“Anything else?”
The man, thought Grishin, was a babbler; nervous, sweating in the warmth of the church but not from it. But what he had to say was cogent enough, even though he, the priest, did not understand the significance of it.
“A little more. I heard the word ‘forgery’ and then your name.”
“Mine?”
“Yes, the stranger said something about your reaction being too fast. Then they talked about an old man and the Patriarch said he would pray for him. They mentioned ‘evil’ several times, then the stranger rose to leave. I had to get down the corridor fast, so I did not see him go. I heard the street door slam, that was all.”
“You saw no car?”
“No. I peered from an upper window, but he left on foot. The next day I have never seen His Holiness so disturbed. He was pale, spent hours in his chapel. That was how I could get away to call you. I hope I did the right thing.”
“My friend, you did exactly the right thing. There are antipatriotic forces at work seeking to spread lies about a great statesman who will soon be the president of Russia. You are a patriotic Russian, Father Klimovsky?”
“I long for the day when we can purify Russia from this trash and garbage that Mr. Komarov denounces. This foreign filth. That is why I support Mr. Komarov with all my heart.”
“Excellent, Father. Believe me, you are one of those whom Mother Russia must look to. I think a great future awaits you. Just one thing. This stranger ... have you no idea where he came from?”
The candle had burned low. Two other worshipers now stood a few yards to their left, gazing at the sacred images and praying.
“No. But though he left on foot, the Cossack guard told me later he came by cab. Central City Cabs, the gray ones.”
A priest, at midnight. Going to Chisti Pereulok. The log would record it. And the pickup point. Colonel Grishin gripped the upper arm of the cassock beside him, felt his fingers dig into the soft flesh, and sensed the man start. He turned Father Klimovsky to face him.
“Now listen, Father. You have done well and in due course will be rewarded. But there is more, you understand?”
Father Klimovsky nodded.
“I want you to keep a record of everything that happens in that house. Who comes, who goes. Especially high-ranking bishops or strangers. When you have something, you call me. Just say ‘Maxim is calling,’ and leave a time. That is all. The meetings will be here, at that time. If I need you, I will have a letter delivered by hand. Just a card with a time. If by any chance you cannot make that time, without arousing suspicion just ring and give an alternate. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Colonel. I will do what I can for you.”
“Of course you will. I can see that one day we shall have a new bishop in this land. You had better go now. I shall follow later.”
Colonel Grishin continued to stare at t
he images he despised and reflect on what he had been told. That the Black Manifesto had returned to Russia he had no doubt. The cassocked fool would not know what he was talking about, but the words were too accurate.
So someone was back, after months of silence, and circulating quietly: showing the document but not leaving a copy behind. To create enemies, of course. To try to influence events.
Whoever it was, he had miscalculated with the primate. The church had no power. Grishin recalled with appreciation Stalin’s sneer: How many divisions has the Pope? But whoever it was could cause trouble.
On the other hand, the man had retained his copy of the manifesto. Indicating he might have only one or two copies in his possession. The problem was clearly to find him and eliminate him, and in a manner such that not a shred of the stranger or his document would be left.
As it turned out, the problem was much easier than Grishin could have hoped.
On the matter of his new informant, he had no problems. Years in counter-intelligence had taught him to recognize and evaluate informants. The priest, he knew, was a coward who would sell his grandmother for preferment. Grishin had noted the sudden spark of lust when he mentioned elevation to a bishopric.
And something else, he mused as he left the icons and passed between the two men he had stationed just inside the doors. He really must search among the Young Combatants to find a seriously handsome friend for the traitor-priest.
The raid by the four men in black balaclava masks was quick and efficient. When it was over the director of Central City Cabs reckoned it was hardly worth reporting to the militia. In the general lawlessness of Moscow there was nothing the best detective could do to find the raiders, nor would any seriously try. To report that nothing was stolen and no one harmed would invite a torrent of form-filling and several wasted days making statements that would gather dust in a file.
The men simply barged into the ground-floor office, closed it down, drew the blinds, and demanded to see the manager. As they all had handguns, no one argued, presuming it was a holdup for money. But no, all they wanted when they stuck a pistol in the manager’s face were the worksheets of three nights previously.
The leader among them studied the sheets until he came to an entry that seemed to interest him. Though the manager could not see the pages, because he happened to be on his knees facing the corner at the time, the entry referred to a pickup and a destination logged about midnight.
“Who is driver Fifty-two?” snapped the leader.