Ghost Ship

Igor Mihailovich was not easily perturbed and never intimidated. The leader of the Russian mafia, he had his dirty fingers in every pie possible. Everyone obeyed his commands. No one gave him any. His voice was slow, confident, and steely. “You told me Sam Reilly could be managed from your side.”

“Yeah, well on that score, we made a mistake. You assured me you would fix it. Now I’m told our damned 250-million-dollar aircraft is now sitting on the bottom of the Baltic Sea because of you.”

“At least Sam Reilly’s dead. Besides, you never said anything to me about making sure your precious aircraft didn’t get broken,” Igor countered.

Martin’s lips curled in delight. His heart raced. “Sam Reilly’s dead?”

“He must be. You’ve seen the radar footage… no chance anyone survived that.”

“I was told someone might have parachuted out before it crashed, somewhere over St. Petersburg.”

Igor was nonplussed. A senior boss of the Bravta — the Russian Brotherhood — he had connections to the Russian military might. He’d seen the radar footage taken from an array of military bases off the coast of St. Petersburg. “Three landed in the Baltic Sea. The Russian Navy will pick them up. If they find Sam Reilly, they’ll know what to do about him.”

Martin said, “I was told one landed in St. Petersburg.”

“I saw the footage with my own eyes… that parachute fell at nearly forty miles an hour. Whoever was alive there, sure as hell isn’t anymore. He must be dead.”

Martin said, “That’s good. It will make him easier to locate, because last time I checked, dead men couldn’t run!”

Igor’s voice was filled with curious interest. “You think he’s still alive, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you think he knows about The Hague?”

“Impossible, right?” Martin swallowed. “I mean, he couldn’t possibly have gotten that much of his memory back yet, could he?”

Igor Mihailovich said, “I don’t know. It was your idea to erase his memory. Mine was to end his life.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

Winter Palace, St. Petersburg

Sam glanced at the Winter Palace.

The building was constructed on a monumental scale intended to reflect the might and power of Imperial Russia. From the palace, the Tsar ruled over one sixth of the Earth’s landmass by the end of the 19th century. It was designed by many architects, most notably Bartolomeo Rastrelli, in what came to be known as the Elizabethan Baroque style.

Its architecture triggered something buried in Sam’s memory banks.

He was in St. Petersburg… but it was more than that. He knew this place. It was familiar to him. Not just like a tourist might feel having been there, but more like a local, or someone who had spent a significant amount of time there recently.

Sam started to search his new found memory of the place for more information.

St. Petersburg was a Russian port city on the Baltic Sea. It was the imperial capital for two centuries, having been founded in 1703 by Peter the Great, subject of the city's iconic Bronze Horseman statue. It remains Russia's cultural center, with venues such as the Mariinsky Theatre hosting opera and ballet, and the State Russian Museum showcasing Russian art, from iconic Orthodox paintings to Kandinsky works.

On 1 September 1914, the name was changed from Saint Petersburg to Petrograd, on 26 January 1924 to Leningrad, and on 1 October 1991 back to its original name. Saint Petersburg is one of the most modern cities of Russia, as well as its cultural capital. The Historic Centre of Saint Petersburg and Related Groups of Monuments constitute a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Saint Petersburg is home to the Hermitage, one of the largest art museums in the world. Many foreign consulates, international corporations, banks and businesses have offices in Saint Petersburg.

None of that mattered.

He thought about the all-important Betamax tape that he was carrying.

What he needed was a local pawn shop — known as a Lombard in Russia and Eastern Europe, to hopefully find an antique Betamax player.

Sam closed his eyes, and instantly formed a mental image of the outline of St. Petersburg with all its grand buildings and intricate labyrinth of Venetian canals. He started walking quickly, heading east until he reached a small canal that ran north to south, and turned right. He followed the rich canal.

He passed the Mariinsky Theatre, where the great Russian masters, Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky, and Rimsky-Korsakov all once performed their debuts. Sam continued south, leaving behind the wealth of St. Petersburg’s center, with its palatial monuments and rows of banks, before entering a darker, dingier, strip of town.

Sam reached a smaller, abstract canal, which meandered in a southeasterly direction. The shopfronts appeared to darken, the glistening gold and marble monuments now replaced with high rise government housing. A few people walked the streets, their movements stoic and decisive. Gone were the tourists who wandered. In their place were locals who moved with the purpose of the needy.