the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (15 page)

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 with 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

MOSCOW, 5:40 PM

The rain stopped just as Lord exited the Metro station. Tsventnoy Boulevard was damp from a good dousing, the air noticeably colder, a chilling fog draping the city. He still wore no coat other than his suit jacket and looked out of place among the dense crowd wrapped in wool and fur. He was glad night had fallen. That and the fog should help conceal him.

He followed a crush of people toward the theater across the street. He knew the Moscow Circus was a popular tourist stop, one of the premier shows in the world. He’d gone himself once years ago to marvel at the dancing bears and trained dogs.

He had twenty minutes until the performance started. Perhaps during intermission he could get a message backstage to Akilina Petrovna. If not, he’d find her after. Maybe she could get in touch with the American embassy. Perhaps she could get in and out of the Volkhov and talk with Taylor Hayes. Surely she had an apartment where he could wait in safety.

The theater was fifty yards down the street on the opposite side. He was just about to cross and head for a ticket booth when a voice from behind yelled,
“Stoi.”
Stop.

He kept shouldering ahead.

The voice said again,
“Stoi.”

He glanced back over his left shoulder and saw a policeman. The man was shoving through the crowd, arm raised, eyes locked straight ahead. Lord increased his pace and quickly crossed the congested street, dissolving into the bustling crowd on the far side. A tour bus was off-loading its passengers, and he joined a steady procession of Japanese as they made their way into the brightly lit theater. Another glance back and he did not see the policeman.

Maybe he’d simply imagined the officer was after him.

He kept his head low and followed the noisy crowd. At the ticket booth he paid the ten-ruble admission and darted inside, hoping Akilina Petrovna was there.

Akilina donned her costume. The communal dressing room buzzed with its usual bustle, performers rushing in and out. No one was afforded the luxury of private dressing quarters. That was something she’d seen only in American movies, which depicted circus life romantically.

She was tired, having gotten little sleep last night. The trip from St. Petersburg to Moscow had been interesting, to say the least, and throughout the day she’d thought about Miles Lord. She’d told him the truth. He was the first black man she’d ever seen on that train. And no, she’d never been frightened of him. Maybe
his
fear had disarmed her.