“O Christ our God who art graciously pleased to accept our prayers for those who are imprisoned in Hades… send down thy consolation,” he said in a near chant. “Establish their souls in the mansions of our Redeemer; and graciously guide them into peace and pardon.”
Alex closed her eyes for a moment and took in the sounds and scents. She felt very much at peace with the world around her. The priest continued. “But we who are living will bless thee, and will pray, and offer unto thee propitiatory prayers and sacrifices for their souls.”
Alex opened her eyes, again watched the ceremony carefully. The memorial service had an air of penitence about it. In the Eastern Church, the prayers for the departed had a specific purpose: to pray for the repose of the departed, to comfort the living, and to remind those who remain behind of their own mortality and the brevity of this earthly life.
The priest continued again. “The Holy Sacrifice of Christ, brings great benefits to souls even after death, provided their sins can be pardoned in the life to come. However, the prayer for the dead must not be an excuse for not living a godly life on earth. The Church’s prayer cannot save anyone who does not wish salvation or who never sought it during his lifetime.”
Alex glanced at Federov. He was fidgeting, his eyes darting around. Was he looking out for someone or afraid someone might see him there and wonder if he had gotten religion? Well, no matter. Much as the insides of a church might have done him some good, she also understood why he felt ill at ease. Maybe the mural showing the descent into hell had made him nervous. It should have. She smiled.
There was a final musical interlude, a troparion, a short hymn of one stanza which the congregation sang in Ukrainian. Near the end of the music, members of the congregation either put out their candles or placed them in candle holders on the memorial table. Alex followed along and understood the symbolism. Each candle symbolized an individual soul, which, as it were, each person held in his own hand. She remembered long ago her mother whispering to her in Spanish the meaning. “The extinguishing of the candle is symbolic: every person will have to surrender his soul at the end of his life.”
She had never forgotten.
Moments later, the service ended.
The president was now to quickly lay a wreath on the other side of Shevshenka Park-named for Ukraine’s great poet Tara Shevschenko-from the cathedral. The controversial monument to the victims of Stalin’s “artificial famine” stood there outside the Ukrainian Foreign Ministry.
If there was to be trouble, this is where it would happen. And yet, the day had already been so blessed. Federov remained at her side as they exited the cathedral.
“There,” she said. “Was that so awful?”
“I prefer the clubs and the vodka,” he answered. “Sexy women and loud music.”
“I’m not surprised,” she answered. “Maybe someday you’ll learn to lift your eyes to the hills.”
“What’s that mean?” he asked.
Alex paused. “Nothing you’d understand right now.”
Leaving the cathedral, Alex caught sight of Robert. He was in a tight cordon of agents around the president. She knew he saw her. But he stayed focused on his assignment as the president stepped back into the limo. Alex held up her hand and gave him a wave, just in case he could catch it out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t. But in that short space of time, when she took her eyes off Federov to wave to Robert, Federov disappeared.
FORTY-THREE
She looked in every direction, but saw no Federov. Mentally, she beat herself up. How could he have slipped away so easily? How could she have been so foolish as to take her eyes off him, even for an instant?
But he was gone. Completely gone.
The president was already in the limo. Alex’s driver signalled to her. The motorcade needed to move quickly. Still turning her head, looking everywhere, searching the crowds, she tried to find Federov.
No luck. She ducked into her van. The door slammed shut behind her. An instant later the van moved forward with a lurch. Far up ahead, Alex could see the president’s limousine as it moved slowly away from the cathedral. It inched across the square while the president waved to cheering Ukrainians, and then it pulled to a halt at Mihaylavski Place. There, surrounded by flowers and candles, was the gray granite monument to the great famine of the 1930s.
Alex’s vehicle stopped, which meant that the president’s vehicle had stopped. She climbed out quickly and moved forward on foot, trying to draw as close to the memorial and the president as possible. She was within a moderate security area and from a distance of about twenty yards, she could see the president.
Security people gathered around him, including Robert. The president moved with slow dignified steps to the monument with the US ambassador, Jerome Drake. Alex positioned herself with a good view of what would follow.
The monument was a gray slab about six feet high, breathtaking and moving in its stark simplicity. The center had been cut away in the general shape of a cross with gentle contours. In the center of the cutout, there was the carved figure of a man, creating a silhouette. Within the cutout, another figure, presumably that of God, and within that a child’s figure, the infant Jesus.
Alex moved slightly. She found a position just beyond the dignitaries. The crowd was quiet now as one of the president’s assistants handed over a large floral wreath. The president stepped away from Ambassador Drake and closer to the monument. Alex’s gaze followed the president. For the first time, the great famine that she had heard so much about was a reality.
Several seconds passed in silence. Everyone around her was still. A strange series of emotions filled Alex. No matter what one thought of this president, at least the American leader was here to mark the significance of this monument. She felt a deep sorrow for the victims of the famine, the humans who had perished from starvation seventy years earlier in the bitter Ukrainian winter. She bit her lip.
Then, after another moment passed, jets roared low overhead, Mirage fighters, purchased from the French, followed by a quartet of aircraft from the United States. Everyone’s eyes moved skyward, and there was a surge of talking in the crowd.
A second wave of planes passed overhead and again distracted the crowd.
The president was at the monument now, head bowed, Ambassador Drake a few feet behind. Robert and Reynolds Martin and several other Secret Service agents were only a few feet away, watching the crowd, nervous, eyes intent, poised for trouble.
The wreath was enormous, and carried by two US marines from the embassy. They laid the wreath at the base of the monument. The president leaned over and twitched the ribbons on them, thus symbolically “laying” them.
The president’s head lowered itself for a moment in prayer, or whatever heads of state think about when they can’t wait to get a photo-op done and start home.
Standing thirty yards away, Alex felt a vibration in her pocket. It was her cell phone. An incoming call. She pulled the phone from her pocket and she looked at the incoming number.
Federov! What the-?
Cupping her hand over it to keep her voice low, she answered.
“Move,” he said in English.
“What?”
“Move from where you are!”
“Where are you?” she demanded.
“Doesn’t matter. I can see you. Move!”
“To where?”
“Anywhere! Now!”
The line went dead, the call over. Perplexed, but alarmed, she took several steps from where she was, searching any windows she could see. The marksmen were on the rooftops and the helicopters were overhead. Security near the president was as thick as a Crimean blizzard.
Everything seemed fine. Tense but fine. The president was still at the monument, head bowed, making sure the world press got ample coverage.