by Sean Heary
“How soon can you get me the sketch?” Rossi asked, as the ladies’ voices faded.
“Tomorrow. Every Saturday morning at ten I take my niece to the playground at the opposite end of the park. I’ll drop a newspaper into one of the bins. The map will be inside.”
“You are a true Christian,” Rossi said, his voice full of emotion.
“The best time to recover the Concordat is tomorrow night at eight-thirty. The residence will be empty, as the Patriarch is blessing the athletes at the Judo Championships. Under no circumstances approach the residence before eight.”
Father Arkady tested his cramped calf muscle one more time, then jogged off towards the park’s exit.
52
Femme fatale – CIA station chief William James knew his Achilles heel. It was his inner thief. He was married once, twenty-five years ago, a marriage so short he often forgot it had ever happened. It had taken only two short weeks for his trusting bride to catch him in bed with their plain-looking neighbour. While James had loved his wife deeply, the bitter experience had taught him that his irrepressible libido was not compatible with family life. With that realisation, James adopted the lifestyle of a Don Juan, which he has maintained to this day.
“Wow! I could just lie here for ever,” Albina gushed, running a hand through the chief’s wiry faded red hair.
“I do my best,” he grinned, satisfied with his chemically enhanced performance.
Stretching over the chief’s barrel chest, Albina took a cigarette from the packet on the bedside table. “What about breakfast? We can walk down to Coffee Mania.”
The chief glanced at his wristwatch. “Sure, but not before eight. I’m expecting a call.” His eyes followed Albina as she climbed naked from the bed and sauntered to the en-suite. I hope it’s not her, he thought, ogling her soft round backside as she bent over the basin, splashing water onto her flushed face.
The sound of roaring elephants. The chief grabbed his phone and squinted to read the display. “It’s the call I’ve been expecting.”
“Don’t be long.”
“Hey buddy, what’s up?” Silence as James listened to Lawrence’s account of yesterday’s high drama at the Church of Saints Cosmas and Damian. “So where are they now? What do you mean it’s classified? Don’t give me that crap. If something goes wrong, it’s my neck on the block.”
The chief scribbled down the address and ended the call.
“The shower’s free,” Albina said, standing naked in the doorway with a towel wrapped around her head and a toothbrush protruding from her mouth.
“Albina, I’m sorry but I need to go to the office. Let’s do dinner instead.”
53
It was still early morning. Cathy sat at the breakfast table arguing with Rossi as he made coffee.
“Enzo, we need to involve the office.”
Rossi shook his head. “It needs to be kept tight.”
“You know we’ll only get one crack at this,” Cathy protested.
“We won’t even get that if the FSB get wind of the fact we know where the forgery is kept,” Rossi said. “It’ll disappear into some impenetrable vault, with a note attached: only to be opened on the death of the Catholic Church.”
“Enzo, what you’re proposing is safe but sorry. I know we’ve deliberately avoided the subject, but it’s obvious to both of us that Revealing Light plan to assassinate Patriarch Pyotr tomorrow night. Whether they fail or succeed, it will trigger a purge. The security alert level will be raised to burning-red hot, and any chance you had of recovering the Concordat will go up in smoke. So this is no time for pussyfooting around.”
Rossi smiled. “Burning-red hot. Very Spinal Tap.”
“But it’s what will happen.”
Rossi sensed that the fear of failure had clouded his judgement. After a pause, then a nod, he said, “Okay, let’s do it your way. What do you have in mind?”
“Something that requires the Patriarch’s residence and guardhouse to be evacuated.”
Rossi’s eyes lit up. “A bomb threat?”
“Rarely taken seriously in Moscow. At best they would send a couple of rookies to investigate.”
“Then what?”
Cathy shrugged. “The real thing.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Tomorrow evening we park a truck loaded with ANFO in front of the Patriarch’s residence. Then just before eight we call it in. Simple really.”
Rossi gazed at Cathy, waiting for her to burst into laughter. But she didn’t. She means it, he thought, wondering whether such an operation was routine in the shadowy world of espionage.
“Won’t we look a little suspicious, walking into the residence when everyone else is running for their lives?”
“Not if we’re dressed as explosives ordnance engineers.”
“Now why didn’t I think of that?”
“Or would you prefer to go as an Orthodox priest again? It did suit you.”
“Very funny,” Rossi said. “So where do we get a truck packed with explosives at such short notice?”
Cathy gazed at him smugly. “That’s why we need the office. I’ll contact the chief.”
54
When FSB Major Andrei Bardin, received a tip-off as to the whereabouts of Inspector General Rossi, he swore to himself that he would not repeat the mistakes of the last few days. Trying to take Rossi alive had made him the laughing stock of the division. “Deadly force,” he growled, bundling fourteen of his best agents into four armoured Mercedes-Benz G-Wagons.
As the convoy drove west through heavy traffic, the agents readied themselves for a full-out assault. For the average Muscovite, the journey from FSB headquarters in Lubyanka to Oktyabrskoye Pole would normally take forty-five minutes. Today Major Bardin and his men covered the distance in half that time.
They turned off Marshal Zhukova and headed north along Narodnogo Opolcheniya. A kilometre from the address provided, Major Bardin ordered all sirens and flashing lights off.
The G-Wagons pulled up fifty metres short of the fugitive’s last known address. The squad piled out and moved stealthily to their designated positions.
Next to the entrance, Major Bardin and his three-man entry team stood pumped, waiting for the snipers to take up positions on the rooftops of the neighbouring buildings.
“We’re good to go,” Major Bardin said, as the last sniper signalled his readiness.
Bardin pushed a random button on the intercom. No answer. He tried another.
“Boris?” a woman asked.
“Da,” Bardin answered, muffling his deep voice behind his massive hand.
The moment the magnetic door lock released, the team raised their weapons and followed the point man into the foyer. They took up positions against the entry point wall, facing the open stairway.
With the area secure, the team moved rapidly in file formation up the stairs. Major Bardin, carrying a ballistics shield, brought up the rear. Just before the snake reached the fourth-floor landing, the point man slowed the ascent and signalled to the team to tighten formation.
On his signal, the entry team moved silently onto the landing and took up positions hard against the wall next to apartment number eight. The explosive breacher attached charges to the heavy metal door and then retreated to a safe distance.
Major Bardin passed the ballistics shield forward to the point man, who held it in position to protect the men behind.
“Clear to fire,” the point man mouthed to the breacher. He counted down from three with his fingers. A violent burst of heat and gas sent the door hurling inwards. For a hostage rescue situation the charge was excessive, but Major Bardin wasn’t concerned. He’d prefer to deal with the fallout from killing the Vatican’s top cop than to have Rossi escape again.
Before the door had hit the floor, the team lobbed two stun grenades deep i
nto the room to incapacitate anybody still standing. “Go, go, go,” the point man yelled as he led the men into the smoke-filled room.
The team panned out as they entered – each covering their assigned area. The bloody, lifeless body of a half-naked woman lay on the floor in the middle of the room.
To the left was an open door to what appeared to be a child’s bedroom. Dust-covered toys were scattered on the floor. The point man held up his hand. He had heard a cupboard door close.
As the apartment fell silent, Major Bardin heard the sobbing of a small child. “We’ve been set up,” the major screamed, grabbing the ballistics shield and hurling it violently out of the shattered windows.
Down below on the street, a group of teenagers emerged from behind a skip where they had taken shelter from the falling debris. In front of them, a blue Ford SUV with dark tinted windows drove past slowly.
At the wheel a grim-faced Chief James gazed up indignantly at the ballistics shield as it fell. “Damn you, Albina.”
55
Cathy lay back on the sofa and swung her freshly pedicured feet onto Rossi’s lap. “What a day.”
“Two hours and that’s all you’ve got to show for it?” Rossi said, massaging her soft feet, as if it was something he always did.
Cathy held out her fingers. “I did my nails too.”
“I like the colour.”
“First crush pink.”
“It matches perfectly with the lingerie you unwittingly showed me yesterday.”
An alluring smile and a forward tilt of the head. “Only a romantic would notice that.”
“Or a maniac.”
“That was the other possibility.”
Rossi laid his hand on Cathy’s knee. “So tomorrow’s all set?”
“With the office. But we still need Father Arkady’s map.”
“Well, let’s pray he’s a man of his word.”
“He’s a priest for God’s sake. They’re not allowed to lie.”
“Right.”
A long silence; lost in their own thoughts. Rossi worried about losing the Concordat. Cathy worried about losing Rossi.
Cathy suddenly withdrew her feet and sat up. “Enzo. Aren’t you afraid?”
“About tomorrow?”
“What if you’re killed?” Cathy said dolefully.
“Good Lord – what brought this on?”
Cathy slid closer. “Love.”
Rossi stayed silent for a moment, not sure whether she was referring to him. “Love?”
“I hate love. It brings nothing but pain.”
“Love brings joy. Pain comes from not being loved by the person you love.”
“Damn it, Enzo. That’s not what I wanted to hear.”
Rossi smiled awkwardly. “But…”
“Shut up,” she said, slapping him on the wrist. “Say something nice.”
For Rossi, words never came easily. He always felt clumsy when it came to matters of the heart. A romantic mute. Yet as a man he loved more deeply than most.
Instead of awkward words, Rossi turned to Cathy and gazed soulfully into her beautiful honey eyes. He slid his hand under her chestnut hair and cradled the back of her neck. Cathy’s head rolled back and her mouth opened in anticipation as he pulled her towards him. His yearning lips brushed against her silky skin as he kissed her neck. The sound of her breathing excited him. He wanted to take her at that moment, but he resisted. Rossi lifted his head and allowed his lips to linger over her open mouth. Then he kissed her.
“I think I’ve stopped hating you,” Cathy said after a short while, still in Rossi’s arms.
“Did you really hate me?”
“As a man – yes. But not as a person.”
“So now you like me as a person and don’t hate me as a man?”
“Yes.”
“What precisely does that mean, because I’ve grown rather fond of you?” Rossi said with an awkward smile.
“It means if you asked me to marry you I would say no.”
“And if I invited you to my bed?”
“Also no. That privilege is reserved for love.”
“Complicated, isn’t it?” Rossi said, kissing her again.
56
The wind raced through the lime trees and across the frozen pond escaping down Ermolaevsky Pereulok towards the Garden Ring. Rossi didn’t like their chances. A blizzard was blowing; the park deserted.
“Children don’t go out in weather like this,” Rossi said, pacing about to keep warm.
Cathy glanced at her watch. It was well past the agreed time. But there was no alternative other than to wait. Without the sketch, locating the Concordat inside the Patriarch’s grand residence was unimaginable.
“He could have been lying,” Rossi said.
Cathy pursed her lips and shook her head. “Doubt it.”
“He was under extreme duress.”
“He’s not stupid. Keeping his word is the only way he can ensure we don’t gatecrash his little party.”
“Then where the hell is he?” Rossi said, glancing about – more for theatrics than purpose.
“When he woke this morning, he would have immediately realised the play day was off. So presumably he came up with another plan that fitted his regime – like dropping it off during his morning run.”
“That’s if he ran. Even priests are prone to exaggerate.”
The icy wind stung Cathy’s cheeks as she glanced about. “It’s here somewhere.”
“A rubbish bin in the playground. That’s what he said.”
Fearlessly, they scrounged through yesterday’s waste. Nothing.
“Do we keep going?” Rossi asked. “There’s got to be at least fifty bins in this park.”
Cathy thought for a moment. “Father Arkady wouldn’t have done anything conspicuous in case he was being observed.”
“Like deviating from the running track.”
“Correct. And probably there was no newspaper either. No one runs with a newspaper – do they?”
“I’ve got shit up to my armpits and you’re telling me this now.”
“It enhances your look.”
Rossi shook his head and smiled. “So where?”
Cathy stood in silence for a long moment. Then suddenly the answer popped into her head. “You idiot.”
“Me again?”
“I know where it is,” Cathy said, pausing for dramatic effect. “The stone wall. The last place he saw you.”
With renewed optimism they hurried to the pavilion at the other end of the park. Rossi glanced up nervously, scanning the rows of windows looking down at them. “Let’s pray this isn’t a set-up.”
“For someone from the Vatican, you have an unhealthy mistrust of priests.”
“That wasn’t there yesterday,” Rossi said, pointing excitedly at a cobblestone on top of the wall.
Cathy rushed over and grabbed it. Underneath, a plastic sleeve. Inside, folded into quarters, was the sketch of the Patriarch’s residence.
“O ye of little faith,” Rossi said, grinning with relief.
57
Patriarch Pyotr stepped majestically out onto the front porch of his Chisty Pereulok residence and gazed up at the heavens. The morning blizzard had passed, and the evening was calm.
Father Arkady motioned to the chauffeur to open the rear door of the white limousine. “It’s time, Your Holiness,” he said, holding the Patriarch’s black ceremonial cassock off the ground as they descended the steps.
Father Arkady removed the Patriarch’s white koukoulion and passed it to the driver while he helped His Holiness into the back. He then signalled their readiness to the security escort before climbing into the front next to the driver.
In the distance, above the hum of the traffic, the bells of Christ the Saviour struck six. The Pa
triarch was not scheduled to bless the athletes at the opening ceremony of the World Judo Championships until eight, but he had agreed with President Volkov to arrive early to discuss strategies for undermining the Patriarch of Constantinople who had come out in support of the Vatican.
“When we arrive, I will take Your Holiness directly to the Presidential Box for your meeting with the President. At seven, along with the other dignitaries, Your Holiness will watch the athletes enter the arena. At seven forty-five, Your Holiness and President Volkov will be taken down to the events area. After the blessing of the athletes, Your Holiness will be shown to the limousine and escorted to the official residence at Danilov Monastery.”
“Thank you,” the Patriarch said in a soft voice, seemingly distracted.
The luxurious Mercedes 600 Pullman was joined by three security vehicles as it pulled out of the driveway.
Moments later, a grey windowless Ford Transit cargo van entered Chisty Pereulok from a side street. It rolled to a stop opposite the Patriarch’s residence and backed into a parking space between two saloons. The driver reached back and tore down a temporary curtain, covering the bulkhead window. Now visible through the cabin were forty 25 kilogram bags of ANFO, all bearing the unmistakable orange hazard pictogram for explosives. Upon closer inspection, it was possible to see the timer-controlled firing device attached to a cartridge of nitroglycerine. Even to the untrained eye, the vehicle was recognisable as a truck bomb.
The CIA agent glanced over at the guardhouse as he locked the van. He could see the guards inside drinking tea and playing backgammon. They didn’t even turn their heads as he hurried off and vanished into the night.