Alex’s confession had been heartfelt. They had stood side by side in front of the Book of Gospels and the Cross, and Alex had said, “I lied to the Court, Father. I distorted the truth.” They had talked, and Alex prayed the prayer of Absolution. Then Giorgi made his pitch, and Alex rejected it.
Could Alex have killed Christina? He would have confessed, Giorgi thought; he is a believer. This comforted him for a moment. He sipped at the hot coffee, studying the investigator. Was it nevertheless possible that Alex had gotten rid of Christina out of some subversive desire to take her place?
If so, he would have been more accommodating to Giorgi’s plans. No, it made no sense. This investigator must be trying to trick him. Why should he trust this man with those narrowed, flecked eyes? Maybe he was actually sent by Krilov and his gang to intimidate and confuse.
“I can’t help you,” Giorgi said. He needed to warn Alex, but he didn’t want this man to see how flustered he felt. He drank the hot foamy liquid, resenting the fact that he couldn’t enjoy it, set it down carefully, and laced his hands.
A complete silence ensued. Father Giorgi was used to silence. He began praying
Van Wagoner studied him, then his whole body seemed to relax. “I understand there are things you can’t say.”
“Right.” Giorgi straightened his cassock and took another sip of his coffee. “Now then, who are you?”
“As you saw on my card, a licensed private investigator. I’m working with the defense in the matter of the murder of Christina Zhukovsky.”
“You’re helping the man accused of killing her?”
“Is there something you should confess to me, Father? I can’t believe you would allow my client to be sentenced to life in prison if Alex Zhukovsky confessed to the murder last night.”
“He did no such thing; I will tell you that. Your client must have killed her. His blood was found in her…” Father Giorgi stopped.
“You know about the case, Father. Following the trial?”
“Not really. I just-it’s a tragedy. A matter of interest to the Russian community in Northern California.”
“I see. Why is that?”
Giorgi thought hard for an answer. He could not tell the truth. The pain had dulled after four months of daily prayer, but the greater disappointment remained. All that Christina could have been, dashed to bits by this young American, Wyatt…
“Was Christina a prominent member of the community?”
“Yes, that’s it. She was a great organizer. You know about the conference she set up at the college?”
“Yes.”
“That conference brought many factions of the community together.”
“Were you there?”
“Briefly. I went only the first day. She asked me to be there. I think she was a little nervous.”
“How well did you know Christina?”
“From the time she was a little girl. Do you actually believe this accused person might be innocent?”
“I’m working on it. How did you come to know Christina and Alex?”
There seemed no harm in discussing the past, so Father Giorgi said, “A family of the faithful. Their parents always came to the Holy Virgin Cathedral, even after they moved to Monterey many years ago. Their mother passed away, but Constantin still brought Alex and Christina to us. Christina was a-good woman and a true believer. I miss her.”
“So you knew Constantin Zhukovsky?”
“Of course, but he died many years ago.”
Paul pulled out some photographs. He handed one to Father Giorgi.
“This was buried with Constantin Zhukovsky.”
“Yes. I remember the medal. I performed his burial service, as I did for Christina.”
“Can you tell me something about it?”
“Saint George was a Christian martyr, and is venerated as sacred in the Orthodox tradition. He represents a valiant, selfless warrior. It’s suggested by some scholars that the story of his slaying the dragon is a recasting of the Greek legend of Perseus, who rescued Andromeda from a sea monster. I’ve seen very old ikons at Novgorod State University dating back to the tenth century.”
Actually, he was a good saint who interested Giorgi. He didn’t mind talking about Saint George. He just didn’t want to discuss the medal.
The tall man listened for a while, until Giorgi veered way off the point and he got exasperated. “So Constantin really was a page of the tsar of Russia. Where else would he get something like this medal?”
Father Giorgi cringed at this turn of conversation. “He used to tell that story, among others.”
“He knew them, then. The imperial family.”
How many times had Constantin talked about his youth, the incredible last days of Old Russia, the tsarevitch’s pony, the padded saddle and stirrups, the excruciating attacks the boy endured whenever he bumped his hand or body, the blood leaking slowly through the capillaries, ballooning into terrifying hematomas. And yet the boy had wanted to play; he wanted to ride, wanted to live.
Constantin had said, “He was brave, but he did cry.” The tsarina weeping in the anteroom outside his bedroom. Rasputin, summoned, murmuring unknown things to the boy, passing his hands over the boy’s body, while Constantin stood in a corner, invisible, waiting to be called for any task.
As he recounted these memories of his early life, Constantin would always tear up. He had only escaped the purges by accident, he told them. Then his stories would begin to conflict. Once he said he had fled to Estonia, once to Finland. His parents died in various ways, in labor camps in the thirties, on a farm in Finland, even during the Revolution while still in Russia.
The details never matched, and Father Giorgi had begun to wonder. So many people who had gone through these terrible experiences made up stories to fill the holes in their memories. So many people lived ordinary pasts and embellished them, because who does not enjoy a good story?
What Russian does not have many secrets? What was Constantin’s real story? He had tried many times to cajole the truth out of the old man. But the truth had been left for much, much later.
“I never knew what to believe,” Giorgi said. The truth. He hadn’t, back then.
“Let me ask you something, Father. You know Constantin Zhukovsky’s bones were stolen?”
“Another shameful thing.”
“Any chance somebody wanted to test those bones because they suspected that this man was somehow more closely connected to the Romanov family? A cousin? Maybe even someone who could claim succession?”
Giorgi laughed. “Look, it’s hard enough to believe that the old man was a page to the tsar, isn’t it? A typical old man’s story, elevating himself beyond his station to give himself a bigger position in the eyes of his family and friends. But if he were a Romanov, why not shout it out?”
“Times have changed in Russia. During his lifetime, it might not be something you’d want bandied about. Now, it’s a political free-for-all compared to the Communist era. For all I know, there’s interest in restoring the monarchy. Is there?”
“There are a thousand factions and every opinion under the sun when it comes to politics there. My only interest is in restoring the Church,” Giorgi said. “I want a government conducive to traditional religion, that’s all.”
“We’ve been doing some research. I know there are a number of people who are Romanovs left in the world, and I know the country is-searching for something.”
Giorgi forced another laugh. “You mean, to install a new tsar in place of the president? Well, America’s done worse, I guess.”
Van Wagoner frowned, obviously not liking the political insult. Then he shook it off and even smiled, saying, “Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind today. How about this thought: is it possible someone took the bones hoping to prove Constantin was not the page, or not who he said he was?”
“Why ask me?”
“Okay, then let’s go back to Alex Zhukovsky. Why would he lie on the witness stand, invent something that would convict someone else? Unless he murdered his sister?”
“Listen to me. Alex Zhukovsky didn’t kill anybody.” Giorgi made a big point out of looking at his watch. What would it take to unstick this disturbing tick?
“I’ll let you drink your coffee in peace in just a minute,” van Wagoner said. “Just a couple more quick questions.” The investigator scratched his head and shifted his legs. He seemed to have lost interest. Father Giorgi expelled a silent prayer of thanksgiving.
“You do know Sergey Krilov, don’t you?”
How smoothly this was asked, as the man looked idly at a girl standing at the counter ordering coffee. He would never stop asking that question, Father Giorgi realized, and he suddenly felt very tired. “I knew him years ago in St. Petersburg. He doesn’t spend that much time in the U.S.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He’s involved in his family businesses. He does whatever they need done.”
“I’ll bet. He follows people, he breaks into cars…”
“What?”
“Never mind. Is he blond? Short and built like a brick shit house?”
“He is a big man, but not tall. The Krilov I knew came from a well-known family who managed to make a lot of money during the Communist years, money they squirreled away in foreign accounts. Unfortunately, they squandered it on American biotech stocks and lost most of it when the market fell so drastically a couple of years ago. They are reactionaries who are very unhappy with the current government.”
“They miss Communism because it was profitable? That’s a twist.”
“These people are not ideologues. They want only two things, power and money. They are looking for a way back in. They would happily kiss the president, but he won’t let them near. Therefore they would like to see him gone.”
“Is Krilov involved in some revolutionary activities?”
“I wouldn’t know.” He hoped God would forgive him for all these lies. He lied too much; he knew it.
“Christina Zhukovsky went to Russia to be with him, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“While she was there, did he get her mixed up in his politics and put her in danger?”
Giorgi stared at Paul without speaking. “I wish she was here, and could speak for herself. Christina was a woman with her own agenda, her own dreams. Let’s just say Sergey was part of her education. In the end, she broke with him, remember that. I thought he returned to Russia long ago, but you say he’s here and he followed Alex last night?”
“I’d put fifty bucks on that,” the investigator said. “Now will you tell me why?”
“No.”
Van Wagoner smiled a little and shook his head. “Your call,” he said. “Okay, let’s go at it another way. Alex Zhukovsky wanted his father’s bones. Did he tell you why?”
