by Sean Heary
“Gentlemen, I’m Archbishop Esposito. How can I help you?”
“Good evening, Archbishop. My name Prickov,” a stout man said, holding out his identification card. “I from FSB. I want speak with young Russian boys you have here.”
“What would you like to speak to them about?” Archbishop Esposito asked politely.
“I need confirm they are not forced in joining church,” Prickov said, with an unpleasant tone and a steely gaze. “Why ruin young Russian boys’ lives? We have own church. Don’t need another,” he said, in rapid order.
“I’m afraid they’re not in the nave at this moment,” Archbishop Esposito said calmly.
“I return tomorrow morning, sharp ten. All three hostages here – or I burn down church,” Prickov barked.
Rossi, who had caught most of the conversation, met the archbishop and Father Francis in front of the high altar as they returned.
There was no utterance of indignation or outrage. After a brief discussion, in which the archbishop did most of the talking, it was agreed that the candidates would be ordained tonight in a secret ceremony under candlelight, reminiscent of the Cold War.
Father Francis was sent off to muster all involved while Archbishop Esposito and Rossi returned to the apse to finish their conversation.
“I couldn’t have imagined the rate of deterioration,” Rossi said, shaking his head. “How could the Russian people allow this to happen all over again? And so soon after the horrors of the Soviet Union. Don’t they remember what it was like?”
“The answers are long and complicated, and we have no time today,” Archbishop Esposito said with urgency. “Regarding the Concordat; what is it you’d like me to do?”
“It would be greatly appreciated if you could raise the matter with Patriarch Pyotr.”
Rossi waited while the archbishop thought.
“I will do my best with God’s help. But you do understand that if the Kremlin’s involved, as you have suggested, President Volkov will forbid such a meeting.”
“Will the Patriarch obey Volkov?”
“He shouldn’t, but he most likely will. There has been an unwritten rule of mutual benefit down the ages. But if the truth be spoken, it is one-sided. The Kremlin has always called the shots.”
“So, can I conclude, that if the Concordat is a Kremlin offspring, the Patriarch is unlikely to interfere?”
The archbishop nodded. “Sadly, that is correct.”
“Then there’s no point in meeting with him?”
“Most probably not – but I will try. Miracles often happen when you least expect them,” Archbishop Esposito said, standing.
Rossi gave the archbishop his arm and they descended from the high altar together.
28
Dirty and unshaven, Rudoi gazed up at the rows of dark windows as he approached the Khrushchev-era apartment building. He punched the four-digit code into the electronic keypad mounted on the metal door frame. The buzzing of the electric strike confirmed he was at the right address.
The foyer was stark and dimly lit. He entered and summoned the lift. The lopsided doors sprung open with a bang and the stench of stale urine wafted out. He pushed the button for the sixth floor.
As the lift climbed, Rudoi grew increasingly distraught. Impulsively he slammed his fist against the chunky control panel. Fifth. The instant the door opened he bolted to the adjoining stairwell and ascended three steps at a time. On the sixth-floor landing he heard the lift door open. He listened for a moment. Stillness. Warily he opened the door and poked his head out.
To his left a shaft of white light emanating from a doorway down the long unlit corridor. Beads of sweat gathered across his brow as he stepped anxiously into the open. Taking up a position hard against the wall, he shuffled towards the light.
“Come in, Mr Rudoi,” a man’s voice commanded from deep inside.
Rudoi froze in place.
“Mr Rudoi.”
Several slow deep breaths. “I’m unarmed,” Rudoi called out, raising his hands in the air. He pushed open the door with the toe of his dirty shoe and stepped into the light. The windows of the apartment were blacked out; the room uncomfortably hot. In front of him a wooden chair, illuminated by two strategically placed spotlights. He held up his right hand to shield his eyes, but it was impossible to see what lay beyond.
“Close the door.”
Rudoi appeared relieved to be inside.
“Turn around and place your hands against the wall.”
In silence Rudoi followed instructions. He knew the drill.
Agent Lawrence stepped out from behind the light, his gun trained on Rudoi’s back. “Are you armed?”
“No.”
Holstering his pistol, Lawrence frisked the Russian from head to toe. Other than an unpleasant stench, Rudoi was clean.
Rudoi took his seat. Gaze fixed on the floor, he seemed disorientated and confused as he described events leading up to his escape from the dacha.
“You mentioned Red Dove. What was the brief?” Lawrence growled, maintaining the pressure.
“To terminate Colonel Wolf, and to plant a document in his apartment for his son to find.”
“What document?”
“An agreement between the Vatican and Hitler.”
“Where did the document come from?”
“Moscow.”
From the corridor came the sound of children running, accompanied by the scream of their mother. Rudoi looked nervously over his shoulder at the door.
“Who forged it?”
“Who said it was forged?”
“Why Bernd Wolf?”
Shielding his eyes again, Rudoi tried to see beyond the blazing lamps. Still nothing. “Bad timing.”
Lawrence hammered his fist on something; probably a table. “Am I meant to guess what that means?”
“Wolf came to the Russian Embassy in Berlin last summer. He wanted to sell three or four boxes of old Stasi surveillance files he had taken home before the fall of the wall. Lubyanka was informed, and we received orders to buy them.”
“Last summer?” Lawrence repeated.
Something dropped on the floor in the adjoining room. Rudoi shot a nervous glance to his left. Nothing. “July.”
“Then why were they still in Wolf’s apartment, even after you murdered him?”
“We were told by Moscow not to collect them. Wolf had already been paid, so what did he care?”
“Do you know why?”
“At the time, no. But it’s obvious now,” Rudoi said, his brow covered in sweat.
“Amuse me.”
“Make it appear as though the Concordat was part of the cache stolen by Wolf.”
“So you placed it open on the colonel’s desk. But you left the boxes sealed and covered in dust. Didn’t you think it would look odd?”
“We were instructed to place the Concordat in a prominent place. Nothing was mentioned about opening boxes.”
“Poor ‘tradecraft’,” Lawrence said, pausing. “And what if someone else had come along before Maximilian Wolf?”
“The probability of that happening was assessed to be low. We made the death look like an accident; there was no need for the police to visit the apartment. Besides, we bugged the joint to monitor all outcomes.”
“Then you murdered Wolf’s son and Bishop Muellenbach in Bonn and stole back the Concordat. And the pièce de résistance – you leaked the whole story to the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. The article is then referenced all over the world and fiction became the fact. A tried and trusted Soviet modus operandi?”
“My role began and ended in Berlin. The deaths in Bonn, and the leaking of the story, had nothing to do with me. In fact it’s the first I’ve heard of it. I’ve been on the run – no newspaper with my breakfast.”
“Then who do y
ou think was behind Bonn?”
The sweat on Rudoi’s face was unbearable. He removed a stained handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow.
“I have no idea. The mission was classified need-to-know. Moscow was pulling the strings.” Rudoi paused, closing his eyes out of tiredness. “Can we stop? I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept in two days.”
“That’s enough for now.”
“Will you help me?”
“Yes. We’ll get you out. It’ll be tricky. But there are ways.”
“Spasiba.”
“In three days a CIA agent, resembling you, will enter Russia by car from Finland at the Karelia border crossing. His cover will be as a German automation engineer. You will go out the next day as him.”
“How’s that going to work?”
“You either trust us or you don’t.”
“It’s more a question of competence than trust,” Rudoi said, pausing. “But what choice do I have?”
“Precisely! Now, you’ll need to stay here while we arrange things. Don’t leave the apartment. Don’t even look out of the window. There’s food in the kitchen. Someone will come tomorrow and put you in make-up for the passport photo. He’ll identify himself as Woodpecker.”
Rudoi grunted his understanding.
“There’s a bathroom on your left. Go in and close the door. And don’t come out for ten minutes.”
As soon as the door clicked shut, Lawrence locked it. “Here’s the key,” he said, flicking it under the door. “And take a bath. You stink.”
On tiptoes, Agent Doherty stepped quietly out of an adjoining room carrying her stilettoes. She winked at Lawrence as if to say well done. They then exited the apartment without a word.
29
Martin Burke, the general manager of the Marriott Royal, lived in a small studio apartment near the hotel. Several times a month when guests of high standing arrive Burke feels obliged to stay overnight to help manage their over-inflated egos.
Although Inspector General Rossi didn’t quite fall into that category, Burke had agreed to take extra care of him as a favour to Archbishop Esposito.
“Yes,” Burke said, grabbing the phone.
“This is Gisela, Mr Burke. Inspector General Rossi has returned. I did what you told me to do,” the duty manager said.
“Keep him there,” Burke said, jumping up from behind his desk. He hurried down the stairs from his office on the mezzanine floor to the lobby. At a more dignified pace he moved attentively towards Gisela, who was standing near the front desk.
“Did anyone notice him come in?” Burke whispered.
“I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure,” she said apologetically. “The FSB agent that was here earlier vanished when I was attending to a guest.”
Burke, a conservatively dressed man with curly salt and pepper hair, scrutinised every face in the lobby. Satisfied there was no immediate threat, he moved discreetly across the palatial void towards the storeroom.
Burke glanced one final time over his shoulder before unlocking the door. He drew back in dismay. A well-fed man with a flat-top haircut was making a beeline for the front desk.
“Has Inspector General Rossi returned yet?” he growled in his habitual tone of intimidation.
“Let me check, sir,” Gisela said, picking up the telephone.
“He’s not in his room,” he snapped. “Is he in any of the restaurants?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. I have no way of telling,” she said, with a well-practised smile. “One minute. I will ask my colleagues whether they’ve seen him.”
Gisela moved to the other end of the long, narrow reception counter where three desk clerks were busily attending to guests. She questioned each of them in turn in a soft, clear voice. “Did anyone hand in a Nigerian passport this morning; a gentleman has misplaced it?”
Each answered, “no,” with an emphatic shake of the head.
Gisela strode confidently back towards the impatient FSB agent. “I’m sorry, sir. No one seems to have seen him since he left the hotel after lunch.”
“Useless lot…” he scoffed, mumbling an inaudible obscenity. He then deposited himself on a sofa facing the hotel entrance.
Gisela looked over and caught Burke’s eye. With a discreet gesture, he signalled for her to stay put. At that moment, a tall, scraggly-haired woman approached from reception pulling a suitcase with UN stickers displayed prominently on both sides.
“Can I help you, madam?” a porter said.
“Yes. Store this, please.”
Frantically, Burke rushed forward and snatched the bag from the porter’s hand. “I’ve got it.”
Confused, the porter stood upright and placed his hands on his hips.
“Anton, go and help the arriving guests,” Gisela called out.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, turning and heading towards the revolving doors.
Burke, now in undisputed possession, unlocked the storeroom and wheeled the suitcase inside. Against the back wall, sitting on a stack of boxes filled with printer paper, was Rossi.
“Hello, Inspector General,” Burke said sheepishly, wiping perspiration from his upper lip.
“Is this how you treat all your guests?”
“We try very hard not to.”
“What’s happened?”
“The FSB are here. Two in your room and at least one in the lobby.”
Rossi blew out a deep breath as he jumped off the boxes. “Do you know what they want?”
“Apparently they have a court order to arrest and deport you for visa violations.”
“Cathy was right,” Rossi murmured. “How do I get out, without being seen?”
“With great difficulty.”
“Don’t you have secret passageways for celebrity guests?”
“You mean like the Vatican?”
Rossi managed a smile.
“The best I can offer is the service entrance. Give me a minute.” Burke picked up a ream of copy paper, opened the door and stepped cautiously into the lobby.
Gisela hurried over. “Thank you, sir,” she said, taking the paper.
“Listen carefully,” Burke whispered. “Here’s the plan. You distract the buffoon while I smuggle the Inspector General out the back way.”
“Bad news I’m afraid. There’s an FSB agent posted there too.”
“I can’t keep the staff out of the storeroom for ever. We need to come up with something quick.”
Gisela glanced outside. An airport shuttle bus carrying an Etihad flight crew had just pulled up. “Get the Inspector General to phone the hotel and ask for me. I’ll inform the agent he’s on the line. While they’re talking, the Inspector General can sneak out the front, using the flight crew as a screen. Tell him to keep the agent on the phone as long as possible.”
“That could just work. He doesn’t seem to scrutinise the departing guests,” Burke said.
No alternative proposal presented, Rossi agreed.
Gisela stood behind the front desk waiting. “Marriott Royal… Good evening, Inspector General Rossi,” she said, in a loud voice.
The FSB agent’s ears pricked up.
“Excuse me, sir. It’s Inspector General Rossi. He would like to speak to you,” she said, holding up the phone.
“Stupid girl,” the agent boomed, already standing at the desk. “How dare you warn him I’m here?”
“I don’t understand, sir. I thought you wanted to speak to him,” Gisela said, looking suitably surprised.
Foam forming in the corners of his mouth, the agent snatched the phone out of Gisela’s hand and grunted down the line.
“This is the Inspector General of the Vatican Corpo della Gendarmeria. I understand you’re looking for me,” Rossi said, peering out from behind the storeroom door at Burke.
“Where are you?�
�� the agent said, his lustful gaze locking onto the bobbing backside of one of the air hostesses.
“Go,” Burke said, in a frantic whisper.
“I’m in traffic. I’ll be another ten minutes. Can you wait?” Rossi said, weaving his way between two porters pushing trolleys stacked high with the flight crew’s luggage.
“I’ll be in the lobby,” the agent said, swinging his gaze towards the front entrance as if he had sensed something.
Rossi had gone.
30
An unexpected knock on the door sent Rudoi’s heart racing. He grabbed the screwdriver he had found earlier and tucked it into his sock.
Rudoi peered anxiously through the spy hole. The corridor was poorly lit; the visitor’s round face heavily shadowed. “Who’s there?”
“Woodpecker,” came a deep voice.
“You’re a day early.”
“We’re ahead of plan,” the visitor said in American English.
There was a long silence. “Show me some ID.”
Woodpecker pulled an American passport from his pocket and held it up to the spy hole.
“Where’s the agent who was here earlier?”
“Do I sound like his fucking mother?”
Rudoi opened the door.
Carrying a large black makeup case, Woodpecker glanced about as he stepped inside. “No more games.”
The room was large and cheaply furnished. On the right a threadbare sofa and two armchairs. Between them a laminated wooden coffee table. To the left a tired-looking open kitchen with a small dining table and three mismatched chairs. Against the front wall next to the entrance, the two spotlights that Lawrence had used earlier that day.
Woodpecker removed his coat and flung it on to the sofa. “Why all the hysteria?”
“Trying to stay alive,” Rudoi said, studying his visitor. “Not sure who to trust these days.”
“That’s because you’re in with the wrong crowd.”