“I understand now,” Asiyah said.
“But I apologize for the intrusion.”
Sokolov was afraid that the priest might leave.
“No, please,” he said. “I must ask you a question.”
Aware of the pleading urgency in Sokolov’s tone, the priest drew nearer.
“Is there any way I could help you?”
“Yes,” Sokolov said. “Father…?”
“Father Mikhail.”
“Father Mikhail, I am looking for someone.”
Sokolov hesitated. Perhaps it was not such a good idea after all. A one-in-a-million shot that could bring him to nothing — or even destroy whatever little hope he had.
As Sokolov struggled for words, the priest encouraged him to go on, giving him full attention.
“It’s my brother, actually. About a year ago he disappeared, left us without a word. I don’t know anything about his fate. I haven’t been able to find him anywhere, and the police have been of no help. But… but I know that he attended some courses at the Academy here. He was fascinated by the Lavra. So I began to wonder that he might have become a monk. Could he have stayed at the monastery? Could he still be in the Lavra?”
Father Mikhail’s expression changed at the last question. He looked at Sokolov with sympathy, as he himself was now trying to pick his words carefully, touching a personal matter that was so sensitive.
“You see, when someone makes a decision to quit the material world and dedicate one’s life to serving God, it is sometimes difficult to accept for the family. In any case, it is a brave decision — a selfless act that we cannot interfere with. I understand how much pain and confusion it may be causing you, but if your brother chose the path to God, you should be just as selfless, and try to take it with humility. And after all, you must realize that your brother may have gone elsewhere. I do not mean to suggest the worst, but everything is in God’s will, and your brother is in His hands.”
The words were sinking in bitterly.
“But you have come here for my help, and I will do everything in my power. Tell me your brother’s name.”
“Constantine Sokolov.”
The priest’s hand trembled slightly. He looked into Sokolov’s face, and then cast his gaze at Asiyah, who also appeared to be a bereaved family member, emotion glittering in her eyes.
“Constantine Sokolov?” the priest said at length. “Yes. I know him. He was expecting you to come searching for him here. I can help you. Follow me.”
6
In the most distant area of the Lavra, next to the northern tower, the monks preserved the flowing springs that were deemed holy. It was this fresh water that St. Sergius had discovered by God’s grace to survive, with the muddy river unsuitable for basic needs. Now located behind the main building of the monastery, it was a site that few visitors to the Lavra ever ventured to — even though it was not closed to the public.
Father Mikhail guided Sokolov and Asiyah towards the monastic section of the Lavra. It was only then, as they were reaching the northern tower, that they realized how enormous the territory of the Lavra really was. Even the booming din of the grand bell — and the supporting chimes joining it to reverberate around the Lavra — now sounded duller.
“You will have your rendez-vous at the clearing behind the monastery, near the springs,” the priest said.
From there, Father Mikhail left them on their own.
Sokolov and Asiyah followed the paved alley and rounded the corner behind the monastery, to find the springs.
There, on the grassy knoll, a man was sitting on a rock, peering at a gushing stream. He wore the plain cassock of a monk, which suited him well, and his feet were bare.
Sokolov could not believe his eyes.
“My goodness…” Sokolov murmured. “You’re alive…”
For a few moments, there was nothing Ilia could say in reply.
7
The Metropolitan sat motionless, his eyes locked on his visitors. Only when Sokolov and Asiyah approached to face him did the elderly cleric speak.
“You are Eugene? Constantine’s brother?”
“Just what on earth is going on?” Sokolov demanded. “Why all this?”
“I have chosen seclusion in this monastery as punishment for the hardship Constantine had to suffer because of me. I brought it upon him for one year, now I am taking it back — for the rest of my life.”
Sokolov studied Ilia, and his rage vanished. Ilia was a broken old man. Under the sun, the bald skin on the top of his head had turned pink. His eyes were red-rimmed, a mesh of wrinkles on his face, lips trembling. He did not look like he had much life left in him. In lieu of Sokolov’s anger came bitter emptiness.
“I want to know what you did to my brother. And why he is charged with your murder.”
“You have many questions that are not easy to answer. Just like Constantine did when he came to me for help. Your brother’s discoveries came along with threats, so he had to leave the country, secretly. He did it to protect you, Eugene — from the knowledge of what he got himself into, to keep you out of harm’s way.” The words sounded like an allegation.
“What could he possibly have been involved in that required such extreme measures? And where did he go?”
“He found something that could shake the Russian Government at the very top. All the way up to our President. I don’t know what exactly. Only later did I learn that he spent twelve months in France. The man who helped him hide there was Hermann Weinstock.”
“Who is Hermann Weinstock?”
“He is the leader of a human rights group called Free Action. His political activities are banned in Russia by the authorities. When Constantine was forced to return to Russia, it was Hermann who arranged my meeting with Constantine. Your brother had something important to tell me. But something went wrong. Hermann sensed that we were under surveillance. So I had to fake my own death. It was a stage show for the watchers hunting after Constantine. As a distraction, Hermann pretended to have shot me and kidnapped Constantine.”
“This is madness!”
“True, but it was the only way to make them think I was dead so that they could not find your brother! The link had to be severed!”
Ilia’s eyes became wild, reflecting paranoia.
“So this man Weinstock is the last person who saw my brother?”
Ilia nodded.
“How do I find him?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was the one who always got in touch with me. I never contacted him. It was his means of protection against his enemies, instrumental to his survival — and Constantine’s.”
“But now we can’t find him. ”
“It’s a double-edged sword, yes. You must understand the logic,” said Ilia. “This way no one can use leverage against Constantine. I cannot betray him because I don’t know where he is, and because I’m dead anyway.”
Sokolov refused to accept that he hit a dead end.
“What about Weinstock’s organization? Free Action?” he persisted.
“It exists only on paper. It has no office, no tangible assets, no staff, nothing.”
“But in that case, what does Free Action do?”
“Free Action fights against the re-emergence of old fascist regimes.”
“That is something very abstract,” Sokolov pointed out.