MIDDLEBURG, VIRGINIA
Vladamir Krupnov peered out the cockpit window of the Schweizer helicopter and admired the splendid view of the Hillcrest estate below him. The Hillcrest mansion, guesthouse, barn, and pool were situated on twenty-three acres of rolling, manicured lawns and gardens. The maple and ash trees dotting the grounds were ablaze in bright autumn colors. Although Krupnov had been here several times before, this was the first time he’d arrived at the compound by helicopter. Today was an important day, though, and there was no time to waste.
The chopper gently touched down in an open area of grass behind the barn, and a man in a gray tracksuit and sunglasses quickly jogged over and greeted Krupnov as he hopped from the passenger side of the cockpit. Once they were clear of the spinning rotor, Krupnov turned and gave the pilot a quick wave, and the small chopper revved up and lifted off the ground.
“Where are they?” Krupnov barked in Ukrainian to his trusted lieutenant, Sashko, as the chopper rose into the sky behind them and banked away.
“In the guesthouse,” said Sashko. He pointed to the white building adjacent to the mansion. “We brought them in late last night. It took a while to find them in the dark because they were very confused.”
“Did they have the material?”
Sashko shook his head slowly, clearly disappointed.
Krupnov cursed in Russian and frowned. “Let’s go.”
As the two men made their way to the compound’s guesthouse, Krupnov reflected on what a perfect location this was for their activities. A ten-million-dollar estate in the heart of Virginia horse country. Here, no one batted an eyelash when a helicopter landed on the lawn or a fleet of limousines arrived at the front gate. With the maintenance and upkeep of a place like this, no one thought twice about unmarked vans and trucks coming and going at all hours of the day and night. Moreover, the entire estate was fenced, and there was an armed security guard at the entrance twenty-four hours a day. And all of this was considered perfectly normal around here. To the residents of Middleburg, Hillcrest was just another mansion owned by some shadowy European or Middle Eastern billionaire who hardly ever visited but who apparently let his friends use the place year-round. Yes, Hillcrest was perfect.
Krupnov and Sashko strutted quickly past the barn and the pool until they arrived at the guesthouse, a tastefully converted stable with white clapboard siding and a red tin roof. Krupnov opened the front door and headed straight upstairs to the master bedroom. As he entered the room, he immediately observed two heavily bearded men tied to wooden chairs. “Ne khuya sebe,” he whispered as he approached. Fuck me. The two restrained men had long white hair and beards, as if they were in their seventies or eighties. Yet their bodies looked relatively healthy, even muscular, beneath their ragged and filthy clothes.
Krupnov glanced around at the other two men in the room. Like Sashko, they were Ukrainians, unshaven, cocky, and dressed in nearly identical tracksuits. One had an Uzi machine gun slung across his shoulder. The other held a pistol. These men were officially considered “security specialists” for Krupnov Energy, although most of them were former members of the Ukrainian mafia.
One of the restrained men groaned and rolled his head lazily to one side.
Krupnov stepped forward and bent down until he was looking directly into the man’s hazy eyes. “What’s your name?” he said in heavily accented English.
The man did not reply.
“They don’t remember nothing,” said the man with the machine gun. “Not even their names.”
Krupnov carefully studied the bearded man’s dull eyes and pale skin. Then he glanced down at the man’s hands. “Shcho za khren!” he said with surprise. “What’s happened to his fingernails?”
“They keep growing,” said Sashko with a shrug. “They weren’t that long when we picked them up last night. But now . . . well, you can see. Their hair is the same way. It’s been growing all night. Weird, huh?”
Krupnov did not respond. He recalled Fulcher mentioning that something like this might happen. Physiological artifacts, he’d called it. Krupnov looked over at the other bearded man, who looked to be in even worse shape than the first. The second man’s head was down, chin on his chest, eyes closed. Apparently, he was unconscious.
“Have they been this way the whole time?” asked Krupnov.
“No,” replied Sashko. “They were confused last night when we found them. And very agitated. They fought with us for a long time, which is why we eventually had to subdue them and tie them up like this. They were like . . . wild animals. We had to sedate them just so they wouldn’t hurt themselves.”
“Sedate them with what?”
Sashko pointed to a small glass vial and two syringes on the nightstand by the bed. “Propofol.”
Shit. Krupnov needed these men to communicate. He turned back to the semiconscious man and stared directly into his eyes. “Can you hear me?” he said in English.
The man stared back blankly and said nothing.
Krupnov repeated the same question in Russian: “Ty menya slyshish?”
The man groaned unintelligibly.
This gave Krupnov a spark of hope. He stood up straight and hesitated a moment before suddenly slapping the man brutally across the face, hoping to wake him up.
The bearded man grunted loudly and seemed to be coming to.
Krupnov slapped him again and then bent down toward him. “You are Yuri Chaika,” he said in Russian. “Yes?”
The bearded man shook his head slightly and mumbled, “Ya ne pomnyu.” I don’t remember.
“You’re a KGB agent,” said Krupnov emphatically. “You were on a mission for the Soviet Union. Surely you remember this?”
Once again, the bearded man shook his head lazily from side to side. “Ya ne pomnyu.” I don’t remember.
Anger flashed across Krupnov’s face. He cursed and slowly backed away.
“It was the same last night,” said Sashko. “They remember nothing. It’s as if their memories have been erased.”
“You searched their clothes? Their pockets? Did they have anything?”
Sashko shook his head. “Nothing.”
Damn it. Krupnov considered his options and finally instructed Sashko to set up a videoconference.
Sashko left the room and returned several minutes later with a laptop computer. He set it up on a small table at the foot of the bed and worked the keyboard and touch pad for a few minutes until the videoconference was ready. “He’s on,” Sashko said quietly.
Krupnov leaned over the table and saw the face of Benjamin Fulcher on the screen. “How are things going there?” Krupnov asked in English.
“We’re busy preparing for our demonstration,” said Fulcher. “And I have a lot to do before I leave for Italy tomorrow morning. I hope you’re contacting me with some good news.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Krupnov glumly. “We have the two men in custody. The ones who emerged from the mine last night. But they don’t have the material.”
The elderly man on the screen frowned. “Do they know where it is? Can they tell us anything helpful?”
Krupnov shook his head. “They remember nothing. Here, take a look.” Krupnov turned the computer so that Fulcher could have a view of the two bearded men. After several seconds, he turned the screen back around. “They’re like zombies.”
On the screen, Fulcher bridged his fingers and bent his forehead down until it was touching his fingertips. “My God, I had no idea the physiological effects would be so severe.”
“So, what do we do now?” Krupnov asked in a sharp tone. “You assured me that everything would work out fine, remember? I think you called it fate.”
“And it will,” said Fulcher calmly. “The material is obviously with Malachi. We simply need to find him.”
“Da,” said Krupnov. “We will find him. You can count on it.” He cast a quick glance at Sashko.
“Good,” said Fulcher on the screen. “Then we have nothing to worry about. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are many things left to do for our demonstration that I must attend to. Let me know when you find Malachi.” A moment later, the screen went dark.
Krupnov closed his eyes and cursed under his breath.
“Vlad?” said Sashko. “What should we do with these guys?” He motioned toward the two bearded men.
Krupnov considered the question for several seconds before answering with a shrug, “I don’t have room in my organization for zombies. Get rid of them.” He quickly turned and left the room.
As Krupnov approached the stairs at the end of the hallway, he hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he’d made the right call. Perhaps those two washed-up Soviet agents might be useful at some point down the road. He was still turning that possibility over in his mind when he suddenly heard a muffled pop! from the bedroom, followed two seconds later by another pop!
Too late now.