And he noticed a darker side of the city — the one that always appalled him in Paris. A cripple’s outstretched hand begging passers-by. A homeless woman arranging a thin pillow on the sidewalk. A man urinating in a phone booth.
Paris was oblivious to them all. Nothing could tarnish the sweet postcard reputation.
Rounding the Arc de Triomphe, Borisov took the third intersection to Avenue Wagram, where the road narrowed again. Only a few blocks from the Arc, Borisov parked the Audi on an offshoot named Boulevard de Courcelles, and they exited the car. The bodyguard led the way. Rows of buildings converged at either flank as they turned to a tiny perpendicular side-street.
Hidden by Parisian houses, the image appeared with abrupt glory. The sight subdued Constantine’s breathing, and enveloped him in a shroud of reverence. Overwhelmed, his mind transcended reality. He was back in Russia… He was home…
Ending the street, the Cathedrale St. Alexandre de la Néva towered as it came into view, sparkling with the gold of its domed spires. Constantine felt a pure sensation sweep deep inside, as though he were cleansed by the holiness of what his eyes witnessed.
As his feet carried him to the Church, it seemed that the Russian cathedral was out of place amid the glamorous bustle of Paris.
But in truth, Constantine decided, it was Paris that was out of place around it.
4
It was Wednesday morning, and the church was closed until late afternoon. Like any Russian Orthodox temple, the Cathedrale St. Alexandre was shaped in the form of a cross, the main dome surrounded by four smaller candle-shaped turrets. Located in a cul-de-sac, the church was a detached spot in the middle of Paris. Behind the church itself was an enclosed courtyard. Any watcher from the street was unable to see the courtyard, as it was concealed by the body of the church and the canopy of trees that surrounded its perimeter. Scanning the premises for any intruders, Borisov led Constantine along the white walls of the church, to the invisible corner on the far end of the grounds.
A silent wraith sat on a bench in the cool shade of beeches. The short, dry man was close to eighty. The long-sleeved shirt, pullover and trousers were the finest possible, complemented by his brilliant black shoes and diamond-studded watch. His hair was a white texture cropped on his skull. Brown blotches overran his hands. Despite his body’s frailty, the eyes were lively, excited. They shone with warm sincerity that attracted Constantine immediately. The old man smiled, squinting at the sun rays filtered by the canopy.
“Ah, Andrei, I see that someone roughed you up quite a bit.” The eyes crackled with youthful mischief. “No doubt it was your new acquaintance here. My, my, Andrei, I worry about your qualifications. I see that the young man also has your gun.”
Constantine had concealed the SIG-Sauer under his belt, the loose shirt rendering the bulge almost invisible, and yet the old man picked out the hints of it — a quality of training, not eyesight.
The effervescence vanished, and a tired gaze shifted to Constantine. The old man assessed him.
“I’ll wager this martial proficiency comes with your fine Cossack breeding.”
“My father taught me how to handle a gun when I was six, and believe me, you don’t want to be in the crosshairs if I aim.”
Constantine’s cocky answer only served to avoid showing that he was taken aback by the businessman’s knowledge.
“Good. Now that we’ve determined you’re not afraid of me, perhaps you can sit down? Come on, I don’t bite.”
Hesitantly, Constantine seated himself on the bench. While he did so, Borisov had retreated to watch the street. Sitting vis-á-vis with the mysterious businessman, the physical closeness was uncomfortable. Constantine’s nostrils caught a musty odor coming from him; the kind that always seemed to arrive as a compliment of old age.
“In case Andrei had no chance to tell you, my name is Maxim Malinin.”
“Jean-Pierre Youdine.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Constantine. So good of you to come. I knew you would.”
“I wasn’t so certain about accepting your invitation. I still have my doubts. Well, Maxim Malinin, what’s your problem? I’m not too keen on charades.”
“Speaking in broad terms, the problem is in my head. The incessant migraines. The sleepless nights. The vengeful memories. My shrink called it a mental disorder. Psychosis. Paranoia. I call it conscience. God is punishing me for the sins of my past. But my suffering is fully deserved.”
“I don’t think you only want my sympathy.”
“True. It’s your confidence that I want. Metropolitan Ilia advised me to seek your help.”
“What exactly for?”
Malinin raised his head, eyeing the cross atop the golden dome of the Church. His voice was barely above a whisper.
“The soldiers therefore, when they had crucified Jesus, took his garments and made four parts, to every soldier a part; and also the coat: now the coat was without seam, woven from the top throughout,” he quoted.
“John 19:23,” Constantine said. “The Coat of Jesus. Metropolitan Ilia has been searching for it all his life. It perished when the Bolsheviks robbed the Kremlin, which once held an art collection, kept by Russia’s Patriarchs for over six hundred years.”
“And not just art. The holiest of relics. Antique Christian icons. The sakkos of Virgin Mary, Jesus’ garments, and a nail which was hammered through His flesh into the cross.”
“So you are familiar with the story.”
“It is the reason I contacted the Metropolitan.” Malinin’s eyes reflected desperation. “I know where to find the Kremlin Collection.”
Astounded, Constantine struggled to grasp the enormity of the words. It took him several seconds to recover. If the meeting hadn’t been sanctioned by the Metropolitan, he would never have believed that Malinin was serious.
“But… Still… What can I do to help?”
“The Metropolitan does not trust anyone in Russia. The Holy Synod in Moscow is still rife with KGB infiltrators. Even Alexis II had been an informant before he became Patriarch. ”
“All his life, the Metropolitan had been fearful of enemies within the Church,” Constantine confirmed.
“As I am fearful of my enemies. Like you, I’m restless hiding in Europe. Hunted like a wild animal. The people I trust are few. I cannot approach the Metropolitan directly, let alone transfer any papers. But I must share my story before I die. I must pass on the knowledge of the treasure’s location. You seem to have the Metropolitan’s utmost trust.”
“And what about Free Action? Your bodyguard told me that you used their network to get in touch with the Metropolitan.”
“They were only necessary to find you. Free Action has Ilia’s confidence, but not mine. The information is too sensitive to be surrendered to any outsiders. Which means you are the only possible candidate.”
“What makes me worthy of your trust?”
“You’re just the way Ilia described you, Constantine. Young, brash… and hurt. However, I have no faith in you — yet,” Malinin said. “I must learn more about you to make the decision.”
“Paranoid lunatic.” Constantine stood up and turned to leave.
The bodyguard emerged out of nowhere to block his path.