The room appeared to be the master bedroom. It was empty. After a quick check under the bed, Natasha moved toward a partially open closet door. With Hardy’s rifle pointed at the door, she swung it open and took a step backward. Hardy and Natasha heard a scuffling sound before a scrawny cat came out of the closet, darted between them and out of the bedroom. Natasha relaxed her posture and let her rifle hang from its sling, giving Victor’s team the ‘all clear.’
Hardy and Natasha met Victor’s team in the kitchen. Nikolai and Ivan were opening and closing cabinet doors and rummaging through everything on the floor, while Victor stood at the kitchen table.
“He was here, all right.” Victor was scanning the items on the table. “These are components used to make bombs.” He held up a cell phone. “He’s using a cell phone as the detonator.”
Hardy stood on the other side of the table, while Natasha walked to the kitchen counter and stood with her back to Victor.
Hardy was the first to say what everyone must have been thinking. He picked up an empty container of vanilla frosting. “Since when is frosting used to make bombs.” There were at least fifty cans scattered around the kitchen. Most were empty, except for a dozen unopened ones.
Victor shrugged his shoulders, continuing to examine the other items.
Hardy stared at the kitchen table. There were items everywhere, including globs of white frosting, except for a rectangular space in front of him. The space was clean.
Natasha leaned against the sink, holding a piece of blue cardstock. “I think I know where Rudin is going.” She gave the cardstock to Victor.
Hardy glimpsed them. “What is it?”
Victor skimmed the document. “It’s an invitation to a birthday party for the Russian Premier. The party is tonight at nine.”
Hardy snapped his fingers. “Of course,” he said, his eyes shifting to the table. He stretched out his hands and measured the length and width of the clean spot. “They’re going to put the bomb inside a cake. That’s why they needed all this frosting.” Hardy twisted his upper body. He saw boxes on the floor behind him. “Only thing is…there’s no cake. They covered the device with a cardboard box and frosted it.”
Natasha observed the boxes and the frosting containers. “Won’t it be a dead giveaway when the first person chomps down on a piece of cardboard?”
Hardy shook his head. “The cake was never intended to be eaten, so it doesn’t have to be real. That means Rudin plans to detonate the bomb before anyone has a chance to cut it, most likely when it’s placed in front of the Premier.”
Her eyes wide, Natasha pivoted her head back and forth from Hardy to Victor. “We have to warn them.”
Hardy held up his hands. “How? You and I are wanted for killing those FSB agents. They won’t believe anything you have to say. And, I’m a foreigner.”
Victor planted his hands on his hips. “This is a big party. The Premier turns fifty this year. Heads-of-state, foreign dignitaries and high-ranking officials will be there.”
Natasha joined the men at the table. “All the more reason to warn them.”
“Once again,” Hardy held out his hands, “How?”
Victor wagged a finger at no one in particular. “I know the man in charge of the Premier’s security, General Popovich. I’ll call him…tell him I have reason to believe there will be an assassination attempt on the Premier. He’ll listen to me.” Victor stepped away.
Natasha picked up the invitation. “In the meantime, we need to find a way into this party.”
“For fear of sounding like a broken record…how do we do that? You are definitely not on that guest list.”
Flicking the invitation between her fingers, Natasha’s mind went back to her adolescent years.
Hardy saw her smiling. “What is it?”
“The party is being held at the Summer Palace.”
Hardy bobbed his head. Okay, sounds like a swanky place. “So, what?”
“Most everyone is familiar with the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. It’s a large and gorgeous structure, built to portray the might of Imperial Russia. It was the home of the Russian Monarchs, until 1917. In late October of that year, Vladimir Lenin and the Bolsheviks stormed the palace and took control. The soldiers stationed there put up little resistance. After—”
Hardy leaned forward and rested his folded forearms on the table. “What does this history lesson have to do with the birthday party, Natasha?”
“People are not familiar with the Summer Palace. It was a favorite retreat for the ruling class during the summer months. As I was saying,” she cocked her head at him, “before you interrupted me…After the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917, the Summer Palace was abandoned and neglected.”
“For my thirteenth birthday, my father took me there. He said the government had made plans to restore and modernize it. They were going to turn it into a venue for fancy gatherings, royal weddings…birthday parties for the elite. It was no longer going to be open to the public.” She waved a hand as if she was shooing away a bug. “Anyway, that afternoon, my father and I explored every square inch of that place, including the basement.” Natasha smiled, remembering running through the rooms and down the hallways. Having not been cared for in many decades, the palace was in shambles. At the time, she had imagined its former glory, members of royalty, wearing beautiful garments, gliding across the marble floors, dancing and conversing.
Hardy got in her line of sight. “You were saying…”
Her mind came back to the present and she locked eyes with him. “The basement is where we found a secret passageway.”
Hardy’s eyebrows went up and he stood straight. Whenever the term ‘secret passageway’ was used, his curiosity was piqued. The allure of finding something hidden intrigued him; however, more importantly, a passageway meant something simpler—a way inside.
Natasha smiled. “I see I have your attention now.”
With two fingers, he curled an ear toward her. “I’m all ears.”
“My father and I followed that passageway, until we came out on the other side of the hill, far away from the palace. It was common to build secret passageways. In case of attack, the occupants had a way to escape. I think we can use that passageway to get into the palace and attend the party.”
Victor returned to the table.
His head hanging down, Hardy slowly shook it back and forth, drawing out his words. “I…don’t…know, Natasha. It’s been a long time, since you were there. How do you know where the entrance is located?”
“The first thing I saw when we came out was a large boulder. There were no other rocks in the area. That one must have been put there to mark the location, in case anyone needed to sneak,” she cleared her throat and leaned heavily on the next word, “inside.”
“What if it’s been moved? What if the opening has been sealed shut? The passageway could have collapsed in the last ten years. What if we find the entrance and get to the palace, only to discover the opening on that side has been sealed? Those are some big ‘what ifs.’”
Natasha noticed Victor. “How’d it go?”
The muscles in Victor’s jaw were taut. “Not good,” he said, through clenched teeth. “I told him everything we’ve discovered and that I had good reason to suspect there would be an attempt on the Premier’s life and…”
A bad feeling swept over Natasha. “What happened?”
He stared at the table. “Once he found out I was with you,” Victor motioned toward Natasha, “he told me you were wanted in the deaths of four FSB agents and I was to bring you in, immediately. If I didn’t, then I was going to be charged with insubordination for disobeying a direct order. I would also suffer the same fate that awaits you.” He raised his eyebrows. “Whatever that is, I’m not sure.”
“Oh, Victor, I’m so sorry I got you involved in this.” Natasha put her hand on his shoulder. “I should have never called you.”
“No,” replied Victor, his voice getting louder. “You are a soldier, defending your country. It is General Popovich who should be sorry.” Victor shook his head, disgusted that his friend had become what he is today. “He was a good soldier, too, in his day. I think he has become a part of the political machine, caring more about how he is viewed by his peers, than carrying out his duty.”
“Victor, Hardy and I can take it from here.” Natasha glanced at Hardy; he nodded his head. “You and your team have done enough. Just give us a head start…”
“You are not going anywhere without us.” Victor’s eyebrows pointed toward the bridge of his nose. “I say ‘to hell with Popovich.’ I’m a patriot and I will continue to serve my country and my Premier.” Victor gestured toward the invitation in Natasha’s hand. “What’s the plan?”
Hardy informed Victor of Natasha’s plan. Victor had reservations, too, voicing the same concerns Hardy had voiced.
She chucked the invitation and Hardy caught it before it slid off the table. “Well, if either of you have a better one, I’d love to hear it.” Her head pivoted back and forth from Victor to Hardy. “Anything?”
After more than a minute, Hardy and Victor realized her plan was the best they had and gestured their compliance to each other.
Hardy scanned the invitation. “I don’t know how Russians celebrate birthday parties, but in America, a 50th birthday party for our President would be a formal affair.” Hardy pinched his shirt between his thumb and forefinger and tugged. “We’re not dressed for the occasion.”
“I think I can take care of that.” Once again, Victor had his cell phone out, making a call. He looked Hardy over from head to toe and said, in Russian, “I have a brother who lives nearby. He, too, is a short man.” Victor, Nikolai and Ivan laughed, while Natasha smiled.
Hardy’s eyes went back and forth from Natasha to Victor. “What did he say?”
Natasha pursed her lips and stifled her laughter. “He said his brother, who lives nearby, has a black suit that would fit you.”
Hardy knew that was not exactly what Victor had said. Upset, but not with Victor, he was mad at himself for not learning more Russian than a few curse words. It was good; however, that Victor and his men were busting Hardy’s chops. That meant they were starting to accept him. And, that was good for morale. He laughed with them.