Had the ceremony—both the first portion known as the “betrothal” and the second portion known as the “crowning”—not been broadcast live to the world in its entirety and videoed so that the young couple could savor it later, Oleg would have been hard-pressed to remember much of it, so overwhelmed was he by all the guests, the klieg lights, the heavy aroma of incense, and his own dizzying emotions. The bishop’s words, the Scriptures that were read, the long passages of the liturgy, and the Communion service after the vows all went by in a blur. Oleg could not remember the names or faces of any of the dozens of heads of state and ambassadors and scores of Russian oligarchs and their trophy wives who attended.
What he would never forget, however, was the sight of the president leading his daughter down the aisle and the look of immense pride mixed with a father’s tenderness when he put Marina’s hand in Oleg’s. Even more, Oleg would always remember how stunningly beautiful his bride looked in the flowing white-and-gold silk dress and diamond-studded crown, the very one worn by Czarina Alexandra in 1894. He would remember the flicker of firelight dancing in her eyes as each of them held a single golden candlestick during the ceremony. And he would remember the moment her soft and supple lips parted and she affirmed her love and loyalty to him until their dying breath.
Afterward, the wedding party and all the guests moved into an exquisitely appointed state room housing the original wooden dining table used by the czars to entertain European guests back in the day. It could—and did—seat exactly one thousand guests and featured original china settings used by the Romanovs. The president and first lady sat at the head of the table. The newlyweds sat to their right, Oleg’s parents to their left. Oleg cared little for the gourmet menu or the wide variety of vodka and wine that was served or any of the toasts or the dancing. He hated all the eyes staring at him, all the cameras flashing, and the bright lights of the TV crews. He just wanted it to be over so he could sweep away his bride and enjoy their honeymoon in peace and quiet, alone and far from the hoopla.
His impatient daydreams were interrupted, however, when Luganov leaned over and whispered to him at one point during the reception. Having just lit up a Cuban cigar for himself and offered one to Oleg, the president had pulled his son-in-law close to him and kissed him on both cheeks.
“Oleg Stefanovich, I would not have given my Marina to just any young man. I trust you, my son, and I see great potential in you. I know you will give me many grandchildren and raise them to be princes and princesses, loyal and brave. And I want you to know that if there is anything you need, you have only to ask.”
The man looked deep into Oleg’s eyes. “We are family now,” the president added. “Come what may, we must stick together, for the glory of Russia, for the glory of our dynasty.”
23
MONUMENT, COLORADO—30 DECEMBER 2004
Marcus Ryker’s wedding to his high school sweetheart was hardly a spectacle.
It was a miracle.
And Marcus had the Taliban to thank.
Elena Garcia had seen the story of the helicopter crashes and the shoot-out in Kandahar on the evening news. When the story about Marcus being wounded in combat appeared in the local media a few days later, Elena broke up with her new boyfriend, a medical student at UC Denver, and called Marcus on every number she had for him. When she couldn’t reach him, she called his mother. Then she called her father. By the time Marcus was awarded the Purple Heart, he and Elena were a couple again, and after he’d recovered and been given a brief leave for Christmas, they were married.
The ceremony in which Marcus Johannes Ryker pledged his undying love to the eldest daughter of Javier Rodriguez Garcia was so small and understated it didn’t even get reported in the local newspapers. The Garcia family had money, but Elena begged her father not to use any of it on a big wedding. She didn’t want all the fuss. Nor did she want to do anything that might cause embarrassment to her mother-in-law-to-be. Marjorie Ryker was now a widow twice over. Surviving on Social Security and a modest Air Force pension, she was barely making ends meet, especially given all she’d done to help Marcus through college.
Marcus didn’t want anything showy either. The incident in Afghanistan had already brought him far too much attention. Something simple and quiet sounded just right to him. So Marcus’s mother hosted the two families for dinner at her home on a snowy Wednesday evening. She made lamb chops, mashed potatoes, green peas, and mint jelly—Marcus’s favorite. The next afternoon, the couple were married in the Garcias’ living room. The pastor who had discipled Marcus during his senior year of college officiated. Only immediate family and a few close friends attended. The reception was catered by Famous Dave’s barbecue. Afterward Marcus and Elena drove to Aspen for a honeymoon of skiing and snowboarding, a wedding gift from her parents.
Friday was New Year’s Eve. With a massive snow squall bearing down on everything west of the Continental Divide, Marcus heated up the leftover Chinese food they’d had for lunch. He opened a bottle of champagne that had been chilling in the small refrigerator, compliments of the resort, glad their Baptist friends were, for the moment, nowhere to be found. Then they curled up by the fire in their rented two-level villa, and Elena gave her groom not one gift but two.
Marcus tore the wrapping paper off the first, and what he found took his breath away. It was a single-volume first edition of Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago, and it was signed by the author himself.
Marcus gasped. “This must have cost you a fortune!”
“You’re worth every penny,” she replied, her eyes dancing with desire. “I would have paid ten times more.”
They kissed with abandon until Marcus realized he had not opened the second gift. They took a pause, caught their breath, and sipped more champagne. Next Marcus unwrapped the somewhat-larger gift.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“You’ll see,” she said playfully.
What he found was a scrapbook Elena had made for him. On the first page was a faded class photo of Marcus in the sixth grade.
He stared at it.
Elena laughed.
Marcus did not.
He looked hideous. His hair was long, his clothes were too dorky to describe, and he was wearing braces and battling acne. He was not smiling. Instead, he looked forlorn, and Marcus knew why. All those memories started rushing back, and he fought to control his emotions. He didn’t want to ruin the moment or make Elena feel bad. But the photo was taken not long after he had lost his father.
He thanked her and was about to kiss her, but Elena nodded to the note she had written under the picture.
June 2, 1991—Photo Day—Lewis Palmer Middle School.
This was the day I fell in love with you, Marcus Ryker. This exact day.
My family had just moved to Monument from the Springs. I had cried for weeks. I pleaded with my father not to make me change schools so close to the end of the year. But he didn’t listen. He’d found a house he and Mama liked. So we moved, and there I was. My sisters weren’t born yet. I was lonely, depressed, angry, furious, and yet suddenly curious about this cute boy in English, social studies, and PE.
The only reason I came to school every day was to see you. You were taller than the rest of the boys. You were quiet but strong—and fast. Fast like the wind. And crazy. Always climbing on things. Jumping off things. Doing backflips. Pulling pranks. You were always getting in trouble, but not real trouble. Not big trouble. The teachers liked you. You always seemed to get off with a warning. You were just having fun, and you were fun to be around.