“Come along.” Father Philemon took her by the arm and walked her across the nave, or the main part of the Cathedral. The correct word somehow popped up from the recesses of her memory, making Stacie appreciate her Architecture course and the church layout terminology it had included.
The entire nave was empty, the lack of pews rendering the area even more spacious. From silver-framed icons, haloed faces peered at her with mercy. To her right, she glimpsed the tomb of St. John of Shanghai and San Francisco.
Emerging from behind the iconostasis, a man stepped out onto the elevated ambo, a semicircular platform from which the priest delivers a sermon.
Of average height, the man wore a drab gray business suit and tie. He had a lantern-jawed face, short ginger hair and a Van Dyke beard.
“Father Mark!” called Philemon, approaching the man. “I’d like to introduce you to Stacie Rose.”
“Father Mark?” she echoed. “You’re a priest?”
“I am, indeed,” the man replied. “Don’t mind my civilian attire. I don’t usually sport a cassock when I’m away from my parish. I’m a long way out from Hong Kong at Father Philemon’s request, although I’m not here to conduct a service.”
“Oh, I see,” said Stacie.
“Now that you’ve cleared up the confusion, Father Mark, it’s time to show Anastacia the object which has brought us all here together.”
“It’s hidden in the Sanctuary, exactly where you left it.”
Father Philemon turned to Stacie. “Excuse me for a moment, but women aren’t allowed anywhere near the altar. I’ll be back shortly.”
He proceeded through the Royal Gates and disappeared behind a curtain into the Sanctuary.
Stacie stayed behind with Father Mark. The spellbinding effect which the opulent décor had on her was yet to wear off, so it was the businesslike priest who broke the silence.
“I trust that Father Philemon has already acquainted you with the Oltersdorf Estate.”
“He has, but I think I have more questions than answers right now.”
“That was to be expected. You’ll gain confidence once you’ve traveled to Hong Kong and familiarized yourself with the entire—”
“You want me to travel to Hong Kong?”
“Of course. You need some first-hand information in order to operate the funds.”
Before Stacie could reply, Father Philemon returned, holding a leather-bound book in his hands. He proffered it to Stacie. She took the brown notebook with icy fingertips.
The texture of worn leather felt soft and crinkly to the touch. In shape and size, it was not at all dissimilar to the Moleskine notebooks of the early 20th century, favored by the likes of Picasso and Matisse. Instead of an elastic band, however, the pages were held closed by a length of string sealed with hot wax.
She examined the seal. The insignia imprinted in the red wax matched the emblem on her pendant; a winged shield, adorned by a fleur-de-lis in the middle and a medieval knight helmet above it. The Oltersdorf crest.
“Have you seen a similar notebook before?” asked Father Philemon.
“No, never.”
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“Would you like to open it?”
“Yes, but … I’d break the seal.”
“It has stayed intact all these years just for you. The notebook is rightfully yours, Anastacia. By all means, do it. Your aunt wanted you to uncover its contents.”
With great care, she pried open the sealing wax, her fingers trembling slightly. She didn’t want to pulverize it. A piece broke off. She removed the seal and the piece of string, and placed both tenderly in her purse.
Holding her breath, she opened the thick cover and flipped the first couple of pages. Her great-great-grandfather’s beautiful handwriting flowed across the yellowed paper. Strong yet elegant strokes of Cyrillic script. Stacie’s heart sank.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured.
The problem wasn’t that she’d forgotten written Russian. She could read the language and comprehend it proficiently. Yet the neatly-jotted words were not written in Russian at all. In fact, the text did not seem to be written in any language she recognized. It was …
“Gibberish,” she said, crushed by disappointment. “Is it Old Russian? Church Slavonic?”
She showed them the pages.
“It’s definitely neither Church Slavonic nor Ancient Russian,” said Father Philemon, shaking his head.
“But it’s Russian all the same,” said Father Mark. “Only it’s written in code.”
“Code?” Stacie repeated, her curiosity piqued.
“Some sort of cipher, definitely. Russian czars and noblemen sometimes used to write letters in such fashion.”
“Do you know which cipher this is?”
“No. At least, not yet. I’m sure we’ll learn the meaning from Peter Oltersdorf’s papers, his personal archive stored in Hong Kong.”
She looked up from the notebook at the red-haired priest sharply.
“Father Mark, you’ve mentioned going there.”
“Any time, at a moment’s notice. I arrived here on a private plane which is waiting at the airport. We can fly today if you have your passport with you.”
3
After all, what harm could there be in flying to Hong Kong?
Such was Stacie’s frame of mind on her way to San Francisco International Airport. She had no business more pressing than dealing with the Oltersdorf Estate. She also hoped to find the answer to the mystery of the notebook which she held tightly in her hands.
However, why had Aunt Marie told her that Stacie possessed the key to its secret? The question nagged her.
The Mercedes reached the airport, located on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. From a design standpoint, the renovated terminals incorporated sleek, modern esthetics. Additionally functioning as a cultural gateway to the city, San Francisco International accommodated a museum, library, aquarium and live music events under its roof. She had arrived via Terminal 1 at 9 o’clock on that very same morning, after a grueling thirteen-and-a-half-hour economy-class flight. The flight to Hong Kong took fifteen hours, but Father Mark had promised it would be a much more comfortable experience.
She saw what he meant as Father Philemon parked the Mercedes in a special lot just outside the executive terminal and led her and Father Mark into the lush private lounge. In contrast to the body searches, check-in lines and long layovers of airline travel, Stacie enjoyed the VIP treatment as she sank into a cozy sofa. A receptionist called up the plane’s pilots. A few minutes later, their business jet pulled up on the tarmac, ready for boarding. Stacie followed the priests out onto the runway to the waiting aircraft. The twin-engine plane was arrow-sleek, from its oval-shaped fuselage to the winglets projecting from the tips of its wings.
“After you, Baroness Oltersdorf,” said Father Mark. Stacie’s cheeks flushed scarlet.
She climbed up the stairs, greeted by one of the two pilots.
“Welcome aboard the Gulfstream G650,” said the uniformed, clean-shaved crew member, “the finest aircraft available for your comfort. Please take any seat you fancy.”
Her choice was abundant. She proceeded into the sizable cabin where four pairs of huge chairs stood facing each other, providing ample legroom. First-class sophistication shone through every detail of the interior. Cream-colored fabric lined the main seating area. The quality of materials and craftsmanship impressed her, with custom-tailored silk carpets, glossy wooden finishes and brushed metal fittings employed throughout. As she reclined in a chair, she appreciated the suppleness of the hand-stitched leather upholstery. Father Mark occupied the opposite chair and Father Philemon took the seat behind her.
The Gulfstream taxied out on the runway and took off effortlessly. As the jet gained altitude, a splendid view of the northern Bay opened through the extra-large windows, including a glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge.
No sooner had the plane finish
ed its buttery-smooth climb than Father Mark got out of his chair and loomed over Stacie.
“I bet all that flying must be pretty tiresome. You could use some sleep right now.”
“I do feel a little exhausted,” she said, “but I’m too pumped up—”
Fiercely, without warning, Father Mark pinned her wrists down against the chair.
“What the hell are you doing?” she shouted.
“Trapping a dumb girl!” he snarled, his hold unrelenting.
She screamed in terror, twisting and kicking. A wet piece of cloth pressed to her face muffled her helpless cry as Father Philemon grabbed her throat from behind. She stopped struggling, her limbs going numb as she sucked air through the pungent-smelling rag. Her vision blurred and she could no longer hear her own suppressed whimper. The last thing her mind registered before slipping into the chloroform-induced oblivion was Father Mark ripping the golden pendant off her neck.
4
Now then, can anyone tell me who this is?”
In the dimly lit auditorium, Constantine Sokolov engaged the nineteen freshmen who attended his Russian History class. Controlling the classroom projector from his phone, Constantine brought up a photo onto the screen. It was an aged black-and-white portrait of a Soviet general in uniform. Rows of medals decorated his chest. His dark slicked-back hair revealed a low forehead and a flat, round face set in a stony expression, his thin lips taut. His hard, leery stare added to the no-nonsense appearance.
“Any ideas?” he prodded the students to participate.
Lydia, a freckled, bespectacled girl, raised her hand. “A veteran?”
“Must be a war hero!” called out a turtleneck-wearing kid named Vlad.
“Very good. You’re almost correct, but not quite. This man’s name is Vasili Blokhin, and he was a record-breaking mass murderer. As Stalin’s chief executioner, he killed up to fifty thousand people himself.”
A murmur of voices undulated in response: “No way … Wow … My God …!”
Constantine flicked the next PowerPoint slide, which displayed a shocking image. Rows of exhumed corpses lined the ground. A caption read: THE KATYN MASSACRE, 1940.
“In his most horrifying feat, Blokhin carried out the extermination of the Polish military elite. Out of the twenty thousand captive officers slaughtered in the Katyn massacre, Blokhin shot seven thousand with his own hand. The carnage went on for twenty-eight days. He and his henchmen killed the prisoners in ten-hour shifts. Blokhin murdered 250 people each night, at a rate of one man every two and a half minutes.”
Constantine swiped the screen back to the portrait photograph.
“You can see here that one of the medals he’s wearing is the Order of the Red Banner, the highest Soviet military decoration. Stalin awarded it to him in October, 1940, specifically for the Katyn massacre. Blokhin retired in 1953 after three decades of irreproachable service, as noted in the citation celebrating his career. He never answered for his crimes. He also received the Order of the Patriotic War, making him officially a veteran of the Second World War.” Constantine added sardonically, “Next time when you see a teary-eyed Soviet war survivor being thanked on Red Square, he might be a former member of an NKVD death squad.”
He switched off the projector and turned up the lighting.
“Vasili Blokhin is a vivid example of the system of total oppression set up by the Bolsheviks. As seen from the British report which I showed you last week, the civilized world knew about it from the very beginning. The Bolsheviks institutionalized evil. Modern Poland has stood up for its fallen officers, demanding answers. But what of Russia? The likes of Blokhin numbered in the thousands. How many massacres did they orchestrate against Russian officers, peasants, clergy, workers, the entire nation?” he asked rhetorically. “What I call a kakistocracy, the rule of the worst, resulted from this sort of negative selection. Perhaps even more devastating than the physical genocide of Red Terror was the moral corruption it entailed. Paranoia, deception, treachery, hypocrisy, fear, betrayal, bribery, spying, theft, envy and hatred all permeated the Soviet society from top to bottom. The long-lasting effects of such degradation are evident to this day. Almost every problem challenging us has Stalinist roots.”
He glanced at his watch. He was running out of time. Ending the lecture, he told them which chapter to read for the next class.
Constantine collected his notes and stepped outside the auditorium.
Bad news awaited him in the shape of Sarah Lvovna, Dean of the History Department. In an unfortunate turn of events, she happened to be his boss at RSHT College. A loyal apparatchik, she had hired him only because of a severe staff shortage and couldn’t wait to kick him out at the end of the semester. His qualifications could have earned him a teaching position at Moscow University. Yet due to political pressure, every institution in town had shunned him, barring the impossibly acronymed, third-rate school where he made a living as an adjunct professor. Not that the younger female contingent minded that he’d ended up at their college. Postgrad girls flocked around him, using every opportunity to flirt with the tall, fit, charming, sandy-haired teacher with brooding eyes who was still in his thirties. He enjoyed the fleeting romantic affairs, so the job carried a few bonuses. But above all, he took earnest satisfaction in educating freshmen. He was going to stick around for a while. But his time was really running out, if the dean’s glare was any indication.
In lieu of makeup, Sarah Lvovna’s face wore a perpetual scowl. She kept her rat’s nest of hair knotted in a messy bun. She was always dressed in a colorless calf-length skirt which matched a faded sweater, reeking of stale perfume. He had no clue about her age, but she looked older than Lenin and twice as scary.
“Young man, what is the meaning of this? Your conduct is outrageous!”
“How outrageous?” he inquired.
“I’ll have none of your cheek. I’ve heard of your so-called lecture, everything you said! It’s pure anti-Soviet propaganda. Our job is to foster patriotism!”
“My job is to teach history.”
Ignoring him, she said, “You’re smearing our country’s Soviet past. The greatest period when America feared us! The Russian society must stand united. Instead, you are subverting the youth, violating every educational policy and undermining national interests. Tell me, Sokolov, why do you hate Russia so much?”
“The Soviet Union isn’t Russia. It’s the antithesis of Russia. The anti-Russia.”
Sarah Lvovna’s eyes bulged furiously. “This is scandalous! You’re a traitor to your Soviet motherland!”
“I’m sorry, define Soviet?”
“What?!” The old woman gaped at him, fuming.
“You heard me. What’s the meaning of the word ‘Soviet’? A soviet was a socialist representative organ. Do you realize that the Bolsheviks named their republic after a bureaucracy? The Soviet Union had nothing to do with Russia apart from seizing her territory and resources. To quote the Russian philosopher Ivan Ilyin, Soviet patriotism is allegiance to the government and not the country, to the regime and not the people, to the party and not the homeland. Anyone claiming that the Soviet Union was a Russian national state is either a fool or a liar.”
“How dare you?” the dean shrieked. “How dare you! Sokolov, consider your contract terminated with immediate effect!”
He chuckled. “Make that by mutual consent, then. Goodbye.”
He stormed off, leaving her in his wake.
“Oh no, you’re not getting off that easy!” she shouted from the far end of the linoleum-floored corridor. “I’ll report your revisionist views to the authorities! You’ll rot in prison for anti-government activity and extremism!”
“How very Soviet of you.”
Constantine took the stairway to the ground floor, where he got the coat-check attendant to fetch his warm jacket. Putting it on, he strode out of the college building, never to return.
That was it, then: he’d become virtually unemployed again. He might have held his temper
in check, but the dean would have fired him regardless of his attitude. That old Stalinist hag hated his guts. She had been picking her chance to confront him, his academic fate already sealed. To hell with it. He didn’t worry about leaving his students like Vlad or Lydia. He’d developed their talent for critical analysis. The rest was up to them. You couldn’t teach independent thought—or smother it.
He shivered from the biting wind at a lamppost-illuminated bus stop. It was only 5 p.m., but the winter sky had already darkened to pitch black after sunset. Icy gusts billowed snow at his feet. The northern climate depressed him. He reached for the phone to call his younger brother. He had failed to get in touch with Eugene for a couple of days now. He hit speed dial once more, with growing concern.
Again, the call went straight to voicemail.
Gene, where the hell are you?
5
Eugene Sokolov had spent the last several hours locked up inside a metal cage contained within in a windowless wooden shed. The cage was no larger than a phone booth. The steel bars of the cage, linked by mesh, were invulnerable. He had been stripped to his underwear and given no food or water. The only available amenities included a bright light bulb hanging from the ceiling and a hole in the floor for his bodily functions.
The door remained closed. No guards entered to check on him. He’d yelled at the wooden walls of the shed, to no avail. Rage had turned to desperation, tedium, then numbness. In the cramped space, he couldn’t lie down, sit or even crouch. Perspiration slicked his skin. Heat and humidity built up within the confines of the narrow shed. The standing cell where he found himself imprisoned had been fashioned as a sweatbox. Incarceration itself became torture. He was suffocating from the stuffy, foul air. Energy was sapped from his body. His every muscle and joint hurt from the incessant punishment of his physical position. Instead of sleep, he drifted in and out of semi-consciousness. Disoriented, he’d lost all track of time.
Through the seemingly-infinite stupor, his sharp hearing picked up a sound. The bolt of the wooden door creaked and it swung open.
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