“This is Russia. Right here. It is the piece of our history that I think will interest you the most.” Fetisov stopped at a large case. “The Russian crown jewels and Catherine the Great’s scepter. Now for a man of your talents, I’m sure that whets the appetite, hey?”
Michael and Susan stood before the case staring in at an enormous diamond. It sat within the royal scepter of Catherine the Great, by far the largest diamond either of them had ever seen. It was the size of half an egg. It was mounted in a simple gold scepter and was ringed in smaller diamonds. Whoever wielded it truly wielded power.
“In 1773, Count Orlov purchased this one-hundred-ninety carat diamond in Amsterdam for 1,400,000 florins. It originated in India, stolen by a French soldier stationed there in the 1750s who converted to Hinduism in order to enter the innermost sanctum of the sacred island shrine, Srirangem, where he removed the jewel from the eye of a Hindu idol. Count Orlov presented this enormous jewel to Catherine the Great in hope of winning her love and marrying her. She had the stone placed in this scepter in front of you, thanked him for his gift, and sent him packing. She was tough. Talk about bling.”
Fetisov, Michael, and Susan walked out the door of the Armory that Lexie held open, emerging into the hot midday sun. Fetisov kept them moving toward the middle of an enormous plaza that was ringed with churches. A natural hush fell over the large expanse as the crowds stood in awe at the holiness around them. Each structure was unique, but all bore one thing in common: they were spiritually spectacular. Michael looked up at the multitude of domes; he had never seen so many crosses, even in the Vatican. They were surrounded by a concentration of houses of worship in a world that forbade religion for seventy-five years. And it made Michael think of his friend Simon, a priest who epitomized contradiction, whose actions stood far from the peaceful representation of his collar. A man who was equally adept at guns and prayer, much like the conflicting philosophies of crosses and Communism.
“Cathedral Square was the setting for coronations, receptions, and many theatrical events. And then, as you know, religion was outlawed during the seventy-five years of Communism,” Fetisov said as he came to a stop, Michael, Susan, and Lexie following his lead. He said nothing more as they all looked around. It was an incredible collection of medieval churches of exquisite design, each distinct in its own right but sharing a universal theme under God.
Michael looked up at the enormous Cathedral of the Assumption, the five golden domes resting on white towers above an arch-laden brick church.
“This was the most beautiful and important of the Kremlin’s churches since the late fifteenth century,” Fetisov said. “From the sixteenth century until the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917, all of the tsars were crowned here. The Italian architect Fioravanti, who designed it and many of the Kremlin structures both above-and belowground, was rewarded for his efforts with imprisonment until his death.
“There is a legend that in the winter of 1941, when Nazi troops had arrived at the city limits of a crumbling, war-torn Moscow, Stalin gave the order for a service to be held in the cathedral to pray for the country’s salvation.” Fetisov tilted his head toward Susan. “Funny how people reject God until they need him.
“Finally, in 1990, the church reopened its doors to the public as a museum in honor of its history.
“Within each of these churches lay invaluable art. Almost every inch of wall was covered with the finest pieces of work the world has ever seen. But that is for another day.”
“This is great, beautiful buildings,” Michael said facetiously, growing impatient. “But it’s not helping me plan my job. I need to know where the entrances to the various areas of the known underground structures are.”
“You are interrupting my speech.” Fetisov turned toward a small white church to his left tucked away behind the Cathedral of the Assumption. “The Church of the Deposition of the Robe is named after the Byzantine feast day which celebrates the arrival of the robe of the Virgin Mary in Constantinople.”
Michael and Susan exchanged a confused glance.
“Listen,” Michael said. “This looks great but I really need to know—”
“Pay attention. Listen to what I say, watch where we go,” Fetisov said in a scolding voice. “You never know when you may need to know your way around here. I’m getting to the location you need, now just bear with me.”
Michael was paying attention, strict attention, to everything they had seen, every door, every gate, every section of wall. He knew quite well that the lay of the land, knowing his surroundings, was one of the most important aspects of his job. But he hated not being in control, he hated being led.
“The Cathedral of the Annunciation is the only church wholly designed and built by Russians. It was the private church of the Russian grand dukes, princes, and tsars and it was here that members of the ruling family were married, their newborn heirs to the throne baptized, and their confessions heard. But the tsars ruled with iron fists, and I doubt any one of them was ever truly contrite or regretted any sin.”
Michael and Susan looked up at the nine smooth gold domes sparkling against the clear blue sky, their nine crosses casting shadows upon the host of tourists who meandered by. The whitewashed brick was accented by the maroon latticework in the windows.
“This cathedral is an amalgamation of churches and chapels from the fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries and is the second oldest cathedral in the Kremlin. The domes, the roof, and the tops of the apses are coated in gold stolen from the ancient city of Novgorod after Ivan the Terrible sacked it. How many of your great American structures can you say were built with the spoils of war?” Fetisov winked his bad eye, which seemed completely unnatural. “It was completed in 1564, then substantially modified to allow Ivan access to view church services after he had been banned from the church.
“In 1572 Ivan married for the fourth time, even though the Russian Orthodox faith only permits three marriages. I mean, if you can’t get it right by the third time…” Fetisov joked but no one smiled.
“Anyway, he was prohibited from attending Mass. But the church fathers, not wanting to anger their ill-tempered tsar, allowed him to watch services from an enclosed gallery accessed via a separate porch-covered entrance, nicknamed the Groznensky, Terrible Porch. While on this porch in 1584, the tsar saw a cross-shaped comet streak across the heavens, which he took as an omen foretelling his imminent death. Three days later…” Fetisov paused for the dramatic. “Dead.”
Susan leaned into Michael. “Is this a waste of time?”
“We’ll only know that once we succeed or fail.”
“And what’s up with that hair?” Susan whispered as she glanced at Fetisov’s black mop. “Is it a bad dye job or a bad toupee?”
“I think—”
“My wife likes the color, she does it herself twice a month,” Fetisov said without looking their way. “If you like the color, miss, I could arrange for her to do your hair.”
Susan smiled, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”
“It was rude.” Fetisov turned around, staring at her with his one good eye as if for the first time. His milky-white pupil remained unfocused, unsettling, floating about. And then he smiled. “But it is OK. I don’t think it looks good, either.”
“This is all well and good,” Michael said. He was beyond exasperated. “But what I really need access to, where I really need to get to, is the confluence of the seven rivers.”
Fetisov stopped, adjusted his horn-rim glasses, and looked at Michael. “The where?”
“A junction of canals somewhere underneath Moscow.”
Fetisov stared at Michael and a mix of emotions washed over his face. “You’re going to do this from underground?”
Michael nodded.
“A digger, huh? I was under the assumption this would be a different kind of operation.”
For the first time Michael saw the confidence slip from Fetisov.
“You know, there are rumors down t
here. I believe that is all they are. Many times searches have been conducted, both official and unofficial, yet nothing was found. There was no trace of gold, no trace of jewels. There was no torture chamber, no library. It has probably all collapsed to rubble.”
But then Fetisov’s enthusiasm returned and he nodded. “No matter, I’ll get you there…somehow. I’ll find a way to get you to this place that doesn’t exist.”
Fetisov shuffled forward. “But in the meantime. OK, you’ll like this one: the Archangel Michael was thought of as the patron saint of the Russian warriors who battled against foreign invaders. Kind of redundant for you, huh?”
Michael ignored the jab while trying to hide his impatience and looked at the church before him. The cathedral stood alone in open ground, four domes centered around an enormous golden one that rose above a multi-gabled roof that capped scalloped carved arches. Intricate carvings of flowers decorated the white stone facade while the detailed artistry abounded.
“The Cathedral of the Archangel was begun in 1505, on this site of a church dating from 1333. It was the burial site for the princes and tsars of Moscow from 1340 to 1712, before Peter moved the capital to St. Petersburg. Inside, there are almost fifty sarcophagi lining the walls. The tombs of Ivan the Fourth—by the way, we don’t think he was that terrible—and his sons, Ivan and Fyodor, are hidden away in a chapel. The bodies laid to rest in the Archangel Cathedral all lie in stone sarcophagi, carved in the seventeenth century. Bronze encasements were added in 1903, with inscriptions of the names and dates in intricate Old Slavonic script.
“There was an old Russian tradition that the dead should be buried before sunset so they could take their leave of the sun before their ascension into Heaven. Snuffed-out candles were placed on the graves, while flickering icon lamps were placed in front, so that the memory of their royal parents would live on. These days, kids run off with whatever inheritance their parents left them while their folks rot away to be forgotten. And they call it a modern world.
“The custom to use the church as a burial place was adopted by Russia from Byzantium, where the honor was conferred on those whose legacy lived on after their death: kings, high officials, and patriarchs. Family tombs were dedicated to the Archangel Michael, who, according to Christian mythology, guided the deceased into the kingdom of the dead. Hence the naming of this cathedral.”
Michael continued to shoot pictures, playing the part of the tourist while his mind was working on overtime, mentally capturing every detail of the world around him. He turned his attention to Ivan the Great’s Bell Tower which soared 265 feet above the Kremlin. Constructed of bright white stone, it sat next to the Assumption Belfry, on the left. One of the most magnificent sites in all of Russia, Ivan’s tower was a white octagonal structure that climbed high out of the Kremlin, visible to all of Moscow.
“The four-story Assumption Belfry,” Fetisov continued, “was built by the Italian architect Maliy and contains the largest of the twenty-one bells—the Resurrection Bell, weighing almost sixty-four tons. When Napoleon began his retreat from Moscow in 1812 after the war, he ordered that the bell tower be destroyed in his wake. But like all incompetent French…he failed.”
They continued walking past a large forested garden that seemed so out of place within the walled battlements. Enormous trees and gardens in summer bloom rendered a tranquility that projected a calm over Fetisov and his party.
They finally came back upon another series of ancient buildings. “If you care, this is the Kremlin military school, built as a training school for officers. Today it houses departments of the Russian presidential administration. And this…” They came upon another large square where to their right stood a large triangular building, golden yellow with white accents that mimicked the Armory’s appearance. A flag-capped dome rose from within a central courtyard. “The Senate building used to house the Soviet government. It is filled with inner courtyards and has a great deal of Greek influence with large columns. Much of the world was shaped from within there, for better or worse.”
They had circled all the way around the Kremlin, arriving back where they had started. There were hundreds of cannons on display around the perimeter of an enormous building that ran parallel to the Kremlin wall.
“We captured all of these cannons from Napoleon during the invasion of 1812 as he ran his French ass out of our cold little city. The Arsenal and its corner tower”—Fetisov pointed at the breathtaking structure—“were completed in 1736, to house weapons, ammunition, and military supplies.”
Michael looked at the massive building and the menacing military officers guarding its entrance, their stone faces stern and on alert. The Arsenal was truly the most formidable structure in the entire complex, fortified and imposing. Fetisov guided them around to the enormous two-story entrance.
“As a military nut, this building is my personal favorite,” Fetisov said. “Dating back to 1701 and rebuilt in its current form in 1828, the Arsenal was the staging point for countless battles and military actions on behalf of Russia’s rulers. It not only stored the guns, cannons, and ammunition for the kingdom of old, but housed its military forces as well.
“The Arsenal is left off the Kremlin tour. It’s strictly off-limits to visitors; much of its usage is shrouded. It is the command post for the Presidential Regiment, a military contingent that’s part of the Russian Federal Guard Service. This infantry force ensures the security of the Kremlin and its treasures, and guards the president and state officials. It is one of Russia’s most highly trained military units, composed of the finest of Russia’s finest. The Kremlin Guard used to fall under the KGB’s Ninth Directorate, which was later rechristened the Main Guard Directorate, GUO. These are the guards you have seen on the battlements, at the gates, everywhere you turn, and they will all gladly lay their life down to protect Russia’s heart, this city within a city and everything in it.” Fetisov turned back to Michael, pursed his lips, and tilted his head. “And as I said, they are based out of the Arsenal.”
“I’m glad we don’t need to get in there.” Susan smiled. “Can we go now?”
Michael stopped and stared at Fetisov, unsure of the point he was trying to make. “What are you trying to say?”
“A caravan arrived earlier today.” Fetisov became deadly serious. “It was led by a man named Raechen; he carried with him a woman.”
“And…?”
“She’s been taken to a newly constructed lab.”
“Lab?” Susan asked. “Why a lab?”
“It’s secure. A good place to be held until her ransom is paid,” Fetisov said slowly. “There is much more going on here than you know.”
“Who is the woman that they kidnapped?” Michael demanded.
“Her kidnapper has left her in the care of a doctor, a very prominent doctor named Skovokov who still has the ear of some within the Russian hierarchy. He used to work for Julian Zivera and knows all about the map. He is holding her in exchange for it.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Michael glared at Fetisov.
“Genevieve,” Fetisov said quietly. “They have Julian’s mother, Genevieve.”
Michael stood there in shock.
“For obvious reasons, Julian has no intention of paying the ransom but he wants her back,” Fetisov continued. “And he wants you to save her.”
Michael tried to suppress the multitude of questions that arose in his mind and stay focused, holding off his emotions, trying to gather what information he could. “Where is this lab, where did they take her?”
“They brought her in and took her down the freight elevator.” Fetisov paused as if he was about to reveal a death. “She is ten stories below where we now stand.”
Michael didn’t want to ask; he didn’t want to hear what he already knew. “Where is the elevator?”
“The elevator to where Julian’s mother has been taken is in there,” Fetisov said as he pointed past the two large guards at the Arsenal.
Michael looked
at the Arsenal, at its imposing structure, at its thick, dour guards, pondering the impossibility of it all. Genevieve was alive, held captive within a building whose security was only surpassed by its manpower. No matter how smart, how clever he was with getting past security, there was the human element of armed men involved, and the only predictable thing about them was that they would shoot first without need for questions.
Michael tried to grasp the words that Fetisov uttered but they only drifted about with his confusion. As Michael looked at the structure, he thought of his father. This wasn’t about gold or jewels or a piece of art. It was about a life, his father’s life. He was here for only one reason, to save him. And as impossible as that task seemed, he had held out hope. If he planned right, he had a chance to find the Liberia and retrieve the box to trade for his father. But now to add this…he would do anything for Genevieve, but knew that carrying out two jobs in this forbidden world would truly be impossible.
Two lives lay in his hands now, two people he cared about. And his heart broke, for he had no idea how he could possibly save them both.
“All I know is that she is alive,” Fetisov said as they walked across Red Square past St. Basil’s Cathedral.
“What, is that supposed to make me feel good?” Michael said as he fought to understand the added severity of Genevieve’s kidnapping.
“Despite what you may have heard, Julian does care for his mother, he loves her very much,” Fetisov said.
“Loves her so much he hunted her like an animal?”
“Look at the lengths you will go to to save a father you have yet to know.”
Michael glared at Fetisov, at Julian’s Russian pawn.
“Families are complicated,” Fetisov said. “The relationship between a parent and a child is filled with difficulty and much misunderstanding. You obviously have never been a father. Julian loves his mother and does not want to see her die.”
The Thieves of Faith Page 17
