Conspiracy in Kiev (20 page)
R
ome, Friday morning, the sixteenth. Gian Antonio Rizzo was sizzling.
“
Nessuna cosa
,” said Gina Adriotti, the fourth of Lt. Rizzo’s expert homicide investigators. Nothing.
She closed the file she had been allowed to read. She raised her eyes to her superior and waited for the explosion. His three colleagues had done the same. But the explosion, for whatever reason, was not forthcoming. Not yet.
Instead, Lt. Rizzo walked to the window. He stood with his back to the room, surveying the morning traffic that connected onto the via Condotti and which would lead past the plush shopping distracts and the Italian parliament.
Rizzo felt like death warmed over. He was losing sleep and felt as if he was coming down with the flu. He was of two minds. On one hand, the four detectives in this room were the best that his department had to offer. On the other hand, they were overpaid thumb-sucking idiots who couldn’t find the ocean from the end of the pier.
He managed to control himself. He had established the identity of the dead woman and the musician who had been murdered in the apartment above deaf old Signora Masiella. He had now linked the bodies in the marsh at Castel Fusano to the disappearance of an American couple from a Ritz hotel in Rome. But he, and those who worked for him, were now drawing a double blank.
Who were the Americans who had been murdered on the street?
And what was their link, if any, to the musician and his live-in girlfriend?
He turned. “All right then,” he said, controlling himself. “We’ve done what we can and it has not been successful. But we need to do more. We need a link. A connection. Somewhere in this city someone knows something. What is the feeling in this room? Do we need more investigators? More shoe leather on the street? More money from the ‘reptile fund’ to buy an informer? Tell me. What is it we want?”
Again, no answers. Now Lt. Rizzo
was
about to explode. A moment later, however, there was a soft knock on the door.
One of the technicians from the lab, a girl named Mimi, a university student, had something interesting.
The sight of Mimi settled Rizzo down. She was a criminology student at the American University in Rome. Fluent in English and Italian, she was one of the four young interns to whom he had thrown some tidbits of information from Bernardo Santangelo.
Mimi had caught Rizzo’s eye more than once in the past. Mimi sailed through life in the orbit of the magical girls of Sailor Moon. She had Technicolor hair, chopped short in a trendy fashion and streaked with red, blue, green, and yellow, like her favorite Japanese
manga
characters. Under her lab coat, she favored boldly colored miniskirts, school girl white socks, and low cut sneakers, also in keeping with the
anime
motif.
She didn’t look like the type who would come bearing news that could kick a homicide investigation in a new direction. But then again, Rizzo knew, the Case Breakers never do, which is why he’d included her with such important information.
He always prized the people who could think outside the normal channels. On a day like this, he prized anyone who could think at all, and if Mimi had come up with something, well, it just proved that he was a genius and totally justified in flirting with all those younger females.
Magical girls, indeed.
“Yes, Mimi?” he asked.
She looked at the detectives at the table, two of which had been on the force longer than she had been alive, as had Lt. Rizzo. Ten professional eyes stared back at her in silence. Eight of them were hostile. Rizzo’s were adoring.
“May I mention something?” she asked.
“Of course you may, Mimi,” Rizzo said. “These officers are under my command. Anything you say to me I would relate to them immediately, and as you can probably tell, they are in dire need of all the help they can get. So please tell us what you have.”
“Maybe it’s nothing,” she said, “but maybe it’s something.”
Mimi sat down at the table and Rizzo closed the door.
Mimi had been doing some research and some digging, she explained, trying to relate the ballistics tests that Rizzo had shown her to anything else going on in Europe. So, helpful young chick that Mimi was, she hacked into some English-language military sites just to check out some pictures of real sailors and see what else was there.
Penetrating fifty million dollars of US Defense Department software took Mimi six and a half minutes. The United States Naval Station at Rota, Spain, she discovered, had recently finished its part of an annual weapon and ammunition moving and tracking exercise called CAWDS.
Under the CAWDS, or Containerized Ammunition Weapons & Distribution System, several boatloads of small arms and ammunition had been moved in standard shipping containers by air and sea.
The exercise had started in September 2007 and had run through June 2008. Under the system, computerized, numerical micro-imprints had been placed on all equipment to further facilitate their tracking.
“It’s a very complex process,” Mimi said. “But as we all know,” she said, “firearms examiners use a comparison microscope to determine whether or not a bullet was fired from a particular firearm. The comparison is based on the individual marking left on fired ammunition components that are unique to a particular firearm. That’s how we have the linkage of the weapons used in these two cases that Lieutenant Rizzo is discussing.”
“Good so far,” Rizzo said. His instincts told him to trust her.
“But the CAWDS system suggests something further,” she said. “Apparently one of the boxes of containerized ammunition disappeared from a United States Navy warehouse in Sardinia. Stolen, in other words. It was, or so it was believed, hijacked by members of the Sicilian Mafia who sold the contents on the black market.”
Rizzo blinked rapidly several times. This was all taking on a bizarre geometry.
“The pistols involved had been inventoried at Rota, Spain,” she said. “The guns were unique among their manufacture because the others of the same series have never been removed from their shipping containers. I ran an Internet check. They are all in the hands of the US Navy except this one crate that was stolen. One of these pistols was used in these two crimes.”
Mimi pushed a printout in front of the detectives at the table. They leaned forward to see it.
“So?” Rizzo pressed. “Anything else?”
“
Si
,
Tenente
,” Mimi said. “The rest of the pistols turned up in southeastern Europe,” Mimi said, “in the hands of underworld people there. We know this from recent arrests. The stolen naval cargo seems to have been trafficked by an agency called The Caspian Group.”
“Caspian?” Rizzo asked. “As in, the ‘Caspian Sea’?”
“
Mafia ucraina
,” Mimi said. “It’s a supposition and I might be wrong. But you could link all four of these assassinations to gangsters from Kiev.”
A
t 11:00 a.m. on the dot, the gates of the US Embassy in Kiev swung open. The police escort emerged first, Ukrainian vehicles first, sirens blaring. A phalanx of police poured onto Kotsyubynskoho. Ukrainian flags flew on the front and rear of the cars. A few moments later, the president’s limousine pulled out of the gates of the embassy compound. It moved onto Kotsyubynskoho, then followed the streets of Kiev, closely guarded by American vehicles.
Alex rode in the eighth car, an armour-enforced van. She had a window. Federov, who had arrived punctually at the embassy at 10:00, sat beside her in a middle seat.
“Still expecting trouble?” she asked him in Russian.
He didn’t directly address the question. “I’ve told you everything I can,” he said.
She turned away and watched history unfurl before her through bulletproof glass.
The streets again were lined with spectators. Again snow flurries swept across the city. Most spectators were cheering, craning their necks for a view of the lead car of the motorcade. There were many old people who had lived through the very hard times. They remembered Stalin and the war and never thought they would lay eyes on the leader of America, much less live in a more open society. There were younger people who remembered the Orange Revolution and still held dearly to its principles. There were middle-aged people who had lived through Ukrainian Communism and had accepted it as their fate or even believed in it. They mostly just remembered, all of them, huddled together against the frigid weather.
The motorcade crept through the city streets, an armada of Mercedes limousines, including empty backups in case of a disaster. They moved as quickly as safety would permit. At each crossroad there were heavily armed police and soldiers, Ukrainian and American, who secured the intersections and kept wary eyes peeled for trouble.
The trip to Kiev’s Cathedral of St. Sophia was only a few blocks away. But more than twenty thousand people lined the way. Many were part of religious groups, pilgrims, Eastern Christians who had travelled to the city for the event, many just to see the American president. Many had camped out on the streets overnight and huddled together for warmth. Some raised crosses. Some waved the flags of their church. Others waved American flags, others Ukrainian. Some held Christian signs in English for the president to view.
John 12
:
24.
Matthew 19
:
34.
Long live America.
One bearded man in his early thirties stood out from the rest. He was wrapped in blankets and carried a placard in English.
Jesus is the answer!
Federov, the sceptic, snorted slightly.
He spoke English now. “If Jesus is the answer,” he said, “what was the question?”
“Does it matter?” she volleyed back. “
Any
question.”
“Of course,” he said.
For some reason, this man in blankets caught the attention of the president, who rolled down the window and waved, breath visible against the rush of cold air into the car. The crowd was delighted. Not too far away stood a delegation of Pentecostal churches from all over Ukraine. They stood not far from their devout brethren from evangelical churches all over the new nation. The Blessed Kingdom of God for all Nations in Ukraine. Thousands of people took up a chant in English. “Jesus is the answer. Jesus is the answer.”
Then the motorcade came to a sudden stop. A radio crackled in the front of Alex’s van. Two of the security people in the van stepped out. The president must have been looking for the groups of Christians because, to the horror of the Secret Service, the limo stopped and the president stepped out.
From the angle of her own vehicle, Alex could press her head against the window and see what was happening. Security people flooded the streets to mark a cordon for the president. The American leader moved toward the delirious crowd of Christians, making sure photographers could capture the moment, pushing to the first row and extending both hands. Clearly, the moment was important to the president. The crowd surged forward but was well controlled, euphoric. For a quarter of a minute, the president moved from right to left and touched as many hands as possible, then retreated to the limousine, waving and smiling, basking in the cheers.
Alex knew the history that lurked beneath the moment. When Ukraine had been under Soviet rule, the Orthodox Church had been totally subservient to the patriarchate of Moscow, its clergy fully infiltrated by the KGB. Say the wrong thing in confession, and expect to disappear. That had led to the Ukrainian diaspora to set up a rival patriarchate, which had now moved back to Ukraine. There had also been Eastern Rite Catholics, whose churches were given by the Communists to the Russian Orthodox Church. With the collapse of the Soviet Union, the churches enjoyed a new freedom, one that also allowed them to bicker with each other over formerly state-owned property.
The motorcade started again, then slowed as it passed the memorial to Mykhailo Hrushevskyi, first president of Ukraine, where those gathered prayed for the country’s future.
Then the motorcade turned and moved toward St. Sophia’s Cathedral. Alex craned her neck to watch the progress of the parade. Over the shoulders of the men riding in front of her, she first saw the cathedral, Sobor Sviatoyi Sofiyi, one of the city’s best-known landmarks and a centerpiece of the old city’s skyline, and the church complex that surrounded it.
The building, almost a thousand years old, was stunning, an example of Old Kiev architecture, Byzantine motifs, white walls and green or gold turrets, five in total. Each of the turrets were topped by a Christian cross in the three-tiered Orthodox fashion: a crosspiece representing the mocking inscription over Jesus, the cross itself, and a crosspiece pointing upward representing both the piece to which Jesus’s feet were nailed and the hope of salvation.
The tallest turret, a separate tower in the manner of an Italian campanile, was also a bell tower. It rose a hundred feet into the cold blue sky. It was richly embellished with stuccowork, the details of which Alex could see more clearly as they drew closer. The tower, topped by a green turret and a cross, seemed to beckon to the visitors as they approached. Around the main cathedral, within the complex, were a scattered accumulation of former monastery buildings. Miraculously, they remained untouched despite the centuries of warfare that had raged around them, warfare that had reached its peak under Uncle Joe Stalin, who died before his plan to demolish the cathedral and its surroundings could be carried out.
The president’s car stopped right in front of St. Sophia’s.
A phalanx of tall security people surrounded the president as the trailing vehicles also stopped. Everyone moved briskly. Alex knew that another detachment of security people would come together inside the church. She had no idea where Robert was. She only knew he was among the president’s inner circle.
She stepped out of her own van, Federov with her. She wondered what Robert would say to her later if he caught sight of her thuggish companion.
“I know the way,” Federov said, indicating the church. “This will surprise you, but I have been in here.”
“It
does
surprise me,” she answered.
Alex entered and took a place, standing among the congregation, Federov edging into a pew as he stood beside her. Hundreds were already gathered within the church, an invitation-only event. Any ordinary Ukrainian would have been carefully selected, like a presidential “town meeting” in America. The congregation suddenly applauded the president’s arrival. The president was having a great day pressing the flesh and meeting the people. Too bad none of them could vote in an election.
From where she stood, Alex admired the complex beauty of the church. Much of it made sense to her from the traditional churches she had gone to with her mother as a little girl. She scanned the mosaics and frescos by Byzantine masters that dated back to the eleventh century. Marvelous frescos decorated the walls, pillars, and vaults. The central part of the cathedral was decorated with a large mosaic depicting a praying Virgin Mary, which was about six feet high and consisted of stone and glass plates of various reds, greens, yellows, and blues. Other frescoes depicted the annunciation, various martyrdoms, and familiar scenes from the Holy Bible. The design was endlessly intricate and delicate, as if made by hands guided by angels.
The worshipers remained on their feet. An Orthodox priest presided. The ceremony began as soon as the president arrived at the front. The brief service took place in the front of the church, before a special memorial table, small and freestanding, with an upright crucifix on top. Nearby there were icons of the
Theotókos—
the Virgin Mary—and the Apostle John. Some members of the faithful had also lit candles, which burned quietly on the table.
Alex scanned the worshipers. She watched Federov. As she watched him, he turned her way and gave her a nod.
Alex turned her attention back to the presiding bishop. He swung a censer with hypnotic precision. The scent crept toward her: sandalwood with pine. She suppressed a vague smile from her past. Whenever someone burned incense in college, it meant they were smoking something funny.
The congregation held candles for the dead. One was passed to Alex. The wax was brittle in her hand, but the flame warm. The congregation remained standing and would do so for the entire ceremony.
A prayer from St. Basil. The priest intoned in Church Slavonic with a fluent English translation running concurrently for the honored guests.
“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.
