by Nick Cook
I run through every picture on my phone, expanding them as I go. Most of the people are obviously tourists. One guy isn’t. Shaved head, black jacket and gray scarf. In my first shot I caught him unawares. He’s looking straight at me. In all the others, he’s turned away. I flush the john and wash my hands.
I spot a kiosk selling what look like hotdogs by one of the main exits. The vendor tells me they’re called sasiki. I put down my map, count out fifty roubles, then sit on a stool and eat.
I exit by the nearest door, turn left, walk thirty meters, shove my hand in my pocket, make out I’ve forgotten the map and turn back.
As I step through the revolving door, the guy with the shaved head sees me, averts his eyes and keeps going, exactly as the manual has trained him to do.
I head back to the kiosk, pick up the map – josh about my forgetfulness to the sasiki-seller – and make for a different exit on the store’s north side. I dive into a large group of tourists, moving with them down Nikolskaya Street, until I spot where I need to go.
Tretyakovsky Proezd is almost deserted. Like the undead, oligarchs come out at night.
Bulgari, Armani, Graff, Tiffany, Maserati, Ferrari are all here, but they’re not what I’m looking for. I take another left into a street of perfectly restored pre-Revolution-era buildings painted in pastel shades of green and red.
The first store I come to sells icons; the second, classical paintings; the third, Russian porcelain. The sign above the doorway to the fourth reads ‘Sasha Bibliofil Moskva’. Its interior is compact and redolent with the scent of leather, mold and preservatives.
The shelves, labeled in Russian and English, are packed with hundreds of rare, second-hand and antique books. Air conditioning ensures the sub-zero conditions remain outside.
A thin, pale girl with short black hair in a figure-hugging sweater and skintight jeans is tapping on an iPad behind a desk at the far end of the room. She looks up. There’s no one else in sight.
‘Speak English?’
‘Little,’ she replies. She puts away the iPad, taking her time.
‘I’m looking for something to give to a friend. A memento.’
Her eyes narrow. A slight shake of the head.
‘A gift.’
‘This is rare bookshop.’
‘I know.’ I smile, and get nothing back.
‘So, how much you like to spend?’
‘Anything up to ten thousand.’
‘Roubles?’
‘Dollars.’
This prompts her to raise her sculpted eyebrows. She picks up the phone. A minute later, the door behind her opens.
The woman who comes through it has high cheekbones and naturally blonde hair, cut just above the shoulder. She’s wearing a floaty smock and tight white pedal-pushers and her eyeglasses hang from a chain around her neck. Attractive, in her late forties, she’s wearing no more than a hint of make-up.
‘May I help?’ Her English has little trace of an accent. ‘I am the owner. Anya tells me you’re looking for something rare.’
‘Yes. A gift for a friend.’
‘You’re American?’
I nod.
‘And you want a Russian book?’
‘My friend doesn’t speak it, sadly.’
‘A translation, then? Of Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Grossman, Solzhenitsyn? We have many. What kind of stories interest your … friend?’
‘Universal themes. Complex characters. I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Joshua Cain.’
I extend my hand. She shakes it. Her palm is cold.
‘Sasha,’ she replies. A hesitant smile. ‘But this does not help me narrow the list. Russian literature, Mister Cain, is founded on universal themes and complex characters. But maybe I do have something. And it will not cost you the fortune that you mentioned.’
‘No?’
‘No. The state does not permit the export of books over a hundred years old without a special permit. Since you don’t know that, I’m assuming you are not a collector. Are you here on business?’
‘In a sense, yes.’
‘What, if I may ask, does your friend do?’
‘He’s a psychiatrist. An eminent professor.’
‘Then this is good.’
‘It is?’
‘Da. I have just received a copy of Lermontov’s A Hero Of Our Time. The first edition of a 1958 translation by Nabokov. If your friend likes Russia, classical literature, and is American, then this maybe has everything that you – or he – might be looking for. Particularly if psychiatry is his specialism.’
‘Have you read it?’
‘Of course.’
‘And?’
‘The central character is indeed complex. He is highly calculating and manipulative, yet also cynical and sensitive.’
‘Are we supposed to like him?’
‘That is a matter of perspective.’ She pauses. ‘You think these are the kinds of themes that might appeal?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps. If I could just see the book …’
She turns to Anya. They exchange a few short words. The girl opens the top drawer of the desk, removes a pair of white gloves, opens the door and disappears.
The sound of her footsteps recedes.
‘You have a reference section, I see.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d be interested in taking a look.’
‘For your friend? Or for you?’
‘For my friend, of course.’
‘Then you will need to tell me a little more about him.’
‘His passion is the study of consciousness.’
‘I see.’ She pauses. ‘What is it that you do, Mister Cain?’
‘I’m a physician and a psychiatrist.’
‘I’m sorry. Doctor Cain. Then you must have views on this too.’
‘I’m familiar with the territory, yes.’
‘I come from a scientific family myself,’ she says. ‘My father was an academic. And this subject was very close to his heart. So, please, I am interested. Tell me.’
I cast myself back to TVB and our fireside chats.
‘Where does the mind originate? Is it a by-product merely of brain chemistry? If so, what is memory? How do we store it? Does memory reside within us? Does consciousness? Or does it come from somewhere else? And, I guess, the truly big question: does consciousness persist after we die?’
‘Tell me, Doctor Cain, have you lost someone close to you?’
Before I can answer, a door opens and closes somewhere downstairs.
Footsteps. Anya on her way back up.
Sasha turns to me. ‘Doctor Cain, what is it that really brings you to my shop?’
Anya reappears, clasping the Lermontov in her gloved hands. She picks up on the electricity, glances at us both.
She and her boss hold a short, whispered discussion. Then, without a word to me, Sasha turns and walks from the room.
‘Miss Mikhailovna says to tell you that she regrets she has no books that are of interest to you or to your friend. So as not to waste any more time, she says for you please not to come back.’
50
AS I CLIMB THE STEPS TOWARD THE ENTRANCE OF THE CATHEDRAL of the Holy Trinity, a young priest with a straggly beard tells me foreign tourists are encouraged to make a small donation to the homeless and the hungry. I get the feeling he has been posted to scout for trade and saw me coming a mile off. A wooden cross swings on a chain around his neck.
When we get to the door, he smiles and holds out a large silver collection plate.
I reward his efforts with a bunch of roubles, head inside and find a seat between two praying babushkas at the rear of the nave.
I unfurl a fact sheet from the Ilitch Foundation website.
Holy Trinity is the foundation’s flagship, a model for its many other restoration projects. At the bottom of the sheet are some photos. They include a shot of the Church of St Mary Magdalene, which is familiar from the cabin. It overlooks the holy sites of the three
religions and is a stone’s throw from where conference delegates are now assembling.
I become aware that someone is standing behind me.
It’s the young priest who accosted me at the entrance. He introduces himself as Father Yuri. ‘Excuse me. English?’
I get to my feet. ‘American.’
‘I like to show you something.’
I follow him. At the entranceway, he points to the collection plate. ‘Three thousand roubles! More than fifty dollars! This very, very good!’
I tell him I’m happy to help.
After he’s finished pumping my hand, he asks me my name.
‘Joshua? I like this. When I look for you, Joshua, I think you leave, but then I see you at back of church. As I come close, I see you reading about Ilitch restoration.’
I tell him the project interests me, particularly the one in Jerusalem.
‘OK.’ He claps me on the back. ‘So, I do something for you.’
He leads me past a panel of icons to a screen displaying the various stages of the process.
No expense has been spared in the employment of cutting-edge twenty-first-century technology. Where it hasn’t been possible to take castings from the original moldings, for example, digital images have been made of archive photographs and fiberglass facsimiles built using 3D printers. Yuri points out an angel’s head high on the domed ceiling that’s a prize example.
I ask him how I can make a contribution.
‘Contribution?’ He mangles each syllable.
‘A gift.’
‘But you make this already.’
‘That was for the homeless and the hungry.’
I point to the picture of the Church of St Mary Magdalene in Jerusalem. ‘What do you know about the work here?’
He peers at it. ‘Little. Father Grigory. He know.’
‘Who is Father Grigory?’
‘Father Grigory is nastoyatel.’ He pauses. ‘How you say? Father Superior.’
‘Please take me to him.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes. Now.’
‘Father Grigory is busy man.’
‘So am I. I want to make a sizeable donation.’
Yuri frowns.
I hold my hands wide.
We pass through a door that opens onto a narrow hallway.
A number of chambers lead off of it.
He stops at the second on the left, pauses, and knocks. A low voice answers. Yuri enters. I hang back.
A clean-shaven priest in a black robe and boxy headgear is sitting behind a desk in an office that’s bare except for an inlaid gold icon of the crucified Christ on the wall behind him.
Father Grigory is in his late thirties. The cross hanging heavily from his neck is solid silver. He stares at Yuri, then at me. He’s pressing a cordless phone to his ear with one hand and covering the mouthpiece with the other. He nods at Yuri.
I catch the words ‘Yerusalim’ and ‘Amerikanski’ in Yuri’s response.
Father Grigory appears to give us a curt dismissal.
Thirty seconds later, Yuri and I are back where we started, in the entranceway.
When I ask what Grigory said, he simply repeats that the nastoyatel is a very busy man.
‘He said you try come back tomorrow.’
My command of Russian isn’t brilliant, but I am fairly certain that this is not what the nastoyatel said. The word I heard him use was neudobnyy. As I walk down the icy steps toward the pathway that leads to the river, I check a translate engine. Neudobnyy means ‘inconvenient’.
A Range Rover and a Mercedes saloon – both so immaculately polished I can see my reflection in their paintwork as they sweep past – pull up at the base of the steps.
Two bodyguards leap from the Range Rover. One runs to the Merc and waits. The other clears a path through people milling around the entrance then speaks into his microphone. The first heavy opens the Merc’s door.
A priest in a black robe and white headdress emerges. I hear someone close by whisper: ‘Patriarch Nikolai,’ and watch the closest onlookers dip their heads toward the Primate of Moscow, the head of the Russian Orthodox Church.
They pay little attention to the man who follows.
I have only seen that one picture of Vladimir Ilitch – on the crazy wall, from way back, when he was still a lowly accountant in the pay of the Soviet state. He is taller than I expected, but there’s no mistaking him.
He checks himself in the reflection of the passenger window, sweeps his distinctive lock of hair away from his face, and slips on a pair of sunglasses. Flanked by his bodyguards, he puts his hands behind his back, drops his head, and strides into the patriarch’s church.
51
THAT EVENING, IN MY ROOM, I WATCH THE WELCOME CEREMONIES that have taken place throughout the day in the center of Jerusalem.
Thompson flew in during the afternoon. After speaking to reporters at Ben Gurion International, he made his way to the Old City. There are pictures of his green and white helicopter touching down at the conference arena, a closed-off zone within spitting distance of the Temple Mount, where, tomorrow, amid a network of hotels and convention centers, the plenary and non-plenary sessions will get underway.
There are also images of him making his way on foot from the media center to the so-called Hall of the Assembly, from where the inauguration ceremony is now being streamed live.
He looks relaxed. Better, in fact, than I have ever seen him.
He smiles and waves. His shirt collar is undone.
Jennifer walks beside him, looking beautiful, though more … I don’t know. On edge?
The crowd seems to love it, and him.
Security will be going apeshit.
Over a room-service meal, I watch a succession of political and religious leaders. When the commentator mentions that Thompson’s will be the eleventh and final speech, I hit my laptop and check the news. India has dropped out. Floods in Kolkata have killed thousands and the government needs to attend to the crisis. For an irrational moment, I’m elated. Then the commentator drops in the fact the Pope won’t arrive until the main plenary kicks off in two days’ time.
The Vatican will make twelve.
There’s a Bible in the bedside drawer. I go to Revelation 22:2, which talks about the tree of life and the healing of the nations. The next verse, as Koori told me, promises ‘no more curse’. My eye is then drawn to 22:4: ‘They shall see His face.’
I glance at my watch. Moscow is one hour ahead of Jerusalem. I dial Reuben.
We haven’t spoken since his visit to the hospital. I’m surprised he picks up.
‘You watching this?’ he says.
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘What do you make of it?’
‘You’re not with him?’
‘No. I’m with the VP and Christy. We’re caretaking while Thompson is in Jerusalem.’
‘Reuben?’ In my mind, I’m surprised he’s not with Thompson.
‘Yeah.’ He sounds distracted. I can hear he’s watching a TV or a monitor.
‘Do you have a delegate list?’
‘On me? No.’ A pause. ‘Why?’
‘I want you to check a name.’
‘Who?’ Caution in his voice.
‘Patriarch Nikolai, the head of the Russian Orthodox Church.’
A pause. ‘Where are you, Josh?’
‘Moscow.’
‘The hell you doing in Moscow?’
‘You remember our friend?’
‘Jesus.’
‘His foundation is carrying out a refurb of a Russian Orthodox Church overlooking the spot where Thompson is now.’
‘So?’
‘Check out the blast radius.’
‘This is an open line.’
‘It’s a little too late for Opsec, Reuben.’
‘Do the Russians know you’re in-country?’ He means the FSB.
‘I imagine so.’ I may have lost them during my walkabout, bu
t they’ll know exactly where I am now.
‘The Patriarch?’
‘If he’s not on the list, you have a problem.’
‘Why?’
‘Because maybe he knows something we don’t.’
The line goes quiet.
‘Reuben?’
‘Yes.’
‘You remember the welcome message? I saw the face of God. You shall too. It’s from the Book of Revelation.’
‘So?’
‘Gapes’s next line told us to “bear true faith”. From the oath we swear to uphold the Constitution. Against all enemies, foreign and domestic. He was warning us that the threat comes from both.’
I pause.
‘And another thing. Revelation is attributed to John the Apostle. Gapes gave himself the pseudonym John when he turned up at the Settlement. He used the Church of St John to mount his protest. John the Apostle was a seer. He saw the future. Just as Gapes says he did.’
‘Go home, Josh,’ Reuben says wearily. ‘This is crazy talk. I have done everything in my power to protect you. And I can only do so much.’
‘Something’s going to happen.’
‘Go home, Josh.’
‘Reuben—’
‘Enough, damn it! I need to feed Thompson the rest of his speech. And you need to leave before somebody gets interested in this discussion.’
He hangs up.
I think about my options while I take a shower, and contemplate calling Stani. But he’ll still be halfway to the US.
By the time I go back to the bedroom, someone has slipped an envelope with the Kempinski’s logo under the door. Inside is a piece of plain paper with numbers printed down both the long edges of the page. The left-hand side starts with 39:6:13; 101:14:3; 170:35:18 and continues almost to the bottom. I count them. Twenty-four sets. The right set is shorter. Three numbers only.
I’m wondering what they mean when there’s a knock on the door. I tuck the sheet quickly into the desk drawer.
‘Yes?’
Room service.
I look through the eyepiece.
A man in hotel uniform holds up a brown envelope. I sign for it, tip him, and close the door.
I figure it has to be a lot easier to shoot me than to blow me up in the Kempinski, so I open it. It’s a book. A Hero Of Our Time – the 1958 edition, translated into English by Nabokov.