She didn’t see the monk outside. Nadia walked back toward the pilgrimage center. She passed a group of thirty tourists snapping pictures of the main church. One of the tourists held a camera at the ready. It boasted a massive telephoto lens.
Nadia stopped and burst into a smile. “Hi,” she said.
The man with the camera turned. Nadia stared into the lens. It provided a wide angle reflection. Nadia spied the monk thirty paces behind her.
“Oh, excuse me,” Nadia said. “You look like someone I know.”
She ambled toward the Pilgrimage Center. Climbed some steps, made her way around a balcony that faced the Strypa River.
Trees hugged the creek. Clusters of people admired the view. The sound of rushing water drowned out their voices. Nadia moved to the far end of the balcony. She stood, took a look at her watch, and waited.
The monk wandered in seventeen minutes later, hands folded over his chest as though he was reflecting. Nadia looked away. She could still see his eyes in her peripheral vision. He scanned the balcony, found her, and focused on the river. He didn’t seem surprised when a monsignor in a black cassock with red trim walked up and put his arm around him. Once he saw it was Marko, however, his expression morphed into one of shock and fear.
By the time Nadia walked over, they’d already exchanged quiet words.
“He says he really is a monk,” Marko said. “And if you listen to him, I think you’ll agree.”
“I’m with the Basilian Fathers in Krekhiv,” the monk said. “I’m a friend of Karel’s. I heard you ask for him in the Pilgrimage Center.”
His effeminate delivery stunned Nadia. It was a complete contrast to his rugged appearance. Up close, Nadia realized he wasn’t rugged. His build was deceptive. He was tall and wide but his face was soft.
“Where is Karel?” Nadia said.
“Gone. On another pilgrimage. He left yesterday afternoon.”
Marko, arm still around the monk’s shoulder. “Where to?”
“The Priest’s Grotto.”
“The Priest’s Grotto?” Nadia said. “Where’s that?”
“It’s near the village of Strilkivtsi. About a hundred kilometers south of here.”
“What’s so special about it?” Marko said.
“It’s one of the longest gypsum caves in the world. It’s a special place with a special history. He wanted to experience it. The fear. The suffering. The courage.”
“How long is he going to stay in these caves?”
“Three days.”
“How can someone find him if he’s needed?”
“There are several main rooms in the caves. Any experienced guide will know them. He’s staying there.”
Marko and Nadia exchanged a knowing glance. She nodded. He patted the monk’s shoulder and removed his arm.
“Who are you?” the monk said.
Nadia introduced Marko and herself.
The monk’s eyes shone with recognition. “I know all about you.”
“You do?” Nadia said.
“Yes. You’re a journalist. You met him in Chornobyl village when you were doing research for an American newspaper.”
“That’s right,” she said. That was the cover she’d used. Either Karel didn’t tell him the truth or the monk didn’t want to admit he knew who she was. “And what’s your name?”
“My name is Yuri Salak.”
Marko and Nadia asked him more about the Priest’s Grotto. Nadia got the phone number for the Basilican Monastery in Krekhiv in case she needed to speak with him again. Afterward, Nadia and Marko started back toward the rental car where the driver was waiting.
“We have to get back to the hotel and find a guide,” she said.
“Hey,” Marko said.
Nadia turned. Marko hadn’t moved.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” He pinched the cassock.
“Oh. Right.” She’d forgotten he was wearing it. The disguise gave him anonymity, credibility and access, especially in a religious country such as Ukraine.
“I can tell what you’re thinking,” he said. “Tempting, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“Monsignor Tesla. No one messes with a priest.”
Nadia cringed. “Have some respect for a holy site, would you? Let’s put that back where you found it.”
“You sure?”
Nadia headed back toward the church. “Yes, Monsignor. We have sinned enough already.”
CHAPTER 40
THE TWINS INSISTED on renting a fancy car to seduce the witness to the murder. Something called a Porsche Panamera. At first Victor refused. They owned a Lincoln Town Car. The ultimate American limousine. They didn’t need some German monstrosity, he told them. But the boys insisted. The Town Car was too old. It looked used. And it wasn’t edgy enough. Edgy? Victor said. Edgy? He dreamed of introducing their necks to the knife-edge of his hand. The rental cost $799 for one day, plus tax. Almost $900. When Victor arrived at Ellis Island, he didn’t have nine cents in his pocket. The world had gone mad.
Two years ago he wouldn’t have cared about the money. But everything had changed. In Victor’s mind, every penny belonged to Tara and his grandson. Every penny spent had to be justified. It had to pay for a necessary expense or produce a reasonable rate of return. The twins argued the locket offered the prospect of an exceedingly reasonable return. Victor agreed.
The Gun wore a black suit and tie and aviator sunglasses that made it less obvious his twin was in the back seat. He drove. The Ammunition had bought a new blue suit. He wore a white shirt open at the collar underneath it. Flashed a knock-off gold Rolex around his wrist. He sat in the back beside Victor, adjusting his collar.
“Hugo Boss,” he said with a grin.
Victor grimaced. “Don’t do that. Don’t ever do that.”
“Do what?”
“Refer to yourself as the boss.”
“I wasn’t. That’s the designer’s name. The one who made the suit.”
“And why do you think he chose that name?”
“Because his mother gave it to him?”
“I sincerely doubt it. Even if she did he could have changed it.”
“Then why did he choose it?”
“So the word ‘boss’ rolls off your tongue and you buy more of his suits.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You keep saying it, next thing you know people will believe it. Only two things can happen to a boss. He can be fired or he can be assassinated.”
“That’s a bit extreme, Victor. Isn’t it?”
“No one ever plotted to kill the peasant.”
“What about Stalin?”
Victor tried to find flaw in the remark. “Have I told you I don’t like to be in the car with anyone smarter than me?”
“Besides, I don’t think there’s a designer named Hugo Peasant.”
Victor grunted. “Insolent child.” He could see the Gun smiling in the rear view mirror. He turned back to the Ammunition. “I can see the modest improvements in your chess game are going to your head. I’m going to have to start trying now.”
The twins laughed, hurled polite insults, and challenged him to matches as soon as they took care of business. They were good kids, Victor thought. Supremely talented with the computer, physically capable, and more clever than he originally thought. He hoped circumstances didn’t arise where they both had to meet a boss’s inevitable fate.