‘Then good Russian men will have to wait in line.’
Following a drink in the Sea Bell, they parted temporarily on the eastern side of Nevsky. He trailed back to his room to await their rendezvous in the foyer of the Angleterre. The arms of the giant clock on the former KGB building at the corner of Bolshaya Morskaya read 13.15. Occasionally, a sunbeam would fall through the cloud cover, alighting on a spiral cone of flies hovering over an open restaurant vent. The waft of sour cabbage followed him. To either side, the colossal buildings pressed in. He had a sense of what it must have felt like to be one of those comical clerks Gogol had written so eloquently about: insignificant biological entities with big noses and frayed overcoats playing out their meaningless lives in this vast metropolis of oblong architecture. His stride lengthened and he puffed out his chest, trying to maximise his proportions in response to his surroundings. Somehow, the designers of this interminable city had found a way to crush the individual will whilst instilling in the collective a subconscious civic dignity. It was a truly marvellous psychological achievement which had served the rulers well, regardless of their political alignment. He could see those familiar red eyelids over the arched windows ahead. His mind was on the girl. She was intriguing him. What had Churchill said about Russia? ‘A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma’, or something like that.
• People are herded into Kazan’s sixteenth-century Annunciation Cathedral and burnt to death in the shadows of the Spasskaya Tower. The President of Tartarstan, speaking from the Qol-Sarif Mosque, described the action as ‘defensive’;
• A second Battle of the Torches takes place on the slopes of the Tabasaran Mountains, with the insurgents achieving their objective in cutting the railway to the south towards Baku and seizing the road to Rostov-on-Don;
• During the second Tokhtamysh-Timur skirmish, the Bolghar complex is captured and turned into a centre for a local hajj for the Muslim population;
• The Astrakhan Kremlin’s Maria Ascension Cathedral holds a final Christian Mass prior to the forced expulsion of ethnic Russians;
• Evidence of human sacrifice in the de-consecrated Unzha Chapel is revealed on State TV. In response, Orthodox believers raise the holy icon of St Prince Mikhail of Tver and commence an armed pilgrimage to Stavropol.
5.
They cannot understand as yet that we are not fighting a political party, but a sect of murderers of all contemporary spiritual culture.
When he got back to the hotel, Ulrich Hoffman was at reception, getting ready to check out. Whirling creases surrounding deep-set eyes emphasised the intensity with which he was scrutinising the computer printout spilling from the till. Tom’s sudden appearance, however, caught the German’s attention.
‘One moment’, Hoffman said as he signed off the receipt and collected his American Express card. ‘Do you have time to talk?’ There was a paternal look on the veteran’s face.
‘Not really.’ Tom felt surly, contemptuous of Hoffman’s apparent cowardice. He was in no mood for a condescending lecture.
‘I think you do, Professor Hunter.’ There was something in the tone. The German’s voice was commanding Tom to listen. ‘Come with me.’
They walked in silence out of the lobby and across the square. Ten minutes later, somewhere in the backstreets on the Neva side of the Marinskii, Hoffman led him into a small courtyard. They walked up some steps. A narrow path rose directly to the doors of a synagogue. The place was open, a portal to another world. ‘We will not be disturbed here.’ Tom sensed his companion was trying to sound protective, not pressurising. Pigeons flapped over gravestones. Pale Hasidic Jews in black yarmulkes sauntered between the monuments, talking animatedly to each other.
‘Look’, Tom began, ‘what is all this?’
Ulrich tried not to look offended. ‘Carl Jung once said, “The Jew who is something of a nomad has never yet created a culture form of his own and as far as we can see never will, since all his instincts and talents require a more or less civilised nation to act as host for their development”.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like Ezra Pound. Wasn’t it he who insisted we should keep Jews out of banking, education, and government?’
‘It served the Byzantines well, the longest-lasting empire in the history of the world.’
‘But we live in the post-Enlightenment.’
‘So we do, and Bolshevism was the bastard child of that deeply optimistic, utopian ideaclass="underline" the classless society that supposedly transcends conflict and economic exploitation. The sort of nonsense that resulted in the pseudo-science of Trofim Lysenko and the prison colonies of Karaganda.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Ms Karre has already left for the airport!’
‘So?’
‘You may want to consider following her example.’
‘Why?’
‘Threats! Our friends in the Bloc use some very unsound methods!’
Tom shook his head. ‘So you are running? Grigori’s people can protect us!’
‘They are not so well-organised or so well-connected to the underworld. Have you been contacted?’
‘Yes, they threatened me also, but I told them…’
‘You don’t have a family?’ the older man’s irascible voice advised. ‘Leave now like the rest of us. Grigori is organising a counter-demonstration. There will be a war and we will be responsible.’
‘You saw how our Dutch friend handled them the other day!’
‘He’s one man, for God’s sake!’
‘You said Grigori’s bringing our people out in force. And of course there are the police.’
‘My previous experience with the Russian authorities does not fill me with great confidence.’
‘I see…’
‘Do you, really? Let me tell you a little story in keeping with a place like this.’ He waved towards the sacred stones. ‘There was a rabbi called Loew who poured spring water on some mountain soil. He walked around this pile of earth singing incantations and reciting from ancient scriptures, “Ata Bra Golem Dewuk Hachomer W’tigzar Zedim Chewel Torfe Jisrael”, and a life was formed, a Golem. A creature that did its master’s bidding. And its master inserted a shem into its mouth so that he always had complete control over its thought and actions.’
‘You speak in parables.’
‘The Golem is like a robot.’
‘So?’
‘The Bloc is an army of Golems!’
They met over a glass of Courvoisier in the Borsalino before tilting umbrellas against the storm slewing across Palace Square. Navigating gusty arches, they entered the Hermitage’s inner courtyard, fork lightning slicing through sulphurous smog. Then, waiting with some Italian tourists to check their coats and bags, they marched hand-in-hand past security, old men with jaundiced expressions ripe for reliquaries.
Mounting the Jordan staircase, looking skywards at gilt stucco and classical statues, they watched as a mesmeric shimmer of light played across gold and white. Stone faces transformed into ghostly apparitions, arms and shoulders cut from the purest marble overseeing a staircase lit by crystal chandeliers. He was enchanted by the wood carvings on the doors, entering endless galleries filled with Rembrandts, Van Dycks, Monets, and Picassos. Whole rooms were given over to Sassanid gemstones and ancient Scythian hoards. A labyrinth of panelling led from one treasure to another. Great, sky-lit windows cast grey, powdery light down into the vaults. A thousand Ali Baba caves collected together. Sculptures, ceremonial swords, Stone Age artefacts, and Egyptian mummies piled up in every corner.