Turov scowled. “Even if this is true, it sounds like Pavel’s father came back empty-handed.”
“Maybe not. Especially when you consider thesecondaccount that I had mentioned.” Sychkin stared hard at Turov. “That story came from Catherine the Great’s own son—Paul. The young man was also friends with Pavel. In a set of Tsarist papers returned to us from the Vatican, we uncovered a single letter from Paul to Pavel, where the emperor hints that Chichagov had foundsomethingduring that voyage. Paul’s words are cryptic. He hints at the discovery of ‘wonders and horrors’ far to the north. And ‘a threat that could end all life.’”
Turov scoffed. “That could mean anything.”
“Except for one additional oddity in that letter. Paul tells Pavel that his mother, Catherine, hadn’t sent Chichagov north without any guidance. He claims she had come across ‘ancient texts thought lost forever’ and it was those books that guided her hand.”
Turov understood where this was leading. “You’re thinking she found the Golden Library and something in that archive revealed a path to Hyperborea?”
“I see the doubt in your eyes. Sometimes you must give yourself over to faith.”
Turov heard the growing irritation in the other’s voice, but he ignored it. “And if I don’t have such faith? What if I want proof?”
The shadow of a smile shone through the archpriest’s thick beard. “Within that recovered Greek text, we found an illuminated sketch of a gold book, an image we believe is meant to represent the Golden Library. More importantly, the illustration was signed in Catherine’s name.”
“Truly?” Turov could not help but be intrigued.
Sychkin nodded. “I believe—I havefaith—that Catherine is guiding our hand to that library.”
“A library that could lead us to a lost continent?”
“And maybe to a weapon hidden there. Catherine’s son, Paul, warns of a great danger, onethat could end all life. Still, either way, her explorers must have found something important. Why else keep her discovery of the Golden Library secret? Such a revelation would’ve brought great acclaim to her reign and to Russia. So why hide it?”
Turov could guess. He remembered what Paul had described was found to the Far North.
Wonders and horrors.
A stab of trepidation struck him. He pictured the collapse of the vault under Moscow. If the archpriest was right, Catherine must have been determined to preserve her secret, while also keeping it well guarded.
“We are close to the truth,” Sychkin insisted with a note of exaltation. “As such, there will come a time when we will need your help, CaptainTurov—along with your Arctic Brigade. I ask you to gather a force, those you most trust, and wait for our word.”
Turov gave a slight bow of his head in acknowledgment, recognizing this was the reason Sychkin had been so forthright about these details.
He needs my help.
Turov shared a look with Oleg, whose eyes shone with the same hope that stoked in his own chest. If all of this was even partially true, it could change Russia forever.
Turov turned back to Sychkin. “How long do you believe it will take you to find the Golden Library?”
Sychkin’s smile widened. “From the drawing inside that Greek text, we suspect we already knowwhereto look... or at least a general area. The search will begin in earnest tomorrow.”
Turov could not hide his surprise, yet he could also not shake his earlier trepidation. He had more questions, but Sychkin turned away, clearly dismissing him.
The archpriest called over to his assistant. “Yerik, we’re done here. Let us put these pour souls to rest.”
The robed monk, who had been cleaning knives off to the side, nodded. He was a formidable figure. Even crouched over a table, the man towered taller than Turov.
He knew of the monk’s past, how he had come to be Sychkin’s aide. When Yerik was twelve, his mother had been part of a doomsday cult. She followed the self-declared prophet, Pyoty Kuznetsov, who founded what he called the True Russian Orthodox Church. The cult holed up in a cave with canisters of gasoline. It was only after some of them died during a fire, including Yerik’s mother, that the group abandoned the cave. It had been black-cassocked members of the orthodox church who had guided them out. Sychkin had been part of that party and took Yerik under his care, who had been badly burned and still carried a gnarled scar across his neck and the side of his face.
After that experience, the monk would clearly do anything the archpriest asked.
Including picking up an electric drill, one fitted with a long stainless-steel bit.
Yerik carried the tool toward the two figures strapped in the chairs. The woman stirred, as if suspecting her doom.
Turov swung away as the drill’s motor ignited with a feverish scream. More than ready to depart, he headed to the door with Oleg. A concern continued to plague him.
Maybe we should take heed of Catherine’s caution in such matters.
