An extract from Trinity: Book 1 by Sophie Masson:
CHAPTER ONE
The Volga River, the longest in Europe, winds majestically through a million
square kilometers of the Great Russian Plain on her way to the Caspian Sea: past forest and
farmland, marshland and meadow, factories and power plants, shipyards and timber yards,
and through countless villages, towns and cities. The lifeblood of her people throughout
history, the center of myth and legend, even today the river known as “Mother Volga” ferries
more than half of Russia’s water traffic, everything from creaking old barges to vast timber
carriers, smart speedboats to aluminum dinghies, little sailboats to luxurious cruisers, and the
big tourist ships that ply up and down the waterways from May to October, when the water’s
ice-free.
For the tourists, whether Russian or foreign, it’s a welcome chance to experience the
enchantment of Russia the old way, by water. But for the settlements along the routes, the
arrival of the tourist ships spells another kind of magic: a true end to winter as hibernating
shops and markets suddenly wake up, teachers transform into guides, wooden toys march out
of workshops, musicians brave monstrous mosquitoes and sudden spring showers to perform
al fresco.
On a beautiful sunny afternoon in late May, the spring bustle was in full swing when the
latest ship docked at the quay below the Volga town of Uglich. There was already one ship
moored there, another on its way, and the usual small crowd of musicians, touts, and local
guides waiting for the alighting throng. Most of the passengers wouldn’t be here more than a
couple of hours, for them Uglich was only one short stop on a long cruise.
A small fraction of the tourists might break their journey here for a day or two, and head
to the town’s few hotels. But the two women who stepped off the ship, wheeling suitcases
behind them, were not bound for a hotel.
One was in her mid-forties or so, small and chic in pencil skirt and close-fitting shirt,
short dark hair cut sleek as a helmet. The other was young, slightly taller than the other
woman, dressed in jeans and a lace top, and her dark red hair was in a single thick plait that
hung to her shoulder-blades. It was odd, thought Sergey Olegovich Filippov as he picked his
way through the milling crowd toward them. From behind, you’d suppose the two women