catch her looking. But what?

His line of work sounds really dull.

- # -

With guests drifting around and enjoying – or in some cases tolerating – the event to one degree or another, Catherine Cruz was in her element, fulfilling not