by Sean Heary
Schmidt nodded, though whether he understood it was difficult to tell.
“The Mercedes simply didn’t belong.”
“So what are we looking for?” Schmidt asked, re-entering the colonel’s apartment.
“Audio surveillance bugs. You can be sure they weren’t sitting in the van all that time playing Scopa.”
Schmidt got the picture and joined Rossi in the hunt.
It didn’t take long. “I’ve found something,” Rossi called out from the study.
Schmidt, standing precariously on the back of the sofa checking the chandelier, glanced down at Rossi. “What is it?”
“La prova,” Rossi said, holding up a short piece of black electrical duct tape. “It was stuck to the bottom of the desk.”
“And?”
“The tape’s clean. It’s only been put there recently.”
“Sorry,” Schmidt said, climbing down. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“It was used to hold a microphone in place,” Rossi said emphatically.
“That’s a stretch.”
“Then keep looking.”
After a minute or two, Schmidt felt something behind the heavy sideboard, but he couldn’t quite get his fingers to it. “Give me a hand,” he called out.
Rossi rushed in from the kitchen and together they dragged the sideboard away from the wall. On the back was another piece of the same black tape – only this time there was a short length of electrical wire stuck to it. They examined it closely and then unanimously agreed. It was the aerial from an audio bug’s transmitter. The Russians had been careless.
“What on earth were they listening to?” Schmidt said.
“Poltergeists.”
Schmidt was in no hurry as he drove Rossi to Berlin-Schönefeld Airport for what he believed was a late afternoon flight to Rome. Keen to hear Rossi’s view on the ever-expanding mystery, he caught every red light he could.
“It’s clear the three deaths are related,” Rossi said. “In what way, I’m not sure. One possible scenario is that Colonel Wolf had compromising information on someone the Russians were interested in.”
“Bishop Muellenbach?”
“The bishop certainly seems to be the odd man out.”
“It’s not without precedent,” Schmidt said. “There were a number of clergy, from all denominations, that were identified as collaborators through the examination of the surviving Stasi records.”
Rossi felt bad about wrongly implicating the bishop, but he needed to set a false trail to keep Schmidt away from the truth. At all costs, the existence of the Concordat needed to remain secret.
“And the stakeout?”
“That I’m struggling with. But it certainly had something to do with Maximilian Wolf, given he was the only one in the apartment at the time.”
“It’s as though the Russians murdered the colonel simply to lure the son to Berlin.”
Rossi instantly realised he had grossly underestimated Schmidt.
21
“Have a good flight,” the border protection officer said, handing Rossi back his passport.
Head pounding and in desperate need of sleep, Rossi strode through the concourse area in search of a café sheltered from the omnipresent public address blare. He spotted a booth behind a 1963 Chevrolet Corvette in the retro Kennedy Café. “Double espresso,” he said as he passed a waitress in a red polka-dot rockabilly dress.
Rossi flopped onto the seat and downed a couple of painkillers. Sweeping aside the clutter, he laid his iPad on the table to check the news. Memories from his childhood flashed through his mind. His extended family crowded in the living room watching the six o’clock news on a television the size of a washing machine. Now it’s all real-time, on a device lighter and thinner than a newspaper. It brought a faint smile to his weary face.
Reading, he felt physically ill. ‘Murders Conceal Secret Vatican Nazi Concordat’ – posted by Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, just eighteen minutes ago.
“Evil is upon us,” he murmured, shaking his head in sheer disbelief.
“Sorry sir, did you say something?” the waitress said as she placed the double espresso on the table in front of him.
Rossi sat forward, his elbows planted on the table grasping his head between his hands. “Yes. Bring me a large Laphroaig.”
When the Scotch arrived, Rossi took a deep gulp, braced himself, and read.
Murders Conceal Secret Vatican Nazi Concordat
by Sabine Reich
All eyes will be on the Vatican today as it tries once again to explain its relationship with Hitler during World War II. The discovery of an unknown Concordat between the Holy See and the German Reich, dated 1 June 1939, just three months before the start of World War II, is damning.
In the agreement, signed by Pope Pius XII, the Vatican undertook to cease all resistance against the Nazi government including a renouncement of the Papal Encyclical ‘With Burning Concern dated 14 March 1937’.
In return the Nazis agreed to recognise the Catholic Church as the state religion of the German Reich. Terms and conditions of the Concordat apply to all countries of the Third Reich, including countries annexed as a result of war. Specific mention is made to the annexing of the Soviet Union.
Nazi Germany invaded the USSR on 22 June 1941. It has been a long-held view by many experts that the Vatican had secretly supported Nazi Germany’s invasion of communist Russia due to the Soviet’s treatment of the Church post-revolution.
Yesterday when contacted, the Vatican declined to comment on the grounds that it had not seen the alleged document. However, a Vatican spokesman said later that the only Concordat executed between the Holy See and the German Reich was the well-documented agreement of 1933. ‘Any new document now circulating is a counterfeit aimed at undermining the good and necessary work of the Church in Europe,’ the spokesman said.
Experts contacted for comment suggest that if the Concordat is genuine, it is possible that after the Nazis invaded Catholic Poland in September 1939, the Church got cold feet and unilaterally withdrew from the agreement.
According to one source, the Concordat was amongst several boxes of secret files stolen by a former Stasi colonel, Bernd Wolf, in the days leading up to the collapse of communist East Germany.
German police have refused to comment on whether the recent death of Bernd Wolf, and the subsequent murders of his son Maximilian Wolf and Bishop Muellenbach from Cologne, are related to the newly discovered treaty.
Speculation is that the Church was in negotiations with Maximilian Wolf to acquire the document at the time of his death.
Rossi sat in disbelief, trying to make sense of it all. The story could have only been leaked by the Russians, and to him the implication was clear. The Concordat is not the endgame. It’s a means to an end. But what end?
“Flight SU112 to Sheremetyevo, Moscow now boarding at gate sixteen,” echoed through the cavernous hall.
Rossi glanced up at the monitor. Time to take the fight to the enemy, he thought, calling for the bill.
On his way to the gate, a shiver ran down his spine. Cardinal Capelli had called for discretion. For now, containment was the best Rossi could hope for.
22
Classified by the State Properties Agency as a dacha, Gorki-9 on the upper reaches of the Moscow River was anything but a country house. Hidden away in a pine and birch forest, the palatial presidential residence was surrounded by well-manicured gardens, maintained by a small army of carefully vetted workers.
Tonight, alone in his walnut panelled office, President Alexander Volkov sat at his desk reading a leather-bound copy of Dostoyevsky’s Demons.
Volkov’s interest in literature arose suddenly when a visiting head of state asked him who his favourite Russian author was. With his usual bravado, Volkov declared Anton Chekhov, although he’d never rea
d a page of his work. When his guest enthused about The Lady with the Dog, Volkov’s ever-alert Foreign Minister quickly stepped in and changed the subject.
‘If there is no God, then I am God’, the forty-eight-year-old Volkov read, closing the book. “I must remember that. I could work it into one of my speeches.”
A rap at the door. Anastasia Lebedova, Volkov’s executive secretary, poked her head in.
“The Cubans have arrived, Mr President.”
“What took them so long?”
“It’s the Americans, sir,” Anastasia said, entering the room carrying a Spanish cedar cigar humidor.
Volkov opened his desk drawer. “Put them in here. I don’t want Chernik filling his pockets again.”
Anastasia hid the humidor, then silently withdrew.
Volkov, a short man with thinning grey hair and a watermelon belly, glanced at his watch. “They’re late,” he murmured, standing in front of the antique drinks cabinet tucked away in the back corner of his office like a shrine.
On top of the cabinet stood a nineteenth-century globe showing the Russian Empire stretching from Warsaw to Vladivostok. Next to it, a solid gold three-barred cross of the Russian Church, and a bust of Felix Dzerzhinsky.
For Volkov, these were not just symbols of Russia’s past glory, but poignant reminders of the task that lay ahead – to rebuild the Russian Empire. Volkov was a Slavophile. He rejected the Western notion of globalisation and the loss of cultural identity. Volkov was not interested in European integration or a minor role for Russia on the world stage. The ‘new world order’, touted by Western leaders, was not how he foresaw the future.
Hanging on the wall above the drinks cabinet was a framed black-and-white photograph of Joseph Stalin, superimposed over a red Soviet flag. Volkov lifted it off its hook and laid it face down on the floor.
Attached to the back was his handwritten mission statement. Volkov had penned it three years ago when elected President. He wrote it in response to the West’s encroachment into what he considered being Russia’s traditional sphere of influence. It was not eloquently written, as he had no flare or patience for such an artistic undertaking. But it didn’t need to be, as it was for his eyes only.
‘Always and Forever Great’ was written across the top. He skimmed down the page.
Absolute power in the hands of the President…
Take back the Empire…
Racism and religious intolerance helps protect cultural identity…
Opposition is treason…
Revolutions require terror, therefore terror is good…
War is inevitable so prepare well…
Propaganda is truth…
The West will always be our enemy…
Establish Godhead…
Volkov felt energised as he hung Stalin back on the wall. He was in no doubt that global domination was his destiny and that fate was on his side.
He had had nothing but good fortune since his rise to power. Crude oil prices, on which the Russian economy depended, tripled during his first two years in office. Awash in hard currency, he increased pensions, boosted military spending and annexed several neighbouring countries – unchallenged by the West.
Moreover, the constant state of war provided Volkov with the justification for amending the Russian constitution; amendments that gave him power to enact laws without parliament’s involvement.
In three short years, in spite of Russia’s increased isolation, the Russian people had willingly entrusted Volkov with dictatorial powers, to rule Russia as he saw fit. In return he promised a new era of Russian greatness and prosperity. Volkov had managed to wind back the clock of history while its citizens slept.
Turning his attention again to the drinks cabinet, he reached in and grabbed an unopened bottle of Rémy Martin XO Cognac and three tulip glasses. He held the bottle up to the light, admiring its amber glow. “Such a small bottle.” He grabbed a second.
The phone rang.
Volkov placed the cognac and glasses on the large circular table which stood in the recess of a soaring five-panel bay window, then picked up the phone.
“The Prime Minister has entered the compound,” Anastasia said.
“Where’s Chernik?”
“I’m not sure, sir. His phone’s off.”
When Volkov drafted his mission statement, he knew he needed help with one task more than any other – controlling the Russian Orthodox Church.
Despite having only recently approved the appointment of the Russian Patriarch, Volkov sensed that he was not to be trusted; a situation not without precedent. Ever since the creation of the Russian Church in 988, a game of cat-and-mouse has been played between the Church and the state for control over the hearts and minds of the common people. Notwithstanding Volkov’s political savvy, he was never sure whether he was the cat or the mouse.
To help manage this dilemma, Volkov established the Godhead Society. Godhead has only ever had three members: Volkov himself, Prime Minister Sergei Kalinin and the Director of the Federal Security Service, Evgeny Chernik. The number and its members coincide precisely with Volkov’s circle of trust.
Volkov was acutely aware that neither Imperial Russia nor the communists had ever fully controlled the Russian Church, despite the state’s immense resources.
‘If you can’t beat them join them’, was how Volkov explained the concept to Kalinin and Chernik.
Anastasia rapped on the door for a second time. “The Prime Minister has arrived.”
“Show him in,” Volkov said, looking up to find the Prime Minister already in the room.
Kalinin, a short fit man in his fifties, appeared in an ebullient mood.
“How nice of you to come,” Volkov said, tapping the tip of his index finger on the face of his diamond-encrusted watch.
Anastasia, a girlish thirty-five, chin-length black hair and emerald eyes, took Kalinin’s overcoat. “Can I bring you something, Prime Minister?”
“I’ll look after him, Nastya. You go home.”
Kalinin’s lecherous eyes followed Anastasia as she left the room. “Well aren’t you going to offer me a celebratory drink, Mr President?”
“Why should I?”
“Judging by your mood, you haven’t heard.”
Volkov looked up curiously as Kalinin lay his briefcase on the table. “Heard what?”
“About the Concordat.”
Another rap on the door and Chernik entered.
“What an opportune time to call a Godhead meeting,” he said, greeting his colleagues as if he hadn’t seen them for years.
“He doesn’t know,” Kalinin scoffed.
Chernik, a large well-groomed man with dyed jet black hair, took a step back. “Have you been in a cave all day?”
“Very clever,” Volkov said, his tone rough.
Kalinin pulled a translated copy of the German newspaper article from his briefcase. “The Catholics have shot themselves in the foot again. Three months prior to the Nazis invading Poland, the Vatican signed a concordat with Hitler.”
“What the fuck’s a concordat?”
“A fancy name for a treaty between the Vatican and a sovereign state on religious matters,” Kalinin said, putting on his glasses. “Let me read you some of the article.”
Volkov reached over and flipped on a switch. The crystal chandelier, hanging from the centre of the decagon-shaped ornate ceiling, lit up.
“That’s better.” Kalinin took a seat and read out loud. ‘All eyes are on the Vatican as it tries to explain its relationship with Hitler following the discovery of a secret Concordat dated 1 June 1939. In the agreement the Vatican undertook to cease all opposition to the Nazi government, in return for being recognised as the state religion of the Third Reich, including the Soviet Union when annexed’.
Volkov turned to Chernik. “T
his is your doing?”
“I’m not that smart.”
“Is it authentic?”
Kalinin waved the article in the air, like a barrister waving evidence in front of a jury. “It says the Catholics were negotiating to acquire it. What more proof do you need?”
“Where’s the document now?” Volkov asked.
Chernik cleared his throat. “It’s in a diplomatic bag on its way to Moscow.”
“How’s that possible?” Volkov said, gazing suspiciously at his security chief.
“It was offered to our Berlin bureau some time back. But we declined – it smelt wrong. Then last week, we received intelligence that the Catholics were about to acquire it. So we stepped back in.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?”
“I wanted to run some tests on it first,” Chernik explained. “Didn’t want you going off half-cocked, Mr President.”
Volkov rubbed his hands together, the quintessential cartoon villain. “If we play this well, we’ll control the Eastern Orthodox Church by summer.”
“Pope Pyotr I,” Kalinin said. “It has a certain je ne sais quoi that commands respect.”
Volkov had long recognised the inseparable relationship between church and culture. For him, there was no better example throughout history than the role the Roman Catholic Church had played in shaping Western civilisation. It was part of Volkov’s strategy to emulate the Catholics’ success. He planned to unite the fourteen autocephalous Eastern Orthodox churches into one, with the Russian Patriarch as its undisputed head. The glue to hold his empire together for a thousand years.
Now looking more relaxed, Volkov poured the cognac. “To the success of the Holy Russian Empire,” he said, holding up his glass.
Before the crystal had time to resonate, the eau de vie vanished in one crude gulp and the glasses slapped back onto the table for a refill.