Jeffrey Siger - An Aegean Prophecy

It was as genuine a prayer as the Protos ever uttered.

The e-mail hit Yakov’s computer screen just as he was about to leave for home. His wife would give him holy hell if they were late for midnight services. But the message was from his ex-director back in the days when Yakov was new to the foreign intelligence game. Anatoly had plucked him from the crowd and made him chief espionage analyst for southern Europe and the Balkans, better known then as Section V. He at least must take a quick look at it, if only for old times’ sake.

Yakov began quickly scrolling through the message. The pace of his reading slowed, then slowed even more. He picked up the phone, pressed a speed dial button, and waited until the man now in charge of his old Section V duties in Russia’s new foreign intelligence service answered. ‘Artur, come to my office immediately.’

Yakov was reading the attachments when a man entered his office. ‘What is it, Director?’

‘Artur, do you remember about a decade or so ago, the man we called “the Balkan Butcher”?’

‘How could I forget him. But didn’t he die?’

‘So we thought. I’m not sure anymore. This just came in.’ Yakov pointed to the screen. ‘Read it.’

Yakov kept talking as Artur read. ‘Even if this monk, Zacharias, is the Butcher, if all he’s doing is running around creating political angst for the Greek Church, I’m not sure his past matters anymore. After all, we do believe in redemption, do we not?’ He smiled.

Artur did not answer, just kept reading.

Yakov didn’t mind, he was used to asking rhetorical questions and never expected them to be answered. ‘As for the symbolism of the photographs, I think it’s an intriguing intellectual exercise, but I’m not sure of what interest it is to us. One could argue from the placement of the carpet and the superimposed face of Satan in the photograph that it was the Protos the murdered monk was linking to Satan. But let us assume this Zacharias is Satan’s beast or even Satan himself, as I said before, does it matter? Yes, undoubtedly, the Butcher in his day qualified as the devil incarnate, but that was a long time ago. Now he’s someone else’s problem, and I see no reason to make him ours. And so what if this Zacharias is behind all of the bad publicity coming out of Greece? Would it not be better for us to bribe those same journalists to write retractions than risk being exposed as the eliminator of the source?’

‘I’m not so sure about that, Director.’

An actual answer to one of his questions caught Yakov off guard. ‘“Not so sure” of what?’

Artur kept reading through the attachments as he spoke. ‘We’ve received reports of someone attempting to locate the source of the dioxin used on the Ukrainian. At first we thought it was a journalist trying to wring yet another story out of the incident. Maybe even Yushchenko himself trying to find some way to revive his political fortunes with more emotional tales from the past.

‘But then we learned that someone actually was trying to buy dioxin from that same source, and not just any dioxin, but the exact formulation found in Yushchenko. At that point we inserted our operatives into the transaction. We wanted to know who was so interested.’ Artur turned to face Yakov.

‘We do not know who the buyers are. There have been no face-to-face communications, but we do know two things. One,’ he raised his right hand and popped out his index finger. ‘The language used by the buyers was Serbian, and two,’ out came the middle finger. ‘Delivery is to take place in Greece. In Ouranoupolis.’

Yakov’s pulse was racing but his voice was flat. ‘The gateway to Mount Athos. This changes everything.’ He drummed his forehead with the fingers of his left hand. ‘Forget about looking for signs of the devil. This intrigue is a sign of the Butcher. Calculating, ruthless, deadly. Any idea of the target?’

Artur shook his head. ‘None.’

‘If Zacharias is the Butcher, whatever is planned will strike directly at our heart. We cannot permit that. When is delivery to take place?’

‘There’s no exact time, a messenger with the package is to wait by a taverna in the port for contact to be made.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Between twelve and eighteen hours from now.’

Yakov picked up the phone and dialed his wife. He and a lot of other people would be missing church tonight.

It was almost midnight. Saint Dionysios on Skoufa Street in Kolinaki was packed. Andreas hadn’t been to this church before, or for that matter, to any church, in a very long time. He’d gone with Lila to a wedding in a small church on Stisichorou Street behind her apartment, and managed to miss a couple of baptisms there, but this was the first time he’d been to her parents’ church. They had insisted the ‘entire family’ be together tonight, and that included Andreas’ mother and his sister’s family.

Andreas wondered if they could tell if his sin showed. He was lucky they weren’t the kind to talk in church. He feared he might confess despite Maggie’s warning. He was holding Lila’s hand and looking at his mother sitting next to him on his left. She was beaming. He knew what she was thinking: my family, all together in church, and my son happy at last with the right woman, his… his friend. Yes, that was what she insisted on calling Lila. Andreas had told his mother she could call Lila his wife, that Lila wouldn’t mind. ‘But I would,’ was his mother’s response. Not until they were married in church would she call Lila her son’s wife, no matter how much she wished it were so.

Andreas felt Lila squeeze his hand and he turned to face her.

She was smiling at him and patting her belly. ‘Baby’s happy, too.’

If he confessed, he’d destroy the lives of the two people he loved most in the world. He could never do that. He’d have to live with what he’d done, accept it, and try to become better for it. He felt no guilt at his decision. Quite the contrary: for the first time in a very long time Andreas was at peace.

The chanting and prayer had hit its peak, bells were ringing, rejoice, Christos Anesti.

But Zacharias saw no joy about him, only mindless, rote prayer without purpose. He needed to escape this. Next year would be different. He would move on. It was not unheard of to switch monasteries. He needed a more civilized base for his plans, somewhere he could flourish and never be incommunicado again. There was too much at stake, too many in need of his guidance. His flock was prey to wolves without its shepherd. No, this year he would move on. There were many monasteries here that would accept him with joy. All he needed was the consent of his abbot. No problem, if the old tyrant were fool enough to refuse, it would be he who moved on.

Yes, the time to emerge from these depths was at hand. He was certain of it.

Now was the fun part of Easter in Greece, at least for those skipping out of church at midnight, carrying candles lit by fire from the Holy Flame of Christ’s nativity cave in Jerusalem into their homes or favorite restaurants. Andreas and the family chose the latter, a fairytale place in the National Gardens next to the breathtaking nineteenth century Zappeion Megaron, the first building constructed specifically for the purpose of reviving the Modern Olympic Games.

They had challenged each other with the customary smacking of dyed-red eggs for good luck to the winner, devoured the traditional mayiritsa soup to break the fast, left very little of the salads, and very little of the wine, leaving Lila the only fully sober one at the table, and not by choice.

‘The baby’s on the wagon,’ was Lila’s excuse to every wellwisher passing by their table and offering a toast.