by Sean Heary
The basilica’s massive wooden door, caught by a gust of wind as a tourist entered, slammed closed behind him. The vagrant doorman apologised by holding up his hand. Rossi hadn’t noticed him in his haste.
“Entschuldigung, you didn’t happen to catch which way my wife went? You couldn’t have missed her. She was wearing a brown mink coat and a white scarf.”
“Tut mir leid,” the vagrant said. “I saw no one.”
“You must have,” Rossi said, with a worried expression. “She has a medical condition – she suffers from depression.”
“She told me not to tell you.”
“You have to – it’s a matter of life and death,” Rossi said, slipping a twenty euro note in the doorman’s palm.
The doorman pointed to the balustrade rising from the cobblestones. “Down the stairs to the car park.”
“Where’s the car park exit?”
“Do I look like I own a car?”
Rossi bolted towards the stairs, descending in leaps and bounds. Thirty metres to his right he spotted a high performance sports car pulling up behind an old Beetle at the boom gate. Please God, let it be her, Rossi prayed, ducking and weaving between parked vehicles.
From a distance Rossi watched anxiously as the car window wound down. A broad smile came to his face when a mink-clad arm reached out and inserted a parking ticket into the validation machine. “Got you.”
Being careful to stay out of sight, Rossi crept closer with his iPhone ready. Then in an instant the boom gate lifted. In desperation, Rossi snapped rapid-fire pictures of the silver Audi R8 GT as it sped up the ramp. He felt physically sick as he flicked from one blurred image to the next.
Then, “Thank God,” he murmured, studying the final shot. The skewed image of the tyre-marked garage floor wasn’t his best work, but it did capture the R8’s registration plate.
Rossi gazed at the image, not wanting to believe his eyes. 115 CD 238. The stakes just keep getting higher. He recognised the orange and jasper green plate from his numerous trips to Paris. “Corps Diplomatique,” he mumbled, opening Google and typing in – ‘French vehicle registration diplomatic codes’.
He ran his eyes down the tiny screen and opened the most promising result. A simple table popped up. Rossi’s expression darkened. 115, the Russian Federation. What the hell are they up to now?
As Rossi headed back to collect his overnight bag from the presbytery, a million half-formed scenarios played in his head. But one thing was as clear as day – he needed to get to Paris before the Russian Embassy opened for business tomorrow morning.
On Münsterplatz the craic of the crowd had grown louder and the drinking more ferocious. By happy chance, the vagrant doorman had already called it a night. Inside the church, an old lady arranged flowers on the steps of the high altar in preparation for tomorrow morning’s service.
Rossi opened the bronze portal and peered into the cloister. Although it was quiet, he used the dark shadowy portico. Approaching the presbytery entrance, his eyes narrowed. The door was ajar. Rossi was certain he had pulled it closed – but maybe not. He stopped at the door and listened. It was as peaceful as death.
Rossi entered warily. His overnight bag lay where he had dropped it. The two bodies were just as he had left them – the bishop gazing up to Heaven, and Wolf peering down to hell.
Without ceremony, Rossi grabbed his bag and made for the exit. Bishop Muellenbach’s mobile phone, he thought, stopping dead in his tracks.
A short while later, Rossi sat gazing out of the taxi window on his way to the airport. His last words to Cardinal Capelli kept repeating in his head. I promise you that by tomorrow night the forgery will be secure in my possession, and on its way to the Vatican archives.
13
Sixty-five metres underground, inside atomic Bunker-42, the sirens wailed and the red lights flashed. A ten-megaton nuclear bomb had struck Moscow.
“We have a radiation leak inside the complex,” the guard screamed. “You’ve got ninety seconds to get into your protective clothing.”
Cathy grabbed the nearest radiation suit and put it on.
“We’ve got enough food and air for two weeks. By then we’ll be able to return to the surface and assess the damage,” the guard said.
“A chilling thought,” said newly arrived CIA Agent Paul Lawrence.
“I don’t know what would be worse. Radiation poisoning or those blasted sirens,” Cathy said, laughing. “Let’s go and have a drink.”
They rode the lift up from the once top secret military control bunker and headed out onto the street to find their driver.
Fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of the Lucky Noodle on Ulitsa Petrovka.
“You’re a wild one,” Lawrence joked. “What’ve you got in mind? Red plum wine?”
“Trust me.”
“Do I have a choice?”
Cathy always enjoyed showing new colleagues around Moscow. She liked to shock and surprise. She couldn’t wait to see the expression on Lawrence’s face as she led him behind the cashier to the purple curtain concealing the stairs to the basement.
“After you.”
Lawrence hesitated. “I trust this isn’t an opium den?”
“Mendeleev Bar? Avant-garde maybe, but to the best of my knowledge no opium,” Cathy said as they descended.
“Wow! This is nice. And look at those dresses. I think I’m going to enjoy my posting here.”
Dresses? The comment seemed odd, but Cathy said nothing.
They took a seat in one of the arched limestone recesses opposite the long bar and ordered a couple of Moscow Mules.
“Welcome to Russia,” Cathy said, raising her glass.
“Thank you. It’s kind of you to show me round.”
“I couldn’t let the boys do it. They’d take you straight to Night Flight.”
“Night Flight?”
“If anyone suggests it, say no,” she said with a wink.
“I’m going there tomorrow night with Charlie.”
“Good choice.”
For a while they chatted about nothing. But then as always, the conversation turned to Volkov.
“How would you describe him?” Lawrence asked.
“On a domestic level he’s xenophobic and nationalistic. But his life mission is to rule the world. Everything he does is to strengthen his own position, and that of the Russian state. Unfortunately he doesn’t give a rat’s arse how he achieves it. He’s a power-crazy despot.”
“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace,” Lawrence said.
“That’s certainly not Kissinger.”
“Jimi Hendrix,” Lawrence smiled. “Is he smart?”
“Hell yeah, but in a madman sort of way. He’s obsessed with his legacy. To him the world is a zero-sum game. Win-win is a Western concept he doesn’t buy into.”
“So you think he wants to rebuild the USSR?”
“Russian Empire to be more precise. The Soviet communist ideology has gone – if it ever really existed. It was certainly nothing like what Marx or Engels had in mind. After Lenin’s death and Trotsky’s exile, any real chance of establishing a Russian utopia disappeared.”
“That’s the problem with social experiments. The moment power is transferred, self-interest and greed kicks in.”
“From an admirer,” the waitress said, setting two more Moscow Mules on their table.
Lawrence sat up and scanned the room. “I hope there’s two of them.”
“I don’t think he’s your type.”
“Where?”
“That guy sitting at the bar,” Cathy said, motioning with her eyes. “But be warned, he’s one of them.”
“Gay?”
“FSB. He came down the stairs not long after us.”
“How can you be so confident
?”
Cathy wasn’t sure whether Lawrence was messing with her. “Look around. The bar is crawling with unaccompanied women. Why would he waste his time on me? We could be married for all he knows.”
“Ménage à trois – it’s very popular in the States right now.”
“Trust me on this one.”
“Does that mean we should refuse the Mules?”
“Hell no,” Cathy said, taking a sip.
“The interactive Cold War museum you took me to earlier – is Volkov capable of pushing the button?”
“If he’s painted into a corner – absolutely. That’s why I take visitors there. It’s a not so subtle way of reminding them that when the shit hits the fan it’s best to leave Volkov some face-saving back-down option. Otherwise he’ll go out with a bang.”
“I’d imagine that would end rather poorly,” Lawrence said, raising his glass and saluting the FSB agent.
For a while neither spoke as they looked over the crowd, like judges at a beauty pageant. “By the way,” Cathy finally said, “how’s your Russian?”
“Pretty good,” Lawrence said, switching the conversation to Russian. “My original family name was Larionov. My parents were both Soviet skaters. They defected during the 1980 Lake Placid Winter Games.”
“So you’re sort of coming home.”
“Hardly. I was born and raised in the U.S. and I spent most of my life concealing my Russian heritage.”
“So how’d you end up here?”
“I applied.”
“You know what I mean.”
Lawrence took a long sip on his Mule. “When my father died last year, I realised how little I knew him. I was so hung up on being American I never spoke to him about his formative years inside the Soviet Union. And I regret that because there is so much of him in me.”
“Sounds like you’re here to discover who you are – more than who your father was.”
“I guess there’s some truth in that,” Lawrence said, knocking down the rest of his drink.
14
Rossi drove his French-blue hire car slowly down Avenue Louis Barthou towards the Russian Embassy. He was still kicking himself over yesterday’s delayed flight. If only I’d left earlier, none of this would’ve happened.
He tucked the micro mini Renault in between two parked cars, well short of the Embassy’s perimeter fence. Ahead he could see the automatic gates that controlled vehicle access to the compound’s underground car park. Although he was some distance from the entrance, the one-way street ensured that he got a good look at any vehicle that passed. Google Street View – certainly takes the legwork out of spying.
Rossi checked his watch. 7am. Well before any self-respecting diplomat would think of showing up for work. But Rossi was taking no chances.
He landed at Charles de Gaulle late last night and had taken a room at the nearby Hotel Villa Glamour. His plan was to get some shut-eye before tackling the seemingly impossible task of recovering the Concordat in the morning. But every time he closed his eyes he imagined himself kneeling in front of Cardinal Capelli, begging for forgiveness.
So instead of sleeping, Rossi scoured the internet for information on the Kremlin and its symbiotic relationship with the Russian Orthodox Church. One thing he knew – they were joined at the hip. Despite the Russian constitution guaranteeing the separation of church and state, and equal legal status for all religions, the reality was quite different. The Russian Orthodox Church was, for all intents and purposes, the recognised state religion of the Russian Federation. It operated at the Kremlin’s beck and call. This led him to believe that if the Kremlin was behind last night’s murders, then the Russian Patriarch was somehow involved. A thought that terrified him. He surmised that no matter what the Russians were playing at, the Catholic Church would inevitably be drawn into a very public spat with the Russian Church. A fight where Christianity would be the loser.
As the morning lightened and the first of the vehicles arrived, Rossi’s spirits lifted. At least he now had something to occupy his time. He watched every car as it approached, studying each driver’s face in his rear-view mirror. But by ten, no one resembling the assassin had driven past.
15
Five hundred kilometres to the east, Sabine Reich, a highly respected staff writer at the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, was looking forward to her evening. She had invited her boyfriend, a Luftwaffe fitness instructor, to her city centre apartment for dinner.
Sabine hurried through the bustling newsroom towards the office of the city editor and barged in without knocking.
“Hey Dirk, don’t forget, I’m off early this afternoon.”
“The fitness instructor?”
“Classified,” she said with a wink.
“Okay, but if I need you, I’ll call.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll be tied up all night – with a bit of luck,” she said, handing him her copy. It was the third instalment of a four-part feature she was writing on the death of traditional religions in Western society. The first two episodes had caused such a storm amongst the German faithful that Sabine and her blasphemous views had become the story. Which was not only good for circulation, but also served to enhance her hard-earned notoriety.
Before Dirk had time to protest, Sabine was already heading back to her workstation to pack up for the day.
“Sabine, that’s your phone,” a paunchy middle-aged colleague bellowed from amongst the field of desks.
She quickened her pace, grabbing the phone on the sixth ring. “This had better be important, I’m in a meeting.”
“I have information about a Catholic conspiracy,” a man said in heavily accented English.
“Go on.”
“The Vatican is responsible for the death of three innocent people.”
“Only three?” Sabine quipped.
“Murdered to conceal the existence of a newly discovered Concordat with Hitler, dated June 1939.”
Sabine took a notepad and pencil from her desk drawer. “Who were the victims?”
“Bernd Wolf. Killed in a hit-and-run accident in Berlin last week…”
“Did the police rule his death a murder?” Sabine asked, her tone sceptical.
“If you’re not interested, I’ll take the story elsewhere.”
“Sorry, it’s been a long day,” Sabine said, pulling a mocking face at the phone. “And the other two?”
“Maximilian Wolf and Bishop Muellenbach… murdered last night in Bonn.”
Sabine keyed the information into Google as the caller spoke. “And the Concordat? I thought you said 1939?”
“I did.”
“Not 1933?”
“I’m emailing you a copy now.”
“Can we meet?”
The line was already dead.
16
Rossi glanced at his watch as the street lights came on. It was already five. The streets were filled with office workers under umbrellas hurrying home. He felt edgy and anxious – not sure what to do. Without the lady in the mink coat, he had nothing. A long shot, Rossi thought, opening the car door and emptying a bottle full of urine onto the tarmac.
Commotion up ahead. The Russian Embassy’s gate opened. Heavily armed security guards moved with military precision and blocked off the empty street. Moments later the ambassador’s black Mercedes limo, bearing the Russian flag, ascended from the underground car park.
With the boss gone, the rest of the embassy staff soon followed. Within minutes the deluge of vehicles exiting the car park had slowed to a trickle. Rossi’s heart filled with anger and disappointment as reality struck. Time to return to Villa Glamour and call Cardinal Capelli. With a shake of his head, he fired up the engine, slammed the Clio into gear and hit the accelerator.
From over his left shoulder came the sound of screeching tyres. He leant to his right and braced for
impact. Nothing. Without remonstrance, the driver straightened the fishtailing vehicle and sped off.
Rossi sat motionless behind the wheel, annoyed with himself for having caused such a scene so close to the embassy. Where the hell did he come from?
As Rossi regained his composure, he noticed the vehicle slowing in front of the embassy gate. The glare from the brake lights made it impossible to make out the model.
Slowly the gate rolled back, and the car turned sideways as it descended. Rossi slapped the steering wheel with gusto. The unmistakable low profile of an Audi R8. Squinting, he tried to see who was behind the wheel, but from that distance it was impossible.
Fifteen minutes later the car park gate opened once more, and the 610-horsepower Audi rumbled back onto the street and sped off in a shower of surface spray. Rossi planted his foot on the accelerator pedal. Instantly he regretted not having paid the extra €10 for the GT upgrade.
Threading his way through Paris’s evening traffic, Rossi stayed within a few car lengths of the R8 as they raced west on Avenue Foch towards the Arc de Triomphe. Although he still hadn’t eyeballed the driver, he was sure it was her.
The rain had stopped, and the streets were drying out as the R8 exited onto the Champs-Élysées and headed south-east at a more leisurely pace. Rossi wound down the window to knock off a bit of his tiredness. As he cruised down the most famous avenue in the world, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of gratitude to the Germans and General von Choltitz for surrendering Paris to the Allied forces, and not destroying it as supposedly ordered by Hitler.
Then, without warning, the R8 turned right and shot down a narrow one-way lane. Rossi was ready. He followed at close range with the sun visor down.
We must be close, Rossi thought, pulling into a loading bay as the R8 slowed. He watched from a safe distance as the driver carefully manoeuvred the Audi down the entrance ramp of a 24-hour garage located under the three-star London Hotel.
Rossi, certain it was not the abode of a well-paid hitman, waited in the car. It wasn’t long before the bishop’s killer appeared wearing the same mink that she had worn at the basilica. Rossi felt his blood pressure rise.