The Concordat

by Sean Heary

  “Then we’d better hurry.”

  The priest grabbed Rossi by the arm. “I can’t be taken alive. They have ways of making you talk.”

  Rossi half nodded, half shrugged. But said nothing.

  “You don’t understand,” Father Grigori persisted. “You must shoot me if we’re captured.”

  Rossi gave him a sideways glance and broke into an awkward smile. Sure, I’m bound to do that.

  “Promise!”

  “Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that.” Rossi stepped onto the pavement. Stealing a final look up and down the street, he hitched up his cassock ready to run.

  “Wait,” Father Grigori wheezed. “We’ll have a better chance if we split up. Besides, it’s me they’re after, not you.”

  “If we split up, how am I going to shoot you,” Rossi said, pulling him by the arm.

  “They’re behind us,” Father Grigori said, struggling for oxygen. He had stopped dead and his face had taken on a purple tinge.

  Rossi glanced back. Over the priest’s shoulder, half a dozen troopers poured onto the street. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

  “You go on alone,” he said in a squeaky whisper.

  Rossi was tempted, but he had no choice. He needed the priest, or at least the information he could provide. “Lean on me.”

  Father Grigori glanced back at the troopers, and then up at Rossi’s desperate face. “Let’s go.”

  A few metres short of the intersection, a sharp crack from a marksman’s rifle rang out. Rossi’s knees buckled, but he kept his feet.

  “This has turned into a real mess,” Father Grigori said, falling limp on Rossi’s broad shoulders.

  “You damned fool,” a voice screamed out. “We need him alive.”

  Rossi dragged Father Grigori to the corner and propped him up against the wall. He unbuttoned the top of the priest’s cassock and checked his wound. He was dying.

  “At least I got my wish. Revealing Light’s secrets will go with me to the grave.”

  Rossi wanted to scream. He didn’t know what to do or say. He needed the priest alive. Failing that, he would settle for a name. “Father Grigori,” Rossi said in a cold, desperate tone, “is there anyone else who can help me locate the Concordat?”

  Father Grigori, anaemic and barely alive, closed his eyes and prayed as blood drained from his body.

  “Stay with me,” Rossi pleaded, pulling his pistol and discharging two rounds into the air, temporarily halting the troopers’ advance.

  “Find Father Arkady, the Patriarch’s private secretary,” the priest said in a faint murmur, without opening his eyes. “Give me your gun. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

  Rossi thought it wrong to go, but the priest was dying. “Christianity will for always honour you as a martyr,” he said, placing the firearm in the priest’s open hand and closing his index finger around the trigger.

  Father Grigori groaned in pain as Rossi rolled him onto his stomach. “God be with you in your quest, Inspector General,” he said, firing indiscriminately down the street.

  Rossi took his chance and bolted towards the Escalade.

  As the SUV screamed away, a barrage of automatic gunfire reverberated between buildings. “They’re getting nothing out of him,” Rossi said, glancing back over his shoulder.

  “What the hell happened back there?” Cathy asked.

  “Poor timing, I guess. We both came looking for Father Grigori at the same time.”

  “You mean they were after him, not you?”

  “Seems that way,” Rossi said, his voice straining as he removed the cassock. “They must have staked out the cathedral.”

  “Unlucky that,” Cathy said, grinning, thrilled to have her man back alive. “So did he tell you where to find the Concordat?”

  “More or less.”

  50

  Rossi was not a big fan of the internet. In fact, he despised it. Social media addictions, sexual predators, cyberbullying, fake news, the deep web, cyberterrorism, his list went on and on. Of course he used it when he needed to, but believed far more evil came from it than good.

  Tonight not a word of complaint. Sitting on the arm of the wing chair at Cathy’s shoulder, Rossi watched in awe as she retrieved enough material on Father Arkady to write his unauthorised biography. Most of the information was sourced from the mainstream press, targeting the casual reader. Other postings had a more malevolent purpose; to discredit him and the Russian Church.

  “I think we might have something here,” Cathy said, reading an interview he’d recently done with an Ekaterinburg newspaper. “He’s a fitness fanatic. Wakes up at five. Runs endless laps around Patriarch’s Pond.” She scoffed. “The more extreme the weather the better.”

  “You hot?” Rossi asked, rising from the chair.

  A slight grin. “Always.”

  Rossi went over and opened the window. “Where’s the Patriarch this week? I assume they travel together.”

  Cathy keyed in a new search string. “We’re in luck. Tomorrow he’s celebrating mass at Christ the Saviour. Then on Saturday he’s attending the opening ceremony of the World Judo Championships.”

  “Fantastico,” Rossi said, placing the dead pot plant on the sill. “We go jogging tomorrow at five.”

  Cathy closed her laptop and went over to Rossi. “Let’s hope it turns out better than this afternoon.”

  “The whole week hasn’t been particularly special.”

  “You met me this week,” Cathy said, punching Rossi in the arm.

  “That’s true,” Rossi smiled. “Patriarch’s Pond; are you familiar with it?”

  “It’s close to the Patriarch’s working residence where, incidentally, Father Arkady lives. There’s not much to it. A rectangular pond surrounded by a path and lots of trees. At one end there’s a lovely children’s playground and at the other end a ratty-looking pavilion.

  “Where’s the best place to ambush a fitness fanatic?”

  Cathy giggled like a schoolgirl. “The pavilion.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Patriarch’s Pond figures prominently in Bulgokov’s The Master and Margarita.”

  “And?”

  “The devil appears before an atheist editor there and predicts his beheading. Minutes later he’s decapitated by a tram when leaving the park.” A short silence. “Rather ominous don’t you think?”

  “You trying to scare me?” Rossi said, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

  As they wrestled, Cathy’s gaze was drawn to the muted television. “This should be good,” she said, breaking free and turning up the volume.

  President Volkov, dressed in a judogi, was about to face off against an opponent twice his size and half his age at the final training session of the Russian national judo team.

  “You’re joking. Does anyone believe this nonsense?” Rossi said, staring at the screen.

  In a stage-managed manoeuvre reminiscent of the Three Stooges, Volkov grabbed the sleeves of his adversary and effortlessly tossed him over his shoulder. The giant lay writhing on the mat until he was helped to his feet by the apologetic President.

  “Looks like the Russian team is in trouble,” Rossi quipped.

  “That’s the cult of personality in a totalitarian state. No one wants to tell the narcissistic emperor that his crown jewels are on display.”

  “Particularly when those closest to him are paid well not to.”

  Cathy glanced at her watch. It was already past six. “Be a dear and open the red in the kitchen while I phone Lawrence. I need him to buy me something sporty for tomorrow.”

  “You mean clothes?” Rossi asked, thinking it odd.

  “Yeah. He’s got excellent taste.”

  By the time Rossi returned with the wine, and some cheese and grapes, Cathy was already sitting on th
e sofa reading.

  “Lawrence will be here in an hour,” she said, glancing up.

  “How do you think Father Arkady will react tomorrow?”

  “Pissed off… but dead keen to find out what you’re up to.”

  “So I’ll have to be forceful.”

  “Persuasive.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  An hour and a half later, the click-clicking of high heels on concrete drew Rossi’s gaze to the door. Then three slow rings.

  “That’s Lawrence,” Cathy said, not moving.

  “Shall I get it?”

  Rossi peeked through the spy hole and did a double-take. “It’s not Lawrence,” Rossi said, baffled by the strangely familiar face.

  “It’s Lawrence,” Cathy said emphatically.

  “It’s most definitely not him,” Rossi insisted, standing aside. “Who else knows we’re here?”

  Cathy put her eye to the spy hole and opened the door. A tall lady in heels stood in the doorway holding out several designer label shopping bags.

  “Come in,” Cathy said.

  “No time. Got to dash. We ladies are clubbing tonight,” the woman said, turning and leaving.

  Rossi stood aghast. “Was that Lawrence?”

  “Yes. Didn’t he look lovely? Now let’s see what he’s bought for me,” Cathy said, heading to her bedroom.

  Rossi picked up his glass and sat back down on the sofa. After a short moment he called out, “Is that considered normal behaviour in the CIA?”

  “It’s not unusual,” Cathy said, standing in the doorway wearing a pink lace bra and panties set.

  For the second time in ten minutes Rossi was awestruck. But this time he liked what he saw. “Does this mean I’ve been rehabilitated?” he said, moving towards her.

  “Stay right where you are, Inspector General,” she said, holding up her hand. “I only wanted to prove to you I always wear something pink. You doubted me back in the apple orchard.”

  “Come on, that’s not fair, Cathy.”

  “You do the crime, you do the time,” she said, turning sideways to show off her firm pear-shaped backside.

  “How can you be so cruel?”

  “It’s for your own good. It’ll make you a better man – now sit down and read your book.”

  “I don’t have a book.”

  “Then read mine,” Cathy said, closing the bedroom door.

  51

  There was an eerie stillness and all God’s creatures fell to their knees. The universe had stopped expanding and was turning back on itself – imploding in a violent ball of white and blue light. The code had been broken. Order had been made of the chaos. It was in the numbers. The end – decreed by God. Six days was all it took. Everything was back to nothingness – darkness. Judgement Day was upon the billions of souls – past and present. Screams, mirth, agony, ecstasy, sorrow, joy, terror, anticipation – they all waited to be judged. The space was dark and light; it was everything at the same time. Souls were wrenched and torn to the right or the left. Black, red, orange heat, then to ashes swirling to dust. Light, stardust, peacefulness, the Kingdom. No questions allowed. One way or the other, and sometimes back to the end – purgatory for you. But there can be no purgatory now. It all depends on the worth of your soul, and the worth of your soul depended on you.

  Father Arkady’s alarm clock rang. He reached for his diary next to his bed and recorded what he could remember. It was a dream he had had more than once. The scene was familiar, but the meaning not. The end of the world, or perhaps his own life? Today was not the time; he had other things on his mind.

  Father Arkady made his way to the bathroom at the end of the hallway. He shaved his face and combed his straight brown hair before returning to his small modest room and layering up in black for his run.

  Descending the stairs without his usual spring, he donned his beanie and gloves, his mood still sombre from yesterday’s news of Father Grigori’s violent death.

  He greeted the guards as he passed through the gate onto the deserted street. The sky was clear and the overnight snow lay fresh on the ground. The run will clear my head, he thought, setting off east towards the pond.

  Ahead, in front of a construction site, the pavement was barricaded off. As Father Arkady attentively crossed the road, Cathy stepped out unnoticed from an alleyway fifty metres in front of him.

  Dressed in pink polka dot thermal tights and a grey jacket, Cathy looked every bit the college athlete she once was. As she glided along she could hear the priest’s footsteps drawing closer with every stride. With a squeal, she threw herself forward onto the pavement.

  Father Arkady glanced up, concerned. “Are you all right?” he called out, as he approached.

  Cathy sat up grimacing, holding her ankle.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked again, crouching down next to her.

  Cathy glanced about, checking they were alone. “I think I’ve torn my peroneal tendon.”

  “Can I call someone for you?”

  “There’s no need, Father Arkady,” Cathy said reassuringly.

  “I’m sorry, are you from the parish?”

  “The Vatican,” Cathy declared, having already decided that those two words would suffice.

  The Good Samaritan did a double-take, realising Cathy was a foreigner. “How did you get my name?”

  “From Father Grigori, as he lay dying in the street.” Cathy paused, expecting to be interrupted. Silence, so she continued. “Inspector General Rossi of the Vatican Police is waiting for you inside Patriarch’s Pond, behind the stone wall to the right of the pavilion.”

  Father Arkady’s hazel eyes were fierce and appraising, but his voice calm. “You’re putting everything at risk.”

  “Not if you do as I say,” Cathy said, her eyes watering from the icy wind.

  “This town has ears,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Little goes unnoticed.”

  Cathy wanted to argue, but there seemed no point. “Inspector General Rossi is expecting you.”

  “And if I refuse?” Father Arkady said, helping Cathy to her feet.

  “Would you prefer we visit you at Chisty Pereulok?”

  Patriarch’s Pond was bleak and foreboding. A ribbon of yellow light from the cast-iron street lamps lit the crushed-stone path that encircled the frozen pond. Father Arkady stood momentarily at the western entrance and glanced about. Even with the early hour, he was not alone. Two middle-aged women greeted him as they walked past with their dogs. To his left, an old man shuffled along in a race against death. And on the far side of the pond a group of five young athletes, all regulars, moved at a brisk pace. Nothing unusual. He made a sign of the cross and set off.

  In front of the pavilion, Father Arkady slowed, but kept running. It took another fifteen minutes before the priest persuaded himself that he had no choice. He needed to know what Father Grigori had disclosed to Rossi, and whether Revealing Light’s sacred mission had been compromised.

  He glanced about as he approached the pavilion. The group of five had just passed. And the ladies with the dogs were down the far end. “Not again,” Father Arkady cried out, skipping a step, then hobbling to the stone wall.

  “Father Arkady?” came a shivering voice from the other side.

  The priest stepped closer and rested both hands high on the wall. “What do you want?” he asked in an angry whisper.

  “Volkov’s Concordat.”

  “Who killed Father Grigori?” Father Arkady demanded, putting his weight on his pseudo-cramped leg and bending his knee forward.

  “Enemies of Christianity.”

  “How do I know it wasn’t you?”

  “Because Father Grigori entrusted me with your name. Besides, do you really think a representative of the Vatican is capable of such evil?”

  He scoffed.

 
; Ask a silly question. “I plan to recover the Concordat with or without your help. By cooperating you reduce the risk I unwittingly draw attention to your mission.”

  A long silence. “Don’t misunderstand me, Inspector General,” he said, testing his calf. “I know the Concordat is forged, and it is my intention to help you prove it. It’s not in Christianity’s interest we appear divided. The truth is the Patriarch and his inner circle do not represent the values and beliefs of the Russian Orthodox Church. They are parasites attached to a healthy host. Revealing Light has worked for three hundred years to cleanse the Church of this unholy spirit. And now we are within hours of eradicating those who stand between the Russian Church and God. That’s why I sent Father Grigori to speak to Archbishop Esposito.”

  “He requested patience, but his message was too vague. When waging war with Volkov, long delays are not advisable. How much time do you need?”

  “Until tomorrow.”

  “One day I can wait, provided you tell me where I can find the Concordat. Father Grigori said you would know.”

  “If I tell you, you must agree not to act on the information before eight o’clock tomorrow night.”

  “You have my word.”

  “I pray it’s enough,” Father Arkady said, pausing. “The Concordat is kept at the Patriarch’s Chisty Pereulok working residence – where I live. It was given to him by President Volkov, no doubt to draw him further into this treachery.”

  Elation swept through Rossi’s veins, leaving him lost for words. Something that had seemed so far away was suddenly within his grasp.

  “But be warned – you will need to recover it on your own. I cannot risk being caught helping you. Before the ruling elite are finally defeated, they will retaliate – with or without Volkov. If there is any doubt about my loyalty, I will lose my influence, and with it access to privileged information.”

  Rossi could only guess what the priest had hinted at, but this was not the time or place for questions. “I need a detailed sketch of the residence, pinpointing the precise location of the Concordat.”

  “I warn you it won’t be easy. In fact it is impossible. There is only one way in and that’s through the front gate. It’s manned around the clock by two armed policemen, supported by CCTV cameras that monitor the street and the grounds. There are no cameras inside, but FSB audio surveillance is likely in some rooms. We keep sweeping them and they keep replacing them. I’m not too sure on the current score. Wait, someone is coming.” The two ladies with the dog approached and then passed.