Winter Palace (27 page)

Ilya shrugged, despondent.

“Are there stories to be heard on this as well?”

“Rumors,” he muttered. “Of what worth are they to a custodian of Russia's treasures?”

“The Orthodox church,” she demanded. “Could they be involved?”

“Of this I have heard nothing,” he replied, definite for the first time that day, “although there are rumors of items missing from this quarter as well.”

“From within the Orthodox churches?”

Ilya showed wry humor. “You would think they had already lost everything of value, no? Fifty thousand treasures we have here in the Hermitage alone from the churches, all listed as voluntary gifts. Very generous with the new Communist state, these churches were.”

“Mafia or KGB,” Ivona pressed. “Do you hear anything unofficial? Could one or the other perhaps be behind the thefts?”

He looked at her. “Why do you suggest they are separate? As far as I am concerned, nowadays they both function outside the law. Why should they not operate together?”

“So there
is
word of this,” Ivona said.

“Suddenly the air in here is stifling.” Ilya stood. “Come. I will walk you out.”

Reluctantly she allowed herself to be led forward. “There is nothing more to say?”

As he walked he drew her closer with one hand on her elbow. He asked in a small voice, “Tell me, Ivona Aristonova. What rumor is worth getting killed over?”

“I seek information for our use only,” she replied just as quietly. “Tell me what you know.”

“I know nothing.”

“What you guess, then.”

They entered a vast chamber in the original palace, one whose ceiling and pillars were gilded with more than seven hundred pounds of gold. Excited clusters of tourists milled about, jabbering in a dozen alien tongues. Ilya slowed his pace, pointed to a chest made in the time of Peter the Great from sixteen tons of pure silver. He pitched his voice so low that it was lost at three paces. “The KGB is selling its only remaining assets.”

“Information and access,” Ivona offered.

Ilya nodded. “Still there are moles on my staff. Only now the KGB bosses are no longer interested in dissidents. They seek only to pad their nest. With dollars.”

“These moles are making it easy for certain items to vanish,” Ivona helped him with guesses of her own. “They are pointing out what articles to take, then making the records disappear.”

They stopped before a massive display case containing religious artifacts appropriated from the nation's churches. A handwritten sign stated that it was a sample from the Hermitage's Golden Treasury, which was now closed for renovation. The case contained gold plates for sacramental bread, the handles fashioned like crowns. Gold and silver chalices, embossed with diamonds and rubies the size of quail's eggs. A Bible with a cover of solid gold, the depiction of Christ framed by a hundred matching emeralds. Yet another chalice, the entire exterior embossed with diamonds. An incense burner in the form of a holy shrine, an empty tomb at its heart, all in gold.

“There are several articles I know in my heart are missing,”
Ilya murmured, “though I can now find no record of their ever having existed. I am beginning to suspect that a drop has been arranged. Outsiders dressed as security or transport workers come for shipments, or to move a case, or to relocate a picture. All the documents are in order, all the proper answers prepared for anyone who asks.”

“Mafia,” Ivona repeated.

“Wolves in sheep's clothing,” Ilya replied. “They devour our nation's greatest treasures. They have the pity of carnivores for their prey.”

They entered the exit hallway. Ilya swept a despairing hand at the surrounding boxes. “This passage is used by thousands of visitors every day. Yet we line it with the beautiful and the valuable, the returned foreign exhibits. Why? Because we have no place else to keep them. Look at the addresses. Brisbane, Australia. Long Island, United States. Turin, Italy. Seoul, Manila, Tokyo, Sao Paulo. What you see is the smallest example of this national crisis.”

She stopped at the exit doors, tried to put her own worries aside. “You are a good friend, Ilya. In the name of our bishop, I thank you.”

“Bring back my treasures,” he replied quietly. “Return my nation's pride.”

Chapter 26

The general arrived in a very worried state. “Your naive young American is causing my superiors great concern.”

“How is that possible?” Markov seated the general at the rosewood table in the most comfortable corner of his cluttered parlor and personally poured tea for them both. “The boy has only been in Saint Petersburg for a few days. Don't tell me he's already made a drunken fool of himself in public. There is nothing more ridiculous than a young man with a bellyful, don't you agree?”

General Surikov was not amused. “He arrived in Saint Petersburg with Bishop Michael Denisov's personal secretary as his interpreter.”

“Bishop who?” Markov seated himself. “I don't believe I know that name. Will you take sugar?”

“Denisov. He's one of the leaders of the Ukrainian Rites Catholic Church.”

Markov sipped at his own cup, gauging the man across from him. “Please forgive me, but I fail to see—”

“Let us just say that Denisov is someone we wish to have as far removed from this entire process as possible.”

Markov nodded slowly, his mind working hard. Clearly something had been taken from the Ukrainian church. Something valuable. But that the young American with whom he met might be—no, no, it was simply too preposterous. “My dear fellow, you and I both know that one reason we selected this particular individual was his established links to Eastern Europe.”

“Such links as these to the Ukrainian church are utterly unacceptable,” Surikov barked.

“Please calm yourself. The American mentioned that he already had a trip planned before coming to our meeting.
He said this to explain why he would be unable to travel immediately to Saint Petersburg.”

“He said that?” The general relaxed by degrees.

“He did, indeed. Now think for a moment. How on earth could he have planned a voyage to ally himself with such a group before he even met with me and learned of my requirements?”

“That is true,” the general murmured. Still he remained troubled. “With all due respect, Prince Markov, you had best be right.”

“I am quite sure it is mere coincidence,” Markov declared. “Mr. Sinclair traveled to the Ukraine, he worked with a good interpreter, he asked her to assist him in Saint Petersburg. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“My superiors will no doubt be pleased to hear of your news. It was a most unpleasant moment when they learned of your man's choice of interpreters.”

“May I ask why?”

“You may indeed,” the general replied sharply. “But I am not sure you would wish for my superiors to know that such questions were being posed.”

“An idle remark. Please disregard it,” Markov said. General Surikov's superiors were not the type to displease with unnecessary probings.

But the general was not finished. “You have not seen, as I have, how curiosity is dealt with. And mistakes.”

“I am quite sure—”

“The Chechen clan were not selected for their manners,” the general pressed on. “They are the cruelest of the cruel. And they are always hungry for more.”

Chosen by whom, Markov wondered. And for what? But he quashed such curiosity flat and chose the wiser course of a personal question. “Tell me, general. Why do you consort with such as these?”

For once the general did not retreat. “I was offered a job in the ministry last week,” the general confessed, but without
enthusiasm. “Done out of respect, however. Not out of real need.”

“You are too modest,” Markov protested. “No doubt they see in you a treasure trove of experience.”

“It was made out of loyalty,” the general countered. “A job without meaning or purpose. And the payment is paltry, made with currency that grows more worthless with each passing hour. Still, I have been considering it.”

“Perhaps it would be wiser to wait until the course of events is more certain,” Markov offered, and thought, or at least until our own business is concluded.

“Perhaps,” the general agreed dismally. “And yet I was ordered—” There he stopped.

“Ordered?” Markov's interest overrode his better judgment. “By whom?”

But Surikov shook his head. “I have my reasons.”

Could it be, Markov wondered, that the military cabal and their Party minions maintained a shaky alliance with the Russian mafia? Markov inspected the general as he sipped his tea, and decided the idea had merit. In the present vacuum, the mafia had risen faster and higher than anyone could have imagined. In such a case, Surikov would be far more valuable as a liaison than as simply another retired officer cluttering the ministry's hallways.

“A senior Soviet officer, now serving a cabal of criminals,” Markov hesitated, then guessed, “perhaps with connections to the KGB—you must admit that is, well, rather remarkable.”

“Former officer, former KGB, former Soviet empire,” Surikov corrected. “The world has tilted on its axis.”

“The KGB still exists.”

“Not as it once did,” the general amended. “And not as it still should.” The bushy eyebrows tightened. “Nor as it shall again, you mark my words.”

Absently Markov stirred his cup. If it were true that Surikov was being used as a liaison with the increasingly powerful criminal elements, that meant the general would be an even
more valuable contact for himself. He ventured, “I have heard that parliament almost managed sufficient backing for a no-confidence vote. Our leaders must be quaking in their boots. No doubt you are pleased with these developments.”

The general returned to his habitual bearlike rumblings. “I will be pleased when the whole circus is over, when such nonsense is put back in the only place it belongs—the theater.”

Markov nodded sagely. “The delegates who would most likely support a coup are led by the Speaker of the House, are they not? A Chechen, if I recall correctly. Of the same tribe as your superiors.”

Surikov responded with a stony silence, then, “Perhaps we should return to the matter at hand.”

“Certainly,” Markov agreed, satisfied that his guesses were correct. “Please assure your superiors of my wholehearted support.”

“Your support, yes. They will be most pleased to hear of this.” General Surikov's gaze was bleak. “Let us also hope that you can assure them of success. Because if not—”

“There is no chance of anything other than full success,” Markov replied hastily. “We need not even discuss such a contingency.”

“That is good,” Surikov replied. “As to the American, my superiors are not as trusting as you appear to be.”

“On the contrary,” Markov countered, “I trust only myself. This American, however, is of no great account. A pawn in the great game of power and wealth. He knows nothing and understands less.”

“It is indeed good to hear that you have no great affection for the man.”

“Affection?” Markov lifted his eyebrows. “What has that to do with anything?”

“Because if there proves to be a problem,” Surikov answered, “there will soon be no problem.”

A chill wind wafted through the chamber. “What will they do to him?”

“Better to ask,” General Surikov replied, rising to his feet, “what they will do to you.”

Chapter 27

“Good morning, Sinclair,” Sergei Popov greeted him cheerfully as he descended the stairs the next morning. “How you sleep?”

“Great, thanks.”

“Your lady translator, she leave early. I have message.” He handed over a slip of paper, then a second. “And this come too. American in big car. Maybe gangster, yes?”

“Doubtful.”

“Yes, you right. Russia has too many already, no need to import from Chicago. You like breakfast?”

“Please.” Jeffrey seated himself at one of the little tables and opened the notes. The first was from Ivona, whom he had not seen since their meeting the day before. “We meet with Yussef tomorrow before your departure. He has news and antiques.” No greeting, no apology for leaving him high and dry, no nothing.

The second was from the Consul General, and more positive. “If you can spare the time, I have a conference this afternoon which you might want to be in on. If so, I'll pick you up at three in front of your winter palace. And in case you are interested, there's an English-language church service this morning at ten and a second service at twelve. If you want a seat, you'll need to get there a half-hour earlier. They fill up fast. Allbright.” Below the Consul General had written an address for the service.

Sergei came back with coffee, bread, and jam. He glanced at the New Testament Jeffrey had brought downstairs with him and asked good-naturedly, “You are religious man, yes?”

“I try. I think I fail more often than I succeed, but I do try.”

“That is answer of a good man,” Sergei decided. “I have friend, he is religious man. He believes.”

“And you?”

“Maybe someday,” he replied cheerfully. “Now life too full.”

“Perhaps faith could help you handle your problems more easily,” Jeffrey offered.

“Maybe,” he said doubtfully, then added, “Good to be religious. Give you something to fight about, now that Soviets gone. Man must fight or die, yes?”

“I hope not.”

A forefinger as rigid as a broomstick poked the table beside Jeffrey's Bible. “You Christians, you talk peace and fight all same time. Go in church, shout love, love, love to everybody, yes? Then go out, shout hate, hate, hate to all other churches. Protestants, Catholics, Orthodox, all same.” The finger retreated to tap the side of Sergei's head. “Christians, they smart. They know. Man needs enemies. Keeps him strong.”