Winter Palace (40 page)

“When I am faced with this in my own congregation,” Reverend Collins offered, “I remind myself that a newborn baby cannot be expected to stand up and run. It is still in diapers. It makes mistakes. It needs to be held and fed and loved and coddled.”

“There is great wisdom in what you say,” Father Anatoli murmured. “Great wisdom.”

“When Hezekiah was a twenty-five-year-old king,” Bishop Michael interjected, “he reversed a two-hundred-year-long trend by demanding that the Israelites return to worshiping their Lord. The priests, under this young king's instructions, tore down every heathen shrine in the country. They cleaned the pagan altars from the high places. They purified the nation. Hezekiah then declared a seven-day period of worship. And so many came with sacrifices that at the end of this time the priests returned to the king and said, we must have more time; give us seven days more. The people donated so much money that it was left in heaps outside the temple.”

He looked at each man in turn. “In my heart of hearts, I believe that the same miracle could occur here, if only we
were to join together and offer the Lord's message in a spirit of His divine love.”

“And yet, and yet,” Father Anatoli murmured, his gaze sorely troubled. “What can I say to those of my church who do not agree with the concept of brotherhood among Christians?”

“What we should say to everyone in every church who thinks this way,” Reverend Collins replied. “Tell them that throughout the New Testament, we are declared joined to one another. A body of believers. The bride of Christ. A hint of the divine in earthly form. I think we owe it to our Father to behave as He commands, don't you?”

“Indeed,” Bishop Michael agreed. “And yet, within my own church at least, the greatest problem is where to draw the line between Christian and heretic.”

“But who are we to judge what is and is not a part of the body?” Reverend Collins replied. “The Book of Proverbs states that God truly despises someone who sows discord among those God loves. Who here on earth has been given such perfect judgment that he or she can say who in God's eyes is among the fold? And if there is not the power of perfect judgment, why would anyone wish to take such a risk?”

His dark eyes filled with penetrating strength, Father Anatoli observed, “You have thought of this at length.”

“I have had to face within myself the desire to judge,” Reverend Collins replied somberly. “To be perfectly honest, I don't agree with many of your practices, or in some respects even with your concept of Christ.” Evan Collins shook his head. “But to argue about it, or judge you, is just to make matters worse. As soon as the battle is started, even by thoughts that are never uttered, the war is lost.”

“I feel I have waited all my life to hear such words spoken,” Bishop Michael said.

But Reverend Collins was not finished. “The truth of Jesus Christ I would defend to my dying breath. My whole life is based upon His gift of salvation. But I must continually be
on guard to separate my own restricted perspective from His divine and eternal truths.”

“And how do you do that?” Father Anatoli asked.

“By remembering three things at all times: that I am human, that I could be wrong, and that I most certainly don't know everything.”

“My brothers,” Bishop Michael told them, a gentle smile playing upon his features. “Last night I dreamed that the white roses of heaven were unfolding and sending their petals down to fall in invisible drifts upon this scarred and hurting earth. People were being healed, shadows were being banished, and hope was being restored.”

“Our people need our help,” Father Anatoli declared. “And there is only one answer we can show them. Love and harmony in the name of Jesus Christ. Unity beneath the glorious banner of our Lord.”

There were sober nods around the circle. “If we are to concentrate on the ones in need and not on the problems of an earthly existence for our churches,” Reverend Collins agreed, “then we must show in our lives what we promise they will find within their hearts. The everlasting peace of Jesus Christ.”

“We must build a shelter for our people's suffering hearts,” Father Anatoli went on. “We must work as one to erect a home filled with light and hope, a palace large enough for all believers. One strong enough to withstand the bitterest of winter winds.”

“The only answer,” Bishop Michael urged, “the only way forward, is mutual forgiveness.”

“By living the teachings,” Father Anatoli agreed, “of our Lord Jesus.”

They stopped at that, shocked into stillness by the boldness of their words.

Chapter 41

Prince Vladimir Markov put down the telephone receiver, and was pleased to find that his hands were not shaking.

From his place at the desk, the same desk which had passed from father to son for seven generations, Markov gazed at the blue-upon-blue of cloudless sky meeting deep Mediterranean waters. The sweet scents of jasmine and lemon blossoms drifted in through tall open windows. Beyond the glass-fronted French doors, the veranda table bore a sterling silver coffee service, a gift to his grandfather from the czar himself. A brilliant white umbrella protected the wrought-iron table from the afternoon's warmth. His chair, from which he had been drawn by the general's telephone call, was at its customary place by the outer wall, so that Markov could sip his coffee while watching a bustling Monte Carlo prepare for evening.

Markov did not return to his coffee, however. He looked out toward the horizon with eyes that saw nothing, took in nothing, and reflected upon all that was lost. All that was placed beyond his grasp, and would remain so forever.

It was good of General Surikov to telephone. He had called to report personally about the developments, and to say that they were coming. Despite the man's many faults, Markov decided, Surikov had the mark of a gentleman.

Prince Markov unlocked the bottom right-hand drawer to his desk. His hand hesitated over the box containing his great-grandfather's set of matched dueling pistols, then settled upon the letter resting beside it. Gently he pulled out and flattened the single sheet. Although the page was yellowed and brittle with age, the Cyrillic handwriting was fresh and strong and certain, as though written only the day before.

The letter had been sent by his grandfather, universally known as the old prince, to Markov's own father, several weeks before the Bolsheviks overran Saint Petersburg and
overthrew the czarist government. It was the last word his father had ever received from any of the family:

My dear son:

I know it is not your habit to listen to advice, especially from me. I also know that you shall go your own headstrong way no matter what I say. Yet I beg you to honor an old man's request on this one matter, if on nothing else: Do not ever collaborate with the enemy, no matter what they may offer.

From what I can see of the gathering storm, these thieves are attempting to hide within the cloak of legitimate authority. They intend to steal all we have—our lands, our homes, our titles. They may then find themselves robbed of their own power to govern. When they realize this and show weakness, you may be tempted to negotiate with them in hopes of restoring yourself to power. Do not do so, my son. Do not forsake your soul to these evil ones. They will repay you with nothing but empty promises.

If you were to try and collaborate, the day will come when you shall displease them. Make no mistake, my son. With such people, it is inevitable that displeasure or jealously or enmity will occur. When that happens, they will kill you.

Understand this, and you understand an essential difference between a man of honor and such men as these—they have no respect for human life. None whatsoever. Their
only answer to a problem is to kill. To destroy. To annihilate.

Do not allow yourself to be sucked into the maelstrom, no matter how strong the temptation. In the end it will destroy you, unless you choose to become like them, which is itself a destruction worse than death.

As the Good Book says, you cannot serve two masters. Remain loyal to who you are. Do not taint our family's great name with the walking of false paths. The thieves will never return us to power, nor offer you the glory they might claim. Even when everything earthly is lost, hold steadfast to the truth.

And so, my son, may the good Lord keep you and yours.

Farewell

Carefully Markov refolded the letter and drew out the embossed teakwood box. He hefted the cold metal, was mildly surprised to find it far heavier than he expected, and knew a moment's regret that he had never been granted an opportunity to meet the old man.

Chapter 42

That night Ivona returned to her room, exhausted by the day and defeated by the internal voices that called to her with deafening intensity. Once in bed, her mind would not cease its restless searching.

She wanted so much to condemn Jeffrey. He and his ways went against everything she had ever known or believed. Yet she could not. The bishop had accepted him since the very beginning, despite her strongest disapproval. And Jeffrey had returned this trust by accomplishing the impossible.

Ivona had accepted work on this investigation because the bishop told her to. It had been her duty to set aside her doubt, no, more than that, her
certainty
that the church's treasure was lost and gone forever. To do the bishop's bidding was her life's work, even when doing so had been an exercise in dangerous futility.

Here again, Jeffrey had proved her wrong.

Then there was Yussef.
Her
Yussef. He had turned to this Western stranger with questions she had waited a lifetime to hear him ask of her. Why? Why had he turned to Jeffrey and not to her? Why was it so?

Even more disturbing, why did she herself feel this answering call within her own heart?

The very foundations of her world were being shaken with violent intensity, and she felt utterly helpless in the face of such a storm.

Always before, she had simply assumed that the bishop and the priests, the
good
priests, were the ones to have a close relationship with God. They read all the holy books. They lived holy lives. They worked in holy service. They acted as God's holy emissaries. She
expected
them to have such a deep spiritual life.

How was it, then, that such a divine spirit dwelled within
Jeffrey when he prayed? He was none of these things, not even a part of the holy church. Yet her own basic honesty would not allow her to deny what she had seen, what she had felt, both within the man's actions and within the man's words. And to admit that this spirit existed within him challenged her to find it also for herself.

Finally she slept, and dreamed of a funeral. A funeral long over, yet still continuing. The friends and the mourners and the incense and the priest and the flowers and the tears were all gone, yet still the funeral went on. Still she was there, and somehow she knew she had been there for a very long time.

The funeral van sat in an empty field under a leaden sky. It was nothing more than a rusted hulk, without wheels or windows or doors, locked into place by an anchor of weeds.

There beside the coffin sat her husband. Only it was not he, but rather a young boy who looked sadly out through the hearse's window frame. At the sight of her, he started guiltily and turned back to his place beside the coffin. As he turned, he aged, resuming what she knew was the position she had forced him into for the past forty years, forced to sit and wait with her without ever understanding why, or what she herself was waiting for. Yet he loved her too much to leave. So he continued to sit, trapped in a funeral that had lost all meaning to everyone, including herself. And in the process he had become an old man, stooped and bent and defeated.

Her attention was caught by another person standing a few paces away, and with a shock she recognized herself. Her back was to the hearse and her husband. She stood in such rigid, unbending anger that vines had wound their way up around her legs and body and bound her to the earth, just as they did the ancient van. With her anger blinding her, she had not even noticed that she too was trapped.

Ivona walked around to the side of the van, but the distance was great, so great that even as she walked her husband continued to shield her from seeing the coffin. Faster
she walked, and faster still. Still she could not see around her husband. Suddenly she was running, and as she ran she realized she was fleeing, pursued by all the wasted years and all the chains of anger.

With that flash of realization the coffin came into view.

And it was empty.

She stopped, shocked into frozen stillness by the sight of that vacant coffin. Ivona understood then. She
understood
.

She mourned years lost, and hurts caused her by an uncaring world. She was angry with the apathetic way life had treated her. She had used her sorrow as a weapon to punish the world for her loss. Especially her husband. And her God. And herself.

And for nothing.

There was only one answer. Only one solution. She flung herself down before the empty coffin, and she wept. She wept for the youth which was no more. She wept for the years that had been lost. She wept for her husband, and for herself. She wept for the anger she had harbored against her God.

A hand came to rest upon her back. The hand of her husband. And somehow, at the same time, the hand of her Lord.

The calm, gentle motion was enough to awaken her. And as she sat upright, her face washed by the same tears she had sobbed in her dream, she realized that, somehow, all was forgiven.

Ivona rose from her bed, knowing a wisdom and a need that left no room for slumber. It was time to extend the hand of forgiveness here on earth.

Chapter 43

The next morning Jeffrey arrived at the American consulate to find Casey waiting for him at the front door. “How are the paws?”

Jeffrey raised two bandaged hands. “Not bad. Your doctor did a great job.”