by Sean Heary
“And don’t forget, Professor, the Reichskonkordat was signed a full six years before the start of the war,” an Opus Dei participant added.
“The Nazi Party was simply the elected German government of the day,” Cardinal Capelli continued. “Furthermore, support of the Nazis was considered a legitimate means of preventing the spread of Russian communism throughout Europe.”
To Rossi’s disappointment, when the bell sounded for the next round, the professor remained seated, no doubt influenced by whatever Cardinal Capelli had whispered in his ear on the way back to his seat. Too much truth for one day.
“So then, Inspector General,” Cardinal Capelli said, jolting Rossi back to the present, “you will travel to Bonn tomorrow afternoon and examine the document together with Bishop Muellenbach. If, in the opinion of the bishop, the document is of the highest quality then you are to acquire it.”
“That’s clear, Your Eminence.”
“Inspector General, remember, whatever happens do not allow this unholy forgery to fall into the hands of the Church’s enemies,” Cardinal Capelli said in a firm tone. He then stood as if to signal the end of the meeting.
Rossi walked to the door. His leather-soled shoes slid on the polished wooden floor as he turned back to face the cardinal. “Your Eminence, I promise you by tomorrow night the forgery will be secure in my possession destined for the Vatican archives.”
“Is there any possibility the Concordat is genuine?” Waldmann asked as they headed back to their offices.
“Good Lord, Christian, this is the Roman Catholic Church with all its mysteries. Anything’s possible. But as loyal servants of the Church we must suppose the document is a forgery,” Rossi said with a wink.
3
Oksana Koroleva felt content. Today was the fifth anniversary of her arrival in Paris. Hidden away in the private sanctum of her third-floor apartment, alone and unloved. She wouldn’t have it any other way.
A petite woman in her early thirties with fair skin, long, dark auburn hair and hypnotic amber eyes, love was not an emotion she believed in. ‘Cold heart, clear mind’ was the creed by which she lived.
From the kitchen island, she stood barefoot in a white cotton bathrobe, gazing dreamily out at the rain falling on the street below. The lavish ceiling to floor wisteria-coloured curtains that framed the tall panelled windows were never closed. Oksana adored the colour and the bustle of the street. If it meant that occasionally a peeping Tom got an eyeful of her nakedness, then so be it. For her, Paris was far too beguiling to worry about what the neighbours might see. Besides, in all the time she had lived at 17 Rue Clément Marot in the 8th arrondissement, she had never seen a single soul at the windows opposite, not even a cleaner.
As she opened a bottle of her favourite Krug Rose Brut champagne, she heard the faint muffled sound of ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony’. “Where’s my mobile phone?” she murmured, turning her head in the direction of the string loop.
Ordinarily she refused to take calls at home, as she had no true friends. Only acquaintances and colleagues. Tonight was one of the rare exceptions – this was a call she had to take.
“Salut,” Oksana said in a rushed voice, fearing she had taken too long to answer.
“Your assignment has been sent,” a man said in Russian.
“Yasna,” Oksana said ringing off; grateful she had never met her handler, who she imagined was as unpleasant as the missions he assigned her.
Oksana dropped her mobile phone into her bathrobe pocket and moved purposely towards the entrance hall. “It pays the bills,” she rationalised, removing an iPad from her canvas messenger bag, which was hanging next to her damp trench coat.
Oksana looked edgy as she sat down at the small writing desk hidden away in an alcove near the kitchen. She opened the encrypted message and read it.
Clean and Recover.
The Presbytery, Münster Basilica, Bonn, Germany (site plan attached).
Tomorrow 20.00.
Secure Nazi Concordat dated 1939.
2 persons: Maximilian Wolf & Bishop Muellenbach (photos attached).
Full service.
“Not very subtle,” Oksana sighed, opening the attachments.
She took a mental snapshot of each of the images before deleting the email. Then, faithful to her training, she ran a program the geeks from the office had installed on her iPad that wiped any trace of her activity.
Sliding the iPad towards the back of the desk, Oksana gazed momentarily at the bare wall in front of her. With a shake of the head she rose and returned to the kitchen, and to her glass of pink champagne.
4
“But it’s your father’s seventy-fifth birthday.”
“Mama,” Rossi said, removing Wolf’s document from inside his jacket. “I just can’t get down this week. I have to fly to Bonn tomorrow afternoon and I’m staying the night.”
“What on earth for?”
“To thwart a blackmailer.”
Rossi’s mama let out a soft sob and blew her nose. “Couldn’t they send someone else? Surely you’re far too important to the Pope to be running errands?”
“I’m not too sure I’d call this an errand. Besides, Cardinal Capelli wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.”
“He’ll be so disappointed.”
“Who?”
“Your father of course.”
“I’ll be home for Christmas.”
“Hopefully he hasn’t passed by then.”
“Passed what?”
A slight snigger. “Passed away – gone to God.”
“Stop it, Mama.”
“And where are my grandchildren? A forty-two-year-old bachelor. Who’s ever heard of such a thing? Your brothers were all married by the time they were thirty. It’s not as though there’s a shortage of…”
“Mama, I’ve got to go. There’s someone at the door. Love you.”
“Love you too, Enzo. Don’t forget to call him.”
“I won’t,” Rossi said as he rang off.
Naturally there was no one at the door. Rossi, who had just walked in, was keen to prove his hypothesis. He fetched a dilapidated suitcase from on top of the wardrobe in his bedroom and emptied the entire contents onto the Oriental rug that covered the wooden floor. Rifling through the papers, he quickly found what he was looking for – a copy of the 1933 Nazi Reichskonkordat, which he had used in his research two years earlier. He laid it on the table next to the newly discovered document.
Rossi looked up as heavy rain pelted against the window. Normally he wouldn’t have noticed, but he was flying tomorrow, and he hated flying in bad weather.
He poured himself a large Scotch then set to work. Rossi’s suspicions were immediately confirmed. Except for the wording, the two treaties were identical. The language and the terminology were the same. As were the format and style. It was as though they were written by the same person, albeit six years apart. To Rossi it was clear. The earlier document had been used by the forger as a template for the newly discovered treaty. But to the enemies of the Church, the consistency in style would be regarded as further proof that the document was genuine.
Rossi’s Vatican apartment was small and comfortable. Other than a poster of a dripping wet Sophia Loren hanging on the toilet door and an impressive LP collection, there was nothing to suggest it was the abode of one of Rome’s most eligible bachelors.
Rossi poured himself another Scotch and sat down on the sofa. Staring blankly at the crucifix hanging on the wall in front of him, he drifted into deep thought. On the surface the task was straightforward. Still, something deep down worried him. The document had a purpose. He wondered whether it was recent. Was it part of an existing plot, or a relic left over from the Cold War that could be acquired and forgotten about? Let’s hope the latter.
Running his eyes once more over the document, Ros
si’s gaze rested on the phrase ‘including the Soviet Union when annexed’. The words seemed so unnecessary. The document was dated three months before the war had even started, so why single out the USSR? It was as though it was created to anger Stalin. But why?
Rossi glanced at his watch. It was late and he was tired, but he knew there was no point in trying to sleep. His mind was racing – full of espionage and intrigue. Resigned to a long night, Rossi poured himself another Scotch and turned on the stereo. Bocelli was already on the turntable so he let it play. Still dressed for the office, Rossi lay down on the sofa and tried to clear his mind.
Within minutes he was asleep.
5
A loose corner of an old canvas concert banner cracked in the icy Moscow wind as a dirty white GAZelle rolled up to the barrier controlling vehicle access to the Olympisky construction yard.
Built for the 1980 Olympics, the weary giant was still one of the largest covered sporting facilities in Europe.
Four years ago, Olympisky was given a new lease of life. As part of a winning bid to host the World Judo Championships, the mayor of Moscow committed $200 million of taxpayers’ funds to modernise the arena. A blatant exercise in self-promotion that seemed to pay off, or at least until last month when the International Judo Federation voiced grave concerns about the venue’s readiness.
To head off a political firestorm, Mayor Levin opened the city’s coffers wider. He demanded work be carried out around the clock. As word got out, Russia’s ruling elite began circling the trough. Contractors turned up daily with busloads of unregistered Gastarbeiter from the Central Asian republics. Men in expensive suits came and went. For the poorly trained security personnel it was never clear whom to grant access to and whom to refuse.
“Documents,” a short bull-necked security guard ordered through the GAZelle’s partly opened window.
Pavel Greshnechov handed over his site pass without saying a word.
“Open the back.”
Pavel furrowed his brow. “Are you serious? We’ve been here every day this week.”
“Every vehicle is checked.”
“Wait here,” Pavel said to his hollowed-eyed passenger.
“Where did you serve?” the guard asked, as he followed Pavel to the back.
Pavel’s short-cropped hair and stiff upright gait, acquired while serving in the Russian military as an ordnance officer, were unmistakable. “Middle East.”
“Artillery?”
“Catering Corps.”
Snigger. “Why so late? It’s almost midnight.”
“We got a call an hour ago to finish Box 7. The carpet goes down tomorrow.”
The guard shone his torch into the back of the van. “What’s in the cardboard boxes?”
“Exactly what it says. Air conditioning parts.”
“Open them.”
“Stop wasting my time.”
The guard blew out a soft dismissive breath. “I’ve got all night.”
“Have it your way,” Pavel said, clambering up onto the cargo tray. Grabbing the closest of the three boxes, he slashed open the seal and tipped the contents wildly onto the bare metal floor. “Satisfied?”
“And the other two?”
“Go to hell,” Pavel said, his voice full of rage.
The guard took a step back. “Just doing my job.”
“Well, you’ve done it. So open the boom gate.” Pavel jumped down and slammed the van door. “Otherwise I’m leaving and you can explain to the mayor why there’s been another delay.”
“These are dangerous times,” the guard said with an unapologetic shrug. Then, without another word, he turned and ambled back to the guardhouse.
It was not until the boom gate started to rise that Pavel realised the watchman had capitulated.
“What was that all about?” Oleg asked, as Pavel jumped back behind the wheel and fired up the engine.
“You tell me.”
“He didn’t like you?”
Pavel drove slowly past the guardhouse. Through the large curtainless window he could see clearly inside. The bull-necked guard was now sitting in front of the video surveillance system. A second guard with spiky red hair was dozing in an armchair. “There should be a third.”
“He’s probably still on patrol,” Oleg said, glancing at his watch.
Pavel pulled the GAZelle up in an unlit part of the loading area. With great care, they transferred the two remaining unopened boxes onto a platform trolley they had brought with them.
In the distance a metal door slammed. Oleg grabbed the binoculars from inside the GAZelle and focused them on a uniformed man hurrying across the construction yard towards the guardhouse. “That’s him. We’ve got fifteen minutes.”
Oleg, a small man with a crooked back, scurried ahead. He entered the arena through an access gate located next to a towering roller shutter door. Running the torch beam along the door frame, he located the control panel. He held his thumb on the green button until the shutter rose to head height.
“I’m good,” Pavel said, appearing from outside. “Go check we’re alone.”
Oleg jogged with an odd, uneven stride to the centre of the staging area. The arena was dark, aside from intermittent ribbons of dim, yellow low-voltage lighting that ran along the corridors and stairways. He turned slowly in place, scanning the stands. Everything was still.
By the time Oleg returned, Pavel had already called the service lift. “All clear.”
They rode the mechanical dinosaur up to level three. “To the right,” Pavel said, as the doors shuddered open.
Thirty metres along the dark, curving corridor stood a door different from the rest. Scrawled above it, in white chalk, ‘7’.
Oleg pushed open the concrete-filled steel door and switched on the light. He found himself inside an enormous room overlooking the events area. It was empty, except for a ladder standing in front of a private bathroom at the back. The raised floor was tiered at the front to accommodate seating, which was yet to be installed. A small flight of stairs ran down the centre for access. And mounted high on the far wall was a signal amplifier and antenna.
“Find a place to breach the floor,” Pavel said, pushing the trolley out of the way.
While Oleg crawled about on the ground, Pavel carefully removed an aluminium transport case from the larger of the two boxes and laid it on the floor. Inside were fifteen one-kilogram blocks of Semtex plastic explosive, surrounded by ball bearings and nails. The Semtex had been covertly manufactured in a Russian military plant by a deep-cover sympathiser. It contained no taggant, which would make it virtually undetectable once hidden under the raised floor.
Pavel had designed the IED to inflict maximum damage, a task made easier by the characteristics of the room. The reinforced concrete walls were 120 centimetres thick and the viewing window, constructed of seven panels of blast-proof laminated glass, was set deep into a rebated steel frame. By placing the bomb inside the room, the energy released during the explosion would have nowhere to go. Anyone caught inside Box 7 would be reduced to DNA.
“What’d you find?”
“The floor’s glued. But the stair treads and risers look clean. I’ll see whether I can remove them?”
“No. Leave it to me,” Pavel said, without looking up. “You go keep an eye out for the watchman.”
***
“I’m telling you, I sense something,” Bulldog said. “This guy’s ex-military.”
Ginger yawned and stretched his arms high in the air. “Every second person in Russia is ex-military. They’ve got to end up somewhere.”
“I’m not talking about your run-of-the-mill conscripts. This guy’s hardcore,” Bulldog insisted, turning his head from the surveillance screens.
“You checked the vehicle, didn’t you?” Ginger said in a sleepy mumble.
“I guess
so.”
“And you found nothing – right?”
“Yeah, but…”
“So shut the fuck up.”
“And there’s another thing. He lied about being in the Catering Corps. His face was badly scarred, and he was missing a couple of fingers on his left hand. You don’t get that from peeling potatoes.”
Ginger’s florid complexion brightened. “Don’t be such an asshole.”
“I thought they called you Bulldog because you’ve got no neck,” the senior guard said, joining in. “You’re like a dog gnawing at a bone.”
“A dry, meatless bone,” Ginger added.
“Come on, I’m serious. These two guys are working unsupervised in the Presidential Box. Shouldn’t we at least check what they’re up to?”
“And Ginger will,” the senior guard said, glancing at his watch.
“Yes, I will,” Ginger mocked, zipping up his M4 military parka. “I know you fancy yourself as a bit of a Sherlock Holmes, Bulldog. But you’re nothing more than a poorly paid nightwatchman providing security to inanimate objects – you mustn’t forget that.”
“Piss off, rust boy.”
“Enough already, ladies,” the senior guard said, pouring himself a mug of coffee from his vacuum flask. “Ginger, to appease your industrious colleague, start your patrol at Box 7.”
Ginger shrugged. “It makes no difference to me.”
“In the unlikely event Bulldog is right, call it in,” the senior guard said, throwing Ginger a wink. “Remember, you’re unarmed. Equipped to handle trespassers and vandals – not ‘hard-core’ military.”
“If I’m not back in forty-five minutes – send in the troops,” Ginger said over his shoulder, as he stepped out into the cold night air.
***
Down on all fours, Pavel peered through the dismantled steps into the dark space under the raised floor. The distant whine of the service lift signalled he was no longer alone.
Seconds later, Oleg burst into the box. “He’s coming this way.”