History has a way of hiding its secrets…

He was one of Russia’s most infamous rulers, and he alone held the key to a legendary Byzantine collection of books, given to him in the dowry of Princess Sophia of Constantinople. Ivan Vasilyevich—otherwise known as Ivan the Terrible—owned a library filled with rare and priceless tomes that men would kill for. Would die for. But the czar carried the knowledge of its whereabouts to his grave. And it falls to archaeologist Annja Creed, almost five hundred years later, to discover the secrets of the Library of Gold.

When the opportunity to unravel the mystery of this so-called eighth wonder of the world lands in Annja’s lap, she can’t resist. Armed with a diary of cryptic clues, she embarks on a journey to Russia, where she must somehow find her way into the very heart of the country, beneath the Kremlin.

But Annja soon discovers she’s racing a ruthless KGB agent driven by sinister motives. She finds herself deep beneath the Russian soil in a dangerous game of cat and mouse... Will she be the next to mysteriously disappear from history?

“Colonel! You should take a look at this.”

The guard led them outside St. Basil’s Cathedral and over to one of the trash cans in Red Square. He pointed inside the mouth of the barrel.

Sitting on some discarded trash was a woman’s hand.

Goshenko reached in and pulled it out, which caused the captain of the guard to recoil. But the hand wasn’t flesh and blood. It was stone. The stone hand of the Virgin Mother.

The colonel looked at it for a moment and then held it up so Danislov could see its hollow center. “I want to know what was hidden inside here, Sergeant. I don’t care what you have to do, just get me whatever it was.”

“Understood, sir.”

“The American, Annja Creed, and her companion are staying over at the Marriott on Tverskaya Street.” Colonel Goshenko nodded, satisfied. “I suggest you start there.”

Library of Gold

™

Alex Archer

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Joe Nassise for his contribution to this work.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 1

Footsteps in the dark.

That’s all Ridolfo di Fioravanti heard at first, the tramp of booted feet somewhere in the distance, but it was enough. Though he couldn’t see them yet, he knew who was marching down the long, dark tunnels toward him and the rest of the men working on the project. He knew that when they were at last revealed in the light of the oil lamps there would be no doubt of their intentions.

He had begun to suspect what was being prepared for them when the guards changed. For weeks the work crews had been accompanied by a squad of soldiers, there, he suspected, to prevent the workers from making off with the tools more than anything else. But within the past week the soldiers had been replaced by men wearing the black uniform and dog’s head insignia of the Oprichniki, the czar’s secret police. This was not a good sign. The Oprichniki were nothing more than sadistic thugs in uniform, brought into being to help the czar quell internal resistance and turned loose to terrorize and torture anyone he saw as a threat.

Ridolfo should have seen it coming. When Czar Ivan had first summoned him to his palace and told him what he wanted to do, Ridolfo had been too caught up in the technicalities of the project to see the danger. He’d let his excitement overcome his good sense and now it seemed he was going to pay for that oversight.

But not before he saw to his family’s welfare.

He crossed the room to where his nephew, Giuseppe, was helping some of the other workers pile debris from an earlier excavation into a cart. Grabbing the boy by the arm, Ridolfo led him off to one side.

“I need you to take a message to your father for me,” he told the boy.

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“But I’ll miss the end of the shift!”

The conditions they were working in were arduous, at best, and for a moment Ridolfo didn’t understand why the boy would want to be slaving down here when he could be out in the sunlight above. But then the meaning of the boy’s statement filtered past Ridolfo’s fear enough to make sense. The workers were paid at the end of each work period. If Giuseppe left now, he’d forfeit the effort he’d put in up to this point.

If he doesn’t leave now, he’ll be dead.

“I will collect your wages myself,” Ridolfo told him with a smile on his face. “Have no fear.”

Ridolfo was the chief foreman and designer of the project, which made the lie seem convincing. Thankfully the boy took it at face value.

Ridolfo reached inside his shirt and removed the slim leather journal he kept secreted there. He passed it to Giuseppe.

“Take this to your father and tell him the crows are flying. Understand? The crows are flying.”

Giuseppe frowned but nodded, anyway. “The crows are flying. Yes, sir.”

“Good boy!” Ridolfo kept the smile on his face, but inside he wanted to scream. The sound of booted feet was much closer now and they were all but out of time. If the czar had sent his uniformed lapdogs down the emergency exit, they were already too late.

Only one way to find out…

“Come,” he said with fake cheer, pulling his nephew into the rear section of the vault to where the narrow mouth of the emergency exit was half-hidden in the shadows. He stuck his head inside the tunnel and listened for as long as he dared, but didn’t hear anything. Perhaps the way was still open.

He picked up the emergency lantern that always stood inside the entrance of the tunnel and lit it, illuminating the passageway before him. “This will take you directly to the surface,” he said to the boy. “Better yet, by going this way you won’t have to deal with the guards at the main entrance.”

That last brought a smile to Giuseppe’s face; he hated the dimwitted brutes that passed as guards around here. He took the lantern Ridolfo passed to him and, without a backward glance, scampered up the tunnel with the journal clutched in his other hand.

Ridolfo watched until the lantern’s light disappeared around a bend and then he quickly moved away from the opening, not wanting to give those who were coming any indication that the passageway was in use. He’d worked out the plan with his brother several days ago when he’d first begun to suspect the end that Czar Ivan had in mind for those working on the project. The message was innocuous enough that it wouldn’t raise concerns if the boy was caught and forced to disclose it, but Ridolfo’s brother would understand what it meant. As any peasant knew, the only time the crows gathered was when they had something to feast upon.

Ridolfo stepped back into the main vault at the same time a squad of Oprichniki soldiers marched into the room, their weapons in hand, pointed toward the workers. The sight infuriated Ridolfo—how dare they threaten his men? But the angry shout that rose in his throat was instantly stifled when the tall, dark form of Ivan Vasilyevich IV, Grand Prince of Moscow and Czar of the Russian Empire, also known as Ivan the Terrible, stepped from behind the squad.

Ridolfo sank to one knee and his men followed suit, none of them daring to look in the czar’s direction. Ivan had been known to fly into a rage at even an unintended slight.

Today, however, he seemed to be in a jovial mood.

“Get up!” came his deep, booming voice. “Get up! The floor is no place for my chief architect.”

Ridolfo did as he was told, still mindful that the Oprichniki had not relaxed their watchfulness.

Ivan was tall, with wide shoulders and a broad chest, made all the more intimidating by his seeming boundless energy. He would never be called handsome, for his small eyes and hooked nose gave him a sinister expression even when he was smiling, as he was now.

“The work goes well, no?” he asked, his voice made louder by the way it echoed off the close stone walls.

Ridolfo nodded. “It does, indeed, Your Highness,” he replied, surprised at his steadiness. He knew what was coming, could see it in the gleam in the czar’s eyes, but he’d be damned if he let his fear overwhelm him. He would play his part to the very end. Every second he kept the czar occupied here was another that his family could use to make their escape. “A few more days and we should be complete.”

The czar’s joviality, of course, was a front. Upon hearing the answer to his question, it quickly vanished, to be replaced by a deep frown. “Days?” The czar glanced with a heavy scowl at Nikolaevich, one of the men in the work crew, who swiftly turned his face away.

You bastard! Ridolfo thought at the revelation of the traitor, but he was careful to keep his expression neutral. He’d known the czar had spies in his work crew, but he’d never even suspected the big Muscovite.

Nothing to be done about it now.

“It is nothing vital,” he said easily, trying to keep Ivan’s legendary temper from erupting upon them all. “Cosmetic issues only.”

The minute he said it, Ridolfo realized it was the wrong statement to make. The vault had not been designed for the public, but to protect Ivan’s most precious treasure. A few rough spots here and there were nothing compared to keeping the secret of the vault’s existence.

The self-satisfied smirk that flashed across the czar’s face, there and gone again so quickly Ridolfo might have missed it if he wasn’t looking intently, told the architect it was too late to try to fix the mistake.

He’d just killed his only opportunity to delay the inevitable. Ridolfo would not be leaving this chamber alive.

That realization brought with it a strange sense of relief. There was no longer any need to worry about what was to happen; it was too late for that. With his death only moments away, he felt a surge of defiance, the likes of which he’d never felt before. As the other men in the work crew watched in surprise, Ridolfo slowly climbed to his feet, staring at the czar, letting the contempt he felt show plainly on his face.

Unfortunately, that contempt, righteous or not, was wasted on a murderous thug like Ivan the Terrible. The czar stepped back behind the circle of soldiers he’d brought with him and said clearly enough for everyone to hear, “Get rid of them, Captain. Every last one of them.”

Ridolfo and his men were horribly outnumbered, but that didn’t stop him and several of the other more perceptive workers from snatching up shovels and pickaxes and charging the hated Oprichniki with murder in their hearts.

The end result was all but preordained. Ridolfo managed to deliver a couple of blows with the pickax before the soldier in front of him parried a strike and thrust a thick-bladed cavalry sabre through Ridolfo’s chest.

As the Italian architect lay bleeding to death on the cold stone tile his men had laid only days before, his last thought was of his brother’s son and the clues buried in the pages of the journal the boy carried to the sunlight high above.

Chapter 2

“You sounded a little tired in that one, Annja. Let’s redo it, all right?”

Annja Creed stared out through the glass of the sound booth at the smiling face of her producer, Doug Morrell, and had to resist the urge to run him through with her sword. She sounded tired because she was tired; they’d been at this for more than nine hours already! If he wanted her to sound fresh and energetic, they were going to have to call it quits soon or she wouldn’t have a voice left for tomorrow’s session.

Annja worked as one of the hosts of Chasing History’s Monsters, a cable television show that featured a combination of history crossed with the weird and unexplained. It was her job to act as the show’s resident skeptic, using reason and history to explain some of the more fantastical ideas that were raised during each episode. It was a position she was well suited for. Her background as an archaeologist gave her the skills to examine disparate pieces of information and pull them together into logical theories, while her ability to speak multiple languages, specifically French, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian and Latin, allowed her to be comfortable in the foreign locations where the show often sent her.

Of course, her travel had a tendency to bring her face-to-face with all kinds of other trouble, as well. It was almost as if the sword were orchestrating her movements, causing her to be in the right place at the right time to defend the innocent and right wrongs. She’d faced off against enemies of all kinds since taking up the sword, from Thuggee death cults to the angry spirit of an ancient Inuit god. She never knew what she would be facing next.

The ancient Chinese used to curse people with the expression “May you live in interesting times.” Since the sword came into her life, Annja understood the power in that curse.

Her life had certainly become interesting.

She’d arrived at the show’s Manhattan studio early to get a jump on the voice-over work she was scheduled to do for the next three days. The powers-that-be had decided a Chasing History’s Monsters boxed set was just the thing to help kick DVD sales up the charts. They wanted Annja to provide additional detail on the things she’d seen and heard while filming each episode. A kind of director’s cut track, if you will, but from the host’s perspective. The past week had been spent reviewing the episodes, making notes and then turning those notes into coherent remarks to be recorded during the voice-over sessions. Trying to reconstruct thought processes and research of the past several seasons’ worth of programs hadn’t been easy.

It had also stirred up plenty of other memories, as well. Her first encounter with Roux, meeting Garin Braden, the mystical reforging of the sword once carried by Joan of Arc, the new role she’d adopted as protector of the innocent and defender of the good. Her life had been put in danger more times than she could count. And yet she wouldn’t trade it for the world. Somewhere, deep inside, she knew she’d been born to wield that sword. And she had every intention of doing so well into the foreseeable future. Even if she didn’t understand the hows and whys behind it.

“Earth to Annja? Hellooo? Anybody home?”

Doug’s voice over her headphones startled her from her reminiscing.

“I’m here, Doug. Just rehearsing the lines in my head. One more time and then I’m done for the night.”

Doug’s boyish grin flashed from the other side of the glass. “Sure, Annja, one more time and that’s it.”

It took them two more takes, actually, but when they were finished everyone involved applauded. It had been a long day, but they might be able to cut it down to two days if they kept this pace up.

Afterward Doug dragged Annja to his office to deliver his suggestions for what she should say during tomorrow’s commentary.

As usual, he was way over the top.

“Not a chance, Doug,” she found herself saying not five minutes after entering the room. “No way.”

“But it will drive ratings through the roof, Annja!”

“I don’t care if it blows them into outer space. I’m not going to say I witnessed a chupacabra attack outside Mexico City.”

“Okay, forget the attack. How about just claiming you saw one? That should achieve the same effect.”

“Yeah, of making me look like the world’s biggest idiot. No, Doug, no chupacabra. Period.”

“Now you’re just being difficult.”

“No, I’m being honest.”

“Honest? Since when is that—?”

Thankfully Doug was interrupted by a knock at the door. A young brunette stuck her head inside the room.

“Mr. Morrell?”

Doug held up a finger to Annja as if to say, Hold that thought and then turned to face their visitor.

“Yes, Jessica?”

“This was just delivered for Annja,” she said, handing him a fancy envelope tied with a red ribbon.

Annja couldn’t miss the flirtatious smile Jessica sent Doug, especially since the show’s newest intern didn’t even bother to glance in her direction. The look of irritation that crossed the girl’s face when Doug distractedly took the envelope didn’t go unnoticed, either. Neither did the way she shut the door too hard in her wake.

Annja stared at the closed door a moment, then turned to Doug and asked, “Why are you Mr. Morrell and I’m just plain old Annja?”

“Because you’re the star of the show.”

“Exactly. Shouldn’t that be worth a little more respect?”

Doug shook his head. “Not when I’m the one paying her.”

That was, she had to admit, a good point. Putting aside office politics for the moment, she turned her attention to the envelope Doug handed to her.

It was made from a thick, richly textured creamy paper that practically shouted money the minute she laid her hands on it. The ribbon was a classy affair, as well—a wide swatch of red velvet tied in an intricate bow. Untying it, she laid it aside, opened the envelope and withdrew a small white card.

Sir Charles Davies requests the honor of your company for dinner this evening. Gascogne, 7:00 p.m.

There was a phone number underneath for her to RSVP.

Annja sighed. After working all day on the voice-overs, all she wanted to do was to go home and relax. Maybe grab some dark chocolate and red wine, then lounge in the bath. She certainly didn’t have the energy to be out entertaining someone she didn’t know, especially someone with the stature and notoriety of Sir Charles.

“Sorry, not tonight.” She dropped the invitation into the trash can next to Doug’s desk.

Doug, of course, freaked.

“Are you insane?” He snatched the card out of the trash and thrust it back at her. “You have to go!”

Annja put her hands behind her back, refusing to take it. “I don’t have to go. And I don’t want to.”

Doug stared at her in horror and disbelief. “But…it’s Sir Charles!” he sputtered.

“So?”

She didn’t care if it was the Queen of England. She was tired and didn’t want to spend the evening trying to be gracious and putting on a show. And what kind of notice was that? A few hours? He could at least have had the decency to plan in advance.

Doug clearly disagreed and, in fact, looked ready to pull his hair out.

“So?” He brandished the invitation in front of him like an exhibit in a court of law. “So? You’re not talking about some fan off the street, Annja. This is Sir Charles, one of the richest men in America, for heaven’s sake.”

Actually, one of the richest men in the world, she thought to herself. She didn’t dare say it aloud, however, knowing it would just fuel Doug’s argument. Davies hung around with men the likes of Carlos Slim, Bill Gates and Warren Buffett—self-made billionaires who could do anything they ever wanted to given the vast size of their personal fortunes.

She was a little curious, she had to admit. It wasn’t every day a man like Davies came knocking on her door and she found herself wondering just what it was he wanted from her.

Doug took a deep breath and visibly calmed himself.

“Think about this for a minute, Annja. What show do you work for?”

“Chasing History’s Monsters.”

“Uh-huh. And what channel airs that program?” he asked in an exaggeratedly patient tone, like a parent talking to a slow-witted child.

Annja didn’t care for it. “You know well enough what cable channel we’re on, Doug.”

He acted as if he hadn’t heard her. “I’m sorry, what channel was that again?”

Annja glared at him for a long moment. Doug could be as stubborn as she could at times.

But he wasn’t about to budge.

He finally flashed a phony smile at her. “Now here’s the big one, Annja. Who owns the network that airs our little cable TV program?”

She didn’t even have to think about it. She saw the name every time she cashed one of her paychecks. None other than Sir Charles Davies.

The invitation had come from her boss’s boss’s boss. Which meant she could no more ignore it than she could sprout wings and fly on command.

“Damn.”

“Exactly!”

Grinning in triumph, Doug picked up the phone on his desk, dialed a number. When it was answered, he said, “This is Doug Morrell, executive producer of Chasing History’s Monsters. Please inform Sir Charles that Miss Creed would be more than happy to join him for dinner this evening.”

He listened for a moment, jotted something down on a piece of paper and then said, “Excellent. She’ll be expecting you,” before hanging up.

Annja was not happy with the situation, not at all. “Why don’t you go in my place?” she suggested.

“He didn’t invite me. He invited you.” He frowned as he said it and Annja abruptly realized that he was actually jealous of her. While she was content being a cohost for the show, Doug had ambitions of moving up the corporate hierarchy, perhaps spinning off a few program ideas of his own. A meeting with Sir Charles was the kind of thing that could change a career overnight.

For just a moment she debated asking him to accompany her for the evening, but decided against it. As much as she’d welcome the company, Sir Charles probably wouldn’t appreciate someone unexpected crashing that party.

Again, she found herself wondering what Davies wanted. Given what she knew about him, she couldn’t picture him even watching the show, never mind being one of her fans. Which meant it had to do with some other aspect of her life. She’d been approached by rich individuals and organizations in the past, usually to investigate the provenance of a particular collection or item, so perhaps that was it.

Heaven forbid it had anything to do with a new position at the network. Her current role left her time to pursue her first love, archaeology, while responding to the call of the sword.

Only one way to find out.

Doug handed her the piece of paper with a phone number on it. “Sir Charles is sending a driver to pick you up at your loft in Brooklyn at six. Call that number if you’re running late. And please, Annja, best behavior while you’re with him. Don’t say or do anything rash.”

An impish grin crossed her face. “Doug. You wound me. Would I do anything like that?”

The sour expression that crossed his face was answer enough.

She was still laughing as she headed out the door.

Chapter 3

Having resigned herself to going, Annja decided that she’d pull out all the stops and at least wear something nice. She took a sleek black dress out of the back of her closet, trying but ultimately failing to remember the last time she’d worn it, which said something entirely too depressing about her social life. She brought it to the bathroom with her, showered, dried off and put it on, pleased that the dress still fit.

The limo arrived promptly at six, as expected. Annja had seen it coming down the street and was just stepping out of her building as it rolled to a stop outside. The driver, a large man in a chauffeur’s uniform, held the door for her while she slipped inside, smoothing her dress over her legs.

Gascogne, the restaurant Sir Charles had chosen for their meeting, was on Eighth Avenue in Manhattan’s Chelsea District. Normally the traffic on a Friday night would make it next to impossible to get from her flat in Brooklyn and into the city in anything less than an hour, but the driver knew his job and he maneuvered the limo through the crush of traffic like a shark through a school of tuna. He had her at the door of the restaurant with ten minutes to spare.

There was a small line outside waiting for tables and Annja drew more than a few admiring stares as she emerged from the limousine. She was escorted inside by the waiting maître d’.

The restaurant had the ambience of a French bistro, with cream-colored walls, white linen tablecloths and muted lighting. It was artfully done and Annja knew that what looked effortless had probably been damned difficult to pull off.

Transferred to a waiter, she was led across the room toward a table in the back corner where Sir Charles—she recognized him from all the media coverage—sat waiting for her. He was alone, which surprised her. She’d expected either a private dining room or bodyguards. He was, after all, one of the richest men in the world, which would make him a target nine ways from Sunday.

She was getting closer to the table, and still puzzling it over, when she noticed a couple seated at a nearby table. The woman wore a finely tailored suit and Annja might not have seen the telltale bulge of what could only be a gun holstered beneath the woman’s arm if she hadn’t stretched to reach the saltshaker.

And just like that it was easy to pick out Sir Charles’s crew from the rest of the restaurant patrons. A pair of men in business suits a few tables over kept looking around the room a little too regularly, and a slightly older man drinking at the bar had been watching her in the mirror ever since she’d entered.

That Sir Charles wasn’t alone was oddly reassuring and she relaxed as she joined him at the table.

He greeted her warmly, extending his hand across the table for her to shake rather than getting up out of his chair. Annja wasn’t surprised or offended; an auto accident had robbed him of the use of his lower body more than two decades before. And if she hadn’t known, his wheelchair would have been a dead giveaway. He’d been a tall, broad-shouldered man before the accident and had managed to retain much of his physique in the years since. He had a crushing grip and a wide smile.

“Ah, Miss Creed. Wonderful to see you!”

As the waiter held her chair for her, Davies paused to let her settle in.

“Something to drink, mademoiselle?” the waiter asked in French, and was nonplussed when she immediately responded in the same language, selecting a glass of pinot grigio. It had been some time since she’d been out for a nice dinner. She was going to take advantage of the situation and enjoy herself.

Davies’s blue eyes were sparkling. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice. I’m only in the city for the evening and didn’t want to miss the opportunity.”

Despite her earlier thoughts, Annja felt herself swayed by his charm. “It’s my pleasure, Sir Charles.”

The elderly man waved his hand as if shooing away a bad odor. “Please. Charles is fine. I reserve that Sir Charles stuff for those I don’t particularly care for all that much.”

Annja laughed. “I think I like you already. Okay, Charles it is.”

The waiter brought their drinks—the wine for Annja and a refill of what looked like Scotch for Charles. He waited until the server was out of earshot before continuing.

“A mutual friend of ours in Paris said you might be able to help with a particular problem I’d like to solve.”

Annja only had one friend in Paris who could possibly run in the same social circles as Davies and that was Roux. Incredibly wealthy in his own right, perhaps even more wealthy than Charles Davies, Roux was unlike any other man she’d ever met. Save one.

He’d lived for more than five hundred years, which probably had something to do with that, she thought.

Roux had been an instrumental force in her life for years now. She had been with him when she’d discovered the final missing piece to the shattered sword that had once been wielded by Joan of Arc. Annja had been in Roux’s study with him when the blade had mystically reforged itself right before their very eyes and, by Annja’s way of thinking, had chosen her to be its next bearer. Since then Roux had become a kind of mentor to her, sharing what he knew of the blade and its purpose.

Which made sense given that the blade had had a significant impact on his life, as well.

He’d been Joan’s protector, charged with delivering her safely back behind French lines, a job he’d ultimately failed to do. Joan had been captured and, vastly outnumbered, he and his young apprentice, Garin Braden, had been unable to do anything but stand and watch as the English soldiers burned her at the stake for witchcraft and heresy. Joan’s sword had been shattered by the commander in charge of the execution detail, the pieces quickly gathered up by onlookers as souvenirs. It was only later that Roux discovered how his failure to live up to his vow to protect the young maiden had changed him and, by extension, his apprentice, as well. The two men stopped aging, appearing today just as they did five centuries before. Determined to be the master of his own fate, Roux had set out on a quest to reunite the shattered pieces of Joan’s sword, thinking that restoring the weapon might somehow end the curse.

Unfortunately, this brought him into rivalry with his former apprentice, Garin, who decided that he was quite happy living forever and didn’t see it as a curse at all. Because he saw the restoration of the blade as an attempt to undo the very act that had granted them an ageless life in the first place, Garin spent the next couple hundred years trying to kill Roux whenever he got the chance. It was only recently, when the blade had been reformed without any harm coming to them, that the two men had put aside their conflict and begun to cooperate.

Roux had sent customers her way on several occasions and so Annja wasn’t exactly surprised to hear of his recommendation.

“And how is the stubborn old goat?” she asked.

“As willful as ever,” Davis replied, “and determined to make everyone around him well aware of it.”

Their meal came, sea bass for Charles and a sirloin for Annja, and they spent the next thirty minutes enjoying the food and talking about inconsequential things. Once the table had been cleared and coffee ordered, Charles finally got down to business.

“What can you tell me about the Library of Gold?” he asked.

Annja didn’t even need to think about it. The library was one of the great unsolved mysteries of the archaeological world and she was well-versed in its history.

“It’s a collection of ancient books gathered over several hundred years by the Byzantine Empire and collected in the library at Constantinople. It supposedly included roughly eight hundred books written in Greek, Latin, Hebrew and Arabic, including some exceedingly rare volumes as a complete set of the “History of Rome” by Titus Livius, poems by Kalvos, “The Twelve Caesars” by Suetonius and individual works by Virgil, Aristophanes, Polybius, Pindar, Tacitus and Cicero.”

Annja took a sip of her wine, warming to the subject. “Many of the books would have been written by hand, which, if they surfaced on today’s market, would make them incredibly valuable. Never mind the several hundred editions that were supposedly created specifically for the various emperors, which were rumored to have had their covers inlaid with gold and encrusted with jewels of all shapes and sizes.

“When the emperor’s niece, Sophia Palaeologus, married the Grand Prince of Moscow, Ivan III, she took the library with her back to Russia. Reasons for this vary. Some say it was a part of her marriage dowry, while others insist that it was to keep the library from falling into the hands of Sultan Mahomet II, who was threatening Constantinople at the time. Either way it turned out to be fortuitous, because the sultan’s forces eventually sacked Constantinople. I guess in the end it really doesn’t matter. The library went to Russia and that pretty much sealed its doom.”

Charles was watching her closely, sizing her up it seemed. “Why’s that?” he asked.

“The difference in the cities themselves, for one. At the time, most of the buildings in Moscow were made of wood. Fires were frequent, the dry air leeching the moisture out of the wood in the summertime and causing them to burn fast. A small one-building fire could engulf an entire section of the city if it wasn’t quickly contained. Compare that with Constantinople, which was far older than Moscow and where most of the buildings were of cut stone. For this reason alone, the library was safer in Constantinople.

“Sophia apparently came to the same conclusion. Soon after arriving in Moscow, she convinced her new husband to rebuild the entire Kremlin, replacing the wooden structures with buildings of brick and stone. The library was moved to the Temple of the Nativity of the Theotokos and that’s where it remained until Sophia’s stepson, Ivan IV, came to power in 1533.”

“That hardly sounds like doom and gloom,” Charles said skeptically.

Annja smiled. “The library passed into the hands of Ivan IV, also known as Ivan the Terrible and the Butcher of Novgorod. This is the same man who killed his own son and heir in a fit of rage by striking him repeatedly over the head with an iron rod. He created a secret police force that was actively encouraged to rape, loot, torture and kill in his name to keep the populace under control. Does that sound like the kind of man priceless texts should be entrusted to?”

Charles grimaced and shook his head.

Annja went on. “Recognizing the potential danger the library was in, the Vatican tried to purchase it outright from the self-declared czar. Ivan refused. Afraid his enemies would try to take it from him by force, Ivan hired an Italian architect named Ridolfo di Fioravanti to design and build a secret vault to house the library. Months into the project Fioravanti and the library both vanished.”

“So what do you think happened to it?” Charles asked casually.

Annja thought about that one for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t have a clue,” she said. “And given what’s gone on over there for the past century or so, we’ll probably never know.”

Charles leaned toward her, his eyes shining with excitement. “What would you say if I told you I knew where it was? Or, at least, had direct information that could lead you to it?”

Annja laughed. “If I had a nickel for every time someone told me they knew where to find a long-lost treasure, I’d be as rich as you are, Charles.”

He stared at her and then lifted his hand. The woman Annja had noticed earlier immediately got up and walked over. She nodded once at Annja, then slid a manila envelope into her boss’s hands before returning to her seat.

Charles put the envelope down on the table in front of him and folded his hands over it.

Annja couldn’t take her eyes off it. Her heart was racing with the same electric excitement she felt just before entering a lost tomb. When at last she tore her gaze away, she found Charles watching her with a wry grin.

“Last month I was approached by a young man named Gianni Travino, who claimed to be a descendent of the architect hired to build Ivan’s secret vault. After establishing that he was who he claimed to be, and that his family was, indeed, distantly related to Fioravanti himself, Gianni and I had a long chat.”

Charles paused and glanced around, and Annja realized it was all part of the show. Her host apparently loved a good story and he was milking this one for all it was worth.

That was fine with Annja. She was as much a romantic when it came to a mystery as anyone else. Perhaps even more so, given what she did for a living. She settled back and let Charles tell it his way.

“Gianni’s father passed away a few months ago and while going through the old man’s things, Gianni discovered a hand-carved wooden box that no one in the family remembered having seen before. None of his father’s keys fit the lock, so Gianni took it to a locksmith and had it opened. Inside he found a leather journal he claims was not only written by Fioravanti himself, but that also holds the key to finding the secret resting place of the Library of Gold.”

Annja could guess where this was going, as she’d heard stories like it a hundred times before. Charles was going to ask her to use the journal to track down the treasure and would offer some percentage of whatever they recovered in payment for her time and energy. She almost stopped him right then and there. But he’d invited her out for an expensive night on the town, something that didn’t happen all that often, and treated her with respect. A little courtesy wouldn’t cost her anything but a bit of time, and she had enough of that to go around at the moment.

Charles Davies surprised her. “As you can imagine, I was immediately skeptical,” he said. “I mean, come on, Fioravanti’s journal suddenly shows up after being hidden away in a wooden box in some old guy’s closet for the past four hundred years? Seriously?”

Annja laughed. Charles was well into his sixties and hearing him use language more suitable for someone a quarter his age struck her as highly amusing. Never mind the fact that he was calling someone else an “old guy.”

“I see you understand my skepticism,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “That’s why I asked Mr. Travino to allow me to examine the journal and make a determination as to its authenticity on my own. Surprisingly, he was happy to let me.”

“And?”

Rather than answer her, Charles simply pushed the envelope in her direction.

Inside was a report from the office of David Carmichael, the chief archivist at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. Annja had never met Carmichael, but she was familiar with his work and knew that you weren’t put in charge of the country’s historical records if you were sloppy with your science.

She turned the report to catch more light and began reading. It didn’t take her long to get the impact of what the document was saying.

Charles had sent the journal to Carmichael with the request that he do what he could to verify the historical provenance of the document. He’d supplied written permission from Gianni to run whatever tests were necessary, paid the required fees to cover the costs and included a generous contribution to the Smithsonian’s general fund in exchange for moving the project to the front of the line.

It had still taken two months, but that was far better than the three-year wait Annja knew it could have been.

The results were far from expected.

Glancing through the report and the accompanying documentation relative to the tests themselves, it was clear Carmichael had put the journal through the ringer. He’d tested the composition of the paper, ink, glue and leather cover, verifying that they were all produced somewhere between 1500 and 1550, which was smack in the middle of the time frame necessary for it to be authentic. Annja knew this wasn’t proof of the journal’s authenticity in and of itself. A good forger will use age-appropriate materials when assembling a forgery intended to pass close scrutiny, but at least it was a start.

As expected, Carmichael put the journal through other rounds of tests, such as examining the way the words were inscribed on the page as well as the language used within the text. He verified that the word usage and syllogisms were all appropriate to the time period in question.

His final conclusion?

While he couldn’t say for certain the journal had been written by Ridolfo di Fioravanti, Carmichael did confirm it had mostly likely been assembled in the mid-1500s in southern Italy and that the ink that was used to inscribe the text on its pages was of the type available in Russia during the same time period.

It was pretty solid support for Gianni and his story, as far-fetched as it might seem.

Annja slipped the report back into the envelope and passed it across the table to Charles. “I want to see it for myself.”

He smiled. “I was hoping you would say that.”

Chapter 4

Sir Charles Davies had a house outside the city in Greenwich, just across the Connecticut state line, and it was there Annja found herself early the next morning. She’d wanted to see the journal for herself before listening to the rest of Charles’s proposal and he’d readily agreed. Doug hadn’t been so thrilled when she’d called to let him know she wasn’t going to make the day’s voice-over session.

“We’ve still got a ton of work ahead of us, Annja. We can’t afford to take a day off.”

“And yet that’s exactly what we’re going to do,” she said with a mischievous grin. “Unless, of course, you want me to tell Sir Charles I couldn’t possibly continue the discussion we started last night about his funding an expedition to find the lost library of Ivan the Great.”

“We can’t afford to waste any more…wait. Did you say Ivan the Great?”

“I did, but you’re right. We couldn’t possibly take a day off. I’ll tell Sir Charles I can’t make it and…”

“Wait!” Doug cried, a hint of panic in his voice. “You can’t tell him that.”

“But I thought you wanted—”

“Never mind what you thought. I’m telling you I want you to spend whatever time you need with Sir Charles. Make that expedition a reality and make sure you get broadcast rights for Chasing History’s Monsters.”

Annja had barely been able to keep herself from laughing as she’d solemnly agreed to follow Doug’s instructions to the letter before she hung up the phone.

She’d taken a taxi from the Greenwich train station and now stood outside the property’s gates, staring at the mansion just beyond. The place was enormous; at least as expansive as Roux’s place outside Paris.

Well, you knew Charles had money, right? Just what did you expect?

Definitely not this.

She was reaching for the intercom when the gates swung silently open. Clearly, someone had been watching the closed-circuit security cameras for her arrival. She glanced up at the black eye of the camera pointed at her from on top of the nearby gatepost, gave it a little wave and headed up the drive toward the front door.

Charles was waiting there in his wheelchair, a smile on his face. Next to him stood a good-looking man in his late twenties, with a mop of curly brown hair and big brown eyes. He was dressed in jeans and a button-down Oxford, Italian loafers on his feet.

This must be Gianni.

“Annja, so glad you could make it,” Sir Charles said, reaching out and shaking her hand. “And this man, my dear, is the reason I dragged you all the way out here this morning. Annja Creed, Gianni Travino.”

Bingo.

They shook hands.

“Good to meet you, Gianni.”

Annja didn’t miss the fact that he seemed to hold her hand a fraction of a moment longer than necessary.

They followed Charles inside.

“I suspect you’re eager to get started so we’ll save the tour for later and I’ll take you to the room we’ve set up, if that’s all right with you…?”

They made small talk as he led them through the house. She could feel Gianni’s gaze on her as they walked, and she assumed he was sizing her up. Her long auburn hair, athletic form and decidedly feminine curves were likely a far cry from the stuffy museum heads he’d been dealing with about the library.

Then again, he might just be admiring her for totally different reasons. And wouldn’t that be nice?

Yes, it would. She hadn’t had a date in what felt like forever; she been too busy dashing here and there around the globe on behalf of Chasing History’s Monsters, never mind her unofficial role as champion of the innocent.

Charles took them to a small room off the second floor. The diary was waiting for her in the center of the table like a long-lost friend and she went to it eagerly, pulling on the pair of white cotton gloves Charles gave her. Then he and Gianni excused themselves to go back to the meal they’d been sharing. Annja didn’t want a thing. She was too excited.

The journal was thin, bound in dark leather and tied together with a red ribbon that had seen better days. Maybe that’s why Charles Davies had tied his invitation with a ribbon. Cute. It rested on a glass platform designed so she could observe the specimen from all sides. It came equipped with two lamps, one shining down on the book from above and the other shining up on it from below. A legal pad and pencil lay on the table, in case she wanted to take notes.

Annja unzipped her knapsack, removing both her laptop and her digital camera. Booting the laptop, she connected it with a thin white cable to the camera and, after verifying the link between the two devices was working properly, began taking photos. This was so much a part of her standard procedure that it had become second nature to her. She always made a visual record of the artifact first, before beginning a more hands-on examination, and she had no intention of taking shortcuts now just because she wasn’t in the field. What she was doing was simply good science, and if there was anything she prided herself on, it was being thorough. That way, the client couldn’t ever accuse her of being sloppy or, worse yet, unprofessional. Her reputation was all she had in this line of work.

Finished with the camera, she turned her attention to the journal itself. She untied the ribbon and set it gently aside. With anticipation thrumming through her veins, she opened the book and stared at the crisp, clean handwriting on the first page. The Italian unfurled smoothly in her mind.

The morning began with a personal summons from the czar.

Three uninterrupted hours later she closed the journal and sat back. Charles and Gianni must have looked in on her, but she hadn’t noticed them and fortunately they’d let her be. The legal pad beside her was covered with notes, and a fresh set of pictures, this time of some of the journal’s pages, were displayed on the laptop. The journal was just what Gianni and, by extension, Charles had claimed it to be—a firsthand account of the design and construction of the vault commissioned by Ivan the Terrible to house the Library of Gold.

At first Fioravanti’s excitement at being chosen for such an important project had practically leaped off the page and he’d been clear and direct in his language. This changed once he began to suspect that he might never live to see the finished result. By the last several pages he’d become downright evasive in his wording.

But what had interested Annja the most was the final page of the journal. Unlike all of the others, this one was clearly in code, with a series of letters laid out in a rectangular arrangement with eleven rows of eighteen letters.

CAECPARTIZSNAIIYOI

AETPCIOUIRCIEIEUTC

WRRWODTOAAEEINMOFN

NTWTBAURYTIOHUPSUO

SNROTWESUVTKUAIASR

AECTMTSIBUNRASHYAR

LDEREGOWOTSWONIUHT

TTCUDUSIHOOASISELE

RMNINEEEREUNNGPFYD

MNOGAPIOOADTSDETUL

IEEUEFGSENRSSTOETO

It was a form of substitution code and, luckily, one she was familiar with. The trick was to lay out the message with the proper number of rows, each with the right number of letters, until something made sense when you read down the vertical rows.

After a little bit of trial and error, Annja settled on twenty-two rows, each with nine letters.

CAECPARTI

ZSNAIIYOL

AETPCLOUL

RCIEIEUTC

WRRWODTOA

AEEINMOFN

NTWTBAURY

TIOHUPSUO

SNROTWESU

VTKUAIASR

AECTMTSIB

UNRASHYAR

LDEREGOWO

TSWONUUHT

TTCUDISIH

OOASISELE

RMNINEEER

EUNNGPFYD

MROGAPIOO

ADTSDETUL

IEEUEFGSF

NRSSTOETO

Then, reading down the rows moving from left to right, Annja spelled out the entire message, inserting breaks between words where they seemed most appropriate. To her surprise, it had been coded into English.

CZAR WANTS VAULT TO REMAIN A SECRET. INTENDS TO MURDER ENTIRE WORK CREW. CANNOT ESCAPE WITHOUT AROUSING SUSPICION BUT AM SENDING A DETAILED MAP WITH GIUSEPPE FOR YOU TO USE AS YOU SEE FIT. GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN. YOUR BROTHER DOLFO.

If we could only get our hands on that map…

Charles’s confident smile. Did he already have it? Is that why he’s so convinced the journal will lead him to the library?

There was only one way to find out.

Annja took a photograph of the page containing the unbroken code and then one of the decoded message she’d worked out on her scratch pad. Afterward she packed everything up and emerged from the examination room to find Charles’s butler, a tall, thin balding man with tufts of gray hair sprouting out of his ears and dressed in a sharply pressed black suit, waiting for her.

“Sir Charles and his guest have retired to the study. Sir Charles left instructions for me to guide you there, if that would be all right with you?”

Annja indicated the hallway before them with a sweep of her arm. “Lead on.”

He took her down a few of the hallways she’d passed through earlier on her way to the examination room and then up a set of stairs to a room on the third floor. Gianni and Charles were deep in discussion over what looked to be a map—presumably of Moscow—but broke off when Annja arrived. The butler served them all drinks—Scotch for their host, espresso for Gianni and a mug of hot cocoa for Annja—and then they settled down to discuss their next steps. Annja and Gianni sat in leather armchairs in front of the desk with Charles in his wheelchair between them.

Annja didn’t waste any time asking the question that was burning her up inside.

“Do you have it?”

Charles looked at her with a cautious expression. “Have what?”

“The map, of course. Or did you think a simple substitution code was going to trip me up?”

He laughed aloud, delighted, it seemed, with both her ability to figure out the code and her attitude. He turned to Gianni and said, “Decoding that message took us, what? Seventy-two hours?”

“Seventy-four and a half,” the younger man replied, his gaze intent on her.

Annja pretended not to notice. “Since I obviously passed your test with flying colors, let’s get down to brass tacks. What exactly am I here for?”

“I should think that would be obvious by now,” Charles replied. “I want you to lead an expedition to find the lost library.”

Annja wasn’t surprised. From the moment he’d mentioned the ancient library she knew that was where he was headed. But she also knew there was much more to an expedition than just deciding to conduct one.

“While I certainly appreciate the confidence you’ve shown in me…” she began, but got no further.

Davies held his hand up. “Now just hang on a minute,” he told her. “Hear me out before you go telling me how crazy this is.”

She hadn’t been thinking quite that negatively, but waved to him to continue nonetheless.

“There have been more than eighteen well-funded attempts to find the library in the past fifty years, including two by Soviet leaders Joseph Stalin and Nikita Khrushchev. All of them have ultimately failed,” Charles said. “I have no intention of having my expedition join that long and illustrious list.

“That’s why I want to hire you, Annja. You have far more experience than any of the other expedition leaders I would be forced to consider if you turn me down. Though I’m confident you won’t,” he hastened to add.

Don’t be so sure of that.

“Money is no object, so you will have the best gear and whatever equipment you need to retrieve the library once you have confirmed its location. I will also call on my contacts in Russia to provide you whatever access and assistance you need to be successful.”

She had no doubt that his connections would be invaluable, as half the trouble on expeditions like this was securing the right to go where they wanted to go and search where they wanted to search. But she still wasn’t confident about his motives.

“What is it you expect to do with the library once we find it?” she asked.

For just a moment Charles appeared startled, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

“Is that what you’re concerned about? Rest easy, Miss Creed. If you locate—” he shook his head “—excuse me, when you locate it, the library will be turned over intact to the proper authorities inside the Russian government.”

It was a reasonable response, but Annja found herself pushing him just a bit further. “Right after you pocket a hefty finder’s fee, right?”

Charles laughed outright. “Look around you, Annja,” he said, indicating with a sweep of his hands the house, the grounds, his entire business empire by extension, she supposed. “The media claims I have more money than God and you know what? That’s probably the only time I’ve ever agreed with them. I set a record last year for the most consecutive appearances on Forbes magazine’s Top Ten Wealthiest People list. What on earth would I do with more money?”

It was the response she was looking for. The library was part of the world’s cultural heritage, a glimpse into the beliefs and practices of the past. It belonged to the Russian people and shouldn’t be locked away in some private collector’s vault.

“Good,” she said, “at least that’s settled. But we’re still faced with the issue of finding the map Fioravanti was talking about in his journal. You said you think you know where it is?”

Charles looked over at Gianni, who had been sitting patiently listening to their exchange. “Tell her,” he said to the younger man.

Annja saw the flash of excitement in Gianni’s eyes as he turned to face her. “According to what I’ve been able to discover, Ridolfo’s brother gave the map to Kasmir Nabutov, their cousin by marriage and an Orthodox priest assigned to the Cathedral of the Annunciation. Everything I’ve found on the topic suggests that Nabutov secreted the map inside the Gospel of Gold, though how or exactly where I don’t know.”

She knew that Ivan the Terrible had gifted the Gospel to the cathedral in 1571, right about the same time the library had gone missing. Legend claimed the Gospel had once been a part of the library and that it contained a clue to the library’s whereabouts, but it had been stored in the cathedral for hundreds of years with restricted access. Nobody had verified if the legend was true.

Given that they weren’t getting in to see the Gospel, Annja didn’t see how this was going to help them and said as much to the other two.

“As it turns out,” Charles replied, “I have a colleague on the staff of the cathedral. I’ve made arrangements for the two of you to privately examine the Gospel the day after tomorrow.”

The chance to see and touch the Gospel of Gold would have been enough to get her to agree to the trip. That she would be doing so as part of an expedition to find the lost library of Ivan the Terrible was icing on the cake.

Really good icing.

Now it was her turn to smile.

“So when do we get started?” she asked.

Chapter 5

Gianni was waiting for her, two first-class Aeroflot tickets in his hand, when she arrived at the airport the next afternoon. The flight from JFK in New York to Moscow’s Sheremetyevo International Airport was nine and a half hours, which would give them plenty of time to discuss how they intended to approach the Gospel of Gold and the ways Nabutov might have hidden information in its pages. First, however, Annja wanted to get to know her new companion better.

He, apparently, had the same idea.

“So,” Gianni said as they settled into their seats, “what do you do when you’re not traveling around the world searching for ancient artifacts and lost civilizations?”

“Oh, you know, the usual, I guess.”

The usual? Ri-i-ight.

Somehow she didn’t think protecting the innocent while bearing a medieval mystical sword that was once carried by Joan of Arc fit into most people’s definition of “the usual.” It wasn’t as if she could tell him the truth, and even if she did, he’d never believe it. Sometimes she almost didn’t believe it herself.

The day she’d stumbled upon the last remaining fragment of Joan’s shattered sword and, with her new friend Roux’s help, brought it together with the other fragments he had spent hundreds of years collecting was etched indelibly in her mind. It had, quite literally, been a turning point, not just for her but for Roux and Garin Braden, as well. None of their lives had been the same since.

The sword had chosen her; she knew that now. It had reforged itself right before her very eyes and in doing so had selected her to be its next bearer. The role came with its own unique set of responsibilities, she’d discovered. Her own sense of justice seemed amplified when she carried the sword and several times she’d found herself unable to walk away from a situation as a result. Numbers and odds didn’t matter, only that she acted to defend those who couldn’t defend themselves when the opportunity presented itself.

Which seemed to be happening more and more frequently.

Annja didn’t know how it all worked—at least, not yet. But she’d vowed that one day she would, because the mystery of it was like a constant irritation in the back of her logical, scientific brain.

Gianni, it seemed, wasn’t going to settle for such a trite answer, though.

“Come on,” he said, “you’ve got to give me more than that. Where’d you grow up?”

“New Orleans,” she replied, intentionally not mentioning the orphanage she’d lived in or the nuns who’d been the only adult influences in her life throughout her childhood. He didn’t need to know about that.

“What did you major in at school?”

“Bachelor’s and master’s degrees in archaeology, with a concentration in the medieval and Renaissance periods.”

“And now you work for a cable television show. How do you like that?”

While it was an interesting question, it wasn’t one that necessarily had an easy answer. She didn’t particularly care for the show’s sensationalism, but she appreciated that it allowed her to travel throughout the world investigating ancient civilizations and the legends surrounding them. It was a means to an end and right now one that came in very handy when she considered the sword’s influence on her life.

She explained how she felt about the show as best she could, then said, “Enough with the twenty questions. What about you?”

“Me? Not much to tell, really. Born and raised outside of Milan with my two brothers. One became a doctor, the other an architect. The pride of my parents’ eyes.”

“And you?”

He grinned. “A painter. Annoyed them even more than I thought it would.”

Annja laughed, but it was more from a sense that it was the kind of response he was expecting. She’d worked hard and done what the nuns had expected of her so that she could get out of there at the earliest opportunity. Why anyone would intentionally choose a path that wasn’t what they wanted to do just to annoy another person, especially their parents, was beyond her.

“What do you paint?”

Gianni shrugged. “This and that. Landscapes, mostly. A few portraits now and then.” He studied her, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “You should let me paint you. You would look beautiful in the light of an Italian sunset.”

An image flashed through Annja’s mind, the two of them in a Tuscan farmhouse, the orange-red light of the setting sun streaming in through a nearby window, splashing across her supine form, warming her bare skin as Gianni looked on from a painter’s stool a few feet away, close enough to reach out and touch…

Down, girl. It had been too long since she’d spent any time with the opposite sex.

Not wanting him to guess at her line of thought, Annja assumed an indignant expression. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked archly. “I need Italian sunlight to bring me up to your standards?”

For a moment, he just gaped at her. “Wait…that’s not what I meant,” he stammered, trying to recover. “I mean, of course you’re beautiful, but the sunlight—”

Gianni sat and stared at her. “Very funny,” he finally said. Their laughter served to bring them out of that awkward get-to-know-you stage and they spent the rest of the time before dinner chatting comfortably on topics ranging from the art of the Italian Renaissance to the Yankees’ chance at another World Series. Once the flight attendant had cleared the dinner dishes, Annja decided to catch some sleep to help her adjust to the time change once they arrived in Moscow. Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she curled up with a pillow against the window and drifted off to sleep with the hum of the engines in her ears.

* * *

THE REST OF THE FLIGHT passed without difficulty and the pilot brought them in for a bumpy but otherwise uneventful landing just before midnight local time. Neither of them had checked their bags, so they were able to bypass baggage claim and reached the immigration processing area ahead of most of the other passengers. Annja handed their passports to a blonde woman in the blue uniform of the Federal Migration Service.

“What is the reason for your visit?” the officer asked, looking up at them as she compared their faces to their photos.

“Vacation.”

It wasn’t exactly true, but telling the officer that they were here to hunt for the long-lost library of Ivan the Terrible, one of Mother Russia’s most feared despots, didn’t seem the wisest move.

The officer scanned Annja’s passport and then waited for her computer to process the information. Once it had, she picked up a rubber entry stamp and raised it over an open page of the passport only to hesitate at the last moment after glancing at what came up on her computer screen.

She lowered her hand without using the stamp.

Annja didn’t like that, didn’t like it at all.

A sense of unease slowly unfurled itself in her gut.

“You are together, yes?” the officer asked Annja, while inclining her head toward Gianni.

For a moment Annja thought the other woman was asking if the two of them were a couple. She opened her mouth to say no, but then realized what she was really being asked.

“That’s right,” she replied. “We are traveling together.” She smiled, hoping to get one in return.

She didn’t.

The officer picked up Annja’s passport a second time and gave it closer scrutiny, which only increased Annja’s growing unease.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

The officer ignored her. She dialed a number on her phone, waited for it to be answered and then said a few short phrases in Russian, glancing only once at Annja in the process.

Annja knew a handful of languages, but unfortunately Russian wasn’t one of them.

She desperately wanted to know what the officer was saying.

The officer hung up, got up from behind her desk and disappeared through a door in the back behind her station, all without saying a word to Annja or Gianni.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Annja just shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

She glanced over the counter, trying to read whatever was on the officer’s computer monitor, but it was angled too far to the left for her to get a clear look. She thought she could see the edge of a photo, a head shot perhaps, maybe even her own, but the reflection of the overhead lights on the screen kept her from being certain. Their passports were no longer on the counter, which could only mean the officer had taken them with her.

That wasn’t a good sign.

“You’re not an international fugitive by any chance, are you?”

She knew Gianni was joking, but the remark sent a shiver down her spine just the same. She’d had more than her fair share of police encounters since taking up the sword. More than once she’d had to employ creative storytelling when it came to explaining away the bodies she’d been forced to leave in her wake. She’d always acted in self-defense, but proper explanations would have required revealing the sword’s existence and that was something she simply hadn’t been prepared to do.

Had something she’d done in the past finally caught up with her?

Chapter 6

The sound of a door closing caught her attention and Annja looked up to see the blond officer walking back toward her, with two other immigration agents in tow. Both were large men, with wide shoulders and several inches on Annja. If they weren’t imposing enough, the sight of the handguns holstered on their belts clearly indicated they meant business.

The blonde opened the low gate separating the passengers from the immigration officials and waved Annja and Gianni through.

“This way.”

It was voiced as a request, but Annja knew they had little choice. Something must have set off a red flag somewhere, leaving them with the option of either following orders or trying to make a break for it. Neither course of action was all that appealing.

Her instincts were screaming at her to get out of there, but to reach the street, they would have to get past not only the immigration officers but also the customs officials at their stations farther down the corridor, and both groups were armed.

The immigration officers formed up around them and marched them off down the hall to curious stares from their former fellow passengers. They were led to a small windowless room that contained a table and four chairs, two on either side. Annja had seen her share of interrogation rooms. She glanced around, trying to spot the security cameras, to no avail. She knew they were there, somewhere, and had no doubt that the room was also bugged. She hoped Gianni was smart enough to figure it out for himself, because there was no way of warning him without giving away that they had something to hide.

Just going to have to play it by ear and hope for the best.

Their guide asked them to take a seat, said something about getting them water and closed the door behind her on the way out.

Annja didn’t even try the knob; she knew it would be locked.

Not that a locked door would have stopped her. She could have called her sword to her at any moment and made short work of both the lock and the door. But that wouldn’t get them to the bottom of what was happening and would only serve to cement their guilt in the minds of their captors.

They could always use the sword to free themselves if it proved necessary later.

They sat there, staring at the four walls, for what felt like hours. Twice Gianni tried to engage her in conversation, to get her to discuss their situation and why she thought they might be in here, but she shushed him both times.

She didn’t want to give them any more ammunition than they already had. Whatever that might be.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, before the door opened and the biggest man Annja had ever seen stepped inside the room. She and Gianni immediately got to their feet. He was so tall that he had to duck to get through the doorway and his wide shoulders filled his jacket near to bursting. His sheer presence was intimidating, never mind his scowling expression. Annja found herself subconsciously shifting her feet into a wider defensive stance, preparing for a confrontation. She needn’t have worried, though, for the man’s bulldog face split into an equally wide grin when he caught sight of her.

“Rasputin’s ghost!” he exclaimed. “It is you.”

The man’s reaction was so unexpected that Annja could only stand there and stare.

The newcomer crossed the room, one enormous paw extended, and took Annja’s hand in his own and shook.

“Welcome. Welcome to Moscow. I am Yuri Basilovich and, I assure you, I am your biggest fan in all of Russia.”

“Fan?” Annja asked, still trying to make sense of what was happening.

“Yes. Yes, of course! I have seen all of your episodes at least twice, sometimes more. If there is anything you need, anything at all, you let me know, da?”

Annja blinked and finally understood that she was standing in a Russian interrogation room talking to this giant of a man because he was a fan of her show. All the tension and anxiety slipped from her system in a rush, leaving her light-headed. When she found her voice, she said, “I’m very pleased to meet you, Yuri, but I must admit to being confused. My colleague and I have been held here as if we were criminals. Would it have not been easier if you’d simply said hello to us when we were in the immigration line?”

The big man’s expression went from enthusiasm to abject horror. He turned to the immigration officer behind him, one of the men who had escorted them here in the first place, and fired off a rapid stream of Russian. Annja didn’t speak the language, but judging from his tone, Yuri wasn’t happy. He must not have appreciated the answer he received, either, for it elicited another blast from him.

After dressing down his subordinate, Yuri turned back to face Annja.

“I must beg your forgiveness, Miss Creed,” he said, the embarrassment plain on his face. “I had not wanted to miss a chance to meet you in the unlikely event that you came through our facility, so I had placed an alert in the system keyed to your name. When my subordinates saw that, they wrongly assumed you had done something illegal and detained you. Unfortunately, I was not on the premises at the time.”

Annja was flattered but also annoyed. To think that a man would go to so much trouble on the slim chance that she might one day come through his airport was one thing, but being kept locked in a small room for more than an hour was something else entirely. It was not an auspicious beginning to their trip.

We’ve wasted enough time, she thought. We need to get out of here and back on schedule.

Annja smiled at the big Russian. “I understand completely, Yuri. I’m always happy to meet a fan of Chasing History’s Monsters and so I say we chalk this up to an unfortunate miscommunication and leave it at that. What do you say?”

Yuri’s head bobbed up and down. “I couldn’t agree more, Miss Creed. And if I may, perhaps you’ll let me provide an escort to your hotel to make up for the time that you have lost?”

“That’s not necessary, Yuri… .”

“No, I insist,” he replied, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Under Yuri’s direction they were hustled through the airport and out through a special VIP door away from the general traffic. A black Mercedes limousine pulled into view just as they came out of the building.

“Where are you staying?” Yuri asked.

“The Marriott Grand Hotel on Tverskaya Street.”

“Of course.”

Yuri placed their roller bags in the trunk, opened the door of the Mercedes, waiting for Gianni and Annja to climb into the backseat before saying a few words to the driver. Turning back to Annja, he handed her his card. “The driver will take you directly to your hotel, Miss Creed, and the fare is taken care of, courtesy of the Federal Migration Service. If there is anything else I can do to make your stay more comfortable, you need only call.”

Annja thanked him and, as the driver pulled away from the curb, slipped Yuri’s card into her pocket.

You never knew when having a friend in the Russian immigration service could come in handy.

Chapter 7

The hotel was located on legendary Tverskaya Street in the heart of Moscow, within walking distance of Red Square. The driver took them there without delay and with a minimum of fuss. Upon checking in, they discovered that Sir Charles had reserved two adjoining executive-level rooms for them on the ninth floor, away from the hotel traffic.

The rooms were well appointed and spacious. From Annja’s window she could see the colorful spires of Saint Basil’s Cathedral and the long wall of the Kremlin itself. They wouldn’t have any trouble getting there in the morning. Annja quickly stowed the one bag she’d brought with her and then knocked on the door connecting her room to Gianni’s.

“It’s open,” he called.

Annja stepped inside to find him staring out the window at the Kremlin a few blocks away.

“I never thought I’d get this far,” he said wistfully, without taking his eyes off what was perhaps Russia’s most iconic building. Annja knew just how he felt. She’d been there herself, more times than she could count, when all the hard work had come together and she stood before the object of her search, wondering just how it was all going to turn out. She knew the mix of eagerness and doubt he had to be feeling because she was experiencing it, too. Tomorrow was going to be an important day for both of them.

“Shall we give Charles a call and let him know we’ve arrived?” she asked.

Gianni handed over the satellite phone Charles had given them. Annja made sure the speakerphone was activated and then placed the call.

“Any difficulties?” Charles asked, after they had exchanged pleasantries.

“No, no trouble here,” Annja told him, deciding that the encounter with her “number-one fan” was something he didn’t need to hear about for the time being.

“Good. Glad to hear that nonsense at the airport didn’t amount to anything.”

Gianni, clearly amused, glanced in her direction.

Their employer was well connected, indeed, if he’d heard about that already, she thought. Have to remember that in the future.

His point made, Charles went on. “I’ve arranged for you to meet an old colleague of mind, Semyon Petrescu, at the Cathedral of the Annunciation tomorrow afternoon. He is the curator of the rare book collection housed there and he has graciously agreed to give you a few hours to examine the Gospel of Gold. He thinks you’re doing research for a thesis, so let’s keep him in the dark about our true purpose, all right?”

“Thesis. Got it.” She had no idea what kind of thesis she was supposed to be writing, but she was sure she’d figure something out when the time came. Charles went on, providing the details of where and when they were to meet his colleague, which Gianni jotted down on the notepad next to the phone. After instructing them to call in tomorrow after visiting the cathedral, their employer bid them goodbye and disconnected the call.

Back in her room, Annja washed up, changed into her pajamas and climbed into bed. Despite the couple of hours’ sleep she’d grabbed aboard the plane, she was asleep moments after her head hit the pillow.

* * *

THE NEXT DAY ANNJA was up with the sunrise, the effect of the long flight lost in her enthusiasm for the search to come. She pulled on a T-shirt and sweats, pushed the coffee table and chair back against the wall to clear some space in the middle of the room and then reached into the otherwhere for her sword.

The broadsword slid smoothly into existence, appearing with the speed of thought, the hilt fitting her palm as if it was specially made for her and her alone. The weapon was finely balanced and in the time she’d carried it she’d become very skilled with it. That didn’t stop her from practicing, which was just what she intended to do now.

She spent the next forty-five minutes working through a variety of sword katas, stylized sequences of moves designed to mimic the attack and defense response of an actual sword fight. The physical practice allowed the motions to settle into her muscle memory so that they would be there at her beck and call when she needed them.

After her workout, she called down to room service and had them deliver a breakfast of bacon and eggs, which she ate with relish. Then she showered, dressed and was at her laptop doing additional background research on the cathedral when Gianni knocked on her door.

They left the hotel and walked down the street toward the Kremlin. From her morning’s research, Annja knew that the Cathedral of the Annunciation had been built by Ivan the Terrible’s grandfather, Grand Duke Ivan III, as part of his general expansion of the Kremlin. It was smaller than the other two grand cathedrals that were nearby, but from the time of Ivan the Terrible’s coronation as czar of Russia, the royal family had worshipped, gotten married and baptized their children inside the walls of this cathedral. Even after the capital had been moved to Saint Petersburg, the cathedral had continued to play an important role in the lives of the royal family.

It was a fitting place to begin their search for the library.

The official entrance to the Kremlin was through the Savior’s Gate, located in the base of the gothic-turreted Spasskaya Tower. A small crowd of tourists were gathered outside, taking pictures of the clock hanging high above on the tower’s face, and Annja and Gianni were forced to thread their way through them to reach the entrance where a guard was checking IDs.

Annja noted several people crossing themselves and doffing their hats as they passed through the gates and she was reminded of how the tower was reputed to be possessed with miraculous powers and would supposedly protect the Kremlin from enemy invasion. Horses passing through its gates were said to shy in fear, and legend had it that Napoleon’s own horse had reared in fright when he’d tried to enter without showing his respect.

They handed their passports to the guard when it was their turn and told him they had an appointment to see Dr. Petrescu. The guard gave them visitor badges and let them through.

The cathedral was located on the southwest corner of Cathedral Square, where it was directly connected to the main building of the Grand Kremlin Palace complex. Its nine golden domes shone in the morning sun as they approached, their glow reflecting off the white limestone facades beneath. They entered through the doors decorated with gold foil at the top of the south staircase as they’d been instructed, Annja cataloging the fact that it was this staircase, rather than the eastern one, that had been added by Ivan the Terrible in 1570.

Another guard sat behind a desk just inside the doors and they repeated their goal to him. He picked up the phone, made a quick call and then asked them to wait. A few minutes later a man came down the hall toward them, dressed in a dark suit and tie. Given the lines on his face and his thinning gray hair, Annja guessed he was in his early sixties. He smiled as he saw them and when he got closer extended his hand.

“I am Semyon Petrescu and, unless my instincts are off, you must be Ms. Creed and Mr. Travino.”

They shook hands.

“Sir Charles tells me you’re interested in taking a look at the Gospel of Gold, is that right?” Semyon asked as he ushered them past the guard and headed back down the hall in the direction he’d come.

“It is,” Annja replied, stepping in beside their host and letting Gianni bring up the rear. “I’m gathering data for a thesis on the decorative art and illuminated manuscripts of sixteenth-century religious texts, a study that wouldn’t be complete without a section on the Gospel of Gold.”

Annja was confident her knowledge of the subject would be enough to provide a convincing cover for them and hoped all the while that Semyon wouldn’t ask Gianni any questions. Thankfully he didn’t, and by the time they reached the room where they were to examine the almost five-hundred-year-old manuscript, Annja and Semyon were chatting like old friends.

The examination room was typical of those she’d used at other facilities, just a small square room with a table in the center and decent lighting overhead. A metal case rested on the tabletop, two pairs of white cotton gloves lying beside it. A surveillance camera hung from the ceiling in one corner.

Their host led them over to the table and then went around to the opposite side. He took his own pair of white gloves out of his pocket and pulled them on, indicating with a nod that they should do the same.

“A few reminders,” he said as he turned the case toward him and punched the combination into the keypad lock set in the top. “Gloves must be worn at all times and photography of any kind, with or without flash, is strictly prohibited. Written transcripts of the entire volume are available, complete with reproductions of the artwork, and I can have one of these made available to you should you need it.”

He said something else after that, but Annja didn’t hear it, her attention riveted on the gold-and-jewel-encrusted tome he lifted out of the specimen case and set on the table in front of them.

The Gospel of Gold.

It was an oversize book, long and wide like an accountant’s ledger, and several inches thick. The cover was filigree gold, inset with uncut precious gems—topazes, tourmalines and sapphires from the looks of them. It drew her forward like a moth to a flame.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Semyon asked.

It certainly was.

Chapter 8

Up close, Annja could see five circular enamels set in the cover, one on each corner and a larger one in the center. All five were surrounded by wreathed inscriptions linked to one another in nielloed gold. The image in the center was that of the risen Christ, while those in the corners represented various saints praying or studying.

It was a stunning piece of workmanship, made all the more so by the knowledge that the work had been done by hand in the sixteenth century.

“My office is just down the hall,” Semyon said, “so if you need anything, dial 475.”

He pointed to an old-fashioned push-button phone hanging on the wall in the corner. He didn’t mention the state-of-the-art security camera that hung from the ceiling above it. It was positioned so that most of the room would be visible, but Annja doubted the feed would be monitored 24/7.

Then again, this was Russia… .

Satisfied that all was in order, their host left them to it.

Annja and Gianni spent the next several hours going through the Gospel one page at a time, carefully examining each one before moving on to the next. As they had decided the night before, Annja concentrated on the text of each page while Gianni focused on the artwork that decorated the borders and surrounded the drop cap that started each section of text. If Gianni’s research was correct, somewhere in the Gospel’s gilded pages were instructions to find the map that would lead them to the library.

The workmanship was beautiful. The scribe had used bold clean strokes and the words and images seemed to jump right off the page at her. It was hard to believe this was a book that had been produced more than four hundred years ago.

Beauty aside, however, after hours of careful observation they could find nothing that pointed to the location or even the existence of the map that Fioravanti had mentioned in his journal. They’d been through the complete text and, having arrived at the blank page at the end, Annja was ready to admit they might need to rethink their approach.

She was used to setbacks and suggested they take a break, come at it again later with fresh eyes.

“Damn it!” Gianni swore, getting up from the table and pacing in frustration. “We can’t give up now. It’s here somewhere, I know it is!”

“No one is giving up,” she said soothingly, glancing over his shoulder at the camera on the other side of the room, hoping he’d recognize the unspoken warning in her eyes. She didn’t want to offer their hosts any excuse for removing them from the room. “I’m just suggesting we take a short break—that’s all.”

With her gaze still on her companion, Annja reached out to close the book and in the process her fingers brushed across the surface of the end page.

Something tugged at the cotton glove covering the tip of one finger.

One-one-hundredth of a degree less pressure and she never would have felt it.

She looked down at the page in front of her but didn’t see anything that was immediately obvious and a second pass with her gloved finger across its surface didn’t turn up whatever it was that had snagged it in the first place, either.

But something was there.

She was certain of it.

A tingling sense of anticipation built in her gut, the one that she usually experienced just before a big find. And that told her she was on to something here.

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