Conspiracy In Kiev Part 22

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 G.o.d 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed 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 fas.h.i.+on: 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 acc.u.mulation 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 gla.s.s 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 wors.h.i.+pers 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 Theotkos-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 wors.h.i.+pers. 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.dly 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 h.e.l.l 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 extinguis.h.i.+ng 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. "s.e.xy 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 a.s.signment 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 s.p.a.ce 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 amba.s.sador, 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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.sistants handed over a large floral wreath. The president stepped away from Amba.s.sador 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sed overhead and again distracted the crowd.

The president was at the monument now, head bowed, Amba.s.sador 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 emba.s.sy. 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.

And yet, and yet ...

Beneath the freezing cold, Alex felt herself sweating.

What was wrong with this? What was wrong with this picture? It wasn't just that her guts were in a turmoil; every part of her was.

Her hand went to her weapon and rested upon it. She moved cautiously away from where she had stood, looking for hints as to what might be imminent, trying to figure what Federov might have known that she didn't. Had he been warning her or jerking her chain?

Then there was an ominous noise. A bang in the distance. Then another. She saw all the security people stiffen to alert. For a moment, everyone froze.

Then she realized.

More airplanes? No! Something from beyond the perimeter. Something that defied the most zealous of plans of protection.

More loud blasts in the distance, followed by another round, then quickly a third. She saw the members of the president's Secret Service escort cringe. Then there was a whistling in the air above.

Incoming projectiles!

Some of the security people quickly went for their own weapons. Then there were a series of explosions across the square. One, two, three, moving toward the presidential target with incredible precision.

Then all h.e.l.l broke loose.

A few yards away, Alex saw a woman's throat burst open with a horrible gash. The woman staggered and blood flooded from her wound. She never knew what had hit her. Smiling one second, dead the next.

Then someone else was. .h.i.t by something. Chaos everywhere. Bodies were falling and people were running. Explosives were coming into the square from what seemed like every direction. The entire entourage, the entire ceremony, was under attack from far beyond the square.

She heard someone yell in English. "RPGs! RPGs!"

Rocket propelled grenades. Instinctively, Alex tightened her own security pa.s.s around her neck so everyone could see it. She ran toward her van and her presumed means of escape. But it was like running through a riot because everyone was fleeing in a different direction. She was knocked over twice and had to fight her way back to her feet.

An older Ukrainian man with an American flag ran across Alex's path. Before Alex's eyes, a piece of shrapnel hit the man in the face and blew his head open. Blood gushed from the wound, hot and wet, splattering everyone within a few feet. He reeled and went down.

Then another RPG landed and then another. Then she couldn't count any more because the rounds were on top of each other and coming in on top of the entourage.

Everything that happened seemed to happen simultaneously. The whole moment of terror was frozen into one frame of time.

A blizzard of bone, brains, and blood. Screams.

Cries of pain and terror.

Barked orders from the various security services.

Shots were fired from many directions. Alex couldn't tell if they were friendly or hostile.

Alex wanted to vomit. Her insides wanted to explode. Instead, she kept moving. She had lost sight of Robert. Americans were calling out, running. Ducking and darting. There was no logic except survival.