History has a way of hiding its secrets…
He was one of Russia’s most infamous rulers, and he alone held the key to a legendary Byzantine collection of books, given to him in the dowry of Princess Sophia of Constantinople. Ivan Vasilyevich—otherwise known as Ivan the Terrible—owned a library filled with rare and priceless tomes that men would kill for. Would die for. But the czar carried the knowledge of its whereabouts to his grave. And it falls to archaeologist Annja Creed, almost five hundred years later, to discover the secrets of the Library of Gold.
When the opportunity to unravel the mystery of this so-called eighth wonder of the world lands in Annja’s lap, she can’t resist. Armed with a diary of cryptic clues, she embarks on a journey to Russia, where she must somehow find her way into the very heart of the country, beneath the Kremlin.
But Annja soon discovers she’s racing a ruthless KGB agent driven by sinister motives. She finds herself deep beneath the Russian soil in a dangerous game of cat and mouse... Will she be the next to mysteriously disappear from history?
“Colonel! You should take a look at this.”
The guard led them outside St. Basil’s Cathedral and over to one of the trash cans in Red Square. He pointed inside the mouth of the barrel.
Sitting on some discarded trash was a woman’s hand.
Goshenko reached in and pulled it out, which caused the captain of the guard to recoil. But the hand wasn’t flesh and blood. It was stone. The stone hand of the Virgin Mother.
The colonel looked at it for a moment and then held it up so Danislov could see its hollow center. “I want to know what was hidden inside here, Sergeant. I don’t care what you have to do, just get me whatever it was.”
“Understood, sir.”
“The American, Annja Creed, and her companion are staying over at the Marriott on Tverskaya Street.” Colonel Goshenko nodded, satisfied. “I suggest you start there.”
Library of Gold
Alex Archer
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Joe Nassise for his contribution to this work.
Contents
Chapter 1
Footsteps in the dark.
That’s all Ridolfo di Fioravanti heard at first, the tramp of booted feet somewhere in the distance, but it was enough. Though he couldn’t see them yet, he knew who was marching down the long, dark tunnels toward him and the rest of the men working on the project. He knew that when they were at last revealed in the light of the oil lamps there would be no