Epiphany

By Glenn Sartori

In medieval Russia, a battlefield historian is commissioned to transport treasures from invasion-torn south to a haven in the north. Centuries later, four events occur simultaneously. Grace Sawyer, on her summer sabbatical at the Rosanov Art Institute in Yaroslavl, stumbles upon a black stone from a medieval Russian treasure. Richard Simon, an art historian in New York, is solicited by a friend in the CIA to journey to Yaroslavl on a cryptic quest.  In Kiev, the brother of the president of the Ukraine is assassinated, and a group of men plan to violently end the Epiphany—the historic meeting between the Pope and the Patriarch of Russia.  Within a week, these events will mesh in a violent climax that echoes in the halls of the Rosanov Art Institute.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glenn Sartori
• Release date: Oct 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386676454

Book preview

PART ONE

– RECONNECTIONS

ONE

Near the end of the 20th Century

He wasn’t a fan of disguises. A cosmetic facial blemish was all he needed although he had worn oversized, horn-rimmed glasses on occasion, and one time an eye patch. His experience had taught him that people focus on facial imperfections, and then when asked to describe a person, they tend to be hazy about other features. It had always worked in the past, so he saw no reason to change his style. His name was Rallov Serpov, a hired assassin with a pale red birthmark that spilled across his right temple and half his eyelid until it seeped into the corner of his nose.

It was a threatening morning sky in Kiev with low, disgruntled clouds that scowled down on the gathered crowd and formed an ominous background for the military assembled on the reviewing platform. Rallov squatted on the roof of the barracks across from the platform. He stroked the Krugerrand in his pocket, wary of being a slave to Karl’s superstition, but he wasn’t about to mess with the amulet just to prove a point. This was only another assignment, another assignment that would stir the pot, or as his friend Karl Yermak would say, stir the Russian cauldron of discontent. He had known Karl since they were in their twenties. Karl had been a rather famous artist; his paintings hung in small galleries in Odessa, but he gave up painting to become a hired assassin. He wasn’t in the field now, but was the businessman for a team of assassins. Karl gave every team member a gold coin. We’re the K-team. It unites us, he’d told them.

Now, the dissolution of the Soviet Union moved Russia to position the newest Soviet aircraft carrier from the Black Sea near Ukraine to an Arctic port within Russia. Ukraine countered with the demand that Soviet soldiers in the territory swear allegiance to the Ukraine. The first ceremony of affirmation began today in Kiev.

Above the assembled crowd, Rallov leaned against a white brick chimney and faced the reviewing platform, verifying what he already knew: security was lax. Soldiers everywhere, but no evidence of an organized security detail. Rallov was five-ten, in his late-thirties, wore a black oversized windbreaker and a dark green hat with a leather band. A white collar poked from behind his gray scarf. Thick eyebrows arched over pale gray eyes, set deep in a chiseled face. There was something distant and cool in the flat gray eyes. He rubbed his stubbly beard with his gloved hands as his slitted eyes scrutinized the activity. Soviet soldiers filed onto the platform like graduates at a commencement exercise, each one stopping at the podium to read a prepared statement, affirming their allegiance to the Ukraine.

Rallov unzipped a black duffel bag and removed a camera. Carefully attaching a long cylindrical lens, he scanned the crowd through the viewfinder, settling on the last person in line: Yevgeny Kravchuk, the highest ranking soldier and the brother of the President of the Ukraine. Yevgeny’s expressionless gaze was locked on the head of the soldier in front of him. His white-gloved hands slightly protruded beyond the cuffs of the double-breasted gray overcoat. Thoughts of death weren’t being processed in Yevgeny’s mind as he inched toward the platform.

With the camera squeezed tightly between his knees, Rallov extracted rifle parts from the duffel bag. His hands worked quickly, assembling the rifle and attaching the telescoped-barrel to the gray metal stock, something he had done before, at night, in bright sunlight, and with his eyes closed. He raised the telescope to his face and panned the line of soldiers, stopping and focusing on Yevgeny’s face. His mustache needs trimming, mused Rallov as he critically examined Yevgeny’s face. The rifle followed Yevgeny to the base of the platform. Five soldiers stood between Yevgeny and the podium.

Rallov was very good at waiting. He could crouch for hours, motionless, silent, he and his rifle one body, one mind, the line fuzzy between where he ended and the rifle began. Even the fired bullet seemed connected to him, an invisible thread to his eye, until the projectile found its mark.

When Yevgeny reached the podium, the crowd cheered wildly. He stood motionless, a barely perceivable smile growing on his face. When the applause dwindled, Rallov fired. His rifle made a strange muffled sound like a teed golf ball hitting a wet fairway. Yevgeny’s face came apart—irrevocably apart—in an explosion of blood and bone and gore that marked the stage and the soldiers behind him. Yevgeny’s body was still standing, not even aware of what had happened. Until it finally tilted sideways against the podium like a man leaning on a lamppost, then collapsing, his legs folding and the top half of his body falling backward in a way that no live person would ever fall. A soldier seated behind the podium, grimaced as he grabbed his shoulder, blood covering his fingers and hand. Yevgeny laid on the crimson-­spattered platform in a lifeless heap.

Rallov grabbed the camera and the duffel bag and stuffed the rifle into the clogged chimney. He scurried across the roof and disappeared through the access door into the attic of the barracks.

Some of the crowd surged toward the platform, others dropped to the ground covering their heads. On the platform, guns were drawn; eyes scanned the area for the assassin.

Rallov burst out of the front door of the barracks and grabbed a soldier. What happened? I was inside changing film. What did I miss?

* * * *

At the same time, seven-hundred miles northeast of the assassination, tattered clouds were strewn across the bright, blue morning sky provided a calm background for the scaly-roofed, onion domes of the Yaroslavl churches. Tiered gables, elaborate brickwork patterns with inset colored tiles, added to the glory of these luxurious churches. An amazing rarity in this crowd of Muscovite-styled structures was the Rosanov Art Institute, a limestone-clad Roman Revival building that stood atop a small hill near the banks of the Volga River.

Grace Sawyer walked at a steady pace toward her first day at the Rosanov Art Institute. The scene is like a tour-pamphlet cover, she thought. All those travel concerns, the fussing, the packing, unpacking, and repacking now seemed meaningless. Her flights were crowded and uncomfortable, but she’d arrived safely, full of energy. The jacket of her navy suit flowed from her five-six frame, exposing a crisp, flaxen blouse and a trim, voluptuous figure. Her ethnic olive skin, inherited from her mother’s side, the Cappirelli’s, glowed in the morning sun. Her soft raven hair shined like the well-groomed coat of a fine thoroughbred, and soft brown eyes danced behind wafer-thin sunglasses. She used her fingernails to rake short, feathery clumps of her hair as she took in the spring air. Michael Jon, her hair stylist in Burlington, Vermont, gave her this cut on the pretext that it would be easy to care for and would lift her face. He sold me a bill of goods, she thought. The bob makes me look like my father, and he wasn’t a good-looking man.

Winter had finally relinquished its cruel grip on the area. Only last week when Grace arrived in Moscow, the land had enthusiastically begun its new life cycle, only to have winter’s last gasp bring bitter winds from the northeast that tore the first blossoms from the budding trees and burnt brown the early yellow spring flowers. But now, the harsh climate had again relented, the wind veering around from the south, bringing mild breezes and soft weather—springtime in Yaroslavl.

All the reading Grace had done had not prepared her for the beauty she’d seen upon her arrival to the city. Neither the non-conforming architecture nor the bright morning sun was given a second glance. She breathed in the sweet spring air and contemplated her current situation. She still found it hard to believe that she’d been accepted to this summer position. What a radical change from teaching art at Mountain Academy, a college preparatory high school in southern Vermont, that pampered to off-springs of the very rich. Now, she stood at the bottom of the steps that led to institute’s front door, brimming with anticipation and barely believing she was finally here.

Yesterday, Nikolai Brodsky, the curator of the institute and her boss for the summer, had met her at the railway station in the afternoon, drove the short distance to her hotel, and later met her for dinner at the Kotorosi Restaurant in the hotel. The food was unremarkable. The dinner conversation was mostly about institute business and her summer work, even though Grace tried to add lighter exchanges. Nikolai was pleasant and mentioned he was divorced and his son Alexy was in Moscow, but that was as personal as he got. He seemed detached, eager to end the dinner. He handed Grace a key to the institute, said he would meet her at the front lobby tomorrow morning at nine, shook her hand and left.

Now Grace faced the locked institute door. Nikolai was nowhere in sight. The building was only open to the public on weekends, but classes and meetings were held at the institute during the week. The place was dark and unwelcome. Grace tentatively unlocked the door and stepped into an empty foyer.

Hello. Anybody here? she called.

Only silence filled the musty air. She scanned the area. An envelope with her name scrawled on the front sat on the reception desk. She ripped it open. It was an apology from Nikolai. He was called to an unscheduled meeting and would return around noon. She sighed and walked to the flight stairs at the far end of the main exhibition room, her clicking heels echoed off the walls.

At the top of the stairs Grace headed down the corridor of offices, filled with a sense of impending adventure. She stopped at the office of the curator and looked through the open door into an empty office. Stacks of papers, folders, and books on his desk looked like the skyline of a city, not Grace’s style of organization. Without really thinking, she stepped in and examined the desk more carefully. It was a mess. His desk was the home to a jumble of things—clunky artifacts that seemed to have been made by children, pencils, paperclips, paperwork, a plastic-wrapped sandwich as yet to be opened, although the expiration date was yesterday. The sandwich lay next to an appointment book opened to yesterday’s date. She thought about the ethics of reading his personal book for about two seconds before flipping to today’s date. His appointment with G. Sawyer had been crossed out, and the name Karl had been written above it. Karl who she wondered; I’ve got to leave. She bolted out the door and hurried down the corridor, her body full of nervous dread.

In her office, she sighed, exhaling the tension from her body, slowing her heart rate. She set her briefcase and purse on the desk and then surveyed her home for the summer. Besides a desk and its chair in front of the window, three well-worn leather, tall-backed chairs stood around a small circular table that held a couple of magazines and two ashtrays. Behind the chairs, floor-to-ceiling, jam-packed bookcases nearly covered two walls. The worn smells of old books and tobacco were somehow reassuring; the unique blend of odors hinted at intense study and artsy conversations had taken place in this room. She felt the thrill of initiation. On the wall opposite the window, between a bookcase and the door, hung the only picture in the room. It was a full-length painting of a crusty looking Russian dressed as a Muscovite boyar. Grace slipped out of her jacket and dropped it on the desk. This room needs a makeover, and certainly more pictures, she thought.

Grace stood by the window enjoying the morning sun. Down on the street, an unkempt man, maybe homeless, staggered across and then approached the side door of the institute, stumbling several times. His arms were outstretched as if he were feeling his way. He tripped over a bush and collapsed on the lawn. The man didn’t move. Grace stared in shock when no one rushed to his aid. She grabbed her jacket and raced outside, cautiously approaching the man. He looked weathered with a scraggly grey-flecked, black beard, a black windbreaker over a torn blue shirt, dirty black slacks. The man raised his head, his face a picture of pain. He attempted to speak but said nothing. His head hit the ground with a thud. A black stone rolled from his mouth. Grace rotated the stone in the grass with her foot, picked it up. When she saw the inscribed character, she let out an audible gasp.

She put the stone in her pocket and headed for her office to call for help. Grace stopped at the sound of screeching tires. A dark blue car bounced up the curb and lurched to a stop. Two men jumped out, one dragged the old man into the car, and the other started toward Grace. When she saw the gun, she turned and began to run. She tripped, heard the gunfire and unceremoniously hit the ground.

TWO

Royce and Amy Manion lived in a sturdy nineteenth century farmhouse nestled in the corner of a dead-end road in Mercer County hills equidistant between New York City and Philadelphia. The farmhouse sat in front of a ten-acre pasture, which was surrounded by woods of maple, oak, and ash. During the year they’d owned it, the Manions had restored it to a more appropriate appearance, not out of a mania for historical authenticity, but in recognition that the original aesthetics had somehow been right.

In the warm spring afternoon, after a pansy-planting activity, Royce was on the edge of consciousness, dozing in his favorite Adirondack chair when he became aware of Amy’s footsteps brushing toward him through the ankle-high grass. The footsteps stopped in front of his chair. He opened one eye.

Do you think, she said in her calm, light way, It’s too late to take the canoe out? Her voice positioned the words between a question and a challenge.

Amy was a slim, athletic forty-five year-old, the same age as Royce, but could easily be mistaken for thirty-five. Her eyes were deep, already appraising. Her long blonde hair, except for a few wayward stands that hung over her left eye, was pulled up under her brown straw gardening-hat.

He knew she wanted him to go with her, but he didn’t have the energy. Sorry, but maybe tomorrow, he said, answering the question behind her question.

Her shoulders sagged a bit, but knew he wasn’t sorry, so she changed the subject. Are you looking forward to seeing your old classmate?

Not exactly. He adjusted the reclining back of his chair a notch higher. I’m not big on recollections of times past.

Maybe he’s got information on national security for you.

Royce studied the ambiguity of her expression. You think that’s why I’m seeing him? he asked blandly.

Isn’t that what you were famous for? Anger stiffened her voice.

In recent months, it was something he’d often witnessed in her tone. Maybe she knew about Claire—his reason for early retirement. Or maybe she sensed he was still involved and not totally retired, still loosely connected, trying to help close the file on the Russian priest. They had different views of retirement, what kind of changes it was supposed to make in their lives, and more specifically, how it was supposed to change him. Recently, too, ill feelings had been growing around his new avocation—frequent lunches at the university. He wanted them to end, wanted to be completely retired.

Did you know he’s famous, too?

Who?

Your former classmate.

She turned and walked across the thick moist grass toward the house. When she reached the side door and put her hand on the knob, she seemed to remember something else, looked back at him, and spoke with clarity, He’s a renowned Russian art historian. It’s hard to imagine why he’d need to meet with a CIA agent.

A retired CIA agent, Royce corrected.

But she’d already gone in and neglected to cushion the slam of the door.

* * * *

The cord holes in the closed window blinds shaped the morning sun into cylindrical rays that glistened with bits of dust and formed a dotted line on the small library conference table. Royce Manion sat at the table, staring at the dots and thinking that maybe he should have walked away totally, not volunteered to help close this loose end.

He met his contact at a different campus building each time. Today, it was the Psychology Library, a square block that squatted next to the humanities building and across the street from Firestone, Princeton’s main library. Royce moved freely around campus, in and out of libraries without incident. His access badge had no expiration date, which seemed strange to him, but no one ever questioned it.

You okay, Royce? the other man at table asked. He looked to be much younger than Royce. His brown hair was combed straight back; his chocolate eyes transmitted no information. He wore a hounds-tooth sport coat, open-collared, white shirt, and blue jeans.

I’m fine, Bill.

I brought you lunch. Your favorite sandwich from Hoagie Haven, # 17, the Al Capone, no onions. Bill’s face formed the CIA smile. Others might classify it as a thin smirk. He pushed the wrapped hoagie toward Royce.

Thanks, Royce said, not touching it.

Will he make the trip for you? Bill asked flatly, like he was Royce’s supervisor.

Not sure. As you know, he helped us last time because he had business in London. Royce paused a moment and added, I’ll need a car and driver as before.

Bill nodded.

Also, I’m telling him that this will be the last request.

The last request?

Yes. After I get the information from the priest to you, I’m done. I plan to see our promise to the priest fulfilled. Bill said nothing, so Royce continued. My wife suspects I’m still involved, not totally retired, and I want to be totally retired. I told her a former classmate asked to meet with me. I’m tired of lying.

The room darkened a bit as a thin cloud blocked the sun.

We know the loss of Claire in London hit you especially hard. The loss of any field agent is a blow to the organization, but we move on, and it sounds like you want to move on.

You know Claire was the reason I retired, so cut the crap, Royce snapped.

Bill continued calmly as if Royce said nothing. Remember you came to us. We agreed to accept your help because you were instrumental in setting up this contact in Russia, and you know we appreciate your dedication on this.

The men stared at each other.

Let me know what your friend says. Bill stood. And take care. He left the room easing the door shut.

Royce stared at the door, rehashing the past. He couldn’t have continued at the CIA, coordinating field agents, knowing Claire was gone. He’d recruited her, he loved her, and he put her in harm’s way one too many times. Maybe it was her death that pushed him to volunteer, to see that his last recruit—who had been embedded in Russia for years—stay alive. Now, he must ask his friend again to be a courier. He must ask Rick to go to Russia and make contact with the priest.

THREE

The plane was out over the Atlantic, hours into the flight. Rick glanced at the couple across the aisle, slightly behind his row. They held hands and whispered to each other; warm smiles covered their faces. I had that once with Lisa, Rick thought. It was brief, but it was a happy time.

He and Lisa met in freshman English class, connected in their sophomore year, and