Бесплатный фрагмент - The visualizer’s terrifying dreams

Synopsis of the Novel The Visualizer’s Terrifying Dreams

It’s better to mistake a scoundrel for a saint a thousand times than once take a saint for a scoundrel.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

The Visualizer’s Terrifying Dreams is the sequel to Nikita T.‘s cult novel The Visualizer, or The Man Who Alters Reality.

In this new book, readers will meet familiar heroes who must face new trials and confront the problems society poses, this time, while living abroad.

Whereas the first novel’s events essentially took place in Russia, this second installment unfolds mainly in the United States, where the protagonists escape after being confined in the psychiatric clinic of I. M. Rabinovich.

Once again, they find themselves battling the forces of evil, but now those forces take a different form. No longer deranged psychiatrists, their adversaries are powerful oligarchs representing a Masonic order. These men belong to a secret society disguised as an exclusive golf club, whose members include some of America’s wealthiest Jewish financiers and bankers, pillars of the U.S. financial elite, as well as corrupt government officials.

Obsessed with preserving their fading prosperity, they scheme to shrink the world’s population, blind to the truth that happiness cannot coexist with endless wars and global epidemics. They continue their revelry as if still young, unaware that the age of the “golden billion,” the era of mass consumption, is dying, and the collapse of their imperfect society draws near.

To stop the criminal designs of this secret cabal of financial magnates and multinational executives, the novel’s heroes create a global platform to publish exposes of their activities. They stand for free speech in the West, especially in America, and for the truth that powerful interests strive to conceal.

The Visualizer cycle is planned to continue with another book, tentatively titled The Return of the Visualizer, in which the protagonists leave the U.S. and return to Russia to confront the unresolved conflicts of their youth.

Amid today’s worldwide hysteria of war, these novels carry an openly antiwar message.

The first book, The Visualizer, or The Man Who Alters Reality, dealt with the dangers surrounding the creation and use of psychotronic weapons. I sought to portray the perils our generation will face if such weapons ever come to exist.

The sequel, The Visualizer’s Terrifying Dreams, explores a different but equally dire threat: a global epidemic unleashed through the reckless actions of conspirators and their accomplices, corrupt officials in the U.S. government. These forces lobby for the establishment of secret biolabs and CIA prisons across Eastern Europe, laying the groundwork for bioterrorism.

Mythological imagery runs through the story: the Masonic order is likened to the Lernaean Hydra, nearly impossible to slay, for one of its heads, corruption, is immortal.

Some events described here have roots in reality. Though the novel contains many fictional characters, specific episodes are drawn from life. The story is plausible enough to merit serious attention.

The action takes place in our own time. The central figures of The Visualizer and The Visualizer’s Terrifying Dreams are patients of I. M. Rabinovich’s psychiatric clinic, which has escaped to America and now strives to save the world from new perils, including the threat of biological contagion.

Since the events occur in the present day, many characters have recognizable prototypes, and the plot intersects with real contemporary events. In some sense, the book mirrors reality, but it remains a work of fiction, a fantasy thriller with echoes of truth.

Please don’t go hunting for real identities or launch journalistic investigations. These people do not exist; any resemblance is coincidental, born of the author’s imagination.

I hope you enjoy the novel and join its heroes in defending the universal values of freedom, peace, and human prosperity.

Prologue

No happiness equals tranquility.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

Didi Sanders was a pilot for the private airline Bermuda International.

Once, he had dreamed of flying high-speed transatlantic jets, but minor health issues had kept him from passing the rigorous medical exam. So instead of commanding a massive Boeing 777X or an Airbus A380, he piloted a small single-engine Beechcraft Bonanza.

He was both pilot and part-owner of the sturdy little aircraft, holding a fifty-percent share alongside the company. This arrangement let him fly regular routes to Miami under the airline’s banner and take on private jobs when official business was slow.

His clients were usually small-business owners or traders smuggling goods from the Bermudas into the United States. Occasionally, darker figures sought his services, people moving drugs, weapons, or other contraband. Didi disliked such dealings and accepted them rarely, only when the money was too good to refuse. Mostly, he handled legitimate charters and business-class passengers.

That mix kept him afloat even in hard times. The steady airline work brought a dependable income; the occasional side job filled the gaps and paid his assistant’s wages.

He’d managed to save a modest sum and hoped one day to buy out the airline’s share of the plane, to be independent, his own man at last.

Today, there were no passengers. Out of habit more than need, Didi walked down to his beloved bird. The dispatcher had issued a storm warning, and in such weather, Bermuda International’s planes stayed grounded, guarded at the edge of the airfield by a private security firm.

A northwesterly wind drove dark, heavy clouds westward, ominous messengers of an approaching storm. It was hurricane season, when pilots preferred to sit tight. Most could be found at the small tavern on the outskirts of town known simply as The Pilots’ Bar, where only flyers ever drank.

But Didi needed money, so he didn’t linger there, though he liked a glass of whiskey or a glass of grappa on weekends.

Despite the forecast, his plane was always flight-ready, fuel tanks full. Didi prized order; he cared for his aircraft like a living creature, personally checking every detail. Maintenance was handled by his old friend Rodriguez, a man he trusted completely.

They had met by chance years earlier in that same bar. Rodriguez had once been a pilot himself until some minor infraction cost him his job. Desperate for work, he’d offered to maintain aircraft for a modest wage. Didi had invited him over, shared a bottle, and sealed the arrangement with a firm handshake.

They’d been close ever since, understanding each other without words. Didi valued not only Rodriguez’s skill but his loyalty, showing up even when pay was delayed. Delays were rare; Didi prided himself on honesty and prompt wages.

A sudden ringtone broke his reverie. Glancing at the cheap Chinese smartphone he’d bought in a back-alley shop, he saw the caller: his niece Jenny. She worked security at the local airport and often sent clients his way.

He was fond of Jenny, clever, quick, and reliable. Airport management knew what went on but turned a blind eye; they respected both her and her uncle.

“What is it, Jenny?” Didi asked. “Don’t tell me fools are willing to fly in this weather.”

“You guessed it,” she said. “Two rich gringos just came in; they need to get to Havana.”

“They’ve got cash, I hope? You know me, Jenny, I’ll risk my neck only if I’m well paid.”

“Look at those clouds rolling northwest, you’ll have a downpour any minute,” he said, half to himself. Flying to Cuba this time of year was risky and lengthy.

Then Jenny named the fee they were offering. Didi let out a low whistle. It was a generous sum, and he needed it. Just last week, the company owner had offered to sell him his share of the plane at favorable terms. This flight could cover part of the cost.

“All right, send them over,” Didi said after a pause. “But make sure their papers check out. I don’t need trouble.”

“Relax,” Jenny replied. “I already checked. U.S. passports, everything looks fine, though they don’t seem American to me. Too pale. Probably Europeans. The documents could be fakes, but they’re good ones.”

Jenny distrusted gringos, especially from the EU. Sometimes they turned out to be undercover agents, and that could bring the wrong kind of attention from Interpol.

Still, the money outweighed the risk, and she decided to send them to her uncle. She’d get a cut, and the promised commission was worth it.

Didi lit a Havana cigar and waited. He wanted to speak with the passengers before takeoff; he trusted his instincts about people. If someone gave him a bad feeling, he wouldn’t fly. His intuition had never failed him.

“Rodriguez, give the plane a full check,” he called out. “We’ve got an emergency charter. Make sure she’s in perfect shape. You see those clouds? I don’t want any surprises once we’re airborne.”

“Remember last year’s hurricane,” he added grimly, “the one that killed those techs and pilots from our company.”

“Don’t worry, boss,” Rodriguez said, beginning his usual preflight routine, practiced over many long years.

Soon, two men appeared in the distance, striding briskly across the tarmac. Pale-skinned, clearly foreign. One wore a white linen suit, the kind popular in Africa, in places like South Africa or the Central African Republic. Beneath it, a blue flannel shirt and a dark-maroon tie. A metal briefcase was handcuffed to his wrist, and a gold Rolex gleamed on the other. Real or not, it was worth a fortune.

His companion was dressed more casually: a bright shirt, shorts, and a U.S. Marine-style backpack slung over one shoulder. A digital gadget clasped his left wrist.

Didi instantly pegged which of them was in charge, the younger man, the modestly dressed one. His keen eyes spoke of unusual intelligence. Men with such eyes, Didi knew, became either great leaders or dangerous criminals. He was rarely wrong.

Overall, the pair seemed harmless enough, no hint of CIA or police. Still, he wanted a word to confirm their intentions and their ability to pay.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “before we take off, I need a few details. My niece tells me you’re bound for the Island of Freedom. I trust you’re ready to cover the cost of such a trip?”

“Of course,” said the younger man. He calmly pulled a bundle of dollars from his backpack, counted out half, and handed it to Didi. “You’ll get the rest when we’re safely in Havana.” His gaze was level, assessing the pilot’s competence.

“We’d like to ride your bird as soon as possible,” his companion added with a grin, lifting the briefcase chained to his wrist. “We’ve got a delivery to make in Havana.”

“Then you should’ve booked a Boeing,” Didi replied. “My plane tops out around three-seventy kilometers an hour. Havana is five and a half hours away. A jet could do it in two and a half.” He never lied to clients, though honesty often cost him.

“Yes, we know,” the man said with a sigh. “But no airliners are flying in this weather. The lady at reception told us you might be willing, for the right price.”

“You’re our only chance,” he added with a friendly smile.

Jenny hadn’t let him down. She had a gift for sending him the right sort of passengers, the kind who paid well and caused no trouble. Of course, she took her share, but who in this world doesn’t need money? Didi certainly did.

“All right, gentlemen,” he said finally. “Let’s hope we can slip past that thunderhead and reach the Island of Freedom safe and sound.” He pointed toward the gathering storm. “Climb aboard.”

The decision was made. Despite the weather, they would fly to Cuba.

He glanced at the sky, midday sun breaking through the clouds, glinting off cockpit glass and polished fuselage. Nothing yet hinted at danger. Rodriguez was finishing the checks. Time to move before the storm closed in.

Didi signaled for boarding. The passengers hurried inside, dreaming of a Havana hotel room by nightfall, two luxury suites reserved in advance.

Zimmerman had made sure of that, proudly telling his companion he’d secured the best rooms in town.

Chapter 1

Reflection is the path to immortality; the absence of reflection, the path to death.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

Kirill climbed into the cabin and looked around. Though from the outside the Beechcraft Bonanza seemed small, inside it was surprisingly spacious, a cabin clearly designed for business-class passengers.

The seats were comfortable enough to stretch your legs and enjoy the view through the portholes beside them on both sides of the little private plane.

In the middle stood a carved rectangular table of mahogany, bolted firmly to the floor so there was no danger of its toppling onto passengers in flight. At the rear was a small bar. Apparently, both the pilot and his mechanic valued comfort; they’d gone to the trouble of refitting the single-engine plane to make it cozier and more convenient for their guests.

Right after him, Zimmerman climbed aboard and immediately expressed his approval.

“All that’s missing is a bartender, a few pretty stewardesses, and a couple of glasses of tequila,” he said in English, glancing around the cabin and taking a seat opposite Kirill, on the far side of the table.

“Well, I don’t have any stewardesses,” the pilot joked, clearly eager to exchange a few words with the friendly passengers who were quickly growing on him. “But as for drinks, there’s a bottle of Canadian whiskey in the little bar at the back. I keep it for business-class travelers like you.”

He smiled, that open, easy smile common among the people of Bermuda, setting them apart from foreigners.

The sea and endless sandy beaches made them cheerful and pleasant folk, a sharp contrast to the Europeans and Americans who came here for vacations but never lingered long.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll keep the cockpit door open,” the pilot added. “The only air conditioner’s up front, and it’s already getting hot back here.”

“No problem,” said Kirill, remembering to thank him for the whiskey, which they’d already poured into their glasses.

It was indeed the perfect choice, smooth, aged, the label claiming ten years in oak barrels. They had a long flight ahead, and whiskey was just the thing to make it a bit more bearable.

“Any chance you’ve got ice?” asked Zimmerman with a grin, ever the one for comfort and a friendly atmosphere, which was already forming between them and the pilot.

“You can make some yourself,” the pilot called back. “There’s a freezer to the right of the bar. You can get water from the lavatory.” He was already in the cockpit, starting the engine. “There’s also lime and juice in the bar. Hope that makes your trip more pleasant.” He smiled again.

He wouldn’t have minded a glass of whiskey himself, but pilots weren’t allowed, nor should they be.

The engine roared to life, and the plane began to taxi slowly down the wide runway that started just beyond the hangar, where the little private aircraft had been sheltered in the shade earlier.

“You’ll want to hurry up,” the pilot warned. “Once the tower clears us for takeoff, in about ten or fifteen minutes, you won’t be able to move around so freely. You’ll have to buckle up and stay seated.”

“Yes, boss,” Zimmerman replied cheerfully and hurried to the freezer to fill the ice trays before takeoff. He hated drinking warm whiskey, unlike Kirill, who had already finished his first glass of the strong, pleasantly warm liquor.

Sure enough, about twelve minutes later, the order to take off came through, and the pilot told them to fasten their seatbelts immediately. The plane was already rolling down the runway, eager to rise.

After a short run, the Bonanza lifted from the ground and climbed swiftly.

At first, nothing hinted at trouble. The plane gained altitude smoothly, soaring over Bermuda’s long beaches. Through the portholes, the passengers watched the breathtaking scenes of untouched nature and the neat houses along the shore.

Kirill loved such landscapes and regretted not being able to stay longer on those pristine islands. He loved the warm sea, the sun that shone here year-round, unlike Russia, where winter dragged on for more than half the year.

But there was no time to linger. The cargo they were transporting in the sealed case was dangerous, and as team leader, Kirill wanted to hand it over to the specialists waiting for it as soon as possible. All the arrangements had been made. In Havana, the rest of their small group awaited them, ready to help at a moment’s notice.

The trouble began halfway there, just after they crossed into the infamous Bermuda Triangle. On the map, that zone lay roughly between Miami, Puerto Rico, and Bermuda, also covering parts of the Bahamas.

Kirill had once read that more than two thousand ships and about two hundred planes had been lost in those waters. And now Didi Sanders’s little aircraft was about to feel the foul breath of that cursed place that had swallowed so many people and their machines.

Strange things started happening once they crossed the imaginary line connecting the Bahamas and Puerto Rico.

At about three thousand meters, directly ahead, a small dark cloud appeared. But as the plane drew closer, the cloud didn’t shrink; it grew, swelling until it seemed to fill half the sky, threatening to engulf the tiny aircraft caught in its path.

Sanders had never seen clouds like that before, though he had flown this route regularly for the past ten or fifteen years. From other pilots of Bermuda International, he’d heard eerie stories about planes disappearing, and in their final transmissions, they often mentioned such a strange, mysterious cloud.

The pilot had no choice but to fly through the mist and emerge on the other side. But barely fifteen minutes later, another storm cloud loomed, darker and more menacing than the first. It was enormous, and there was no way around it. Sanders drew a deep breath and steered straight toward the heart of the storm, though nothing good could come of it for him or his passengers.

Darkness fell, thick as night. Not a single ray of light pierced the dense shroud of cloud. But as it turned out, it wasn’t a thunderstorm at all. There was no rain.

Didi Sanders began to worry, and his anxiety spread to his passengers.

“What’s going on?” Kirill called out.

“We’re entering a turbulence zone,” the pilot replied. “You’d better strap in.”

“Who knows what surprises this cloud has in store,” he added, pointing at the mist that was closing in around them.

Suddenly, flashes of light began to pulse outside the windows, appearing and vanishing, appearing again. There was no thunder, which meant it wasn’t lightning. The flashes were so bright they illuminated everything around them, the only light in that dark, eerie place.

The thick cloud stretched for tens of miles around the plane. Sanders had been flying through it for half an hour, yet it still didn’t end. Worse, radio contact with the tower had been cut off, a very bad sign, even for a veteran pilot like him. Usually, even in a storm, the radio worked; he could call for help or advice. Now he couldn’t. No one could hear him, and he couldn’t send a distress signal.

He began to suspect the two clouds were somehow connected, and that he’d never escape their reach. Perhaps he would join the ranks of those who had vanished in the Atlantic, swallowed by the Bermuda Triangle.

After a while, the cloud began to swirl, forming something like a vortex, a funnel cloud, the kind he had seen off the coast of Florida. The plane was caught right in the center, which might have been the only reason it was still intact.

There was no turbulence yet, but that could change at any moment. Sanders was beginning to lose hope when he suddenly saw a light ahead, a bright opening, sunlight breaking through. A miracle, a gift from above. He turned the plane toward it, clinging to the controls, praying they’d make it through.

He was almost free. Sweat soaked the back of his shirt. Then the impossible happened, the swirling walls began to close in, as if the cloud were alive, refusing to let them go.

The opening ahead narrowed rapidly. One by one, the navigation instruments failed. The compass spun wildly counterclockwise. Something was very wrong. It was as if someone, or something, had taken control of the aircraft. Yet the plane didn’t fall. It continued forward, steady as before, that, at least, was a good sign.

All of Sanders’s attempts to take back manual control were useless. It felt as though the plane was being carried by an invisible current within the strange cloud. He had no idea where they were heading or how.

“Gentlemen, we’ve lost control of the aircraft!” Sanders shouted to his passengers.

“There are life vests under your seats; now’s the time to put them on. I hope you know how to use them.”

“I’ll try to get my bird back,” he said, turning back to the controls, ignoring the men behind him.

He fiddled with the radio again, desperate to send a mayday.

Then the plane lurched. Zimmerman, who hadn’t yet fastened his seat belt, slammed his head hard against the aluminum partition separating the cabin from the cockpit. A swelling rose on his forehead and a bruise bloomed under his eye, painful but not life-threatening.

“Buckle up, now,” Kirill hissed in Russian. “You realize what happens if the sealed vial in your case breaks? The entire planet would be doomed, an unstoppable plague. I have no wish to become the Lucifer blamed for ending the world.”

Kirill looked around. He needed to calm down, get a grip, but it wasn’t easy.

He shut his eyes and sank into memory.

The events of the past few days flashed before him, all that had led to this ill-fated flight to the Island of Freedom.

Chapter 2

Don’t waste time on empty talk; speak of what matters, or remain silent.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

Six months before the events described.

Stephen Kubrick had a reputation as an efficient manager. He worked as a department head at the Washington branch of Goldman Sachs and did everything in his power to grow the bank’s capital, and, of course, his own. Yet his finances weren’t growing as quickly as those of other managers, and that troubled him.

He wasn’t exactly reaching for the stars, and perhaps that was why his career had stalled. His parents were ordinary clerks, and he hadn’t inherited from them any useful connections or capital that could have changed his life for the better. The bank valued him, but no one was in a hurry to move him up the ladder. Stephen brought in steady, reliable income, but he couldn’t leap beyond himself and land one of those mind-blowing deals for a huge sum of money, the kind his friends seemed to pull off so easily.

For a long time, he couldn’t understand why, until he got involved with Eugenia, who worked as a secretary for his boss. She managed to hint at something that might help his career.

It happened by chance, at a corporate party. Despite her stunning looks, no one seemed eager to approach her, and she sat bored and aloof, a strange sight for such a dazzling girl with a knockout figure.

Stephen offered her a drink, and she agreed. They spent the evening pleasantly enough and discovered they had many acquaintances in common. They amused themselves by recalling the various flaws and quirks of their relatives, friends, and colleagues. Those without position, wealth, or connections got it worst of all. It was funny, and somehow that cruelty delighted her. She laughed with him freely, almost giddily.

Afterward, they exchanged numbers and agreed to call each other. Stephen offered her a ride home. During the drive, Eugenia asked whether he was a member of a Masonic lodge, as was customary in their circle.

The fact that he wasn’t, in her opinion, was a serious flaw, one she could help him fix. Apparently, Stephen had made a good impression on her, and she intended to continue their acquaintance.

From what Stephen gathered, membership in a Masonic lodge opened new doors, including financial ones. It allowed its initiates to form close ties with the “powers that be,” which, unsurprisingly, led to rapid career advancement.

For some especially ambitious young men, that ascent was so fast it inspired both envy and admiration. Eugenia mentioned several names, young men who belonged to the secret fraternity. Of course, he knew them all. They were the stars of TV reports, the ones ordinary people envied. Those poor souls would never have such money or influence.

But the rich boys, their story was different. Each had earned not only a fortune but a name, one that opened doors to high politics. Naturally, this information intrigued the young, ambitious manager who was eager to climb another rung on the career ladder.

Stephen believed neither in mysticism nor religion. He believed in the power of money, and in a way, that belief had become his personal creed. His attitude toward people was defined entirely by their financial status. Nothing else interested him. Money was his idol, and he would probably have been ready to commit a crime if it meant advancing his career or securing his future.

After that conversation, Stephen became fascinated by everything connected with the Masons, their symbols, their history, and their secret rituals. As he learned, joining the fraternity required a personal recommendation from an existing member. That wasn’t easy, because the sponsor bore full responsibility for the new initiate, who, once accepted, became a Mason himself.

And that could turn dangerous. Apostates were punished severely. Every so often, Stephen came across newspaper reports about mysterious murders of once-successful young men who, judging by all accounts, had belonged to these secret societies but had somehow betrayed the trust placed in them.

Such murders were never properly investigated; it was practically impossible to trace the people behind them. But those who remained within the order always had money and protection. That was why these secret societies continued to thrive, exerting immense influence on both society and the state.

Still, Stephen’s interests weren’t limited to money. He began seeing Eugenia more often, especially when their boss was away, spending as much time in her company as he could. Their relationship developed quickly, and soon everyone around them, friends, coworkers, noticed. Eugenia apparently had no boyfriend, and it was about time she married. Stephen, too, was ready for something serious. He felt a kindred spirit in her. She was just as calculating as he was.

It was Eugenia who told him that his boss, the junior partner of Goldman Sachs, was one of the lodge’s prominent members. She promised to speak to him about Stephen, hinting that she might get something out of it herself. And she was right, Stephen had begun to think of her as his other half, and if he managed to increase his fortune substantially, he would certainly propose.

But for now, it was too soon. He didn’t have enough money, not for raising children in an elite private school, nor for buying an apartment downtown, where the wealthy lived. Eugenia seemed to understand this well, and so she didn’t rush him.

Chapter 3

To think that someone else can make you happy or unhappy is simply ridiculous.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

After Stephen Kubrick met Eugenia, his life took a sharp turn. And to him, that turn felt irreversible. It was as if fortune, long asleep somewhere in an attic, had finally noticed the hapless manager. The most unlikely projects he’d long forgotten suddenly began to come together. Clients started finding him. His phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and that, most likely, was why even his boss began to take notice, though before, he’d done his best to ignore Stephen altogether.

The boss summoned him to his office and invited him to play a round of golf at a private country club some twenty miles outside the city. Stephen wasn’t much of a golfer, but it would have been both impolite and unwise to refuse, so he agreed. Besides, Eugenia had promised to speak with his boss in advance about his intention to join the Masonic lodge and become an active member.

It’s believed that golf originated in Scotland, invented by shepherds who used wooden staffs to drive stones into rabbit holes. Over time, those staff evolved into golf clubs. Their shape changed, and they became metal. The rules changed as well, simpler now than before, and took their final form in Scotland in the early nineteenth century. From there, the game spread rapidly across the world, reaching even the most remote corners.

Mostly, it was a game for aristocrats, since it required large plots of land that had to be specially prepared, something the poor couldn’t afford. By the late nineteenth century, golf had finally made its way to the United States, which at the time was in the midst of explosive economic growth. The country was full of wealthy men eager to revive the traditions of their ancestors.

In America, golf became a setting where the nation’s richest and most powerful men gathered: bankers, insurers, financiers, businessmen, merchants. That’s why so many private, exclusive golf clubs appeared across the U.S., places where these people could meet to discuss the most important and confidential matters affecting both the country and society. Most of them were excellent golfers, and sometimes they even played for money. Belonging to such a club was prestigious, but admission was by recommendation only, an invitation extended by a current member.

Stephen’s trip to the country club exceeded his boldest expectations. It turned out his boss wasn’t only a strict manager but also a man with a fine sense of humor. He greeted Stephen warmly and introduced him to the small circle of their community, all smiles and courtesies, even toward strangers he barely knew.

Some of the invited guests Stephen recognized. They were the so-called “cream of society”, people who held in their hands not only the fate of that city but, in a sense, of the entire United States.

They spoke to him as an equal, showing neither arrogance nor condescension. After the round of golf, in which Stephen didn’t perform particularly well, the host invited him to the bar. On the second floor were small booths designed for private conversations. That’s where they sat down to talk while the other club members continued their game.

“Tell me, Stephen,” the boss asked after they’d raised their glasses to the meeting and the fine day outdoors, “you did know that Eugenia is my illegitimate daughter, didn’t you?”

Stephen’s look of complete bewilderment was genuine. He had no idea. Eugenia had never mentioned that her boss was her father. Had he known, his life would have taken a very different course. If Stephen had learned the truth earlier, he never would have approached her at that event where they met. But it was too late to turn back now.

“Eugenia’s told me a lot about you,” the boss went on, “and I tend to agree with her. You could have a remarkable career and rise quickly, if you don’t make any foolish mistakes and if you listen to my advice, as well as to the counsel of the men who are members of this club.”

He paused briefly, then added, “And I can even help you with that.”

Stephen took another shot of whiskey and nodded. He knew better than to interrupt his boss once he started talking. Being no fool, Stephen had learned the value of listening to people, an instinct that had served him well in his line of work, which demanded not only knowledge of financial and legal matters but also a keen understanding of the people who were his clients or interlocutors.

“To begin with, I want to entrust you with a matter of a personal nature,” the boss said, fixing his eyes on his golf partner. “If you handle it well, a brilliant future awaits you. This could be the perfect start to your career, and I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you succeed.”

He smiled faintly. “Especially since you might one day become part of my family,” the banker added.

“Of course, I’ll do my best to help,” Stephen replied. “But could you fill me in on the details of this upcoming… operation?” He was intrigued by the mysterious tone in which the man spoke; his boss had never addressed him that way before.

He couldn’t wait to hear what Aaron Schleiter, his direct superior and now his confidant in this private conversation, was about to tell him.

Chapter 4

When the mind is clear, joy follows you like a shadow and never leaves you.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

Although General Odintsov held a high post in the FSB and no longer took part in planning or conducting operations, he still wanted to stay informed about what his subordinates were working on. That was why he made a habit of meeting them in informal settings. There, he could behave more naturally, and his officers didn’t feel that same intimidating authority he projected in his luxurious office at the famous Lubyanka building.

A promotion loomed on the horizon, and his current career depended on how successfully ongoing operations unfolded. And his career, in turn, determined the fate of the officers he had been pulling up after him, helping them climb the ranks. The more successful his protégés were, the more successful he was himself. That was why he paid such attention to personnel matters; his subordinates’ loyalty and competence could help him reach new heights. Andrei Yuryevich was an ambitious man and had no intention of retiring before his time.

He had friends in a small private club on the outskirts of Moscow. The place offered all the masculine amusements befitting the status of senior FSB officers who sometimes needed to relax and have a drink in good company. The grounds were closed off and guarded by an external security service. No outsiders or journalists could get in, so the “white-collar elite” could feel at ease there, at least as much as current conditions allowed.

Back in the wild nineties, the club had been built for foreigners whose embassies were nearby. But times changed. The foreigners withdrew behind their own fences as Russia began pursuing a more independent foreign policy than it had under former President Boris Nikolayevich Yeltsin. These days, they no longer feel as confident as before and compare modern Russian politics to the Soviet era, when foreigners were treated quite differently.

Over time, the clientele changed, too. Now the place was visited by a few Russian oligarchs looking to unwind and by officers from various government agencies, everyone from senior army brass to heads of intelligence services. They all knew each other, which made it possible to relax and behave freely within those walls.

No confidential information could leak out of this establishment, so FSB officers could speak freely about matters that were secret and off-limits to the general public.

This time, General Odintsov wanted to talk to his men about the numerous secret biolabs that NATO countries had set up near Russia’s borders. The leadership had assigned him to oversee this area, and he wanted to make a strong impression by staging a high-profile case against those Russian citizens and organizations that had been helping foreigners develop this work in violation of national laws.

The security services had learned that certain interested parties were collecting biological materials from Russian citizens to send to their Western patrons and handlers. It was dangerous. The United States, they knew, was developing genuine biological weapons, designed to infect people of Slavic descent or those from the North Caucasus with deadly viruses, pathogens, and bacteria.

Unfortunately, the Western world continued to undermine the foundations of the Russian state, using unconventional methods to influence the masses and stir unrest within Russian society.

It was around noon. The day was cool and sunny, hinting that autumn was near. Leaves had started to fall; nature was preparing for the cold. Andrei Yuryevich arrived a little earlier than his comrades and subordinates, deliberately so.

The owner of the country club greeted him personally. They had known each other for years and helped each other out in different situations. Once, Odintsov had arranged for the man’s daughter to receive a free two-room apartment in the city center, and the owner still owed him for that.

In return, the man discreetly kept the general informed of what the guests were saying when the intelligence officers weren’t around. Their cooperation was mutually beneficial.

“Andrei Yuryevich, please, come to our hut,” the owner said in a syrupy tone, smiling. “Care for some mushrooms with vodka?”

“My wife pickled them herself, you know how good she is at it,” the burly man added, knowing the general’s fondness for homemade preserves.

“Well then, show me what you’ve got,” Odintsov said, stepping into the spacious lounge of the small, cozy hotel where a handful of guests and VIPs stayed.

In the past decade, Russia has learned to build such hotels, whose service level rivaled that of Europe.

“By the way, make sure my driver gets something to eat,” Andrei Yuryevich ordered. “You know how many kilometers we sometimes have to cover,” he added. “The driver’s a person too.”

He clapped the accompanying officer on the shoulder.

“Everything’s ready,” the owner replied, smiling at his guest. “I’ve had a couple of tables set for you in the café downstairs. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate, order whatever you like. My staff will take good care of you.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. Service at this private compound was truly first-class. The chefs could prepare extravagant dishes found only in the best foreign restaurants. Where the owner had found such talent was anyone’s guess, but they were genuine masters of their craft.

That was why Andrei Yuryevich often stopped by for lunch. The food was delicious and reasonably priced, and the conversation with the owner always lifted his spirits.

“The guests will start arriving in about half an hour,” the general informed him. “We’ll do things as usual. First, we’ll have a heart-to-heart talk and a good meal. Then we’ll head to the open shooting range here on the grounds, break some clays, and afterward, we’ll relax in the sauna.”

“So start heating it up around five o’clock,” Andrei Yuryevich ordered, wanting the gathering to go off flawlessly.

He felt like the true master of the place, though technically he didn’t own it. Everything here depended on his will and whims, and the actual proprietor of the hotel and the closed compound knew that better than anyone. Real power was invisible, and it belonged to men like them.

Chapter 5

There is no crime graver than hatred. No illness is worse than the body, and no good is greater than Peace.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

Once everyone had gathered, General Odintsov took the floor.

“It’s no secret to anyone that conflict with the United States is inevitable,” he said.

“The U.S. needs a conflict with Russia as a proving ground for testing the scenario of an armed confrontation with China. Washington is in a hurry. If by 2027 they fail to deal with us by igniting wars across the post-Soviet space, then very soon the U.S. will face an inevitable defeat in the grand geopolitical game. That could lead to anything, up to and including the collapse of the United States, just as it happened to the Soviet Union in the last century, and we, as you remember, were not prepared for that.

“Even now, we may be witnessing enormous geopolitical shifts. According to our estimates, by the end of this decade, China will surpass the U.S. in key economic, demographic, and military-political indicators. When that happens, no one will take the U.S. seriously anymore, as they do today. Countries will begin abandoning dollar settlements, and the American economy will collapse like a colossus on clay feet.

“That’s why we must be ready for growing pressure on our country, as China’s strategic partner, from the Pentagon and other foreign-policy structures of Western civilization,” he continued.

“No one intends to surrender without a fight,” he added.

“This pressure will come from all directions, political, external economic, and social. But the greatest danger lies in medical and biological aggression, through the deployment of numerous secret biolaboratories beyond our borders, along the country’s vast frontier.

“Such operations are covert and invisible. The damage they can cause is enormous, and epidemics could trigger catastrophic losses, including the deaths of people and animals,” said the general, looking intently at the officers seated opposite him.

“All this could lead to collapse in other spheres, economic, financial, and social,” he noted.

“Vasily Vsevolodovich, brief the officers on the complex environment in which they’ll have to operate, developing countermeasures to these urgent threats that have become the new reality for our long-suffering country,” requested Andrey Yuryevich, inviting the FSB colonel to speak.

Vasily Vsevolodovich was General Odintsov’s closest friend and ally. They understood each other with half a word and always supported one another, whatever storms shook the political landscape or whatever games higher authorities played. He was also due for promotion soon, and for that, a successful foreign operation was desperately needed.

That was why the two senior officers had to come up with something quickly. Life itself seemed to suggest scenarios for their next moves. Carrying out a successful operation in such a tense geopolitical climate was entirely possible and would benefit both the state and society.

“I want to brief you on the deployment of the Pentagon’s secret biolabs near Russia’s borders,” Vasily Vsevolodovich began.

“As you know, the Pentagon has established such labs in twenty-five countries around the world. Most of them are located right next to our borders, in the territories of former Soviet republics, especially in Georgia and Ukraine.

“It’s no secret that U.S. military personnel and scientists from various countries are creating bacteria, viruses, and toxins in these closed facilities, in other words, new weapons of mass destruction. Their work is conducted under the strictest secrecy, as part of a program of biological experiments known as SVER. Intelligence reports that the “Biological Threat Reduction Program’ already exceeds two billion dollars, financed by the Defense Threat Reduction Agency (DTRA).

“Representatives of that agency try to reassure us, claiming their goal is to detect new viruses and develop methods of neutralizing them. But in reality, that’s not what they’re doing,” Vasily Vsevolodovich Morozov continued.

After his remarks, Andrey Yuryevich Odintsov spoke again.

“What they’re doing is developing real biological weapons,” Andrey Yuryevich picked up where his subordinate had left off.

“I’d like to introduce you to the First-Class Counselor of the Embassy of the Russian Federation in the Republic of Georgia, Ruslan Albertovich Filimonov. He’ll give you an example of the troubling activity that’s emerged along the land section of the Russian-Georgian border,” he said, presenting a new man the FSB officers had not seen before.

“Ruslan Albertovich, please speak to our officer corps and describe the current situation,” Andrey Yuryevich invited.

“I hope your remarks will not go unnoticed,” he added, turning to the officers listening attentively to their commander.

Ruslan Albertovich Filimonov was an active intelligence officer working in Georgia under diplomatic cover. This status allowed him to supervise a broad network of informants across the country. Nothing escaped his close attention, and in his view, the threat of biological warfare emanating from Georgia was quite real.

Adjusting his thick horn-rimmed glasses, Ruslan Albertovich continued the briefing that Vasily Vsevolodovich and Andrey Yuryevich had begun just minutes earlier, delving deeper into the specifics and operational details of the forthcoming mission.

“The greatest threat to our country,” he said, “comes from the Richard Lugar Center for Public Health Research, the leading secret biolab, located seventeen kilometers from the American airbase Vaziani, near the Georgian capital.

“This center studies bio-agents that once ravaged the fields of our country in the distant past or are typical for nations with tropical climates.

“As you can imagine, the anthrax, tularemia, and Crimean-Congo hemorrhagic fever spores they handle there could cause epidemics and mass infections of both humans and animals. It’s no coincidence that research at the Lugar Center is conducted by military biologists from the U.S. Army’s Medical Research Unit in Georgia (USAMRU-G), together with private American contractors.

“By the way, you can find more detailed information about this center and its experiments, on freezing and contaminating human blood, on this website,” said Ruslan Albertovich, then wrote the site’s address on the whiteboard standing near the café exit.

“Vasily Vsevolodovich, write down that site name. We’ll need to study it later,” said General Odintsov, who paid great attention to detail.

“I already know that site,” replied Vasily Vsevolodovich.

“Remember the Ken Livenbrook case we handled a couple of years ago? Our experts believe that the site was created by those reckless lunatics who escaped from the I. M. Rabinovich Clinic, and those who were connected to that case.

“And now they’ve found themselves a new occupation, much like Julian Assange, making trouble for our foreign adversaries: American military personnel and their private contractors developing that monstrous biological weapon.

“I don’t know where they’re getting their informants, but the information there is constantly updated, filled with new exposés that stir up scandal in Western society, alarming ordinary citizens and infuriating intelligence agencies.

“We should probably renew our cooperation with those guys,” said Andrey Yuryevich. “If I recall, last time we managed to reach them through Vera Ivanovna Maslova.

Do you remember what became of her?”

“Perhaps it’s time to meet with her again,” he added.

“I believe she’s still working at the I. M. Rabinovich Clinic,” replied the FSB colonel, who hadn’t received reports about the clinic’s activities for a long time and couldn’t say for certain.

“They say you can’t step into the same river twice,” said Vasily Vsevolodovich with a faint smile.

“But I’ll give it a try.”

Chapter 6

You won’t find the answer in the sky; seek it in your own heart.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

Kirill couldn’t sleep. He lay alone on the double bed, arms and legs sprawled in all directions. The moment he closed his eyes, nightmares came, so he tried not to sleep at all and took sleeping pills instead.

In that half-conscious state, he often slipped into something like nirvana, and his soul would try to untangle all those riddles he’d wrestled with for so long in real life, together with his partners and friends.

It all began right after he started investigating the activities of several companies working in bioengineering, especially those linked to the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, which was financing research in that particular field of science.

The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation was established only recently, in 2000. Yet in a short time, its capital reached just over fifty billion dollars, an enormous sum. Officially, the foundation proclaimed lofty goals: improving global healthcare, reducing poverty, and expanding educational opportunities in medicine and bioengineering. In reality, however, it pursued a single aim: to develop a global concept for reducing the planet’s population.

For some reason, all these people believed the Earth’s main problem came down to one thing: explosive population growth. The planet’s resources were finite and, in their view, would be exhausted by the end of the twenty-first century.

If Kirill had possessed the kind of money these people, the planet’s so-called “golden billion”, kept hidden in countless banks, foundations, and securities, he would have invested it in exploring the Solar System and building colonies on its planets. But they thought differently, and that frightened him. Their sights were set on bioterrorism.

He discovered that the foundation’s board of directors included the heads of major banks, transnational corporations, and world-renowned scientists from a wide range of disciplines, even former officials with all the right connections.

But the work of all these people served not humanity’s good, quite the opposite. They sought to make ordinary lives harder, even to wipe people out, by developing new diseases and viruses.

The goal was singular: the global extermination of millions. They even welcomed such unnatural practices, condemned by every major world religion, as euthanasia, breaking fundamental moral and ethical norms. Their open support for various sexual deviations was just as bewildering.

Kirill conducted his own investigation. It turned out that all these people belonged to a secret Masonic society with an extensive hierarchy. Its influence extended far beyond the United States.

Branches of the order operated in every major country of the European Union and even in the former Soviet states, Russia, Belarus, Ukraine, and Georgia. In each, regional Masonic lodges were established, all governed from a single center.

The populations of these countries had no idea what danger loomed over them. The development of deadly pathogens, viruses, and bacteria could easily spark a true epidemic, drastically reducing the world’s population if those viruses were ever released into the environment.

The Masonic society’s tentacles had penetrated deep into the government apparatus of several European states. Even in the United States, both among Democrats and Republicans, powerful lobbyists were already at work, pushing for greater funding of government programs in bioengineering and medicine aimed at creating biological or other weapons of mass destruction. Those viruses could be introduced into society in many ways, including through mass vaccination campaigns against some infectious disease.

The only real weapon against this evil was freedom of speech. That was why Kirill had created his website, a platform for publishing exposés about the secret organizations engaged in developing biological weapons and running covert biolabs.

The site had both open and restricted sections, which made it possible to earn money. The income wasn’t for personal gain but to fund further growth, and it worked. The project expanded quickly, its audience soon numbering in the millions.

Access to the restricted section was paid for. To enter, users had to register, and registration was no simple task. Zimmerman had designed a clever questionnaire that practically forced visitors to provide truthful information about themselves and their accounts.

The materials posted there were exclusive and often sparked loud political scandals, drawing even more attention from the press and public organizations.

After Julian Assange’s arrest, the Masons tried to silence the truth everywhere in the Western world. They launched an all-out hunt for his platform, and for anyone who dared to speak, or worse, to write the truth.

Registration helped Kirill weed out unwanted accounts. He could ban overly aggressive users at any time, anyone who might threaten his work.

That way, Kirill always knew who was interested in his site and why. Unfortunately, many users turned out to be active members of intelligence or law enforcement agencies trying to identify the real owners of the site and arrest them. But there were also ordinary people, people who simply wanted to know the truth. For their sake, he kept going.

The “cream of society” had no use for the truth. The scandals stirred up by his site provoked only anger and rage. And if it hadn’t been for the mobile PSY device they’d smuggled out of Russia a few years earlier, they never would have escaped the chase.

Around the perimeter of his house, Kirill had also installed special miniature sensors and cameras that alerted him whenever someone tried to enter the secured property.

Chapter 7

Your suffering is caused by resistance to what is.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

Without realizing it, Kirill had fallen asleep. His thoughts drifted far, far away, and he never noticed when it happened. Along with sleep came the nightmares. His subconscious pulled him downward, deep into its own depths, to that place where memories of forbidden Greek mythology lay stored, the stories he’d loved to read as a child, the ones that had shaped his worldview and sense of self.

Kirill looked around. The world he found himself in was strikingly real. Some instinct whispered that it was only a dream, yet everything around him felt tangible, almost lifelike. His mind rendered the smallest details with such precision that it took his breath away and stirred his imagination.

Everywhere he looked, stretched swamps. A narrow path wound between them, leading somewhere into the distance. He was standing in a small clearing surrounded by wild rose thickets. Luckily, the ground here was firm enough that he felt steady, almost as if everything happening was real. In his hands, he held an ancient Greek weapon. And he himself was dressed exactly like a warrior of ancient Greece.

A solid silver breastplate covered his chest, and on his head gleamed a massive helmet crested with a plume that made him appear taller, more imposing. Beneath the armor, thrown directly over his bare skin, hung a spotless white tunic. Every piece fit his body perfectly. He felt the fabric against his skin as vividly as if he had put it on that very morning.

In the distance, horses neighed. Kirill turned; he was sure a chariot stood there, the one that had brought him to this place. He dimly remembered being here before, searching for something, some ancient mythical creature. The beast had long terrorized the locals, killing livestock and any stranger unlucky enough to wander into this mysterious land. In places, he could even see bones, remnants of travelers who had vanished in these stinking swamps long before Kirill arrived.

He had to act. Instinct urged him forward, toward danger. Kirill was a brave man in real life, too, and sometimes that courage bordered on recklessness.

He began to walk carefully along the narrow path. He didn’t want to slip into the foul sludge surrounding him, turning the whole region into a mire of death. In the distance, mountains rose, the swamps ended there, and that was where he was heading, stepping cautiously over the trembling ground that seemed to draw him toward the heart of this bog-ridden land.

Now and then, from the center of the swamp, noxious vapors rose, forcing Kirill to cover his face with his left hand, the one not holding a weapon. Over that arm was slung a bow and a quiver full of arrows, both sturdy and finely crafted.

Long ago, in his childhood, Kirill had loved archery, though back then his bow had been a harmless sporting one, incapable of hurting anyone. The weapon on his shoulder now was very different, made for war, its arrows tipped with sharp metal points.

The quiver itself was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, adorned with silver inlays sewn into the leather. One design showed the Greek god Apollo aiming his bow; others depicted trees with animals hidden beneath their branches. The quiver was so beautiful that Kirill would gladly have paid a small fortune to own one like it in real life.

The path ran on and on toward the mountains. Kirill realized he was on an island at the very center of the swamp, surrounded on all sides by the black, stinking sludge. Only here was there solid ground. The path grew narrower and narrower, and now he had to move with great care, making sure not to fall into the bog that stretched for miles around.

At last, Kirill crossed the final stretch and reached firm land. He sighed with relief. Standing on solid ground felt far better than balancing on the shaky path that wound through the fetid swamp, trembling with every step. The mire could easily have swallowed a man whole, and clearly had, many times before.

He looked around. The landscape was strange, almost exotic. Ahead rose a high mountain surrounded by stunted shrubs and twisted trees. The sight reminded him of a place he’d once seen in the north, when his mother had taken him to visit her elder sister in Yakutsk. The trees there had been just as small and bent low to the earth, nothing like the tall, full-grown ones back home in central Russia.

Not far from where he stood gaped a cave leading deep into the mountain. From that vast opening came a sense of danger. The black maw seemed to watch him, both drawing him in and repelling him with its empty, ominous depth. It felt as if some invisible, dreadful being was observing him, unseen but close.

All around lay an unnatural silence, the stillness that sometimes precedes a heavy rain or snowstorm. Then, suddenly, from the cave came a furious roar, so immense and terrible that it jolted him awake.

Kirill opened his eyes, disoriented, struggling to remember where he was. The nightmare that had haunted him for days began to fade. Someone was ringing the doorbell, over and over, interrupting his dream at its most intense moment. He got up, went to the door, and looked through the peephole.

Outside stood his friend Zimmerman, along with the rest of the old crew he’d left Russia with a couple of years ago. Kirill reached for the keys lying on the bar counter and went to let them in.

A new workday was beginning.

Chapter 8

Just as plants grow from seeds, so too do joy and sorrow arise from past actions.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

After a few glasses of whiskey, the boss grew talkative.

Stephen listened carefully, giving his superior room to speak. Though the man belonged to a secret society, he had no one to confide in. Excessive candor wasn’t encouraged there, and yet there comes a moment in every life when a person needs to talk, needs to pour out the thoughts that have weighed on him for years.

Besides, Stephen might soon become part of his family. And really, there was nothing much to hide. In any family, the hidden sooner or later becomes known. He knew that well enough; he’d seen his own family fall apart for lack of money.

“As you know, my last name is Schleiter,” the boss began.

“In our Jewish family, surnames are passed down through the mother, not the father. The women in our line are strong-willed, passionate, and fond of wealth. They strive to be independent, yet loyal to the man they’ve once chosen as their fate, and perhaps that’s why men love them so.”

He glanced at Stephen. “You know this yourself. I can see things are going well between you and Eugenia, and that’s no coincidence.”

“My grandmother, Hortensia Schleiter, was married to a Daily Mail journalist named Arthur Weigall. He’s the one who told her the legend I’m about to share with you,” he went on.

“In a way, it’s a family tale that’s been passed down through generations.”

“Arthur Weigall was the very journalist invited by the English archaeologists Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon to witness their excavations. So he knew everything that went on there. Some of it appeared in print; some was classified, known only to a select few, including my grandmother, his wife, who told me the story when I was still a boy.”

“You know those excavations in the Valley of the Kings took place under difficult conditions. The heat was unbearable, the work was done entirely by hand. There were no modern instruments or devices like the ones archaeologists use today to locate ancient tombs. Everything was guided by intuition, with little study of the terrain or papyri. Eventually, that disheartened Lord Carnarvon. He wasn’t a professional archaeologist, and he wasn’t prepared for such a long, fruitless search for treasure.

By 1922, he was so discouraged that he stopped funding the expedition altogether. But the work didn’t end there, and in the end, patience was rewarded.

God blessed the archaeologists for their perseverance. On November fourth, purely by chance, Carter discovered the entrance to a new tomb. The sealed doorway bore the mark of royal blood, the sign of a noble burial. That tomb, later unearthed in the Valley of the Kings, made Carter, his assistants, and his colleagues famous.

“It also became the starting capital for our family,” he added thoughtfully.

“That was the tomb of the famous Tutankhamun. Much has been written about it, then and now, and I won’t repeat what you already know. But few realize that it wasn’t the only royal tomb Carter found, and that’s what I want to tell you now, because it ties directly to your upcoming trip to Egypt, as we agreed.”

“In the cache of Deir el-Bahari, on the west bank of the Nile directly across from Thebes, modern Luxor, was discovered another tomb, belonging to Pharaoh Amenhotep I of the ancient kingdom. Few know this, because it never drew the kind of attention Tutankhamun’s untouched tomb did.

Still, the discovery was known within academic circles. That pharaoh was one of the founders of a new Egyptian dynasty, which ended with the reign of the cursed king Amenhotep IV, who called himself Akhenaten. And that reformer-pharaoh is no less famous than Tutankhamun, for he tried to spark a revolution in Egyptian society.”

“The warning inscription about the danger of being in a sealed chamber, where the mummy was found, referred not to Tutankhamun, as many modern writers and collectors of Egyptian artifacts claim, but to Amenhotep I.”

“Sadly, his tomb had been plundered. Yet the sarcophagus and its contents survived intact, and the mummy, sealed in that vault three thousand years ago, is now kept in the Cairo Museum’s archives. Reaching it is no easy task.

Incidentally, it floats in a strange black substance in which the body was immersed for preservation.”

“That substance hasn’t dried or evaporated in all this time, three thousand years. That fact alone fascinates the scientists who study Egyptian mummies.”

“No one escaped retribution. The bodies of the grave robbers were later found nearby, buried in the sand about two meters deep. They had all died in terrible agony from an unknown illness. That same illness caused the mysterious deaths among the English archaeologists who handled Amenhotep I’s artifacts, without protective suits or even masks to shield their lungs.”

“Some of the relics had been spared by the tomb raiders, and it was those very items that became the source of the strange disease that struck the archaeologists digging there.

One after another, people died, and no medicine could save them. The epidemic lasted until their bodies were buried, and then it vanished as suddenly as it had begun.”

“My consultants in bioengineering tell me that working with the mummy of Amenhotep I could still be dangerous. Before embalming, his body had been infected with spores of an unknown disease. The harmful bacteria that killed those people didn’t die; they remain active even now.

Certain modern scientists need those bacteria, for study, to develop new pathogens or medicines, and they’re willing to pay well for access to that mummy, if they can obtain permission to work with it.”

“The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation is offering a sizable grant for such research. I intend to claim it before my competitors find out. There’s serious money involved.”

He gave Stephen a knowing look. “And you’ll get a share, if we pull this off.”

“Your task,” Aaron Schleiter continued, “will be to arrange with the Cairo Museum staff to let us borrow the mummy for examination and computer tomography. If you manage that simple assignment, I’ll give my blessing to your marriage with my illegitimate daughter, and you’ll be welcomed into our family and into our Masonic circle as well. You’ll have my word of honor.”

He lifted the bottle. “Now, let’s finish what’s left. One for the road.”

Stephen hesitated, then nodded. They raised their glasses and sealed the deal with a firm handshake. Both men left the conversation satisfied. Each had fulfilled his purpose.

But Kubrick’s mission was far more dangerous than his companion’s, and he didn’t yet realize it.

Chapter 9

Fear not what will happen to you. It won’t change your future, but your present will become calmer.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

Stephen Kubrick had always taken his assignments seriously and, in most cases, achieved the goals set before him. This time was no exception. Before setting out on his difficult mission, he decided to learn who Pharaoh Amenhotep I really was and what had caused his death.

He was also curious about what disease the pharaoh might have contracted, and where, so that the bacteria of that illness could have survived for more than three thousand years and remained viable to this day. Back in his student years, he’d studied such questions, and now that knowledge was proving useful.

Normally, bacteria perished within a couple of centuries after their host’s death, but this case was different.

According to ancient Egyptian sources, Amenhotep I reigned for twenty-one years and died of an unknown illness, together with his wife. Evidently, a sudden epidemic had struck the Egyptian kingdom. The king hadn’t even been properly entombed in his royal burial chamber, which at the time was still unfinished. His mummy was hastily placed in a secret cache belonging to his mother in Deir el-Bahri. As for his wife’s remains, the sources said nothing. Most likely, she had been cremated or buried somewhere nearby.

It was precisely this obscure ruler’s grave that Howard Carter, to his misfortune, had discovered while conducting excavations in the northwest section of the Valley of the Kings. Pharaoh Amenhotep I was the son of the famed Ahmose I, celebrated for continuing the war against the Hyksos and driving them forever from the land of ancient Egypt. Afterward, for a long time, a religious cult flourished in Egypt that glorified the pharaoh’s deeds and those of his closest companions.

Before that, Lower Egypt had long been under foreign rule, and only this pharaoh had managed the impossible, defeating the oppressors and freeing the people from the power of cruel invaders.

In this, he had been aided by the Ancient Greeks, with whom he maintained close economic and political ties. They also left behind records of his reign and that of his sons. Ahmose I had several children, yet for some reason the royal title was passed specifically to Amenhotep I, and only after his death did it go to his half-brother Thutmose I, also a son of Ahmose but by another wife.

Stephen paused, thoughtful. What if Pharaoh Thutmose I had a hand in his half-brother’s sudden illness? For more than twenty years, he had lived in Amenhotep’s shadow, a ruler of immense power who built those majestic temples in Thebes that still stand today, awing tourists who come to Egypt from around the world.

But Amenhotep I had other enemies as well, men who wished him dead. Unlike his father, he was not feared by those around him, and so someone might well have coveted the throne of this pharaoh who, like any dictator, wielded absolute authority.

That very power was the cause of his death from an unknown disease, thought Kirill as he read the Greeks’ accounts of this extraordinary man of the past.

The first suspects, of course, were the priests. During the Hyksos rule, many cults had arisen to reinforce the conquerors’ authority. When the invaders were expelled, those sects were persecuted, and many priests were put to death.

It was at that time, too, that the Jews were driven out of Egypt, people who had lived quite freely under the foreign rulers. And the one blamed for all this was not the liberator Ahmose I, but his son, Amenhotep I.

Continuing his study of the records left by the Greeks, who had observed Egyptian customs and daily life, Stephen finally discovered a clue as to how the mysterious disease that caused the epidemic, and took the lives of the king, his wife, and his court, might have entered the land.

Toward the end of his reign, Amenhotep I launched several successful military campaigns that expanded the borders of Upper Egypt. These conquests were quite fruitful, and he managed to annex several new nomes to Egyptian territory.

Under the next pharaoh, those lands were permanently absorbed into Egypt. Yet the wars had devastated the local populations. Hunger and malnutrition brought on epidemics common to the African continent. Even today, most dangerous viral outbreaks originate in Africa, and how much worse must it have been in the age of the pharaohs, when medicine barely existed and there was no way to halt the spread of disease.

One papyrus described Amenhotep I’s campaign in Nubia. The chief oarsman, a man named Ahmose, wrote:

“And I ferried, by rowing boat, the King of Upper and Lower Egypt, the late Amenhotep I, when he sailed up the Nile to Nubia to extend Egypt’s borders. After we landed, there was a great battle, and His Majesty struck down the chieftain of the nomads in the midst of his warriors. Rich spoils were taken. The captured nomads were bound tightly so that none could escape. Those who tried to flee we slew, and they lay dead as though they had never existed. Yet they could not resist the Egyptians much, for among them were many sick and crippled.

“I fought in the front ranks, and His Majesty honored my valor. I, too, captured a prisoner in fine raiment, who was brought before the pharaoh. Then we returned, and I delivered His Majesty back to our capital in only two days. I was rewarded with gold and became a wealthy and respected man. Besides that prisoner, I seized several beautiful slave girls, concubines of the former ruler, and they were brought into the sovereign’s tent.”

Evidently, a genuine epidemic had been raging in Africa at that time, and it had helped the Egyptians defeat the Nubians, who until then had never lost to them, whether in open battle or countless skirmishes. This time, though, things were different, and the difference was telling. Most likely, the prisoners had infected the renowned ruler of antiquity, who died young, not yet forty.

After his death, the royal title passed to his half-brother Thutmose I, since Amenhotep I had left no children. His memory faded into the sands of Egypt, and only now had he been remembered again, with the discovery of his remains.

Chapter 10

If a problem can be solved, why worry?

If a problem cannot be solved, worry will not help.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

The FSB data center was located in the southwest of Moscow. From the outside, it looked like an ordinary residential complex. Three twenty-story towers, built back in the 1970s, rose above the street. Nearby stood a small shopping center where employees could drop by during their breaks.

Few city residents knew that beneath those towers were five more underground floors. On the rooftops, sophisticated systems for information security, noise suppression, and satellite communication were installed and tuned, antennas capable of receiving signals from remote facilities abroad.

Inside those towers, servers hummed around the clock while programmers worked through complex computational tasks assigned by the agency. All the information gathered by operatives abroad was funneled here. It was sorted, classified, processed, and then delivered to the leadership in its refined form.

Abroad, similar work was conducted under the names “cloud computing” and Big Data. In Russia, it was simply called working with large volumes of information. The work was of critical importance and was directly overseen by the leadership of this classified branch. It was also closely monitored by other state bodies, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Presidential Administration of the Russian Federation.

It was here that Andrei Yuryevich Odintsov decided to convene a small working meeting of his field officers and closest associates. The topic remained the same: determining the locations of NATO’s secret biological laboratories.

He had formally titled the meeting:

“Countering new threats linked to the sudden appearance of numerous secret biological laboratories along our borders.”

These threats had long troubled General Odintsov, distracting him from other urgent tasks that were no less important.

Everything suggested that foreign military specialists were preparing for something very serious. Some kind of provocation was expected to occur soon near Russia’s borders. His team needed to be ready, armed with knowledge, preparation, and a solid plan of action.