“Ah. Now all is clear. Rest assured, Prince Markov, this too can be arranged in a manner acceptable to all concerned. An account opened with the sales figure deposited before the first shipment is completed.”
Markov nodded his acceptance, yet somehow knew in an instant of startling pain that the moment would never arrive.
“What should concern you just now is remaining healthy so that you may enjoy it.” Eyes the color of old Siberian ice plunged deep. “To whom have you spoken of our little project?”
“To no one, of course.”
The general snorted his disbelief and declared, “A payment will be demanded for this error.”
“I have made no error,” Markov protested, his heart fluttering like a captured bird. “I did only as we discussed. As we agreed. And there is still nothing certain to indicate that the American is anything more than he appears.”
“Let us both hope that nothing incriminating is ever discovered,” the general said, then subsided into brooding silence.
“You will be moving your articles to another location?” Markov asked, half-hoping that it would be so. At this point, he wanted nothing more than to be rid of the general and his invisible superiors and the whole stinking mess.
The general shook his head, his eyes focused elsewhere. “Not just now. There is too much attention placed upon it. By too many. Including the Americans.”
“You stole from the Americans?”
“No. Well, yes, I suppose. In a sense.”
Markov could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “But why?”
The gaze sharpened. “Shall I pass that question on as well? Allow my superiors to hear that you are now questioning their judgment?”
“No, of course not. It is just—” Markov backed off, wiped a clammy forehead. “What do you wish for me to do?”
“Send your American antiques dealer back to Russia.”
“That is all?”
“For the moment. My superiors have decided to take matters into their own hands.”
“The American has just informed me of his intentions to travel at the end of this week.”
“Excellent. Whether or not he is simply a casual bystander, a mere pawn, the risk has now grown too great. The chance that he might be other than he seems is now too dangerous to permit. This chance must now be eliminated.”
“And for myself?”
“Know I shall argue on your behalf,” the general assured him. “Still, if I were in your position just now, I should have long and serious discussions with whatever gods might be at my disposal.”
Chapter 32
“First the United States Consulate, then the Russian Orthodox Church, and now the KGB.” Bishop Michael Denisov gave his head a merry shake. “Our young American friend has proven to be quite a surprise.”
It was a rare ability, this talent of his for enthusiasm. He delighted in all, showed compassion with humor, brought even the bitterest of babushkas a moment of peace. This reaction to all that the world brought his way caused Ivona equal amounts of awe and frustration.
“You cannot possibly be pleased with his actions,” Ivona protested.
They were seated in the kitchen of what had been the central Ukrainian Rites Catholic Church in all of Saint Petersburg—a converted cellar in a nameless high-rise apartment block. Now that the church was permitted to work above-ground, now that Mass could be held without the threat of arrest, the cellar had been split. Half had been converted into a Bible school for children, and the other half served as a small apartment for visiting church officials.
“Well, he most certainly has been active. You must say that for him.” Bishop Michael looked to Yussef. “Has he told you why he chose to disclose our loss to them?”
“He thought he could trust them,” Yussef replied, and shook his head. “It chills the blood.”
“Yes, quite so,” the bishop agreed, although he did not appear the least concerned. “Still, he has avenues open to him that we do not.”
“The KGB?” Ivona’s voice had a shrill catch to it. “The Orthodox? You call these avenues?”
Yussef released the briefest of smiles. “My dear Aunt Ivona, were you not the one who refused to accuse the Orthodox church of being behind it all?”
“But to turn to them, to confess our secrets,” Ivona protested. “This is madness!”
“He thinks not,” Yussef countered.
“And what has he learned,” Bishop Michael demanded. “Has he told you that?”
“It matches what we ourselves have discovered.”
“Does it indeed?”
Yussef nodded. “And adds some missing pieces.”
“You approve of the American’s actions?”
“The better I know him,” Yussef confessed, “the more I approve.”
Bishop Michael examined him closely. “You are not speaking just of our mission.”
“Not only, no.” Yussef took a breath. “He has a way of bringing the impossible within reach.”
For some reason his words appeared to shake Ivona to the very core. Her hand trembled as she set down her tea and muttered, “Madness.”
Bishop Michael paused to inspect her face, then turned his attention back to Yussef. “You think that he may lead us to the missing treasures?”
“I think,” Yussef said carefully, “that he will do his very best to assist us. And I believe that all his actions are meant to further this aim.”
“Then his coming is indeed a miracle,” Bishop Michael declared. The expression that flashed briefly across Yussef’s features caused him to pause. “What is it?”
“He . . .” Yussef hesitated. “I do not know how to say this.”
“He speaks to Yussef about faith,” Ivona said bitterly, “and Yussef listens.”
Bishop Michael’s eyes widened. “This is true?”
“He challenges my heart,” Yussef confessed.
The fragile, gray-haired man gave a faint smile. “Indeed a miracle,” he repeated.
Ivona was dumfounded. “You can’t possibly mean that you approve of this outrage.”
The bishop gave her a long and thoughtful stare before telling Yussef, “When he returns to Saint Petersburg, share all we know with the American. Let him apply his heart and mind to solving our puzzle. And guard yourselves as best you can, both of you. Danger stalks behind every shadow.”
Chapter 33
The night before Jeffrey’s departure, they held each other close and long, speaking little, sharing with their hearts. If truth be known, if night whispers were to speak in human tongue, it might be found that he wept a bit that night. For he was much in love, yet the wind called out to him, and he knew it was to sweep him away with the dawn.
He knew, but did not let the knowledge rise. He wept, and thought the tears were hers. Which they were. He gave them to her, and she accepted them with her heart and with gentle lips that tasted their saltiness and the love that lifted them from his eyes.
She cried as well, trying to lower her head so that he would not see how his tenderness opened her soul. She with a woman’s wisdom could, in the moment of their first true confession of spirit, see all that was already gone from her life, all that he and his love was to change, all that she was called to leave behind. That was the price of this adventure called lifelong love.
The next morning she clung to him with bonds that went far beyond the tender caresses, the soft words, the yearning eyes. Her heart held his, filled him with a light and a joy that caused real pain as his own heart grew and expanded to accept her gift. They watched the dawn with eyes sharing an inner light more majestic than the cloud-flecked sky, more glorious than the symphony of bird-song outside their window.
“You can’t just treat this as a game,” she said over coffee.
“It’s tempting,” he confessed.
“Not anymore,” she went on. “Not when my life is in your hands.”
He reached for her, said the words that seemed ever new no matter how oft
en they were repeated. “I love you, Katya.”
“There is responsibility with that, Jeffrey.”
“I know.”
“If something happened to you, I could not go on.” Her eyes were violet wells into which he plunged and wondered at the depth of love he found there. “I’m not saying that to scare you, but just to make you understand. You have to be careful. For me. You have to take care.”
“I will, Katya.”
She searched his face, found enough reassurance there to taste the smallest smile. “You’re too handsome by half, Jeffrey Sinclair. Don’t you dare look at another woman until you get back, do you understand?”
“I’ve already packed my club.”
“I never thought I would fall for a handsome man. Never in my wildest dreams.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“My dreams were always of a man with pretty eyes. I indulged myself that much. Pretty eyes and a good heart. A minister, maybe, or a doctor who spent his free days working with poor children.” She stared up at him and repeated with wonder in her voice, “Never in my wildest dreams.”
“Are you sorry?”
Jeffrey decided hers was the way all smiles should be, beginning at the heart, brimming up through the eyes, finally touching the lips. She said, “Now you’re fishing for compliments.”
“A shopkeeper who sells used furniture—”
“A fine young man with the face of some famous explorer,” she corrected, and traced the line of his jaw with one fingernail. “You really do, you know. Full of strength and bravery and courage.”
“Makes up for a heart the size of a lemon, I guess.”
“Stop it, Jeffrey,” she said mildly. “I think that’s what frightens me, how you take this strength so much for granted. It makes me worry you might try something foolish, not even thinking it through, just because your strength’s never really been tested.”
“You’re beginning to get me about half-scared.”
“Good.” Her smile took on a hint of sadness. “You are precious to me, Jeffrey Allen Sinclair. More precious than my own life.”
His eyes burned from the honesty in her words. He leaned forward, tasted her lips, whispered the promise, “I’ll be careful, Katya. For you.”
****
Jeffrey stepped off the plane to find Saint Petersburg sweltering under a mustard-yellow sky. The air stank. Each breath burned his nostrils and coated his tongue. While waiting for his suitcase, he overheard another passenger say that the city’s garbage dump had been burning out of control for nine days. Because of the drought, there was no water available to put out the fires.
The streets, such as they were, belonged to the pedestrians. Few people could afford cars, fewer still the bribes required to obtain gasoline. Streetcars were jammed, the metros eternally overcrowded and stuffy. Gypsies worked the crowded pedestrian ways, surrounding their chosen victim, wailing in a dozen voices, and pressing cranky babies up to the victim’s face, while nimble fingers used the confusion to pick the victim’s pocket. Street kids rode buses and trams for kicks, clinging to the rear guide wires that led up to the overhead power cables. They swung by one hand, smoked cigarettes with the other, dangled their bodies over the cars behind, laughing all the way.
Jeffrey watched the street scene from the backseat of a jouncing taxi and nursed a sore neck. Perhaps because of missed sleep or anticipated stress, perhaps because of missing Katya, his back was once again complaining loudly. The taxi driver did not help matters. He drove too fast down potholed streets, slammed on brakes at the last possible moment, raced his motor at stoplights, wove in and out of traffic, used elevated tram tracks like ski jumps, and generally drove like everyone else. Jeffrey braced himself as best he could and hoped the pain would not worsen.
After dropping his case by the guesthouse, Jeffrey continued on to the Alexander Nevsky Lavra. When he arrived at the monastery’s office building, Jeffrey was escorted immediately into Father Anatoli’s office.
“I have some information for you,” the priest reported, motioning him toward a seat. “But first it is necessary to explain the background. Earlier this year, the leader of the Ukrainian Rites Church wrote a letter to our Patriarch in Moscow. I suppose you are familiar with the history of the Ukrainian churches?”
“Just the bare bones,” Jeffrey replied.
“In his letter, the Ukrainian wrote and said, let us be brothers in Christ’s name. Let us work as one for the salvation of our Russian and Ukrainian brothers and sisters. It was a glorious moment for people within the church who feel as I do. Glorious.
“Patriarch Alexis did not wish to reply with words, but rather with deeds. He ordered the Metropolitan of Kiev, the head of the Orthodox church in the Ukraine, to accept the offer and to return the Ukrainian churches that were given to the Orthodox after Stalin’s infamous synod of 1946.” His expression turned bleak. “You can guess what happened.”
“The Metropolitan refused.”
“Exactly. Patriarch Alexis used this refusal as an opportunity to convene the first synod of all Russian Orthodox bishops in over ninety years. Evidence was brought against the Metropolitan of Kiev and others who had been raised up within the church hierarchy under pressure of the former regime.”
“The Metropolitan of Kiev worked for the KGB?”
Father Anatoli nodded. “This we knew for a fact. And now that the KGB no longer held the reins of earthly power, he worked for the new Ukrainian government. For the Communists turned capitalists. At any rate, the synod stripped the Metropolitan of his titles.”
“Something in your face tells me the story didn’t end there,” Jeffrey observed.
“Indeed not. The man replied by breaking the Ukrainian Orthodox church away from Moscow.”
“Trouble,” Jeffrey offered.
“Chaos and danger. Our priests within the Ukraine who condemn this action are now beginning to disappear. He has the backing of the Ukrainian government, you see, who wish to have the religious ties as well as the political ties to Moscow broken.” The priest looked infinitely weary. “It is a problem like that of the Communists all over again.”
“The Consul General mentioned the church’s tie to the KGB,” Jeffrey said. “It amazes me that they could infiltrate the church’s hierarchy to such an extent.”
“It is indeed so easy to judge the ways of others,” Anatoli replied coolly.
“I’m not judging anybody,” Jeffrey countered. “I just don’t understand.”
He examined Jeffrey closely. “Very well, I shall explain. There can be no question that many of the clergy worked closely with the KGB. Not just from our church, but every church allowed to operate within the former Soviet Union, including the Protestants. The question we face today is, when did the necessary contact with the Communist authorities become collaboration and betrayal? In some cases, it is almost impossible to determine. In others, there is no doubt.”
“Like with the Metropolitan of Kiev,” Jeffrey offered.
“Exactly,” Anatoli agreed. “You see, under the Communist system, every priest and every Protestant minister required government permission to preach, to organize a parish, and to hold church office.”
“Did you also have to have permission to enter the priesthood?” Jeffrey asked.
He hesitated. “Officially, no. In practice, yes. No one could be admitted to a seminary or theological college without the government’s permission. Why? Because it was necessary to apply for travel permits to journey from one city to another. And once there, it was necessary to have a residence permit in order to stay and study.”
“A legal straitjacket,” Jeffrey said.
“In effect,” Father Anatoli confirmed. “In the first year at seminary, all students were then ordered to visit the local KGB official responsible for church activities. He was always a senior officer. The pattern was well known. At this first meeting, he would be quite kind, quite friendly. There would be no threats. He would say, there is of cour
se religious freedom in our country. We in the government are merely anxious to see that the church function in its proper way.
“But, the KGB officer would continue, there are some elements within our society who are opposed to the great Soviet system. They seek to use the church for ulterior motives. It is essential that we identify these people and protect our nation from harm. If you see among the staff or students at the theological college any anti-Soviet attitudes, we would be grateful if you would inform us. Just to ensure that the church functions smoothly, you understand. Such people can do a lot of harm to everyone.”
“It chills the blood,” Jeffrey declared.
“As it did for many students, especially those young ones from small villages who had no way of preparing for this contact,” Anatoli replied. “Now in the second year, the interview would be much tougher. The KGB agent would say, we were looking for your cooperation, but you haven’t offered it. This does not bode well for you. It is a dangerous direction to take, and it makes me question your patriotism. Here, I have a list of names. We want you to report back to us in two or three months with any information you might be able to gather on them.”
“And there it starts,” Jeffrey said.
“If you were a person of strong moral character,” Anatoli continued, “you could get through your four years of training without giving anything of great importance away. But even so, the seeds of distrust and fear were sown among the clergy. There was never any assurance that someone might not inform on you, if ever you were to speak too openly or trust someone too deeply.”
“And those of weaker character?”
“Exactly. Inevitably, among two hundred students or so, there were some who were unstable.”
“Or scared,” Jeffrey added.
“Or who fell into moral difficulty,” Anatoli finished. “The KGB were most eager to use honey traps on any of the weaker priests. This granted them a weapon they could wield against the priest for his entire life. And so a network of spies was established within each seminary class.”
“And once that first step was made, the next step was much easier.”
Winter Palace Page 26
