Vasily winced, reminding himself to be more cautious with his words, lest he be hung for treason.
“Catherine is no one’s fool,” Lomonosov insisted. “In fact, she has done that which no man or woman has ever accomplished.” The man shook his head, and his lips thinned, as if reminding himself to be careful with his own words. “Suffice it to say, she did not send them off without any guidance.”
Vasily wanted to press this last detail further, but he knew Lomonosov would not relent. So, he changed tack. “Regardless, why does the empress seek out this lost continent? I’ve heard stories about the inhabitants of Hyperborea, of an elixir that grants centuries of life. Securing such a treasure has been the ambition of many explorers. Is that what she hoped to discover?”
Lomonosov sighed heavily. “Again, you call her a fool without stating it outright. The only immortality she seeks is to lift the Russian Empire to greater prominence, to have us shine brighter than the Europeans who look down upon us as savages. The discovery of Hyperborea—even remnants thereof—would bring far greater glory to the empire than even the discovery of the Northeast Passage.”
Vasily doubted this was true, but he returned his attention to the curve of tusk. “And you believe this might be proof that the first expedition had been successful?”
“I... I do not know, but it is a hope. A place to start.”
Vasily sensed the weight of the other’s words and what he left unspoken. “And you intend for us to finish it.”
“That is why Empress Catherine sent me with her decree.”
Vasily glanced back at the icy crypt, praying he and his men wouldn’t suffer the same fate. He noted Orlov standing to the side, near the tip of the horn. The lieutenant’s neck was craned back. He stared not at the tusk, but at the wall behind it.
With the lantern still in hand, Vasily stepped over to Orlov and raised the light. Like the names of the dead chiseled into the cavern wall, someone had chipped out a final warning into the rock.
Orlov read it aloud. “‘Never go there, never trespass, never wake that which is sleeping.’”
Vasily turned to Lomonosov. The councilor’s gaze remained on the tusk, on the ancient metropolis etched into the ivory. The man’s eyes glowed in the lamplight.
In that moment, Vasily knew the truth.
No dead man’s warning would stop them.
First
1
May 10, 1:03P.M. MSK
Moscow, Russian Federation
The silence of a tomb hung over the subterranean vault, but it was not sarcophagi that lined its floor. Instead, a dozen steel-strapped chests were arrayed in a semicircle under an arched brick roof. The only noise was the echoing drip of water from the labyrinth of tunnels that the group had traversed to reach this site.
Monsignor Alex Borrelli entered the space with a shiver that was part delight and part trepidation. His heart pounded in his chest. He felt like a trespasser, maybe a grave robber.
“Porazitel’nyy!”Vadim blurted out with youthful enthusiasm. “Just as I described,da?”
“It is indeed astounding,” Alex confirmed.
Vadim was a student from Moscow State University. A week ago, he and a motley group of fellow subterranean adventurers had stumbled upon this locked vault far below the streets of Moscow. Luckily, the young man had recognized the importance of his discovery and alerted the city’s archaeological museum.
At the time, Alex had taken the discovery to be a sign of heavenly providence, especially as he was already here in Moscow. As a member of the Vatican’s Pontifical Commission of Sacred Archaeology, Alex worked closely with the Apostolic Archive back in Rome. Alex’s professional interest was in thehistoryof the holy library, on establishingthe provenance of its collection. Over the decades, he had uncovered many astounding and sometimes sordid tales behind various volumes.
In fact, this was why Alex had come to Moscow, to meet with his counterpart at the Russian Orthodox Church. For the past several years, the patriarchate’s Holy Synod had been demanding the return of hundreds of tomes held in the Vatican library, which truthfully had been stolen from the country during the era of the tsars. The pope had personally sent Alex to oversee these discussions. The task would take some judicious diplomacy to discern who had rightful claim to the books in question. Some were of extreme historical value, and most were priceless.
Then a few days ago, word had leaked to Alex of the discovery deep beneath Moscow, of a cache of ancient books sealed up in a vault. His counterpart within the Russian Orthodox Church—Bishop Nikil Yelagin—had invited him to accompany the archaeological team, to help ascertain if the books were of any import. There were only a handful of others who had the knowledge and expertise to judge the significance of what might lay below.
Still, Alex knew this invitation was as much a part of diplomatic wrangling as it was a matter of his personal expertise. His inclusion served as a demonstration of cooperation by the orthodox church.
“How should we proceed?” Igor Koskov asked, joining him in the doorway.
“With care.”
Alex turned to Igor. The lanky, dark-haired Russian was an archivist from Moscow’s Museum of Archaeology. The young man was barely out of his twenties, four decades younger than Alex’s seventy-two years.
