The Concordat

by Sean Heary

“As I’ve already pointed out, the plan carries risk,” Bishop Protev shouted over the racket.

  “My dear brothers,” Father Arkady said, again motioning for silence. “This too can be managed. There is nothing to fear. Let’s put our faith in God.”

  26

  The table was cleared, and the coffee arrived. Rossi had already divulged freely everything he knew. With Cathy he held nothing back. There was no point. The Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung had ensured that the worst of it was already in the public domain.

  “You must bear in mind that no such document ever existed – not even in draft.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “The Church knows her own history.”

  Cathy blew out a short dismissive breath. “Precisely.”

  Silence.

  “And the lady in Paris. Does she have a name?”

  Rossi opened a photo of the assassin’s passport on his phone and held it up. “You know her?”

  A short sharp breath. “Oksana Koroleva. You have been busy. This lady’s a legend. A Kremlin hired gun. Drop-dead gorgeous. This photo doesn’t do her justice.”

  “Passport photos rarely do.”

  “Chief James has a mad crush on her. Maybe you can introduce her.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Is there anyone you’ve met recently that isn’t dead?”

  Rossi considered the question, then shrugged.

  “One thing that makes little sense. If the Vatican knew the Concordat was fake, why negotiate?”

  “The Church trades on her reputation. The facsimile we received was so convincing, Cardinal Capelli decided to remove the threat rather than try to prove the negative later. People have become far too cynical. They are only too willing to believe in such lies.”

  Cathy slowly stirred sugar into her coffee. “Especially if Volkov is controlling the narrative.”

  “And of course at the time we had no idea who was behind it. That was the main reason I travelled to Bonn – to interrogate Wolf. Tragically it all went pear-shaped, and I blame myself.”

  “That’s nonsense. A delayed flight doesn’t make you responsible,” Cathy said, staring at a monstrous man who had just entered the restaurant.

  Rossi glanced back over his shoulder. “Signor G-Wagon?”

  “Dark suit, square jaw, small eyes. Certainly FSB.”

  “Do we need to go?”

  “No. He’ll keep his distance for now,” Cathy said, removing a pepper spray canister from her handbag. “And from Paris you headed to Berlin where you established the colonel was indeed murdered.”

  Rossi nodded. “To lure the colonel’s son to Berlin.”

  “But why?”

  “Because he knew where the Concordat was hidden?”

  “Unlikely,” Cathy said bluntly. “At that point the Concordat was only of secondary interest.”

  There was a long silence. Rossi figured she had misspoken. “Why would you think that? This whole despicable affair has only ever been about the Concordat.”

  “Because, if your Berlin spooks were really interested in the Concordat, they would never have allowed Wolf to escape back to Bonn with the document. Not even the FSB are that incompetent.”

  “So what then?” Rossi said, his tone more reticent.

  “The Concordat wasn’t there in the first place.”

  “How does that make sense?”

  “Wolf was telling you the truth. He did stumble on the Concordat in his father’s study – but only after the Russians had planted it there for him to find.”

  Rossi pushed back in his seat, speechless.

  Cathy rested a consoling hand on his arm. “They were surfacing the Concordat. Historical document found amongst a stash of old Stasi files in Berlin, etcetera. You know the drill.”

  “But all this only makes sense if the Russians knew about Bernd Wolf’s Stasi past and the stolen files – doesn’t it?”

  “You’re right, and they did,” Cathy said, glancing over at Signor G-Wagon. “Strategies for surfacing forged paintings or documents are usually built around opportunity. My guess is that Colonel Wolf pitched the Stasi files to the Russian Embassy in Berlin some time back. There’s a limited clientele for such files, but the Russians definitely would be on the shortlist.”

  “Sì. So they built a story around an ex-Stasi colonel with boxes of stolen top-secret documents.”

  “To give the Concordat life. It needed a history, which thanks to the Bonn murders and Lois Lane, it now has. The biggest risk to the Russians’ plan was if Maximilian Wolf failed to take advantage of his good fortune.”

  “Not much chance of that happening,” Rossi said, touching his ear, surprised that it no longer hurt. “Greed has infected an entire generation. Capitalism is the new religion.”

  Pleased with herself, Cathy rubbed her palms together. “Now that’s the how. As for the why – we’ll need to work on that.”

  “That’s brilliant. How the hell did you work that out so quickly?”

  “It’s what I do for a living.”

  “But it’s what I also do.”

  “Then I must be smarter than you.”

  Rossi smiled. Brains masked behind a bimbo’s façade – there’s got to be a fascinating story that goes with that.

  Suddenly Cathy sat bolt upright. “Damn, I might have something for you. A man claiming to be an FSB operative based in Berlin phoned the other day. I told him to call back on a secure line. To the best of my knowledge he didn’t. But I’ll check.”

  “Do you have a name? I’ll pass it onto the German police.”

  Cathy took a small notebook from her handbag and thumbed to the second-last entry. “Mikhail Rudoi. Give me a minute, I’ll call the office.”

  While Cathy phoned, Rossi sent a message to Senior Detective Schmidt.

  “Good news,” Cathy said, ending the call. “We’re meeting Rudoi later today.”

  “Let’s pray he knows where the Concordat is kept. I must recover it before any further damage is done.”

  “Pray you must, because recovering the Concordat is not possible. It’s insane to think otherwise.”

  “How can we find out who forged it? That’d be a good place to start.”

  “Slow down, Enzo. Excluding the possibility that the Concordat is genuine, there’s another complication. We have no idea when the document was forged. It could have been sitting dormant since the War. The Soviets had a huge ‘active measures programme’ that, amongst other sins, created and counterfeited documents.”

  “So discounting that possibility – where do we start?”

  Cathy leant closer and whispered, “I’ll tell you this because I trust you. But don’t go screwing me.”

  Rossi nodded his assurance.

  “We have a high-level mole inside the FSB.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “I like you already, Inspector General.”

  “That’s great. But what do we do next?”

  Rossi listened intently as Cathy explained the procedure. First she would post a coded message on one of the online chat rooms, spelling out her interest. Then the mole would collect the requested intelligence and drop it off at a prearranged location for her to collect.

  “That doesn’t sound quick.”

  “There’ll be a dead drop in two days.”

  “Can’t it be sped up?”

  “Not without risking lives. The dead drops are agreed way in advance. Besides, our man will need time to gather the information.”

  Rossi sat biting his lip, knowing Cathy was right.

  “So what’s on your agenda?”

  “I’ve got a meeting with Archbishop Joseph Esposito, the head of the Archdiocese of Moscow, in a couple of hours.”

  “And?”

  “That’s it,
” Rossi said with a shrug of the shoulders.

  A broad grin. “Not much of a plan.”

  “I thought I’d let trouble come to me.”

  “And it will,” Cathy said, looking into his eyes. “The FSB have let you in for a reason.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Do you really think you sneaked in under the radar?”

  “Well…”

  “You’re a pawn in one of Volkov’s political games. Together with Bishop Muellenbach and the Wolfs. You’re being used to give credibility to the forgery. Imagine the reaction from the world press when the Inspector General of the Vatican Police is arrested in Moscow, trying to recover the Concordat. A document the Vatican insists is a vicious fabrication.”

  “I guess the moral of the story is don’t get caught.”

  Cathy rubbed Rossi’s hand. “Be careful, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “So are you in?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Cathy said, pausing as a question popped into her mind. “The scanned copy of the Concordat, you said it was convincing. Why?”

  “The historical context is beyond reproach. And the language and the layout is perfect. It is totally consistent in format and style to the 1933 Reichskonkordat; which unquestionably is the real deal.”

  “That’s because the forger used it as a template,” Cathy said.

  “That’s what I concluded too.”

  “And the Papal Encyclical mentioned in the text. What is that?”

  “Mit Brennender Sorge,” Rossi said. “A papal letter dated 14 March 1937. It denounced breaches by the Nazis of the 1933 Reichskonkordat, and many of the Nazi ideologies, including the idolatrous cults of state and race.”

  “Is there any significance to it being included?”

  “Most probably not. Just another historical touchpoint for those who wish to believe the document is real.”

  “Well let’s hope it’s a recent forgery and that the artist is still alive. He’s our best chance.”

  Cathy glanced at her watch and motioned to the waitress for the bill.

  “What’s the Vatican’s view of the Russian Patriarch?” Cathy asked.

  “The previous incumbent, Patriarch Alexander, was extremely sympathetic towards the Kremlin. He fought fiercely to expel the Catholic Church from Russia. More Russian than divine, you might say. He would have considered the use of such skulduggery reasonable and necessary.”

  “In much the same way Stalin considered the gulags reasonable and necessary.”

  Rossi laughed at the comparison. “The Vatican is praying that the newly elected Patriarch is different.”

  “He’s different all right. Ta Eschata. His regressive statements on the Apocalypse and the Second Coming are straight off the ark. A CIA psychological assessment concluded that he is a delusional, hallucinatory psychotic.”

  “Granted, his colourful language is old-school, and his claim God speaks to him is just a little off-putting, but…”

  “Why? Does God only speak to the Pope?”

  “Very good.”

  A cheeky smile. “Sorry. Continue.”

  “In some ways Patriarch Pyotr is right. If the world doesn’t get its house in order, the final battle between the forces of good and the forces of evil is closer than we think.”

  “That’s too depressing.”

  “Look about us. Wars raging on all continents. Confrontation between the rising power of China and the United States seems inevitable…”

  “The ‘Thucydides Trap’,” Cathy said.

  “Nuclear weapons in the hands of madmen. Who’s going to stop it? The United Nations Security Council?”

  “Off your soapbox, Enzo.”

  “Sorry,” Rossi said, cringing a little.

  Cathy smiled for a moment, then her expression grew serious again. “So you were saying…”

  “The Vatican would like to think Patriarch Pyotr intends to put Christianity ahead of his personal ambition. But the reality is he’s most likely to be another Kremlin puppet.”

  “The CIA has truckloads of contradictory evidence. But on balance we also have him down as a Volkov stooge. Think about it. With 2,000 nukes ready to be launched at a moment’s notice, no country is willing to challenge Russia – not even the good old USA.”

  “It would result in global annihilation,” Rossi added.

  “Therefore the only real threat to Volkov is internal. And given Volkov’s suppression of all forms of political opposition, it is left to Patriarch Pyotr and the Russian Church to be the voice of dissent and defiance in Russia.”

  “But he remains silent.” Rossi paused. “I guess that’s the answer.”

  It was already 2.30. Rossi needed to get back to the hotel where Archbishop Esposito’s driver was waiting to take him to the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception.

  Cathy took a business card from her handbag and wrote her personal mobile phone number on the back. “In case of an emergency, or if you just need to talk,” she said, handing Rossi the card. “Moscow can be a lonely city at night.”

  She’s something else, Rossi thought, helping her on with her coat.

  Outside on the pavement the Escalade was waiting, engine running. “Quick! Jump in,” the driver yelled, pushing open the door.

  “I trust that wasn’t you,” Cathy said, scrambling into the back next to Rossi.

  “You mean the G-Wagon? No way. The tyres deflated on their own,” the driver laughed, gunning the Escalade west on Novy Arbat.

  27

  The archbishop’s driver slowed the Toyota to a halt in front of the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception’s main gate. He reminded Rossi, in broken English, that His Eminence would be waiting for him in the sacristy, which was located to the right of the high altar. They had planned to meet at the archbishop’s residence nearby, but as Rossi had been stuck in traffic for over an hour, the location was changed to accommodate the prelate’s busy schedule.

  Built in the early part of the twentieth century, the cathedral provided sanctuary to Moscow’s Catholic community, which at the time had swollen to more than thirty thousand. The neo-Gothic red brick building with lancet windows operated as a place of worship until it was commandeered by the communists in 1938. The interior was then converted into four floors of communal apartments and office space for government use.

  Rossi stood momentarily glancing up at the façade, imagining what the cathedral looked like with the hammer and sickle flying from its bell tower.

  Returned to the Church in the 1990s, the cathedral was now home to the Metropolitan Archbishop of the Archdiocese of Mother of God, Joseph Esposito. But for how long?

  Rossi ascended the snow-covered stone steps to the main entrance. He pulled hard on the heavy wooden doors and entered the narthex. He removed his hat and gloves and dipped his fingers into the holy water stoup and blessed himself. Through a second set of doors he entered the nave which was white and simple in design.

  He glanced about to get his bearings. Two old ladies shuffled between benches tidying up after a wedding; a handful of worshippers prayed in the front pews. He bowed his body towards the altar and then moved to the right.

  In the distance, at the end of the side aisle, he spotted a single door. That must be the sacristy, he thought, checking his watch as he hastened towards it, upset with himself for being so late.

  Rossi listened at the door. He could hear voices speaking softly on the other side. He knocked and waited.

  “Come,” a voice called from within.

  Rossi opened the door. In front of him stood three novices in deep conversation. Archbishop Esposito appeared from behind them and approached with open arms. The two men, who had met at the Vatican on numerous occasions, embraced each other warmly.

  “Mi dispiace per il ritardo,” Rossi said hum
bly. “The traffic in Moscow is diabolical.”

  “It’s always like that. Even worse than Rome.”

  “Have I come at a bad time?” Rossi asked, motioning towards the novices.

  “For you – there’s never a bad time. They’re local candidates who are being ordained tomorrow. Our Russian flock is growing fast and we need more priests. I thank God for sending strong young men to help with our mission,” the archbishop said, leading Rossi back towards the apse.

  The tall, withered archbishop took Rossi’s arm as they climbed the steps to the high altar chatting about news from home.

  Archbishop Esposito lowered himself into the cathedra, positioned directly under the nine-metre-high crucifix attached to the wall, in the centre of the windowless apse. “Now tell me everything you know.”

  Rossi pulled over one of the adjoining chairs, placed it in front of the archbishop and sat down. He leant forward, and in a soft, weighty voice explained the events of the last few days.

  Archbishop Esposito listened without interrupting. Occasionally he pursed his lips or raised an eyebrow, to express surprise or concern.

  “That’s as much as we know,” Rossi said after twenty minutes.

  The archbishop sighed deeply. “The inventiveness of evil. It never ceases to amaze me.”

  The peaceful reverie inside the cathedral was shattered by the sound of raised voices, speaking in broken English, emanating from the narthex.

  Father Francis, one of the resident priests, was in an animated discussion with two men in hats. From where Rossi was sitting it was difficult to make out what was going on.

  “They would like to speak with the candidates,” Archbishop Esposito explained. “Father Francis is trying to convince them they’re not here.”

  I guess he’s got his fingers crossed, Rossi thought. “Is this common?”

  “Regrettably after Volkov became President, intimidation and harassment has become a daily affair. And with the rite of ordination tomorrow it’s only to be expected.” Archbishop Esposito slowly rose to his feet. “Stay here, Lorenzo. It’s better if I handle this alone. Discretion is the better part of valour.”

  Rossi remained seated, obscured from the narthex by the high altar, as the archbishop moved with an air of authority to the point of commotion. Although it wasn’t his style to hide from controversy, Rossi knew his involvement would only further complicate matters. He quietened his breath and turned his good ear towards the open door.