Disclaimers: as before.

Thanks for those reviews! Sorry this has been a while coming – been busy with some other stories, Xmas etc. Its also a bit of a 'wordy' one...but bear with me, lots of action to come ;)

CHAPTER TEN: DYNAMITE

'It's a stunning city!' exclaimed Preston as he hurried behind Sydney over Lieutenant Schmidt Bridge. 'I was expecting St. Petersburg to be interesting, but all these beautiful, eighteenth century palaces, and this bridge with dancing seahorses on the railings! Superb!'

'Yeah, St Petersburg is a gem,' admitted Sydney, glancing back over her shoulder, 'and a survivor. The Nazis laid siege to the city for twenty-nine months in the Second World War. Thousands, millions even, were killed or starved. It was Hitler's plan to wipe the city off the face of the Earth…this place has know real suffering.'

'And still manages to be so beautiful,' murmured Preston, picking up reflective tone. 'Although it is uncommonly cold…Oh my Goodness! Look, Sydney! It can't be? Surely…?'

Sydney laughed, as Preston pointed frantically in the direction of what appeared to be an Egyptian obelisk, protruding from another bridge a little way up the river, and guarded by four magnificent, cast-iron sphinxes.

'No, Preston, it's not! Nothing is ever that easy! That's the Egyptian Bridge - it was originally built one hundred and fifty years ago and is the oldest metal Bridge in Russia, but it certainly isn't Cleopatra's Needle!'

'Oh, uh, of course not,' muttered Preston, embarrassed at his sudden overexcitement. 'I knew that, really, I just forgot. So have you got a clue where this Angliskaya place is, the address mentioned on the shipping order?'

'Actually, yes I do. Angliskaya, as I'm sure you know, translates as 'English', so we're heading for the 'English Embankment.' She pointed to an impressive series of palatial houses at the far side of the bridge. Behind them, loomed the golden dome of St Isaac's Cathedral that, to Preston, was instantly reminiscent of London's St Paul's. 'In 1916, Dostoyevsky had the obelisk transported to one of those houses. So that's the start of our trail.'

'Oh, very good,' puffed Preston, as Sydney speeded ahead again. 'And, of course, I knew that Angliskaya meant English!'

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

'It's okay - I'm going, I'm going!'

Nigel emerged from the bathroom, to find Derek waiting impatiently on the other side, his gun now tucked rather casually in his belt.

'And don't worry!' continued Nigel, slightly disarmed by the other man's persistent, twinkle-eyed stare. 'I won't make a mess in your beautiful en-suite bathroom again - although I believe I've left it rather cleaner than I found it!'

'Yeah, Nigel, thanks,' replied Derek sardonically. 'Now make yourself scarce! I'll send you a signal at zero-hundred-hours that you should proceed to Deviega's mess room and identify the whereabouts of the obelisk from the stolen Kremlin papers.'

'Zero-hundred-hours? If you don't mind me asking, why don't you just say midnight – its actually quicker?'

Derek grinned. 'You really want me to kick your ass, don't you?'

'No I bloody well don't,' mumbled Nigel, sinking down onto the bunk. 'I just wish you'd speak English, that's all! So you simply want me to look at the Russian papers - you don't want me to try and get the rubbings back?'

'If you can translate any more, that would be a plus. But you must not take anything, or leave any evidence that you're anything but as dead as that fool, Bately.' Derek snorted, vaguely jovially. 'Let's pretend you did for yourself as well as you did for him!'

'Oh God, could you please not remind me about that?' Nigel ran his fingers agitatedly across his forehead. 'Its not…not something I'm proud of.'

'You'll live with yourself,' muttered Derek. Nigel felt a hand touch his arm, but only for an instant. A muscle in the agent's jaw quivered slightly, as if he had something else on this to say on this emotive topic – but then he was back to business.

'Okay. You've got four hours, so get in that pipe and get some sleep. You sure as heck look as if you need it!'

Nigel stared at him for a moment, gave an almost indiscernibly shake of his head, then rose and headed for the grate. 'I'm not entirely sure how I'm supposed to sleep in there,' he grumbled. 'It's sort of, um… freezing!'

'Yeah, we're over 71 degrees north; its below freezing outside, and the heating on this ship isn't great. Probably all for the best, or those pipes might be full of fumes and then you'd be suffering from chemical poisoning instead of hypothermia!'

'Is that supposed to be a joke?' asked Nigel, hauling himself up and sliding into the ventilation system.

Derek's only reply was to grab a blanket off his bed and shove it at Nigel's feet. 'Here - you better take this.'

Twisting back, Nigel scowled ironically and picked up the moth-eaten, brown cover. 'Thanks…its better than hypothermia, I guess…so, um, what will this signal be?'

'I'll whack the pipe with my gun,' smirked Derek. 'That'll wake the dead!'

'This keeps getting better and better! Okay, much obliged, but do you think you could bugger off now?'

'With pleasure,' laughed Derek. He squeezed the back of Nigel's leg as it disappeared up into the pipe, causing Nigel to look back abruptly.

'You know, you're doing great, buddy!' he winked. 'Now disappear!'

'Bloody slave-driver,' bitched Nigel, then he shuffled off around a u-bend to find what comfortable accommodation the ship's ventilation system could offer.

All the same, once it was dark and he was alone again, the notion that Derek thought he was 'doing great', didn't make him feel better at all. He shivered and curled himself into a ball inside the blanket, wishing he didn't have to think about it.

'Doing great' at what? As far as he could tell, he'd only done two things successfully so far: lie and kill.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

'Looks like some sort of warehouse!' Sydney pressed her face against the ground floor window of a tall building, much plainer than the others on the 'Angliskaya Embankment'. Large, double doors on the first-floor and the decayed remains of winches indicated that goods were once transported into it from boats on the River Neva. 'There's some interesting stuff in here,' she observed. 'Antique furniture, some sculpture…'

'Maybe it's an auction house?' conjectured Preston.

'Could be! It doesn't look like anybody is about, though. Can you see a doorbell?'

'It looks like the door is…uh, over there.'

They both made their way down to a modest looking entrance, at basement level. Sure enough, there was a sign. 'Антикварные аукционы'.

'Antique auctions', translated Sydney. I wonder how long this building has been used for a purpose like that? Maybe Dostoyevsky just sold the obelisk? He was a notorious rogue!'

Sydney rang the bell and knocked hard on the door. Nobody came.

'You're not going to start breaking and entering again, are you?' whispered Preston nervously.

'Not yet,' breathed Sydney. 'This door is alarmed, and I doubt your trick with the spark plugs is going to work twice! I'm going to look around the other side, see if there's a better way in.'

The other side of the warehouse was on a narrow and quieter street, divided from the regal splendour of Saint Isaacs Cathedral by a single terrace. The warehouse had its main entrance here: a set of steps, on a nigh-Palladian scale, swept up to a first-floor double-doorway. The peeling green paint on the railings and door itself, however, indicated that it hadn't been used for some time.

By the doors at the top of the steps was a tarnished brass plaque. Sydney began to rub at it furiously with her sleeve.

'That plaque is old,' observed Preston. 'You think that it might give us a clue what the building was used for in 1916?'

'That's what I'm hoping,' breathed Sydney. 'Ah... here we are.'

'Королевский Склад'

'Yes!' Sydney pumped her fist with excitement.

''Королевский,' means Royal, of course…' began Preston, proud to have remembered somthing.

'…and Склад means warehouse. This is all starting to make sense – prior to the 1917 revolution, this building must have functioned as a sort of holding-place for goods being transferred to the Royal Palaces. Dostoyevsky must have either sold or given the obelisk to the Tsar!'

Preston frowned: 'But surely that makes this a dead end? If the obelisk was taken to the Royal Palaces, it would have been looted - if not by the Bolsheviks then by the Nazis in the Second World War. Hell, it's probably gone the way of the Amber Room!'

Sydney was frowning now too. Preston had a point: locating anything that was taken from the St. Petersburg Palaces during their stormy 20th Century history was going to be a million times harder than searching for a needle in a haystack the size of Russia itself. Then again, she was the world's foremost Relic Hunter…

'Damn! We need to find out what was in those papers which Bellimo and Deviega stole from the Kremlin… even if they have the originals in their possession, someone must know!'

'You mean we should ask somebody in the Russian government? They're hardly going to help us, are they? Ann-Marie said they are already up in arms over the theft and blaming the British and Americans!'

'You'd be surprised. The Cold War is over and a couple of years ago I did a Russian agent a little favour - and she showed herself to be more than a little fond of Nigel.' Syd pulled out her phone. 'There's a possibility Tatiana could pull some strings for us…'

'Do not move, Professor Fox! You are under arrest!'

At the shout, Sydney, groaning internally, lifted her hands in the air. Preston hastily did the same. At the bottom on the steps, were a man and a woman. The man, who pointed a gun at them, had barked the order in a distinct Russian accent.

'What's this all about?' demanded Sydney. 'We weren't breaking the law.'

'That is already done, is it not, Professor Fox?' As she spoke, the woman pulled an identity badge from her jacket. 'Larisa Kafelnikova, Russian Federal Security Service. You are being arrested under the Official Secrets Act regarding a theft which took place when you were in Russia two months ago.'

'What the heck?' Very cautiously, Sydney began walking down the steps towards the woman. 'I was in Moscow to give a paper on the lost truncheon of Genghis Khan, and the government reiterated their thanks to me for locating the Sword of Ateus by awarding me a medal!'

'Yes, and we have reasons to believe you abused that honour by stealing papers regarding the whereabouts of several invaluable relics!'

'I don't know what you're talking about!'

'Yes you do. At this very moment you have hidden about your person a picture of the last Russian Tsar, taken in front of a unique Egyptian obelisk; a photograph which is the property of the Russian government!'

'Uh, you can search me if you like, but I don't have any such photograph on me.' Sydney alighted on the ground in front of the agents as gracefully as she lied. 'But, of course, I'll be happy to help you with your investigation…'

She hadn't even finished the sentence when her high kick, blasting out of nowhere, sent the gun spinning off across the pavement.

'Oh God!' anguished Preston. Syd's follow-up blow sent the male agent sprawling into the railings at the bottom of the steps. 'You're going to get us killed!'

For a second it looked like he might be right. When Sydney turned to confront her, Larisa drew a gun from a holster concealed in her jacket, her finger poised on the trigger.

Bang!

Sydney's gasp caught like iron in her throat; Preston clutched his chest in horror. But it was Larisa Kafelnikova who slumped to the floor, a patch of scarlet spreading swiftly across her back.

'Ann-Marie!' yelled Sydney. 'NO!'

But she was too late. The MI6 agent had planted a second slug into the chest of the Russian man, even as he scrambled to his feet.

'You didn't have to do that!' thundered Sydney. 'You've probably killed them!'

'If I'd been two seconds later, you would've both been dead,' stated the willowy blonde. 'I've got a car at the end of the street. Are you coming?'

Sydney paused, glancing quickly down at the bodies. Right now, she trusted Ann-Marie less than ever. But what choice did she have?

'I have a lead on Nigel,' insisted Ann-Marie, gesturing urgently they should follow. 'Is that good enough for you?'

Sydney glowered darkly at the British spy. 'It'll have to be,' she thought to herself. 'Because the Russian government are not going to be helping me now…'

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

CLANG!

'Aaaaaaargh!' Nigel woke up abruptly, nearly whacking his head on the roof of the shallow pipe.

'Ssssssssssh!'

Somehow, Derek made even this entreaty sound like a military command. Nigel crawled back around the corner, only for the US agent to shine a flashlight directly in his face.

'Ow!' Nigel shielded his eyes. 'What the hell are you doing?'

'Nothing. Did you sleep well?'

'No, it was lousy! And I'm guessing this is my wake-up call?'

'Yup.' Derek turned off the torch and skidded it up the pipe to Nigel, who felt it come to a rest against his knee. 'This is for you. But it's for when you reach Deviega's mess-room only. You can't use it in the pipe. It might shine through one of the grates into somebody else's cabin and then it's all over, my friend.'

'Okay,' sighed Nigel. 'Um, but why are we in total darkness?'

Derek was silent for a second. Nigel heard him scuffle, then turn on another torch.

'Better?'

'Uh, a bit,' replied Nigel uncertainly. He squinted back at Derek, desperately trying to read the agent's shaded expression. Suspicion kindled further when he glimpsed the outline of what looked like a large, square box on the bunk. He certainly hadn't noticed that earlier.

'Why don't you, um, turn on the main-light? And what's that on the bed?'

'Nothing for you to worry about,' articulated Derek slowly.

Nigel could have screamed. He could put up with being cold, tired and hurt – but not with being patronized. 'Don't give me that! What is it? Come on, I've been doing your dirty work long enough – I have a right to know!'

'Don't give me that!' retaliated Derek, although his tone contained no real anger. 'All I've asked of you so far has been done in order keep you alive – and if you don't want to go after the Kremlin documents, then stay where you are. But I still have a mission.'

'Yes but what is that mission? Stop Deviega, find how the Needle words or…or…'

As visions of Derek blowing the relic to smithereens flashed into Nigel's mind, Derek suddenly stepped aside. He switched on the light to reveal a solid-looking metal box.

'It contains TNT,' he said plainly. 'Yeah, I want to know how this this thing works - but that's because my brief is to destroy it if it poses any significant threat to world security. I have spent the past few days assembling these resources from where they were hidden across the ship just in case that becomes a necessity. Is that good enough for you?'

'Uh…yes…I mean, well, no!' Nigel had hardly been prepared for such a disarming turn of honesty even though it was exactly as he'd suspected. 'I mean, it is a last resort, right? I've spend years of my life researching this thing and it's a unique historical artifact – I don't want it destroyed.'

'It's a last resort,' affirmed Derek, although Nigel noticed that, once again, his 'friend' was avoiding eye contact. 'So I can't trust Lloyd', he reminded himself. 'Nothing new there then…' The notion unsettled him, all the same.

Nigel heaved a heavy sigh. 'Okay. So how am I supposed to find my way?'

'Use your sense of direction. The mess room is on the floor above, behind the pilot's room. You have until zero-five-hundred-hours.'

'Marvelous,' grimaced Nigel. 'Well, I suppose I found my way back here before, but that was a combination of sheer luck and blind panic.'

'I wish you that luck now, buddy.'

'Thanks…um…' Nigel found himself involuntarily chewing his bottom lip. 'What do I do…if something does go wrong?'

'Same as before,' said Derek plainly. 'Make no attempt to contact me and don't compromise the mission. Now move!'

Nigel rolled his eyes - he was getting the gist of this only too well - and disappeared up again into the darkness of the pipe to execute his next mission.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

'There was absolutely no need to shoot them!' Sydney turned violently upon Ann-Marie as the car pulled away. 'I could have handled it.'

'I'm sorry!' Ann-Marie glanced nervously in the car mirror. 'But I couldn't take that risk.'

'No wonder diplomatic relations between Britain and Russia written an all-time low,' whined Preston from the back seat. 'What are we going to do now? I mean, surely they'll be after us, watching the airports and everything? Oh heavens, I'm going to wind up in a Russian jail!'

Sydney's attention, however, was entirely on Ann-Marie. Despite her sharp shooting, the woman still seemed far too jittery for an experienced agent. Nevertheless, there was only one thing she really wanted to know: 'You said you had a lead on Nigel. What is it?'

'Bellimo and Deviega left the Port of London yesterday on an empty carrier ship, The Winter Queen. We don't know for sure where it is heading, but the vessel is registered here, in St Petersburg, and there was no listed cargo – so, chances are, its sailing back to its homeport. The ship is on a satellite trace, and we'll be able to predict its destination better when it reaches the entrance to the Baltic Sea.'

Sydney struggled to maintain a calm façade at this news. The thought of poor Nigel – who got sea-sick at the best of times - stuck on a rusty cargo ship in the North Sea with only those fiends for company made her feel physically ill. Her voice cracked a little as she asked: 'Is there any way we can, uh, confirm its destination?'

'That's all British Intelligence were able to get their hands on,' sighed Ann-Marie. 'However, it does mean that your decision to follow Mr. Bailey here, rather than accompany me to Moscow may have been unexpectedly in our interests. In fact, it's a good job that I watched you rather more carefully than you watched me!'

Sydney glanced back at Preston, to see how he was digesting this new information. The elder Bailey was merely staring blankly out of the window. His look of panic returned, however, when Ann-Marie's tone suddenly sharpened: 'So, Mr. Bailey, seeing as I'm sharing information here, I wondered if you would be so kind as to let me know why it is you decided to come here? What have you been keeping from us?'

'Err…'

Sydney indicated with her eyebrows that Preston should proceed.

'Um, well, nothing important,' he began, sheepishly. 'I just found something in Nigel's papers that said that the obelisk may have been transported to St Petersburg at the end of 1915. That's all.'

'It seemed like the most solid lead we had,' admitted Sydney. 'I did try and tell you as soon as I knew, but you had already got on the flight to Moscow… or so I thought!'

'I appreciate that,' admitted Ann-Marie. 'Look, I know you don't quite trust me, Professor Fox, and I don't blame you after… after the mistakes surrounding Nigel's abduction, but we are going to have to all start working together if we go to find him alive.'

'Yeah, right,' replied Sydney, still not quite convinced. 'But next time we encounter trouble, let me handle it… at least, don't just shoot people with that stupid gun! I hate those things!'

Ann-Marie glanced down at the bulge in her jacket, where she had replaced the gun in its halter. 'All right. I'll hold back, but you have to trust my judgment too, Sydney. Sometimes, these things are necessary.' Turning onto a busy road out of the city, she braked suddenly then veered out around a single-decker white bus.

'This is all very well,' sighed Preston. 'But what do we do until we know where the boat is going? I mean, it's not like we can just book into the Astoria, is it?'

'No, we can't,' replied Ann-Marie. 'But I can take you to a safe house. And we need to keep after the Needle itself.'

'No,' replied Syd quickly. 'You can after the Needle if you want but, right now, Nigel is my priority. I'm going after the ship.'

'Oh, but on that ship they do know where the Needle is!' insisted Ann-Marie. 'It's in those papers, and they have them. Go after the Needle, we find their destination, and we find Bellimo, Deviega and Nigel. In fact, for all we know, your assistant might have known the location all along. After all, he had that photograph that nearly got you in so much trouble!'

Both Sydney and Preston were silent, but they shared the same thoughts: 'How did Nigel end up with a photograph that had been stolen from the Russian government – even before he was kidnapped?'

Sydney had no answer but, above all, she now knew she had to find out. Her gut told her that, somehow, that picture was the key.

Thanks for reading. Please review.