Two hours with her would pass like a blink.
He placed a call to the Three-Letter Boys watching Grazovich. The man had dressed, paced his room, and received a phone call. They were working on a tap, but so far, they didn’t have a glimmer of a lead on the identity of his contact. “Don’t let him out of your sight.” Vadeem closed the phone and turned his full, and willing, attention on the American with a knack for trouble, telling himself he was only doing his job.
Right. He’d never been good at fooling himself, but he would cling to that rational like a dying man as he followed her fragrance across the cemetery and in through the front gates.
He’d never been inside a monastery before. Not that he’d spent much time availing himself of the opportunity, but when he entered the conclave, his senses awoke and sat at attention. From the manicured lawn, the sound of magpies and sparrows, the smell of spring reaped from the budding lilac, jasmine and cherry blossoms, to the clean, pure whitewash on the buildings, the compound whispered haven. Vadeem rubbed his chest, feeling a pinch deep inside.
Kat seemed to know where she was going. A spring in her step, something new that he wanted to think he’d added, made her seem a carefree tourist bouncing through the campus. He followed her to an office building. Inside, the austere white walls, the planked floor, and the smell of polish whisked him back in time, to the painful halls of his childhood.
Institutions were all the same.
He clenched his jaw. This was no haven.
A tall monk, dressed in the traditional garb of brown tunic and somber expression met them at a reception desk. “Can I help you?’
Vadeem flipped open his identification. The monk met it with a stoic face that had Vadeem wondering how often they had the FSB darken their doors. “We’d like to see the director.”
Efficient as he was stern, the monk had Vadeem and Kat seated inside the rather humble office of Father Lashov within moments. The monk stared out the window, at the limestone formations, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his tunic as he mulled over their situation.
“I don’t know how I can help you.” He turned, and he had the wise eyes Vadeem would associate with a religious man.
Or a seasoned agent. Vadeem tried not to shift under the man’s scrutiny. What was it about men of the cloth that caused panic to climb up his spine? He felt like regurgitating every last secret he’d swallowed over the past twenty years. He gulped the gathering lump in his throat and eked out an FSBish tone.
“Miss Moore just wants answers to her questions. I know Brother Timofea is dead, but can you lead us to anyone who might know why he’d want to send a key to Miss Moore, in America?”
Kat sat forward, and he felt freshly punched at the raw anticipation on her face. She had poured so much hope into this trip, into these two hours. He was going to make dead sure she got any information they had.
“I suppose you could talk to Brother Papov. He attended Brother Timofea until his last breath.”
“Yes!” Kat was out of her seat, and Vadeem put a hand on her arm.
She looked at him, delight lighting her expression. Oh my, if he could get that kind of smile to appear…
“Sounds good. How do we find him?”
“Our cloister is what they called a “working” monastery,” the old monk explained as he led them out of the compound, into the fields beyond. “We keep cows, horses, sheep, pigs, chicken, and raise our own crops.” The sun gleamed through an azure, cirrus- scattered sky, and turned the potato sprouts emerald green. Monks moved like ants over the field, working under the sun, their heads covered with straw hats. “We try to have as little contact with the outside as possible.”
He turned to his assistant, a tall monk, who walked beside Father Lashov like a bodyguard. The father whispered something to him, and the man strode over to another brother, lean and small and in his mid twenties. The younger man came up to them without a smile, but curiosity ringed his brown eyes. Then his gaze settled on Kat.
He flinched.
The saintly kid knew something. Vadeem watched him hide it, but fear streaked into the young monk’s eyes, now shifted away and down. The young monk rocked from heel to toe, listening to Father Lashov’s explanation of their presence, nodding as if agreeing to help. He even shook Vadeem’s hand, his grip loose and weak.
But the young brother never let his gaze travel to back Kat.
“Where can we talk?” Vadeem asked, hoping to get out of the sun, away from the sight of so many monks wielding rudimentary farm implements. He wasn’t sure how loyal they were… didn’t monks have some sort of non-aggression code?
“Perhaps the chapel.” Father Lashov led the way beyond the white fence, further, past the field toward the limestone cliffs. “The monastery is quite old,” he said like a tour guide to his little ensemble. “Dating back to the first century, the first cells were in these limestone cliffs. We had our cells, a kitchen, a threshing room, and barns. The cliffs even hosted our first chapel. Perhaps you will find it a soothing place to ask your questions.” He flicked a gaze at Vadeem, no menace in his eyes. “Brother Timofea often spent his later years in this place of worship. Perhaps it will hold peace for you, as well.” He stopped before a small grotto, the walls carved out of the limestone, gleaming whitewash over gray stone. The tiny cave spoke of orderliness. Two wooden candleholders guarded the inside entrance, homemade judging from their rough-hewn form, but perfect accessories in the irregular chapel. At the far end of the room, the cross of Christ loomed center stage, a carved figure of the Savior hanging in gnarled agony. Vadeem tried to ignore it. Behind the crucifix, pockets dug from the surface held over a dozen tiny, lit candles, flickering golden light along the shadows of the cave. The walls smelled damp and dust rose from the floor. An icon of St. Nicholas hung on the wall, his mournful golden face and oval eyes gliding over Vadeem, as if scrutinizing his soul when Vadeem stepped into the grotto. He looked away, tensing.
The priest moved forward and lit a candle in a stand near the cross. The brothers gazed in silence as the smoke spiraled heavenward. Vadeem fought the urge, but found his gaze forced to the cross, gleaming in the candlelight. The thorn-ringed head of Jesus, gleaming from polish, seemed to liven as flame flickered across his face.
Vadeem froze. Memory assaulted him like a tidal wave. Behind his eyes, he watched as the reflection turned to fire, then engulfed the cross, its tongue licking at the wooden Savior. He heard screaming, then his name. His breath clogged in his chest as his throat tightened. He braced a hand on the grotto wall, the world cutting into angles.
The Father started to lecture in his garbled voice about the history of the chapel, how it was used as a hideout for the partisans in World War II, something about artifacts left behind, hidden in the walls, but the voice spiraled out, as if in a tunnel. Vadeem’s heartbeat filled his ears. He could smell the smoke, feel the heat as it beaded on his skin. Save the Bible! Then a hand gripped his arm—
“Captain, are you okay?” Kat looked at him, her eyes probing.
He backpedaled out, bumping into one of the candleholders, sending it thumping to the ground. His shoulder skimmed the doorway as he stumbled through the entrance.
The fresh air hit him like a slap. He filled his lungs with the freedom of outdoors, hands on his knees, gulping for breath like a man drowning.
What was he thinking, walking back inside a chapel—a church? Twenty plus years and he still couldn’t face it.
“Are you okay?” Kat’s worried voice made him bristle. He straightened and fought for composure. The sweet concern in her eyes made something twist inside his chest. He nodded, his voice trapped in the past.