As Hollis stared at the man, people began to stand, and Hollis’ view was becoming blocked, but in a second before he lost sight of the strange couple, he realized that the stooped old grandfather was actually somewhat younger than he appeared. In fact, it was General Valentin Surikov. Suddenly things were becoming more clear.
27
Sam Hollis and Lisa Rhodes moved with the crush of worshipers through the open doors of the church. The people carried their blessed food in bags, and many of them clutched a handful of the thin brown candles. Hollis looked out over the converging paths. These people, he realized, did not seem to know one another, did not speak, nor did they try to make acquaintances. They had come by metro and bus from all over Moscow to an inconveniently placed church, and now they scattered like lambs who smelled wolves. “Do the K-goons usually hang around?”
“Who? Oh, those men. Sometimes. But I don’t see them now.”
Hollis didn’t see them either. But he worried more about the KGB when he didn’t see them. He moved off the path and watched the people coming down the steps.
“Are you looking for someone?”
“Just people-watching.” Hollis realized that not only were the worshipers scattering, but the priests had not come out to speak with their flock. As he watched for Surikov, he said to Lisa, “No tea and fellowship afterwards?”
Lisa seemed to understand. “The Orthodox Christian comes to God’s house to worship Him. The priests don’t come to your house to ask how you’re getting along.”
“The Kremlin must find that useful.”
“True. In fact, the Russian church has always preached subservience to the state. When the czars were on the throne, it worked for the church and the czars. But when Lenin became the new czar, it backfired.”
“You mean there’s something I can’t blame on the Reds?”
“The communists didn’t help the situation.”
Hollis watched the last of the worshipers leave the church but did not spot Surikov or the girl with him.
He and Lisa walked away from the church and sat on a stone bench occupied by a stout babushka who seemed to be sleeping in a sitting position. Lisa asked, “Did you like the service?”
“Very much. We take so much for granted in the West.”
“I know. Thanks for coming, even if you came because you had to go to the cemetery anyway.”
“I came to be with you.”
She nodded and looked up in the sky. “This is not like autumn at home, and it’s not like winter either. It’s something else. It’s like a time of foreboding, grey and quiet, mist and fog obscuring the world. I can’t see a sun or a horizon or even the end of a block. I want to go home now.”
Hollis took her hand. “We’ll be in the air this time tomorrow, heading west.”
She moved closer to him. “Do you have to go to the cemetery?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not dangerous, is it?”
“No. I just have to meet an old Russian friend to say good-bye.”
“A spy? A dissident?”
“Sort of.”
The old lady stood and moved aimlessly down the path.
Lisa said, “At Gogol’s grave. Was that his idea?”
“Yes.” Hollis looked at his watch. The service had lasted about two hours, and it was nearly noon. Now he knew why Surikov had picked this hour and place. “I won’t be more than thirty minutes. Where can I meet you?”
“At the bell tower there. See it? Don’t get lost.”
Hollis stood. “How do I get into the cemetery?”
“Just keep on this path. You’ll see another gate church set in the wall like the one we entered through. Go through the gate, and you’ll find yourself in the cemetery.”
“Thanks. Are you going to walk around?”
“Yes. I like to walk here.”
“Don’t walk in the cemetery.”
“Okay.”
“Try to walk where there are people.”
“If they come for you, it doesn’t matter how many people are around. You know that.”
“Yes, I know that.” He added, “I don’t think they know we’re here. But be careful.”
“You be careful. They might have followed this friend of yours.” She gave him one of the thin brown candles. “Here. To light the way.”
He kissed her on the cheek. “See you later.” Hollis turned and walked down the path, carrying the candle. Within a few minutes he passed another large church of brick and white stone that looked forlorn among the bramble and bush, unused as either a church or a museum. The path curved around it, and he saw the towering south wall of the convent grounds, then spotted the gate church built into the center of it.
Hollis looked around. A few people straggled past him, apparently headed for the cemetery. He slid his hands in his overcoat pockets and leaned back against a thick rowan tree. His right hand let go of the candle and found the silenced 9mm Polish Radom automatic, another Colt-Browning knockoff. His left hand slid through his coat to the handle of the knife in his belt sheath. Hollis watched awhile, then fell in behind three young couples and followed them down to the gate church. He passed through the portals into a tunnellike passage and found himself in the quiet cemetery.
The convent grounds, like the Kremlin, had been built on a rare high spot on the banks of the Moskva, and Hollis could see down the slope out to the south and west over the brick cemetery wall. The Olympic complex and Lenin Stadium were five hundred meters to the south, nestled in the loop of the Moskva on reclaimed bog land. Beyond the stadium was the river, and rising from its south bank were the Lenin Hills and the towers of Moscow University. He could pick out the observation platform where he, Lisa, and Sasha had shared a brief and pleasant moment.
Hollis followed a brick path into the sloping cemetery. It was heavily treed, and most of the graves were overgrown. The tombstones were higher than a man, in the old Russian style, creating a maze of limestone and granite. The cemetery was as wide as the convent grounds but not as deep, and Hollis estimated it covered about six acres. It would take some time to find Gogol’s grave here.
There weren’t many people in the cemetery, which was good for privacy, but there were enough so that he and Surikov wouldn’t stand out. Surikov had picked a good Sunday spot.
The visitors were mostly students apparently looking for the graves of the famous. They stood in knots in front of tombstones, pointing and discussing the man or woman interred there. Hollis saw the graves of Chekhov, Stanislavsky, and the painter Isaac Levitan. Six young men and women, Bohemian types in peasant-chic vatniks, baggy corduroys, and high boots, sat on the path and talked in front of the grave of the filmmaker Sergey Eisenstein. Hollis walked around them.
An old lady in a dirty red coat stood facing the gravestone of Nikita Khruschev. The woman crossed herself, bowed to the stone, and walked off. Hollis wondered if she was a relative.
He turned up an intersecting path and found himself in a patch of ground mist. A tall, attractive woman, smartly dressed in a long, black leather coat, came out of the mist toward him. As she drew close, Hollis asked her in Russian, “Gogol’s grave?”
She looked him over, then said in an unusually cultured accent, “You might try over there. Near that very tall pine tree. I think I passed it.”