The man he spoke to at the dacha off Kiselny Boulevard was one of the night guards but he agreed to take a message.
“Tell the colonel my name is Father Maxim Klimovsky. Got that? Yes, Klimovsky. Tell him I work in the private residence of the Patriarch. I must speak to him. It is urgent. I will phone back on this number at ten this morning.”
He got his connection at that hour. The voice at the other end was quiet but authoritative.
“Yes, Father, this is Colonel Grishin.”
In the booth the priest held the receiver in a damp hand, a bead of sweat across his forehead.
“Look, Colonel, you do not know me. But I am a passionate admirer of Mr. Komarov. Last night a man came to visit the Patriarch. He brought documents. He referred to one as a Black Manifesto. ... Hello? Hello? Are you there?”
“My dear Father Klimovsky, I think we should meet,” said the voice.
CHAPTER 13
AT THE FAR SOUTHEASTERN END OF STARAYA PLOSHAD IS Slavyansky Square where stands one of the smallest oldest, and most beautiful churches in Moscow. All Saints of Kulishki was originally built in the thirteenth century of wood, when the Russ capital comprised only the Kremlin and a few surrounding acres. After burning down, it was rebuilt in stone in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries and remained in constant use until 1918.
Moscow was then still known as the city of Twenty-Times-Twenty Churches, for there were over four hundred of them. The Communists closed down ninety percent and destroyed three-quarters. Among those that remained abandoned but otherwise intact was All Saints of Kulishki.
After the fall of Communism in 1991, the little church underwent four years of meticulous restoration at the hands of teams of craftsmen until it reopened as a place of worship. It was here that Father Maxim Klimovsky came on the day following his phone call. He attracted no attention because he was dressed in the standard full-length black cassock and stovepipe hat of an Orthodox priest, and there were several of them in and around the church. He took a votive candle, lit it, and walked to the wall on the right of the entrance, where he stood contemplating the restored icons as if in prayer and contemplation.
In the center of the church, ablaze with gold and paintings, a resident priest stood behind the altar chanting the litany to a small group in Street clothes who answered with the responses. But the right-hand wall, behind a series of arches, was unoccupied apart from the single priest.
Father Maxim glanced nervously at his watch. Five minutes after the appointed hour. He did not know he had been seen from the parked car across the little square, nor had he noticed the three men alight after he entered the building. He did not know they had checked to see if he was being followed; he knew none of these things, or how they were done.
He heard the slight scrape of a shoe on the flagstone behind him and felt the man move into position beside him.
“Father Klimovsky?”
‘‘Yes.”
“I am Colonel Grishin. I believe you have something to tell me.”
He glanced sideways. The man was taller than him, slim, in a dark winter coat. He turned and looked down at Father Maxim. The priest met his eyes and was frightened. He hoped he was doing the right thing and would not regret it. He nodded and swallowed.
“First tell me why, Father. Why the phone call?”
“You must understand, Colonel, that I have long been a keen admirer of Mr. Komarov. His policies, his plans for Russia—all admirable.”
“How gratifying. And what happened the night before last?”
“A man came to see the Patriarch. I am his valet and butler. The man was dressed as a priest of the church, but he was blond and wore no beard. His Russian was perfect, he might have been a foreigner.”
“Was he expected, this foreigner?”
“No. That was what was so strange. He came unannounced, in the middle of the night. I was in bed. I was told to get up and prepare coffee.”
“So, the stranger was received after all?”
“Yes, that was odd, too. The Western appearance of the man, the hour of his arrival ... The secretary should have told him to make a formal appointment. No one just walks in on the Patriarch in the middle of the night. But he seemed to have a letter of introduction.”
“So, you served them coffee.”
“Yes, and as I was leaving I heard His Holiness say: What does Mr. Komarov’s manifesto tell us?”
“And you were intrigued?”
“Yes. So after closing the door I listened at the keyhole.”
“Very astute. And what did they say?”
“Not a lot. There were long periods of silence. I looked through the keyhole and could see His Holiness was reading something. It took almost an hour.”
“And then?”
“The Patriarch seemed very disturbed. I heard him say something and then use the word ‘satanic.’ Then he said, ‘We are beyond these things.’ The stranger was talking in a low voice, I could hardly hear him. But I caught the words ‘the Black Manifesto.’ They came from the stranger. That was just before His Holiness spent an hour reading. …”
“Anything else?”
The man, thought Grishin, was a babbler; nervous, sweating in the warmth of the church but not from it. But what he had to say was cogent enough, even though he, the priest, did not understand the significance of it.
“A little more. I heard the word ‘forgery’ and then your name.”
“Mine?”
“Yes, the stranger said something about your reaction being too fast. Then they talked about an old man and the Patriarch said he would pray for him. They mentioned ‘evil’ several times, then the stranger rose to leave. I had to get down the corridor fast, so I did not see him go. I heard the street door slam, that was all.”
“You saw no car?”
“No. I peered from an upper window, but he left on foot. The next day I have never seen His Holiness so disturbed. He was pale, spent hours in his chapel. That was how I could get away to call you. I hope I did the right thing.”
“My friend, you did exactly the right thing. There are antipatriotic forces at work seeking to spread lies about a great statesman who will soon be the president of Russia. You are a patriotic Russian, Father Klimovsky?”
“I long for the day when we can purify Russia from this trash and garbage that Mr. Komarov denounces. This foreign filth. That is why I support Mr. Komarov with all my heart.”
“Excellent, Father. Believe me, you are one of those whom Mother Russia must look to. I think a great future awaits you. Just one thing. This stranger ... have you no idea where he came from?”
The candle had burned low. Two other worshipers now stood a few yards to their left, gazing at the sacred images and praying.
“No. But though he left on foot, the Cossack guard told me later he came by cab. Central City Cabs, the gray ones.”
A priest, at midnight. Going to Chisti Pereulok. The log would record it. And the pickup point. Colonel Grishin gripped the upper arm of the cassock beside him, felt his fingers dig into the soft flesh, and sensed the man start. He turned Father Klimovsky to face him.
“Now listen, Father. You have done well and in due course will be rewarded. But there is more, you understand?”
Father Klimovsky nodded.
“I want you to keep a record of everything that happens in that house. Who comes, who goes. Especially high-ranking bishops or strangers. When you have something, you call me. Just say ‘Maxim is calling,’ and leave a time. That is all. The meetings will be here, at that time. If I need you, I will have a letter delivered by hand. Just a card with a time. If by any chance you cannot make that time, without arousing suspicion just ring and give an alternate. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Colonel. I will do what I can for you.”
“Of course you will. I can see that one day we shall have a new bishop in this land. You had better go now. I shall follow later.”
Colonel Grishin continued to stare at t
he images he despised and reflect on what he had been told. That the Black Manifesto had returned to Russia he had no doubt. The cassocked fool would not know what he was talking about, but the words were too accurate.
So someone was back, after months of silence, and circulating quietly: showing the document but not leaving a copy behind. To create enemies, of course. To try to influence events.
Whoever it was, he had miscalculated with the primate. The church had no power. Grishin recalled with appreciation Stalin’s sneer: How many divisions has the Pope? But whoever it was could cause trouble.
On the other hand, the man had retained his copy of the manifesto. Indicating he might have only one or two copies in his possession. The problem was clearly to find him and eliminate him, and in a manner such that not a shred of the stranger or his document would be left.
As it turned out, the problem was much easier than Grishin could have hoped.
On the matter of his new informant, he had no problems. Years in counter-intelligence had taught him to recognize and evaluate informants. The priest, he knew, was a coward who would sell his grandmother for preferment. Grishin had noted the sudden spark of lust when he mentioned elevation to a bishopric.
And something else, he mused as he left the icons and passed between the two men he had stationed just inside the doors. He really must search among the Young Combatants to find a seriously handsome friend for the traitor-priest.
The raid by the four men in black balaclava masks was quick and efficient. When it was over the director of Central City Cabs reckoned it was hardly worth reporting to the militia. In the general lawlessness of Moscow there was nothing the best detective could do to find the raiders, nor would any seriously try. To report that nothing was stolen and no one harmed would invite a torrent of form-filling and several wasted days making statements that would gather dust in a file.
The men simply barged into the ground-floor office, closed it down, drew the blinds, and demanded to see the manager. As they all had handguns, no one argued, presuming it was a holdup for money. But no, all they wanted when they stuck a pistol in the manager’s face were the worksheets of three nights previously.
The leader among them studied the sheets until he came to an entry that seemed to interest him. Though the manager could not see the pages, because he happened to be on his knees facing the corner at the time, the entry referred to a pickup and a destination logged about midnight.
“Who is driver Fifty-two?” snapped the leader.
“I don’t know,” squealed the manager. He was rewarded with a crack on the side of the head from a pistol barrel. “It’ll be in the staff file,” he screamed.
They made him get out the staff list. Driver Fifty-two as Vassili. There was an address in the suburbs.
After telling him that if he even let the thought cross his mind of calling Vassili to warn him, he would quickly move from his present accommodation to a long wooden box, the leader tore off a chunk of the worksheet and left.
The manager nursed his head, took an aspirin, and gave a thought to Vassili. If the fool was daft enough to cheat men like that, he deserved a visit. Clearly the driver had shortchanged someone with an even shorter temper, or been rude to his girlfriend. This was Moscow, 1999, he thought; you survived or you made trouble for men with guns. The manager intended to survive. He reopened his office and went back to work.
Vassili was taking a late lunch of sausage and black bread when the doorbell rang. Seconds later his wife came back into the room white-faced, with two men behind her. Both had black ski masks and guns. Vassili opened his mouth and a piece of sausage fell out.
“Look, I’m a poor man, I don’t have ...” he began.
“Shut up,” said one of the men while the other pushed the trembling wife into a chair. Vassili found a torn sheet of paper pushed under his nose.
“You’re driver Fifty-two, Central City Cabs?” asked the man.
“Yes, but honestly, guys …”
A black-gloved finger pointed out a line on the work sheet.
“Two nights ago, a fare to Chisti Pereulok. Just before midnight. Who was it?”
“How should I know?”
“Don’t get smart, pal or I’ll blow your balls off. Think.”
Vassili thought. Nothing came.
“A priest,” said the gunman.
That was it. The light went on.
“Right, I remember now. Chisti Pereulok, a small side street. I had to check the street map. Had to wait there ten minutes before he was let in. Then he settled up and I left.”
“Describe.”
“Medium height, medium build. Late forties. A priest, come on, they all look the same. No, wait a minute, he had no beard.”
“A foreigner?”
“Don’t think so. His Russian was perfect.”
“Seen him before?”
“Never.”
“Or since?”
“Nope. I offered to come back for him, but he said he didn’t know how long he’d be. Look, if anything happened to him, it was nothing to do with me. I just drove him for ten minutes. …”
“One last thing. Where from?”
“The Metropol, of course. That’s what I do. Night shift at the rank outside the Metropol.”
“He came up the pavement or out the doors?”
“Out the doors.”
“How do you know?”
“I was head of the line. Standing by the cab. You have to be careful or you wait an hour, then some asshole down the line takes your fare. So I was watching the doors for the next tourist. Out he comes. Black cassock, tall hat.. I remember thinking: What’s a priest doing in a place like that? He looks up and down the line, then comes straight for me.”
“Alone? Any companion?”
“No. Alone.”
“He gave a name?”
“No, just the address he wanted to go. Paid cash in Rubles.”
“Any conversation?”
“Not a word. Just where he wanted to go, then silence. When we got there he said, ‘Wait here.’ When he came back from the door, he said, ‘How much?’ That was it. Look, guys, I swear I didn’t lay a finger …”
“Enjoy your lunch,” the interrogator said, and pushed his face in the sausage. Then they left.
Colonel Grishin listened to the report impassively. It could mean nothing. The man came out of the doors of the Metropol at half-past eleven. He could be staying there, he could have been visiting, he could have walked right through the lobby from the other entrance. But worth a check.
Grishin maintained a number of informers inside the headquarters building of the Moscow militia. The senior was a major general on the ruling Presidium. The most consistently useful was the senior clerk in Records. For this job the one was too high and the other confined to his rows of shelves. The third was a detective inspector in Homicide, Dimitri Borodin.
The detective entered the hotel just before sundown and asked to see the front office manager, an Austrian who had worked in Moscow for eight years. He flashed his militia pass.
“Homicide?” asked the manager in concern. “I hope nothing has happened to any of our guests.”
“So far as I know, no. Just routine,” said Borodin. “I need to see the complete guest list for three nights ago.”
The manager sat in his office and punched up the information on his computer.
“You want it printed out?” he asked.
“Yes, I like paper lists.”
Borodin began to work his way down the columns. To judge by the names, there were only a dozen Russians among the six hundred guests. The rest were from countries all over Western Europe, plus the United States and Canada. The Metropol was expensive, for visiting tourists and businessmen. Borodin had been told to look for the title Father preceding a guest’s name. He could see none.
“Do you have any priests of the Orthodox Church staying here?” he asked. The manager was startled.
“No, not so far as I am aware. ... I
mean, no one has checked in as such.”
Borodin scanned all the names without success.
“I’ll have to keep the list,” he said at length. The manager was happy to see him go.
It was not until the following morning that Colonel Grishin was able to study the list himself. Just after ten o’clock one of the two stewards at the dacha entered his office with his coffee to find the Head of Security for the UPF pale and shaking.
He asked timorously if the colonel was feeling himself, but was waved away irritably. When he had gone, Grishin looked at his hands on the blotter and tried to stop the shaking. He was no stranger to rage, and when it seized him he came very close to losing control.
The name was on the third page of the printout, halfway down. Dr. Philip Peters, American academic.
He knew that name. For ten years he had guarded that name. Twice, ten years earlier, he had scoured the files of the Immigration Division of the old Second Chief Directorate, to which the Foreign Ministry passed copies of every application for a visa to visit the USSR. Twice he had found that name. Twice he had procured and stared at the photo accompanying the application; the tight gray curls, the smoked glasses hiding the weak eyes that were not weak at all.
In the cellars beneath Lefortovo he had shaken those pictures beneath the noses of Kruglov and Professor Blinov, and they had confirmed this was the man who met them covertly in the lavatory of the Museum of Oriental Art and the crypt beneath the Cathedral of the Assumption in Vladimir.
Many more times than twice he had sworn that if the man who bore that face and pseudonym ever came back to Russia he would settle accounts.
And now he was back. Ten years later he must have thought he could get away with the crass impudence, the insulting arrogance of coming back to the territory ruled by Anatoli Grishin.
He arose, went to a cabinet, and burrowed for an old file. When he had it he extracted another picture, a blowup of a smaller one provided long ago by Aldrich Ames. After the end of the Monakh Committee, a contact in the First Chief Directorate had given it to him as a souvenir. A mocking souvenir. But he had kept it like a treasure.
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