Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

Lenin smiled. "But this time, Holiness, the union will be far-reaching. We propose a merger of all factions, including the church. A united effort to ensure a collective survival. As you say, a fourth Rome."

"Including the mafiya?"

Lenin nodded. "We have no choice. Their reach is too long. Perhaps in time they can be acclimated into mainstream society."

"That is too much to wish. They are draining the people. Their greed is largely to blame for our dire situation."

"I understand that, Holiness. But we have no choice. Thankfully, the mafiya factions, at least for the moment, are cooperating."

Hayes decided to seize the opportunity. "We can also help with your public relations problem."

The patriarch's eyebrows arched. "I was unaware my church had such a problem."

"Let's be frank, Holiness. If you did not have a problem, we would not be here, beneath Orthodox Russia's holiest cathedral, plotting the manipulation of a restored monarchy."

"Go on, Mr. Hayes."

He was beginning to like Patriarch Adrian. He seemed an entirely practical man. "Church attendance is down. Few Russians want to see their children become clerics, and even fewer are donating to parishes. Your cash flow has got to be at critical levels. You also have a possible civil war on your hands. From what I've been told, a good number of priests and bishops favor making Orthodoxy the national religion, to the exclusion of all others. Yeltsin refused to do that, vetoing the bill that tried, then passing a watered-down version. But he had no choice. The United States would have cut off funds if religious persecution began, and Russia needs foreign aid. Without some governmental sanction, your church may well founder."

"I will not deny that a schism is brewing between ultratraditionalists and modernists."

Hayes kept his momentum. "Foreign missionaries are eroding your base. You've got ministers flocking from all over America looking for Russian converts. That variety in theology creates problems, doesn't it? Hard to keep the flock faithful when others start preaching alternatives."

"Unfortunately, we Russians do not handle choices well."

"What was the first people's democratic election?" Lenin said. "God created Adam and Eve, then said to Adam, 'Now, choose a wife.' "

The patriarch smiled.

Hayes continued, "What you want, Holiness, is state protection without state repression. You want Orthodoxy, but don't want to surrender control. We offer you that luxury."

"Specifics, please."

Lenin said, "You, as patriarch, will remain head of the church. The new tsar will assert himself as head, but there will be no interference with church administration. In fact, the tsar will openly encourage people to Orthodoxy. The Romanovs were always dedicated that way, Nicholas II particularly. This dedication is also consistent with a Russian nationalist philosophy the new tsar will expound. In return, you will assure the church promulgates a pro-tsarist position and supports the new government in whatever it does. Your priests should be our allies. In this way the church and state will be joined, but the masses need never know. A fourth Rome, modified to a new reality."

The old man went silent, clearly considering the proposal.

"All right, gentlemen. You may consider the church at your disposal."

"That was fast," Hayes said.

"Not at all. I have been thinking about this since you first made contact. I merely wanted to talk face-to-face and gauge the men I will be in league with. I am pleased."

Both acknowledged the compliment.

"But I ask that you deal only with me on this matter."

Lenin understood. "Would you like a representative to attend our meetings? That courtesy would be extended."

Adrian nodded. "I will appoint a priest. He and I will be the only two privy to this arrangement. I will be in touch with the name."

MOSCOW, 5:40 PM

The rain stopped just as Lord exited the metro station. Tsventnoy Boulevard was damp from a good dousing, the air noticeably colder, a chilling fog draping the city. He still wore no coat other than his suit jacket and looked out of place among the dense crowd wrapped in wool and fur. He was glad night had fallen. That and the fog should help conceal him.

He followed a crush of people toward the theater across the street. He knew the Moscow Circus was a popular tourist stop, one of the premier shows in the world. He'd gone himself once years ago to marvel at the dancing bears and trained dogs.

He had twenty minutes until the performance started. Perhaps during intermission he could get a message backstage to Akilina Petrovna. If not, he'd find her after. Maybe she could get in touch with the American embassy. Perhaps she could get in and out of the Volkhov and talk with Taylor Hayes. Surely she had an apartment where he could wait in safety.

The theater was fifty yards down the street on the opposite side. He was just about to cross and head for a ticket booth when a voice from behind yelled, "Stoi." Stop.

He kept shouldering ahead.

The voice said again, "Stoi."

He glanced back over his left shoulder and saw a policeman. The man was shoving through the crowd, arm raised, eyes locked straight ahead. Lord increased his pace and quickly crossed the congested street, dissolving into the bustling crowd on the far side. A tour bus was off-loading its passengers, and he joined a steady procession of Japanese as they made their way into the brightly lit theater. Another glance back and he did not see the policeman.

Maybe he'd simply imagined the officer was after him.

He kept his head low and followed the noisy crowd. At the ticket booth he paid the ten-ruble admission and darted inside, hoping Akilina Petrovna was there.

Akilina donned her costume. The communal dressing room buzzed with its usual bustle, performers rushing in and out. No one was afforded the luxury of private dressing quarters. That was something she'd seen only in American movies, which depicted circus life romantically.

She was tired, having gotten little sleep last night. The trip from St. Petersburg to Moscow had been interesting, to say the least, and throughout the day she'd thought about Miles Lord. She'd told him the truth. He was the first black man she'd ever seen on that train. And no, she'd never been frightened of him. Maybe his fear had disarmed her.

Lord projected none of the stereotypical descriptions she recalled from childhood, when teachers in the state-run schools deplored the hideous evil of the Negroid race. She remembered comments about their inferior brains, weak immune systems, and total inability to govern themselves. Americans once enslaved them, a point the propagandists hammered home to emphasize the failure of capitalism. She'd even seen photographs of lynchings where white men gathered in ghostly white robes and pointed hoods and gawked at the spectacle.

Miles Lord, though, seemed nothing like any of that. His skin was the color of the rusty Voina River she remembered from visits to her grandmother's village. His brown hair was short and neat. His body was compact and sinewy. He carried an air that was formal but friendly, his throaty voice memorable. He'd seemed genuinely surprised by her invitation to spend the night in her compartment, perhaps unaccustomed to such openness in women. She hoped his sophistication ran deeper, since he seemed interesting.

Exiting the train, she'd seen the three men chasing Lord leave the station and climb into a dark blue Volvo waiting on the street. She'd stuffed Lord's attache case into her overnight bag and kept it, just as she'd promised, hoping he might want it back.

All day she'd wondered if Lord was all right. Men had not played much of a role in her life the past few years. The circus performed almost every night, twice nightly in the summer. When not in Moscow, the troupe traveled extensively. She'd visited nearly all of Russia and most of Europe, and even New York City for a performance at Madison Square Garden. There was little time for male companionship beyond an occasional dinner or a conversation during a long plane or train ride.