by Sean Heary
“Mr Krotsky,” Cathy repeated. “We need to talk.”
Krotsky stopped and rechecked his screen. He paid no attention to the windowless van approaching from behind. Well, at least not until it screeched to a halt beside him. Krotsky froze in place as the side door shot open. Sitting inside was a large man with a pistol trained at his head.
“Get in,” Rossi barked.
“What do you want?” Krotsky asked in Russian, climbing in.
“I want to talk to you about the Concordat,” Rossi said, guessing what he had asked. Rossi knew from the intelligence that Krotsky spoke five languages. English was one of them.
“I wrong man,” the bewildered polyglot protested. “I pensioner. No money.”
Rossi slammed the door and switched on the interior dome light. “Stop the pretence, Mr Krotsky. I wish you no harm. Just answer a few questions, and then you can go.”
Krotsky nodded, but said nothing.
Rossi held up three photographs in the diffused light. “Do you know these people?”
Krotsky gave a cursory glance, then shook his head. “No.”
“It’s the team responsible for surfacing the Nazi Concordat in Germany,” Rossi said, tossing the photos, one at a time, at Krotsky. “Your team.”
“I’m not an operational guy,” Krotsky said, dropping the pretence. “But what’s the point?”
“They’re all dead. Murdered by the FSB to cover the tracks leading back to you – and your evil creation.”
“Is that what you’ve come all the way from Rome to tell me? I assume you’re from the Vatican – despite your dishevelled appearance.”
“Your life is in danger. They know I’m here. And it’s easy to work out who’s on my dance card.”
“By the size of you I’m guessing you’re not clergy?”
“My name is Inspector General Rossi of the Vatican Corpo della Gendarmeria.”
“The Vatican police,” Krotsky said smirking. “Aren’t you a little out of your jurisdiction? Russia can be quite a hostile place for enemies of the state.”
“I have God and the Church on my side.”
“Let’s not play games,” Krotsky grumbled. “What do you want from me?”
“I need unequivocal proof that the Concordat is forged.”
“You want me to betray my country? You overestimate your power of persuasion,” Krotsky scoffed at the notion. “If I betray my country, I’m as good as dead anyway. What’s the difference – dying a hero or being remembered as a traitor?”
“Why should the dead worry about how they’re remembered? Isn’t it better to go with a clear conscience and at peace with God?”
“That’s all too highbrow for me, Inspector General. Let me concentrate on staying alive.”
“Then come with me. The Americans can offer you protection.”
“Where? In a foreign land. Always looking over my shoulder, eventually dying of shame. No thanks,” Krotsky rebutted angrily. “With all her faults, Russia is my Motherland. She will always be my home.”
“Russia is a great country, held back by flawed ideologies and inept leadership,” Rossi said, changing tack.
“Maybe so, but that’s no reason to turn traitor – what’s the euphemism you Westerners use? Whistle-blower, that’s right. Under any name and for whatever reason, it’s the lowest form of life.”
“I’m not asking you to be a traitor. I’m giving you an opportunity to be a revolutionist. A national hero that changes the course of history,” Rossi said, assuming a passionate tone. “Volkov is moving the world towards the burning abyss. You can help stop him.”
Krotsky sat stone-faced mulling over what Rossi had said. He didn’t know how to respond. He wished he had never been asked to create the Concordat. Dark cloudy thoughts raced through his confused mind.
“Mr Krotsky.”
“I need time to think.”
“There is no time. You’re a dead man walking – they know where to find you,” Rossi said.
“Yet I’m still alive.”
“You’re alive because it suits their purpose. Don’t be mistaken, they plan to kill you. They have too much invested in your Concordat. They know you don’t have the conviction to see it through. You’re a walking time bomb.”
“They’ve always trusted me. What makes it so different this time?”
“The stakes… the Concordat is a key plank in Volkov’s strategy to rebuild the Russian Empire. And right now you are its weakest link.”
Krotsky stared over Rossi’s shoulder, avoiding his unyielding gaze. “I’m a simple forger, a foot soldier in Volkov’s army. If it wasn’t me it would be someone else.”
“In Italy we have a saying, a chi fa male, mai mancano scuse, which means ‘he who does evil is never short of excuses’. Stop making excuses, Mr Krotsky. Don’t deceive yourself. You have a choice. You can live and help expose Volkov for what he is – the reincarnation of Stalin. Or die knowing you directly contributed to a nuclear apocalypse.”
“Haven’t you heard, Volkov is rehabilitating Stalin?” Krotsky smirked. “That makes him someone to be admired.”
“That’s the equivalent of the Germans rehabilitating Hitler. It’s unimaginable. But why am I not surprised?”
Krotsky fell silent again.
“You don’t even have the self-belief to speak poorly of Volkov, let alone take him on. Do you, Mr Krotsky?”
“I’m no revolutionist. I’m a simple artisan who provides others with the means to change history.”
“David. That’s Jewish isn’t it?” Rossi said. “Are you Jewish by faith or only by blood?”
Krotsky groaned as he massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers. “They’re inseparable and the same. Born a Jew, always a Jew. It’s a culture, a race and an ethnicity before it’s a religion – there’s no escaping it even if you wanted to. The world has always seen us as different.”
“How strong is your faith?” Rossi asked.
“My faith is strong, but so is my love for Russia,” he said, “if that’s where you’re heading.”
“What does your faith tell you about the Concordat? You must feel its destructive power. The unspeakable harm it will do rests on your shoulders.”
“In my job I see evil every day. I’m numb to it.”
“This is not everyday evil. This is your very own ‘Elders of Zion’ moment,” Rossi said, pointing his finger accusingly at Krotsky. “Remind me how many Jews have died as a result of that little Russian masterpiece. And you want to hide behind the veil of duty. You’re a disgrace.”
Another long silence before Krotsky spoke. “As I said, I need time. Now let me go.”
“I can’t hold you. But be aware, this could be your last chance to confess your secret. An assassin’s bullet awaits you.”
“What secret? What are you talking about?”
“The glitch in the Concordat.”
“You surprise me, Inspector General. Are you suggesting that I would deliberately sabotage my own work?”
“Not sabotage. Just the tiniest of flaws.”
Krotsky scoffed. “What on earth for?”
“Revenge, insurance, to be able to undo the wrong. There are many motives. I’ve read that some great forgers even do it out of vanity. Artists like to leave their mark. Or am I mistaken?”
“Spoken like a true Catholic. Full of hope and prayer. But little fact,” Krotsky said, sitting forward to leave. “Now can I go?”
Resigned that he had taken it as far as he could for now, Rossi leant forward and pulled hard on the door. Krotsky sprung out like a caged animal and scurried off down the street.
As the van took off, Rossi pulled the curtain across and slid open the glass window separating the driver’s compartment from the rear. “Well?”
“Professional job, Inspector Genera
l,” Cathy said, sounding a little surprised. “When we get back, I’m going to recommend you for our extraordinary rendition programme. Fun job, provided you have a high tolerance for sand, heat, and waterboarding.”
“It did go well, didn’t it? He didn’t even try to deny forging the Concordat.”
“Funny that,” Cathy said, tossing the prepaid mobile phone she had used to call Krotsky out onto the snow. “Just in case he panics.”
Rossi laughed. “That’s five.”
39
The study in the Patriarch’s Chisty Pereulok residence. Almost nine thirty. His Holiness lowered himself onto the cabriole sofa and fastidiously arranged the scatter cushions around his massive frame. Nervous excitement. ‘Breaking News’ flashed across the bottom of the muted television screen as the anchor crossed to the Kremlin. The Patriarch turned up the volume and flicked between channels. They were all broadcasting the same live feed of a stern-faced Russian President arriving at the podium.
Volkov glanced up at the hand-picked propagandists, and then without introduction read in a monotone from a prepared text.
The Patriarch beamed as Volkov announced the expulsion of the Catholic Church from the territory of the Russian Federation.
Listening closely, he checked for any discrepancies between what Volkov said and the text he had negotiated with Prime Minister Kalinin a few hours earlier. “It all seems to be there,” he murmured to himself.
He couldn’t help but wonder what the Pope was thinking when Volkov explained that the legal basis for his action was the newly enacted anti-terrorism law; a controversial piece of legislation that Volkov insisted was necessary for controlling hostile groups masquerading as NGOs that threaten Russia’s security. To the free world, the law was viewed as nothing more than a piece of catch-all legislation, aimed at silencing the Kremlin’s critics.
He switched off the television and stretched back on the sofa, satisfied that his current support for Volkov’s plan was what God wanted. Yesterday’s doubts were a distant memory. He had convinced himself that the end justifies the means.
For now, the Patriarch was prepared to allow Volkov to use him, and the good name of his Church. Let him do the dirty work and I will pick up the pieces afterwards.
Weary from the long day, the Patriarch lay down on the sofa and gazed up at the hand-painted images of angels and saints on the study ceiling. Slowly he drifted into a dream-like trance. The angelic panorama churned and surged about him. “Speak to me, God,” he cried out, raising his arthritic hands towards the swirling dark sky like a madman.
“Unite Christianity in readiness for Judgement Day, when the Son of Man shall come in his majesty, and all the angels with him. Only then will order be made from the chaos and you will be judged,” a deep fatherly voice beseeched him from above.
The apparition was so powerful and the voice so familiar that the Patriarch knew God had spoken to him again – there could be no other explanation.
God has been patient. Almost one thousand years has passed since the Great Schism, and Christianity is still divided, the Patriarch thought, as the vision faded into a raging sea of colour. The Patriarch squinted as the colours settled and a different image took shape. It was medieval Europe – 1054, when Christianity was torn in two by the manoeuvrings of the ambitious Patriarch of Constantinople, Michael Cerularius. A sneering smile lit up the Patriarch’s face as the irony became apparent. He recalled how leading up to the Great Schism, Patriarch Michael had provoked Pope Leo IX by criticising various traditions of the Roman Church. In a clumsy attempt to stop Patriarch Michael, the Pope had written a letter to the Patriarch based on a section of the Donation of Constantine – a forged decree of Constantine the Great that conferred privileges and property on the Pope. Through Volkov’s scheming, another forged document will be the catalyst that reunites Christianity – with me as its head.
Not for one second did the Patriarch consider his vision to be a false hallucination.
The telephone on the small gilded table next to the display cabinets that divided the long room rang. The Patriarch woke from his reverie. His body felt like lead as he picked up the receiver. “Hello,” he said, his voice soft and weak.
“Sorry to disturb you, Your Holiness, but the Vatican is on the line,” the Patriarch’s personal assistant said sobbing, having also just watched Volkov’s announcement.
“Tell the Vatican – and Archbishop Esposito for that matter when he rings – that I’m unavailable. Tell them I’m speaking with God.”
40
The safe house was always too hot. The Soviet-era radiators had no taps or thermostats. Temperature was regulated by opening and closing the old wooden windows. Or by wearing as little as modesty allowed.
“Short-arsed shit,” Cathy said, turning off the TV.
“I’m sure he’s a nice guy, once you get to know him,” Rossi said, settling in the three-seater sofa, a Laphroaig in each hand.
Cathy went over and opened a window. “Still snowing,” she said, leaning out and breaking off an icicle that had formed beneath the sill.
“At least we now know what he’s up to.”
“I doubt we do.”
Rossi shot Cathy a puzzled look. “But he just announced it to the world.”
Working her short tight dress down over her thighs, Cathy rested her backside on the armrest of the studded back wing chair opposite Rossi’s inquisitive eyes.
“Volkov didn’t need a forged document to expel your Church from Russia,” Cathy said, sure of herself. “Clearly there’s more to come.”
Rossi sat forward and handed Cathy her Scotch. “For instance?”
“I’m not sure. And nor is he.” Cathy stirred her Scotch with the icicle. “You’ve heard it said, Volkov is a great strategist.”
“Isn’t he?”
“Not by a long shot. He can’t see beyond tomorrow.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Volkov’s a suck-it-and-see sort of guy. If he gets away with something, he goes for more. So far we’ve turned a blind eye to his indiscretions because no one wants war.” Cathy took a long sip on her Scotch, then continued. “But one day soon he’ll reach a tipping point that demands a strong and decisive response. And like a stockbroker experiencing a market crash for the first time, he’ll panic and overreact. Everything will go to hell in a handcart.”
“For him or for us?”
“For the entire world.”
“Is the Concordat the tipping point?”
“Potentially – but not on its own. It depends on what comes with it. For now it’s just another disruptive step.”
“So if the West understands this, why aren’t they doing more to stop him?”
“Domestic politics, war fatigue, economics, self-interest, it’s a combination of things,” Cathy said, tugging off her boots. “I think we need to speak to Krotsky again.”
“Volkov said he had consulted with the Patriarch. Is that true?” Rossi asked, his eyes instinctively drawn to Cathy’s soft inner thighs.
“They met for sure. According to the newspaper that’s where Volkov was heading when we ran into him the other night. But I doubt there was much consulting going on.”
“Only instructions on ways to keep your job.”
Cathy rose from the armrest and stood close to Rossi, not bothering to adjust her dress. Rossi tried not to look, but he was Italian. He blew out a slow soft breath and allowed his gaze to sweep over her.
“You know this is the first time we’ve been alone since we met,” she said, taking her Scotch and knocking it back in one long gulp.
“Another?”
Cathy gazed seductively into his eyes. “No. I think it’s time we went to bed.”
“But I’m not tired,” Rossi said, instantly dismayed by his own naivety.
“I would hope not.”
Rossi emptied his glass. “We need to talk.”
Cathy was taken aback. “Not quite the response I was expecting.”
“It’s just that I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“Oh you won’t.”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Rossi said, wishing his glass was full. “I’m not without experience. After all, I’m a policeman not a priest. It’s just that— I’m not as experienced as you.”
“How quaint,” Cathy said, colouring.
“This is awkward. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I’m not quite sure how to say this without offending you,” Rossi said, dropping his gaze to her feet. “It’s just that you’re…”
Cathy stood over Rossi, hands on hips. “What?”
“Too experienced,” Rossi said, almost to himself.
Fuming, Cathy waited for the next blow.
Smiling awkwardly, Rossi continued. “I’m sorry. I like you a lot. It’s just that I need a better reason for making love to you than the physical pleasure.”
“What else is there?”
“Love,” Rossi said, gazing into her eyes.
“Love?”
“The meeting of souls. Without love it’s almost self-gratification. Promiscuity.”
“You’re judging me, aren’t you?”
“Not at all. I’m telling you how I feel.”
“I’m a promiscuous slut for suggesting that we go to bed. Is that what you’re saying?” Cathy said, tears welling up in her eyes.
Rossi said nothing.
Cathy ran into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her. Rossi stood there, then poured himself another Scotch.
41
Alone in the darkness of his kitchen, Krotsky sat staring at his empty glass. Midnight, but there was no chance of sleep. What is truth? He poured himself another drink to further lubricate his metaphysical thoughts. He was cognisant that we see the world as we want to see it. And that we create stories that support and reinforce our reality. Everyone must believe in the truth. But what truth? It cannot be absolute – for it is only an individual’s perception, coloured by their experiences and the environment that surrounds them.