Beyond Nations

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1

Present Day

Bequia, Grenadines

The old lady went along the beach at dawn break, as she had done for every day she could remember. It was her favourite time of day because it felt like it was all hers, like the world was all hers. She loved the peace and tranquillity, and frowned when in the distance she saw something that looked like a dead seal, or a small whale. She made her way gingerly forwards, knowing that it was a foreign object to her beach. Five metres away from it she gasped in horror, fighting back the nausea as she saw that it was a human body, a young girl laid on her front at an unnatural angle, naked to the waist. She stifled a scream, feeling unsteady on her feet as she saw the girl’s back was criss-crossed with what looked like whip marks.

Zelda Higuaín had been a top American journalist until it all went wrong. It was a combination of a disastrous personal life and alcohol, the perennial enemy of her job. She was freelance because no one would employ her, but she was good at her job and onto something big. She had heard of the body and flew straight down, her instincts telling her this was the missing girl for whom she had been searching for over a week. The poor girl had only being twenty, a native of Antiqua where Zelda herself was based. Her name was Jolene Taylor, of that there was no doubt, as the distinctive birth mark on the right arm proved. Destined for university and extraordinarily pretty, it was a tragedy and no random killing, of that Zelda was sure. The poor girl had been repeatedly r***d and strangled, and the inquest also said she’d been plied with copious quantities of heroin. Zelda cursed at the waste and determined she would find the killers.

North Queensland, Australia

Sergei heaved his not inconsiderable bulk into the helicopter after it had landed with a discernible thump onto the Sheraton hotel landing pad. He wasn’t going to enjoy the next couple of hours but he had no choice. A rotund and overweight Russian, he had made his fortune in the remote north east of his country near Vladivostok before dedicating himself to the cause of the Elders. He grimaced as they jerked up into the air heading for the Danetree rainforest, and nodded curtly across to his colleague Anton. He hated flying in helicopters, but there was no option as time was of the essence, others were on the move and he had to act quickly before the enemy found his location. He studied the literature on his seat, seeing the Skyrail Rainforest cableway before the pilot pointed to it. That’s what they were looking for and he grunted in satisfaction as they altered course. He noticed the Kuranda rail line in the distance as they came in, and recalled the lake below was replete with crocodiles before they swung in low over the treetops. At over twenty stones he couldn’t move quickly, and struggled to get himself into the small seat, the seatbelt cutting into his shoulders his knuckles white as they soared up over the green dense mass below. The pilot gestured down to the trees below as they skimmed over tropical greenery that looked much the same as it would have been a thousand years earlier. It was said to be the world’s oldest rainforest, and also its most deadly.

At 62 years old, and sporting a large white bushy beard, Sergei Rostov extolled an air of authority bolstered by years as owner of a Russian metals conglomerate. Following his support of the Elders during a terrifying Mongolian ordeal he was about to be confirmed as their new President, and yet all that would be worthless if he didn’t act quickly. He was spurred on by the loss of his only son to the man called the Teacher, and was determined that his death wouldn’t be in vain.

His goal was the Khans’ Prophecy, an iconic document referred to in many ancient writings and said to offer secrets that had the power to change the world. It was said to have been buried in a deliberate and controlled nuclear explosion by the Mongolian government to discourage seekers, but Sergei now knew its real location; it wasn’t in Mongolia, and what’s more it hadn’t been for 30 years. It grieved him to think his son’s death could have been avoided, and the simple fact he had just discovered was the Prophecy was many miles away. His many contacts in the Russian government had alerted him to Bolshevik intrigue; Stalinist extremists in the Georgian heartland had seen the opportunity thirty years ago when Russian-supplied Sikorsky helicopters were contracted for a remote job here in Queensland lifting in place heavy pylons for the new sky rail, the first of its kind penetrating deep into the rain forest. He had found documents linking the same group involved in illegal mining in Mongolia at exactly the same place as the nuclear explosion; his contacts advised the old comrades were sending a new team out under new orders to find the Prophecy. The Stalinist rebels clearly saw their opportunity to strike against the new Russian regime, aided no doubt by the same dark forces Sergei had been helping the Elders to fight. He had no doubt they would use the Prophecy if they got their hands on it, but they had been betrayed by one of them, an old man called Anton Doskovitch. Anton was with him now, the only survivor from that group and over 80 years of age. Sergei reckoned he had a couple of weeks’ lead over the Stalinists and whoever else was out there. The man called the Teacher had died, as had the man called the Professor, but unexplained deaths in Mongolia and a recent attempt to re-enter the buried cave meant the movement was active.

He hadn’t told Guy Tresanton or the Elders his suspicions for the simple reason that he suspected a mole in that organisation, a suspicion that had been recently reinforced when some of the Elders left the organisation for no apparent reason. He was startled from his reverie as the helicopter jolted, changing direction to hover over the iconic Sky Train cable, its cars in winter storage. The pilot dipped down approaching pylon number nine, as specified by Anton flying low under radar detection to the fort where landing would be impossible as the forest was thick and impenetrable, the very reason that the Khans’ Prophecy was here. Ahead were the large pylons put in place by the Russian Sikorsky helicopters and he saw Anton watch approvingly as the young pilot expertly manoeuvred and point downwards gesturing to the harness. Sergei gulped and looked down at the trees. This was the part he couldn’t avoid, and he knew it was going to be torture. Anton swung out first, carrying his eighty-five years very well, and Sergei followed. He could almost visualise the tree tops as soft and welcoming, but knew they were lethal. He prayed that the pilot had full control of the machine as they swung frantically downwards carefully manoeuvring past sharp pine trees. He was beginning to berate himself for his foolish idea when with a sigh of relief his feet brushed the forest floor. With a light crunch the harness cushioned his impact, and then he was down at the foot of pylon number nine.

Anton made the drill equipment ready and marked the hiding place, starting to drill slowly and taking care not to underpin the foundations. Sergei watched intently, reflecting on the Prophecy; he’d always suspected that it had been removed from the grave of Genghis and Kublai Khan in Mongolia but had never dreamed it would be by fellow Russians. Anton had been the senior of the four pilots and had survived the Stalinist intrigues on their return to the motherland in the 1960’s.

“This is it, Sergei,” growled Anton, starting the heavy duty electric drill, “this is where I put it 20 years ago.” The money Sergei was offering him would solve all his immediate and future financial problems in Moscow, and give him the chance to finish his days with deserved dignity and plenty of vodka.

“A last act of the old guard,” said Sergei, feigning sympathy with the old man’s position. He reflected on the strenuous efforts used by the Professor and Teacher two years ago to get the Prophecy from the Mongolian cave when all the time it had lain here. Why on earth Australia, in the middle of nowhere? He supposed the renegades would reckon it the least likely place anyone would look, and they did after all have a great opportunity. It made sense in many ways and must have delighted Joe Stalin, as there was no way anyone would think of looking down here.

“Why here, Anton?” he shouted above the drill noise.

“We were under orders,” spat Anton, “I didn’t ask I just did, that’s how it was. We were told to put it somewhere safe, still we won because we killed the bastard.”

“Who exactly?”

“The mastermind, he came with us down here, laughed a lot as if only he knew the secret but we were too smart for him, pushed him out the chopper on one of the runs, took all his money and told the commander it was an accident, pretty clever.”

“Yes, pretty clever, Anton, and no one else knew about it?”

“Sure, it was easy, just some poxy rangers, and we took care of their bodies down here. They called us in because of the Sikorsky lifting power, we were the special ones. The most powerful lifting device in the world and they wanted us. Got more than they bargained for,” he said, and grinned a toothless smile. “Just a stupid old box, never understood it myself.” He smiled, wiping his brow and letting the drill bit cool.

“Keep going.”

“You’re paying, comrade,” shrugged the old man, lifting the portable drill again and targeting a small area at the foot of the pylon. He was sweating in the humidity until finally the plate came away from the foot of the pylon. “Bloody battery is going flat, our chopper crashed after we planted the box, three of us survived because of these trees, cushioned the fall when the chopper hit the ground. Lived for days in this bloody place and never told a soul, my mates all died rather sudden, made my way back up through Asia to Archangel, now all I want to do is live with my daughter in Moscow.”

“And you shall.”

“A million dollars, you said,” snapped Anton, starting to pull away wooden splinters, the batteries about done. “In cash.”

“Agreed,” Sergei grimaced, as Anton started attacking the metal pylon footing with a crowbar, then he saw the front plate move to expose a hiding place. No one would ever have found this, not in a million years. Sergei looked around shuddering to think what wildlife there was down there, the home of some of the world’s deadliest spiders and snakes. He looked up briefly at the helicopter hovering oblivious above them as Anton stretched down and pulled out the ancient looking box.

“Told you so,” he shouted as he showed the familiar script markings that Sergei had seen before, a combination of Mongolian and Chinese.

“Well done, old man,” exclaimed Sergei as Anton lifted the box. “Put it over there in the chopper’s net,” he said, regretting what he had to do next. He swung the crowbar and connected it with the side of the old Russians head. The man collapsed with a grunt as Sergei radioed to the pilot to pull him up. He stepped back into the harness; the old man was a self-confessed killer and probably a cannibal. A snake had got him; tragic, but after all, they were in the world’s most dangerous habitat.

Venice

At private residence Number 26 Rio Terra, S. Leonardo, Lucrezia Calvi looked around the familiar room, her usual stern demeanour and cold facial expressions easily mistaken for displeasure. She was as immaculate as her apartment’s furnishings; in her late fifties, tall, slim, and dark, with neat short brown hair and brown eyes. She took pleasure in her Christian name being that of the infamous Lucrezia Borgia. Her usual retort to those that asked about any connection was simple: history had given her a bad name. In reality, Lucrezia Borgia’s father Rodrigo Borgia had become Pope during the Renaissance and led a period of unknown calm in the church. Lucrezia Borgia, in her opinion, was the victim of bad publicity. Lucrezia smiled coldly, her demeanour commanding attention, a regal air that demanded respect. Extremely wealthy and influential, she was fascinated by the Venetian Republic’s history and had devoted her life to it, alongside being one of the Chosen Ones, a secret group. Her philosophy was to influence behind the scenes so secrecy was her guide word unlike her recently deceased brother. Giuseppe, or the Professor, as was his chosen title, had been wrong to break the Calvi’s golden rule drummed into them by their father: never lose your anonymity. Secrecy had ensured that their ancestors - starting with Cosimo Medici, the great and secretive manipulator - had run the northern states of Italy from his banking empire, controlling nations. Instead, Giuseppe had made mistakes in his quest to find the Khans’ Prophecy and paid the ultimate penalty.