The Nine Men (A Novella)

  ‘Two-thousand-years! Well, that should narrow the search down quite a bit. Do you have any more details?’

  ‘Not over the phone…I wish to see you in person this afternoon. Please make yourself available.’

  ‘Yes, certainly, Commander. At what time?’

  ‘At precisely one o’clock; in your office.’

  The fifty-year-old spinster hadn’t knowingly met anyone from the FSB or the KGB in her twenty-five-years as librarian of the Kremlin and the commander’s deep, authoritative voice at the end of the phone had unsettled her; Veronika Glazkov’s hand was shaking as she replaced the receiver.

  Sitting back in her chair, she considered the strange request. ‘A book written in a coded script and probably very old. Where best to start?’ she asked herself, rubbing her furrowed forehead and brushing a strand of grey hair away from her face.

  She was very aware that many books had been destroyed during the turbulent years of the communist regime, especially religious books, ironically from the ornate churches within the Kremlin walls. Even today many of the books in the vaults were considered to be sensitive and not available to Russian historians. The question she asked herself as she walked pensively out of the office was: Why would the FSB be interested in such a strange old book? A book that probably doesn’t exist anymore.

  In his office, Commander Tsvetaeva checked his watch before lighting another cigarette; it was twelve-minutes past noon. He decided to walk to the Kremlin and enjoy the spring sunshine. He donned his cap and overcoat before walking out of the office and locking the door behind him. It was only a short walk down the marble corridor to the elevators.

  Outside the main building he stopped and looked around as he inhaled cigarette smoke deep into his lungs. Checking the pack of Player’s Navy Cut he counted seven and made a mental note to order some more ; he considered Russian tobacco good enough only for the peasants who worked in the fields.

  Smoke streamed from Commander Tsvetaeva’s nostrils as he glanced up at a cloudless sky. He raised his collar in defiance as a cold wind buffered him. With a twisting motion of his foot he extinguished his smoke and set off south, in the direction of the Kremlin. He enjoyed walking, even though it was sometimes a painful experience, and he enjoyed the respectful glances he received from the older people in the street; the younger generation were too busy looking at their phones to even notice him. He wanted his limp to invoke images of a war-hero; a man injured fighting for his country. A brave man, to be admired…It was all he had left in his miserable, boring existence.

  In his coat pocket he carried a blue and red identity badge; the badge that carried his portrait photograph and the words Федеральная служба безопасности Российской Федерации, together with, in bold type, the Russian letters… ФСБ.

  It was a badge that opened doors.

  Chapter Ten

  The half-glass door to Veronika Glazkov’s office swung open and was replaced by the imposing figure of Commander Tsvetaeva. The wall clock’s minute hand nudged to the top of the hour as he walked in, uninvited.

  At the end of the long, sunlit room Veronica Glazkov was busy searching for information in one of four filing cabinets when she noticed the commander.

  ‘Commander Tsvetaeva, I presume?’ she glanced at the clock. ‘You’re very punctual.’

  ‘I said one o’clock.’

  ‘Yes…yes, you did.’ The librarian walked towards the commander and offered him her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Commander.’

  Tsvetaeva ignored her hand and presented his ID card for the librarian to view.

  ‘…I’m intrigued to know why the FSB are interested in an old book… Shall we?’ Veronica gestured to a table and chairs in the corner of the room.

  ‘May I take your coat?’

  The commander pulled out a chair and sat down, ignoring the question. ‘I need you to find the book for me. How long will it take you?’

  The slender librarian pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table and sat down. She looked tight-lipped at the commander as he lit a cigarette and blew smoke across the table.

  ‘It’s very important that you find it quickly.’ His words were carried in smoke as he spoke and his expression showed no emotions. Veronica realized he was a man of few words and small talk was definitely not on the agenda this afternoon.

  ‘What exactly do you expect me to find, Commander?’ She asked, sternly.

  Tsvetaeva inhaled deeply and shifted uncomfortably on his chair. ‘As I told you, it’s a very old book.’

  ‘Commander, do you have any idea of the number of books we have in the Kremlin?’

  The Commander leaned forward. ‘I only want one,’ he said. ‘It’s some kind of religious book.’

  Veronica sighed. ‘Most of them are. Within the Kremlin walls we have three cathedrals and numerous churches, each with their own libraries and extensive vaults. It might take a very long time to search for this book… if it’s here at all.’

  The commander stubbed out his cigarette on the floor and smiled through tight lips. ‘I’m sure you’ll find it very soon. You see, it’s very important that you find it, and I’m sure you wish to be of assistance to the FSB?’

  The commander’s cold stare was unnerving and the librarian lowered her head. ‘Yes, of course I do.’

  ‘Good. Can you also inform all of the churches in Moscow that we need their help to find it? Start with the Holy Danilov Monastery and the Cathedral; they are on your doorstep.’

  ‘…Well…I can ask… but that’s all I can do; we don’t control them. And just what exactly do you suggest I say? Do we know what this book looks like, Commander? I’ll need something to go on.’

  ‘…The one distinctive thing is the book’s text. It is unique. It is not Latin, Cyrillic, Hebrew, English, Arabic or French…it is simply, unique.’

  The librarian raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, that’s something at least. And may I ask what this precious book is about?’

  ‘Let’s just say… it’s important. That’s all you need to know.’

  To the librarian’s disgust the commander lit another cigarette.

  ‘How many assistants do you have?’ He asked.

  ‘Four,’ she said, raising her hand to her mouth to cough.

  ‘That’s not enough!’

  ‘Sorry, but that’s all I have, Commander.’

  ‘I will get you another four by tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘But…I.’

  ‘They will do exactly as you instruct them. Make this your priority. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Commander.’

  ‘Good. Use their time wisely. I have already briefed Director Sadovsky and he is fully aware of the task ahead. You are effectively working for me now, until this book is found.’

  ‘Yes, Commander.’ Veronika watched as the commander winced slightly when he stood up. As he walked to the office door he rubbed his right knee. In the doorway he stopped and turned around. ‘You are working for the FSB now; you should be very proud.’ He turned and left, leaving the door open.

  Alone in the silent office the librarian stood quite still for some time, deep in thought. The fingers of her hands were interlocked as if she was praying.

  Finally, she whispered to herself. ‘This is no ordinary book, Veronica,’

  *

  ‘How are you progressing with your little task, Brother Alexi?’ The Bishop asked.

  The monk wiped his mouth with his cotton napkin, somewhat surprised to see the Bishop in the food hall. ‘…I am progressing well, Bishop, thank you. Another week should do it.’

  ‘Good. I won’t disturb you while you’re eating,’ he said jovially, and walked off smiling.

  Alexi looked around at the inquisitive faces staring at him and he blushed. ‘What?’ He asked, defiantly.

  Soon the incident was forgotten and eating was once again the main focus as noisy chatter echoed around the cavernous space of the refectory.
r />   Oblivious, Alexi mused in silence as he ate his cheese. Stop worrying; nobody knows you’ve taken the book. How could they know? He reached over and ripped off a chunk of bread from a large floured loaf in the center of the table… It intrigues me. There’s something about it that fascinates me, it’s different; I need to know what it’s about.

  There must be someone out there who can help me decipher it?

  Chapter Eleven

  Victor Canseliet was standing on the hotel terrace sipping his red wine and watching the golden sunset. Shastri’s arrogance occupied his thoughts and he lit a cigarette to calm his nerves. ‘The conceited bastard,’ he said, exhaling smoke into the warm night air.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Victor. Enjoying the sunset?’

  ‘Hi Rob…thought I’d make the most of it..last night and all that. Never thought I’d enjoy India but I must admit, I’ll be sad to go home tomorrow.’

  Rob joined Victor watching the sun sink below the horizon. The sky was a fiery red with thin strips of white satin cloud brushed onto a glowing canvas.

  Victor looked at Rob. ‘Like an alchemist’s furnace…So, what will you do now Robert?’

  Rob returned the glance. ‘Well, my wife isn’t going to be very happy but I need to go to Russia, Victor; I need to get my hands on that book.’

  ‘I wish I could help you, mon ami.’

  ‘I really appreciate what you’ve done.’

  ‘I’ve enjoyed it, Rob. It’s only Shastri that spoiled it. I never liked him… as you well know.’

  ‘And very astute of you, Victor, but, if I get to the book first, Shastri’s plans will be ruined. He’s only out for the money and he knows the Russians are only too willing to pay him if the book turns up.’

  ‘He’s a bloody disgrace to the profession, that’s what he is!’

  Rob smiled at Victor’s outburst and watched his cheeks implode as he pulled on his cigarette.

  ‘Hungry?’ Rob asked.

  ‘Yes…as a matter of fact, j’ai faim, mon ami.’

  Rob chuckled. ‘Come on then, let’s eat.’

  ‘The Last Supper?’

  ‘Something like that, Victor.’

  ‘How’s the red wine?’

  ‘Well, it’s a Chateau Laroque Saint-Emilion Grand Cru so it better be bloody good,’ the Frenchman said, lifting the glass to his nose. ‘Ummm, wonderful bouquet.’

  Rob watched as Victor sipped the wine like an expert wine taster.

  ‘…Ohhhh…That will do very nicely. I love a good bottle of Bordeaux. Actually I love a good bottle of anything alcoholic.’

  Rob laughed while Victor poured.

  Victor raised his glass. ‘Here’s to success in finding the book.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’ Robert enthused, as they chinked glasses. ‘…Ohhh, that is good.’

  ‘…On a more sober note, how exactly does the man from GIMA intend to get his hands on the book?’

  ‘…You’re very welcome to visit us in the States, you know.’

  Victor laughed. ‘…I don’t envy you Robert and I don’t want to sound negative, but it appears to be an impossible task.’

  ‘At this moment…that’s exactly how it feels to me.’

  Victor studied Robert’s handsome features: his broad neck, square jaw, attentive blue eyes and raven black hair and as he studied him he tried to read the American’s thoughts. He had taken an instant liking to Robert and his wife when they met in Paris and sensed the air of quiet confidence the American exuded, like a man that had done, and seen a lot of things in his life. But would Victor be ready to hear about the McPherson’s escape from death and the car bomb; the shoot-out with Adam Domaradzki in the Gulf of Mexico or the missing aliens that gifted him with the all-seeing crystal that helped him safely land a Jumbo Jet, loaded with nerve gas, on the ocean. A crystal that saved his son from certain death. That would be too much for any man to comprehend.

  Victor placed a Gauloises between his lips and paused before lighting it. ‘…You know Robert, I haven’t known you very long but for some reason… I feel that if anyone can find this book, it’s you, my friend.’ Then he lit the cigarette.

  The compliment brought another smile to Robert’s face.

  ‘Tomorrow I go back to my old routine taking tourists around Notre Dame and getting them to buy my books. Don’t get me wrong, it pays the bills, but it’s very much the same thing, everyday; it’s the same old lines just different people staring at me in wide-eyed excitement. If I’m honest I’d rather be chasing my real goal…The Philosopher’s Stone.’

  ‘You really believe in all that stuff don’t you?’

  Victor pulled hard on his cigarette. ‘Indeed I do my friend. It is my dream and I will continue until the day I die.’

  ‘So what exactly is the Stone?’ Robert asked.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you won't be surprised to learn that it isn’t a stone at all. Alchemy is shrouded in mystery. There are many things that alchemy keeps secret. Some things are just too dangerous in the wrong hands. Sound familiar to you?’

  Robert nodded his agreement.

  ‘…So the ancients developed a way of protecting the information and making it available only to those worthy of it by blatantly presenting it, for all to see, but hiding it’s meaning behind strange symbols. People have this mis-conception that alchemy is all about making gold out of lead. That’s just a coded chemical language used to hide the real goal…The Philosopher’s Stone is the way to bodily enlightenment. That’s what I’m chasing; and just like your manuscript, Robert, it’s all in a seemingly unbreakable code. If I was granted only one wish in life, mon ami, it would be to find the path to enlightenment.’

  Robert sipped his wine, intrigued by the old man’s rhetoric and enthusiasm for what most people would consider to be the dreams of a delusional crackpot. Yet Victor was hardly delusional. He was an astute, intelligent man; seemingly driven by a crazy objective.

  Night had come quickly and the terrace restaurant was now bustling with hotel guests. Red light, from candle-lamps on the tables flickered in the warm evening breeze and illuminated the faces of the diners.

  Robert looked up at the night sky and recited… ‘The night was fair, innumerable stars studded heaven’s dark blue vault.’

  ‘Vraiment! Robert! You surprise me — a poet at heart?’

  ‘Shelley’s, The Daemon of the World…It all started at university. A friend and I were at Cambridge together and we found out about this crazy society called the Pretty Percy’s. They were all young romantics; students, mad about Shelley. They’d meet once-a-week above a pub in the town. I remember the air was always thick with the smell of weed and beer. It was a break from the studying and if I’m honest, we tagged along because of the girls.’

  Victor grinned.

  Robert continued. ‘Every week, each of us in turn, had to recite a new line from Shelley; otherwise you bought the beer and that got a bit expensive with twenty or so in the room. You had to hope that no-one spoke the lines you’d learnt, before you got the chance to recite them…I guess some of it must have stuck.’

  ‘Communists, no doubt; who now work in the city; with their expensive suits and fast cars.’ Victor observed.

  Robert sipped some more wine… ‘Do you believe in God, Victor?’

  The Frenchman reached for his cigarettes and lit one. For a moment he sat in silent thought. ‘…I believe this life is a stepping stone.’

  ‘A stepping stone to what?’ Robert asked.

  ‘I believe we are all on a journey, a journey of discovery, and one day, hopefully, we will understand what it’s all about. But you asked me about, God.’ Victor huffed… ‘I had a woman once, she was the light of my life. The only woman I ever really loved, but she died. I used to pray to God every night to make her better.’ Victor pulled hard on his cigarette and inhaled deep into his lungs. ‘I watched as He took her life away from me, and I wondered why he never answered my prayers. Was it that, He, wanted her beauty for himself? My se
lfish God’…Victor looked at Robert tight-lipped… ‘“That light whose smile kindles the Universe.” Well, I watched that light fade to darkness.’

  Robert nodded, knowingly. ‘Adonais.’

  Victor nodded, too. ‘Yes, mon ami — Words written in grief.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And what about you Robert, do you believe in God?’

  The familiar image flashed into Robert’s mind. He was placing Daniel’s cold hands around the crystal and watching as the rude blush returned to his son’s pallid lips. At that moment he wanted to tell Victor all about it; about the murderous, Children of Jesus, the aliens, the crystal and his poetry reciting friend, Habib, who, as the radicalized Ahmed Shah, came so close to killing the President, along with all the innocent inhabitants of the eastern seaboard; but he knew he couldn’t…. ‘Yes, Victor, I do believe…but I have a problem with the word, God. For me the word carries too many historical associations; born out of Man’s misguided beliefs and ignorance.’

  ‘So what would you call your God?’

  ‘I would call him…The Creator; but I don’t confess to understand any of it.’

  ‘Le Créateur!…Yes, I like that.’

  Chapter 12

  Alexi Gorinyenko strode purposefully across Red Square having walked the three miles from the monastery; in his pocket he was carrying an envelope. His eyes darted from side to side and the openness of the square unnerved him. He was heading for the Okhotny Ryad shopping-centre and the internet cafe with its 100 fast machines, just a few hundred yards ahead of him.

  Ten minutes later the monk had settled down at one of a bank of computer screens in the busy cafe and had started his search, oblivious to the odd looks from other cafe users. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead and his hands trembled as he began to type. To his left, a spectacled Japanese youth was busy playing some kind of weird online game that involved a red eyed, sword-wielding warrior. To his right, in contrast, a pretty, young European girl was typing a response to her cyber friend, somewhere in the world; a world quite unfamiliar to the monk.