The Hunters h-1
Page 19
The design of their uniform was truly inspired. Had they donned the long, skirted garment that had served as their wardrobe’s inspiration, they would have been seen as pale imitations of the original. But in this modern version of the traditional garb, they were able to declare their allegiance without words, as well as mark themselves as a group to be reckoned with.
Dvorkin was proud to be a member of the Black Robes. Gone was the stench of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, the Committee of State Security, which he had fought so hard to become part of as a young man. That organization, known everywhere as the dreaded KGB, had been magnificent when Dvorkin had struggled to impress them.
He had just turned eighteen and had spent his young life preparing for his eventual acceptance into its ranks. He had joined the Communist Party as soon as they had allowed him to and had joined the Party’s security agency shortly thereafter. With the mighty Vladimir Kryuchkov at the helm of the KGB, there was the promise of an even more powerful agency, one in which Dvorkin would’ve had an important role. But somehow that dream never happened.
By the end of the 1980s, head of state Mikhail Gorbachev launched radical reforms that led to national instability. Naturally Kryuchkov wanted to hold the country together. He gathered all his newest, strongest agents, Dvorkin included, for a coup in 1991. But Gorbachev turned Kryuchkov’s solid ground to sand — and he did it brilliantly. Instead of cracking down on Kryuchkov and his followers, he left them alone. Because Kryuchkov did not have a reason to complain to the Communist Party, the Party would not give him the authority to retaliate, and that led to the smoldering destruction of the KGB.
In 1991, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics formally dissolved. The KGB was quickly divided into several weaker organizations, all under the direct control of the new Russia — and make no mistake about it: the new Russia was not the Communist Party.
Pavel Dvorkin, like so many others, was set adrift.
For a time, he took jobs that suited his temperament and training. A shakedown here, a robbery there — until one day in 2002 when he was asked to obtain incriminating evidence against a high-ranking member of the Politburo. Dvorkin did more than find it; he supplied it in the form of a male prostitute. The scandal that followed was when and how he came to the attention of an exciting new group: the Black Robes. Now, more than a decade later, he was deeply ensconced in their midst and well trusted by his colleagues.
Some of his fellow congregants were perplexed by their presence in Kazan. Why not work out of Tiumen Oblast, Siberia — once known as Pokrovskoe — where their master had been born? Or what about St Petersburg, where their master had healed Prince Alexi of hemophilia and brought royal-lady-in-waiting Anya Vyrubova out of a coma after a train wreck?
Instead, their leader had chosen Kazan as their headquarters, a place where their master had lived in 1902 and had begun gathering his first disciples. Known as the ‘third capital of Russia’, Kazan was a splendid, sprawling city at the juncture of the Kazanka and Volga Rivers. Thanks to the diverse, ever-growing population, the town was full of mosques, cathedrals, churches, and temples. Here, amongst pilgrims of many religions, the Black Robes could hide in plain sight.
Dvorkin walked over the bridge spanning the Bolaq channel — just one of many waterways that reflected, literally and figuratively, the sparkling architecture consisting of white stone buildings with red clay roofs, interspersed with soaring communication towers, stadiums, academies, palaces, and even circuses, complete with elevated ‘big tops’. In the distance, he could see the Millennium Bridge, named for the city’s thousandth anniversary and marked by a giant yellow ‘M’ pylon. In another direction was the Kazan Kremlin, an historic citadel built at the behest of Ivan the Terrible on the ruins of a fallen castle.
Dvorkin took a final look at the city he knew so well, then directed his attention to their headquarters. It was a relatively small, innocuous building — just three stories tall — that blended into its surroundings. Although it was dwarfed by many of Kazan’s edifices, it remained the biggest building on this block. Its architecture was similar to the others, except it had a slightly sloping brown roof, while the others had slightly pointed reddish ones.
With eight tall, narrow windows on each side of every floor, plus corner windows allowing for views in all directions, it seemed sedate, civilized, and unassuming. But as Dvorkin approached the nondescript entrance, he knew at least three cameras and a half-dozen people, both inside and outside the structure, were watching him. He pressed the thumb piece of the door’s handle set and waited. No key, code, or identity card was needed. His entry was allowed from the guards within. There was a buzz and click, and then he went inside the plain antechamber. It was a solid steel box, covered with dark wood paneling.
Dvorkin waited in the eight-foot cube until the door closed behind him, sealing out all light. He stood in total darkness and waited until the infrared sensors had scanned his entire body. Then there was another buzz and another click, and a sliding panel opened in front of him. He stepped through and entered another world.
It was as if he had been transported to 1916 and was standing in the macabre quiet of the Crimson Drawing Room of the Alexander Palace — the preferred home of Nicholas II and his family. A gilded chandelier hung from the ceiling. Marble columns braced heavily draped walls. The chairs were richly upholstered in crimson cloth. The carpet was deep and crimson. The walls were covered with the same sort of emerald wallpaper that had adorned the royal home.
At first glance, there were only two major differences between the original room in St Petersburg and this facsimile in Kazan. One, there were no windows looking out on the royal grounds, and two, the building was filled with gorgeous women dressed in white.
Like angels in a twisted dream.
Following their leader’s directive, the women adhered to the precepts of the Khlysty sect. It preached salvation through sin, with spirits and sensuality being the devices to divine grace. As such, heavy crystal decanters of brandy were on virtually every other table, and languid women rested here and there, all in attire that sexualized royal refinement. The two women in the crimson room wore tight, white lace shirts over white, whale-boned corsets; long, clinging silk gowns with slits up the leg; white lace, thigh-high stockings; and white, high-heeled, button-up ankle boots. The women were both tall and slim, with long, glossy, light brown hair.
That was another benefit of headquartering in Kazan. The streets were full of hopeful actresses, models, athletes, and students — many of whom were so frustrated at their lack of success that they were willing to receive a relatively substantial salary to serve the greater good.
Neither woman looked at him. In fact, their eyes were hooded with heavy lids over unfocused pupils. Dvorkin knew they were most likely sedated, hungover, or both. He hadn’t spoken to the staff members who were responsible for these women, but he did not have to. Their behavior reflected alcohol, leisure medications, and the ‘additives’ thereof.
Dvorkin had once heard their leader say, ‘If our supplicants require external encouragement to reach internal enlightenment, then they shall have it.’
Whether they knew about it or not.
Dvorkin glanced to his left when a short man in a black tunic walked through the far door. He had a severe expression on his face and slicked-back hair. The man said, ‘We’ve been expecting you. He will see you now.’
‘Which room?’ Dvorkin asked.
‘The sitting room.’
Dvorkin breathed a sigh of relief. The sitting room was the re-creation of Alexandra’s formal reception area, up on the third floor. That was where their leader customarily had his minor meetings, so that gave credence to Dvorkin’s hope that their leader only wanted to assure himself that all was proceeding on schedule.
Dvorkin left the other man in the Crimson Study and went up the wide stairs to the third floor. The second floor, as he well knew, was filled with offices and planning rooms where the organiz
ation members carried out their leader’s bidding.
He went left at the landing to walk a wide, well-decorated hall. He passed the re-creation of Alexandra’s Maple Room, her Mauve Room, and the Pallisander Room, before approaching the door of the Formal Reception Room. He stood outside and prepared to knock, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.
He turned to see a pair of the white, high-heeled ankle boots lying, unbuttoned, outside the cracked-open door of Alexandra’s Imperial Bedroom re-creation. He tried to peer into the bedroom but only glimpsed dark hints of the overstuffed interior. He thought he might have heard muffled human sounds, but he wasn’t sure. It appeared as if whoever had stood in those shoes had been pulled right out of them.
Dvorkin knocked and pushed open the door. The room was like it had been in Alexander Palace. The walls were covered in artificial marble topped with an ornately molded entablature. Heavy, cranberry-colored curtains covered the windows. The floor was of dark gold parquet topped with a French Savonierre-style rug. Scattered around the room’s edges were various chairs, tables, bookcases, and writing desks, all in the style of eighteenth-century France.
In the middle of the room was a small table, flanked by chairs.
In one sat Grigori Yefimovich Sidorov.
The leader of the Black Robes.
42
The sight of their leader never failed to affect Dvorkin. There was a palpable thrill, knowing how clever and commanding he was, the power he wielded over the Black Robes and beyond. But that same knowledge also conjured a feeling of unease. Even today, it stopped him in his tracks.
The hawk-faced man didn’t seem to notice. He motioned for Dvorkin to sit opposite him. Dvorkin nodded gratefully, then paused in mid-step as he noticed another high-heeled boot out of the corner of his left eye. This one, however, was filled with a dainty female foot. It led to a long, shapely leg attached to the torso of another seemingly comatose young woman in white, draped across a sofa along the wall. She, like the others, seemed unconcerned or unaware of his presence.
Dvorkin looked back to his leader with a silent question. Sidorov stared back, expressionless, then looked over as if seeing the woman for the first time. He seemed to think for a moment, then rolled his eyes, stood, stepped over to the sofa, and perched beside her. He pulled a napkin off a nearby table, folded it carefully, and used it to blindfold the girl. Dvorkin was not overly surprised that she did not react.
Sidorov was about to get up, but he thought better of it. He leaned over her to open the drawer of a table, removed an iPod and headphones, inserted the earbuds deep into the woman’s ears, turned up the machine, and placed it in the crook of her corseted waist. Then he returned to his seat at the table. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Better?’
‘Yes, strannik. Thank you,’ Dvorkin said with appreciation. The term ‘strannik‘ meant ‘religious pilgrim’. It was a nickname their master was often called in his early years.
Sidorov waved the gratitude away as if it were a pesky fly. ‘You have served me well and our cause even better. You deserve every possible consideration.’
‘Thank you, strannik. Thank you.’
Although Dvorkin was still aware of the young woman in the room, she was only a dim presence now — especially in the shadow of an important man like Sidorov. Even when he was being complimentary, it was probably wise to pay strict attention.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Sidorov asked.
Dvorkin shook his head no.
‘Would you mind if I had one?’
‘Of course not, strannik.’ For Dvorkin, it was much more comfortable to call him ‘strannik‘ rather than ‘sir’, or ‘leader’, or ‘Grigori’. One was too formal, the next too venerated, and the last too familiar.
Sidorov rose from his chair and walked over to a rolling cart at the foot of the sofa where the woman lay. Dvorkin was once again hyper-aware of her shapely leg and the swath of soft naked flesh between the top of her stocking and the top of the long skirt’s slit, as his superior poured some amber liquid into a cut-glass snifter.
‘That is why I have brought you here,’ Sidorov said. His icy tone sent a disproportionately large chill through Dvorkin.
‘I don’t understand,’ he replied.
‘Even though your dedication to our cause cannot be faulted, even by your critics, some have said that your understanding of it has left something to be desired.’
‘Critics?’ Dvorkin was taken aback. ‘Who has said this, strannik?’
Sidorov waved that away as well. ‘I am here to heal, not accuse.’ He took a sip of brandy. ‘Just tell me what you feel. Tell me what you know, so I can put your mind at rest.’
‘About what, strannik?’
The man shrugged lightly. ‘Anything. Anything at all that pertains to us.’
Dvorkin leaned back, blinking. ‘Where to start? There is so much.’
Sidorov dismissed that statement. ‘Not really. Start here, in this very room.’ Then he looked slowly at the lounging female and smiled.
‘Ah,’ Dvorkin exclaimed. ‘Our master traveled to the Verkhoturye Monastery at the age of eighteen or so. There he learned of the Khlysty, or “Christ-believers”.’
Sidorov made a look of distaste. ‘I prefer, “They that purge”.’
‘Of course, of course. I was getting to that,’ Dvorkin hastily added. ‘The Khlysty did away with saints, and priests, and books. They — I mean we — practiced divine attainment through the repentance of sin.’
‘And to repent sin …?’
‘We have to experience it.’
‘Go on,’ Sidorov said as he took another sip of his drink.
‘The greater the sin, the greater the repentance.’
‘Yes?’
‘Our master found great power within himself with this practice. He was able to heal the sick and see the future.’
‘And?’
Dvorkin was confused. He was unsure as to what his leader wanted, so he was only able to parrot back the same question. ‘And?’
Sidorov lowered his glass and pointed it at Dvorkin. ‘There, you see? This is what I’m sure your accusers are talking about. You know the story, yes, but you do not appear to understand it. Do you bring insight to it?’
Dvorkin desperately wanted to respond in the affirmative, but Sidorov’s next words were already rolling over him.
‘The more the master sinned and repented, the greater the power he had. He healed the tsar’s son of his bleeding ailment. He brought the tsar’s lady-in-waiting back from the dead. He cried for them, he worked for them, he loved for them, and he lived for them — no matter how great the jealousy, hatred, and misunderstanding that he faced.’
‘I understand his greatness,’ Dvorkin said feebly.
But Sidorov’s words were more than an education. He used his oratory to stir himself to an emotional frenzy. This was how Sidorov had become the leader of the Black Robes, by stoking flames within himself, flames he passed on to others.
‘The priests sought to banish him,’ Sidorov preached, ‘and they were banished themselves for their sins. Their agents tried to kill him with a knife, but they were humbled by his survival. And the tsarina loved him in return, as did all the princesses. Why else was he allowed in their bed-chambers? The ladies of court loved him, and that was truly why he was most hated by men of power. They all wished they were loved as greatly. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ Dvorkin replied.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes!’ Dvorkin exclaimed, catching fire. ‘That’s why Prince Yusupov, the Grand Duke Pavlovich, and Duma representative Purishkevich plotted to kill him.’
Sidorov put the snifter down so hard Dvorkin thought it might break. His leader’s smile was wide but his eyes were cold. ‘Yet they could not kill him, could they?’
‘No, strannik.’
‘What else did they call him?’
‘I–I must think-’
‘What else did they call our master besides strannik?’
‘Later in life, Pavel! What did they call him?’
‘Starets!‘ he suddenly remembered. ‘Venerated teacher. Elder monk confessor.’
Sidorov calmed. ‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘Starets.’ He looked at the ceiling as if searching for a sign or message, then looked upon his associate with pitying intensity. ‘And our master starets sinned so much, and repented so much, that he could heal the sick and see the future, yes?’
‘Yes … Yes, starets …’
Now that a different title had been indicated, he had better use it.
Sidorov stared at him. ‘But there’s more. You know there’s more.’
‘… I do, yes,’ Dvorkin said while he racked his brain for answers. What more does he mean? What other feats in the palace? What other liaisons did he have?
Sidorov was standing over Dvorkin now, looking down at him as if from a great height. ‘Our master could transcend death.’
Dvorkin felt his face flush with humiliation. ‘Of course! How stupid of me! How utterly shameful!’
Much to Dvorkin’s amazement, Sidorov laughed in delight. ‘Good, good,’ he approved. ‘Remember, part of the Khlysty sect is self-flagellation. “I whip myself, I seek Christ” is what they chanted, yes?’
‘Yes, starets,’ Dvorkin said with relief. ‘If you have a whip, I will gladly use it.’
Sidorov smiled at the offer. ‘Oh no, there will be no whips for us. We don’t have time for self-flagellation any more. Our task is too great.’
‘Yes, starets,’ Dvorkin agreed, suitably humbled.
‘Tell me, Pavel, what is our task?’
‘Our task?’ he echoed.
Sidorov furrowed his brow. ‘Surely you remember our master’s story. Surely you remember the task of his followers.’