the Romanov Prophecy (2004) Page 12

  Hayes wasn't impressed with the Russian's bravado. "Take a number, Orleg. There are plenty in line ahead of you."

  Lord took refuge in a cafe. After fleeing police headquarters he'd descended into the first Metro station he passed and boarded a train, changing routes several times. Then he left the Metro and dissolved into the evening crowds high above. He'd walked for an hour before concluding that no one was following.

  The cafe was busy, filled with young people dressed in faded denim and dark leather jackets. A strong scent of espresso mellowed a thick nicotine cloud. He sat at a wall table and tried to eat something, having skipped breakfast and lunch, but a plate of stroganoff did nothing but sour his already churning stomach.

  He'd been right about Inspector Orleg. It made sense the authorities were somehow involved. The telephone lines at the Volkhov were surely being monitored. But who had Orleg been talking with on the phone? And was all of this related to the Tsarist Commission? It had to be. But how? Perhaps the backing of Stefan Baklanov by the consortium of Western investors he and Hayes represented was viewed as a threat. But wasn't their effort supposed to be secret? And didn't a sizable bloc of Russians recognize Baklanov as the closest surviving Romanov? A recent poll gave him better than 50 percent of the popular support. That could be seen as a threat. Certainly the mafiya was involved. Droopy and Cro-Magnon were without a doubt members. What had Orleg said? No more gangsters. I will kill him myself.

  The mob possessed deep ties within the government. Russian politics was as jagged as the exterior of the Facets Palace. Alliances changed by the hour. The only true allegiance was to the ruble. Or, more accurately, the dollar. This was all too much. He needed to get out of the country.

  But how?

  Thankfully, he still carried his passport, credit cards, and some cash. He also still possessed the information he'd been able to locate in the archives. But that wasn't of major concern any longer. Staying alive was his priority--and getting help.

  But what to do?

  He couldn't go to the police.

  Maybe the American embassy? But that would be the first place they would stake out. Damn right. So far the bastards had appeared on a train from St. Petersburg and in Red Square, both places where he should have been the only person who knew he'd be there.

  Except for Hayes.

  What about him? His boss surely must be worried after hearing what had happened. Maybe Hayes could get to him? He had lots of contacts in the Russian government, but he would not realize the phones in the Volkhov were under scrutiny. Or maybe by now he did.

  He sipped hot tea, which calmed his gut, and wondered what the reverend would do in the same situation. Strange that he thought of his father, but Grover Lord was a master of the tight spot. His blazing tongue had constantly bred trouble, but he'd laced every other word with God and Jesus, and never backed down. No. Fast talk wasn't going to be much help here.

  But what would be?

  He glanced at the table beside him. A young couple was huddled close reading one of the day's newspapers. He noticed the front-page article about the Tsarist Commission and read what he could.

  During the third day of the initial session, five names had emerged as possible contenders. Baklanov was mentioned as the leading candidate, but relatives from two other branches of the Romanov family were vigorously arguing a closer blood connection with Nicholas II. The formal nominating process would not start for two more days, and anticipation was building over the debate that would ensue among the various men and their defenders.

  Over the past couple of hours he'd overheard conversations from the tables around him about the pending selection. There seemed a genuine appreciation of the unfolding events--and surprisingly, the young Russians supported the creation of a modern-day monarchy. Perhaps they'd heard their grandparents speak of the tsar. The typical Russian seemed to want the nation to have grand goals. But he wondered whether an autocracy could effectively function in the twenty-first century. The only solace, he concluded, was that Russia was perhaps one of the last places left on Earth where a monarchy might actually have a chance at working.

  But his problem was more immediate.

  He couldn't check into a hotel. Registrations were still reported nightly by every licensed establishment. He couldn't catch a plane or train--the debarkation points would surely be watched. Nor could he rent a car without a Russian driver's license. He also couldn't just walk into the Volkhov. He was essentially trapped, the whole country his prison. He needed to get to the American embassy. There he could find people who'd listen. But he couldn't pick up a phone and dial. Surely, whoever was monitoring the Volkhov's phones would keep a close ear to the lines into the embassy. He needed somebody else to make contact and somewhere to lay low until that contact was made.

  He glanced again at the newspaper and noticed an advertisement. It was for the circus and announced shows nightly at six, the ad beckoning visitors with promises of lively family entertainment.

  He glanced at his watch. Five fifteen PM.

  He thought of Akilina Petrovna. Her tousled blond hair and pixie face. She'd impressed him with her courage and patience. He actually owed her his life. She still had his briefcase and had told him to come get it whenever.

  So why not?

  He stood from the table and started to leave. But a sobering thought suddenly occurred to him. He was heading for a woman to help ease him out of a tight spot.

  Just like his father.

  NINETEEN

  TRINITY MONASTERY OF ST. SERGIUS

  SERGYEV POSAD

  5:00 PM

  Hayes was fifty miles northeast of Moscow, approaching Russia's most sacred religious site. He knew its history. The irregularly shaped fortress had first risen above the surrounding forest in the fourteenth century. Tatars had quickly besieged and finally ransacked the citadel a hundred years later. In the seventeenth century Poles had tried and failed to breach the monastery walls. Peter the Great had sought refuge here during a revolt early in his reign. And now it was a place of pilgrimage for millions of Russian Orthodox, as sacred as the Vatican to Catholics, where St. Sergius lay in a silver sarcophagus, the faithful traveling from across the nation just to kiss his tomb.

  He arrived as the site was closing for the day. He stepped from the car and quickly tied the belt of his overcoat, then slipped on a pair of black leather gloves. The sun was already below the horizon, an autumn night closing in, the sparkling blue-and-gold-starred onion domes dull in the fading light. A blistering wind howled with a rumble that reminded him of artillery fire.

  Lenin had come with him. The other three members of the Secret Chancellory had unanimously decided that Hayes and Lenin should be the ones to make the initial approach. The patriarch might appreciate the risks more if he saw and heard firsthand that a Russian military line officer was willing to stake his reputation on the coming venture.

  He watched the cadaverous Lenin smooth his gray wool coat and deftly wrap a maroon scarf around his neck. They'd hardly spoken on the ride up. But each knew what had to be done.

  A black-robed priest with a mosslike beard waited at the main gate while a steady procession of pilgrims streamed out on either side of him. The priest led them inside thick stone walls directly to the Cathedral of the Dormition. The church's interior was candlelit, shadows flickered across a gilded iconostasis towering behind the main altar, and acolytes busily closed the sanctuary for the day.

  They followed the priest down into a subterranean room. They'd been told the meeting would occur in the crypt of All Saints Hallowed, the place where patriarchs of the Russian Orthodox Church lay buried. The vault below was tight, its walls and floor lined with light gray marble. An iron chandelier splashed dim rays across a vaulted ceiling. Elaborate tombs were decorated with gilded crosses, iron candelabra, and painted icons.

  The man kneeling before the farthest tomb was at least seventy, tufts of bushy gray hair sprouting from a narrow head. His ruddy face was covered wi
th a matted beard and a mustache thick as fleece. A hearing aid protruded from one ear and age spots dotted hands intertwined in prayer. Hayes had studied photographs of the man, but this was the first time he'd seen His Holiness, Patriarch Adrian, apostolic head of the thousand-year-old Russian Orthodox Church, in the flesh.

  Their escort left them alone, footsteps retreating back up into the cathedral.

  A door closed above.

  The patriarch crossed himself and stood. "Gentlemen, good of you to come." The voice was deep and gravelly.

  Lenin introduced himself and Hayes.

  "I am familiar with you, General Ostanovich. My sources tell me I am to listen to what you propose and decide the merits."

  "We appreciate the audience," Lenin said.

  "I thought here in the crypt the safest place for our talk. It is private beyond reproach. Mother Earth will shield us from any inquisitive ears. And perhaps the souls of the great men buried here, my predecessors, might inspire me to the proper course."

  Hayes wasn't fooled by the explanation. The proposal they were about to extend was not something a man in Adrian's position could afford to have become public. It was one thing to consequently benefit, quite another to openly participate in a treasonous conspiracy--particularly for a man who was supposed to be above politics.

  "I wonder, gentlemen, why should I even consider what you propose? Since the end of the Great Interruption, my church has enjoyed an unparalleled resurgence. With the Soviets gone, there is no more persecution or restrictions. We have baptized new members by the tens of thousands, and churches are opening every day. Soon we will be back to where we were before the communists arrived."

  "But there could be so much more," Lenin said.

  The old man's eyes flashed bright like coals in a dying fire. "And it is that possibility that intrigues me. Please explain."

  "An alliance with us will secure your place with the new tsar."

  "But any tsar will have no choice but to work with the church. The people would demand no less."

  "We live in a new age, Patriarch. A public relations campaign can cause more damage than any repressive police force ever could. Think about it. The people are starving, yet the church continues to erect gilded monuments. You parade about in embroidered robes, but lament when the faithful don't support their parishes with adequate contributions. All the support you now enjoy could be eroded by a few well-publicized scandals. Some of the men in our association control the largest media outlets--newspapers, radio, television--and much can be done with that power."

  "I am shocked that a man of your stature would utter such threats, General." The words were strong, though voiced calmly.

  Lenin appeared unfazed by the rebuke. "This is a difficult time, Patriarch. Much is at stake. Military officers are not paid enough to feed themselves, much less their families. There are invalids and disabled veterans receiving nothing in the way of a pension. Just last year, five hundred line officers killed themselves. An army that once shook the world is now decimated to the point of nothing. Our government has crippled the military complex. I doubt, Holiness, that any of our missiles could even leave their silos. This nation is defenseless. Our only saving grace is that no one, as yet, knows this."

  The patriarch considered the diatribe. "How could my church be of aid to the coming change?"

  "The tsar will need the full support of the church," Lenin said.

  "He would have that anyway."

  "By full support I mean whatever may be necessary to assure that popular opinion is controlled. The press must be free, at least in principle, the people allowed to voice dissent, within reason. The whole idea of a tsarist return is a break with the oppressive past. The church could be of valuable assistance to ensure a stable, long-lasting government."

  "What you really mean is that others in league with you don't want to risk the church opposing them. I am not ignorant, General. I know the mafiya is part of your group. Not to mention the leeches from the government ministry who are every bit as bad. You, General, are one thing. They are quite another."

  Hayes knew the old man was right. Government ministers were nearly universally on the take from either the mafiya or the new rich. Bribes were a standard way to conduct the public's business. So he asked, "Would you rather have communists?"

  The patriarch turned to him. "What would an American know of this?"

  "It has been my business for three decades to understand this country. I represent a huge conglomerate of American investors. Companies with billions at stake. Companies that could also make sizable contributions to your various parishes."

  A mirthful grin came to the old man's bearded face. "Americans think money buys everything."

  "Doesn't it?"

  Adrian stepped close to one of the elaborate tombs, his hands clenched together, his back to his two guests. "A fourth Rome."

  "Excuse me?" Lenin asked.

  "A fourth Rome. That's what you propose. In the time of Ivan the Great, Rome, where the first pope sat, had already fallen. Then Constantinople, where the Eastern pope sat, succumbed. After that, Ivan proclaimed Moscow the third Rome. The only place left on Earth where the church and state merged into a single political entity--headed by him, of course. He predicted there would never be a fourth."

  The patriarch turned and faced them.

  "Ivan the Great married the last Byzantine princess and visibly invested his Russia with her Byzantine heritage. After the fall of Constantinople to the Turks in 1453, he proclaimed Moscow the secular center of the Christian world. Clever, actually. It allowed him to decree himself head of the eternal union between church and state, imposing upon himself the sacred majesty of a universal priest-king, wielding authority in God's name. From Ivan on, every tsar was considered divinely appointed and Christians were required to obey. A theocratic autocracy, one that combined church and dynasty into an imperial heritage. It worked well for more than four hundred and fifty years until Nicholas II--when the communists murdered the tsar and dissolved the union of church and state. Now, perhaps, a reemergence?"

  Lenin smiled. "But this time, Holiness, the union will be far-reaching. We propose a merger of all factions, including the church. A united effort to ensure a collective survival. As you say, a fourth Rome."

  "Including the mafiya?"

  Lenin nodded. "We have no choice. Their reach is too long. Perhaps in time they can be acclimated into mainstream society."

  "That is too much to wish. They are draining the people. Their greed is largely to blame for our dire situation."

  "I understand that, Holiness. But we have no choice. Thankfully, the mafiya factions, at least for the moment, are cooperating."

  Hayes decided to seize the opportunity. "We can also help with your public relations problem."

  The patriarch's eyebrows arched. "I was unaware my church had such a problem."

  "Let's be frank, Holiness. If you did not have a problem, we would not be here, beneath Orthodox Russia's holiest cathedral, plotting the manipulation of a restored monarchy."

  "Go on, Mr. Hayes."

  He was beginning to like Patriarch Adrian. He seemed an entirely practical man. "Church attendance is down. Few Russians want to see their children become clerics, and even fewer are donating to parishes. Your cash flow has got to be at critical levels. You also have a possible civil war on your hands. From what I've been told, a good number of priests and bishops favor making Orthodoxy the national religion, to the exclusion of all others. Yeltsin refused to do that, vetoing the bill that tried, then passing a watered-down version. But he had no choice. The United States would have cut off funds if religious persecution began, and Russia needs foreign aid. Without some governmental sanction, your church may well founder."

  "I will not deny that a schism is brewing between ultratraditionalists and modernists."

  Hayes kept his momentum. "Foreign missionaries are eroding your base. You've got ministers flocking from all over America looking for Russian
converts. That variety in theology creates problems, doesn't it? Hard to keep the flock faithful when others start preaching alternatives."

  "Unfortunately, we Russians do not handle choices well."

  "What was the first people's democratic election?" Lenin said. "God created Adam and Eve, then said to Adam, 'Now, choose a wife.' "

  The patriarch smiled.

  Hayes continued, "What you want, Holiness, is state protection without state repression. You want Orthodoxy, but don't want to surrender control. We offer you that luxury."

  "Specifics, please."

  Lenin said, "You, as patriarch, will remain head of the church. The new tsar will assert himself as head, but there will be no interference with church administration. In fact, the tsar will openly encourage people to Orthodoxy. The Romanovs were always dedicated that way, Nicholas II particularly. This dedication is also consistent with a Russian nationalist philosophy the new tsar will expound. In return, you will assure the church promulgates a pro-tsarist position and supports the new government in whatever it does. Your priests should be our allies. In this way the church and state will be joined, but the masses need never know. A fourth Rome, modified to a new reality."

  The old man went silent, clearly considering the proposal.

  "All right, gentlemen. You may consider the church at your disposal."

  "That was fast," Hayes said.

  "Not at all. I have been thinking about this since you first made contact. I merely wanted to talk face-to-face and gauge the men I will be in league with. I am pleased."

  Both acknowledged the compliment.

  "But I ask that you deal only with me on this matter."

  Lenin understood. "Would you like a representative to attend our meetings? That courtesy would be extended."

  Adrian nodded. "I will appoint a priest. He and I will be the only two privy to this arrangement. I will be in touch with the name."

  TWENTY