Winter Palace (37 page)

Yussef nodded. “His words?”

“And mine.” The kid added a rude gesture and scampered off.

Yussef strolled carefully back along the lighted way until he was well and truly lost within the nighttime crowd. He then flagged a taxi, gave his address, and released the postcards from their band. A tiny piece of paper fluttered free. He picked it up, read, “The storage point is a winter palace somewhere in Saint Petersburg.”

Chapter 37

Jeffrey awoke to the glory of no more pain.

His neck and back remained stiff and quietly complaining as he washed and dressed and prepared for the day, but the overbearing discomfort of the evening before had vanished with the night. Gone, too, was the depression that the pain and the city had visited upon him.

As he shaved, a tiny cymbal jangled in his mind, nagging him that something important had been overlooked. But the internal voice was not strong enough to disturb his great good humor. Jeffrey descended the stairs, resisting the urge to break into song.

He accepted a note Sergei gave him from Ivona, saying that she and Yussef would be coming by soon and that he was to wait for them. He made sympathetic noises over Sergei's ashen expression, watched Sergei gingerly set his coffee cup down on his saucer and wince at the noise it made. He asked, “What did you do to yourself last night?”

“Vodka,” Sergei whispered hoarsely, measuring the coffee out with bloodshot eyes. “Too much vodka.”

The grandmother moved over from her customary position by the ceramic-lined stove and chattered away. Sergei translated dully, “Grandmother, she wish to thank you once more for her gifts.”

“Tell her it was my pleasure.”

Sergei shuffled back to the kitchen. While he was gone, Jeffrey found that the language barrier between him and the grandmother had begun to dissolve; he understood a surprising amount of what she had to say. He sat and sipped his coffee as the old woman first described her vast collection of memorabilia, then bemoaned the sad state of affairs in her fair city, before launching into a detailed analysis of her
own aches and pains, then finishing off with a rip-snorting dissection of the present government.

When Sergei returned bearing breakfast, Jeffrey told him, “Your grandmother is a truly fascinating woman.”

Sergei struggled to exhume a smile, set down the platter at Jeffrey's elbow. “Here, friend. Eat. You need, believe me, you need.”

During breakfast Jeffrey continued to be pestered by the sensation that there was something which he had overlooked. It occurred to him that he had not contacted the Protestant minister, Evan Collins, so after breakfast he made the call. Jeffrey explained the reasons behind his meetings with the Orthodox priest and the Ukrainian bishop. The preacher showed the same quality of patient listening he had displayed in person.

“Any time, any place,” he replied when Jeffrey asked if he would be interested in such a meeting. “The sooner the better, as far as I'm concerned.”

“That's great, thanks.”

“No sir, I thank
you
. This is an opportunity I've been wanting ever since I arrived. You're to be congratulated.”

“I haven't done anything.”

“If nothing else, you've allowed yourself to be used as the Lord's willing servant,” Reverend Collins replied. “And I appreciate your filling me in. I don't suppose there has been any further word about Leslie Ann.”

“Not that the Consul General mentioned to me.”

“She is a very fine young lady. We all miss her terribly, and her parents are beside themselves with worry. You be sure and let me know if there's ever anything we can do to help you out.”

“I will, thanks.”

“Fine. And give me a call when you've fixed the meeting, Jeffrey. Like I said, any time, any place. I will look forward to hearing from you.”

Jeffrey set down the phone, still beset by the feeling that
there was something important he had left undone. He searched his mind once more, came up blank, then returned upstairs for a Bible reading and prayer time while he waited for Yussef and Ivona.

****

Yussef entered the miniature hotel lobby, greeted a subdued Sergei, and sat down to wait while Sergei went to tell Jeffrey of their arrival. Ivona sat beside him, consumed by the unease she habitually showed around Jeffrey. He understood the reasons, yet could find nothing to say that might improve the situation, so he remained silent.

Yussef had never had time for religion. It had called to him, but he had not responded. He had not
cared
to. Until now.

Yussef was too honest to ever deny the interest in his heart. But not every hunger was good for a man with goals, not every craving a call to be answered.

During his younger years, religion had meant guilt and fear and danger. It was laced with mumblings in old Russian, intoned by bearded strangers dressed all in black. He found the incense suffocating, and loathed the taint of superstition. In faith he saw only a prison of memorized prayers and endless masses and feast days and hopes that if he did as the priest wanted, as the rituals demanded, he would be granted some poorly defined eternal release. No, religion was not for the likes of him.

His desire for a doorway to God was not so great as his demand for freedom. He had fought too hard, sacrificed too much, to accept chains from heaven.

Yet this baffling Westerner challenged him. Not with words, however. With silence. He pointed a way Yussef thought could not exist, and he did so not with demands, but rather with his life. Here was a man who spoke directly with God. Not through a church or a ritual or a chant or a priest. By himself. For himself. Jeffrey was strong in the world of business, yet somehow he also remained above the world. He demanded
nothing of Yussef. Yet by his life he pushed Yussef to question everything he had ever assumed of belief in God. He was a
man
. Yet he was also a man of
faith
.

Jeffrey clattered down the stairs, looking both relaxed and happy. He patted Sergei on the back, said something that made them both smile, giving the young Russian a gentle push up the stairs and pointing toward his room, as though urging him to go lie down. Then he turned and greeted them both.

As soon as they were reseated, knowing he needed to do this while his resolve still held, Yussef took a breath. “I wish to speak with you about your Christian faith.”

****

“Nothing could bring me greater joy,” Jeffrey replied.

“I wish to know God. Yet I find no comfort in ritual,” Ivona translated, her voice a dull monotone. “I find no hope in tradition. Only chains.”

Jeffrey winged an instant of prayer upward and spoke from his heart. “Since beginning my travels in Eastern Europe, I've seen a lot of church rituals that are totally different from what I was brought up with. I suppose a lot of the people I've met here would find the rituals in my own Baptist church pretty strange, too. What I think it comes down to, though, is that everyone needs to make an honest examination of his own heart. If the ritual itself is their way of earning salvation, then the Bible says this is wrong. Ritual empty of living faith is dead religion.”

He waited as Ivona concluded her shaky, hesitant translation and marveled at the intensity with which Yussef listened.

“But every church I've ever been to has ritual,” Jeffrey continued. “We come at a certain time. We stand. We sit. We greet others. We sing from a book. We hear the minister pray for us. We listen to our preacher give a sermon. And so on.

“When we follow this pattern,” Jeffrey went on, “I think we are trying to give definition to the Invisible. We are setting a form to the formless. We are giving an earthly structure
to our worship of the Almighty Lord. So long as the ritual remains just that, nothing more than a means of guiding us and focusing our attention on Him, then what we do in the form of rituals is probably okay. Maybe necessary. It is part of being human. But I like to think that when we reach heaven, we will find that all ritual vanishes, because we won't need it then. We will be part of God's eternal home.”

Yussef continued to nod slowly as Ivona reluctantly completed her translation. “Then what is the purpose of your worship?”

“The central purpose for all Christian worship,” Jeffrey replied, “is salvation.”

“And how is this mine?”

“By accepting Jesus Christ as your Savior,” Jeffrey replied. “By accepting that you are a sinner who has fallen short of God's glory, and then by recognizing Jesus as the Son who came to die in your place, so that you might have eternal life.”

“That is all?”

“It is the bridge of salvation. It is the first step of a walk leading toward the Father, a walk that will continue all your life.” Jeffrey searched his face, asked, “Do you want to pray with me now?”

Yussef thought a moment, then decided, “No. This first time I would like to do so alone. It is not required for me to do this with another, yes?”

“Just you and God,” Jeffrey replied. “Nobody else is necessary.”

“Then I shall do it,” he said, his voice as determined as his expression. “I shall speak with God as you say. Perhaps later we can pray together, yes?”

“I would like that,” Jeffrey said, “more than I know how to put into words.”

Yussef released an explosive breath. “I thank you, Jeffrey Sinclair.”

“It is my honor,” Jeffrey replied, “and my greatest pleasure.”

“It would be good if we could now speak about other things.”

“To business,” Jeffrey agreed.

Their discussion took the better part of an hour as they compared notes and revealed their discoveries. Ivona never returned to her habitual singsong, however. She remained locked within some internal struggle that left her with barely the strength to translate, much less join in the conversation with her own ideas.

Yussef checked his watch and rose to his feet. “I have to check with someone before he begins his lunchtime work. There is only a very slim chance that I shall learn what I need to know, but it is the only other possibility I can think of just now.”

“Perhaps the anti-crime squad will come up with the missing link.”

“Perhaps,” Yussef agreed doubtfully, “but it would be far better to bring them in once we have the answer ourselves, rather than wait at the door and beg for crumbs. If they find the treasure first, we have no guarantee that what was taken from us will be restored to us.”

“Good luck, then.”

Yussef extended his hand. “You are a good friend.”

Jeffrey saw him through the door, then felt an invisible hand drawing him back toward where Ivona sat downcast and silent. He lowered himself into the seat and asked, “Is something wrong?”

“I do not understand you,” she said, exasperated almost beyond words. “The church is a sacred place. Yet you never even mention it. But this is where we have a relationship with God.”

“I really believe our relationship with Jesus should be contained in every hour of every day,” Jeffrey said quietly, “not restricted to a certain time and place.”

“Christ established the church to be the center of worship,”
Ivona replied heatedly. “Over the centuries it has been the church that has drawn men to God.”

“The church as a body of believers,” Jeffrey asked calmly, “or the church as a building?”

“It is in the church that we have priests who can assist us in understanding spiritual matters,” she said, so angry the words tumbled out upon one another. “In the church we have traditions handed down over centuries that maintain our sense of community and of faith. Where would the church be if everyone was like you? You pray at the table, you pray in the car, you pray on the street corner. Where is the sacred place where you go to meet God?”

Jeffrey responded calmly, “Ivona, the ritual will never save you.”

“I—” She stopped in midsentence. “What?”

“Jesus Christ does not reside in ritual. He resides in your heart.”

The faltering confusion returned to her eyes, but not the hostility. Now there was only naked anguish. “You are wrong. Simplistic and wrong.”

He shook his head. “This truth is both simple and eternal. You either have a personal relationship with your Savior or you do not. If you don't, no ritual on earth will bridge that gap.”

He leaned forward, filled with a certainty that surprised even him. “Unless your ritual is done for Christ and toward Christ, unless it is truly Spirit-filled, it has no meaning. If not . . .”

Jeffrey stopped, searched her aching gaze, wished there were some way simply to give her the peace himself. “If not,” he continued softly, “then you need to go before the Lord on your knees. In solitude. In humility. You must ask Christ to fill your life with His everlasting love. And meaning.”

Chapter 38

Sadko's was a restaurant favored by the city's underworld bosses, a smoke-filled din of imitation Western elegance and outrageous prices. Hard-faced men in tight-fitting suits cut deals in quiet voices while dining on Frenchified dishes. Hired muscle slouched around the room's periphery, decked out in dark colors, sporting a variety of weapons, and holding their bosses' portable telephones like badges of honor.

Yussef pulled his rusting car up at the far corner of the street, away from the early arrivals' Mercedes and BMWs and Volvos. He hustled down the filthy alleyway leading to the service entrance and hoped that he was not too late.

The average Russian wage was 450 rubles per month, less than one American dollar at current exchange rates. With the new power of
green money
, spoken in English and denoting dollars, all rules were off. When one dollar could buy eleven pounds of fresh meat in a starving land, and two dollars could purchase an air ticket from Moscow to Saint Petersburg—farther than from Boston to Washington—all barriers were down.