by Sean Heary
“Yes, but what is it you want?” Archbishop Esposito repeated.
“Time.”
The answer took the archbishop by surprise. “Is this about the Concordat?”
“Yes,” the priest nodded. “Revealing Light wishes to resolve this evil injustice on its own. It is not in the interest of Christianity if the Concordat leads to a war of creeds. This is what the Kremlin wants.”
“But it’s not my decision to make.”
A period of silence. “This evening the President and the Patriarch will release a joint statement, announcing the immediate expulsion of the Roman Catholic Church from the territories of the Russian Federation.”
Archbishop Esposito’s frail frame straightened. “This must not be allowed to happen,” he said defiantly.
“They also plan to arrest you.”
“Arrest me?” the archbishop said, raising his voice ever so slightly. “Whatever for?”
“To be used as a bargaining chip in the event the West retaliates.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters,” the archbishop said, loosening his collar. “What do you suggest I do?”
The priest laid his hand on the archbishop’s shoulder. “Leave Russia tonight.”
“Abandon my flock?”
“Your Excellency, as a hostage you will be of no use to anyone.”
The archbishop blew out a long stressful breath and nodded as if conceding.
“Let Revealing Light clear the way,” the priest said calmly, like a father counselling a child. “We will sacrifice the charlatan who wears the white koukoulion. Those who put our Church at risk will be made accountable here on Earth, as well as in Heaven.”
“Speaking metaphorically, I assume?”
“Sometimes war needs to be waged to allow good to re-establish itself and grow.”
Archbishop Esposito frowned, but said nothing.
The priest glanced at his watch. “I must go.”
The archbishop led him back up to the narthex. “How can I contact you?”
“Only through your prayers, Your Excellency.”
“But there will be questions.”
“Please, for Christianity’s sake, convince the Vatican to hold off. Soon, with God’s help, the Russian Church will be free from the repugnant imposters that lurk within her walls. And communion between the Catholic and Orthodox Churches will be restored.”
“I’ll pray for you my son,” the archbishop called out as the stranger descended into the darkness and the heavy wooden doors closed behind him.
Monsignor Polak picked up the phone on the second ring. “Sì, Vostra Eminenza.”
Archbishop Esposito’s ears pricked up.
“Cardinal Capelli will see you now, Your Excellency,” the Monsignor said, moving to the door and opening it.
The cardinal was already standing as the archbishop entered. He moved from behind his desk and embraced his long-time friend. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I can only imagine how tired you are. I’ve been playing politics with the Americans. We are in need of their technical assistance.”
“They agreed?”
“It’s what they do,” the cardinal said with a wink.
“God knows Inspector General Rossi needs help.”
They sat down at the cardinal’s mahogany desk; Archbishop Esposito’s parched frame stooped over more than usual.
“What have you found out about Revealing Light?” the archbishop asked.
“Most of what was known has been long forgotten. I barely recollected the name when you called. My staff are still searching the Vatican archives. So far they’ve found only a handful of references.” Cardinal Capelli leant forward and handed the archbishop a few pages of typed notes.
“So it exists? That’s encouraging.”
“Well at least it did. Revealing Light was established early in the eighteenth century in response to the annexing of the Russian Church by Peter I. The most recent reference we’ve found dates back to the 1890s.” Cardinal Capelli pointed to the relevant paragraph on the second page. “The assumption was that Tsar Nicholas II’s secret police, the Okhrana, infiltrated the society’s ranks disguised as priests. Then once inside they rounded up its members and jailed or executed them. That’s the last they were heard of.”
Archbishop Esposito sat forward. “But it is possible that some of their number survived to continue the work… or maybe a new secret society was established, spiritually inspired by the original Revealing Light?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“It could even be a Kremlin ploy to entrap the Church.”
“I’ve thought of that too,” Cardinal Capelli nodded. “Either way, whether or not they exist – they’re no match for the Kremlin and its security apparatus. So waiting for Revealing Light to sort out this mess is not an option.”
“No, that would be unwise.”
“Even so, we should try to locate your mystery visitor.” The cardinal wrung his small pale hands. “Squeeze a little more information out of him.”
“That’s in hand. I’ve already arranged for the CCTV footage from inside the cathedral to be sent to the US Embassy in Moscow as requested by Commandant Waldmann. If the priest is active in the Russian Church we should be able to identify him.”
“That’s if he is a priest.”
“The way he carried himself, I sense he is.” There was an awkward silence as Archbishop Esposito chose his words. “Your Eminence, it’s possible Revealing Light intends to harm Patriarch Pyotr. Should we be concerned?”
The cardinal stared into the middle distance as though he hadn’t heard the question.
“Cardinal Capelli, should we be concerned?”
Silence.
48
The key turned in the lock. Rossi grabbed his handgun and positioned himself hard against the wall. The door flung open and rebounded off his big toe onto a large paper bag full of groceries.
“It’s me,” Cathy called out. “I’ve got brunch.”
“Whatever happened to three slow rings,” Rossi said, stepping from behind the door.
Cathy peeked over the groceries. “Get with the programme, Enzo. That was before Lawrence organised the spare key.”
Rossi shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“How do you want it?”
“Interesting question,” Rossi said, acting surprised.
“Denver, Spanish, Greek…” Cathy said, emptying the groceries onto the breakfast table.
“You know your omelettes.”
“It’s the only thing I know how to cook.” No hint that Cathy was anything but serious. “I’m an eat-out sort of girl.”
“Mediterranean?”
“Black olives, feta and spring onions?” Cathy said, setting aside the ingredients. “Can do.”
An astonished look. “You certainly came ready to play.”
“By the way, the boys identified the archbishop’s mystery visitor.”
Rossi shot Cathy a glance. “Why didn’t you say?”
“I just did.” Smirk. “His name is Father Grigori. He’s the parish priest at the Church of Saints Cosmas and Damian. You have a meeting with him this afternoon.”
“I thought he made it clear to Archbishop Esposito that he wanted no further contact.”
“He did.”
“Is he expecting me?”
Cathy laughed. “Not exactly.”
Resting his backside against the sink, Rossi skimmed through the report from Commandant Waldmann that Cathy had just handed him. “You’ve read this?”
“Sure,” Cathy said, whisking the eggs.
“Father Grigori seems to know an awful lot about what’s going on; must have friends in high places.”
“T
hat’s the Commandant’s conclusion too. So there’s a chance that someone in Revealing Light knows where the Concordat’s buried.”
“That’s cause for celebration,” Rossi said, beaming with optimism.
“Double cheese?”
49
The fifteenth-century Church of Saints Cosmas and Damian, located in the central Moscow district of Kitay Gorod, appeared strangely out of place; dwarfed on three sides by multi-storey pre-revolutionary buildings.
An Orthodox priest hurried towards the small, plain, Indian-red brick church from the south-west. On the narrow pavement, in front of the entrance, a porcine old woman wrapped in shabby rags stepped out in front of him.
“Please, kind father, a few roubles to buy medicine for my dying daughter,” she said, holding out her gloved hand. An unpleasant vodka-laden mist swelled in the frozen air as she spoke.
Unmoved, the priest sidestepped around her and entered the church. It was not a typical orthodox house of prayer. The white plastered walls and vaulted ceiling were cracked and water-stained. If not for the wooden iconostasis that covered the wall to the right of the entrance, the building could have been mistaken for an abandoned ruin.
The priest stood in the centre of the empty nave and listened. The whistle of a steam kettle could be heard from behind the iconostasis. He pushed opened the ‘beautiful gates’ and reverently entered the sanctuary. Opposite was an open door. He moved towards the sound; the floorboards creaked with every step. In a well-lit room at the end of a short, windowless passageway, the priest saw the shadow of someone moving about inside.
“Kto tam?” Father Grigori called out, spooning tea into a pot.
“My name is Inspector General Rossi of the Vatican Corpo della Gendarmeria,” Rossi said, already standing in the doorway.
Father Grigori stood stone-faced, gazing at Rossi in disbelief. “How did you find me?”
“No one knows I’m here,” Rossi said reassuringly.
“If you can find me, so can the FSB,” Father Grigori said, peeking out of the window.
Slight smirk. “I had a little help.”
“What do you want? I explained everything to the archbishop.”
“The Concordat.”
“Do not trouble yourself with the Concordat,” Father Grigori said dismissively. “When the wrath of God falls upon my Church’s leaders, all else will pale into insignificance.”
More riddles. “I’m not sure I understand you, Father Grigori, but I do need to find the Concordat – now. And I think you can help me.”
“Be patient, Inspector General.”
“That’s not possible. There is no time and there’s too much at stake.”
“Isn’t that a rather selfish view?” Father Grigori said, again checking the window. “The future of the Russian Church depends on the success of Revealing Light’s mission. Is your concern greater than our need?”
“Our battles may be different, but the war is the same. We both have the best interest of Christianity at heart.”
“But you consider the Russian Church’s cause less worthy?”
“The Vatican considers the Russian Orthodox Church an absolute equal, and her flock no less Christian,” Rossi continued. “It is the symbiotic relationship between your Church and the Kremlin that is the source of all our difficulties.”
“And that is why Revealing Light must be given time to complete its holy mission.”
“If I’m going to convince the Vatican to be patient, it would help if I had some idea what your holy mission is,” Rossi said.
“My dear Inspector General, Revealing Light has survived for over three hundred years by maintaining the utmost secrecy over all its activities and by being obscure and abstract. Disclosing details of the mission to the Vatican could only serve to compromise everything we’ve worked for.”
Half a kilometre away, Cathy sat behind the wheel of her Escalade, binoculars focused on two men who had just climbed out of a black saloon in front of the church. That doesn’t look right, she thought, feeling for her phone.
Abruptly, one of the men swung around and pointed towards her. Cathy slid low in the seat. He couldn’t have seen me, she thought, frantically dialling. The sound of a heavy vehicle approaching from behind lifted her gaze. Her heart raced as a police bus packed with OMON Special Forces passed, heading towards Rossi.
“Come on Enzo, pick up,” she pleaded.
Decked in blue urban camouflage fatigues and body armour and carrying AKS assault rifles, the troopers stealthily took up positions around the church and waited for instructions.
“Special Forces are here,” Cathy screamed into her phone the instant she heard Rossi’s voice. “You’re surrounded. Ten, maybe more. Heavily armed.”
Rossi pulled Father Grigori away from the window. “The police are here. Is there another way out?”
The priest was preparing to berate Rossi, but there seemed no point. “Grab an end.”
Together they dragged the pantry cabinet away from the wall. Concealed behind it was a one-metre-tall solid wood door.
“They’ll find us in there,” Rossi protested.
“It’s a tunnel that leads to the street.”
Rossi grabbed the torch from above the cooker. Then, on all fours, he followed the priest through the tiny door onto a small landing above a flight of stairs. He couldn’t help but think there was something very Alice in Wonderland about it.
Father Grigori slammed the door shut and pulled across the huge bolt. “That’ll keep them busy.”
They descended the stone steps to a subterranean passageway. The tunnel was damp and the air foul. Putrid brown water lay in the dips and hallows, and splashed up onto their cassocks as they ran.
“How long’s the tunnel?” Rossi asked, noticing how the beam of the torch faded into a misty nothingness.
“Not quite two hundred metres. It leads to an old church building on the next block.”
“That’s great if the door holds. If not, we’re sitting ducks.”
“It’ll hold,” Father Grigori said, wheezing.
“Are you okay?” Rossi called back.
Father Grigori had slowed to a walk. “Asthma,” the priest said, spraying a bronchodilator inhaler into his mouth.
Rossi threw Father Grigori’s arm over his shoulder. “We can’t stop.”
From behind came the sound of boots striking the tunnel door.
“How old’s the portal?” Rossi asked.
“It’s the original.”
“Let’s pray that that’s a good thing.”
Rossi shone the light into the distance. This time he could just make out the stairs. That’s got to be another hundred metres, he thought, taking more of the priest’s weight.
“I should never have gone to the cathedral,” Father Grigori said, regaining his breath.
“What are the chances they’re waiting for us at the other end?”
“The tunnel’s hundreds of years old. It’s not on any city map. They couldn’t possibly know it exists. At this moment they think we’re contained in the cellar.”
“Keep moving, we’re almost there,” Rossi said, glancing behind, wondering why the hammering had stopped. Maybe they’re searching the church.
Moments later, a bright flash of light, followed by the sound of a breaching charge blowing off the tunnel door.
“Go, go, go,” came the order from behind.
Rossi smashed the torch against the wall. Pitch black.
“I guess that’s one way of turning it off,” Father Grigori said, now moving under his own steam.
“Where’s the goddamned light?” a voice barked in the distance.
“We must be close,” Rossi said.
Father Grigori inched forward, feeling for the first step with his foot. “A torch would come in handy.”
At that moment, multiple beams of light illuminated the tunnel.
“God answers all prayers,” Rossi said.
“Sometimes too well.”
A shot rang out. Rossi felt the bullet whizz past his ear and ricochet off the stone wall. For the second time in a week, Rossi was sure he was about to die.
Then from behind, a voice rang out barely discernible above the stomping of half a dozen pairs of boots. “Don’t shoot. We need the priest alive.”
“Which one?” came a trooper’s voice.
This made Rossi think. He had assumed that they were after him. But now he wasn’t so sure. They said the priest. It’s possible they have no idea I’m here. The irony of it all, he thought, ascending the stairs.
“There’s a key hanging on the wall,” the priest said, confidently, as though he had seen it only yesterday.
Rossi fumbled as he removed it from the hook, and inserted it into the keyhole. Smiles of relief as the lock turned and the hand-forged wrought iron door swung open.
Rossi glanced about; a maze of ceiling-high metal shelving. “Which way?”
“Left,” Father Grigori said, pointing to a slither of dull winter light seeping in from under an external door.
“Someone’s here,” Rossi said in a tense whisper. Eyes scanning the darkness he reached down and pulled his pistol from his ankle holster.
They listened. Silence. Then Rossi let out a low chuckle. “Angels.” The shelves were stacked high with crumbling church statues, all gazing down upon them. An icon’s graveyard.
Rossi turned the lock and opened the external door. Anxiously he poked his head out into the daylight. The pavement was empty; traffic thin. “It’s clear,” he called back to the priest who was still securing the tunnel. A quick call to Cathy. Rendezvous point agreed. “Let’s go.”
“The tunnel’s straight as an arrow,” Father Grigori said, now at Rossi’s shoulder. “It won’t take them long to figure out where it leads.”