It was not that the bishop would ever refer to something from the confessional in their daily life; he was too good a priest ever to suggest that he even remembered what she spoke. No, her discomfort came from the fact that inside the confessional the bishop took his role seriously. He asked questions for which she had no answer. He probed where she did not care to look.
The priest conducting Mass stood before the altar table, separated from the congregation by a frieze of ancient icons. It was one of only three such tableaus, from over two thousand, which had survived the Communist years. He droned, “Blessed is the kingdom of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, now and always and forever.”
“Amen.” Ivona held the prayer book in a limp hand, the words so often heard that she could recite virtually the entire book from memory. To take her mind off what was to come, she cast her eyes back and forth around the scarred and pitted church. For the past forty years, it had seen service first as a stable for the horses that drew the streetcars, then as a garage and oil depot. Only two months earlier had it been reopened as a church.
“For peace from on high and for the salvation of our souls, let us pray to the Lord.”
“Lord, have mercy.” The air was awash in the incense burning before the altar, the church full to overflowing. Every seat was taken, the back area packed with those who arrived too late to find seats. A church made for a maximum of six hundred now held well over a thousand souls.
“For the peace of the whole world, for the well-being of the holy churches of God, and for the unity of all, let us pray to the Lord.”
“Lord have mercy.” It was like this virtually every service. They were holding seven masses on Sunday, and still people arrived a half hour early to be sure of a place.
“For this city, for every city and countryside and for the faithful who live in them, let us pray to the Lord.”
“Lord, have mercy.” Every side altar was a solid wall of flickering light, fueled by countless candle flames. Worshipers were going through devotional candles at a rate that even two months ago would have been unthinkable. Locating a reliable source was yet another of Ivona Aristonova’s unending worries.
“For good weather, for abundant fruits of the earth, and for peaceful times, let us pray to the Lord.”
“Lord have mercy.” The bishop’s assistant had recently departed to study abroad, and to Ivona’s mind this was no great loss. The young man was like most of the Ukrainian Rites priests who had been consecrated in secret—poorly trained and suspiciously hostile toward all outsiders, including the bishop, who had recently returned from exile. Still, his absence meant that Ivona and the bishop and the priest saying Mass today were basically alone when it came to coping with the unending problems of resurrecting a church that had been outlawed for forty-six years.
“For those traveling by land, sea, or air; for the sick, the suffering, the imprisoned and for their salvation, let us pray to the Lord.”
“Lord have mercy.” Ivona chanted the words as she did most things in church—by rote and without feeling. Her mind remained fastened upon the incredible changes that had taken place within the Ukrainian Rites Church over the last few years and the overwhelming difficulties that accompanied them.
When Stalin convened the 1946 Ukrainian bishops’ synod and declared the entire church illegal, worship according to traditions founded in the fourth century became a crime against the state. Following the decree, the church’s leaders—the Metropolitan and all bishops—were gathered and shipped off to Siberian concentration camps. Only two survived, so battered in body and soul that neither would ever walk again.
All cathedrals and churches were declared state property. Many worshipers followed Stalin’s orders and joined the only church officially tolerated within the Soviet Union, the Russian Orthodox Church. Stalin and his henchmen held no special affection for the Orthodox; they simply wished to bring all believers into a single unit so that they might more easily be monitored, dominated, and eventually exterminated. The Russian Orthodox Church had the singular advantage of being based in Moscow, and thus could be more easily controlled.
Josef Stalin harbored a violent hatred for Christian churches, the Ukrainian Rites Catholic Church in particular. It was too nationalistic, and it owed allegiance to a foreign-based pope. As soon as World War II ended and the need for the church members’ assistance in defeating the Nazi invaders was over, Stalin began his infamous purge.
In the decades that followed, however, the Ukrainian Rites Church did not die as Stalin and his successors demanded. Despite the harshest possible punishments leveled against convicted believers, the church survived.
It moved underground. Mass was celebrated in cellars. Priests were taught and consecrated in absolute secrecy. Weddings and christenings and baptisms were performed in the dead of night. Bishops lived ever on the run, ever watchful for the KGB, often trapped and tortured and sentenced and imprisoned. The toil and terror and tears of its priests and believers earned the Ukrainian Rites Church the title of the Catacomb Church. Within the Catholic hierarchy, the two names became interchangeable.
Through it all, the Ukrainian Rites Church still did not die. When it again became legal in 1991, four million, five hundred thousand people claimed membership.
“Help us, save us, have mercy on us, and protect us, O Lord, by your grace.”
“Lord have mercy.” It was Ivona’s turn to enter the confessional. She knelt, recited her rehearsed lines, and waited. She dreaded what was now to come.
From behind the intricately carved wooden screen, Bishop Michael Denisov sighed and spoke in his ever-gentle voice, “So, so, dear sister Ivona Aristonova. And have you made peace with your husband?”
But Ivona was saved from both answering and receiving more of the bishop’s painful probing by shouts rising above the chanted service. She and the bishop started upright as the priest cut off in mid-sentence.
“Gone, all gone!” A chorus of voices wailed their distress through the sudden silence.
“The treasures have been stolen!”
Chapter 3
Jeffrey awoke to find familiar violet-gray eyes peering down at him with a worried expression. “Are you all right?”
He nodded, or started to, then moaned as the pain brought him fully awake. “How?” he croaked, or tried to, but was stopped by the dryness of his throat.
Katya reached beyond his field of vision, came up with a cup. “Don’t try to raise up.” She fitted the straw in his mouth and said as he drank, “You’ve had a neck strain and possibly a mild concussion.”
He managed, “Alexander?”
“He’s alive,” she answered, and took a shaky breath. “It’s almost ten o’clock. I went to your apartment and waited almost an hour, but when you didn’t show up for dinner I went by the shop, and when I saw all the police outside the door . . .” Katya had to pause. “I never want to go through anything like that. Not ever again.”
Jeffrey lay still and recalled the events. It had been almost closing time at the Mount Street antiques shop. Just another day. He had been giving the antique table on the front podium a careful polish when the sudden thump had echoed from the back office-alcove. He had called Alexander’s name. No response. He had set down his polish and rag and walked back, feeling an icy touch without knowing why. Then Alexander’s legs had come into view.
He remembered screaming into the telephone, though he could not recall having dialed a number. He remembered trying to resuscitate the old man for what seemed like several lifetimes, but he had no recollection of the ambulance’s arriving or of anyone gathering them up or starting off. Or closing the shop.
“The shop was swarming with the security people from down the street,” Katya told him. “You left the door wide open. The security cameras can’t see into the back alcove, so they didn’t know what had happened until the cameras showed the medics wheel Alexander out on a stretcher.”
Alexander’s eyes had been open when
Jeffrey raced into the alcove. They had pleaded with him, even while one hand tore at the carpet and the other pressed hard to his chest, clenching the suit and shirt with inhuman strength. The power of that gaze was a knife that Jeffrey still felt.
“They almost lost him.” She choked on that, swallowed, tried again. “But he’s stable now. I’ve seen him. Twice. He’s breathing okay. His heart rate is stable. They say if he makes it through the next seventy-two hours he will probably be out of danger.”
“Want to see,” he whispered, his voice a rasp.
“You can’t move just now,” she replied gently. “They’ve made x-rays of your neck and head. There doesn’t appear to be any serious damage, but the doctor wants to check you again. And you have to be fitted with a neck brace.”
She stroked a strand of hair from his forehead. “Even if you could move, there’s nothing to see. He’s in intensive care and heavily sedated. There are all kinds of monitors, and he’s being carefully watched.”
“Want—”
She shushed him, lowered her face and kissed him softly. “Pray for him, Jeffrey. Speak to him in your heart. He will hear. Now try to rest. He needs you to be strong, and so do I.” She grasped his hand with both of hers. “Close your eyes. I’ll pray with you.”
* * *
Despite Katya’s entreaties and the doctor’s orders, the next morning found Jeffrey making his stiff-legged way alone to Alexander’s bedside. His neck was encased in a white foam vise that smelled like a rubber glove. The soreness had moved lower to wrap around his back and shoot down his legs if he made too wide a step.
Jeffrey entered the hospital room to find the Count Garibaldi di Grupello, an old friend and client of Alexander’s, looming above the foot of the hospital bed. The count greeted him with a grave nod, then returned his attention to the bed’s silent form. “You positively must not allow me to win our bet, Alexander. You, Jeffrey, what is the word for someone who throws in the towel too early?”
“Wimp,” Jeffrey offered, immensely relieved to find Alexander’s eyes open.
“Precisely. My dear old friend, listen to me. Behave yourself and do not under any circumstances permit yourself to indulge in any wimpish behavior. We must marry these young people off, then give them a proper start. How on earth do you expect me to do this alone if you insist on wimping away?”
Jeffrey cleared the burn from his throat. “The correct term is wimping out.”
“Whatever. I am sure the message has been received. Yes? Nod if you heard me, Alexander. There. You see? He agrees. And now my three minutes are up. Farewell, old friend. Next time I intend to hear you argue with me once more.”
He turned away with a regal half bow. “Jeffrey, be so good as to join me in the hallway for a moment.”
Before following the count, Jeffrey stood a moment looking down on Alexander and feeling weak with relief to find him alive. The old gentleman’s eyes held him in silent communion. Then one hand raised to point weakly at Jeffrey’s collar.
“I bumped my head on the ambulance roof,” Jeffrey explained.
Alexander released a sigh.
“Hard,” Jeffrey added.
Alexander rolled his eyes toward the headboard, gave his head a gentle shake.
Jeffrey watched until he was sure Alexander was resting peacefully, then slipped quietly from the room.
Once the door was closed behind him, the count said, “Young man, you must be strong for our friend in there.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
“Because it is true.” The count squinted at the brace and demanded, “What on earth is that ghastly thing clamped to your neck?”
“Long story.”
“Not a tiff with the young lady, I hope.”
“Not a chance.”
“That is good, for she shall also rely on your strength for now.” The count held up his hand. “I know, I know. From all appearances she relies on no one but her God. Such appearances are not always true, young man. She has great strength, but not the ability to withstand such blows to those she loves.”
“I don’t know if I do, either,” Jeffrey confessed.
The majestic nostrils tilted back as the count gave Jeffrey his most affronted gaze. “You must. You are the bonding force here. Now, go in there and be strong, and bring our friend back to life. The world would suffer too great a vacuum were Alexander to pass out of it.”
Jeffrey found it difficult to force words around the thought of Alexander’s absence. “What do I say?”
“Talk of antiques,” the count commanded impatiently. “What else? Speak about the shop. Feed to him a sense of remaining here with the living. Tell him I have finally agreed to purchase that cabinet, although how you can manage to claim such an outrageous sum for it and still keep a straight face is utterly beyond me.”
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Buying the cabinet. You wouldn’t want me to lie to him, would you?”
“There, you see? This is what Alexander requires from you. He must feel a part of life. Now go in there and fill the empty house.” The count turned his attention to the closed door. “For a man of years, illness brings a new meaning to the word alone. Let him live through your strength, Jeffrey, until he is once again prepared to live for himself.”
Chapter 4
Prince Vladimir Markov, last surviving member of the Markov dynasty, knew exactly what the general was thinking behind his practiced stone mask. No doubt all the former Soviet army officer saw was a beautiful Monte Carlo villa transformed into a vast sea of clutter. The general made it quite clear that he considered the prince an eccentric collector, a magpie in a foppish nest, a pathetic has-been who clung to any object even slightly scented by the past.
It was true that the prince’s villa was so full of furniture and paintings and valuables that it looked more like a warehouse than a home. Several rooms had simply been stacked from floor to ceiling and then locked up. The living room alone contained sufficient articles to furnish ten chambers.
But it was not a fanatic’s hoarding instinct that drove Prince Markov. Not at all. The articles represented his family’s royal past, a past that included a palace large enough to hold all his precious belongings. That palace he intended to have for himself once more.
Prince Markov treated the general with polite disdain. The peon could think what he liked, as long as he helped place the means to the desired end within Markov’s grasp.
These days, the prince reflected, retired Soviet army officers were eager for any work that would keep them from the shame of common unemployment. Many of the groups struggling for power and wealth within the crumbling Soviet empire found them perfect as hired hands. Retired Soviet generals, it was said, had years of experience in corrupt activities. They were utterly efficient. They were brave to the point of idiocy. They were weaned of troublesome concern for human life. And they were too dogmatic to come up with independent plans on their own.
These days, it was very easy for such a one to go bad.
General Surikov had a taste for antiques. He stopped several times in his slow meandering walk toward Markov’s balcony to examine several of Markov’s more remarkable pieces. Markov held his own impatience in check. Barely.
“I know what needs to be done,” Markov said, ushering his guest through the doors and out onto the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean and the Bay of Nice.
“Of course you do,” his guest replied, giving the spectacular view an approving glance. “You’re a professional.”
General Surikov was a trim, hard man in his late fifties. He would never allow himself to balloon out as some of his fellow senior officers did. Not for him the triple chins that enveloped his colleagues’ collars on parade days, nor the enormous girth that required two towels knotted together in the military baths. Nor did he show the red-veined nose and cheeks of a dedicated vodka drinker. His hair was short, his face as tough as his grip.
“These new Russia
n politicians,” General Surikov complained, accepting the offered seat. “They sit in front of the television cameras and mouth, ma-ma-ma-ma, like sheep. All their lives they’ve studied butterflies through a microscope or written poetry nobody can read on a full stomach. And now they’re running our country.”
“Accountants,” Markov agreed. “Engineers.”
“Civilians and dissidents.” The general snorted his disgust. “They tell the people, why do we need a military power? My comrades and I must sit and watch them enact this charade called transition to capitalism. Where is the mighty Soviet state now?”
“Gone,” Markov sympathized. “Lost forever.”
“These buffoons will not hold on much longer,” the general added ominously.
Markov straightened. “You have news?”
“Nothing definite. Nothing except the Afgantsi are prepared to move.”
Markov nodded. With the growing governmental crisis, the danger of a hardliners’ coup grew daily. If one happened, it would no doubt be led by the cabal of officers, veterans of the conflict in Afghanistan, who were known as Afgantsi. “Rumor has it that now they virtually control the army.”
“For once the rumors are correct,” General Surikov replied with evident relish. “The new Defense Minister is one of us. Through him we have secured all but two of the top defense positions. Within the past eighteen months, we have settled the entire senior officer corps in our grasp.”
“You served in Afghanistan yourself, did you not?”
“In the early days, yes, before ill health forced me to accept a posting to the Baltic. Were I only ten years younger!” Surikov sighed. “Still, at least I am now again able to stand proud and proclaim that I did my patriotic duty.”
And spilled how much innocent blood in the process, Markov reflected. Aloud he commented, “How nice for you.”
Winter Palace Page 2
