the floor marble like the staircase in the great hall. The walls were covered with tapestries depicting early Christian scenes. An ancient church pew was on the left, the bas-relief examples of an art long forgotten; it was a place of meditation, for the tapestry facing it was of the Stations of the Cross.
At the end of the small room was an arched door, beyond it obviously Walther Verachten's chapel.
"You can interrupt, if you want to," said Helga without enthusiasm. "The head Kommando will be blamed for it, not you. But I'd wait a few minutes; the priest will be finished with his claptrap by then." "A p?iest?" The word slipped out of Vasilrs throat; the presence of such a man was the farthest thing in his mind. A consigliere of the Matarese with a priest?
"His fart-filled holiness, that's what I say." Helga turned and started back. "Do as you wish," she said, shrugging. "I don't tell anybody what to do." Taleniekov waited for the heavy mahogany door above to open and close.
T"hen he walked quietly to the door of the chapel, his ear against the wood, trying to pick up meaning from the sing-song chant he could hear from within.
Russian. The language being chanted was Russianl He was not sure why he was so startled. After all, the congregation inside consisted of the sole surviving son of Prince Andrei Voroshin. It was the fact of the service itself that was so astonishing.
Vasili placed his hand on the knob, turned it silently, and opened the door several inches. Two things struck him instantly: the sweet-sour odor of incense and the shimmering flames of outsized candles, which caused him to blink his eyes, adjusting to the chiaroscuro effect of bright fires against the moving black shadows on the gray concrete walls.
Recessed in those walls everywhere were icons of the Russian Orthodox Church, those nearest the altar raising their saintly arms, reaching for the cross of gold in the center.
In front of the cross was the priest, dressed in his cassock of white silk, trimmed with silver and gold. He had his eyes closed, his hands folded across his chest, and out of his barely moving mouth came words of a chant fashioned more than a thousand years ago.
Then Taleniekov saw Walther Verachten-an old man with thinning white hair, strands of which fell over the back of a long, gaunt neck. He was prostrate on the three marble steps of the altar, at the feet of the high priest, his arms stretched out in supplication, his forehead pressed against the marble in absolute submission. The priest raised his voice, signifying the finish of the Orthodox Kyrie Eleison. The Litany of Forgiveness commenced; priest- ly statement followed by sinner's response, a choral exercise in self-indulgence and self-delusion. Vasili thought of the pain inflicted, demanded by the Matarese, and was revolted. He opened the door, stepped inside.
The priest opened his eyes, startled, his hands surging down from his chest in indignation. Verachten spun on the steps, his skeletal body trembling.
Awkwardly, painfully, he struggled to his knees.
"How dare you interfere?" he shouted in German. "Who gave you permission to come in here?" "An historian from Petrograd, Voroshin," said Taleniekov in Russian.
"That's as good an answer as any, isn't it?" Verachten fell back on the steps, gripping the edge of the stone with his hands. Steadying himself, he brought them up to his face, covering his eyes as if they had been clawed or burned. The priest dropped to his knees, grabbing the old man by the shoulders, embracing him. The cleric turned to Vasili, his voice harsh.
"Who are you? What right have you?" "Don't talk to me of rightsl You turn my stomach. Parasite!" The priest held his place, cradling Verachten. "I was summoned years ago and I came. As my predecessors in this house I ask for nothing and I receive nothing." The old man lowered his hands from his face, struggling
to compose himself, nodding his trembling bead; the priest released him.
"So you've come at last," he said. "They always said you would. Vengeance is the Lord's, but then you people do not accept that, do you? You've taken God from the people and given so little in return. I have no quarrel with you on this earth. Take my life, Bolshevik. Carry out your orders, but let this good priest go. He's no Voroshin." "You are, however." "It is my burden." Verachten's voice grew firmer. "And our secret. I've home both well, as