A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(33)

Barrow reappeared, set two glasses on the trunk, then crossed to the shelving. Pulling one of the dated journals, she returned and dropped into the larger of the oversized chairs.

“Thank you,” I said. “Your home is very cozy.”

“It’s a rental, and it’s shit. I don’t like tethers.”

I had no response to that.

We both drank. Several moments passed. Barrow ran a thumb across the condensation on her glass. The nail was naked, the cuticle red and ragged. I waited, allowing her to set the pace.

“Felix Vodyanov, F. Vance, whatever. He was a repeat customer at the ashram.” Barrow’s eyes stayed on her lemonade. “Showed up more than once during the four years I worked there. VIP, so he got special treatment.”

“Special?”

“Separate quarters, room service. That sort of thing. Ask me, he came for more than just cleansing and yoga.”

“Meaning what?”

Shoulder hitch. “Dunno. He was a quiet guy. Stayed to himself. But then, Hitler liked dogs.”

“That’s an odd comment,” I said.

There was a wide patch of silence. Then, “I think your guy was into some seriously messed-up shit.”

“Go on.”

“He was Russian. Had an accent. Subtle, but if you listened, you could catch it.”

“How do you know it was Russian?”

“Dr. Yuriev’s half Indian, half Russian. I made the mistake of showing interest in the Russian bit once, you know, to schmooze him up. He yammered on and on about the glories of Rimsky-Korsakov, Dostoyevsky, the motherland. I never did it again. Anyway, he and your guy sounded alike. And I think Yuriev was the reason he chose the ashram.”

“Can you explain the Hitler reference?”

Barrow gulped lemonade. Backhanded her mouth and set down the glass. “When he was at Sparkling Waters, Vodyanov was my main responsibility. I spent a lot of time with him, one-on-one. He knew things.”

“Things.”

“I keep a sort of diary. Been doing it since high school. Nothing fancy, just random ideas strike my fancy. Or happenings I might want to recall later on.”

Silence as Barrow thumbed through the journal, found the entry she sought.

“Ever hear of a ship named the Estonia?”

“A passenger ferry that sank in the Baltic in ’94.” The disaster that had interested the owner of the Hyundai. The owner of the notebook.

“That’s the one. Real shame. Almost nine hundred people died.” Barrow ran a finger down the page. “Vodyanov—you say that’s his name, I’ll call him that—knew that this boat was carrying some serious juice.” The finger stopped. “Here it is. Advanced Soviet space and laser technology. Whatever the hell that is. Vodyanov claimed the boat was sunk to prevent the transfer of that cargo to the West.”

“Go on.” Voice calm, pulse not.

“I never got the whole story, but it was clear Vodyanov was privy to classified info.”

“Such as?”

Barrow’s eyes dropped back to the journal. The finger traveled, mining information. “He knew that the wreck wasn’t found for five days, even though it could be seen by helicopter.” More mining. “That some sort of multinational military exercise was going on in the Baltic during the entire episode.” More. “That two submarines, one Swedish and one Soviet, followed the Estonia when it left Tallinn for Stockholm. Don’t ask me where those places are.” The finger shifted to the next page. “That after the boat went down, the U.S. and Israel began developing this laser crap and something else.” Movement, then a finger jab to the paper. “Infrared-beam weaponry.”

“Vodyanov talked about this?”

“A couple, three times. Before Yuriev got his meds sorted.”

“What else?”

“I didn’t write everything down. But hold on.” Long pause. “He said that right after the sinking, divers hired by the Swedish government spent hours breaking into cabins searching for a black attaché case belonging to a Russian space-technology dealer. I didn’t record the guy’s name, but Vodyanov knew it. He said that the case was found in a cabin usually used by one of the ferry’s missing captains. And that this dealer’s name was on it.”

It was as if a barrier had lifted and Barrow was finally able to unburden herself. She talked in bursts as she pried Vodyanov’s comments from the words scrawled on the pages before her.

“Here’s a kicker. Did you know that most of the victims are still down there? Instead of trying to retrieve the bodies, the Swedish government hired a marine-salvage firm specializing in, get this, neutralizing underwater nuclear waste. Vodyanov knew the name of the outfit. I didn’t put it in here. He said they spent $350 million trying to bury the ship in concrete. To this day, no one’s allowed to dive anywhere near it.”

Barrow’s eyes rose, then drifted off over my shoulder. I wondered if she was visualizing her former charge, perhaps corpses rotting on a sea floor.

Assuming Barrow was finished, I said, “I’m curious. Why did you feel compelled to record Vodyanov’s statements?”

“I was convinced the dude was some sort of Russian operative. I figured what the hell? The story might come in handy someday.”

“You thought he was a spy bec—”