“Most of the forest’s inhabitants thought the creature didn’t exist, that he was a myth. But the worm knew different. That night, it used its tunnels to slither to the base of the Feldberg, which as you know is the Black Forest’s highest mountain. It broke through the soil and took all night to reach the mountain summit. Standing there, watching the entire forest, was the eagle king.”
“You’ve never told us about the eagle king, Daddy!”
“That’s because he’s a secret. And both of you must swear to me that you’ll never tell anyone about his existence.”
The boys nodded quickly, desperate to hear more of the story.
Stefan pretended to look serious. “Very well. The eagle king was the most deadly creature in not only the Black Forest, but also all the lands around it. He loathed the giant earthworm and wondered if he should rip its body in half. The worm could see that the eagle had anger in his eyes, so spoke quickly, telling the king that it would pay him ten cows if he could kill the songbird. The eagle placed one of his huge talons close to the worm’s eyes, and told it that he would do the job only if he was given five cows in advance. The worm agreed and slithered away quickly, knowing that the eagle was the only creature that had the power to kill him.”
Stefan stuck his fork through a potato. “After the cows were delivered to him, the eagle flew down from the mountain summit and scoured the vast forest. It took him three days to spot the songbird flying north toward the edge of the forest. But to his surprise, as he approached it he was attacked by a younger eagle. It turned out that the good woodsmen had received news that the songbird was coming to them with important information and had sent out their best eagle to protect the songbird. They fought, but the younger eagle was no match for the king. He fell to the ground, injured, and the eagle king swooped on the songbird, gripping his neck between his razor-sharp claws. The songbird thought he was going to kill him, but instead the eagle asked him why the worm wanted him dead. The songbird told him about the bad woodsmen’s intention to cut down a large part of the forest and that he was trying to warn others about it.” Stefan paused, looking at each son. “You see, the eagle king was cleverer than the worm. He knew it was evil and would have bad reasons for wanting the songbird dead. That’s why he’d demanded that he be given five cows in advance. And unlike the worm, the eagle king was wise and honorable and only killed other creatures if it was absolutely necessary to do so. He could never kill a creature who was trying to protect his beloved forest. So he released the songbird and told him to fly fast to the good woodsmen. The songbird reached them and told them what he’d overheard. Hundreds of men picked up their axes and entered the forest to kill the bad woodsmen.” Stefan smiled as he finished his meal. “And that is the end of our story.”
Wendell frowned. “That can’t be the end.”
“Why not?”
Mathias shook his head, knowing his twin brother’s thoughts. “The young eagle wouldn’t be injured if the giant earthworm hadn’t been so bad.”
Wendell wasn’t happy. “And the eagle king needs to say sorry for hurting the younger eagle.” An idea came to him. “The best way he can do that is to find the worm and allow the younger eagle to kill it.”
Stefan held his knife in midair and stared at nothing.
Speaking more to himself while nodding slowly, Kronos whispered, “You’re right.”
Fifty-Nine
Patrick rang the doorbell of the London safe house and glanced at Will. “You been here before?”
Will nodded. It was the Pimlico property he’d visited after the fiasco in Gdansk. The elderly housekeeper opened the door, looked at Will’s crutches, and said in a haughty voice, “Try not to damage the carpet with those things.”
They entered the Regency house and moved into the tastefully decorated living room. Alistair was there, flicking through TV channels, wearing his favorite three-piece suit and Royal Navy tie. The MI6 controller frowned. “How long are you going to be on those things?”
Will awkwardly removed the crutches from his armpits and slumped into an armchair. “The doctors want me to switch to a walking stick tomorrow.”
Alistair continued flicking through channels, checked his watch, and muttered, “I can’t afford for you to be idle for too long. There’s plenty more work out there.”
“Thanks for your concern. You think the Spartan Section’s got a future?”
“We’ll see.” He found a news channel filming a reporter standing outside the International Criminal Court in The Hague. “Here we go.”
Nikolai Dmitriev tried to control his breathing and force his body to relax. He’d waited a long time for this moment. The last thing the old man needed was a bout of nerves. After uncrossing his legs, he adjusted the knot on his tie and smoothed his frail hands over his suit. Armed police were all around him in the court’s secure waiting area. No one else was allowed in here, not even court officials. He stayed motionless, his back ramrod straight, staring at nothing as he mentally recited the statement he was to make.
Dutch cops started shouting in an orderly fashion. One of them placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “It’s time.”
Dmitriev stood and followed officers out of the room, down bare corridors, and then into a large room containing men, women, tables, chairs, microphones, and cameras.
The courtroom.
All eyes were on him as he was guided to a stand to take the oath. Upon completion, he sat at a table that held a microphone and a glass of water. Facing him on the other side of the room were nine officials, including the court’s president and chief prosecutor.
The prosecutor leaned toward his microphone. “Mr. Dmitriev. Do you understand that this is a hearing, a chance for you to supply us with your statement? It is not a trial.”
Dmitriev nodded. “Yes, I understand.”
“Good. If your statement warrants subsequent criminal proceedings, those trials will be held either here or in other relevant jurisdictions.” The prosecutor glanced at the president, who nodded at him. He returned his attention to Dmitriev. “Please proceed.”
The former KGB colonel withdrew a sheet of paper, placed reading spectacles on, and momentarily stared at the cameras, knowing that his statement would be aired live to the world’s media. It seemed to him ironic that a life lived in the shadows would lead to this. Holding the paper with a shaking hand, he cleared his throat, inhaled deeply, and read the statement.
“In 1995, I was a senior officer in Russia’s foreign intelligence service, the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki. In December of that year, I was ordered to attend a secret meeting in Berlin. The others present at that meeting were Russian generals Leon Michurin and Alexander Tatlin, former East German Stasi colonel Kurt Schreiber, United States admiral Jack Dugan, CIA officer Thomas Scott, and American army general Joe Ballinger. The meeting was initiated by Kurt Schreiber and was authorized by the presidents of the United States and Russia.
“Our objective was to establish a set of military protocols for joint U.S.-Russian action against China, should the need ever arise to take action against the emerging superpower. These protocols would be stored in the relevant military headquarters in Russia and America, ready for use at a moment’s notice.”
Dmitriev took a sip of water, his heart beating fast.
“The American president believed that the joint military action would entail deployment of Russian conventional missiles from submarines located in the Philippine Sea and that their targets would be Chinese land-based missile sites. These strikes would be a warning to China, nothing more. American involvement would be deployment of its sophisticated interceptor missiles, sent from warships also located in the Philippine Sea, in order to stop Russia’s missiles from being shot down before they reached their targets.