“It is I,” replied the priest. “And what is your name, my child?”
“Stacie.”
The priest’s face lit up in recognition, as though he’d long expected to see her.
“Stacie Rose. Anastacia.”
“Da.”
Something churned inside her at the mention of her Russian name. Anastacia was the only name Marie had called her, and Russian the only language they had conversed in, developing a special bond. She still remembered the language after so many years.
“It’s such a shame that you couldn’t attend the service yesterday,” Father Philemon continued in Russian.
She lowered her eyes, unable to admit that she had barely scraped together enough money for the flight from Sydney, failing to do it in time. She was facing tough times as a freelance model and designer, but she preferred to keep her problems to herself. It was the price of her independence.
“What about your family?” he asked.
Stacie spoke Russian fluently, but with a soft Strine accent. “I lost my mom early and dad is now working in Africa as a doctor. We’re hardly in touch. In truth, my dad never got along with Aunt Marie, even though she basically raised me before we moved to Australia. How did she die?”
Father Philemon let out a weary sigh.
“I don’t know the details. But it was brutal. Someone broke into her house and stabbed her to death. Burglary. Some drug addict who completely lost his head, maybe. You’ll have to ask the police. So terrible.”
“If it was a burglar, do you know what he might have been looking for?”
Father Philemon shook his head.
“I’m not sure I understand,” he replied uncertainly.
Stacie’s eyes bored into his face.
“This is what I’ll go to the police with. Three days before she died, Aunt Marie called me. She told me she had a document in her possession that she would give to you for safekeeping. A notebook. Its contents are extremely important. And according to her, I am the only person who has the key to the secret inside it. Now, Father Philemon, did she hand that notebook over to you or not? Pardon my language, but what the hell is going on?”
He stroked his beard pensively.
“I’m not sure how much of it your aunt told you, so I’ll give you the whole story. It can be difficult to absorb all at once.”
She noticed him staring at her bosom, but the priest immediately spared her the embarrassment of the situation.
“Anastacia, this necklace of yours. Do you know its meaning?”
Caught off guard by his real source of interest, she held the gold pendant. The elegant, medal-shaped surface was engraved with an elaborate design which had always intrigued her. A winged shield, adorned by a fleur-de-lis in the middle and a medieval knight helmet above it.
At one point, she had become obsessed with it, scouring every reference source she could get her hands on to find the symbol’s origin. It was the obsession which had fueled her interest in art. Eventually, her search had faded away as she completed her Bachelor of Design degree.
“No, to this day it remains a mystery to me,” she said. “It’s similar to European emblems from the Middle Ages but nothing else matches it.”
“In that case, I will reveal to you what it stands for,” said Father Philemon. “It is the Oltersdorf family crest.”
“Oltersdorf? I have never heard the name before,” Stacie admitted. “Aunt Marie never mentioned it. And whenever I asked her, she always claimed she had no idea what the emblem meant, either.”
“Believe me, Anastacia, she knew. She definitely did.”
“It made no sense for her to lie to me. What does it have to do with her death, anyway?”
“Perhaps nothing. Given the current crime rate in San Francisco, I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be a tragic coincidence. She was, after all, an old lady living alone. But your pendant has everything to do with the reason she gave me the notebook you know of.”
“And what might that be?”
In the most level voice possible, the priest said, “Just a small matter of two hundred million U.S. dollars.”
“I’m sorry,” said Stacie. “Did I hear right? You’re talking about a fortune. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The Oltersdorf Estate. Two hundred million U.S. dollars in cash and gold deposits placed in banks around the globe. You may not be aware of the fact, but you have Oltersdorf blood in your veins. And that makes you the rightful heir to these assets.”
Dumbfounded, Stacie just stood there for a few moments, catching her breath. The words staggered her. None of it could be true. The priest was mad.
Finally, she said, “Father Philemon, I have just lost my closest family member. If you’re trying to kid me with such wild statements, you of all people, as a person of God, should know that it’s not the time or place to do it.”
“I understand your reaction. I would also be shocked by such bold claims. However, I’m absolutely serious about the words I choose, being one of the appointed executors of the Oltersdorf Estate—which is why Marie asked me for help.”
“With all due respect, Holy Father, I still can’t fathom … I mean, it’s a little overwhelming. An inheritance? All that money? Even if what you’re saying is true, I can’t possibly accept it. I don’t want the burden—”
“That is something beyond your decision at the moment. There are rules, procedures, protocols that we must adhere to.”
“What? I don’t understand—”
“Let me explain everything from the very beginning.”
“I’d appreciate that,” she said in exasperation.
“The Oltersdorf nobility hails back to the thirteenth century, but I’m going to tell you about your great-great-grandfather. Baron Peter Oltersdorf was a general in the Russian Imperial Army throughout the First World War. He had a strong physical presence, an air of dignity and authority about him. I must say that your Oltersdorf roots are clearly evident, Anastacia. The fair hair, the fine aristocratic features, your graceful movement and stature. You have the piercing amethyst eyes of your great-great-grandfather. You even share the dimpled chin which is unmistakably Oltersdorf.”
Feeling self-conscious, Stacie said, “I’ll take that as a compliment, but it’s Peter Oltersdorf I’d like to hear more about rather than myself.”
The priest went on. “After the Revolution, he fought the Bolsheviks in Siberia. Sadly, the White Movement lost the civil war against the Reds. He was forced to flee to Manchuria with his family, alongside over one hundred thousand Russian refugees who flooded into the city of Harbin. Once there, the baron found himself in charge of considerable amounts of money remaining from his defeated army. A selfless man, the baron did his utmost to aid those Harbin Russians suffering the worst plight. But apart from his tireless work to help the Russian émigré community, he also harbored dreams of liberating Russia from the Bolshevik tyranny. He set up funds in Shanghai, Hong Kong, London, Japan and the U.S. to support his endeavor.”
“Was there any chance of success?” Stacie asked, enthralled.
“That we will never know. The Second World War scuppered his valiant plans. The war broke out shortly after Oltersdorf began real action, sending small recon teams into Soviet territory—members of the Russian veterans organization which he headed. Eventually, he moved to Japanese-occupied Shanghai and then Japan proper. With no likelihood of leading the Russian liberation, his own future uncertain, and China most likely falling into communist hands, he made the only logical choice. The baron transferred what became known as the Oltersdorf fund into the trust of those who would continue the fight against Bolshevism until their beloved country was liberated. The Russian Orthodox Church Outside Russia.”
“What happened to Peter Oltersdorf’s family?”
“His wife passed away in the 1930s. During the war, his only daughter married a Cossack officer named Iordanov. She and her husband moved to the U.S. in 1945, where they changed their name to
Jordan. They settled here in California and a few years later gave birth to their son, Jacob.”
Stacie drew a sharp breath.
“Jacob Jordan.”
“Your grandfather.” The priest nodded. “He, of course, had two children: your Aunt Marie and Catherine, your mother. It took us quite a while to discover that.”
“And the baron himself? My great-great-grandfather,” she said with a measure of pride, now that her link to the Oltersdorf lineage felt tangible. “What became of him?”
“After the Japanese surrender, a Soviet SMERSH squad parachuted near Kyoto and captured Peter Oltersdorf in his residence. Without even a mock trial, they executed him.”
“It’s called murder,” said Stacie.
“You could put it that way.”
In her eyes, Father Philemon’s story grew with believable detail, the initial claim no longer outlandish.
“Why is it only now that I’ve learned this about my family?”
“Like I said, the Church discovered your identity just a few days ago via your aunt. She contacted me to show me the personal notebook of Peter Oltersdorf. Like your pendant, it was given by him to his daughter, and passed on through generations. Following the baron’s death, however, the Jordan family had kept the notebook’s existence a secret, as well as their relation to the Oltersdorf bloodline.”
“For what reason?”
“Maybe the family history was still too painful for them. Or perhaps they were waiting for the right time. As long as the communist threat existed, they might have feared retribution from Soviet agents. The Reds knew that Peter Oltersdorf had a daughter. Hunting for her father’s secrets, it wasn’t beyond them to track her down and use force against her family, even on U.S. soil. Until they felt safe, your grandparents chose to keep a low profile. I wouldn’t blame them.”
“So what made Aunt Marie give you the notebook?”
“I hate to say it, Anastacia, but she was an old woman in poor health. She wanted someone else to continue the Oltersdorf legacy, and wanted to pass it on before her time came. And she did. God works in mysterious ways.” Father Philemon crossed himself emphatically.
Stacie’s eyes reddened as she glanced at her aunt’s grave.
“I still don’t understand why, besides the notebook, I’ve inherited that staggering amount of money.”
“The baron transferred his substantial funds to the Church on the condition that the resources be used exclusively to combat the communist regime until its fall and total destruction in Russia. However, the Soviet Union ceased to exist in 1991. The baron’s wish fulfilled, there is nothing to fight against as such. Under the terms of the Oltersdorf Estate, the funds cannot be touched and must be provided to an Oltersdorf descendant for further disposition. The money hasn’t been used since. Interest accrued. ”
“I guess a few unknown relatives could claim a stake in the two-hundred-million fortune. Why me?”
“Your aunt had no next-of-kin apart from you. We’ve run checks. Trust me, you are the sole descendant. The only Oltersdorf empowered to make the decision is the owner of the notebook. Besides, there’s a catch. Peter Oltersdorf did not care for personal wealth, and he expected his offspring to follow his Christian virtue. The two hundred million will not belong to you directly, you will have to choose a charitable cause to spend it on. It is not so much an inheritance as an appointment. Your late Aunt Marie told me that you have a kind heart. I believe her. From now on, it is you who must run the Oltersdorf Estate and ensure that the funds are used appropriately. You have been chosen by God. I am merely serving as an instrument of His will.” Father Philemon paused. “So, now you’ve heard the story. I can only pray that I’ve convinced you.”
“If your sermons are half as convincing, you should have no shortage of converts,” she said. “I’m still coming to terms with the whirlwind change suddenly going on in my life. I trust you, but this new reality is indeed difficult to cope with. And I feel I’ve barely scratched the surface, there’s so much else I need to learn.”
“You’ll manage fine. Don’t worry, someone else will fill you in on the details, especially the legal aspects. Father Mark from Hong Kong is more familiar with the finances, given that the Hong Kong banks are the ones where the main Oltersdorf accounts have been kept. He’s eager to meet you. Father Mark is currently on a pilgrimage here, in San Francisco. I can introduce you right away if you don’t mind a short drive.”
“Wait,” said Stacie. “First, I want to see Peter Oltersdorf’s notebook. It was Aunt Marie’s wish that I should receive it.”
“Come with me and I’ll show it to you. You may be able to uncover its secret.”
2
They exited the cemetery. Father Philemon kept his car parked on the other side of the hedge-lined Hillside Boulevard. He pushed a button on his car key. A latest-model, obsidian-black Mercedes S600 winked twice in return.
“Wow, this is your ride?” Stacie said, surprised. “So much for taking a vow of poverty, I guess.”
“It’s not for luxury but ease of travel,” the priest replied sternly. “I shun earthly riches. The vehicle is Church property.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“No offense taken,” said Father Philemon as he held the passenger door open for her. “It’s an age-old dilemma. As Archbishop, I must uphold a certain standing within the Russian community.”
Throughout the quick drive to San Francisco, Stacie wondered what lay ahead for her. From barely scraping enough pocket change for an air ticket to potentially managing $200,000,000 was a big jump for anyone. Was it really happening? She considered the responsibility that went hand in hand with such a crazy amount of money. Would the burden crush her? Was she committing another mistake?
If God existed, Stacie thought, today’s events manifested His Providence. It was Him she now trusted to guide her.
Her rebellious spirit had drawn her to the fashion world, only for her to realize that the glamor was fake. But hadn’t she dreamed of gracing every magazine cover for the sole purpose of making a difference? She had envisaged herself as a goodwill ambassador once she’d reached fame, raising money for impoverished children. The Oltersdorf Estate would grant her that chance. Freedom came with responsibility, not the lack of it.
She could start her own charity. Devote herself to a worthy cause. Make amends and help her father’s humanitarian effort in Africa.
What if she failed? She had to try. No matter what, she knew she had nothing to lose.
She couldn’t just turn her back on Aunt Marie’s last wish and walk away.
At the very least, her duty was to preserve the baron’s notebook.
She pushed the Oltersdorf Estate to the back of her mind.
Heading north-west through Golden Gate Park to Richmond District, the Mercedes turned onto Geary Boulevard.
As it suddenly came into view, Stacie faced the enormous white edifice of the Russian church. Its tall golden cupola shimmered brightly, reaching about a hundred feet in height. Four smaller turrets, crowned by onion domes, surrounded it. The curved-top façade was dominated by a gigantic eight-pointed Orthodox cross, flanked on either side by colorful murals depicting various Christian saints.
Above the massive wooden entrance, an ornate mosaic showed the Holy Mother of God with Her arms open in loving consolation to all who suffered.
“The Holy Virgin Cathedral,” Father Philemon announced. “It was founded in 1961 by St. John of Shanghai and San Francisco.”
“A modern-day saint?”
“Decades after his death, the body inside his sepulcher was found undecayed as proof of holiness. The incorrupt relics are now housed in a shrine inside the very cathedral he built. Truly, he was St. John the Miracleworker. An outstanding missionary and philanthropist. Like your great-great-grandfather, he was forced out of Russia by the Reds. From Belgrade, where he’d become a priest, he went to Shanghai. He had no bed because he hardly slept, either running the parish,
working on his theological writings, holding services or visiting those who needed him. The power of his prayer was such that he healed even the hopelessly sick. Everybody who’d known him spoke of the divine grace he exuded. He radiated God’s love for everyone, regardless of their denomination, and especially children. He set up orphanages, saving kids from the slums of Shanghai. After the Second World War, with the communist takeover of China imminent, he helped thousands of Russian refugees immigrate to the States. Also, St. John was a clairvoyant, even predicting the time and place of his own death in 1966.”
“How I wish that such fascinating people were still around. The world needs someone like St. John.”
Someone who isn’t bothered whether a car brand reflects his social status, she almost added but thought better of it.
Father Philemon left the Mercedes at the curb in front of the cathedral. Stacie followed him toward the gold-painted entry door which he pulled ajar.
“The cathedral is open to the public only for religious service. Nobody will trouble us. Please, Anastacia, you must cover your head.”
She pulled the silk scarf from her neck and draped it over her dazzling hair.
He ushered her inside. Stacie’s heels clicked against the hardwood floor, the sound echoing softly around the cavernous space.
Stunned by the sight before her, she stood mesmerized. Her eyes had never before feasted on a scene quite as magnificent. It was as though she had stepped right into the middle of the New Testament. Glorious frescoes covered every inch of the Cathedral’s walls. Vividly, the amazing interior came alive with biblical stories of Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary, the Apostles, saints and angels, all painted by a hand so masterful that it could belong in the Louvre. With the ceiling converging almost sixty feet above her, the artistic panorama seemed to soar endlessly into the sky, enveloping Stacie.
The beauty of the paintings took her breath away. Her tears flowed silently. The gilded splendor of the iconostasis highlighted the Cathedral’s richness. Five tiered chandeliers hung suspended under the cupolas, dwarfed by the surroundings full of divine imagery.
Temple of Spies Page 6
