The Concordat

by Sean Heary

  “Shut up, you moron and get the hell out of here.”

  “But my gun…”

  “Fuck your gun,” Velikano screamed, leaving them in no doubt that the conversation was over.

  Still in place on the opposite side of the arena, Oleg watched through his binoculars as security manhandled Volkov and the Patriarch back into the Presidential Box and the door slammed shut. “Something weird just happened. Try calling again.”

  Pavel redialled.

  A blinding flash and a thunderous crack. Oleg and Pavel dived behind the flimsy plastic seating as thick panels of laminated glass shot from their metal frames and twirled across the arena like giant lawnmower blades.

  Oleg rose to his knees and trained the binoculars back on Box 7. Inside was nothing – only raw human flesh plastered against the pockmarked concrete walls.

  “What have we done?” Oleg murmured, gazing down at the bloody wounded, stumbling about like zombies over the headless and limbless corpses lying at their feet. “Is this not murder?”

  Pavel showed no emotion. “Not murder, but a righteous rebirth.”

  60

  Rossi and Cathy strode purposely towards ground zero. Ahead, on the left, the Patriarch’s residence, lit up like Buckingham Palace. Opposite, on the right, the truck bomb.

  “You’ve got to wonder about people who do that for a living,” Cathy said, motioning towards the two sappers who were scrutinising the underside of the Transit van for booby traps.

  “That’s rich coming from you.”

  Rossi’s gait softened as they drew level with the van. As Cathy predicted, the sappers were too preoccupied to look over as they passed.

  “I hope you haven’t got the dates mixed up,” Cathy quipped. “We’d look silly turning up at one of the Patriarch’s posh parties dressed like this.”

  “If you believe Father Arkady, the Patriarch’s no more – finito.”

  “Until I hear bells toll the death knell, I’m going to assume he’s still alive.”

  The high wrought iron gate at the front of the yellow-walled building was locked and the guardhouse abandoned.

  Cathy grabbed the gate and shook it. The antique didn’t even rattle. “I’m not dressed for climbing.”

  Rossi poked around in the duffel bag and pulled out a crowbar. He speared it in between the lock and the gate frame. Planting a foot on a fence pale, he pulled back hard. The old brittle lock ruptured, and the gate swung open under its own weight. “After you, signora.”

  “Such a gentleman.”

  Rossi felt strangely in control as they climbed the porch steps. It was as though the worst was behind them. Or perhaps he never truly believed they would make it this far. He pressed hard on the doorbell. The building was silent at first. Then a slow tapping on the floor.

  Cathy put her ear to the grand wooden door. “Hello, is anyone there?” she called out.

  The tapping grew louder, then stopped.

  Cathy glanced up at the CCTV camera above the door. “We’re being watched,” she mouthed, motioning with her eyes.

  Rossi removed his gloves and retrieved his police EOD identification from the duffel bag. He held it up to the camera and smiled. It did the trick. The entrance hall light came on and the door opened.

  An old woman in her eighties resting on a walking stick appeared in the doorway. Despite her years, Cathy observed a sharpness in her demeanour that spelt trouble.

  “Good evening,” the housekeeper said with a puzzled look on her face.

  “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” Cathy said in a kindly voice, “but there’s a large, unstable explosive device just outside the gate.”

  The housekeeper opened the door wider. “Yes. I know.”

  “Then why are you still here?” Cathy said, gently manoeuvring the old lady back inside. “Let’s get your hat and coat.”

  “I can’t abandon the house. Security has fled.”

  “But there are police and emergency services everywhere,” Cathy said smiling. “The residence is secure.”

  “It’s the police and emergency services I’m worried about. They have a certain reputation.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The housekeeper leant forward, cupped one hand around her mouth and whispered. “They’re all light-fingered larcenists.”

  “Maybe – but you can’t stay here,” Cathy said, in a firmer tone.

  The old lady moved deeper into the house. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  With the entrance free, Rossi stepped inside and closed the door. He then helped Cathy off with her helmet and blast collar.

  The housekeeper gazed suspiciously at Rossi as Cathy reciprocated. “You’re not Russian.”

  “This is Captain Fuccinetto, ma’am. He’s part of a joint EU-Russian anti-terrorist unit,” Cathy explained.

  The housekeeper pulled a mobile phone from her pocket. Walking stick hanging from her wrist, she dialled.

  “What are you doing?” Cathy said, snatching the phone from her pale hand.

  “I have my rights,” the old woman protested, cracking the walking stick against Cathy’s ankle.

  “Hold her while I get out of this damned suit.”

  “You won’t get away with this, I’ve already called the police,” the housekeeper warned Rossi in English. “I recognised you before I even opened the door.”

  “Like my colleague told you – I’m from an EU anti-terrorist unit.”

  “Liar.”

  “That’s not nice,” Cathy said, throwing the housekeeper over her shoulder and carrying her kicking and screaming towards the back of the house.

  Rossi discarded his EOD suit then hurried down the unlit southern hallway to the second door on the right. He listened for a moment and entered. The décor confirmed it was the Patriarch’s sitting room. Rossi glanced at Father Arkady’s map. Opposite a door, through it the study. Moving across the room, his gaze was inexplicably drawn to The Last Judgement hanging over the fireplace. The ghost of Patriarch Pyotr kneeling before God flashed through his mind. Rossi pushed open the door and switched on the light.

  It was much larger than expected. The room resembled a stately library trapped inside a private chapel. The walls were deep red and the soaring ceiling covered in hand-painted images of God in His Heaven surrounded by angels and saints. Endless shelves of books ran along the windowless wall on the left. The room was divided into two functional areas with the placement end-to-end of three double-sided display cabinets. In the front half of the room – from where he had just entered – stood two cabriole sofas, separated by a large ornate rectangular coffee table. A flat screen television hung on the wall. At the far end, in front of an imposing panelled window, an oak desk and a high back leather chair. Probably the Patriarch’s working area.

  Rossi turned the map to match what was in front of him. The sketch showed the bookshelves, represented by a dotted line along the left wall, the display cabinets that divided the room and the fireplace on the right. A red X was drawn halfway along the bookshelves, marking the location of the safe. There were also two arrows pointing to the fireplace opposite. Written underneath were the words ‘key’ and ‘painting’.

  Despite its simplicity, Rossi was certain he had what he needed. He made a beeline to the point marked on the map. Running his eyes over the leather-bound tomes, he felt for a faux book panel. At first nothing seemed unusual. Then a block of English language books with the oddest titles. He pushed on Amazing Facts about Badgers and the panel popped open. Rossi’s face lit up at the sight of the small black safe.

  Now for the key. Rossi glanced over at the large portrait of St Tikhon hanging above the unlit red marble fireplace. He grabbed the library stepladder and dragged it across the room. Placing the ladder’s front legs on the hearth, he climbed up. The steps wobbled, but this would not take long. He gently pu
lled on the base of the large gilded frame and ran his fingers along its rough wooden back.

  “It’s got to be here somewhere,” Rossi murmured to himself, working his hand further up. Still no key.

  Time for finessing was over. Rossi took a deep breath and heaved the portrait off its hook. The weight of the massive wood and moulded plaster frame took him by surprise. He let out a yelp as the ladder tilted backwards. To his immense relief, he flung the painting forward onto the cluttered mantelpiece as he fell. But there the portrait stood for only a brief moment. Prostrate on his back, Rossi looked up helplessly as the portrait toppled forward onto the metre-long brass hand-support of the steps – spearing the 11th Patriarch of the Russian Church through the heart.

  The Bolsheviks would’ve loved that, Rossi thought, struggling to his feet. He cringed as he inspected the damage. Antique ceramic objects lay smashed on the floor. Then joy. In the broken base of a priceless Athenian black figure vase he spotted what he was looking for. I would have drawn a vase.

  Rossi swooped on the key and bustled to the safe. Heart pounding, he opened the door. He could hardly contain his excitement as he peered inside. Under a treasure trove of precious stones and gold coins, Rossi found his salvation.

  With trembling hands he removed the document from the plastic sleeve, then ran his fingers reverently over the cover. “Grazie a Dio!” he murmured, looking up to the heavens.

  Rossi’s moment of ecstasy was short-lived. Cathy burst into the study in a panic. “We’ve got to go. She really did call the police.”

  Startled, Rossi looked over confused, not sure what she had said.

  “I checked her mobile phone.”

  “No harm. We’re done here anyway,” Rossi said, following her into the hallway. “Where is she?”

  “Tied to a chair in the kitchen.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “With great difficulty,” she said, pointing to the scratches on her face.

  In the entrance hall, Cathy emptied the rucksack onto the round Persian rug. Changing into their civilian garb, an unwelcome interruption: the sickening chimes of the front doorbell. Gazes shot in unison to the CCTV monitor mounted on the wall next to the front door.

  “This could get messy,” Cathy whispered, eyeing two baby-faced rookies standing on the front porch.

  “Messy all right. They’re about to shit themselves,” Rossi said, his voice hardly audible over the wail of sirens that filled the neighbourhood.

  Officer Shevchenko, a pimply-faced kid with an only child look, stepped forward and rang the bell for a second time. “Police,” he shouted, rapping on the door with his baton.

  “Let’s go,” his partner, Officer Moiseev, said, turning to leave. “It’s a prank.”

  “Are you crazy? We at least need to check the perimeter.”

  “Okay, but let’s be quick about it. I’m not planning on being anywhere near the truck bomb when it goes off.”

  As the rookies headed for the east side of the residence, the noise from the kitchen grew louder.

  “Keep an eye on the debutants and I’ll quieten the old lady,” Rossi said, scurrying away.

  Cathy removed her boots and tiptoed from one doorway to the next, following the rookies’ progress around the well-lit grounds.

  By the time they reached the north-east corner, where the kitchen was located, their enthusiasm had waned. The bellowing had stopped, and the tapping of batons against the window frames had become sporadic.

  Hidden away in the darkest corner of the large open kitchen, Rossi stood anxiously behind the old lady, waiting for the rookies to pass. Suddenly a shadow appeared on one of the white lace curtains. Rossi wrapped a hand around the housekeeper’s mouth.

  Putting his head to the window, Shevchenko peered in. Although the kitchen was partly illuminated by the external landscape lighting, Rossi was sure they couldn’t be seen.

  Slowly the rookies’ voices grew fainter and merged with the noises on the street. “They’ve gone,” Rossi said, removing his hand.

  “Enzo, we have a problem,” Cathy said, rushing into the kitchen. “Listen!” The distinct sound of an external door closing.

  “Whatever happened to locking the door,” Cathy said, glancing accusingly at the old lady. “This is Moscow for God’s sake.”

  “Police,” Shevchenko called out. “Anyone home?”

  “Stay here and keep her quiet,” Cathy said, drawing her pistol, and moving stealthily out into the hallway.

  Following her lead, Rossi removed his pistol from inside his jacket and unclipped the safety. In that moment of distraction the housekeeper stretched out a thin bony leg and connected with a broom leaning against the wall. Rossi instantly recognised his mistake. But it was too late. The broom fell beyond his reach and struck the wooden floor like a drum.

  At the other end of the residence, Shevchenko held up his hand. The laundry fell silent just in time to hear the sound reverberating down the northern hallway.

  “There’s someone here,” Shevchenko whispered, unclipping his pistol.

  “I heard nothing,” Moiseev said in a cowardly tone.

  Shevchenko shone his torch down the long, dark passage. “It came from there.”

  Moiseev took a step backwards towards the external door. “Let’s call it in.”

  Shevchenko moved dauntlessly towards the noise. The rug-covered wooden floor creaked and moaned with every step he took.

  In the kitchen, the housekeeper continued to struggle, even as Rossi held her high in the air. Her shifting weight in the wooden chair gave off a sound no louder than the squeaking of a mouse. But it was enough to keep Shevchenko moving in the right direction.

  Cathy took advantage of his slow, hesitant pace. Timing her every step with his, she retreated into the dining room.

  “Moiseev, get your lily-livered arse down here,” Shevchenko said in a breathy whisper, realising his partner was still cowering in the laundry.

  “I’m telling you, there’s no one here,” Moiseev called out, refusing to budge.

  “Move it or I’ll report you to the captain.”

  “You can’t report me for being right. And if I’m wrong, you can’t report me either – because you’ll be dead,” Moiseev said.

  “Then piss off home to Mummy. I’ll do this myself.” Shevchenko continued alone towards the kitchen.

  In the dining room, Cathy froze; listening. Someone had moved behind her. She swung around. Her eyes, already adjusted to the light, scanned the room. There it is again. She trained her pistol at the heavy velvet curtains that were swaying. The sight of a huge Russian Blue sauntering towards her with its tail high in the air brought a smile to her face. And an idea.

  Shevchenko stopped short of the kitchen door and listened. Silence. With pistol raised and torch held high, he pushed open the ajar door with the tip of his soggy boot. Holding his breath, he stepped into the darkness and ran the torch beam from one side of the kitchen to the other. Face coloured, he exhaled with relief. The kitchen was empty. And there was absolutely nowhere to hide.

  “I told you there’s no one here,” Moiseev said, reaching in and switching on the light.

  “Thanks for the back-up, you gutless turd,” Shevchenko said, lighting up a cigarette to calm his nerves.

  “I’m here aren’t I?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “That’s what you heard,” Moiseev said, pointing to the broom lying on the floor.

  “And it fell by itself?”

  In the adjoining room Cathy took her cue, shoving the Russian Blue out into the hallway and steering it towards the light in the kitchen.

  “Ghosts – it’s an old house,” Moiseev said, as the cat wandered in unnoticed.

  Shevchenko moved to the window over the sink and stared pensively out into the snow-covered garden. “Something’s
not right,” he said, dragging hard on his cigarette.

  “You’re not really going to report me, are you?”

  “There’s that noise again,” Shevchenko said, swinging around.

  This time Moiseev heard it too. He moved over and lifted the tablecloth. “There’s your culprit,” Moiseev said, crouching down and stroking the Russian Blue, who had its nose buried in a bowl of cat biscuits.

  “Let’s go,” Shevchenko grumbled.

  As soon as the laundry door clicked closed, Cathy rushed into the kitchen bursting with nervous curiosity. She gazed dumbfounded at the spot where she had last seen Rossi, but he wasn’t there. “He’ll turn up,” she said with a smile, scurrying off to check that the rookies had left the premises.

  By the time Cathy returned with their getaway gear, Rossi had reappeared. He was standing next to an open window. “Damn it Enzo, how did you do that – and where’s the housekeeper?”

  The mystery was solved when Rossi leant out of the window and lifted the old lady back inside. “I took advantage of their rather noisy and unprofessional altercation,” he smirked.

  Cathy tossed the clothes onto the table. “Let’s get out of here before someone else turns up.”

  “Christ, is she okay? She looks dead.”

  Cathy crouched down and removed her gag, then gently slapped her pale cheeks.

  “It takes more than a little fresh air to do me in, young lady.”

  “As soon as we’re safe, I’ll have someone contact the police about your predicament,” Cathy said in a slow, clear voice. “So remain calm until you’re rescued.”

  “I’m neither deaf nor senile, you lawless marauder,” the old lady said, spitting in Cathy’s face.

  “Now why do that?” Cathy said, spitting back.

  As they hurried through the back garden towards the rose bush lattice that covered the three-metre-high perimeter wall, Cathy called Brodzinski. “We’re on our way.”

  Rossi, nimble for his size, scaled the wall first. “Give me your hand,” he said, reaching down from the top.