by Sean Heary
“We must brief Patriarch Pyotr as soon as possible. Stop him heading off in the wrong direction,” Kalinin said.
“That will not be easy,” Volkov said. “Although he’s venomously opposed to the presence of the Catholic Church on Russian territory, he won’t want to go down in history as the cleric responsible for starting another holy war.”
Kalinin scoffed. “History is written by the victors, and this is a battle we will not lose.”
“It’s best you speak to him,” Chernik said, slapping the President on the back. “He trusts you – well at least more than he trusts me.”
Volkov nodded in agreement. “So what do I say?”
“He’s greedy like the rest of us,” Chernik said. “Emphasise what’s in it for him.”
“Tell him we intend to expel the Catholics from the Russian Federation,” Kalinin added, patting down the back of his hairpiece.
Chernik held up a cautionary finger. “Stalin tried that, but the bloodsuckers are still here.”
Volkov gave a sneering laugh. “Stalin was a softie.”
“He was a psychopath.”
Volkov wandered over to his desk and removed the cigar humidor and a large butane lighter from one of the drawers. “How much do we tell the Patriarch?”
“Keep it vague,” Chernik said. “Tell him that Constantinople plans to re-establish communion with the Vatican and to concede to Papal Supremacy over all Christianity.”
“He won’t believe it,” Volkov said.
“It depends on how convincing you are,” Chernik said, lighting a Montecristo.
Kalinin shook his head. “It’s too easy to disprove. The Patriarch of Constantinople will simply deny it.”
Chernik blew a cloud of cigar smoke towards the ceiling. “Of course he will. Conspirators always do.”
23
Half a dozen pairs of eyes followed Agent Doherty as she sashayed through the CIA bullpen.
Dressed in a tight stretchy black mini dress and knee-high stilettos, she knocked sharply on the station chief’s open door. “You’re after me?”
“Come on in,” Chief James said, gawking unashamedly as she moved across the room.
Cathy sat down and crossed her long legs, and with an exaggerated wiggling of her backside, tugged her dress back down over her thighs. “I’m all ears,” she said, folding her arms and deliberately pushing up her cleavage.
“Heck, Cathy, stop doing that. You know I have little self-control.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Chief,” she said, flicking her long wavy chestnut hair back off her face.
“Dressed to kill. Who’s the lucky man?”
“I’ve got a blind date with a tall, dark handsome Italian,” Cathy said, her smile teasing. “But you would know – you set it up. Are you still trying to marry me off?”
“God knows you need help finding a decent man. And this one’s from the Vatican, no less.”
“What’s he doing in Moscow?” Cathy asked, in a more serious tone.
“Good question. No one seems quite sure. Yesterday evening I received an official, unofficial request from Langley to assist him on a matter – wait for it – of the utmost delicacy.”
“Official, unofficial, utmost delicacy. Sounds like a train crash waiting to happen.”
“It has something to do with this German newspaper article,” the chief said, turning his computer screen towards Cathy.
The English version of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung article. “I’ve read it. The notion that such a document exists is intriguing. And the timing ironic. It was supposedly executed just before the German-Soviet Non-Aggression Pact came into force.”
“Which cleared the way for the Nazis to invade Poland,” the chief added.
“And in return for staying on the sidelines, Stalin was promised the Baltic States and parts of Poland – which he ended up getting.”
“So at the time this Concordat was supposedly being signed, the Soviets, and the Nazis were already bedfellows.”
Cathy shifted in her seat and adjusted her dress. “A classic Hitler double-cross or a forgery?”
“Only time will tell.”
“And the Vatican suspects the Russians are behind it?” Cathy enquired.
“As if Volkov needs more enemies,” the chief said, shaking his head. “I spoke briefly with Commandant Waldmann of the Vatican’s Swiss Guard this morning. He requested that we provide Inspector General Rossi security protection while he’s here. Fortunately, I was able to convince Waldmann that he needed you instead – someone to put things into context, while causing the least amount of damage. Besides, you’re rather handy with a gun, if it comes to that.”
“Thanks, Chief – I think.”
“If the Kremlin’s involved, what do you think they’re up to?”
“Simplest scenario – they plan to use the document to kick the Catholics out of Russia. The Orthodox Church has long accused them of proselytism.”
“Sounds like a foot fungus.”
“Poaching from their flock.”
“And the more complicated scenario?”
“At a pinch, Volkov plans to use the Concordat as a rallying cry for his expansionary policies. Expelling the Catholics could be just the first step – aimed at destabilising the region. The fact that the Concordat mentions annexing the USSR, and not just Russia, in effect invites all fifteen former Soviet states into the controversy – many of which are Muslim.”
“God, I miss the Cold War. Those were the days,” the chief said.
“As you know, Volkov has been pushing hard to re-establish Russia’s sphere of interest. His main tools to date have been regional military superiority, energy and economics. Religion would be a logical extension,” Cathy said.
“It wouldn’t be the first time religion was used to achieve a political end.”
“You never know with the Russians. Most of what they do defies Western logic.”
“A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma – Churchill got it spot on,” the chief said, now standing at the sideboard, pouring himself a cup of freshly brewed coffee.
“Every Western leader makes the same mistake. Russians look European, so we expect them to behave like Europeans – not Neanderthals.”
Cathy glanced up at the wall clock. Almost noon. “I’d better skedaddle if I’m going to catch me a husband,” she said, with a hillbilly twang.
“Well I wish you luck.”
Cathy stopped in the doorway and half turned. “Incidentally, do you know what Signor Rossi looks like?”
“The Commandant said he’s a tall Italian with effortless grace – but straight men don’t say things like that about their colleagues unless they’re joking. So look for a short, round bald man wearing a sheriff’s badge.”
“Life can be so cruel,” Cathy said, playfully flicking back her hair as she exited.
24
After breakfast, with the help of the concierge, Rossi ventured into the city and acquired a stylish new wardrobe. Now sitting in the crowded foyer of the Marriott Royal dressed in a dark grey casual suit, a navy roll-neck sweater, and oxblood cordovan brogues, he oozed Italian sprezzatura.
Rossi eyed every young lady that entered the lobby from outside, most of whom reciprocated with an appreciative smile.
“Inspector General Rossi,” came a voice from behind.
Rossi swung round in surprise. “Yes,” he answered, not sure what to make of the sexy brunette wearing a sable coat.
“I’m Agent Catherine Doherty,” she said, offering her hand. “Welcome to Moscow.”
“Agent Doherty,” Rossi said, springing to his feet. “I wasn’t expecting, um… how did you pick me out? Am I that obvious?”
“You’re the only foreigner in the lobby that doesn’t look like he’s selling something. Besides,�
� she said, taking half a step back and cocking her head to one side, “I was told to look out for a stylish Italian with sea-green eyes.”
She’s dangerous, Rossi thought, shaking her hand warmly.
“How are you finding the infamous Russian winter?”
“Cold.”
“Not the best time to be visiting Moscow.”
“Trust me, there’s no other place I’d prefer to be right now.”
“I know you’re itching to see Red Square, but we really should go somewhere quiet to talk. There’s an Uzbek restaurant near the US Embassy on Novy Arbat.”
Rossi grabbed his green double-breasted wool coat from the sofa. “Lead the way, Agent Doherty.”
“Call me Cathy.”
“If you call me Enzo.”
Outside on the bleak treeless street, the CIA driver was waiting with the engine running. Leaning back, he pushed open the rear door as they approached. Cathy gave him instructions. A stiff nod, then he sped off in the direction of the Boulevard Ring.
“How was the flight?”
“Coffee was good.”
Cathy turned in her seat, her knees touching his. “Enzo, if you don’t mind me asking. What’s it like working inside the Vatican? It must be so fascinating.”
“It’s a piece of cake, as long as you appreciate and respect the traditions and history of the Church. Like Washington, I imagine.”
“How’d you end up there?”
“My mother wanted grandchildren.”
“Have you made your mother happy?”
“Not yet.”
“Oh!” Cathy said. “No time?”
“No wife.”
Cathy smiled and fell silent as the Escalade sped west along the busy Boulevard Ring towards Arbat.
“I assume the double-headed eagle is the Russian coat of arms?” Rossi said, pointing to a string of tricolour flags hanging from a souvenir kiosk.
“That flag is the Presidential Standard. But you’re right, the double-headed eagle is the coat of arms,” Cathy nodded. “It dates back to the fifteenth century and Ivan the Great. To me it represents the Russian Imperial Court. The communists replaced it with the hammer and sickle in 1917. After the collapse of the Soviet Union it was reinstated by the ruling elite. They’re doing everything possible to wind back history. The ruling class would prefer to pretend that the communist nightmare never happened.”
“Interesting. I’ve always associated it with the Holy Roman Empire. The two heads representing Church and State.”
“In Russia the historical meaning is unclear. Stolen no doubt, like the tricolour from the Dutch.”
“During the Byzantine Empire, the two heads represented the emperor’s authority over religious and civil matters,” Rossi said, grinning. “A bit like Russia today.”
“Really,” Cathy said. “I like to think the two heads represent the Russian character of schizophrenia and self-destruction.”
Rossi laughed. “Or Squealer and Moses the Raven.”
The driver swung hard right and hammered the Escalade down a narrow side street. A series of hard turns and they arrived back on the Boulevard Ring.
“That’s the monument to Russia’s Shakespeare,” Cathy said, pointing to a bronze statue of Alexander Pushkin.
“Are there two of them?”
The driver looked up, catching Rossi’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. “We doubled back. We’ve got a G-Wagon on our tail. It’s a game we play with the Russians now and then.”
Cathy rubbed Rossi’s knee. “They’re on to you.”
“Me?” Rossi asked in a concerned tone.
“I’m nowhere near important enough for the honour, so it must be you.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Not yet. Besides, they rarely harm foreigners unless they have a very good reason.”
“I might be about to give them one.”
“Volkov is a short-arsed paranoid expansionist, but he’s not stupid. Harming the Inspector General of the Vatican Police would be against all international diplomatic norms. So you shouldn’t worry. Deportation is the worst you can expect.”
“Until I’m finished here, deportation is a fate worse than death.”
Cathy cast Rossi an inquisitive glance but said nothing.
The Escalade pulled up in front of the restaurant and Cathy and Rossi piled out.
“Short-arsed paranoid expansionist,” Rossi repeated as they entered. “I’ll have to Google that.”
“Good evening. A table for two at the back,” Cathy said, pointing to a windowless area in the far corner.
The maître d’ clapped his hands sharply, and a waitress dressed in a brightly coloured Uzbek tunic stepped forward from behind a curtain. They followed her in silence to an elevated area of mostly empty tables.
“From here we can see who comes and goes,” Cathy said, allowing her sable to drop from her shoulders into Rossi’s waiting arms.
“Che bello!” Rossi said, his eyes fixed on Cathy’s shapely backside.
“Do you like it?”
“Very much so.”
Cathy sat with her back to the wall, facing the entrance. “Sorry about the view, but under the circumstances…”
Nearby, within earshot, the waitress hovered. Cathy passed Rossi a menu.
“This is all Greek. Best you order.”
“I hope you’re up to it,” Cathy said, as the waitress left. “I’ve ordered a mixture of traditional Uzbek dishes.”
“Funny isn’t it? My first meal in Russia, and I’m eating Uzbek cuisine.”
“No need to be disappointed. Uzbekistan was part of the Russian Empire from the second half of the nineteenth century. And then part of the Soviet Union until the collapse. So you’re in fact eating former Russian Empire food. Besides, the way things are going, Uzbekistan will be back in the Russian fold very soon.”
“That makes me feel a lot better.”
“Here comes something much more Russian.”
The waitress brought over a half-litre bottle of ice-cold vodka and filled their ryumkas.
“For lunch?”
Cathy raised her glass. “For new friendships.”
With the empty ryumkas back on the table, Rossi was keen to get down to business. But before they could start, the waitress had returned with lunch.
25
Father Arkady entered the subterranean chamber beneath the Cathedral of the Holy Apostle John and stepped up onto the solid wooden chair that had been brought down for the occasion. Without ceremony he began simply. “The trap is set.”
The white stone chamber reverberated with murmurs of excitement from the forty-odd prelates and priests standing shoulder to shoulder within.
“Saturday evening, God willing, you will receive an encrypted message from Metropolitan Anatoly confirming the untimely death of our beloved leader Patriarch Pyotr.”
Utterings of solemn prayer resounded through the chamber.
Father Arkady held up his hands. “This will be your call to action.”
“It’s time,” the gathering called out with one accord.
“The plan remains unchanged,” Father Arkady said, barely audible over the din. “Metropolitans Anatoly, Viktor and Nikodim, as permanent members of the Holy Synod, will ensure Metropolitan Paul is elected Patriarchal Locum Tenens immediately on Patriarch Pyotr’s passing. We have four of the eight permanent seats so we can assume that’s a given.”
The three Metropolitans nodded their understanding.
“It is for the rest of you,” Father Arkady said, pausing to make sure he had their full attention, “to ensure that by the time the Local Council convene to elect the new Patriarch of the Russian Church, Metropolitan Paul has overwhelming support from the 700 voting delegates. We must send a strong message to the Kremlin – the puppet t
heatre has finally closed.”
A hand rose slowly amongst the sea of black. Father Arkady’s jaw clenched when he realised who it was. “Bishop Protev, you have a question?”
“Father Arkady, your plan is based on a number of assumptions that carry substantial risk, not least being an over-reliance on the Metropolitan of St Petersburg.”
“Bishop Protev, we discussed this at length last meeting. What purpose does it serve to go over it again?”
“Indulge me please,” the bishop said.
Father Arkady shrugged his shoulders and nodded, knowing regardless of his answer, the bishop would speak.
“How can we be certain that Metropolitan Paul will stand up to the Kremlin after he is elevated to the Patriarchal throne?”
“Metropolitan Paul is dedicated to our cause.”
“But if he betrays us? Revealing Light will cease to exist. Power does strange things to people. No one escapes her attention. We are taking a great risk,” Bishop Protev said.
“For three hundred years Revealing Light has maintained its peaceful struggle – and achieved nothing. So what are we risking?”
“Our lives,” the bishop called out.
“But our lives have no value if we’re not serving God.”
The gathering erupted in a chorus of support and Bishop Protev fell silent.
Father Arkady motioned for the room to come to order. “Any other issues?”
“Yes,” a young priest said, holding up his hand. “Will the newly discovered Concordat between the Vatican and Hitler impact our mission?”
Father Arkady drew a deep troubled breath before he spoke. “That very much depends on President Volkov. If he does not involve himself in the scandal, then the document will generally be viewed as a forgery. It will be left for the crackpots and fanatics to milk it for what it’s worth.”
“And if he does?”
“I can only speculate. But one possible, unthinkable scenario is that a war of the creeds breaks out, in which Patriarch Pyotr becomes so embroiled that he is unable to attend the judo opening ceremony.”
The chamber erupted into a cacophony of discussion.