The Mosque of Notre Dame

^{CHAPTER 6} THE PRICE OF INTIMIDATION

“If you had done your missionary work yesterday, we wouldn’t have to buy weapons today.” His son’s words echoed in the ears of Father Demetrios.

The white stairs of the crypt of Sienna marble were strewn with the petals of dark roses, and thus looked sprinkled with blood. The cloudless sky shone with the blueness not known in colder regions. A young woman stood apart from the crowd among the light-colored crosses on both sides of the narrow path. She was motionless, absolutely motionless, as her black skirt and wrap danced in the wind.

Father Demetrios realized that it was the first time he had seen his daughter-in-law like this. A black scarf of handmade lace covered her hair, which was gathered in an old-fashioned bun. The free, wide hem of her long skirt—which came down to her ankles in their black hose, giving way to thin, elegant, high-heeled shoes. In mourning, dressed so femininely, her beauty finally shone in its full glory.

She, who was so un-Greek, not only looked like a Greek woman, but like a supremely Greek embodiment of ancient female sorrow, like Medea or Elektra. Sad, but divinely beautiful with her calm face. She would not wring her hands and tear her hair—but where did she get that icy black spirit?

Had her husband been aware of how beautiful she was? Probably not. She probably wore running shoes to her own wedding. Not that anyone knew for sure, because they had married practically in secret—terribly insulting a good part of the family.

Her beauty was usually well hidden in light jackets, men’s sweaters, and jeans. Her noble neck was concealed by carelessly falling hair, her face by abominable dark glasses.

Had she wanted to, she could have shone in the elite Greek society to which Leonid had been born. This was despite her origin—for she was Russian, and if not worse, almost a Jew. But she did not want to.

The little cemetery was old and belonged to the family; consequently, there was no need for ritual transportation. The procession walked to the villa on foot and scattered at the bend among the graves and the cypresses.

“How can I entertain so many of you? All right then, I won’t insist. You two, see what’s wrong with the toilet in the bathroom in the corner—the water runs for fifteen minutes every time we flush. You, there, pick up the empty cans and take them to the trash bin downstairs; there must be a lot of them everywhere, especially in the bedroom under the bed. You’ll find garbage bags in the kitchen under the sink. That’s right, but first of all, polish my shoes.”

These were Leonid Sevazmios’ last words, although Sophia did not know them as she walked like a dark shadow among the dark cypresses. Then he fell, strafed with bullets, into a deep armchair in their small apartment not far from Kifisia—not the most exclusive spot in Athens, but quite decent. The apartment, surrounded by a balcony swamped in flowers and greenery, consisted of a bedroom, a small computer office, a still smaller room for frequent guests, and a dining room that was also not ostentatious, but suitable for a small family without children— still without children, as their friends put it.

Instead of a kitchen, there was a corner in the dining room with a sink, a stove and a refrigerator separated by matte green glass through which daylight could pass. There was only room for one person in it at a time. One couldn’t really say that the young housewife worried much about this inconvenience. Even when they dined at home, which was not often, one could always order something from the nearby restaurant. They gorged at two in the morning on pita bread stuffed with grilled meat and smothered in hot sauce. They remained slender and healthy.

She could almost see Leonid’s face as he said those words—his open smile full of the unconscious, inherited air of a gentleman, placing his foot in his evening shoes with laces and thin leather soles on the small table with newspapers. They had been getting ready to go to the theater, to a modern adaptation of something ancient.

The words were not quite ancient but they were completely him. When the lights suddenly went out and then the mechanical part of the locks on the door silently yielded, and four men with automatic rifles suddenly burst into the apartment, Leonid didn’t even try to check whether the telephone was working. “It would have been pointless,” as Sonya would say.

But it was one thing to be aware that something was pointless and another not to lose one’s head. He understood in a flash that he could not escape, and provoked the leader of the four to kill him on the spot instead of torturing him according to their custom. He bluffed and won a quick death.

Walking among the white crosses, she knew only one thing: He died at peace. He knew very well that Sonya would never enter the house without first calling from outside and hearing a familiar voice from the headset, unless an absence had been agreed upon earlier. And even that familiar voice had to use certain words and could not use other words.

Leonid loved pomp. Sometimes Sonya, when she wearied of shocking her husband’s relatives with her torn jeans, made concessions to him. Not often, of course, but on that day when he didn’t answer the telephone, she had spent three hours in a hair salon patiently submitting to the hair stylist’s efforts to transform her rebellious, coarse hair into a fanciful evening style with large and small curls.

They managed to hide, all four of them, although they greeted the police, not Sonya.

Sonya found out her husband’s last words only three and a half years later. The third of the four criminals (she had not managed to catch the first two alive) began talking immediately. Having a pistol sliding over his face stimulated his memory. She believed him because everything matched—he remembered that Leonid had been in a white shirt with the collar up but still without a necktie; he remembered many small details that proved he was not making it up. And how could he make up something like that anyway? When he repeated the whole sentence for the third time without adding anything, Sonya pushed the gun barrel in his mouth. She was impatient lest this unworthy, subhuman creature that transmitted the words of her husband add something of his own to them.

But she did not pull the trigger right away. For a minute she saw the young face, which looked as if it were split in two: the forehead, nose and upper part of his cheeks tanned from the sun, while the lower half was all white. Not even the thick beginnings of a new beard could hide the bluish whiteness. The terrorist had shaved his mujahid beard in the hope of cheating death.

But Death was looking him in the eyes with a smile in the corner of her lips, smiling with eyes in which small fires now danced. Death had thick bangs like a little girl, her hair was gathered in a ponytail, and she was dressed in a blue denim shirt. It was pointless to scream upon feeling the salty, cold metal in his mouth, the face of Death rocked above him despite the tears, most sincere and abundant, that filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Don’t, don’t, don’t!

It was the last time she killed any of them with any emotion.

Before that, many days had passed. Many laborious, difficult tasks had to be done.

“Sophia, wait.” Father Demetrios decided to disturb her solitude.

She slowed her walk, stopped, fixed the scarf that had been loosened by the wind, and smiled only with her lips, but calmly.

“I wanted to talk with you,” said Father Demetrios quietly. “Not about Leonid. It’s unlikely that there is anything we could tell each other about him. As an old man, I would just like to have a little chat with you. It’s difficult in the house, so many people…”

“Let’s talk, then. What about, Father?” Her calmness was unbearable. It would be easier for him if she wept. Lord, send her tears as a gift, poor creature!

“About Russia. If I understood well, Sophia, you don’t intend to return to your homeland?”

“Perhaps for half a year, I still don’t know. But I don’t intend to live in Russia or in Greece. First of all, because I no longer need a home. Even one the size of the Earth.”

“Is that the only reason you don’t want to live in Greece?”

“Should there be another reason?”

“You understand very well what I’m saying. Your husband condemned his compatriots.”

“He condemned a lot of people. What should I do, then, move to Mars? They say there’s no air there.”

“He condemned his compatriots more than others,” Father Demetrios spoke with strange pauses, as if there were not enough air here, in this spot filled with cypresses and wind that brought a faint scent of sea salt. “Even I can’t stay here anymore.”

“Why is that? Isn’t Greece ‘the only country in this senseless world that is saving itself,’ Father?” The young woman softened her intonation. She wasn’t intending to be spiteful.

“I’m not renouncing my words,” said Father Demetrios. “Greece will save itself, but it will not save anyone else. Russia will save others, but only if it manages to save itself.

“About 15 years ago, I traveled through Russia with a large delegation of Orthodox churches. You probably don’t know about it, Sophia, but there were powerful unifying processes still in effect then. Not everything turned out as we wanted, but a lot did. This strengthened the Orthodox world. There were a lot of things I didn’t like about Russia at that time. For an enormous country, the position of the clergy was too elevated. An unnatural loftiness placed it above the people. Enclosed residences, automobiles, dozens of administrators and secretaries on the Internet, on the telephone, who filtered access to the bishop by mere mortals…

“The archbishop served in church on a feast day, saw crowds of believers, including young people, women with children in their arms, visited classrooms full of students, visited churches being rebuilt from ruins. He saw the freshly printed church books and read theological magazines. And he started to believe that he was a bishop in an Orthodox country. The most dangerous of illusions! My child, I saw the statistics then. Horrendous! There are more people who call themselves Orthodox than believe in God.

“My daughter, they have reduced Orthodoxy to a national color! To colored eggs and feast-day cakes! The percentage of people who fast is practically the same as it was during the time of Communism—when believers were persecuted.

“The priests complained about the problem of drop-ins. Those were people who considered themselves believers, but really were not. Drop-ins considered it normal to baptize their child, but not spend a thought on his religious education. They married in church and then divorced. They went to church once or twice per year.

“Many believers told me then that the most recent Passion Week had overlapped with the senseless Communist holidays. And what happened? All the TV channels were showing entertainment programs, clowns. Where was at least the shadow of respect for Orthodox sorrow? Would this have been possible here among us in Greece? And those awful New Year’s holidays in the middle of the Nativity fast! Let’s leave the debate about the calendar aside. My point is this—the Christian state must adapt itself to the church calendar, not the other way around! Russia must understand that, unlike Greece, its Orthodox members are a minority in its society. Just because there are so many churches, an illusion is created of an Orthodox majority.”

“But why are your thoughts now in Russia, Father?” Sophia told herself that this long, excited tirade was proof that her father-in-law was still alive, not only on the outside. The death of his beloved son could have sucked all the life from his soul, leaving only a body to move toward the grave for as many years as he had left. It was good that this had not happened.

“Because my thoughts are leading me there.”

“What do you mean?”

“The tears have washed my eyes, my daughter, but I can’t tolerate the behavior of my compatriots. I have understood many things, I have paid too high a price, while they, they remain the same as before. It is better that I leave Greece so as not to tempt the Lord by the wrath of weak heart. I have another pasture for missionary work. I have found a place where I am needed. Let the church princes float on the clouds of illusion, God will judge them, but among the sparse masses of the middle clergy, there is room. I will take monastic vows in Russia and Demetrios Sevazmios and his guilt will disappear forever.”

“When are you leaving, Father?”

“Next week. I will leave all financial and real estate affairs to my brothers. I think there will be a use for my money there. The family will also see to it that you receive your share. According to Leonid’s will, they will divide your part into various accounts so you can withdraw money under various circumstances. Don’t worry; our family is virtuous with respect to finances. I know you need this money and I think I know how you will use it. I don’t judge you, Sophia; I have no right to judge anyone—not only as a Christian, but as a man who has made many mistakes.

“There is just one thing I want you to know. Thanks to Sevazmios money, your capabilities have increased tenfold. May the Lord help you to increase your responsibilities tenfold as well. I know you’re not religious, even though we never discussed it. You only respected the rules in order not to insult your husband and his family. I believe this was an huge burden on your unruly soul. I believe you will now throw away all restraint and cast off even the empty shell of church culture. Don’t make a face, my child, a realistic view of things is part of the Greek national character. I would be surprised if I were to learn that you entered a church of your own volition in the next decade. But with my vision stripped of illusions, I see that you will come to God, Sophia. Not soon, but you will. Forgive me for everything. Know that I am praying for you.”

“Father… Only now did I realize why my husband was so special. It’s true that heredity is an important factor. Forgive me for the grandchildren who don’t exist, most of all for that.”

“Really, how did he come by something that had belonged to Father Demetrios?” Sophia thought again as she descended into the auto mechanic’s shop. The underground workshop was incomplete, like the supermarket building above it, but no work was being done today because it was Friday. There were bags of cement, coils of cables, the bare cement of the walls, and the phantasmagoric outlines of a building. In old movies such places served as some kind of urban sublimation of the silent forest. It was there that freaks, gangsters, extraterrestrials, or monsters usually attacked heroes. How many years had passed since she had seen an ordinary movie?

“And so. This isn’t such a bad place, is it, Sophie? Lots of exits, easy to set up security on the access routes.”

Sophia nodded. The narrow windows below the ceiling, already covered with a thick layer of construction dust, did not give too much light, but when the young man pushed away a piece of cardboard covering the unfinished entrance for automobiles, the outlines of this unusual place became clear. The workmen had left a folding chair, an old painted stacking stool, and several empty crates labeled “Moroccan oranges.”

Footsteps rang out. A tall man dressed in work overalls descended into the passage. However, one could imagine he was a workman only if one didn’t see his face. His high forehead, the circles of tiredness under his eyes, and his pale face indicated a man who was not a physical laborer. His military posture and the elegance of his movements were surprising.

“I almost got lost but I heard you cleaning the passage,” he said by way of a greeting.

“Please don’t be angry, but I can’t imagine why it was necessary for you to come here,” Sophia said with a frown. “I’m sorry the whole thing came up.”

“I won’t get in your way; I’ll sit a little and listen. I’m not sure why myself, but you have to admit, Sophia, that you’re not the only one with an intuition.”

Sophia lifted her hand and made a sign to all to be quiet. It was obvious that she liked even less the sound of new footsteps.

The man who soon appeared was obviously an Arab–tall, plump in the manner of middle-aged Arabs who were not athletic, with wavy chestnut hair and full, sensuous lips. He wore a light-colored summer suit, ostentatiously decorated with a pile of heavy gold: a signet ring, cuff buttons, tie pin, all of them studded with rubies.

“Are you convinced that I didn’t bring a tail?” He sat across from Sophia on a dusty crate with the nonchalance of a man who has a lot of clothes which are taken care of by others. “Good evening, Madame Sevazmios.”

“I’m not sure the evening can be good for both of us at the same time.” Sophia smiled bitterly. “Let’s get right down to the matter for which you disturbed me.”

“It’s a disputable issue who first disturbed whom,” he said, turning his head carefully. “Yesterday my home was searched, not to mention broken into illegally.”

“Really? I believe that you, like any decent, law-abiding citizen, attempted to detain the offender and that you advised the authorities?”

“Has my conversation with Sophia Sevazmios already been recorded by a photographer?”

“No, nothing is being recorded or photographed. Or perhaps it is being recorded and written. Why would you take my word for it?”

“In any case, it is no longer important. You were interested in the contents of my computer because I am the director of the Paris Laboratory for Atomic Research.” Ahmad ibn Salih smiled ambiguously.

“Atomic waste doesn’t interest me,” she said, tensely watching the Arab. Her eyes were feeling out his face like the hands of a blind person. “That’s the headache of somebody in Moscow. Or Tokyo. Or maybe Tel Aviv.”

“Sophie, no one is accusing you of a sudden curiosity in atomic research,” said the handsome, twenty-four year-old Larochejaquelein, one of the seven representatives of the underground. “The idea was mine and I admit it was a failure.”

“It was a failure not only because I have insured myself against such curiosity,” added Ahmad ibn Salih, “but also because one could say that you shot the moon. There is nothing on my computer. Nor is there anything in the laboratory. In fact, there is no laboratory. It’s an empty field. Like the optical illusions of the Dutch school, the ones they placed on the table to look like three-dimensional objects.”

“In Russia, they call them Potemkin villages,” observed Sophia, keeping her eyes on Ahmad. Unlike the men of the Underground, who were too surprised by the information provided to notice, she hadn’t missed that a Muslim was talking about the Dutch school. The times when the Wahhabis were tearing up paintings and breaking musical instruments had passed. Some Muslim, Europeanized intellectuals even allowed themselves to have a piano in the house and “incorporeal paintings.” But to hear an Arab talk about the Dutch school of painting was odd.

“That’s too good to be true,” said Larochejaquelein sharply.

“Well, then you can believe it because it’s not good at all,” said Ahmad ibn Said coldly. “On the contrary, it’s even very bad.”

“Please explain.”

“With pleasure.” Ahmad ibn Salih paused as if he wanted their focused attention. “However, I must begin at the beginning. It is well known that even before the EuroIslamic bloc achieved its borders of today, atomic research was being done in the Muslim world. The most serious was, and remains, the atomic base in Pakistan. It should be kept in mind that none of the Pakistani experts of that time were trained in their own country.”

Of course not. We trained them. They couldn’t have done it; they lived the entire twentieth century as oil leeches. They produced nothing and they discovered nothing, thought Sophia.

“When the non-Islamic countries brought down the ‘green curtain,’” continued Ahmad ibn Salih, “the situation with atomic weapons ceased to be transparent. The kafir states knew that the network of scientific research institutions was functioning. However, it is obvious that there have been no atomic weapons, in fact, for a long time. Even mechanical devices cease to function without qualified support, let alone… Especially if we take into account the historic agreement in Kyoto.”

Larochejaquelein nodded. The Kyoto Agreement of 2029, signed by Russia, Japan, China, Australia and very reluctantly, the USA, listed in detail the technologies in the field of science that must not be exported to the countries of Euroislam and the old Muslim countries. It was only thanks to that agreement that they managed to keep Eurabia at the technical level of 2010.

“I’m sorry, but what’s very bad about that? Or why is it bad for us?” asked Larochejaquelein.

“A little patience. As I have already said, the atomic school of Pakistan remains the most competent. Until recently, there was hope that all additional works were not in vain. But now that hope has finally vanished. Pakistan has failed for the second time to make a bomb.”

“So what?”

“Like metastasis, the ghazwa will not stop of its own accord.” Ahmad ibn Salih’s brown eyes became somehow ash-like, like the earth after a fire. “In order to continue it, they were waiting for a bomb. But if there is no real bomb, and there will be no real bomb, that means—”

“A dirty bomb! Lord!” Larochejaquelein struck himself on the forehead. “Don’t tell me they’re going to make a dirty bomb.”

“Yes.”

“Will someone be so kind as to explain to an old woman who doesn’t know about such things what a dirty bomb is and how it got dirty?” Something made Sophia smile. She was no longer piercing the Arab with her eyes.

“It’s actually not a bomb, Sophie,” said the man in work overalls quietly. Something in his voice provoked a grimace of revulsion from the strange Arab. “It’s simply residue, a product of atomic dissolution. You don’t need missiles or missile launchers. A container can be carried and planted by any saboteur. The question is purely logistical, assuming he wants to commit suicide.”

“And there are as many saboteurs and kamikazes as you want. They are a cheap commodity,” continued the scientist, managing to regain self-control. “For Islam, there is nothing cheaper than human life.”

“You’re not Russian…” Sophia’s eyes again met with those of Ahmad ibn Salih but she was now looking at him completely differently. “You’re not Russian, although you have lived in Russia. Why are you surprised? You’re not the only one that knows the secrets of others. Moreover, it takes my experience to see that the corners of your mouth almost moved when I mentioned Potemkin villages. For Europeans that expression would be completely meaningless.”

“Sophie, it can’t be!” Now it was Larochejaquelein who was drinking in the man with his eyes. “His face—”

“Yes, his face.” Sophia smiled. “When I was young, plastic surgeons left scars behind the ears. Today, a year later one can’t tell that a scalpel was used. Absolutely harmless magic that doesn’t take that long. The shape of the lips, of course, adjustments in the slant of the eyes, a bit of nose work. But why you have unmasked yourself, Monsieur Resident, atomic science does not explain, at least not to me.”

“So it has come to this.” The man whom it was no longer possible to call Ahmad ibn Salih smiled at Sophia without hostility. “The destruction of such a great diversion justifies my unmasking, and unmasking is an inevitability.

“It’s a form of redemption, with interest. One hundred and forty commandos, recruited among the Russian Muslims, are drawing near the waters of Moscow, St. Petersburg, Samara, Yekaterinburg, Tsaritsin, and Vladivostok with their radioactive infection. Some of them would have been caught in any case, but the results would have been spectacular. But all of them will be arrested before the appointed hour. The tragedy will be prevented. The response will also be multifold.

“But I am handling those problems, more or less, by myself,” continued Slobodan. “I am here before you for other reasons. Events are unfolding, it should be noted, with lightning speed. Two days ago, I did not know about this new branch of jihad.

“They know that states with atomic power are not suicidal enough to use these weapons first. In such a war, there is no winner. But nothing will stop them, even if they have to turn the whole planet into a desert inhabited not only by two-humped camels but also two-headed ones, with small oases of clean territory inhabited by their princes, the direct descendants of the Prophet. That’s why they will initiate activity now on all fronts. Their plan is to make simultaneous use of the dirty bomb and intimidation. And that is something that will directly concern all of you.”

“What is their goal?” Larochejaquelein’s voice was hoarse with excitement.

“The complete destruction of the ghettos, beginning with Paris.”

A heavy silence fell. The words were too simple; they did not manage to fully convey their horrible meaning.

Slobodan finally continued, “They will throw all the city dirt, the so-called volunteer deputies of the religious guard, into the five Paris ghettos. They will pass through the streets like a tide, without hurrying, easily converting anyone that trembles, and the last people who remain free.”

It suddenly became much colder in the basement. Sophia’s shoulders trembled. For an instant, her wondrous youth disappeared and blood could not warm her sufficiently. Larochejaquelein was very pale.

“I believe that it’s no secret to anyone here that Euroislam owns TV,” continued Slobodan. “But it is broadcasting from behind the curtain. They got that idea from the time of the Cold War with the Soviet Union. Then it was the signals from the West revealing all the things the Communists tried to hide from the Soviet people.

“But now, commercials are being broadcast from here in Islamic-occupied Europe that are following the propaganda strategy of the Third Reich. They advertise the joy of newly converted Muslims. Beautiful girls whisper how much they like to wear the chador. In the free world, there are people who enjoy laughing at these stupidities by satellite. Young people, especially, think it’s hilarious. But soon the TV audience will stop laughing.”

“Yes,” said Sophia—her eyes like black ice, the ice of Lake Cocytus. “I recognize the style. They worked that way as long ago as Chechnya. Then, the authorities thought the terrorists put themselves on camera to prove they held a hostage—otherwise, how could they get their ransom money?

“But there was a puzzle. Our special services couldn’t comprehend why the stupid fools kept collecting evidence against themselves. They didn’t even cover their faces when they filmed what they were doing to people. One theory was that, since during the time of Yeltsin, it was clear that they knew they wouldn’t be punished. Another was that whoever didn’t follow the usual practice didn’t get any money. But this practice, this jihad-by-video, was actually a result of the fact that the jihadis themselves couldn’t live without it. All of them are actors.”

Sophia’s expression became gloomy, turning within to a memory frozen in black ice, among many memories. She remembered the not-quite-successful actor who had become a successful trader in blood. Wearing a plush, light-blue robe and house slippers made of crocodile skin, he had already been shot in the legs. A black stain grew in front of him on the silk carpet as he crawled, weeping and humiliating himself in front of the twenty year-old woman. He swore and he begged. Why wouldn’t he? There were no cameras present and no witnesses to his shame except his locked-up mistress—the wilted movie star who wailed from somewhere in the depths of the apartment?

It would be interesting to know, Sonya thought to herself later, how he would have behaved if everything had been filmed. Would he even have known how to die with dignity? These jihad-actors believe that unless you’re arrested, you’re not a thief. They have no court of conscience. In them it is replaced, sometimes quite successfully, by the desire to preserve face in front of others.

Sonya Greenberg researched these psychological quirks and distinctions for years in books. And then, when she was left alone and sufficiently provided for materially, she crossed the border where hatred is transformed into revenge.

For several years before meeting Leonid, she had relished her role of solitary avenger. He managed, not to stop her—that would have been impossible—but to take her to a new level and to introduce her to the general resistance movement, which made practical sense. That was why she loved him. What could she do? She did not know how to love without a reason.

For minutes, everyone was silent, buried in his own thoughts. There was no need to discuss how television would be used to broadcast to the whole world scenes that would be repeated a thousand times over, where a beaten-up, horrified man, suffocating as if he were suffering an asthmatic attack, between the torn-asunder body of one child and another still alive, wailed “ilaha… illa… allah…” And then, accompanied by approving laughter, prodded by poles, himself went to the house of a stranger “to witness his faith in blood”—dragging himself with his torturers from door to door until he found a throat for the knife pushed into his hands.

“What can I say, I can’t really thank you,” said Larochejaquelein, standing up. “You Russians are not interested in the panic behind the curtain. Our interests coincide, that’s all.”

“I’m not Russian, but you have no reason to thank me,” answered Slobodan. “As you yourself observed, I wouldn’t move a finger to save the souls of the French. But now we have to work together. I would like to take part in the planning of a response to what I have described, and I can propose some help in this respect.”

“We’ll decide about that,” Larochejaquelein exchanged looks with Sophia. “But who are you, anyway? Why do you hate us? What should we call you, at least to make it easier for ourselves?”

“He’s a Serb,” said Sophia. “The first question answers the second, and you’re too young, Henri, to understand the reasons why he hates us.”

“Not you, Sophia Sevazmios,” objected Slobodan, casting a glance at the silent member of the group. “You’re Russian and Orthodox.”

“And in the same pot with the Catholics, so out of respect for me please don’t look at the priest like that anymore. He wasn’t even born when other priests were blessing Croatian murderers. Let’s leave emotions aside and return to our task.”

“Very well.” Slobodan made a visible effort, but the lines of his face did not soften.

“Perhaps everything is not that terrible,” said Larochejaquelein quietly. “The catacombs beneath Paris are enormous. They can temporarily receive all the inhabitants of the ghettos. But we need to start taking people there right away. Gradually we may be able to transfer them abroad.”

“It is characteristic of man that he does not believe in impending catastrophe,” observed Father Lothaire. “The inhabitants of the ghetto are accustomed to living in a mine field. Many, very many of them, will not want to leave their homes and go underground.”

“He’s right,” said Sophia bitterly. “The majority simply will not believe in such a massive slaughter. They won’t believe it until they see the bestial mob in their streets.”

“What do we do then? Save our own and leave the rest to be slaughtered like chickens?”

“Slow down,” Sophia reminded Larochejaquelein. “How much time do we have?”

“Not more than a week,” said Slobodan. Yes, that was about right. They would probably prepare something in celebration of the anniversary of the conquest of Constantinople. They liked to organize such events on holidays.

“Will the Christians believe that preparations are afoot to slaughter them?” Larochejaquelein asked Father Lothaire.

“They’ll believe it, but I think they will not want to leave their homes. That is, everyone will make an effort to send the children and the weak underground. But many will stay. They will think that the moment has come for them to witness the truth. In essence, this monstrous slaughter of people is another step toward Judgment Day.”

The silence grew electric.

To Eugène-Olivier Lévêque and Paul Bertaud, who were keeping watch in front of the door, time seemed to stand still.

“By the way, Monsieur Resident, you didn’t introduce yourself,” said Sophia with a smile. “Tell us your name!”

“Let’s say it’s Knezhevich.”

“Alright, if it’s Knezhevich, then it’s Knezhevich.” Sophia laughed.

“But Sophia, it doesn’t make sense.” Larochejaquelein became upset. “What do you have in mind?”

She did not acknowledge his question. “However, please satisfy my curiosity,” she said, again looking at Slobodan. “Regarding the box for myrrh.”

“That’s easy.” Slobodan smiled. The spasm on his face disappeared. “Ten years ago, GRU finally decided to disturb Hieromonk Dionysos in his solitude.”

“Ten years ago?”

“Yes, he lived to a ripe old age in Solovki. Moreover, with a clear mind and sound sense. He reacted to this contact with deep thought. At the same time, he was asked to provide us with a sign of confidence, completely secret, so that we in case of need we could give a sign to Sophia Sevazmios. The father then gave us the little box, making the little joke that the members of the intelligence service were helping him to repent for the sin of greed. It was a fortunate circumstance that the box bore no Christian symbols. On the other hand, there were also doubts. Articles from our lives are erased from our memories after a few years. You might have simply not recognized the box.”

“No fear of that!” Sophia laughed, shaking her head. “He knew what he was doing. My father-in-law once threw that little box at me and his aim was so good that he hit me in the forehead with it. I had to comb the bits of amber out of my hair. He called me a ‘criminal adventurer.’ To be frank, ‘criminal adventurer’ isn’t an exact quote, but that was the gist of it.

“You needn’t look at me like that; the Greeks are very emotional. With them, even church on a feast day is a kind of holiday fair. During the service, they walk all over the church, wherever it occurs to them to go, greeting their acquaintances. You can’t understand it, Father, with your strict rites. That atmosphere does have its charms—in moderate quantities.”

Father Lothaire sighed.

“We can stop the slaughter,” Sophia said, looking to Slobodan, Larochejaquelein and then finally Father Lothaire. “It’s true that our losses will be the same as if the slaughter did take place. But in this case, it will not be innocent victims who will die but soldiers with weapons in their hands. And they will be long remembered.”

“What do you propose?” asked Slobodan skeptically.

“We have to act first, and we have to strike terror into their hearts. Our operation must be proportional to theirs.”