by Sean Heary
Cathy glimpsed a black Pullman Guard limousine in the middle of the heavily armed pack. “It’s the President all right. An unusual route for him. He must be going to dedicate a new tank factory.”
The sirens faded, and the streets grew noisy, but the traffic barely moved – gridlock.
“Where are we heading?” Rossi asked. “Back to the Marriott?”
“A safe house. We need to come up with a new plan. Your ‘trouble will come to me’ strategy, seems to have run its course.”
“Yeah. It wasn’t very good, was it?”
“Incidentally, what happened back at the hotel?”
Rossi told his story with all the colour and enthusiasm of a teenager returning to school after summer break. “It’s an experience I’ll remember for the rest of my life.”
“Let’s hope Volkov doesn’t cut it short.”
“My experience?”
“Your life.”
“You’re joking,” Rossi said, as if the truth was the last thing he wanted to hear.
“Taking a taxi from outside the hotel wasn’t your smartest move,” Cathy said. “With the driveway CCTV, it was only a matter of time before they tracked down the cab. I’m surprised you had time to drink your cappuccino.”
“Double espresso – only an Australian would order a cappuccino after lunch.”
“Of course.”
32
It was already past eight. The wintry night sky hung low and heavy as the President’s limousine rolled up the driveway of Patriarch Pyotr’s working residence on Chisty Pereulok.
Dressed in a black cassock and wearing a white koukoulion embroidered with the image of Seraphim, the Patriarch ambled onto the porch. Stroking his long grey beard, he watched dispassionately as Volkov climbed out of the limousine. Volkov, uncomfortable with the symbolism, hurried up the stairs to be on an equal footing to his host.
Anastasia Lebedova bustled up the driveway waving her index finger in warning. “Delete them now,” she said, chastising a state photographer who had snapped several shots of Volkov inadvertently looking up at the Patriarch as he ascended.
Anastasia raised her hand, quietening the large gathering of propagandists, whom she had corralled into a small roped-off section of the front garden. “There will be no interviews given tonight. A statement will be provided later for voiceovers. We expect blanket coverage,” she said, in no mood to say it twice.
Volkov shook the Patriarch’s hand with insincere, humble reverence; a gesture he had practised to perfection. Anastasia, satisfied the press had sufficient material, nodded to the President and the two leaders moved inside.
“Your Holiness, the matter I wish to speak to you about is confidential. May I suggest we discuss it in private first,” Volkov said softly, as they walked from the entrance hall towards the formal meeting room.
“As you wish,” the Patriarch said, without a hint of curiosity.
Volkov turned to his following entourage and instructed them to wait.
“This way,” the Patriarch said, guiding Volkov along the southern hallway towards the door leading to his sitting room.
The room was symmetrical, but cosy. On the right, two rich red and brown fabric armchairs faced a lit open fireplace that crackled invitingly. A coffee table with an inlaid top and carved legs stood between them. “Please take a seat. I’ll organise tea,” the Patriarch said, ringing a small brass bell resting on the commode next to the door.
Above the mantelpiece hung an oil painting that Volkov knew well. It was The Last Judgement, painted in 1904 by Viktor Vasnetsov. He had recently signed a presidential decree transferring the masterpiece to the Patriarch’s residence from a small museum in the Vladimir Region.
“I see you received your painting,” Volkov said, flopping into the armchair in an overly familiar manner, having already dropped all pretence of devoutness.
“Yes. Thank you. It depicts Matthew 25:31-33,” the Patriarch said in a passionate tone of voice. “And when the Son of Man shall come in his majesty, and all the angels with him, then shall he sit upon the seat of his majesty. And all nations shall be gathered together before him. And he shall separate them one from another, as the shepherd separateth the sheep from the goats. And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on his left.”
“We are the sheep and the Americans the goats?” Volkov said, jutting his chin forward.
“I can think of a better metaphor.”
The housekeeper, who must have been in her eighties, entered pushing a trolley of Darjeeling tea and homemade cake. She arranged the service on the coffee table then, without pouring, left the room.
The Patriarch lowered his corpulent person onto the armchair he preferred, on the right of God. He then cleared his throat as though he intended to speak, but remained silent.
The only son of an Orthodox priest, Patriarch Pyotr grew up in a small Siberian town far from big city temptations. From early childhood he had been obsessed with Armageddon and the fate of humankind. As one of the world’s foremost experts on eschatology, he was known as ‘Ta Eschata’ by fellow theologians. Considered mad by many mainstream Christians, his election to head the Russian Church was naturally viewed with great suspicion.
“You take your tea with honey,” the Patriarch said, picking up the large Gzhel porcelain teapot and pouring.
“You’re well informed, Your Holiness.”
“At least my housekeeper is. Now, what’s this delicate matter that has prompted your most unexpected visit, Mr President?”
“The newly discovered Concordat,” Volkov said, succinctly.
“I recall reading something about it this morning.”
Volkov’s gaze expressed his annoyance. “Let me check if I understand you correctly. You read the article, but found it so inconsequential that you can vaguely recall reading it?”
“More unbelievable than inconsequential.”
“How is that?” Volkov enquired.
“Well it all seems a little too convenient, does it not? How could such a divisive document exist for all these years and nobody knows about it – not even a whisper?”
Volkov handed the Patriarch a plastic sleeve containing the Concordat. “Maybe this will help to convince you.”
The Patriarch studied the document. He flicked back and forth and read some sections twice. “It’s conceivable, but is it believable?”
“Of course it’s believable,” Volkov snapped, unable to hide his frustration. “It’s the smoking gun. It shows the Catholics for what they are. If Hitler had succeeded, the state religion of Russia today would be Roman Catholicism, and you would be painting church steeples.”
“Don’t you consider it strange that after eighty years this document would miraculously appear out of nowhere?”
“Put it down to serendipity. The circumstances surrounding its discovery are easily understood. Lost during the heroic Soviet Army’s liberation of Berlin. And now, thanks be to God, found amongst a pile of old Stasi files. I don’t see anything sinister in that.”
A heavy sigh. “Serendipity! That’s one word for it, Mr President. So how did it end up with you?”
Volkov coughed and looked towards the fire. “One of our agents acquired it from an East European criminal gang.”
“With Russian accents?”
“They were only hours away from selling it to a powerful group of German anti-clerics.”
“So what do you intend to do now you’ve rescued the Concordat from the forces of evil?”
Volkov fought back a smirk. “Establish the truth.”
“Truth has never been one of the Kremlin’s strong points,” the Patriarch said.
“And humour has never been one of yours.”
There was a long silence as the Patriarch sipped his tea. “I trust the Kremlin had nothing to do with the murder of th
e Catholic bishop?”
“For a man of faith, you show little faith in your country or your President.”
“I’m sorry – I’m not sure I understood your answer, Mr President?”
Volkov huffed. “And I’m not sure I understand your lack of enthusiasm, Your Holiness. I thought we were both on the same side.”
“Are we?” the Patriarch asked.
“Yes.”
They glanced at one another for a long moment. Then the Patriarch said, “War with the Vatican is ill-advised, Mr President.”
“That’s not a bad idea – a holy war just might play in Russia’s favour.”
“Religion is not a tool of the state,” the Patriarch said firmly, now standing in front of the fireplace.
“Your Holiness, I shouldn’t have to remind you I played no small part in your election. In return I expect your trust and loyalty,” Volkov said, with a threatening glare. “As we speak, the Catholics are again expanding in Russia – undermining your authority and that of the Kremlin. The Concordat gives us the opportunity to rid ourselves of this pestilence for ever. On this we must stand united.”
The Patriarch turned towards the open fireplace and gazed pensively up at The Last Judgement. “It’s been three months since my enthronement at the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour,” he said, almost as if he was talking to himself. “As the bells rang out on that glorious day I promised God that I would turn the tide of moral decline throughout the world, before the Son of Man returns to judge mankind for a final time.”
“And God heard you,” Volkov said, leaning over and topping up his tea. “The Concordat is God’s helping hand? God has chosen you to lead Christianity back to the right path? The Catholic Church has lost its moral authority – the Concordat only serves to remind us of that. A return to Orthodoxy is needed.”
“I see your point,” the Patriarch said, his tone more collaborative.
Volkov’s brow knitted with confusion; perhaps suspicion. “Good.”
“You are right, of course, Mr President. I was testing your resolve. We would be totally within our rights to expel the Catholics from Russia. Russians are Orthodox – it is part of our culture. We don’t need a second religion confusing the faithful.”
“Perhaps Your Holiness should consider engaging other Orthodox Churches. After all, the Concordat has broader implications. Greece, Cyprus, Serbia and Bulgaria – they all should feel equally aggrieved.”
The Patriarch nodded, as if in tacit agreement.
With the Patriarch’s capitulation, Volkov’s style became less constrained. He gaudily unveiled Godhead’s ambitious plan that was concocted the night before. “Summon the Holy and Great Council of the Orthodox Church. Tell them that the Orthodox Church must strengthen its structure and fortify its base before it is devoured by Rome. That can only be achieved by uniting under one strong leader – the Patriarch of Moscow and All Russia. Why should the Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople be the ‘first among equals’? What does that mean anyway? Russia is one thousand times more powerful than any of the other autocephalous churches. For God’s sake, Istanbul is not even Christian. Your Holiness, this will be your legacy. Act now to correct this historical injustice.”
“You could well be right, Mr President, but your plan is more complicated than you realise. It will take time. May I suggest that we start with something a little more modest?”
“Like?”
The Patriarch hesitated. “Verifying the authenticity of the Concordat.”
“Of course! This is a task I would like you to lead. Politicians rarely bring credibility to such matters.”
“Yes. But the process will need to be seen as open, independent and transparent.”
“I agree,” Volkov said, pulling a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “Here’s a list of those I would like on the review board. You will note it includes clerics, historians, theologians, scientists and even a military representative.”
“As you wish, Mr President,” the Patriarch said, his expression stolid.
33
It was well past dinner time. They had been driving for two hours and still no sign of the traffic letting up.
Cathy glanced back at Rossi who had been napping. “How’s the head?”
“Needs feeding,” Rossi said, stroking his blood-matted hair. “Much further?”
“We’re almost there.”
Abruptly Rossi sat up, wishing at once he hadn’t. A savage pain shot through his head. “I almost forgot. Berlin Kripo identified the two Russians. One was the name you gave me – Rudoi. The other Yuri Kutin. Both commercial attachés assigned to the Russian Embassy.”
“Yeah, I know. We have Rudoi under protective custody.”
Rossi’s face lit up. “Finally, some good news. And Kutin?”
“Dead at the bottom of a frozen lake.”
Rossi listened full of expectation as Cathy briefed him on the meeting with Rudoi.
“Rudoi said he knew nothing about the Concordat – other than it arrived from Moscow. I’m inclined to believe him.”
“Not exactly what I was hoping to hear.”
The SUV slowed and turned left. They drove under an archway through a crumbling pre-Revolutionary building into a tarmac courtyard.
“This will be your home for the next couple of days,” Cathy said, searching inside her handbag for her mobile phone that was ringing.
Rossi gasped. “Good Lord – is it habitable?”
“Hello.” Cathy’s expression turned grave as she listened. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Rossi held his breath, waiting for Cathy to speak. The CIA mole inside the FSB has been compromised. He could think of nothing worse.
“Rudoi’s dead.”
“That’s not possible,” Lawrence protested.
“A single shot to the head as he tried to escape,” Cathy said, her tone disbelieving. “He let someone in. There was no sign of forced entry.”
“Maybe he was followed?”
Cathy shook her head. “No way, Paul. The Russians would’ve stopped him before he got anywhere near us. The intelligence we gathered is invaluable.”
“Misinformation?”
“No, I don’t think so. My guess is Rudoi’s location was leaked.”
Lawrence scoffed. “It’s for the best. It was going to be a bitch getting him out.”
Rossi grimaced at Lawrence’s pragmatism. Hopefully Cathy’s more compassionate.
“Enzo, Agent Lawrence will introduce you to your new abode. I’m needed back at the office.”
“I trust my safe house is safer than Rudoi’s.”
“As long as you don’t phone your mum,” Cathy said, handing Rossi a small black leather pouch containing a mobile phone.
“Chic.”
“What we save on accommodation we spend on phones,” Cathy said. “The pouch has a silver-infused lining. It blocks the signal being transmitted by your phone – stops bad guys tracking you.”
“Inspector General, are you armed?” Lawrence asked.
“No. My pistol’s in a locker at Berlin-Schönefeld Airport. Wanted to avoid complications on arrival.”
“I’ll arrange something for you,” Lawrence said. “It’s about to get a whole lot rougher.”
“Can you make it a big one?”
Rossi and Lawrence jumped out of the SUV and went to the door. Cathy swung the Escalade around and shot off back under the archway. As she drove east towards the centre, she couldn’t help but wonder who had leaked Rudoi’s location, and more importantly was Rossi safe.
34
When Vladimir Ilyich Lenin moved the Soviet government to Moscow from St Petersburg in 1918, he established his private residence and office in the Senate Building within the Kremlin walls. During this time the word Kremlin became a metonym for the Soviet government.
The Kremlin, located on a small hill in the centre of the city, overlooked the Moscow River. The entire perimeter of the sixty-eight-acre triangular site was fortified by an imposing 2.2 kilometre red brick wall. Strategically placed along the wall were twenty defence towers of various designs, the tallest being the Spasskaya Tower on the eastern side overlooking Red Square, under which Muscovites gather every New Year’s Eve to watch the tower’s large clock strike midnight.
North of the Spasskaya Tower was the mustard-coloured Senate Building, the working residence of the current Russian President.
It was mid-morning. Volkov was sitting at his desk in his oak-panelled office. He gazed blankly at the door through which he had just entered. Kalinin and Chernik were on their way, hungry for news.
While at first Volkov was delighted with last night’s outcome, now he was not so sure. Did Rasputin outsmart me? Why did I ever approve his appointment?
Anastasia knocked on the door and entered. “It’s ten o’clock, sir. The Prime Minister and Director Chernik have arrived. They’re on their way up.”
“Good. Let them straight in and then make sure we’re not disturbed.”
Shortly thereafter the door flung open, and Volkov’s two most trusted cohorts entered.
“How did it go?” Kalinin asked, greeting Volkov without the usual theatrics.
“The old prick was sceptical at first. But when I reminded him of his duty to the Motherland and his responsibility to the Russian Church, I had him eating out of my hand.”
“Well done,” Kalinin and Chernik said in unison, as they sat down on the two armchairs in front of Volkov’s desk.
“Mind you, I had to constantly feed him. He’s far too scholastic to come up with practical steps by himself.”
Chernik scoffed. “Scholastic – is that the same as derailed?”
Volkov stood up from behind his desk and straightened the recently hung painting of St Petersburg on the far wall.
“Had he ever heard of the Concordat?” Kalinin enquired.
“Not a whisper. In fact, he lectured me about how improbable the notion was. But I stole his thunder. I advocated that he should lead an independent team of experts to authenticate the document.”