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In the booth the priest held the receiver in a damp hand, a bead of sweat across his forehead.

“Look, Colonel, you do not know me. But I am a passionate admirer of Mr. Komarov. Last night a man came to visit the Patriarch. He brought documents. He referred to one as a Black Manifesto. ... Hello? Hello? Are you there?”

“My dear Father Klimovsky, I think we should meet,” said the voice.

CHAPTER 13

AT THE FAR SOUTHEASTERN END OF STARAYA PLOSHAD IS Slavyansky Square where stands one of the smallest oldest, and most beautiful churches in Moscow. All Saints of Kulishki was originally built in the thirteenth century of wood, when the Russ capital comprised only the Kremlin and a few surrounding acres. After burning down, it was rebuilt in stone in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries and remained in constant use until 1918.

Moscow was then still known as the city of Twenty-Times-Twenty Churches, for there were over four hundred of them. The Communists closed down ninety percent and destroyed three-quarters. Among those that remained abandoned but otherwise intact was All Saints of Kulishki.

After the fall of Communism in 1991, the little church underwent four years of meticulous restoration at the hands of teams of craftsmen until it reopened as a place of worship. It was here that Father Maxim Klimovsky came on the day following his phone call. He attracted no attention because he was dressed in the standard full-length black cassock and stovepipe hat of an Orthodox priest, and there were several of them in and around the church. He took a votive candle, lit it, and walked to the wall on the right of the entrance, where he stood contemplating the restored icons as if in prayer and contemplation.

In the center of the church, ablaze with gold and paintings, a resident priest stood behind the altar chanting the litany to a small group in Street clothes who answered with the responses. But the right-hand wall, behind a series of arches, was unoccupied apart from the single priest.

Father Maxim glanced nervously at his watch. Five minutes after the appointed hour. He did not know he had been seen from the parked car across the little square, nor had he noticed the three men alight after he entered the building. He did not know they had checked to see if he was being followed; he knew none of these things, or how they were done.

He heard the slight scrape of a shoe on the flagstone behind him and felt the man move into position beside him.

“Father Klimovsky?”

‘‘Yes.”

“I am Colonel Grishin. I believe you have something to tell me.”

He glanced sideways. The man was taller than him, slim, in a dark winter coat. He turned and looked down at Father Maxim. The priest met his eyes and was frightened. He hoped he was doing the right thing and would not regret it. He nodded and swallowed.

“First tell me why, Father. Why the phone call?”

“You must understand, Colonel, that I have long been a keen admirer of Mr. Komarov. His policies, his plans for Russia—all admirable.”

“How gratifying. And what happened the night before last?”

“A man came to see the Patriarch. I am his valet and butler. The man was dressed as a priest of the church, but he was blond and wore no beard. His Russian was perfect, he might have been a foreigner.”

“Was he expected, this foreigner?”

“No. That was what was so strange. He came unannounced, in the middle of the night. I was in bed. I was told to get up and prepare coffee.”

“So, the stranger was received after all?”

“Yes, that was odd, too. The Western appearance of the man, the hour of his arrival ... The secretary should have told him to make a formal appointment. No one just walks in on the Patriarch in the middle of the night. But he seemed to have a letter of introduction.”

“So, you served them coffee.”

“Yes, and as I was leaving I heard His Holiness say: What does Mr. Komarov’s manifesto tell us?”

“And you were intrigued?”

“Yes. So after closing the door I listened at the keyhole.”

“Very astute. And what did they say?”

“Not a lot. There were long periods of silence. I looked through the keyhole and could see His Holiness was reading something. It took almost an hour.”

“And then?”

“The Patriarch seemed very disturbed. I heard him say something and then use the word ‘satanic.’ Then he said, ‘We are beyond these things.’ The stranger was talking in a low voice, I could hardly hear him. But I caught the words ‘the Black Manifesto.’ They came from the stranger. That was just before His Holiness spent an hour reading. …”