“Daniel has a friend who suspected as much. Gogol is more dangerous than most people believe. But he will meet the end he deserves, Alanna. Scripture tells us he will not survive this military advance against Israel. You must have faith. Deliverance is coming.”
A shock wave slapped at Alanna. She would never have believed it possible that a woman as bright and beautiful as Lauren Prentice would use the Bible for foretelling the future—just as she couldn’t believe Gogol was mentioned in it.
She shook off Lauren’s absurd comment and continued her previous train of thought. “I’ve never felt more uncertain of the future. What if Gogol’s government falls out of favor? I’ve read too much Russian history to think everything’s going to be OK. Rival governments tend to take a dim view of the competition’s family members. If Gogol dies, his grieving widow, me, will pay the price for everyone he has offended during his rise to power. I want out, but I don’t know how to get out. Security is even tighter at the Presidium than it was at the hotel.”
“I’m thinking. OK, here’s an idea. Why don’t you just tell Gogol the truth? Tell him you don’t want to marry him. Tell him you’re not suited for political life or that you miss America too much. Tell him you’ve had second thoughts.”
“You don’t tell Gogol anything he doesn’t want to hear. Trust me. Tonight his top aide told him something about a diamond they couldn’t find, and I thought Vladimir was going to take the guy’s head off.”
“You could always tell him the truth, about who you are. About your mother.”
Alanna stared at the computer screen, not certain she had read the words correctly. Had Lauren lost her mind? She knew about the purge against the Jews in Russia, about Vladimir’s anti-Semitism. “I can’t, Lauren. He’d never forgive me. He loves me, I think, but he loves his own ideals more. And his hatred of the Jews is irrational. It springs from some place inside him I’ve never reached.”
The screen remained blank for a moment, then another thread appeared: “Alanna, have you ever considered the possibility that God brought you to this place for a reason? Daniel and I prayed long and hard about approaching you all those months ago, and we’ve been praying for you ever since. We really believe God has his hand on your life, that he wants to draw you close to him.”
Alanna groaned and raked her hand through her hair. Was God the life preserver people routinely tossed to drowning women? Tonight Mrs. Nance had uttered the same sentiments, but Alanna still couldn’t see how drawing close to God was going to get her away from Vladimir Gogol.
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Lauren, but God and I aren’t really on speaking terms. I haven’t even thought about him since I was a little kid in Sunday school. So I’d rather come up with a realistic way I can get out of Moscow. I was thinking that I could go out with my bodyguard tomorrow and visit the American embassy. They’d have to grant me sanctuary, right? Of course, I don’t know how I’d get from the embassy to the airport, but if I stayed long enough, there’s always a chance Vladimir will forget me.”
She knew that idea was hopeless even as she typed the words. Elephants never forgot, and Gogol never forgave. She’d shrivel up and die in the American embassy before he would call off his spies and allow her to go home.
“I have an idea, Alanna, and I hope you’ll try it. God promises to draw close to us if we draw close to him, and one way to do that is through fasting and prayer. For the next three days, I’m going to abstain from food so I can pray for you with no distractions. You can do the same, if you like, and together we will beg God to show you what you should do. Everything I have seen in my life has taught me to trust God for all I cannot see. I have faith. You can find faith, too.”
Alanna stared at the screen, her mind a crazy mixture of hope and fear. Going to God with an empty stomach was supposed to produce what—a miracle? She tapped her fingers on the keys. Maybe the idea wasn’t as ludicrous as it sounded. She certainly wouldn’t have much of an appetite in the next few days. She could always tell Vladimir she was experiencing pre-wedding jitters.
“OK, Lauren. I’ll pray. For courage and a way out. And I’ll try to check my e-mail when I can, but I can’t leave the computer plugged in here. I don’t know who’s monitoring the phone lines.”
“That’s fine, A. Daniel and I will be praying that God will show you a way home. And remember, dear, a wise man once said, ‘Unless there is within us that which is above us, we shall soon yield to that which is about us.’ Look up to God, dear one. He will lift you up.”
Alanna shut down the program and unplugged the modem, then stared for a long moment at the darkened screen. She had never gone without food in her life, not even during the days of her college poverty. Since childhood, she had never prayed for anything more substantial than help on an unexpected pop quiz.
She didn’t know what prayer would accomplish, but she had just agreed to stake her life on it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
1100 hours
Wednesday, December 13
“YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL, MADAME.”
Alanna stared at her reflection in the mirror and automatically reached up to adjust the edge of the lace veil framing her face. The servant was only being polite, for the mirror clearly revealed the smudges of fatigue under her eyes and the lines of strain bracketing her mouth. For three days she had lived in dread of this hour, for three days she had done her best to think about God and what he might have wanted to do with her life. And even as her stomach shriveled and her energy depleted, Alanna’s soul cried out for meaning and found . . . memories. Of childhood Sunday mornings spent in a small wooden church, of stories and songs that had nothing to do with her present situation.
She and the servant were standing inside a small stone room, one of many in the Cathedral of the Annunciation, the smallest of the three churches inside the Kremlin walls. She was wearing an elegant white satin gown, trimmed at the cuffs and neck with white Russian sable. She had pulled her hair back into a severe bun, but the veil softened her appearance. Vladimir, who had just left the room, had kissed her cheek and told her she made a beautiful bride.
He and a priest stood now in the sanctuary outside, waiting for Colonel Petrov, who was to act as a witness to the service that would join them in the bonds of holy matrimony. Alanna’s mouth twisted at the thought. The word bonds would certainly apply to matrimony with Vladimir, but there was nothing holy about it.
Over the past three days, while Vladimir had huddled with Petrov and other commanders of his army, she had struggled to recall the things she had learned as a child in Sunday school. The first day of her fast she could remember nothing more than the fact that they had listened to stories enacted on a flannelgraph. By the second day, she was able to recall snatches of a story she had learned, a tale about three Hebrew boys who had been tossed into a fiery furnace because they would not bow down to an idol, and how God had sent Jesus himself to spare them from the flames. By the third day of her fast, when her body so yearned for food that even ice cubes seemed to take on a distinctive taste, she could remember the doughy scent of the Sunday school teacher’s paste and the little snub-nosed scissors they used to cut out pictures of those brave Jewish boys. A song she had not thought of in years came back to her, ruffling through her mind like wind on the River Moskva: Jesus loves me, this I know . . .
The little servant stepped back and bobbed her head, presenting the mirror with a thin, starved-looking face, dominated by faded blue eyes. “Are you ready, Madame?”
Alanna turned from the mirror. “I think we are waiting for Colonel Petrov.”
The woman nodded and clasped her hands. “I could go see if he has arrived—”
“Wait.” Alanna put out her hand, unwilling to be left alone. She lowered her hand and gave the woman a timid smile. “Are you a Christian?”
A tiny flicker of shock widened the woman’s eyes. “Madame?”
“A Christian.” Alanna flung up her hand and gestured at the elaborate reli
gious paintings on the walls around them. “A follower of Christ.”
The woman retreated from Alanna’s gaze and tried on a smile that seemed a size too small. “Yes, Madame. I am.”
Alanna nodded slowly. So even here, in the heart of Moscow and the heart of the Kremlin, Christianity still existed. Though the Soviets had tried to stamp it out, people stubbornly continued to believe in miracles, in a God who rescued men from fiery furnaces.
A note of wistfulness stole into the woman’s expression. “And you, Madame Ivanova? Do you belong to the Lord?”
The gentle question snapped at Alanna’s conscience, making her flinch. She closed her eyes, her thoughts filtering back to the days when she had visited a sunlit classroom with wooden floors, small chairs, and a flannelgraph on an easel. The teacher, a woman with soft, wrinkled hands, had told them that the same Jesus who saved Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego would come into their hearts to stay. All they had to do was ask and believe, and he would keep his promise.
Alanna had lifted her hand, she had bowed her head and prayed. And afterwards she had felt a warm glow flow through her, a sensation more comforting than her daddy’s arms and her mother’s lap.
Daniel and I prayed long and hard about approaching you. . . . We really believe God has His hand on your life, that He wants to draw you close to Him.
Alanna sank slowly into a chair, heedless of her gown and veil. The Holy Spirit of God had entered her heart that day in childhood, when she had willingly placed her life in his hands. But somewhere along the way she took her eyes off him. She stopped going to church, stopped praying, even stopped remembering.
But God had not forgotten her. He had led her to Daniel and Lauren and to this moment—but for what?
“I’m trying to have faith,” she whispered, staring at her empty hands. “But it’s not easy.”
“Madame, may I tell you a story?”
Alanna looked up, surprised by the request. “Of course.”
The woman’s blue eyes softened. “I have heard it said that England’s King George once had a dream. In the vision, he asked the angel who stood at the gate of the new year for a light, so he could tread safely into the unknown.”
She paused, her eyes brimming with tenderness. “The angel replied, ‘Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.’” She reached out and touched Alanna’s arm, her hand trembling with eagerness. “That is all the faith you need, Madame. Just enough to place your hand in God’s.”
Alanna closed her eyes and considered the woman’s words. Vladimir would say that faith was nothing but an illogical belief in the improbable, but he believed in nothing greater than himself. She had once felt the love of God, and she had seen how he worked in the lives of men and women . . .
A loud booming sound echoed through the spacious chamber outside, and the servant rose to peer into the hall. “Madame! The colonel has arrived, and the president is gesturing for you!”
Moving on wooden legs, Alanna allowed herself to be pulled up, then accepted the bouquet of white roses pressed into her hand. Fussing and clucking, the servant opened the door and stepped back to fluff the full skirt of the wedding gown as Alanna moved through the doorway and into the narthex.
On cue, the organist began to play a stately processional. Alanna hesitated for a moment, then dropped her bouquet to her side. She could not marry Vladimir Gogol. She would speak to him face to face and tell him she had been wrong all along. She could not give him her life when years before she had given it to another.
The aisle, flanked by empty wooden pews, stretched out before her like a crimson highway and ended at the altar. An extravagantly robed priest stood directly before the Communion railing, and beside him, in full uniform, Gogol waited. He held his hands clasped before him in an expectant pose, but one corner of his mouth dipped with frustration as Colonel Petrov and another officer hurried forward from a side door.
“Mr. President, I must speak with you.” The brim of a hat hid Petrov’s face, but the splinters of ice in his voice were tipped with poison.
Alanna heard the menace in his tone. For a fleeting instant she wondered what had upset him, then she strode forward. In her careless forward rush the rose bouquet slapped against a pew; she glanced back and saw a carnage of petals strewn over the ruby-red carpeting. Impulsively, she tossed the bouquet onto an empty seat and grabbed up the fullness of her gown in order to quicken her pace.
Gogol’s eyes widened at this display of haste, then his expression clouded in anger as he turned to face the colonel. “What is it, Petrov? Surely this can wait!”
“No, sir,” Petrov answered, and Alanna felt the heat of the colonel’s gaze as she hurried down the aisle. “We did a Web search, sir, hoping to complete a biography on this woman.”
Taking a deep, unsteady breath, Alanna took the final two steps, then stood before Petrov and Gogol. She felt an instinctive stab of fear as Petrov pulled a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket and brandished it before Gogol’s eyes. “This is a page of Holocaust survivors, General. This woman’s name is among those listed.”
Alanna struggled to steady her erratic pulse. “That’s crazy. I’m not a Holocaust survivor. I’d have to be at least sixty years old!”
Vladimir took the page, then pulled his glasses from his pocket and studied it for a moment. He glanced at her face once, as if her picture were somehow imprinted on the page, then lowered the paper and calmly removed his glasses. “The page is a listing of Holocaust survivors and their descendants.” He threw the words at her like stones. “You are listed as being the daughter of Esther Honig and the granddaughter of Holocaust survivor Ethan Honig.”
Alanna stared at the floor, feeling as though her breath had been cut off. The priest, obviously uncomfortable, stepped back, leaving them alone in the heavy silence.
“Can you tell me this is a lie?”
Alanna closed her eyes. She could tell him anything—but why should she? Lying would only deplete the last of her self-respect. She had lied to him for months, and with each false smile she had sunk more deeply into the quagmire of evil and hostility surrounding him.
God, help me.
Petrov edged forward, his blue eyes widening in accusation. “We also found a computer in her things. There are encrypted message files on the hard drive. She has been communicating with someone.”
The muscles in Gogol’s face tightened into a mask of rage. Alanna took an involuntary step backward, then clenched her fist in the fullness of her skirt.
“Is this true?” He gave her a killing look. “With whom have you been talking?”
“No one you know.” Her capacity for panic had reached its limits, and her emotions veered crazily from fear to fury. “And yes, it is all true. My mother was Jewish, my grandfather a survivor. Jews will always be survivors, Vladimir, because you cannot destroy what God has chosen!”
“It cannot be.” He spoke in a taut voice, his eyes black and dazzling with fury. “I could not have loved a Jew!”
She lifted her head and met his accusing eyes without flinching. “No, you could not. You could not love anyone, Vladimir. You love only yourself and your dreams of glory, but those dreams will die very soon. God Himself will destroy you when you move against Israel. It is written in the Bible, therefore it must be true.”
Triumph flooded through her when he winced at her words, but she knew she would not have the upper hand for long. She turned to walk back down the aisle.
“Alanna! Stop!”
She lifted her head and studied the slanting sunbeams from the windows. They fell upon the floor, bathing the pews and carpeted aisle in a brilliant white light. “Jesus loves me, this I know,” she whispered under her breath, fixing her gaze upon the narthex. “For the Bible tells me so.”
She heard the gun slide from a leather holster, heard the click of a safety being drawn back. “Alanna! Stop where you are!”
; “Little ones to him belong.”
Two shots sounded in the same second, and immediately a dull kind of pressure knocked against Alanna’s rib cage. Surprised, she looked down at the snowy expanse of her dress and saw a brilliant red spot, darker in the center, like a radiant rose unfurling before her eyes, so she took another step, pain rising inside her like a wave, breaking, sending streamers of agony in every direction, and the white mountain of her wedding dress moved with her, swishing in the stillness, while the sharp odor of carbon wafted through the nave and reached her nostrils, so she brought her hand up to her face, and the movement sent tiny jabs of sharper pain whipping through her arm, and she noted with surprise that the white satin sleeve was torn, the snowy sable flecked with crimson splashes of blood.
She clamped her jaws together, felt her breath come hard through her nose with a faint whistling sound. Taking another step, she drew a ragged breath and sang another phrase of the little song, as clear in her memory now as it had been on that Sunday in childhood: “They are weak, but he is strong.”
Another shot sent a shaft of pure white pain ripping through her chest. Alanna halted, pressed her hand to her heart, then lifted it and stared at her wet palm. She tried to take a breath and couldn’t. Something was pressing against her chest, but that wouldn’t stop her from finishing the song, from victory, because God had called her, God had kept her, and God would welcome her home. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego had spoken the truth to a pagan king, and so had she; she had told Gogol that God would destroy him, and he would, because God always kept his word and his promises and always preserved his people no matter who came against them, just as he always gathered in the souls that belonged to him . . .
By Dawn's Early Light Page 30