Leskov watched through the glass wall that separated the viewing room from the crematory as Artuzov rolled the stainless-steel charge trolley up to the door of the furnace. After docking the trolley, Artuzov moved to a control panel in the far corner of the room. At the press of a button, the automated process began. The furnace door slid upward, revealing a chamber heated to nearly one thousand degrees Celsius. Slowly, Pavel Leskov’s coffin moved into the fiery maw. When the coffin’s journey was finally complete, the furnace door dropped down and sealed the chamber.
Over the next two hours Pavel Leskov’s body would be reduced to a fine gray ash. In that form, the remains would then be mixed in with those of a legitimate client and dispersed over Lake Michigan. Smuggling three dead men out of the United States and back to Russia, in any form, was far too great a risk.
Leskov stepped outside of the air-conditioned funeral home and walked into a thick wall of humid air. Within seconds, the pressed white collar of his shirt was damp. The day was overcast, which matched his mood.
In front of the funeral home, a corpulent man who was packed like a sausage in an ill-fitting suit leaned against a dark blue Lincoln Town Car. Pyotr Voronin’s thinning black hair was slicked back like stringy lines of paint on his fleshy head.
‘Did Oleg take care of everything?’ Voronin asked.
‘Da, Pavel and the others will be scattered into your Great Lake Michigan later this week. Thank you for making the arrangements on such short notice.’
‘When Victor Orlov asks for a favor, well—’ The man shrugged his shoulders. No further explanation was required.
‘How are the other arrangements coming?’
‘Both trucks were taken to a chop shop and parted out, so neither exists anymore. Your cargo has been placed inside an air freight container with a few nondescript pieces of furniture. The furniture is camouflage; the bill of lading lists the contents as household goods and miscellaneous personal effects. Since there’s no contraband, we don’t need to lie about what we’re shipping. We’ve insured the entire lot for a few thousand dollars, low enough that no one on either end will be curious about it. It flies out Tuesday and lands in Moscow on Wednesday.’
‘Good. And the surveillance?’
‘I have a few people, former KGB, working on that. In a few days we should have Sandstrom and his associates well covered. How long do you think Orlov will want us to keep an eye on these people?’
‘I have no idea. Just don’t drop the surveillance until he tells you to.’
‘I’m not that stupid. Orlov will get regular reports until he tells me to stop.’
‘I am certain that he will be most appreciative of your efforts on his behalf.’
12
‘This mass is ended,’ Father Blake said from his place on the gilded altar of the basilica. ‘Go in peace.’
With that final pronouncement, Sacred Heart Basilica, the ornate centerpiece of the Notre Dame campus, filled with music. The vaulted ceilings and carved recesses shaped each note as it emerged from the organ pipes, transforming ‘Amazing Grace’ into a triumphant edifice of sound.
A phalanx of priests and altar servers accompanied the polished oak coffin down the main aisle, a somber procession in honor of Raphaele Paramo. Pew by pew, members of Paramo’s family and those who held him in regard as a friend, colleague, or mentor filed out into a perfect summer day. High in the carillon, the great seven-ton bell named in honor of Saint Anthony of Padua pealed out its solemn thunder.
‘Thank you for such a lovely service, Joe,’ Paramo’s widow said, clasping Father Blake’s hand in both of hers.
‘It was my pleasure, Dorothy,’ Notre Dame’s President replied. ‘Raphaele was a good man and a true friend.’
‘Yes, he was,’ she agreed, knowing both descriptions to be true. ‘Excuse me, Joe, but I see someone I have to speak to.’
Dorothy Paramo waded through the milling crowd, leaving her children and grandchildren beside the limousine that was to carry them to the cemetery.
‘Professor Newton. Mr Kilkenny,’ the diminutive woman called out. ‘A word, if I may?’
Kelsey dabbed the corner of her eye with a handkerchief, then smiled bravely at the approaching widow. ‘Of course, Mrs Paramo. And please call me Kelsey.’
‘I prefer Nolan, ma’am.’
‘Very well, but in return you must call me Dorothy,’ she replied, a faint smile appearing momentarily on her face. Then the sadness returned. ‘The police told me what happened the day my husband was murdered. Nolan, they told me that you risked your life to stop the men responsible for this tragedy.’
‘I’m sorry it wasn’t enough.’
‘It could have been far worse. My only consolation is that the two of you and Ted survived. Did you know that Raphaele and I thought of Ted as a son? Burying a spouse is a sad eventuality, but a child is meant to live on after the parents are gone.’
‘Ted will recover from this,’ Nolan said reassuringly.
‘My prayers are most certainly with him. I was wondering, can you both stop by the house after the reception?’
Kelsey looked at Nolan, who nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Good, I have a favor to ask.’
Nolan followed the silver Buick, driven by Dorothy Paramo’s eighteen-year-old grandson, into the farm country just outside of South Bend. They stopped at a brick Victorian home with a weathered aluminum mailbox bearing the name PARAMO.
Nolan parked his SUV behind the Buick and followed Dorothy Paramo and her grandson into the house. Once inside, the young man bolted up the stairs, intent on trading his blazer and tie for a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a T-shirt.
‘This way,’ Dorothy Paramo said, leading her guests through the parlor toward the rear of the house.
She turned the crystal knob and opened the raisedpanel door that led to a small room lined from floor to ceiling with books. The only furnishings in the room were a couch, a small desk, and a chair.
‘This is where my husband came to think. Please, have a seat.’
Kelsey sat with Nolan on the couch as Paramo’s widow sat in Raphaele’s chair. A gnarled pipe, unsmoked in almost twenty years, still sat near the corner of the desk.
‘Raphaele always said that physicists came in two flavors: thinkers and doers. Einstein was a thinker; Fermi was a doer. In his collaboration with Ted, Raphaele was the thinker and Ted was the doer. My husband was an accomplished thinker and a gifted instructor; teaching physics was his avocation. Raphaele knew his limitations, physically and mentally. In both regards he knew he wasn’t up to the challenge of tackling Ted’s discovery.’
Dorothy Paramo swiveled the chair and leaned forward to open one of the desk drawers. She withdrew a thick clasped envelope from inside the drawer and set it upon her lap.
‘Of all my husband’s papers, these were the most dear to him. Whenever a particular problem vexed him, he would invariably return to these. They were his inspiration. These are letters — a correspondence he had long ago with the greatest mind he’d ever known. Raphaele never talked about the man; their correspondence was over a year before Raphaele and I met. Once, shortly after we were married, I snuck a peek, thinking they were love letters from an old girlfriend. Except for a few personal notes, I didn’t understand a word. Raphaele was quite amused when I told him what I’d done, then he explained how important the letters were to him. He said they were ‘a brief glimpse into the mind of a genius.’ I don’t know what happened, but their correspondence ended abruptly. This is something that hurt Raphaele deeply.’