“And then I immediately compounded the error by what I thought at the time was an offering of, so to speak, an ecumenical olive branch. I notified His Holiness the Metropolitan that, barring any objections from him, it was my intention to authorize the marriage of one of his flock now living outside Russia. I speak, of course, of Svetlana.”
“And what did this guy say?” D’Alessandro asked.
If behavior in the past is any key to the future, Charley thought, one more glass of wine and Vic will start singing “O sole mio” and then, weeping, confess to breaking his mother’s heart when he joined the Army instead of becoming a priest.
“Not ‘this guy,’ my son,” the archbishop said, “but His Eminence, the Patriarch of Moscow.”
“Got it,” Vic replied. “So what did he say?”
“Boris, my son,” the archbishop said, “will you tell our friends how the Church feels about marriage and divorce?”
“The Church,” the archimandrite began, “disapproves of divorce. Divorced individuals are usually allowed to remarry only after they have satisfied a severe penance imposed on them by their bishop. Second-marriage wedding ceremonies are more penitential than joyful. On the other hand, widows are permitted to remarry and their second marriage is considered just as valid as the first.”
“It was on the basis of this,” His Eminence broke in, “that I could see no reason to deny Svetlana permission to remarry as a widow. Her intended, Aleksandr told me, and she confirmed, was un-churched, canonically speaking a heathen, but that could be dealt with. Aleksandr, Dmitri, and Nicolai were all willing to serve as Charley’s
godfathers.
“I informed His Holiness the Patriarch of my reasoning. He immediately replied that I apparently wasn’t aware of all the facts, in particular that the reason Svetlana was a widow was because she had either arranged for the murder of her husband, the late Polkovnik Evgeny Alekseev, or killed him herself. His Holiness also said that Svetlana’s intended, one Colonel Carlos G. Castillo, had a well-deserved reputation as one of the CIA’s best assassins and had most recently shown his skill at that by garroting a fine Christian KSB officer, one Podpolkovnik Kirill Demidov, and leaving his body in a taxi outside the American embassy in Vienna.”
Vic D’Alessandro said: “So that’s why you were pushing Charley so hard about what he knew about Demidov getting whacked. The… what do you call him? The Patriarch was accusing him of being the whacker.”
“I would suggest, my son, that the Patriarch made that accusation because someone had told him that vile accusation. I recall your comment that you couldn’t lie to a priest. Neither should anyone professing to adhere to our faith.”
Jake Torine said, quoting, “‘It has been my sad experience that the worst of liars are willing to utter the most outrageous untruths with one hand on the Holy Bible and the other on their mother’s tombstone or the heads of their children.’”
The archbishop nodded.
“Carlos, my son, I understand why you thought I was making reference to you when I said that, but I really wasn’t.”
“I deeply apologize for what I said, Your Eminence,” Castillo said.
“What exactly did you say?” Sweaty demanded. “I can’t believe that you actually called His Eminence a sonofabitch and told him to go—”
“I’m sure, my child, I would remember if Carlos said anything like that to me,” the archbishop said, and changed the subject. “So when I heard from the Patriarch about what terrible people you and your Carlos were, Archimandrite Boris and I came down here to see what Aleksandr, Nicolai, and you had to say. And to speak to Carlos, and, if I could find them, to any friends of his.
“And then those friends, without warning, suddenly appeared,” the archbishop said. “And here we are, with the problem solved.”
The archbishop helped himself to a little more wine, and then said, “What I’m curious about now is your mission here, Colonel Torine. While we eat, could you tell me about that, or does Carlos think that’s none of my business?”
“I’d like to hear that, too,” Svetlana said.
“Go ahead, Jake,” Castillo said. “You’re going to have to tell Sweaty sooner or later, and with His Eminence here, you’re probably safe from her otxokee mecto nanara.”
—
About three minutes into his explanation, Jake looked at the archbishop and stopped.
The archbishop’s head was bent over. His eyes were closed, and he was snoring softly.
“What do I do?” Torine asked.
“Eat your dinner, my son,” the archimandrite said. “If His Eminence wakes, resume. If he doesn’t, you can tell us at breakfast.”
The archbishop was still soundly asleep in his chair when the dessert—strawberries in a cream and cognac sauce—was served and consumed.
After that, everyone but Archimandrite Boris quietly left the room and went to bed.
IV