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“So, my son, and how is my friend Anthony of London?”
There was nothing false about the visitor’s black cassock, nor even the black stovepipe that he had now removed to reveal blond hair. The only odd thing was that he wore no beard. Most Orthodox priests do, but not all the English ones.
“I’m afraid I could not say, Your Holiness, for I have not met him.”
Alexei stared at Monk without comprehension. He gestured at the letter in front of him.
“And this? I do not understand.”
Monk took a deep breath.
“First, Holiness, I have to confess that I am not a priest of the Orthodox Church. Neither is the letter from Bishop Anthony, though the paper is genuine and the signature skillfully forged. The purpose of this disrespectful charade is that I had to see you. You personally, in privacy and in conditions of great secrecy.”
The Patriarch’s eyes flickered in alarm. Was the man a lunatic? An assassin? There was an armed Cossack guard down below, but could he be summoned in time? He kept his face impassive. His butler would return in a few moments. Perhaps that would be the time to escape.
“Please explain,” he said.
“First, sir, I am by birth an American, not a Russian. Second, I come from a group of people in the West, discreet and powerful, who wish to help Russia and the church, not harm either of them. Third, I come only with news that my patrons feel you may believe to be important and troubling. Finally, I come to seek your help, not your blood. You have a phone at your elbow. You may use it to summon help. I will not stop you. But before you denounce me, I beg you to read what I have brought.”
Alexei frowned. Certainly the man did not appear to be a maniac, and he had already had time to kill him. Where was that fool Maxim with his coffee?
“Very well. What is it you have for me?”
Monk reached beneath his cassock and produced two slim folders, which he placed on the desk. The Patriarch glanced at the covers, one gray, the other black.
“What do these concern?”
“The gray one should be read first. It is a report that proves beyond any reasonable doubt that the black file is no forgery, no joke, no hoax, no trick.”
“And the black file?”
“It is the private and personal manifesto of one Igor Alexeivich Komarov, who it appears will soon be president of Russia.”
There was a knock on the door. Father Maxim entered with a tray of coffee, cups, and biscuits. The mantel clock struck twelve.
“Too late,” sighed the Patriarch. “Maxim, you have deprived me of my biscuit.”
“I am terribly sorry, Holiness. The coffee ... I had to grind fresh ... I …”
“I am only jesting, Maxim.” He glanced at Monk. The man appeared hard and fit. If he was going to commit murder, he could probably kill them both. “Away to your bed, Maxim. May God give you good rest.”
The butler shuffled toward the door.
“Now,” said the Patriarch, “what does Mr. Komarov’s manifesto tell us?”
Father Maxim closed the door behind him, hoping no one had noticed the start he gave at the mention of Komarov’s name. In the corridor he glanced up and down. The secretary was already back in bed, the religious sisters would not appear for hours, the Cossack was downstairs. He knelt by the door and applied his ear to the keyhole.
Alexei II read the verification report first, as he was asked. Monk sipped his coffee. Finally the Patriarch had finished.
“An impressive story. Why did he do it?”
“The old man?”
“Yes.”
“We shall never know. As you see, he is dead. Murdered beyond any doubt. Professor Kuzmin’s report is adamant on that.”
“Poor fellow. I shall pray for him.”