“And the Moscow Patriarchate? Was there any special meaning the title was supposed to carry?”
“Stalin placed a puppet Patriarch of Moscow as the head of his fake church, sending a clear message: You have your parishes, but no religious leader. Here is your Patriarch, and he’s in Moscow. He acknowledges my rule, and so will you.”
“Instead of serving Christ, the Patriarch worshipped Stalin.”
“Like everyone else in Stalin’s church, he was a Red. From the very beginning, the Moscow Patriarchate was conceived as an arm of the secret police. Its purpose was two-fold. Firstly, to take control over the surviving vestiges of religious life. Aiding SMERSH and NKVD units who combed the recaptured Soviet territory, the Patriarchate sought out genuine priests and believers. Unawareness of the Patriarchate’s true nature condemned many to the gulags. Secondly—and this is perhaps even more treacherous—the guise of the Russian Church covered up the continued persecution of Christians in the Soviet Union for decades to come, with the oppressors themselves masquerading behind it. And with millions of true Christians already slaughtered, nobody could oppose the Red Church. Stalin’s iron grip firmly tightened on Russia’s throat, this time for good, if not forever.”
Silence descended. Constantine’s mind protested. A part of him refused to accept the finality of Ilia’s indictment.
“No, I can’t believe that all is lost,” he murmured. “The real Russian Church can’t be dead! Someone had to fight the Red Church. Millions of Russian refugees fled from the Bolsheviks, scattering around the world. The last of the White Movement. The Russia outside Russia. And among them were the priests who joined their flock in exile. The Russian Orthodox Church Outside Russia.”
“Quite right. The Orthodox Church Abroad carried the torch of Russian religious tradition. It was the spiritual backbone of every expatriate community. But, like you said, the Russo-Soviet Civil War had no end date. The Bolsheviks never ceased their efforts to destroy those who had escaped their clutches. For decades, the Reds conducted meticulous work to corrupt the Church Abroad. Bolshevik agents flooded the Russian communities across Europe and America, using deception, propaganda, bribery and assassinations to undermine the true Church from within. And they succeeded. Man is weak, more so when he is separated from his roots. Some fell for the communist lies about the evolution of the Kremlin regime. Others suffered so many hardships in the West that they yearned for a return their homeland. The old, unbreakable generation gradually passed away, replaced by youngsters who had never known Russia or witnessed the horrors of Soviet life for themselves. The power of the Church faded; the resolve to fight for Russia’s liberation waned as time passed. Ultimately, the Church could no longer pose any threat to the Reds. A shadow of its former self, and of Russia’s past glory. The Church Abroad reached its nadir in 2007. After years of KGB subversion, the top hierarchy signed an act of unconditional surrender at a ceremony in Moscow. What they called a homecoming was a traitorous capitulation before the Moscow Patriarchate and the devilish forces behind it.”
“But why did Moscow force the takeover of the Church Abroad? The Patriarchate could have waited until its sworn enemy decayed completely and perished into oblivion once and for all. What was the point of acting out this phony reunion?”
“Expansion. The merger gave the Moscow Patriarchate full control over four hundred parishes around the world, half of them in the United States alone. The Kremlin could only dream of gaining such a foothold on U.S. soil. Immediately, Moscow sent hundreds of spies in the guise of priests all across America. Imagine an espionage network spanning from New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania to Florida, Texas and California, operating under a well-established church cover. In Washington, DC, the Orthodox Cathedral of St. John the Baptist is located three miles away from the White House. And it’s not just the FSB or the SVR accessing these intelligence assets. The Kremlin has made them available to North Korea. Moscow and Pyongyang have set up a secret link via the Patriarchate.”
The puzzle pieces were falling into place, but Peter Oltersdorf still didn’t fit in.
“Seizing control of the churches, the Moscow Patriarchate must have also captured the vast archives of the White Movement,” Constantine surmised. “A wealth of documents, memoirs, letters and testimonies. Do you know any information about Peter Oltersdorf?”
“Oltersdorf? Allegedly, the KGB spent decades hunting for his papers. But they were off-limits until the Church Abroad succumbed to the Patriarchate. Since then, Moscow has scoured the newly acquired church records in every parish all the way to Canada, trying to track his descendants to no avail. I have no idea about the contents of the Oltersdorf papers, so I’m afraid I can’t help you—but there’s someone who can. His name is Yakov Orlovsky. His father converted me to true Orthodoxy.”
“What do you mean?”
“You see, no matter which diabolic doctrines the Bolsheviks effected, they failed to exterminate Christianity inside Russia. From the outset of the hellish communist rule, a group of true Christian believers went underground. Even during the most gruesome years, they managed to carry out their activities in secret. The world’s most oppressive regime could not squash the Catacomb Church, as it became known. This hidden community fought back.”
“How?” asked Constantine.
“Espionage. Fighting fire with fire. Some members of the Catacomb Church infiltrated the Patriarchate. The plan was doomed from the beginning, but one of their ideas was to reform the Red Church from inside. When I was still a young priest, a deacon approached me, carefully probing my attitude toward the Communist Party. Deacon Alexei, he introduced himself. According to the rules, I should have reported our conversation to the KGB immediately. If I didn’t, and it proved to be a KGB decoy to test me, I would have faced twenty-five years in the gulags. But in the end, I didn’t—couldn’t force myself to do it. And by the Lord’s grace, nothing happened. Nobody broke into my room in the middle of the night to arrest me. It was then that I really started believing in God.”
“Odd to hear that you found religion only after years of priesthood.”
“Growing up, I was a peasant boy, nothing but cannon fodder in the eyes of Red commissars. Nonetheless, after I was wounded on the Eastern Front, I was considered trustworthy enough to study at the seminary and rise through the church ranks. Early on, I had the feeling that something wasn’t right, as interrogators became confessors. When I met Alexei Orlovsky, his words fell on fertile ground. He was laying the groundwork for a conspiracy, seeking out like-minded men like me, but ultimately failing. Yet he lit the fire in my soul which guided me to the right path. He admitted to being a member of the Catacomb Church. Today, his son carries on his legacy. Yakov is the head of a true Orthodox community of church dissidents. He and his followers have been persecuted by the authorities for opposing the Patriarchate. Some of his group members are former clerics who are privy to the Patriarchate’s innermost secrets. The only person who can help you unravel the Oltersdorf mystery is Yakov.”
“How do I contact him?”
7
Father Mikhail walked behind the edifice of the Trinity Cathedral, lit a Marlboro, and dialed a number on his cell phone. He took a few long pulls at the cigarette before the connection established. In a hushed voice, Mikhail spoke into the mouthpiece.
“The old man had a visitor. It was Constantine Sokolov. He’s just left … I tried my best to ward him off, but the old man came out to see him … Yes, I know I was supposed to keep him sedated! He said he woke up because he had a vision. Can you believe it? My hands were tied … No, I couldn’t catch any of their conversation. The old man doesn’t know that his room is wired, and yet they talked outside. I was out of earshot … All right, I’ll keep an eye on him until you get here. I concur, you should handle the issue yourself. At once.”
8
Hong Kong
In the cavernous Arrivals hall of Hong Kong International Airport, an immense queue lined up for immigration co
ntrol. Priding themselves on the airport’s efficiency, the security staff dealt with the arriving passengers quickly. The queue started clearing in minutes. Awaiting his turn in the midst of the travelers, a man approached an immigration counter and presented his passport and a filled-out arrival card to the officer. The weary Chinese border official swiped the machine-readable passport through a scanner without looking up at its holder, a Mr. Calum McKinley, British national, dressed in a navy polo, slacks, and a baseball cap. In lieu of a stamp, the officer returned the passport with a landing slip: a strip of paper indicating Mr. McKinley’s passport details, arrival date, and permitted stay in Hong Kong. The man snatched the passport—unceremoniously thrown back to him by the immigration officer atop the desk—and crossed the imaginary border to enter Hong Kong.
At an adjacent counter, Stacie Rose handed her Italian passport with a completed card to a different immigration officer. Her expression froze in a practiced smile, but her heart accelerated. The Chinese glanced up at her for a nerve-wracking moment. Back at the hotel, she’d spent several hours applying make-up to perfect her Federica Buonamano look. Ruby-red lipstick ripened her mouth, the liner tracing her lips just outside the natural edges to make them seem fuller. Highlights and contours reshaped her face as close as possible to the passport photo, adding a darker complexion. The cosmetic tricks created a dolled-up version of the woman she was impersonating, much more beautiful but recognizable nonetheless. The illusion was convincing enough. Or so she hoped.
Oblivious to her extreme anxiety, the immigration officer resumed his mundane task without hesitation. Never bothering to compare her appearance against the photo, he couldn’t possibly suspect a double. He placed the instantly-issued landing slip inside the passport and gave it back to her. Inwardly shaking, she muttered thanks, picked it up, and joined Eugene Sokolov at the Baggage Reclaim Hall.
The baseball cap clashed with Sokolov’s clothes, but it offered the best option to conceal his rich hairline.
“I can’t quite believe that we’ve made it,” she said in a thrilled voice.
“You played it cool. I’m proud of you.”
She smiled sheepishly. “What’s our next step?”
“It’s already late, so you’d better get some rest. This time, I’ve booked separate hotel rooms. I’ll drop you off at the hotel and head over to the Russian church for a quick stake-out. This way, we can go after your pendant first thing in the morning, fully prepared.”
“I have a better idea,” she announced. “Let’s check out this Russian church together. Right now, on our way to the hotel.”
“Are you sure you’re up for it?”
“I won’t rest easy knowing that you’re out there, alone in the night, risking your life for me.”
“It’s a routine scouting mission,” he assured her. “Just a precaution.”
“All the more reason for us to stick together. Besides, should we run into Father Mark, I know what he looks like and you don’t.”
“Okay,” Sokolov agreed. “We’ll make a detour, look around and plan for tomorrow.”
Save for the Louis Vuitton, neither Sokolov nor Stacie carried any luggage. They marched through Customs via the green channel, unhindered. Outside the futuristic terminal, Sokolov hailed a taxi and told the cabbie to drive to Queen’s Road. Stacie remembered reading somewhere that Queen’s Road was the first street built in Hong Kong. The city’s main commercial thoroughfare since the days of the early British colonists. How did a Russian church possibly belong there? Curiosity was getting the better of her.
When they reached their destination a half hour later, Stacie saw that no Russian church could fit into the surroundings. Queen’s Road West was one of the four sections comprising the main street, lined with high-rise buildings and shops. The red-bodied, white-roofed taxi cruised amid a steady traffic of sedans and lorries. Storefronts flashed with boisterous neon signs in Chinese and English. Pedestrians bustled along busy sidewalks.
Indeed, the church was nowhere in sight, which left Stacie even more puzzled when the cab pulled over at a narrow intersection with the merchant-packed Possession Street.
The bespectacled cabbie pointed a finger at the office building. “Two-Twelve, Queens Road West.”
Incredulous, Stacie stepped out into the hot and humid Asian night. She stood in front of a blocky 1980’s-style tower, numbering 26 floors. A sign read, Arion Commercial Center.
“Did you get the address right?” she asked Sokolov, who joined her in the street.
“The church is in fact an office on the seventh floor, according to the listing. Unit 701. It’s registered as the St. Peter and St. Paul Orthodox Church. The office is shared with some Russian Language Center.”
“A false front?” It explained Father Mark’s businesslike attire and emphasized his cynicism. Even after everything she’d gone through, finding the church to be nothing more than leased space inside a commercial high-rise struck her as a farce.
“Could be a dead end,” Sokolov said. “We might as well set out for the hotel.”
The taxi driver was shouting at them angrily in Chinese.
“No,” Stacie said. She scanned the lit windows of the seventh floor. “There’s someone inside. Come on, we can’t back away now.”
Sokolov paid the fare and the cab sped away.
“Let’s go,” he said, leading the way inside Arion Commercial Center.
From the deserted lobby, they took the cargo elevator to the seventh floor. They exited the elevator into a narrow, tile-floored hallway. Closed doors loomed on either side of the stretching corridor. Stacie went after Sokolov across the deathly-quiet hallway.
He stopped at the door labeled: 701 – St. Peter and St. Paul Orthodox Church – Russian Language Center.
Stacie held her breath, straining to pick up any sound from beyond the door, but heard nothing.
Sokolov motioned for Stacie to stay back as he approached the office door. He wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and twisted gently. It wouldn’t turn. The door was locked.
Sokolov strode to the end of the hallway and returned with a fire extinguisher in his hands. The silence erupted with a sudden burst of violent force. Swinging the fire extinguisher downward, he battered the doorknob, smashing the lock, and kicked the door in. A step behind him, Stacie followed Sokolov as he stormed into the office. Once inside, she found herself staring down the barrel of a gun.
9
Mark opened the fireproof safe and transferred the codebook, his Russian passport, a cash bundle and a sheaf of documents to his briefcase.
Dread had been coursing in Mark’s veins since the call from Phuket. Unable to reach Song for several hours, he had assumed the worst. His growing premonition, fueled by vodka, had prompted him to return to the Arion Commercial Center and alter his schedule. He had to leave Hong Kong urgently. He couldn’t afford to wait until tomorrow. Something had gone terribly wrong on Billionaire Island, he became certain of it. He couldn’t risk the Oltersdorf codebook!
He extracted the last item, a Type 54 pistol known as the Black Star—the Chinese copy of the 7.62 mm Tokarev TT-33. As a standard-issue PLA handgun, the Black Star remained highly popular in the illegal arms market of Hong Kong. He loaded a full clip and swung the gun around the office. Orthodox icons adorned the office walls. He aimed the gun at the image of Christ across the empty room.
“Not even You can stop me,” he told the Messiah.
Abruptly, the door crashed open and a man entered Office 701, together with a woman dressed in white like an angel. Mark leveled the Black Star at her.
Stacie Rose. It couldn’t be her, could it? Yet there she was, not an apparition born from alcoholic delirium but flesh and blood.
You’re supposed to be dead, he thought, and I’ll put that right.
He squeezed the trigger.
Sokolov unleashed a jet of white spray from the powder-based fire extinguisher. It hit the man’s face in a puffy cloud. Groaning in pain as the po
wder burned his eyes, he fired a blind shot into the ceiling, arms flailing. Sokolov swung the fire extinguisher across his face, smashing the nose with an audible crunch. The man’s head snapped sideways. A torrent of blood gushed from the broken nose as he toppled, clutching his face and dropping the handgun. Sokolov kicked the gun away.
Whimpering, the man crawled on all fours and propped himself against the nearest wall. Sokolov surveyed the office, which appeared devoid of furnishings apart from a few icons hanging on the walls and a digital-dial steel safe hidden behind a folding screen. An open briefcase rested atop the safe.
“Is that him?” Sokolov asked Stacie.
“Yes,” she said, picking up the pistol off the floor. “He’s the one who attacked me on the plane and stole my pendant. Father Mark.”
Mark sobbed, his nose bent grotesquely, his face smeared white and red with a mixture of blood and dry chemicals. Sokolov raised the fire extinguisher.
“I hope you can answer a few questions, Mark, or whatever your name is. A couple of your buddies died before I could ask them.”
“No, please! Don’t kill me! I’ll do anything you want!”
“You’ll do anything she wants. But I can’t vouch for her actions. She may shoot you even before I’m done with you.”
Mark’s bloodshot eyes grew wide in horror at the sight of Stacie pointing the gun square at his chest.
Temple of Spies Page 13