“And they tell the suppliers what will be hidden inside their metal for shipment,” Yussef finished.
The look of genuine fear returned to the young man’s face. “You now have my life in your hands.”
“We will guard it well,” Yussef promised, rising to his feet. “We thank you. All of us.”
Chapter 23
Casey arrived at the palace exactly on time. He shook hands with Jeffrey, and said, “No hard feelings, I hope.”
Jeffrey found the man’s casual attitude as fake as his smile. “I still don’t know what it was all about.”
Casey motioned toward the door. “Mind if I have a look around?”
“That’s why we’re here.” Jeffrey led him into the central foyer. “Do you even know what you’re looking for?”
“Tell you what,” Casey replied in his lazy drawl, looking over the papers jumbled on the trestle table, “why don’t you just keep on with your business plan or whatever it is you’ve been doing and let me mosey about on my own.”
Jeffrey waved a free hand. “Be my guest.”
Ninety minutes later, Casey interrupted his continued sketching of the floor plans with an abrupt, “Guess I’ve seen all I need to. Matter of fact, we were due at the Consul General’s a half-hour ago.”
Jeffrey stacked up his work. “Find anything?”
“Like you said, a lot of dust and steel. Nothing else. Come on; this place’s got too many dried-up memories for my liking.”
Jeffrey followed the man down to the waiting car. They drove through the gathering dusk in silence.
The evening’s beauty rekindled his yearning for Katya. The blankets of smog and airborne soot burnished the sky a hundred fiery hues. He wished for her to share this night, when only main streets had lights, and former palaces had their wounds soothed by soft illumination. During the day he had been sorry to be alone, yet glad she was not there. This world was too harsh. The people were drawn with jagged lines. Safety was a word with little meaning. This evening, however, as he sat in the American car’s plush luxury and watched the silent orchestration of colors, he ached for her with a longing that scarcely left him room to breathe.
As they turned onto the Nevsky Prospekt, Casey interrupted his reverie with, “How’s the neck?”
“Better, but still sore.”
“Didn’t mean to handle you so rough.”
“I hurt it a while back, I guess it’s not completely healed.” His hand went up automatically to massage it. “Who is this Tombek anyway?”
“The bad guys.”
Talking to Casey was like drilling through stone with a toothpick. “What makes you so sure somebody was following me around?”
“If you don’t know,” Casey replied, “don’t ask.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
“A smart one.” Casey hesitated, then went on, “There aren’t a lot of black and white lines to be drawn around here right now. Too much gray in this country for my liking. But Tombek’s all black. Not anybody you want to mess with. Definitely not.”
Jeffrey thought of Yussef and Ivona’s work, asked, “But why would Tombek want to have me followed?”
“Brother, that’s the million dollar question.”
“I’ve got another one for you,” Jeffrey said. “Why does a local consulate official know this much about the Saint Petersburg bad guys?”
“Like I said, there’s too much gray in this world. Not many people we can rely on. Best way to get things done is to do it ourselves.”
“Consul General Allbright indicated the KGB weren’t much help.”
“You said it. These days, the KGB’s like a dead elephant lying in the middle of the Russian road to progress. All that weight is hard to shift, and it stinks to high heaven. But it’s blocking traffic something awful, and sooner or later it’s got to go.”
“Have they done anything for you at all?”
“Lot of paper flying back and forth, lot of telephone calls asking these double-edged questions. But we haven’t seen much in the way of real results. No, this thing’s gotta be baked at home.” Again Casey hesitated, as though debating something internally. Then he went on, “There is hope, though. Maybe. We’ve made contact with a sort of subgroup, a new offshoot within the KGB that appears to mean business. They’ve offered to help us on this.”
“And you think this guy Tombek might be involved in your kidnapping?”
“Tombek is not a person; it’s a gang,” Casey corrected. “They’re involved in just about everything else. Might have their hand in this as well.”
The Consul General’s official residence was located in a short alleyway off one of the city’s main thoroughfares. When they arrived, the cul-de-sac was filled with late-model Western cars and grim-faced Russian bodyguard-chauffeurs.
The residence still maintained a vestige of its former glory. High ceilings supported brilliant chandeliers whose light shone down upon chambers of vast proportions. The well-dressed crowd milling about the carpeted expanse could have been lifted from any major international community.
Jeffrey circled about the trio of rooms filled with the city’s movers and shakers. He paused beside a group paying careful attention to a heavyset Russian who spoke with authority: “Step by step we make progress. It is a long voyage from Communism to liberty. Very long. No one expects to make it overnight. But if I have one criticism of my countrymen, it is that they concentrate overmuch on the unsolved and do not take hope from the successes. Yes, the positive aspects are small when taken against all that is left undone. But these are steps in the right direction, and for this reason it is most important that they be given a place in the limelight.”
“I guess seeing goods on the shelves has helped reassure the people,” a listener offered.
“Yes and no. Appearance of Western goods and high-priced foods is pleasing to those who can afford them, but a source of great tension to everyone else. Most people find these products completely beyond their reach. They see them, but cannot buy them. This is like one of our ancient fables.” He shrugged. “We are a patient people. We are very hard to get moving, but once we are going, we are very hard to stop.”
Somebody asked, “How does the situation look for this winter?”
“Difficult, but we hope not dangerous.” He tossed back the remainder of his drink. “So long as there is not a coal or rail strike and the roads stay open, we will make it. Famine combined with no heat would end everything.”
“At least there is some help coming from the West,” another offered.
“Not enough, and too slow,” he replied. “We are starving on the West’s cautious assistance. The biggest lesson we have learned recently is that capitalist money is a coward. The spenders hear the word risk and they zip up their pockets. We are fed with words, when what we need is the machinery to make our own bread.”
“Speaking of bread,” someone asked, “is there any hope that Russia will ever be able to feed itself?”
“At the turn of the century,” the Russian replied, “my nation was exporting more food to England than it consumed itself. In the years before the October Revolution, after the system of serfdom was abolished and Russians worked the land as free men, the farming villages had a higher level of income than the cities. But the Bolsheviks feared the peasants’ power and smothered the villages with their policy of collectivization.”
“Not to mention the pricing structure,” another offered.
The Russian nodded his agreement. “A loaf of bread cost the same in 1987 as it did in 1925. The situation was so catastrophic that farmers found it less expensive to feed their pigs with fresh bread than with raw barley. Communist pricing structure was a lesson in insanity.”
The Consul General appeared at Jeffrey’s elbow. He pulled him away from the crowd and said quietly, “Sounds like Casey wasn’t able to find anything more than you did.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Jeffrey replied. “He made it clear he’d just as soon not have me
around.”
Allbright smiled without humor. “In these parts it’s hard to find people to trust, and harder still to trust them once you do. Casey’s got the eyes of a hawk, though. Doubt seriously if he missed anything.” He nodded a friendly greeting to a passing face and said more quietly, “I hope.”
“You took quite a risk in telling me about the kidnapping, didn’t you?”
“Not if you’re as honest as you look.”
“Still, I imagine you had some disagreement from your staff,” Jeffrey ventured. “Disapproval, even.”
“Comes with the job. You develop a thick hide or you retire and grow flowers,” Allbright stated flatly. “Might surprise you to know that Casey felt we could trust you as well. I put a lot of value on that man’s opinion.”
Jeffrey hid his surprise. “I imagine you learn to trust your own judgment, too.”
“Makes a lot more sense than asking the advice of somebody behind a desk in Washington, six thousand miles from the action.” Allbright faced him. “What are you getting at?”
“You were right when you said I hadn’t told you everything,” Jeffrey replied. “I think I ought to exchange honesty for honesty.”
“That’s all a man can ask for.” He took Jeffrey by the arm. “What say we find us a quiet corner.”
They left the main suite of three public rooms and passed the central staircase where Casey stood watching everything and everyone with his deceptively easy gaze. Allbright motioned for him to join them. Together they ducked into a small guest apartment.
“We call this the Nixon Rooms,” Allbright explained. “He used to stay here when he visited during his presidency.”
Once they were seated in a small alcove, Jeffrey related what he knew about the stolen articles from the Ukrainian church. “One of the priests overheard the thieves say something about the treasures being headed for Saint Petersburg. There was also evidence that the thieves were from inside the Orthodox church.”
Allbright mulled this over, asked, “You’re not alone on this, are you?”
“There are two others here from Lvov, sort of using me as a cover while they check things out.”
“And you think you can trust these folks?”
Jeffrey shrugged. “All I have to go on is their word, but I believe they’re telling me the truth. If so, the stolen items would be worth millions in the West. More.”
“And the Orthodox might be behind the theft,” Allbright mused.
“Nothing definite,” Jeffrey replied, “but according to what I was told, there is at least the possibility.”
“From the tone of your voice, I’d say you don’t believe it.”
“I guess I have trouble accepting the idea that one church would steal from another,” Jeffrey confessed.
“Are you a believer yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Protestant?”
“Baptist,” Jeffrey affirmed.
“Well, there are a few bad apples in every barrel, even in a church, I’m afraid. But like you, my first reaction is to treat this with skepticism. Still, Russia’s not like any place you’ve ever been before, and that holds true for the Orthodox church as well.” Allbright exchanged a glance with Casey. A moment’s silent communication passed between them, then Allbright said, “Have you spoken to anyone within the church here?”
Jeffrey shook his head. “I don’t know a soul.”
“Something as serious as a possible theft of another church’s treasures should certainly be discussed with a senior authority. Let me make a couple of calls,” Allbright offered. “Maybe I can help you out there. If so, I’ll make the connection with someone who will be sure to give you a fair hearing.”
“That would be great, thanks.”
“Hard to tell what happens these days when you pull a string. Might come up with gold. On the other hand, so much changes every hour, you might come up with something that’ll try to eat both the string and the hand that’s pulling it.” He gave his best effort to produce a reassuring smile. “But maybe it’s time to take that chance. If not for your sake, then for the sake of our lost lady friend.”
Chapter 24
The Alexander Nevsky Lavra was surrounded by wide thoroughfares. The streetcars and trucks created a continual barrage outside the high stone gates. In his conversation that morning, Allbright had explained to Jeffrey that a Lavra was a large monastery whose enclave had been granted independence by royal decree, a sort of miniature city-state. The early morning light treated the ancient structure with a gentle hand. The roughened walls were smoothed, the flaking plaster polished, the colors restored to their brilliant past. For a brief instant, Jeffrey was gifted a glimpse of what once had been.
The high outer walls contained an area so vast that two great cemeteries, a canal, and a forest surrounded the seminary and cathedral. The walls and first line of trees muted the barrage of traffic noise to a distant hum. Pensioners and cripples lined both sides of the central cobblestone way, their chanted prayers and soft pleas a murmur as constant as the wind.
Inside the dual cemeteries rested the remains of Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Tchaikovsky, and other greats of Russian arts and literature. Yet what caught Jeffrey’s eye as he headed for his meeting was how many of the old gravestones had been defaced, their crucifixes damaged with savage strokes. Over more recent Communist remains rose simple marble pyramids topped with a single red star, stone fingers pointed toward a heaven whose existence they eternally denied.
“Go see Father Anatoli,” the Consul General had told him that morning over the telephone. “He’s personal assistant to the Metropolitan of Saint Petersburg, though for how much longer is anybody’s guess. The ultraconservatives are sharpening their knives. He studied in England for a couple of years, which leaves him tainted in the xenophobes’ eyes. Anatoli doesn’t have time for their ‘Russia for the Orthodox’ nonsense, and he’ll say so to anybody who listens. Not a way to make friends in this town.”
Jeffrey stored away his questions about xenophobia, took down the address, and asked, “What’s a Metropolitan?”
“Local church leader. In the Orthodox church, the Patriarch in Moscow is the head. Metropolitans run the different regions.”
“The Patriarch is like the Pope?”
“Yes and no. There’s no such thing as papal infallibility in Orthodoxy. The Patriarch’s called ‘the first among equals.’”
“What should I tell Anatoli?”
“That’s for you to decide. If I were in your place, though, I think I’d trust the man.”
* * *
Following the Consul General’s instructions, Jeffrey turned right by the outer canal and followed the walkway to a tall, freestanding structure enclosed within its own fortified wall. Jeffrey walked through the copse of tall birch, entered the broad double oaken doors, and loudly pronounced the priest’s name to the elderly gentleman acting as both guard and receptionist. The man rose from his stool and shuffled down the long hall, motioning for Jeffrey to follow. They passed through an outer alcove fashioned as a private chapel, where the man made a sign of the cross using large, exaggerated gestures. He opened tall inner doors and pointed Jeffrey toward a dark-haired man seated at a massive desk.
“Mr. Sinclair?” The voice held a rich depth, the eyes great clarity. As he rose, the silver cross hanging from his neck thumped against his chest. He walked forward with hand outstretched. “I am Father Anatoli, the Metropolitan’s personal assistant.”
“Nice to meet you.” Jeffrey felt his hand engulfed in a bearlike grip.
“Please take a seat.” He motioned Jeffrey toward the conference table at the room’s far end. “I have spoken with Mr. Allbright this morning. He said you had something of possible importance to the church which you wished to discuss with me.”
“Yes, that is, I—”
“The Consul General also informs me that you are a Christian.” A peasant’s hand, flat and broad as a shovel blade, began stroking his broad curly beard whe
re it collected upon his cassock. “And a Protestant. Is all this true?”
Jeffrey listened behind the man’s words and heard the same measuring tone he found in almost everyone in this alien land. The need to assess, to test for truth and strength, before trusting. “I know Jesus Christ as Lord,” Jeffrey replied. “I hope and pray that on the day when I stand before Him, He will know me as well. And yes, I am a Baptist. My wife and I currently attend an evangelical Anglican church.”
“This is all most interesting,” the priest said, his lazy hand motions belied by the intense gleam in his eyes. “I seldom have an opportunity to meet with Protestants from the West. Tell me, Mr. Sinclair. Have you visited one of our churches?”
“I have not yet had an opportunity, but I would like to.”
“You know, Mr. Sinclair, many of my fellow priests within the Orthodox faith are quite opposed to the Protestant revivals sweeping our country. I do not agree with these men, but still they are a force to be reckoned with.”
Jeffrey met the questing gaze square on and replied, “In America there is room for many different kinds of churches.”
“Some of us believe the same is true here in Russia. But not all, I am sorry to say. There are those who say the Orthodox way is the only way for Russians. Such men claim that the Orthodox church alone has been invested with spiritual responsibility for this nation. Such declarations in my opinion are as great an error as it would be to say that only Protestants hold the keys to heaven.”
“I always thought salvation rested in Jesus Christ,” Jeffrey said.
“A profound statement.” A glimmer of approval showed on the heavy features. “But unfortunately, not a truth the church always remembers. The first Protestant churches arrived in Russia toward the end of the nineteenth century, established by German and English missionaries. There was horrible persecution in those early days, both by the state and, tragically, by my own church. Both saw it as an invasion of the spirit. They accused the outsiders of weakening the Russian nation. In the smaller cities and villages there were massacres. Then in 1905 the czar issued a manifesto that legalized all evangelical churches. There was a truce of sorts until the Bolsheviks swept to power. In the persecutions of 1917 to 1930, as the Communists solidified their position, the churches learned to band together in order to survive. This lasted until the onset of perestroika.”
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