The mansion was the residence of Leonid Sychkin, going back generations in his family. During the Soviet era, many of the ruraldachashad been taken over and turned into communal living quarters, but not this place. Stalin had granted an exception to the Sychkin family. Mostly due to the largesse of Leonid’s grandfather, who had gifted Stalin with one of the family’s otherdachas, one outside of Saint Petersburg.
Tucker had learned much of the family’s history from the trio of nuns—sisters Uliana, Maria, and Natalia—who escorted Seichan. Having grown up here, they had no love for Stalinist partisans. Worst of all, none of them believed Leonid had come into his faith from a true calling, but more out of lust for greed and power, drawn by the new money flowing into the orthodox church’s coffers and the resurgent patriarchate’s growing status.
If so, Sychkin’s interest in lost libraries and mythic continents made sense.
If Russia’s star rises, so would his.
Reaching the edge of the park, Tucker stepped out onto the sidewalk, but he kept to the shadows of a maple tree. Closer now, he could discern the scaffolding and ladders around the mansion. The roof slates looked new. Several windows were temporarily boarded over, waiting to be replaced. The steeple had a shining layer of fresh gold-leaf, as if trying to rival the Lavra’s gilded onion domes.
And clearly the work was ongoing.
Tucker frowned.
No way this costly renovation was done on an archpriest’s salary.
He wagered Sychkin must be skimming off the generous flow of funds that were filling the coffers of the orthodox church. No wonder the nuns were so upset with the guy.
Tucker glanced down the street as those same women exited the park, stopping thirty yards to his right. He still couldn’t tell which one was his teammate. Valya might be a master of disguises, using her pale face as a blank canvas, but Seichan was clearly equally skilled in such deceptions.
He radioed Seichan, rubbing his chin to further hide any movement of his lips. “We’re all set here.”
“The limo out front,” she warned. “It’s the same vehicle that Gray and I had spotted at the monastery ruins.”
Tucker had also noted the stretch limousine. It was parked before the fence’s ornate iron gate.
Then Sychkin must be inside.
The plan was for each group to set off in opposite directions and canvass the mansion as best they could. Cobblestoned alleyways, bordered by tall brick walls, ran behind and to the right of the building, separating the estate from its neighbors.
Seichan and her group headed toward the mouth of the alleyway to the right. She would inspect the house’s front, too. Tucker and Yuri would surveil the mansion’s left flank and the rear of the structure.
Their goal was to search for any evidence that the captured group had been brought here. The team had been ordered to do nothing more. If the others were here, Seichan’s group would continue their surveillance—then, after nightfall, a rescue effort would be made to extract them.
Tucker’s jaw tightened. While he recognized the need for caution, he chafed at the constraints, uncomfortable with having to follow orders. Then again, he had been taught a hard lesson last night. He pictured Kowalski being dragged off and Elle guarding over Marco. If there was any chance of rescuing them, he couldn’t go it alone.
Not here, not in broad daylight, not with a military encampment nearby, stationed to protect the Lavra.
Tamping down his frustration, Tucker set off with Kane, trailed by Yuri. He reached the corner, noting Seichan’s group had stopped by the entrance to the far alley. They chattered amongst themselves, unfolding a map. Though Tucker could not discern Seichan, he had no doubt she was studying the narrow cobblestone lane and her half of the mansion.
Tucker continued along the opposite side. The sidewalk was deeply shaded by the crowns of old rowan trees, a species revered by Russians, believed to have magical properties. The trunk of one of the nearest had grown past the garden’s iron bars, swallowing the spars into its bark. It spoke to the age of the mansion and its grounds.
Unfortunately, the canopies occluded the view of the home’s upper levels, but Tucker imagined that if his friends had been hauled here, they wouldn’t be locked up high. While pretending to take a swig from Yuri’s vodka bottle, he surreptitiously eyed the first floor and the half-sunken basement windows.
Most of the curtains were drawn, which further frustrated him.
He passed the bottle back and continued down the sidewalk. A bricked lot covered the rear of the building, with a six-car garage at the far end. A pair of large SUVs—Mercedes G-wagons—were parked near the steps at the back. One flight headed up to the door on the main level, another led down toward the basement.
Tucker could get no closer to inspect the vehicles or the mansion’s rear. Tall electric gates closed off the parking lot.
But he didn’t need to.
Kane whined next to him, lifting his nose high, pointing his muzzle toward the gate. That was enough.
“Good boy,” Tucker whispered and added, “STAND DOWN.”
This rescinded Kane’s prior order: SCENTMARCO.
Tucker knew that if Marco had been hauled all the way here, the dog would need to relieve himself after the journey, going for the nearest post or bush.
