God has given me the vision to do so." "One talks of rights, the other of Godl" spat out Taleniekov.
"Hypocrites! Per nostro circolol" The old man blinked, no reaction in his eyes. "I beg your pardon?" "You heard me! Per nostro circolol" "I hear you, but I don't understand you." "Corsica! Porto Vecchio! Guillaume de Matareser' Verachten looked up at the priest. "Am I senile, father? What's he talking about?" "Explain," said the priest. "Who are you? What do you want? What's the meaning of these words?" "He knowsl" "I know what?" Verachten leaned forward. "We Voroshins have blood on our souls, I accept that. But I cannot accept what I don't know." "The shepherd boy," said Taleniekov. "With a voice crueler than the wind.
Do you need more than that? The shepherd boyl" "The Lord is my shepherd-" "Stop it, you sanctimonious liarl" The priest stood up. "You stop it, whoever you arel This good and decent man has lived his life in atonement for sins that were never his! Since a child he wanted to be a man of God, but it was not permitted. Instead, he has become a man with God. Yes, with God." "He is a Matarese!" "I don't know what that is, but I know what he is. Millions dispensed every year to the starving, to the deprived. All he asks in return is our presence to see him through his devotions. It is all he has ever asked." "You're a fooll Those funds are Matarese fundsl They buy death!" "They buy hope. You're the liar!" The door of the chapel burst open. Vasili spun around. A man in a dark business suit stood inside the frame, legs apart, arms outstretched, a gun in his right hand, steadied by his left. "Don't move!" The language was German.
Through the door came two women. One was tall and slender, dressed in an ankle-length blue velvet gown, a fur stole around her shoulders, her face white, angular, beautiful. The coarse-looking woman at her side was short, in a cloth overcoat, her face puffy, her narrow eyes wary. He had seen her only hours ago; a guard had said she would be accommodating, should Heinrich Kassel need duplicates.
"That's the man," said the receptionist who had sat behind the desk at the Records of Property.
"Thank you," replied Odile Verachten. "You may go now, the chauffeur will drive you back into the city." "Thank you, ma'am. Thank you very much." "You're most welcome. The chauffeur's in the hallway. Good night." "Good night, ma'am." The woman left.
"Odile!" cried her father, struggling to his feet. "This man came in-" "I'm sorry, father," interrupted his daughter. "Putting off unpleasantries only compounds them; it's something you never understood. I'm sure this.
.. man... said things you shouldn't have heard." With those few words, Odile Verachten nodded at her escort. He shifted the weapon to his left and fired. The explosion was deafening; the old man fell. The killer raised his gun and fired again; the priest spun, the top of his head a sudden mass of dark red.
Silence.
"That was one of the most brutal acts I've ever seen," said Taleniekov. He would kill... somehow.
"From Vasili Vasilovich Taleniekov, that's quite a statement," said the Verachten woman, taking a step forward. "Did you really believe that this ineffectual old man-this would-be priest--could be a part of us?" "My erroY was in the man, not in the name. Voroshin is Matarese." "Correction. Verachten. We are not merely born, we are chosen." Odile gestured at her dead father. "He never was. When his brother was killed during the war, Ansel chose mel" She glared at him. "We wondered what you had learned in Leningrad." "Would you really like to know?" "A name," answered the woman. "A name from a chaotic period in recent history. Voroshin. But it hardly matters that you know. There is nothing you could say, no accusation you could make, that the Verachtens could not deny." "You don't know that." "We know enough, don't we?" said Odile, glancing at the man with the gun.
"We know enough," repeated the killer. "I missed you in Leningrad. But I did not miss the woman, Kronescha, did I? If you know what I mean." "You!" Taleniekov started forward; the man clicked the gun's hammer back with his thumb.
Vasili held his place, body and mind aching. He would kill; to do so control had to be found. And shock. Lodzia, my Lodzia! Help me.
He stared at Odile Verachten, and spoke softly, slowly,