Page 36 of Ride the Whirlwind

Ardan nodded with a smile, appreciating Fabian's organizational skills. Drinking from the mug with small sips, he started a conversation on one of his Pater's favorite themes: the kids, young and older. Eyes shining with affection, the man told Ardan about Paisley, Axel, Selma, and Alexis' shenanigans, making him laugh so hard that he nearly fell off the chair.

Fabian also spoke of the deep, special bond Elias, Abernathy, Tarrin, and Ira shared, telling his honorary stepson how the four boys soothed one another even when they were half asleep. His Pater's words, spoken in a dreamy voice, brought a serene smile onto Ardan's face, his heart overflowing with joy at the news.

He couldn't wait to get back at The Base and give tight, warm hugs to all his children and their friends, who also needed some fatherly love. The voice of Matthew Danvers wishing a good morning to everyone in the kitchen pulled Ardan out of his thoughts, bringing him back into the present.

With the corner of his eye, he saw Fabian pouring tea in a mug and offering it to the younger man with the same affectionate smile he had for him, his brother Fergus, and Alasdair. No, The Base's boss thought, it was not the same. The smile his Pater offered Matthew had something very special about it. But Ardan couldn't put the finger on it.

“I took a look at Count Borovsky's catalogue last night before I fell asleep,” he heard Fabian saying. “The man and his ancestors had exquisite literary tastes. I found listed first editions of Dickens, Hugo, the Brontë sisters, Jane Austen, Lord Byron, and other prominent novelists and poets.”

“But?” Ardan turned to his Pater, a questioning look in his eyes. “There is something that's bothering you about that catalogue, right?”

“The Borovsky family gave the Russian Empire some of the most brilliant generals and counsellors. They fought against the Ottomans and other kingdoms that threatened their country's borders, some of them losing their life in those wars. And yet, there is no section dedicated to Russian history in this library.” Fabian frowned.

“Well”—Alasdair shrugged—“maybe they owned too many books on the subject, and, since back then the only transatlantic means of transportation was by sea, they didn't want to add extra weight to the cargo and only kept the most valuable books.”

“It makes sense.” Fabian nodded, browsing the catalogue. “On the other hand, not keeping a single book about the country they fought for and built with their own sweat and blood...” He paused a little, then turned to the other three men, his eyes shining with excitement. “I think I know where the will is.”

Fabian opened the original catalogue again, feverishly browsing it, stopping at the section where encyclopedias and atlases were listed. He started to carefully read the titles, mumbling the words, his forehead creased in concentration, completely focused on the titles and descriptions with Alasdair, Ardan, and Matthew looking at him in silence.

After what seemed like an eternity, a triumphant smile appeared on Fabian's lips, and the man left the kitchen, heading to the library. Without a word, he walked to one of the solid, mahogany shelves, stopped in front of it for a few seconds, then extracted a collection of Russian Empire's maps from the year of the Bolshevik revolution.

With shaky hands, under the awe-filled stare of Ardan, Alasdair, Matthew, and the members of the special team present in the library, Fabian opened the big, heavy book. He didn't lose time with browsing; the thick, large, brown envelope featuring Borovskys' seal revealed itself from between the yellow, frail pages.

“Half of the job is done; now, it's your turn,” Fabian said, his look directed to Jamie Stuyvesant, the team's forgery expert, who finished setting his lab and joined the others in the library.

The young man dipped his head. “I'll make it...perfect,” he said, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

CHAPTER 27

Mary MacKenzie, the housekeeper who worked for the MacGowans for more than forty years, greeted MacTeague, but he ignored the woman like he did each time he came to the mansion. Her nosiness and protectiveness of Graeme and his useless son got on the former advisor's last nerve, and he did the damnedest to avoid the old hag, who, rumors said, could also read people's minds.

MacTeague headed to the library, which, to his great, unpleasant surprise, was empty. He found it a bit odd that none of the numerous guests were in sight and decided to wait until at least one of them would come out from their room. After the coup from earlier when Darrow and his minions voted him out from the advisor's position, MacTeague was suspicious of everyone.

He intended to engage in a casual conversation with one of the guests. Maybe he could find out what the real reason of this unexpected visit was. Most likely, Fabian Bloom was there for business, although rumors were he manifested little interest in running the colossus known as Bloom Enterprises, appointing his son as a chairman twelve years earlier.

MacTeague was more worried about the others, all of them much younger than Bloom, more likely in their mid-thirties to early forties. According to the only member of the staff who worked for him, the guests snooped around the whole house, even going to the rooms no one except Graeme had access to.

One of them took a lot of big boxes to the annexes, locked himself up in one of the buildings, and didn't allow anyone to come in there, not even his weird friends, the man reported. They must be up to something, MacTeague thought, starting to restlessly pace around the library. At some point, he raised his head, and that was when he saw it.

A thick, big, brown envelope, looking exactly like the one the FSB agents described, laid on the corner of one of the small tables, the seal intact. It looked like someone carelessly dropped it there after finding it in the book they intended to read and forgot to put it back. Holding his breath, MacTeague examined it some more, then dug out his phone from the pocket of his pants and started to take pictures of the precious object from all possible angles.

Using the secure connection one of the FSB agents created, the man sent them the pictures, then took a seat, waiting for their answer. A few minutes later, the phone buzzed, signaling an incoming message. Heart frantically pounding in his chest, MacTeague opened it, memorized the few words and numbers, then deleted the message and left the MacGowan residence, heading to the location the Russians chose for the meeting.

It was in another part of the city in a not-so-safe neighborhood with a lot of run-down buildings and dubious-looking residents, who glared with hostility at MacTeague's expensive car and designer suit. For a moment, the man was afraid that he would be attacked and robbed, but the said residents walked away after muttering some not-so-flattering words under their breath.

“What took you so long?” Genadyi Semionoff, the senior agent who’d contacted MacTeague, asked in his heavily accented voice when the man stepped inside the small apartment. “Weren't the instructions clear enough?”

“Nothing wrong with the instructions,” the Scottish gangster answered in a meek voice, visibly intimidated by the glare the Russian cast in his direction, “It’s just that...I never was in this part of the city and...”

“My time is too precious to waste it listening to your pathetic excuses,” Semionoff cast MacTeague short. “Did you bring it?”

“Y—yes, I have it here,” the other man nervously stuttered, opening the small briefcase he was carrying and extracting the envelope from there. “Here it is, exactly how I found it, with the seal intact. I didn't touch it...” he continued in the same agitated voice.

“Let us be the judges of that.” Semionoff abruptly stopped MacTeague again. “Boris, the package has arrived, please take a look at it.”

“Yes, boss.” Another, younger agent emerged from an adjacent room, taking the envelope and examining it closely. “The smell is right,” he said after inhaling it a few times, “I'll check the rest in a few.”

“Let's talk about my reward.” MacTeague relaxed after Boris left. “I give up on half of the money in exchange for controlling MacGowan's organization. The guy is dead meat, anyway.”

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