Winter Palace (25 page)

“Not to mention the pricing structure,” another offered.

The Russian nodded his agreement. “A loaf of bread cost the same in 1987 as it did in 1925. The situation was so catastrophic that farmers found it less expensive to feed their pigs
with fresh bread than with raw barley. Communist pricing structure was a lesson in insanity.”

The Consul General appeared at Jeffrey's elbow. He pulled him away from the crowd and said quietly, “Sounds like Casey wasn't able to find anything more than you did.”

“I wouldn't know,” Jeffrey replied. “He made it clear he'd just as soon not have me around.”

Allbright smiled without humor. “In these parts it's hard to find people to trust, and harder still to trust them once you do. Casey's got the eyes of a hawk, though. Doubt seriously if he missed anything.” He nodded a friendly greeting to a passing face and said more quietly, “I hope.”

“You took quite a risk in telling me about the kidnapping, didn't you?”

“Not if you're as honest as you look.”

“Still, I imagine you had some disagreement from your staff,” Jeffrey ventured. “Disapproval, even.”

“Comes with the job. You develop a thick hide or you retire and grow flowers,” Allbright stated flatly. “Might surprise you to know that Casey felt we could trust you as well. I put a lot of value on that man's opinion.”

Jeffrey hid his surprise. “I imagine you learn to trust your own judgment, too.”

“Makes a lot more sense than asking the advice of somebody behind a desk in Washington, six thousand miles from the action.” Allbright faced him. “What are you getting at?”

“You were right when you said I hadn't told you everything,” Jeffrey replied. “I think I ought to exchange honesty for honesty.”

“That's all a man can ask for.” He took Jeffrey by the arm. “What say we find us a quiet corner.”

They left the main suite of three public rooms and passed the central staircase where Casey stood watching everything and everyone with his deceptively easy gaze. Allbright motioned for him to join them. Together they ducked into a small guest apartment.

“We call this the Nixon Rooms,” Allbright explained. “He used to stay here when he visited during his presidency.”

Once they were seated in a small alcove, Jeffrey related what he knew about the stolen articles from the Ukrainian church. “One of the priests overheard the thieves say something about the treasures being headed for Saint Petersburg. There was also evidence that the thieves were from inside the Orthodox church.”

Allbright mulled this over, asked, “You're not alone on this, are you?”

“There are two others here from Lvov, sort of using me as a cover while they check things out.”

“And you think you can trust these folks?”

Jeffrey shrugged. “All I have to go on is their word, but I believe they're telling me the truth. If so, the stolen items would be worth millions in the West. More.”

“And the Orthodox might be behind the theft,” Allbright mused.

“Nothing definite,” Jeffrey replied, “but according to what I was told, there is at least the possibility.”

“From the tone of your voice, I'd say you don't believe it.”

“I guess I have trouble accepting the idea that one church would steal from another,” Jeffrey confessed.

“Are you a believer yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Protestant?”

“Baptist,” Jeffrey affirmed.

“Well, there are a few bad apples in every barrel, even in a church, I'm afraid. But like you, my first reaction is to treat this with skepticism. Still, Russia's not like any place you've ever been before, and that holds true for the Orthodox church as well.” Allbright exchanged a glance with Casey. A moment's silent communication passed between them, then Allbright said, “Have you spoken to anyone within the church here?”

Jeffrey shook his head. “I don't know a soul.”

“Something as serious as a possible theft of another church's treasures should certainly be discussed with a senior authority. Let me make a couple of calls,” Allbright offered. “Maybe I can help you out there. If so, I'll make the connection with someone who will be sure to give you a fair hearing.”

“That would be great, thanks.”

“Hard to tell what happens these days when you pull a string. Might come up with gold. On the other hand, so much changes every hour, you might come up with something that'll try to eat both the string and the hand that's pulling it.” He gave his best effort to produce a reassuring smile. “But maybe it's time to take that chance. If not for your sake, then for the sake of our lost lady friend.”

Chapter 24

The Alexander Nevsky Lavra was surrounded by wide thoroughfares. The streetcars and trucks created a continual barrage outside the high stone gates. In his conversation that morning, Allbright had explained to Jeffrey that a Lavra was a large monastery whose enclave had been granted independence by royal decree, a sort of miniature city-state. The early morning light treated the ancient structure with a gentle hand. The roughened walls were smoothed, the flaking plaster polished, the colors restored to their brilliant past. For a brief instant, Jeffrey was gifted a glimpse of what once had been.

The high outer walls contained an area so vast that two great cemeteries, a canal, and a forest surrounded the seminary and cathedral. The walls and first line of trees muted the barrage of traffic noise to a distant hum. Pensioners and cripples lined both sides of the central cobblestone way, their chanted prayers and soft pleas a murmur as constant as the wind.

Inside the dual cemeteries rested the remains of Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Tchaikovsky, and other greats of Russian arts and literature. Yet what caught Jeffrey's eye as he headed for his meeting was how many of the old gravestones had been defaced, their crucifixes damaged with savage strokes. Over more recent Communist remains rose simple marble pyramids topped with a single red star, stone fingers pointed toward a heaven whose existence they eternally denied.

“Go see Father Anatoli,” the Consul General had told him that morning over the telephone. “He's personal assistant to the Metropolitan of Saint Petersburg, though for how much longer is anybody's guess. The ultraconservatives are sharpening their knives. He studied in England for a couple of years, which leaves him tainted in the xenophobes' eyes. Anatoli doesn't have time for their ‘Russia for the Orthodox'
nonsense, and he'll say so to anybody who listens. Not a way to make friends in this town.”

Jeffrey stored away his questions about xenophobia, took down the address, and asked, “What's a Metropolitan?”

“Local church leader. In the Orthodox church, the Patriarch in Moscow is the head. Metropolitans run the different regions.”

“The Patriarch is like the Pope?”

“Yes and no. There's no such thing as papal infallibility in Orthodoxy. The Patriarch's called ‘the first among equals.'”

“What should I tell Anatoli?”

“That's for you to decide. If I were in your place, though, I think I'd trust the man.”

Following the Consul General's instructions, Jeffrey turned right by the outer canal and followed the walkway to a tall, freestanding structure enclosed within its own fortified wall. Jeffrey walked through the copse of tall birch, entered the broad double oaken doors, and loudly pronounced the priest's name to the elderly gentleman acting as both guard and receptionist. The man rose from his stool and shuffled down the long hall, motioning for Jeffrey to follow. They passed through an outer alcove fashioned as a private chapel, where the man made a sign of the cross using large, exaggerated gestures. He opened tall inner doors and pointed Jeffrey toward a dark-haired man seated at a massive desk.

“Mr. Sinclair?” The voice held a rich depth, the eyes great clarity. As he rose, the silver cross hanging from his neck thumped against his chest. He walked forward with hand outstretched. “I am Father Anatoli, the Metropolitan's personal assistant.”

“Nice to meet you.” Jeffrey felt his hand engulfed in a bearlike grip.

“Please take a seat.” He motioned Jeffrey toward the conference table at the room's far end. “I have spoken with Mr.
Allbright this morning. He said you had something of possible importance to the church which you wished to discuss with me.”

“Yes, that is, I—”

“The Consul General also informs me that you are a Christian.” A peasant's hand, flat and broad as a shovel blade, began stroking his broad curly beard where it collected upon his cassock. “And a Protestant. Is all this true?”

Jeffrey listened behind the man's words and heard the same measuring tone he found in almost everyone in this alien land. The need to assess, to test for truth and strength, before trusting. “I know Jesus Christ as Lord,” Jeffrey replied. “I hope and pray that on the day when I stand before Him, He will know me as well. And yes, I am a Baptist. My wife and I currently attend an evangelical Anglican church.”

“This is all most interesting,” the priest said, his lazy hand motions belied by the intense gleam in his eyes. “I seldom have an opportunity to meet with Protestants from the West. Tell me, Mr. Sinclair. Have you visited one of our churches?”

“I have not yet had an opportunity, but I would like to.”

“You know, Mr. Sinclair, many of my fellow priests within the Orthodox faith are quite opposed to the Protestant revivals sweeping our country. I do not agree with these men, but still they are a force to be reckoned with.”

Jeffrey met the questing gaze square on and replied, “In America there is room for many different kinds of churches.”

“Some of us believe the same is true here in Russia. But not all, I am sorry to say. There are those who say the Orthodox way is the only way for Russians. Such men claim that the Orthodox church alone has been invested with spiritual responsibility for this nation. Such declarations in my opinion are as great an error as it would be to say that only Protestants hold the keys to heaven.”

“I always thought salvation rested in Jesus Christ,” Jeffrey said.

“A profound statement.” A glimmer of approval showed
on the heavy features. “But unfortunately, not a truth the church always remembers. The first Protestant churches arrived in Russia toward the end of the nineteenth century, established by German and English missionaries. There was horrible persecution in those early days, both by the state and, tragically, by my own church. Both saw it as an invasion of the spirit. They accused the outsiders of weakening the Russian nation. In the smaller cities and villages there were massacres. Then in 1905 the czar issued a manifesto that legalized all evangelical churches. There was a truce of sorts until the Bolsheviks swept to power. In the persecutions of 1917 to 1930, as the Communists solidified their position, the churches learned to band together in order to survive. This lasted until the onset of perestroika.”

“So now that the state persecutions are over,” Jeffrey concluded, “the old feuds are surfacing once more.”

“And with great ferocity,” Father Anatoli agreed. “You see, under the Communists every person was taught that he or she was an element of a unique social system. Their nation was destined to teach the world not the better way, but rather the
right
way. The
only
way. The entire Communist method of education for the young and indoctrination for adults is based upon this principle.” He paused. “Or was, I suppose. If the beast has truly been laid to rest for all time.”

“You don't think it is?”

“I see problems everywhere,” he replied, “with no solutions, only empty promises from our politicians. I hear questions being raised and no answers being offered, only arguments. I do not know how much more my poor nation can take before panic drives them back to the known, to the familiar. At least under the Communist dictatorship they were granted a sense of security.” He spent a moment delving inward in weary resignation, collected himself, and asked, “Where was I?”

“Conflict among believers,” Jeffrey reminded him.

“Thank you. The Communists taught people to live in
enmity. They taught that progress for the socialist society was possible only if all who were not Communists, all who resisted their doctrine, were eradicated. They pressed the people to live in perpetual suspicion and violent hostility toward ‘the other.' You know, of course, who this ‘other' is.”

“Anybody who does not believe as they do,” Jeffrey offered.

“Exactly. Such a mind-set does not disappear simply because the government changes. Four generations have been taught since the age of three, when public schooling begins here, to hate anyone who does not conform.

“Today, the newcomers who fill our churches may indeed be sincere seekers of truth, but many retain vestiges of the old Communist psyche. They see other people going in a different direction with their faith, and the old attitude surfaces: Is the other person correct in their beliefs? Do they worship the
true
Christ? If not, punish them. Lock them up. Declare them criminals. See them as the enemies they are.”

Father Anatoli sighed with regret. “Such people insist that every letter of every page of every doctrine be checked and rechecked. Such people have a new name for the incoming Protestant ministers: ‘the wolves from the West.' Such people fear that this new invasion will tear down what few walls of Russian Christianity the Communists left standing.”

“But you disagree with this.”

“I and a number of my fellow priests, although we are a minority and at times find our voices drowned out by the others,” he replied. His gaze evidenced a grim memory of former battles. “With us, the problems are all tangled together like a ball of yarn. For example, there are one hundred and eighty parishes in Russia. Twenty of these, some the size of an American state, have no priest at all. All parishes are short-staffed. We need a minimum of twenty more priests in Saint Petersburg alone. There are not enough priests to staff even
half
of our churches. Many of the priests we do have should not be priests at all. They have little training; they have less
faith. There are only seven seminaries in the entire country. There are only twelve church-run schools.”