by Sean Heary
“Close the door and block the entrance.”
Oleg grabbed the ladder, stood it in front of the door, and climbed up.
“Take this,” Pavel said, holding up a cordless drill.
Oleg pushed aside a couple of tiles and stuck his head above the drop ceiling.
With the door temporarily secured, Pavel manoeuvred the primed IED through the opening in the stairs, and placed it carefully on the concrete floor.
Sensing the watchman was nearby, Oleg let fly with the drill. The screaming pulse of the masonry bit thumping against the ceiling penetrated the whole arena.
“Oi,” bellowed Ginger, banging his fist on the massive, vault-like door.
Nothing could be heard above the shriek of the drill.
“Oi,” the guard repeated, this time pushing on the door.
Oleg removed his finger from the trigger switch. “Careful.”
“Get down off the ladder,” the guard ordered.
“Give me a minute, brother.”
The guard gave the door another nudge.
“You crazy?” Oleg protested, wrapping his free arm around one of the ceiling brackets. “The air conditioning ducting is hanging by a thread. If it collapses you’ll be responsible.”
“Sorry. My colleague’s got me all worked up.”
Oleg peered down through the opening at the top of the door. “You mean the neckless wonder at the boom gate. He’s not normal if you ask me.”
“He reckons you’re up to no good.”
“Did you hear that, Pavel? The stormtrooper thinks we’re up to no good.”
“He’s paranoid. I told you already,” Pavel said, frantically replacing the treads and risers.
“Give me a minute to secure the ducting,” Oleg said to the watchman.
Ginger casually nodded, then stepped back from the door and lit up a cigarette.
A few minutes later, Pavel gave the thumbs up.
“That should do it,” Oleg said, climbing down and opening the door.
“It seems like your colleague has taken a strong dislike to me,” Pavel said flippantly.
“He does that sometimes.”
“So, how can we help you?”
Ginger leant forward, and with a feigned steely gaze whispered, “I need to check you’re not planting a bomb.”
Pavel sniggered. “In the ceiling?”
“It’s a security requirement for work being carried out in the Presidential Box.”
“Presidential Box?” Pavel said, sounding suitably surprised. “That would account for the size.”
“Twice as big as my apartment,” Ginger said.
“Help yourself. But there’s not much to see.”
Ginger poked about in the boxes on the trolley. “What’s up there?” he said, motioning with a slight flick of the head.
Pavel placed the ladder back under the opening in the ceiling. “Be my guest.”
“Don’t forget to turn off the lights,” Ginger said, declining the offer.
***
Kneeling on the bare wooden floor of his apartment, Father Arkady anxiously thumbed his prayer rope. “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, the sinner.”
Father Arkady had taken the sacrament of Holy Orders as a young man because of his love of God, which had been gifted to him by his late mother. Growing up in Moscow, it was only natural that he would embrace the Russian Orthodox Church.
In the fifteen years since his ordination, he has never once doubted the existence of God, or for that matter, his chosen vocation. The same cannot be said about his attitude towards the Church’s leadership. Almost from day one, Father Arkady had surreptitiously sought out other like-minded clerics with the naive view to tackling the cancer head-on. Thankfully, before his treachery was discovered, he was recruited by Revealing Light – an ultra-secret society established inside the Russian Church during the time of Peter the Great. The purpose of the society is to emancipate the Church and Russian Christians from the control of the state.
Five years ago, frustrated by the society’s spectacular lack of success, Father Arkady pushed for new leadership and a new strategy. A secret ballot was called, and, not surprisingly, Father Arkady emerged triumphantly as the new Shepherd of Revealing Light.
Father Arkady, a strong fit man in his early forties, liked to rise early and run before breakfast. So he’s normally asleep by ten. Tonight was a rare exception.
He glanced at the old Slava mechanical clock. It was well past one. “What’s taking so long?” he murmured, rising to his feet and pouring himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table.
The faint sound of voices wafting up from the street below brought Father Arkady to the window. He gazed down at two heavily armed policemen standing in front of a guardhouse harassing a young lady who had chosen the wrong way home.
“Finally!” he said, putting his phone to his ear.
The policemen, attracted by the movement in the lit window, glanced up.
“Hello,” Father Arkady said. A subtle smile came to his face as he listened. “Thank God… now stay out of sight until you’re needed… God be with you.”
6
Cutting across the Cortile della Pigna on his way to meet with Commandant Waldmann, Rossi spotted a familiar face in the crowd milling around Arnaldo Pomodoro’s Sphere Within Sphere.
“Ciao Professor Moretti. How’s the wife?” Rossi called out as he strode past.
“Formidabile, Inspector General,” the professor said, partly obscured by his tour group.
The retired academic’s shock of wild silver hair and intelligent face reminded Rossi of his father. A sharp twinge of guilt. When he first joined the Corps of Gendarmerie of Vatican City, he managed to get home every other week. After all, it was only a three-hour drive to Siena from Rome. Later, as he rose steadily through the ranks and his responsibilities grew, trips home became less frequent. And now as Inspector General and the Pope’s personal bodyguard, even going home at Christmas was a challenge.
He wondered how his life had reached this point; comfortable missing his father’s seventy-fifth birthday celebration. Not so long ago the thought would have been unimaginable. The very idea he desperately wanted to be there made him feel better. And the notion he was doing it for the Church helped ease his conscience. The Church always came first.
As he rushed to beat the downpour, images of past family gatherings flashed through his mind. Rossi mused about his brothers. How at Christmas they sat round the table reminiscing. They teased him about his childhood aspirations of becoming a soldier. And how they worked like slaves in the heat of the sun picking olives while he fought the Soviets in the shade. “Rightful privileges of the youngest child,” Rossi would plead. Then his father would chime in: “Big-shot policeman in a country no bigger than a municipal park.” But Rossi always got the last word. He would make much of the fact that his Vatican Gendarmerie, together with the soldiers of the Pontifical Swiss Guard, protected the head of a Church with 1.3 billion members. “By any measure, a huge responsibility,” he would say. Sooner or later the goading always ended the same way, with the entire family telling him how proud they were of their little Enzo.
Turning left onto Via del Pellegrino, Rossi glanced up at the black sky and opened his umbrella. “Pessimo!” he mumbled to himself as the rain pelted down. The forecast was for thunderstorms and strong winds. Unfortunately, the Servizio Meteorologico was right. Momentarily, the idea of driving to Bonn flashed into his mind, but Rossi knew it was impractical.
“Commandant Waldmann is waiting for you, sir,” a guard said, holding open the door to the barracks.
Rossi glanced at his watch as he entered. Although it was tempting, he didn’t want to miss his flight. He couldn’t say why, just a strong sense that something bad was going to happen. Blackmail’s a dirty b
usiness, he thought, hurrying along the corridor.
“I heard you’re looking for me,” Rossi said, dropping his umbrella into a metal bucket by Waldmann’s door.
“I thought we’d better catch up before you disappear.”
“Naturalmente,” Rossi said, sitting down in front of Waldmann’s desk.
“I read the file you sent me.”
“Did it help?”
“It’s not pretty,” Waldmann said, shaking his head. “In fact it’s downright distasteful. For the German bishops to support the constitutional changes that gave Hitler dictatorial powers was reckless, to say the least. And in return for what? The 1933 Reichskonkordat – unless you bow to the most improbable coincidence.”
“Now you understand why Cardinal Capelli is keen to remove the threat.”
“By paying hush money?”
“By managing the risk. Hush money implies guilt.”
“Last night you didn’t seem so sure.”
“Oh I’m sure,” Rossi said with a wink.
A long silence before Waldmann spoke. “I was wondering – shouldn’t we be doing something more proactive?”
“Like what?”
“Investigating Wolf.”
“No police,” Rossi said firmly. “If I do my job well, no one will know the document ever existed.”
“I’ve been checking the internet,” Waldmann said, gazing down at his desk. “There was a hit-and-run accident in Berlin a few days ago. The victim’s name was Wolf – a pensioner about the right age.”
Rossi looked at Waldmann for a long while then asked, “Anything on the blackmailer?”
“If it’s the same guy, then he’s prone to overreacting.”
“Same guy?” Rossi said, furrowing his brow.
“Eighteen months ago, a high school teacher named Maximilian Wolf attracted the attention of the regional German newspapers.”
Rossi sat forward. “For counterfeiting football tickets?”
“For wearing a T-shirt with ‘Fat People are Harder to Kidnap’ printed on the front.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“He got his bottom smacked by the school director.”
“Must have been a slow news day if that made the papers.”
“After returning to class, Wolf got creative. In front of his students, he removed the offending T-shirt, set it alight and tossed it into the wastebasket.”
“Not so clever.”
“Then when the flames started lapping at his desk, he extinguished the fire by urinating on it.”
Rossi laughed. “I hope he doesn’t try that on me tonight.”
“Police investigation, followed by a school board enquiry. Both inconclusive. In the end Wolf was saved by the Teachers’ Union, who attributed his breakdown to low wages and poor working conditions. After three months’ therapy, he was allowed to resume teaching.”
“Working a second job as an extortionist,” Rossi quipped.
“Listen, I have a friend in the German Federal Police,” Waldmann said. “Perhaps I could make some discreet enquiries? Surely it would be useful to know whether Maximilian Wolf has done anything like this before?”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Rossi said politely.
“Well I’m here if you need me. By the way, have you seen the weather? Better you than me.”
“Thanks. I hadn’t noticed.”
7
The Aeroflot flight from Berlin arrived at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport well behind schedule. A heavy snowstorm had forced the pilot to circle the city of twelve million for more than forty minutes while the runways were cleared.
Four-thirty in the afternoon, but already dark. Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) agents Yuri Kutin and Mikhail Rudoi walked briskly along the jet bridge pulling their carry-on bags.
Behind them, two dozen rowdy football fanatics chanted “Lokomotiv, Lokomotiv” in full voice.
“Welcome back to Moscow,” a sharp-dressed man said, stepping in front of them as they entered the terminal building. “My name is Timur. Colonel Demchenko sent me – I’m your driver.”
Kutin removed his hat and ran his hand over his bald head. “Finally, some recognition.”
“Twenty years of foreign service, and this is the first time I’ve been met at the airport,” Rudoi added.
“How was the flight?”
“Kept bumping my knees against my ears,” Rudoi said.
“You’d think with all that oil money the office could afford a little more legroom for guys your size.”
Kutin huffed. “That wasn’t the problem.”
“Dry flight,” Rudoi explained, motioning towards the loutish thugs. “Captain’s orders.”
“This way.”
“Passport control?” Rudoi asked as Timur ushered them away from the other passengers.
“No need.”
They followed Timur through a deliberately confusing maze of narrow passageways, and then along a dimly lit corridor to an unmarked door. Timur waved his proximity card over the access control reader and the electromagnetic lock released. The door opened onto the icy second-floor landing of a steel-grated stairway. Hand on the railing, they descended to a small private car park.
“This is highly unusual,” Rudoi said.
“I’ve taken many agents out this way. Mostly operatives returning from missions like Red Dove.”
“Can we stop on the way?” Kutin asked. “I need to buy flowers.”
“Unless they’re for Demchenko, I wouldn’t bother.”
“What does that mean?”
“My orders are to drive you directly to Gosdacha 17.”
“Please tell me you’re joking,” Kutin said, trying to light a cigarette in the wind.
“Someone high up in Lubyanka wants you out of sight for a while.”
“I’m calling Demchenko.”
“Do what you like. But I’m waiting in the Jeep.”
Kutin rang. No answer.
Motioning for a cigarette, Rudoi approached Kutin. “How the fuck does he know about Red Dove? Berlin was strictly need-to-know.”
Kutin shrugged. “You know how it is at Lubyanka. Spend enough time around the coffee machine, you can find out anything.”
“He’s a driver, for God’s sake.”
Kutin’s mobile phone pulsed. Throwing his cigarette to the ground, he read the message. “It’s Demchenko. He’s waiting for us at the dacha.”
“Odd. I thought he was in top level meetings all week.”
“Apparently not.”
It took them two hours to travel to Dmitrov. As the bottle-green Jeep Cherokee turned into the heavily wooded forest surrounding Gosdacha 17, Rudoi and Kutin were still napping. An eye on his passengers, Timur set his mobile phone alarm to go off in two minutes.
“We’re almost there,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
Kutin woke sluggishly. Groaning, he stretched his strong limbs. In the distance, through the broad-leaf birch and spruce trees he could see the dacha. It had stopped snowing, and the wind had dropped. The only sound was the crackling of the Jeep’s studded winter tyres on the forest track.
The driver’s phone broke the peace. He killed the alarm and put it to his ear. “Yes, Colonel… due north from the blue boat shed,” he said, as though he was repeating an instruction.
Kutin cleared his throat. “Demchenko?”
“He’s waiting for you on the lake. Sounds half-cut.”
Timur drove slowly past the two-storey dacha, searching for the track running down to the lake. “This must be it,” he said, swinging the Cherokee sharply right.
As the SUV swayed and bounced along the narrowing forest track, Rudoi woke. He looked back over his shoulder at Gosdacha 17; no lights or smoke coming from the chimneys. “What’s happening?”
&
nbsp; “While you were asleep, Demchenko called,” Kutin laughed. “We’re going ice fishing.”
“Just perfect.”
Suddenly the track opened onto a white expanse. Timur glimpsed the boat shed perched high on top of a small rise. He drove to the water’s edge, pulling the Jeep up next to a rustic log table and bench.
“Stay here. I’ll grab the gear.” Leaving the engine running, Timur jumped out and headed up the slope.
Rudoi sprang to life. “Don’t you smell it?”
“Sorry! I’ll wind down the window.”
“I’m deadly serious, Misha. What the fuck are we doing all the way out here?”
“Keeping our heads down,” Kutin said, feigning a yawn of disinterest.
“That’s crap. We’d be just as safe in Moscow.”
“To be eliminated then. Is that what you want me to say?”
“Think about it…”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Misha. We’re not worth the bullet,” Kutin scoffed. “We’re legmen.”
A few minutes later, Timur returned carrying several sets of Arctic gear. “Help yourself, gents,” he hollered, dumping the kit onto the picnic table.
Kutin climbed out first. Showing no enthusiasm, Rudoi followed. As they layered up, Timur fetched a bulging plastic grocery bag from the back of the Cherokee, and laid the contents on the table: one bottle of Smirnoff; one loaf of black rye bread; one slab of pork salo.
“To your success,” Timur said, handing each of them a tumbler full of vodka.
“You’re not joining us?” Rudoi asked.
“I’ve got another pick-up tonight,” Timur said, slicing up the salo with a long-bladed hunting knife, also from the grocery bag.
“Then it’s just you and me, Misha.”
“And Demchenko, supposedly,” Rudoi added, discreetly tossing the vodka over his shoulder.
Timur refilled the tumblers. “Another one?”
“What a question,” Kutin scoffed. “There’s nothing worse than being sober when Demchenko’s bukhoy.”
Every time the driver topped up their glasses, Rudoi found a new and inventive way of disposing of the brain-numbing potion without being noticed.