by Sean Heary
Cathy opened the stateroom door and entered. She stood listening to Rossi sing in the shower. Something in Italian. Bocelli, she thought. Through the partly opened en-suite door she saw a disposable razor lying on the vanity unit and imagined his soft skin against hers.
She undressed, tossing her dirty clothes on top of his. In the full-length mirror she gazed at her perfect body, wondering how Rossi would react. He couldn’t help but want me, she thought, placing her hands over her warm, heavy breasts and running them sensually down to her thighs.
For the first time in many years Cathy felt nervous. She pushed open the door and stood in silence, watching the shampoo foam run down Rossi’s back and flow over his buttocks. Her breathing grew deeper and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest.
“Cathy, is that you?” Rossi said, frantically wiping the shampoo from his eyes. He turned towards the sound and instinctively dropped his hands over his genitals.
“Yes,” Cathy said, searching for just the right words.
“You’re naked.”
“Nice of you to notice.”
“What are you doing here?”
She frowned. “What sort of question is that?”
“Sorry,” Rossi said, sliding open the shower door.
“Would you like me to leave?”
“Why would I?”
“Well you don’t seem too pleased to see me.”
“Do you think so?” Rossi said removing his hands.
“I take that back,” Cathy said, staring.
“You’d better get in then, before we run out of water.”
“You sure there’s enough room?” Still staring.
***
Forty-five minutes later, the flight attendant knocked softly on the locked stateroom door. “Inspector General, we are ready for departure.”
Rossi opened the door. “Give us a minute.”
“I see you found something in your size,” the flight attendant said, casting an admiring eye over him. “If I may be so bold – black’s your colour.”
“Yes it is,” Cathy said, stepping between them; irked by the intruder’s forwardness and Rossi’s naivety.
“Very stylish,” the stewardess said, now admiring Cathy. “Hugo Boss, if I’m not mistaken.”
“It was the only thing in my size,” Cathy answered, in a more amicable tone. “I feel a little like a secretary.”
“Not at all,” the flight attendant said.
Cathy unfastened one more button of her black blouse and straightened her grey pencil skirt over her pear-shaped backside. A damned sexy secretary.
“Smutty hussy,” the flight attendant mumbled to herself as she headed back towards the lounge.
“Wrinkly bitch,” Cathy said, slipping on a pair of high heel shoes.
Rossi, oblivious to the cat fight, grabbed the Concordat from amongst the dirty clothes and waved it in the air. “Ironic, isn’t it? After all the trouble we’ve gone to, we haven’t even opened it.”
“That’s because in your possession the document is only ink on paper,” Cathy said, following him to the door.
Rossi stopped and took Cathy in his arms. Looking deep into her eyes he said in a soft, wistful voice. “Thank you for everything.”
“For what?” Cathy yearned to hear more.
“For everything you’ve done – but above all, for your love – I love you, Cathy.”
Tears welled up in Cathy’s eyes as Rossi held her tight. She wished the moment would last for ever. “I love you too, Enzo,” she whispered, tears now unashamedly running down her flushed cheeks.
As they walked dreamily back to the lounge, Cathy spotted a familiar face sitting in front of an upturned champagne bottle.
“Chief,” she called out, feeling the weight of responsibility lift from her shoulders. “You’re the last person I expected to see on this flight.”
Chief James sprung to his feet and gave Cathy a heartfelt hug. “We thought we’d lost you.”
“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” she said, turning to Rossi. “Enzo, this is the infamous Moscow bureau chief – William James. Chief, let me introduce you to Inspector General Lorenzo Rossi of the Vatican Police.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Inspector General,” the chief said, holding out his fat hand. “I trust you’ve been taking good care of my Cathy.”
“The truth be known, she’s been taking good care of me,” Rossi said with a genial smile.
71
By the time the jet levelled off, the chief had finished explaining the reason behind his surprise visit.
“Can I offer you some breakfast?” the stewardess asked, reappearing from the front of the aircraft wearing an apron. “Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to organise one of our gourmet chefs for the flight. But we have a fully stocked kitchen and I would be only too happy to prepare something for you.”
“Sure,” the chief said, unbuckling his seat belt. “We’ll take it in the boardroom.”
“Is this how the CIA normally flies?” Rossi quipped, following the chief to the adjoining room.
“I wish,” the chief said, with a breathy laugh. “It’s the property of a very nervous oil trader. He’s hedging his bets on what will happen next.”
“The mega-rich are a pragmatic lot,” Cathy said. “No matter what crisis befalls the planet, they somehow end up better off.”
“Mind you, the crew’s ours. And the TSCM boys have swept the interior from nose to tail just in case. So we can speak freely.”
“Good decision,” Cathy said, shooting Rossi a nervous glance; motioning with her eyes towards the stateroom. “We wouldn’t want anybody listening in, would we?”
A weary smile crept over the chief’s face as he sat down at the head of the eight-seat conference table. Cathy sat on the chief’s right; Rossi on his left – opposite Cathy.
The flight attendant, who had followed them in, suggested a buffet of Russian pancakes, smoked salmon, Beluga caviar, fresh fruits, assorted cheeses and coffee.
“Perfect,” Cathy said, trying to hurry her along.
The moment the door closed, the chief cleared his throat and began, “Well now, Cathy, I trust you have a good handle on what happened?”
Cathy stayed silent, assuming the question rhetorical.
“Please tell me you had nothing to do with Volkov’s assassination. Because if you did, we’re talking World War III and nuclear Armageddon,” the chief said in a soft, uncertain voice as if he feared the answer.
Cathy took a deep breath and chose her words. “There were crossed paths and common characters within several related and unrelated plots, but it’s true to say we weren’t directly involved.”
The chief shot Cathy a disapproving look. “Was that a no, or a yes?”
“Chief, I don’t know where to begin.”
The chief removed a notebook and pen from his briefcase. “From the beginning.”
“Then it is best if Inspector General Rossi starts as it all began in Berlin long before the Agency got involved.”
Rossi’s demeanour stiffened as he explained how he had been entrusted by Cardinal Capelli to acquire the Concordat. “It was discovered by a young German man in his deceased father’s apartment in Berlin. Although it was a counterfeit, Cardinal Capelli thought it best to pay the ransom. It was the only way of ensuring the document didn’t fall into the hands of the Church’s enemies.
“Such as Volkov’s Russia,” the chief said.
Rossi’s expression grew grim as he described the bloody scene that confronted him in the presbytery of the Bonner Münster Basilica. And his subsequent encounter with Bishop Muellenbach’s killer in Paris.
“It was through Oksana Koroleva that I established the Moscow connection,” Rossi said, pausing as a knock came at the door.
The flight attenda
nt entered pushing the breakfast trolley. She quickly set the table and poured the coffee. “If there’s anything else you require please press the call button.”
“We most certainly will,” Cathy said, in a haughty tone.
As they filled their plates, Rossi resumed. “With Rudoi’s defection, we confirmed most of what we had already deduced.”
“But Rudoi didn’t know whether the Concordat was forged,” Cathy added for clarity.
“He didn’t have to,” Rossi insisted. “The Vatican would never enter into such an agreement. So we knew from the beginning the document was a fake.”
The chief rolled his eyes. “Inspector General, unfortunately or otherwise, faith-based answers don’t cut it in Washington any more.”
“Well, maybe in Alabama,” Cathy joked, in a bid to avert a show of primate chest-beating.
“That’s because America has lost its spirituality,” Rossi fired back. “Run by the rich for the benefit of the few. Godless capitalism taken to its evil extreme. I’m sure it’s not what your founding fathers had in mind?”
“I see, you’re now an expert on…”
“It was a reasonable assumption to make,” Cathy said, speaking over the chief until he relented. “So we went hunting for the counterfeiter. And we got lucky early. Our man inside the FSB supplied the name of a person of interest. David Krotsky. We snatched him off the street. And under interrogation he acknowledged that he was the forger. Well, to be more precise, he didn’t deny it.”
“Initially he refused to cooperate,” Rossi added.
The chief huffed. “What did you expect? A marriage proposal?”
Rossi glanced at Cathy wondering whether the chief was always this disagreeable. Her face gave nothing away.
“Then, the morning after Volkov announced the expulsion of the Catholic Church from Russia, we followed Krotsky onto the Moscow Metro,” Cathy said with satisfaction. “We wanted one final crack at him before the noose tightened around his neck.”
Rossi poured himself another coffee, then topped up Cathy’s cup when she pushed it towards him.
“From what Lawrence told me, it could have gone better.”
Cathy laughed. “From an execution point of view, a complete disaster. But the outcome exceeded expectations. Krotsky informed us he had deliberately used paper not available until the 1970s.”
“But to prove it to the world, you needed the original?”
“Correct. That’s where Revealing Light came in. One of their members paid a visit to Archbishop Esposito.”
“Remind me again who they are.”
“A secret society of Russian Orthodox priests.” Cathy hesitated, as if wondering what the chief was playing at. “Established during the time of Peter the Great to liberate the Church from state control.”
“Three hundred years and nothing to show for it,” the chief scoffed. “Hell of a record.”
“Until now,” Rossi said softly, as if speaking to himself.
The chief turned his head towards Cathy and rolled his eyes. “A goddamned leap of faith.”
At that moment it occurred to Rossi that the source of the chief’s unpleasantness was good old-fashioned jealousy. Or perhaps fatherly concern for his daughter’s welfare. Either way, it didn’t bother him. The chief was no match.
“What was the purpose of his surreptitious visit?”
Rossi trailed his fingers through his hair. Now short and functional. “To petition the Pope to delay his response to Volkov’s provocation.”
“The reason for the request wasn’t made clear,” Cathy said, glancing at Rossi for support. “Other than some cryptic gibberish that made no sense.”
“And this mysterious priest was Father Grigori – murdered by the OMON in Kitay Gorod?”
Cathy’s expression turned sombre at the mention of the priest’s name.
“He pointed us towards Father Arkady – the Patriarch’s private secretary – who supplied us with the map of the Patriarch’s residence.”
“That’s another thing I don’t understand. Why on earth did Father Arkady cooperate? Secret societies aren’t known for their openness.”
“He was terrified we might jeopardise Revealing Light’s mission,” Rossi said.
“How could you, if you didn’t know what the mission was?”
“It didn’t seem to matter,” Rossi shrugged. “As long as we swore up and down to stay away from Chisty Perevlok until eight on the night of the massacre, he was happy.”
The chief threw Cathy an accusing glance. “Why didn’t you connect the dots? You knew Volkov and the Patriarch would be together at Olympisky about that time.”
“Chief, we had no way of knowing what was planned.”
“Then why the leap of logic? Other than a request to defer the Vatican’s response and a time embargo on your little burglary – nothing links Revealing Light to the incident?”
Rossi, deaf to the blame game being played, recited Father Grigori’s words to Archbishop Esposito. “We will clear the way – expose the endemic corruption and profligacy that runs through the upper echelons of the Russian Church. We will sacrifice the charlatan who wears the white koukoulion.”
“What!” the chief barked, glaring at Cathy. “Did you know about this?”
Cathy bit her tongue, knowing Lawrence had informed the chief of the threat. “Yes, but at the time it had no meaning. I interpreted it as histrionics.”
“Well it wasn’t, was it?”
“Chief, we don’t know who’s responsible. Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Cathy said, defensively.
“Quel ch’è fatto, è fatto,” Rossi said, trying to defuse the situation. “What’s done is done,” he repeated in English.
“I’m sorry, Cathy,” the chief said, softening his tone. “You’re right. I’m just tired and grumpy. Maybe I’m getting too old for all this.”
“We’re all tired, Chief.”
“Either way, we’d better get on top of this quickly. It happened right under our noses. And on my watch. Careers are on the line.”
Cathy let out a soft grunt of frustration. “Maybe someone’s already claimed responsibility. I can check with the captain.”
“Fine, but let’s not over-science things,” Rossi said. “All evidence points to Revealing Light.”
The chief was standing behind his seat, stretching his legs. “Inspector General, you keep assuming the Patriarch was the target. But I doubt very much he was. It’s inconceivable to think Volkov was nothing more than collateral damage.”
“If it was Revealing Light, then they were all targets,” Cathy said. “We know the death of Patriarch Pyotr wouldn’t have brought the Church independence. The Kremlin would’ve simply replaced the Patriarch and carried on.”
“But it’s a real stretch of the imagination to believe that a couple of men in frocks pulled off the greatest act of political treason since Brutus and his cohorts assassinated Julius Caesar.”
“It only takes an opportunity, and the means to execute,” Rossi persisted.
“They didn’t have the means to execute. That’s the point. From what I’ve seen, it was a professional job. High explosives planted under the floor of the Presidential Box and remotely detonated. How many priests do you know capable of pulling off something like that?”
“Is it possible they had outside help?” Rossi asked, half-heartedly.
“Big risk to involve anyone not ideologically aligned; especially for a mission that must have been months, if not years, in the making.”
“The Gatekeepers,” Cathy suggested.
The chief took a deep breath and exhaled. “Don’t know about you, but I need a strong drink.”
“It’s late evening in Washington,” Cathy quipped, already moving towards the well-stocked bar. She poured a double bourbon for the chief and a Laphroaig for Ross
i and herself.
“The two of you are damned lucky to be alive,” the chief said, taking his drink.
Cathy raised her glass. “To our good fortune.”
“And the grace of God,” Rossi added.
The chief checked his watch. “Shall we continue?”
Cathy and Rossi sat patiently while the chief flipped through the last few pages of his notes.
“The Gatekeepers. That’s an interesting idea. But how feasible is it?”
“Revealing Light rids itself of Patriarch Pyotr and the Gatekeepers take back control of the Presidency,” Rossi said.
The chief shook his head. “The Gatekeepers would never surrender control of the Russian Orthodox Church. Besides, from what we’ve been able to determine, a number of the Gatekeepers were amongst the dead.”
72
“Another drink, gentlemen?” Cathy asked. The chief and Rossi nodded. But before she rose, a short rap on the door. A serious-looking man in uniform entered.
“Good evening. I’m First Lieutenant Phillips, the co-pilot for your flight to Rome,” he said in an official tone, shaking each of their hands. “I’m afraid I have troubling news. Two fighter jets from a Russian aircraft carrier anchored off the Syrian coast are approaching from the south.”
The chief sprung from his seat and opened the window blinds. “Have they made contact?”
“Affirmative. They have requested that we switch off our transponder and divert the aircraft to Belbek.”
“The Russian military airfield in the Crimea,” Cathy said, staring at the co-pilot in utter disbelief. “What’s been our response?”
“Three US fighter jets have been scrambled from the Incirlik Air Base in Turkey to intercept. US ground command has requested we maintain course over the Black Sea.”
The chief squinted into the morning sun, scanning the horizon for the approaching jets. “Have the Russians gone completely mad? They can’t go snatching a civilian aircraft over Turkish airspace simply because they feel aggrieved. There are rules, you know.”
“That’s what happens after bloody revolutions. The power vacuum is filled by extremists who do crazy, violent things. Don’t underestimate the scale of their stupidity,” Cathy said to the co-pilot.