The boys awoke early the next day due to a combination of excitement and wrestling with the two-hour time difference following their journey from Edinburgh. Although the temperature was below six degrees centigrade outside, the warmth in the bedrooms felt almost Caribbean by comparison.
James Darling, wearing a plain grey t-shirt and striped pyjama bottoms, popped his head around the room door before slamming it shut and returning to his bed. “Crikey! Those goons are still outside. We’re definitely going to have to work out a plan if we want to explore the city. The Bogofs will have some ideas, I’m sure.” Most of the others had gathered in Darling’s room as he was regarded as one of the school’s ‘populars’.
“Yes, but we have guides and we’ll be taken around on a tour bus so we don’t get lost,” said the studious-looking Andrew Richard Sinclair-Edwards. "That’s the whole point. We don’t want to see the touristy version of St Petersburg. I want to see the red-light district. You know all the naughty bits that Drac is going to do his utmost to prevent us from seeing.
“Remember last year’s trip to Amsterdam? Tulips, clogs, Anne Frank’s house and the Van Gogh Museum. The naughtiest city in the world and we were treated like choir boys!”
Sinclair-Edwards, adjusting his tortoiseshell and gold round glasses, said loftily: “Well, I found the Keukenhof Gardens inspiring and an illustration of Dutch orderliness and precision. Where else could you see millions of tulips, narcissi, daffodils, hyacinths and bluebells blossom, all in such perfect order? And I felt the tour at the Delftse Pauw factory particularly instructive…” Poor Williams didn’t get a chance to finish as several of the others barked their favourite refrain: “Shut up, Arse!” The boy was used to such verbal abuse and just soaked it up; his father Sir Anthony Richard, a Westminster MP, once reassured his son that while the acronym produced by his name was unfortunate, there was a family tradition to uphold, pointing out he came from ‘a long line of Arses!’ Most of whom had distinguished army careers followed by a stint in the London parliament before ‘retiring to the House of Lords’.
The Volkov twins arrived unseen in the middle of the increasingly heated debate but they all fell silent as Alexei interrupted: "You have to remember you are choir boys. We’re all choirboys! This is typical of you and your disruptive behaviour, Darling. You come to the most beautiful city in the world, the cultural centre of Russia, the greatest country in the world and you want a hooker! There is no red-light district here, although admittedly there are escorts.
“But be warned! If you break the law in Russia and are caught, it could prove difficult even for a guest of the Volkov family,” added Andrei who adopted a more serious tone.
James Darling shook his head and said: “How can I break the law? Prostitution is not illegal here. I’ve checked it out. What is a problem is the security your parents have given us. We can’t move without them.”
Andrei laughed: “Sex under sixteen is illegal and if you don’t have one of these, you’ll be stuck,” he said, pulling an ID card from his jeans pocket and waving it in the air. “Furthermore, if you blunder in to the less glamorous clubs, you’re likely to get a knock out sedative slipped in to your drink so if you did lose your virginity, you’d probably not even remember!”
Everyone started laughing out loud as the Volkov brothers high fived each other followed by double fist bumps. Darling, who wasn’t used to being so publicly undermined and upstaged, felt decidedly uncool and was grateful when Duncan Dewar tapped gently on the inter-connecting door and walked in to announce: “Dr Jones wants us at breakfast by 8:30 am with rehearsals beginning an hour later.”
Duncan and his grandfather were already seated and eating Russian Kasha, a version of porridge, when the rest of the group tumbled in with Dr Jones bringing up the rear. As they ate their way through assorted croissants, cheese and fresh fruit, most of the boys were preoccupied with their new phones, snapping pictures and posting them on the social networks.
“I was going to ban the damned things but then Alexei Volkov told me his mother might be upset if the gifts were hidden away. It’s quite a dilemma and a fine balance but they’re definitely not coming in to rehearsals,” said Dr Jones as he saw the look of disdain and despair on Gordon Buie’s face. “We’re divided, aren’t we, from those who read newspapers and watch TV on the box to those who communicate via mobile phones, tablets and computer screens,” sighed the old man.
“Well, it comes in handy some times,” said Dr Jones as he pulled out a computer stick from his pocket. “This little devil has the sound of a full orchestra and will be used to support our concert. It’s like travelling with a full compliment from the Royal Scottish National Orchestra. So, not all bad, eh, Mr Buie?”
Throughout the morning and early afternoon, the choirmaster put the Sweetheart choristers through their paces and finally let them go, with the exception of Duncan, for a late lunch. Vlad and Sergei were sitting at a desk outside the rehearsal room when the door swung open without warning and the boys stampeded out heading for the restaurant.
As their official escort, Gordon Buie was caught slightly off guard in the rush for the door and only just managed to grab Willy Carmichael. “Just slow down, young man. Let’s go in an orderly fashion.”
Carmichael grimaced, announcing: “You only grabbed me because I’ve got ginger hair. We always stand out in the crowd. It’s not fair.”
Mr Buie laughed and said: “Don’t be so daft, laddie. The others were too slippery and you weren’t quick enough, but you are Duncan’s buddy and in his absence, I’m yours! Anyway they can’t start without us, so just be patient. I’m not as quick on my feet.”
Vlad and Sergei were apprehensive as they scanned the restaurant trying to count the boys but looked more relaxed on seeing Mr Buie walk in with Willy Carmichael. “There’s the grandfather and the kid. No slips-ups as we cannot afford to let them out of our sight,” urged Vlad.
After lunch, Sergei stood up and announced: “Dr Jones is keen for you all to see the Church of the Saviour on the Spilled Blood where the concert will be performed. Who would like to go?” he asked, and immediately all hands went up.
The two Russians led the way with Gordon Buie positioning himself at the end of the Sweetheart crocodile alongside Willy Carmichael as the boys walked to the Moscow-style church a few minutes from the Kempinski. As it loomed large before them, the richly coloured onion domes looked slightly incongruous in the very European setting of St Petersburg.
The boys sniggered every time Sergei mentioned the name of the church because it sounded so awkward. “Why doesn’t he just say the church where Emperor Alexander II was murdered?” asked Darling.
Andrei Volkov snapped: "Because he didn’t die on that spot but his blood was spilled in the attack. Not everything has to have a western tabloid headline, James.
“Anyway, most of the locals here call it ‘the mosaic church’ because the interior is covered with the most magnificent mosaics. You’ll see when we get inside.”
Gordon Buie admired his knowledge and added: “Who needs a guide when we have you Alexei, or is it Andrei? Either way, I’m impressed.”
Meanwhile back at the hotel, Dr Jones told Duncan Dewar he was satisfied that, after spending the last hour going through the lyrics to the seven verses of Walking in the Air, his precious soprano was word perfect. By the time they got to the hotel restaurant, the rest of the choir had left for the church where the concert would be held the following evening.
“Let’s eat anyway and then we’ll catch up with them,” said Dr Jones and Duncan, who was really hungry, nodded in agreement.
Once inside the church, the Sweetheart group agreed to meet back at the entrance thirty minutes later, giving them enough time to explore and marvel at the riches on offer. Each of the magnificent mosaics on the walls had a Biblical theme but all the boys gravitated to the spot where Czar Nicholas was fatally wounded by revolutionaries.
“It seems they built this church on top of the spot to commemorate him. It’s a pity Duncan’s not here to see this, although I’m sure he and Dr Jones will catch up later,” Gordon Buie said to Willy Carmichael. Reading from an English guidebook, neither Mr Buie nor Carmichael noticed they were being followed around the building. The two drifted towards the tourist booths looking at the souvenirs on offer.
A small group of American tourists were led in to the church by their English-speaking tour guide as he explained how on March 13, 1881 an anarchist threw a grenade at the Czar’s passing carriage. “Czar Alexander was a little shaken but he jumped out of the carriage and challenged the bomb thrower. While an argument developed, a second conspirator took the opportunity of throwing another bomb, killing himself and fatally wounding the Czar. He died a few hours later in the nearby Winter Palace,” explained the guide.
Mr Buie grabbed hold of Carmichael and whispered: “We may as well try and earwig this, since he’s speaking our language and then we’ll go and find the others.” As they moved in closer to the gaggle of Americans, the guide explained how a temporary shrine emerged on the site of the attack.
“It was decided to build a permanent shrine on the exact spot and a freestanding canopy, called a ciborium, was erected at the end of the church opposite the altar.”
The group moved towards the shrine which was embellished extravagantly with semi-precious stones. “See, look here. There is quite a contrast as you can still see the original cobblestones of the old road on which the Czar’s carriage travelled.”
The group moved in closer and Gordon Buie turned around and said: “Can you see, Willie? Willie, laddie, where are you?”
His young buddy had disappeared causing the clockmaker to purse his lips and then utter: “That wee rascal has given me the slip. No doubt I’ll find him with the others.”
Meanwhile, outside the entrance Vlad answered a call on his mobile: “All the boys are inside enjoying the mosaics. There’s really nothing to worry about.” He then returned inside the church and nodded over to Sergei who responded with a knowing glance.
Within minutes, the Sweetheart group reassembled and Vlad motioned to count everyone. He looked slightly puzzled and, pointing his finger at each boy, proceeded to count again and then turned to the approaching Mr Buie and asked: “Where is your boy?”
The old man looked mildly surprised: “I thought he was already here.”
Just then, Dr Jones arrived with Duncan and said: “Oh, are we too late to grab a quick look around?”
Vlad said: “We are missing Duncan Dewar. He’s somehow disappeared.”
An expression of puzzlement crossed the choirmaster’s face as he said: “Here he is. The lad is with me.” As soon as he saw Duncan, he breathed a sigh of relief and began counting again but once again the number fell short by one.
“It’s not Duncan that’s missing. It’s Willy, Willy Carmichael. He was with me one minute and gone the next. He has to be here somewhere,” said Mr Buie.
“Oh, he’ll have his nose in something that doesn’t concern him. Everyone scatter with your buddies, look around and find him. Meet back at the entrance in ten minutes,” said Dr Jones. Ten minutes later, there was widespread alarm as it was becoming clear Willy Carmichael had vanished.
No one was more panicked than Vlad and Sergei who began making phone calls to Svetlana Volkova to raise the alarm. Although speaking in Russian, it was clear to onlookers that they were deeply concerned.
Vlad and Sergei worked for the Volkov Corporation’s security wing, a euphemism for the dark forces or enforcers who ensured the smooth running of what Viktor Volkov described as ‘external matters’. They had been detailed to keep the Sweetheart choir under surveillance and, in particular, safeguard Duncan Dewar.
“I was told to watch out for the boy and that he would be in the company of the old man. We followed your instruction, Mrs Volkova. How were we to know that there were two boys with red hair? Even so, the one who disappeared today was with the old man,” insisted Sergei, who was protesting and defending his position.
In all the chaos, the local St Petersburg police were informed and alarm bells were sent ringing through the system as they would for a missing overseas visitor, especially a child.
While everyone’s attention had been focussed on the spot where the murdered Czar had bled, a team of undercover officers in the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, known as the FSB, had moved in swiftly and kidnapped Willy Carmichael in plain sight. Using a hypodermic needle, one had administered knockout drops on the boy and quietly removed him from the church. Two of the agents, either side of Willy, supported him as they moved swiftly from the historic building and in to a waiting black Mercedes Gelandewagen.
Less than an hour later, the missing boy was lying unconscious on an operating table hooked up to a respirator and heart monitor in an anonymous building nearby. “I’m telling you, I have scanned his body and there is no metal chip, computer chip or any foreign chip in his neck, head or anywhere else. Believe me, we have gone over every centimetre and there is nothing,” said a woman wearing surgical clothing. She was speaking directly in to a monitor.
“I don’t care if you have to skin the boy alive and put him through a mincer. Find that chip Dr Mikhailov or it will be the last time you pick up a scalpel,” boomed a voice back from the monitor which was a two-way camera.
Giving a sigh of reluctance, Dr Eva Mikhailov repositioned her facemask and asked the team around her to put the boy facedown. Giving another instruction, a surgical male nurse picked up an electric razor and shaved the back of Carmichael’s head in a straight line down to the nape of his neck.
Addressing the surgical team in Russian, she said: “First we will remove his scalp and then, methodically remove the rest of the epidermis. Never let it be said we ever disobeyed an order.” Slapping a scalpel into her outstretched latex-gloved palm, Dr Mikhailov grasped the instrument and then lifted her right arm. The atmosphere in the operating theatre was tense and each face of her surgically masked team reflected that in their eyes.
“Switch off the respirator and monitor, now. Double the morphine, there’s no reason now why we should revive him,” said Dr Mikhailov in an unnervingly calm voice.
“STOP! HALT!” ordered the mystery voice from the monitor. “There has been a development and it appears we have the wrong boy. Return him at once to the hotel with a minimum of fuss. We need total damage limitation on this.” Dr Mikhailov looked at her team, removed her mask and afforded herself a smile before biting into her bottom lip.
“That was a close call,” she said before walking purposefully out of the theatre.
Less than half an hour later, a drowsy Willy Carmichael was bundled into a hotel laundry basket and driven in the Mercedes Gelandewagen to the underground car park of the Kempinski. From there, he was taken by service elevator to the eighth floor. It was, unusually quiet, as Vlad and Sergei had urged Dr Jones to reconvene a meeting with the choir in the master’s room.
“We have no news update to give you but I would urge you all to retrace your steps in your mind and try and think again of anything strange you might have seen when you were inside The Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood,” said Vlad.
John Russell sighed: “I thought you were going to give us some positive news.”
Dr Jones, trying to remain upbeat, responded: “Look it’s been less than two hours since Willie Carmichael wandered off. I refuse to accept anything else at this stage, so we must remain upbeat. But Vlad is right. Retrace today’s events and try and think of anything out of character, anything unusual.”
Disheartened and downbeat, the boys returned to their rooms. “Did Willie have his phone with him?” asked James Darling.
John Russell’s eyes lit up: “Well, if he did the cops should be able to track him down. Let me check his room.” He opened the adjoining door and shouted: “O-M-G! He’s here. He’s in bed. Willie! Willie, where have you been? Wake up, wake up. I think he’s drunk.”
Looking a ghostly white and rather dishevelled, Carmichael opened his bloodshot eyes and tried to focus. His pupils were barely visible, just tiny little pinpricks surrounded by bright blue irises.
“Where the hell have you been? Quick, someone get Dr Jones!” shouted Darling. The boy tried to get up but slumped back in the bed as Dr Jones and a relieved Gordon Buie arrived. The hotel doctor was called and, after a thorough physical examination, said it was clear Carmichael had either been drugged or had taken drugs.
“There’s no sign of a sexual or physical assault,” he told Dr Jones. “It’s a bit of a mystery, possibly even a schoolboy prank which may have backfired. He is suffering from amnesia and says the last thing he remembers was standing near the spot where the Czar was assassinated. I’m confident, however, by morning he will be as right as rain, as you English say.”
Dr Jones breathed a sigh of relief and called the Volkov twins to his room. "I don’t want anyone leaving the hotel after the Carmichael fiasco, so tell everyone that they’re confined to the eighth floor and can order whatever they want from the room service card.
“I can’t be doing with any more excitement this evening and nothing, but nothing must interfere with the concert tomorrow night. We owe it to your wonderful mother.”
Andrei nodded in agreement and said: “Mother is having one of her migraines, so I doubt we’ll see her until tomorrow evening’s event. She’s just so relieved Willie turned up.”
“Yes, we all are. Now hopefully we can draw a line under this whole matter,” sighed Dr Jones. But if he thought the drama was over he was very much mistaken. In fact it was only just beginning. It seemed the Sweetheart Choir was about to be caught up in a game of international espionage and intrigue.