The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

Juan shrugged. “Could be. Either way, it’s been good getting back into the spy game with you for a little while.”

“Do you miss it?”

“The CIA? No. The Oregon is where I belong.” He put his drink on the table and looked up to see Gretchen staring at him. He returned her gaze just as intensely. “But I’d forgotten what a good team we were.”

“Yes, we were.” Her hand grazed his softly. “If the last week has proven anything, we still are.”

When he’d worked with Gretchen before, Juan had resisted the attraction between them because of his marriage. But now there was no reason to hold back and he gave in to their mutual chemistry.

As if pull

ed by a magnet, he leaned toward her. She came to him at the same time, and their lips met, tentatively at first, then building in intensity until they were locked in a passionate embrace.

It was clear to both of them that Gretchen wouldn’t be leaving the room until morning.

FORTY-EIGHT

At eight a.m. the full-sized Metanas Energija van crossed the bridge over the Neris River, Robertas Kulpa in the driver’s seat and Sergey Golov sitting next to him. Sirkal, O’Connor, and the two other men—Jablonski and Monroe—were nearly finished changing into uniforms in the back. Thick clouds portended the heavy rain that was forecast for later in the day. Two more blocks and they reached their destination.

“There it is,” Kulpa said, nodding at an imposing white neoclassical church.

The Vilnius Cathedral, built over the remains of a pagan temple, was fronted by a row of six huge columns, an homage to ancient Greek architecture. The dominant feature of the vast plaza outside the church was a freestanding bell tower. It seemed to be leaning, like the famous tower in Pisa, but Golov couldn’t decide whether it was an optical illusion or not.

“I’ve seen the church already,” he said. “We came here yesterday to take the tour.”

Kulpa gaped at him. “Are you crazy? Then they will recognize you!”

“Relax. The guide was the only one who saw us, and the tours don’t start until eleven. She won’t be here.”

Kulpa shook his head but kept driving. He slowed to a stop in front of the entrance next to two white and green police cars.

“I called ahead to get the evacuation started,” he said.

The few tourists visiting the cathedral at this early hour were being ushered out of the building calmly but urgently. The cover story given to the church leaders was that a gas line running under the church had ruptured, detected by a drop in pressure at the central monitoring facility. Kulpa and his “workers” were there to determine if there really was a leak and where it was coming from inside the structure.

“Did the archbishop have any objections?” Golov asked.

Kulpa shook his head. “Once I explained the danger of a possible explosion, he seemed happy to have us come for the inspection, even if it takes a few days.”

The cathedral had been rebuilt several times over the centuries due to wars and fires. It had been turned into a warehouse by the Soviets after World War II and returned to its role as a fully functional cathedral only in 1989. It was understandable that the archbishop should not want to see it destroyed yet again.

They unloaded the van, each carrying a bag of equipment. O’Connor stacked several boxes onto a handcart and they all headed to the main door. There they met the policeman in charge of the evacuation as he escorted a couple out through the main entrance.

“Is the building clear?” Kulpa asked in Russian. Although Lithuanian was the official language, most residents were also fluent in their neighboring country’s tongue.

The uniformed officer nodded. “We have made a thorough sweep of the building. No one else is left inside. The archbishop has confirmed it and returned home. Two officers will remain outside to ensure that no one else goes in. All of the other doors have been locked.”

“Good. Make sure your men stay out here as well. I don’t want them causing an explosion by striking a careless spark. Absolutely no smoking.”

“I’ll inform the men.”

Kulpa turned to Golov. “Masks on from here.”

They all donned gas masks purely for show. When they were kitted up, they entered the church.

The central nave was lined with square pillars and painted a pristine white. Elaborate designs adorned the arched ceiling. Large oil paintings were the only other decorations. Row upon row of wooden pews stretched to the altar at the far end, which was buttressed by green marble columns.

“This way,” Golov said, who was more familiar with the cathedral’s interior than Kulpa was thanks to the tour the previous day.