Page 16 of Emerald

The tunnel hasn’t run straight thus far—there have been several long, winding changes in direction. I don’t know where I stand in relation to the compound.

So all I can do is guess.

I go left.

I walk and walk for what feels like forever. The tunnel seems to stretch on interminably. Surely I should have come to the end by now?

I’m starting to get claustrophobic and paranoid. What if the tunnel branches again and again? What if there’s a labyrinth under here, and I’m lost and wandering for days, not able to even find my way back to the well?

And what if when I get back, someone has found my rope and cut it?

I can feel my heart rate rising, my skin starting to sweat. The tunnel feels hot, as if it’s going deeper and deeper into the earth.

I touch the walls.

It’s not my imagination—they really are warm.

I look up and see a wooden hatch in the roof of the tunnel. I push up on it.

This is the most dangerous part so far.

I have no idea where I’m coming up. I might be entering the middle of the dining hall, with a dozen men all around me. I’ve come at night when they should be asleep, but I’m dealing with a houseful of bachelors—I doubt they’re all tucked in bed by midnight.

I can hear noise, a sort of hollow, clanging sound. A groaning and rushing. There’s a dim red light as I crack the hatch.

Once the hatch is up, I have to jump up to get my arms out so I can pull myself up. It’s hotter than ever, and the banging noise is very close.

I peek out and find myself in the boiler room, right behind an extremely large and ancient copper water heater. The hatch can only open partway, because it’s wedged between the heater and the furnace. That’s why it’s so hot and noisy.

I have to squeeze out, trying not to burn myself against the copper.

I ease the hatch closed behind me, watching the lid nearly disappear into the patterned grain of the floorboards. The hatch has no handle or lever to pull it up again—I won’t be able to get it up quickly if I have to escape this way when the job’s done.

Still, I feel a sense of calm now that I’m actually inside the monastery. My heart rate slows. My breathing steadies.

It’s as if my body goes into a kind of hibernating state, allowing me to be perfectly quiet and still. As I slip through the monastery, I will have to be as silent as a shadow, as unobtrusive as a piece of furniture. I pull my stocking down over my face and sneak out of the boiler room.

It must be 3:00 a.m. by now—the quietest hour of the night.

The stone hallways of the monastery are deserted and only dimly lit. The compound has electric lights of course, but they’re set in rustic wooden sconces. In fact, all the decor seems to be old-fashioned in nature. I see several side tables, mirrors, and tapestries that I’m sure are antique.

I’m surprised by the elegance of this place. I expected a gaudy gangster’s palace. Whoever chose these pieces has taste, refinement. They appreciate the history of the building.

In the silence of night, I might almost believe I’ve gone back in time to the era of the Orthodox monks. But, of course, if I encounter someone, it will be a Bratva brother, not a man of god.

I have to find Ivan Petrov’s room. Since he’s the boss, I assume he has the largest and most private quarters. I have an idea they’re in the west wing of the compound. The few times I watched Petrov entering the main building, he seemed to turn in that direction before the doors closed behind him.

I move slowly, ever so slowly through the main building. I slip from one hiding place to the next. From a set of velvet drapes, to a pillar, to a stone statue in its niche.

As I draw close to what seems to be the dining hall, I hear low voices inside. I’ll have to pass by the open doorway to continue on my way. I wait, hearing at least two men in conversation. When they start chuckling at some joke, I hurry past the doorway, resisting the urge to glance inside.

In my relief, I almost run into another soldier patrolling the hallway. I have to dart blindly into the nearest room to avoid him, without checking to see if anyone is inside. It’s a billiards room, with an impressive bar along the far wall. Mercifully, it’s empty, except for a young man snoring on the sofa.

He looks like a teenager, his caramel-colored hair long and shaggy, and his feet, propped up on the arm of the sofa, encased in bright orange Spalwarts. He’s got a bag of chips spilled on the floor next to him and his phone resting on his chest. It looks like he fell asleep mid-text.

I don’t like seeing someone that young here. I’m only thirty-one, but he looks like a kid to me.

Well, it shouldn’t surprise me. The Russian mafia is a family business, after all. They’re raised in it.

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