39. Alexei #2
Both of us have spent more nights than we’d prefer to remember watching blood mingle with the ever-present damp on the cell walls down here, the dank stench of fear and violence seemingly embedded in every surface.
I smile coldly. “That’s a change I can get behind.”
“No shit.” Dima stops. “Can you hear that thud behind the fans?”
I nod.
“That’s the sound of multiple sump pumps getting rid of the groundwater before it can accumulate.
The engineers wouldn’t shut up about the insanity of building this on top of Biscayne Bay.
” Dima grins. “Our boys now know more about flood barrier systems, watertight doors, and compression gaskets than they do about weaponry, I shit you not. The rack cabinets are anodized aluminum,” he says, running an almost affectionate hand over a nearby surface, “to stave off rust. Anything structural is encased in hot-dip galvanized steel, and cables are sealed at every penetration point, for the same reason. We’ve got enough diesel generators to run a third world country—which we need because of hurricane season—and more battery backup than a hooker’s vibrator on a busy night. ”
He pauses at a section of server rack, deep in the middle of the rows. “Get ready for the best part.” He presses a button, and a panel slides aside, revealing a biometric lock. He presses his finger to it, and the entire server rack slides silently to one side, no more than a false front.
Beside it, glowing in exquisite handmade beauty beside the hard industrial decor, is Aleksander Borovsky’s original wrought iron vault door, designed to hold the Naryshkin treasures.
“You said you didn’t want to lose that door,” Dima says, glancing at me. “And you approved the plans, so I’m assuming this is okay—”
“It’s brilliant.” My voice is slightly rough. Amid the enormous construction job, someone has taken the time to lovingly restore the vault door, removing any trace of rust or degradation from the curlicued iron twining in intricate patterns over the floor-to-ceiling construction.
“You can do the honors, if you like.” Dima nods at the lock built into the door.
“We’ve updated the biometrics, obviously.
” His eyes settle on me with silent understanding.
“It doesn’t take all three of you to open it anymore.
” Along with two separate keys, Aleksander had designed the door so that opening it required the combined fingerprints of Roman, Darya, and me, a legacy for which we were all tortured and hunted, in our own ways, for the duration of the Orlovs’ occupation.
The remaining Naryshkin treasures that don’t belong to either Roman’s family or my own were moved during the construction of this new bunker to a secure location in Spain, a dealership run by Dimitry Volkov and his father.
Dimitry has spent years restoring the treasures to their owners and is by far the best person to take responsibility for them.
I knew the vault had been emptied, gutted, and massively expanded. But when I press my finger to the panel and the door swings open, I’m still not remotely prepared for the high-tech revolution lying behind the old door.
A curved central console containing three tiers of workstations, each with multiple monitors, is arranged in a shallow arc around a dimly lit hexagonal space.
The main display wall at the center runs from the floor to the ceiling, tiled screens showing everything from live data feeds to geography, communications intercepts, and constantly changing social media feeds.
Its glow is the dominant light source in the room, casting everything in shifting blue and white.
Opposite the entrance is an elevated standing command position for the senior operator, complete with a stand-up desk, top-of-the-range office chair, and a wide glass writing surface.
The temperature here is slightly warmer than the server center beyond, calibrated for human comfort rather than machine efficiency.
The room is acoustically isolated; the roar from outside is immediately dimmed when the door closes behind us.
This is Phantom, I think, looking around with mingled pride and pain. Pride that the basement is gone and a future built in its place.
Pain that Lars isn’t here to enjoy it and that the future it was built for seems more out of reach than ever.
We did it, brother. I miss Lars with a physical ache. We fucking did it.
This shit is giving me a hard-on, motherfucker. I can almost feel him rubbing his hands gleefully beside me.
I reach instinctively for the flask in my pocket, rubbing the smooth surface slowly until the dizzying, sick feeling recedes. Touching it, I’ve discovered during the journey here, calms me more than drinking the contents inside.
“You like?” I realize Dima is watching me with more trepidation than a kid coming down before prom.
“It’s epic.” Even if it doesn’t feel like mine. But he doesn’t need to know that.
I shake my head in genuine amazement. “I don’t know how the fuck you got this done, Dima, but whatever I’m paying you, we need to double it.”
His face cracks into an extremely rare smile as he looks around the room like a proud father.
“Imma fucking hold you to that, asshole.” Nodding in satisfaction, he tilts his head to the door.
“We’re taking the rear exit.” I follow him through another seemingly invisible door to find myself in a narrow tunnel of reinforced concrete with strip lighting overhead and epoxy coating in a dark charcoal gray.
There are cameras covering every inch of the uphill distance to the heavy door at the other end.
When I look behind us, I can’t see any evidence of the door we just used to exit the control room, only a bland concrete panel exactly like the others.
“There’s a biometric entrance for that as well.
” Dima shows me the panel. “But the user would need to get through the blast door first.” I admire the multipoint locking system, which again reminds me of a submarine door.
Dima opens it, and suddenly I’m standing in one of the far corridors of the Miami house.
“Christ.” I look around in surprise. “It’s the same damn tunnel we used years ago to sneak in and out of the place.”
“Yup.” He lifts his shoulder. “You said to put the entrance somewhere nobody would find it. I figured the Orlovs never found this one, so why fuck with what already works?”
From the corridor, it looks like the door doesn’t exist. It’s simply part of the wall, fitting as seamlessly into the dark mahogany paneling as it always did.
“Now,” Dima says, still looking uncharacteristically cheerful as he sends a text message, “get ready. There’s quite the fucking party waiting.”
Mildly surprised that so many of the crew are here at this time of night, I walk with him toward the main salon, trying to remove myself from the future I built but can no longer see. I’m here to deal with the past.
The irony of anticipating the future beneath my feet, instead of recoiling from the rancid stench of the brutal past, isn’t lost on me.
If my father were here, I think, my heart twisting painfully, he’d no doubt have something to say about the symbolism of that.
But my father isn’t here.
Bracing myself for what is coming, I force myself to turn away from the future. To cut ruthlessly through the fantasy I’ve been living and reach inside for the man they know.
The man I was.
The man I’m going to need to become again.
Dima opens the door.
Taking a deep breath, I step inside.
“Hey, asshole.” Mickey Stevanovsky steps forward with a half smile, his dark eyes wary. “About fucking time you showed up.”