Katherine put aside her gloomy thoughts and took an interest in what lay ahead.
Boris Orlov’s Volga sedan, its blue lights flashing, sped along Yaroslavsky Shosse like a black bullet. Drivers did not so much pull to the side as avoid being run over. Boris’s driver wove the car confidently from the passing lane to the shoulder and back again, even as he spoke into the radio.
Boris and Oleg sat in the back seat, surrounded by curtains that covered the windows. They held tightly to the handgrips above the doors.
“I told you we should never have approved her visa,” said Oleg. “If he manages to contact her — ”
“Shut up. I’m trying to think.”
The driver said, “I’ve got someone from the surveillance team on the radio.”
“Thank god,” said Boris, and grabbed the microphone.
“The bus has just pulled into the monastery parking lot,” said the agent over the hiss of heavy static. “Everything is under control.”
“I’ll be there in an hour,” said Boris. He looked ahead as his driver swung the car onto the shoulder and whizzed past a truck. “Maybe forty-five minutes.”
“Major, that’s really not necessary.”
“Perov has slipped surveillance,” said Boris. “It must be assumed he will try to make contact.”
“I thought he was cooperating.”
“Negative. Perov is unreliable. I repeat. Unreliable.”
The radio crackled a moment, and the voice said, “Understood. But you have nothing to worry about, Major. The place is crawling with agents. There’s no way Perov can get within a kilometer of the monastery grounds.”
“See that he doesn’t. If he gets anywhere near the monastery I want him arrested immediately.”
“And the girl?”
Boris looked at Oleg. “Major, we don’t have the authorization to arrest a foreign national. That’s counterintelligence.”
Counterintelligence? Things were getting out of hand, and for the first time since Boris had begun this dangerous power play he felt fear. How had he ever let himself get into such a mess?
“Goddamn it!” Boris threw the microphone onto the front seat. “When I get through with Perov the only experiment he’ll be conducting is how much coal a hungry man can mine in a single day.”
Katherine stepped through the gate to the Trinity Monastery of St. Sergei and, for the first time on the trip, was truly overwhelmed. The monastery was ablaze in color. The four onion domes of the Cathedral of the Assumption were the first to demand her attention. They were painted sky-blue and covered with ten-point gold stars. A building on her left was a riotous checkerboard of orange and green. Dozens of tiny chapels dotted the grounds, each an independent statement of devotion, each screaming in turn for attention. It was all beautiful, yes, but it was the work of madmen, like a painting by Vincent van Gogh. What passionate fevers had spurred reclusive monks to such daring expression?
Katherine watched three priests shuffle by. They wore black robes, black hoods and six-inch wooden crosses about their necks. One of the members of Katherine’s group raised his camera to take a picture. Olga put her hand over the lens.
“As a matter of respect, the priests ask that you do not take their pictures,” she said. She made it clear with her tone that she considered such reticence provincial.
The tour began. They took turns taking pictures in a charming open chapel over a well, then stood in line at the solemn Metropolitan’s Residence to see the coffin of St. Sergei. The faithful paused to kiss the coffin. Vladimir, trembling with emotion, bowed and pressed his lips to it.
They went to a small museum of Russian icons. Here, Katherine was captivated. At first, the icons all looked the same — paintings of Mary and the infant Jesus on wood. But the more she looked, the more she felt the minute variations between them. Behind every modification in the shape of the eyes and the position of Jesus’ hand, Katherine sensed the artist yearning to express himself in a form so severely regulated that a misplaced brush stroke was blasphemy. Spirituality, humanity, repression and rebellion blended into an art form that expressed something Katherine had herself felt from the moment her airplane had touched down in Moscow — a claustrophobia she had been unable to articulate. These icon painters, centuries ago, had put her feelings into their icons.
She looked up and realized she was the last member of her group in the museum. Ahead, she caught sight of a man in a leather cap. Their eyes met, and he did not even bother to look away. Katherine hurried out of the museum to join Olga and the rest of the group.
Throughout the tour, which had gone on for nearly an hour, Olga asked questions from time to time of the priests. She explained that the priests were unpredictable and might close any chapel without notice depending on their own needs and the religious calendar.
“It makes a tour guide’s life difficult,” Olga sighed.
The group started across the central grounds toward the Cathedral of the Assumption, the same building that had taken Katherine’s breath away when she had spotted it from the bus a quarter-mile away. A priest came up to Olga and spoke briefly to her. Like many of the priests, he had a hood pulled over his head. He looked like a druid.
Olga’s face lit up, and she clapped her hands together. “We’re in luck. The bell tower is open. The view from there is marvelous. I can’t remember when it was last open for tourists. We must go up.”
She started toward a blue-and-yellow tower on their left. The group shuffled after her. The priest turned to go with them, and just for a second his face came out of the shadow of his hood. His eyes met Katherine’s.
Boris’s car sped into the monastery parking lot and came to a skidding stop beside Katherine’s tour bus.
Boris leaped out. An agent came toward him. “Major, this is really unnecessary — ”
“Where is she?”
“With her group, in the monastery.”
“Wherein the monastery?”
The agent sighed and spoke into his walkie-talkie. A voice crackled over the speaker. “The group has just entered the bell tower.”
Olga and the priest led the group of Americans through a wooden door to the ground floor of the tower. The musty smell of a dirt basement filled Katherine’s nose. On the far wall rose a simple stone staircase. The group ascended. The priest walked beside Olga while Katherine hung near the back. Olga pointed out to the group how the stone steps were worn in the center from the passing feet of centuries of monks. The group gathered on the second floor at the base of a narrow, stone spiral staircase that twisted up into the ceiling like a corkscrew. The priest said something to Olga, and she nodded.
“It is four stories to the roof,” she said. “We’ll go single file. Follow me.”
They started up, Olga leading. The priest stood to the side and let the group pass. His face remained concealed by his hood. Katherine held back until only she, Vladimir and the priest remained. Vladimir waved his arm chivalrously for Katherine to go before him, but she smiled and returned the gesture. He shrugged and started up, ducking his head at the low ceiling, which was, in fact, the underside of the steps swirling around above him. Katherine started up behind Vladimir. Only the priest was behind her now; she could hear his feet on the stairs. As the staircase twisted, she saw the top of his hood below her. His face remained hidden.
They reached the first of two overlooks on the way to the roof. The group paused and bunched up to admire the view of the Cathedral of the Assumption. They went on. The second overlook, the last before the roof, was so small that Vladimir, Katherine and the priest were forced to wait on the stairs until space was cleared by the rest of the group as they continued up the staircase to the roof.
Katherine climbed to the tiny platform. Olga and the other members of the group were already out of sight overhead. Vladimir was still in front of her, and she could see a woman in front of him. The woman disappeared around the bend. Vladimir crossed the platform and headed straight to the next level of the st
aircase. He glanced back at Katherine, smiled and started up. The priest was still behind Katherine, still invisible beneath his robes. Katherine followed Vladimir onto the stairs. She took three steps, and then she felt a hand on her wrist. It pulled her back down the stairs.
Now she stood beside the priest on the cramped platform. The only way on or off the platform was by the spiral staircase. To her left was a railing and a close-up view of the star-flaked onion domes of the Cathedral of the Assumption. To her right hung the ropes that controlled the bells of St. Sergei, presumably suspended above her. The ropes disappeared through holes in the floor and the ceiling.
The priest’s face, still concealed by his hood, was turned toward the staircase, where presently Vladimir disappeared around the bend. Overhead, the scuffling feet of the tour group grew fainter, and then faded altogether into silence.
Katherine turned to the priest. He pulled back his hood and his face was revealed.
She and Victor Perov were alone.
8
Victor smiled. It was a warm, confident smile that betrayed no urgency. He might have been on a picnic watching Katherine set out the fried chicken.
He took a step toward her and kissed her three times, alternating cheeks. “Are you all right?” he asked in English.
She nodded. “How are Lena and Maxim?”
“Lena is fine,” he said. “Who is Maxim?”
She told him about Titus Waal’s friend.
Victor memorized the information. “Maxim Izmailov. Language teacher at the Moscow Pedagogical Institute. Right. I’ll find out for you.” He shook his head in awe. “You’ve been very busy, Yekatarina.”
“You have no idea,” she said.
“We only have a minute,” he said. “I believe there was something you wanted to say to me.”
Katherine took a breath. “Victor, your brother is alive.”
He stared at her. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s true. He’s being held in a psychiatric hospital. There is a man — ”
“This is nonsense!” Victor said sharply. He turned and took a step away from her. He spun around to face her. “Why do you think it?”
“There is an organization called Soviet Psychiatry Watch,” said Katherine.
“I know it,” Victor snapped. “A capitalist propaganda tool.”
She ignored that. “They have an agent here in Moscow, a Jew. His code name is Sigmund. He knows everything about Anton.”
“Why didn’t he come to me himself?”
“He’s scared. Everyone is. Your mother’s position . . . well, he’s just scared. But he has agreed to meet with you. He’ll explain everything.”
“You spoke to this man?”
Katherine hesitated. “No. I spoke with his liaison in Amsterdam who contacted a friend of mine. The whole organization is worried about getting involved. They said the only way they would permit the information to reach you was if I gave it to you in person.”
This was thanks to Titus Waal. As a student in Moscow, Titus had once helped SPW director Koos sneak out of the dorms for a rendezvous with his Russian girlfriend. Now that Katherine needed the contact information on Sigmund, Titus called in that twenty-year-old favor. But even that had not been enough to convince the director of SPW. So Titus told Koos the truth about Katherine’s relationship with Victor. It must have been a painful moment for Titus, but his commitment to helping Katherine was absolute. And it worked. Koos was at last persuaded that any information about Sigmund and SPW would go no further than Victor Perov, provided Katherine brought it to him herself.
Victor shook his head. “Yekatarina, I fear you have been . . . how do you say . . . ‘duped.’ These people are using you to get to me, the son of a Central Committee member. Don’t you see? They’re trying to discredit my country. It’s . . . transparent.”
Katherine’s eyes flashed angrily. Victor was starting to sound like his speech in Helsinki. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Anyway, I couldn’t risk not believing. How can you?”
The muscles in Victor’s jaw clenched. He stared hard at Katherine for several seconds. She felt as though he were trying to read her thoughts. His expression softened. A small smile came to his lips.
“Why did you do it?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“Come to Moscow? Risk everything?”
“They told me what is done in these hospitals, Victor. It’s horrible. They use drugs and torture. It’s worse than prison. It’s like hell — ”
“And you believe everything they say?”
“I don’t know what to believe,” said Katherine. “I have Sigmund’s phone number for you. You must memorize it. Are you ready?”
She recited the seven-digit number.
He nodded and smiled. There was a pause. The meeting was over, and they both knew it.
“So, what do you think of Russia, Dr. Sears?”
Katherine, not knowing where the words came from, broke into Russian.
We’ll stop in this church and see
Someone buried, or christened, or married.
We’ll leave, avoiding each other’s eyes.
Why does nothing work out for us?
Katherine gasped at her presumption. The poem was by Anna Akhmatova, something Katherine had been studying with Titus Waal before she left for Russia. Perhaps inspired by the religious beauty around her or by the knowledge that in a few seconds Victor Perov would be gone forever, the words tumbled out of her. They came unbroken, not in her usual tortured Russian, but for the first time with a feeling for the beauty of the language.
Victor didn’t move. He looked at her as though she were something new, no longer the unattainableamerikanka. By invoking words that cut to the very soul of Russian culture, Katherine had taken a step toward him.
How would he respond?
His eyes, his face, his posture revealed nothing. Then, with a sweep of his hand, he drew her against his body and kissed her on the mouth. She fell against him, swallowed up by the kiss. They had only a few more seconds together before Olga or any number of KGB agents discovered them. There was no time for words. Katherine could feel her body communicating her feelings to him. She was powerless to stop it from happening — even if she had wanted to. The way she allowed him to support her weight, the way she met his kiss surely told Victor Perov more about how she felt than she had even admitted to herself.
And then he released her. He smiled and reached forward to brush the hair from her face. She looked up into his eyes, searching.
“I look forward to discussing astronomy with you again someday, Dr. Sears,” Victor said, and he turned and disappeared down the staircase. The last thing Katherine saw was his robe flapping behind him. Katherine stood a moment staring at the place where Victor had been. The smell of his skin was still in her nose, and her heart raced as though she had just climbed a flight of stairs. She walked to the railing and looked out over the monastery. The day was gray, but the domes of the churches broke up the gloom like man-made suns.
Katherine leaned on the railing and wet her lips. She soaked in the view. A gust of wind blew against her face, and she closed her eyes and let it wash over her. The air should have chilled her, but, strangely, she snuggled in its touch.
And then the bells of St. Sergei began to ring.
Victor Perov was on the ground floor when the bells sounded. He hurried across the chamber and pulled his hood tightly around his face. He stepped through the bell tower door and nearly collided with a man shouting into a walkie-talkie.
Boris Orlov.
“Izvinite,” said Victor, keeping his face hidden.
Boris glared at him a moment and turned to his colleague. “Do something about those goddamn bells,” Boris said. “Christ Almighty!”
Victor lowered his head and walked on.
A minute later, Victor was back in the rectory. He found Father Andrei in his study.
“Did you meet her?” the priest asked.
Victor
nodded. “Thank you, Father.”
“Was it worth it?”
“I don’t know,” Victor frowned. “Anyway, I believe we have a debt to settle.”
“Debt?”
“Your condition for helping me. I’m ready.”
Father Andrei smiled. “Bless you, Victor. But I’m not going to hold you to that. It means nothing unless you truly want it.”
Victor sighed and thought about Katherine Sears. “I think I do.”
Father Andrei raised his eyebrows. “Very well then.”
He got up from his chair, and Victor followed. He led Victor along a corridor that connected the rectory to the Church of St. Mikhail, a small chapel not much larger than a closet. Father Andrei crossed himself and bowed before the altar. He opened a drawer and pulled out a white-and-gold gown. He slipped it on. He placed a gold sash around the back of his neck so that it fell forward over his shoulders.
“My working clothes,” he said with a smile.
They walked together to the altar. Father Andrei crossed himself, and Victor imitated the act clumsily. Father Andrei put his hands on Victor’s shoulders and turned him gently to face the door.
The priest dipped his hand into a bronze bowl filled with water. He stirred the water a moment and then brought out three wet fingers. He let three drops fall on Victor’s forehead. They rolled down Victor’s cheeks like tears.
The priest drew an Orthodox cross on Victor’s forehead.
“I baptize you, Victor Borisovich Perov, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.”
Amen.
Katherine Sears rejoiced.
“You did it!”
She said it to herself after she rejoined the tour group on the roof of the bell tower. She repeated it as she toured the Cathedral of the Assumption. She whispered it as a private prayer before lunch at the restaurant. She said it again and again during the long bus ride back to Moscow. She said it in the lobby of the Intourist Hotel after Olga reminded the group that the bus left for the airport at seven-thirty the following morning. And Katherine was still saying it when she stepped through the door of her hotel room and saw the two men near the window.
The Forbidden Zone Page 9
