Chapter 1
Pope John Paul III towered over the small wooden podium in the center of the square outside the Memorial House of Mother Teresa in Skopje, one large brown eye fixed on the television crews that would transmit the event to every corner of the earth, the other watching the small crowd gathered in front of him. Next to him, dressed all in white just as he was, stood the Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople, Alexy III, the 270th successor of Andrew the Apostle. The crowd, mostly Macedonians, with a smattering of journalists thrown in for good measure, looked back at him in anticipation and curiosity. The event had been cobbled together in a hurry, with very little advance notice. He hated the melodrama that this lack of directness had created, but Oberst Jaecks, the commander of the Swiss Guard—which had been protecting popes for over five hundred years—had insisted upon it. Less than two months since the failed assassination attempt in St. Peter’s Square, Kommandant Jaecks was taking no chances; in addition to their ceremonial halberds, which pointed sharply toward the overcast Macedonian sky, the guardsmen were all carrying automatic weapons in plain view.
“Brother and sisters …”
They spoke in unison, the pope in Italian and the patriarch, the first among equals among the heads of the Orthodox churches, in Russian. Behind them, a screen had been erected, displaying their words in three languages: Macedonian, English and Greek.
“Christ is not divided, and yet, since 1054, our two great churches have remained apart; a separation that was the work of men, not God. Today, on this sacred ground commemorating one of the greatest Christians of all eternity, we gather to announce the formation of a series of ecumenical councils that will lead to the reunification of the Roman Catholic and the Eastern Orthodox churches.”
They paused. The pope used the time to gauge the reaction of the crowd. The Macedonians were staring at the screen behind him, reading the words as they were typed, disbelief dawning on their faces. The Swiss Guard stood, as always, tall and proud; their faces calm but alert. The journalists and media, however, were anything but calm: hands jumped into the air, even though the question-and-answer session was yet to begin; necks craned, heads swiveled, and jaws dropped; thumbs tapped away on phones, shooting texts and emails to TV networks and newspapers around the globe.
As they had agreed earlier in a meeting inside the Memorial House, Patriarch Alexy III started speaking again, delineating the nuts and bolts of the process that would lead to the end of the break in communion between the two churches after nearly a millennium.
Patriarch Alexy III continued, but the pope wasn’t listening; having co-written the text, he knew every word by heart. Instead, he focused on being in the moment, breathing in the slightly damp air that smelled of diesel smoke and the garbage that had been piling up due to a recent strike, feeling the caress of the light breeze on his face, and watching the excitement bubble up as if from the very earth itself, imbuing the faces of the people in the crowd with its energy. It had begun, here, now, in this moment, and he wanted to stay in it forever. The devil would be in the detail—both the devil and the detail would follow in droves in short order—but he shunted the negativity away from his mind. Licking his lips, he tasted the moment, which was sweet, like the roasted coconut he used to steal from the street vendors as a child in Nigeria. The shock wave of their announcement, which had not been leaked or hinted at in any way, pealed like thunder in the air; he could feel its power course through him, giving him strength, driving him forward.
It had begun …
Chapter 2
Nicolai Orlov paced back and forth in the private gallery of his apartment on the top floor of Schloss Rheinstein. Pausing for a minute, he crossed himself beneath the painting of Our Lady of Kazan, then returned to his pacing, glancing at his watch every now and again. Close to the top of the hour, he genuflected one last time in front of the icon of the Holy Protectress of Russia—the original, which had been stolen in 1904 and was thought to be lost forever—and passed into his spacious living room, closing and locking the door behind him. The room overlooked the Rhine, which snaked into the northern horizon like a large anaconda. He picked up a remote control from the arm of the leather sofa, punched a few buttons, and a large flat-screen TV burst into life on a side wall. Grabbing a bottle of Beluga vodka and a crystal tumbler, he stood in front of the television, pouring himself a generous measure as he waited for the program to begin.
It was three in the afternoon in Germany, early to be drinking, but he had a bad feeling he was going to need a glass of vodka—and perhaps a few more—to get through the day. The first indication that his premonition was right was the breaking news banner that scrolled across the bottom of the screen. The next was the sight of Patriarch Alexy III, wearing the traditional white koukoulion topped by a gold cross, standing next to Pope John Paul III. The last and final clue were the words of the patriarch himself, spoken in his native Russian, confirming Orlov’s greatest fear: that the two men were aiming to unify the two great churches. He watched in morbid fascination, unable to look away, similar to the way a passer-by cannot stop from staring at a bus crash with many casualties.
When the program was over, he clicked the screen off, grabbed his glass, and passed through the sliding door onto the veranda. It was cloudy and cool, although Orlov, who had been born in St. Petersburg and often swam in the Baltic until October, didn’t bother bringing his jacket. The vodka was making him warm anyway, and he had plenty of it. He took his phone out and made a call.
“Hello,” Anatoly Gerashchenko said without enthusiasm.
“Did you see them?”
“See who?”
“Patriarch Alexy and Pope John Paul III.”
“No.”
There were occasions when Orlov got the feeling that his most trusted lieutenant did not share many of his passions. This was one of those times.
“I warned them, Anatoly, you know that.”
Gerashchenko grunted some kind of response.
“There will be severe consequences.”
“How severe?”
“Very severe. That’s why I’m calling.”
Gerashchenko said nothing. Orlov watched one of the barges of the shipping line he had just purchased chug past on its way to Cologne.
“The packages are ready?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. It’s time we taught the bastards a lesson they will never forget.”
“How do you want to do that? Ever since the Saudis botched things so badly, the whole place is locked up tighter than a drum.”
It had only been six weeks since a cell of terrorists from Saudi Arabia and Nigeria had tried to kill the pope and raze St. Peter’s Basilica. In the aftermath of the failed attack—an attack that had been blamed on a Saudi prince, but which Orlov had actually sponsored—the Vatican Security Office had set up checkpoints well outside the confines of Vatican City.
“But we have …” Orlov almost said “nuclear weapons”, but wisely held his tongue. It was true, though: two Chinese-made DH-10 nuclear warheads, which he had acquired in indirect fashion, were waiting to be deployed against the Vatican. And now, with Patriarch Alexy III firmly under Rome’s influence, he had no choice but to proceed. There was nothing he could tolerate less than his beloved Orthodox Church under the pope’s thumb.
“Yes, I know. But the checkpoints are over a kilometer away from the basilica.”
“Isn’t that close enough to flatten the place?”
“No, too far.”
The DH-10 was not a strategic weapon, meant to take out cities; it was a tactical nuclear weapon, intended to destroy a specific target without causing widespread damage and radioactive fallout.
“Any ideas?” Orlov asked.
“Yes.”
He finished the still ample contents of the glass in one swallow. Among the many vodkas he enjoyed drinking, Beluga was at the top of the list for the sweet hint of honey in the finish.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“No, I’ll take care of it.”
Orlov didn’t like being spoken to in this fashion, but he let it go for one reason and one reason only. Gerashchenko had never failed him, and in exchange for his reliability, Orlov had always afforded him some latitude.
“Okay, then. Get it done—and quickly. I don’t want this unification effort to gain any momentum.”