full of mosques, cathedrals, churches, and temples. Here, amongst pilgrims of many religions, the Black Robes could hide in plain sight.
Dvorkin walked over the bridge spanning the Bolaq channel — just one of many waterways that reflected, literally and figuratively, the sparkling architecture consisting of white stone buildings with red clay roofs, interspersed with soaring communication towers, stadiums, academies, palaces, and even circuses, complete with elevated ‘big tops’. In the distance, he could see the Millennium Bridge, named for the city’s thousandth anniversary and marked by a giant yellow ‘M’ pylon. In another direction was the Kazan Kremlin, an historic citadel built at the behest of Ivan the Terrible on the ruins of a fallen castle.
Dvorkin took a final look at the city he knew so well, then directed his attention to their headquarters. It was a relatively small, innocuous building — just three stories tall — that blended into its surroundings. Although it was dwarfed by many of Kazan’s edifices, it remained the biggest building on this block. Its architecture was similar to the others, except it had a slightly sloping brown roof, while the others had slightly pointed reddish ones.
With eight tall, narrow windows on each side of every floor, plus corner windows allowing for views in all directions, it seemed sedate, civilized, and unassuming. But as Dvorkin approached the nondescript entrance, he knew at least three cameras and a half-dozen people, both inside and outside the structure, were watching him. He pressed the thumb piece of the door’s handle set and waited. No key, code, or identity card was needed. His entry was allowed from the guards within. There was a buzz and click, and then he went inside the plain antechamber. It was a solid steel box, covered with dark wood paneling.
Dvorkin waited in the eight-foot cube until the door closed behind him, sealing out all light. He stood in total darkness and waited until the infrared sensors had scanned his entire body. Then there was another buzz and another click, and a sliding panel opened in front of him. He stepped through and entered another world.
It was as if he had been transported to 1916 and was standing in the macabre quiet of the Crimson Drawing Room of the Alexander Palace — the preferred home of Nicholas II and his family. A gilded chandelier hung from the ceiling. Marble columns braced heavily draped walls. The chairs were richly upholstered in crimson cloth. The carpet was deep and crimson. The walls were covered with the same sort of emerald wallpaper that had adorned the royal home.
At first glance, there were only two major differences between the original room in St Petersburg and this facsimile in Kazan. One, there were no windows looking out on the royal grounds, and two, the building was filled with gorgeous women dressed in white.
Like angels in a twisted dream.
Following their leader’s directive, the women adhered to the precepts of the
That was another benefit of headquartering in Kazan. The streets were full of hopeful actresses, models, athletes, and students — many of whom were so frustrated at their lack of success that they were willing to receive a relatively substantial salary to serve the greater good.
Neither woman looked at him. In fact, their eyes were hooded with heavy lids over unfocused pupils. Dvorkin knew they were most likely sedated, hungover, or both. He hadn’t spoken to the staff members who were responsible for these women, but he did not have to. Their behavior reflected alcohol, leisure medications, and the ‘additives’ thereof.
Dvorkin had once heard their leader say, ‘If our supplicants require external encouragement to reach internal enlightenment, then they shall have it.’
Dvorkin glanced to his left when a short man in a black tunic walked through the far door. He had a severe expression on his face and slicked-back hair. The man said, ‘We’ve been expecting you. He will see you now.’
‘Which room?’ Dvorkin asked.
‘The sitting room.’
Dvorkin breathed a sigh of relief. The sitting room was the re-creation of Alexandra’s formal reception area, up on the third floor. That was where their leader customarily had his minor meetings, so that gave credence to Dvorkin’s hope that their leader only wanted to assure himself that all was proceeding on schedule.
Dvorkin left the other man in the Crimson Study and went up the wide stairs to the third floor. The second floor, as he well knew, was filled with offices and planning rooms where the organization members carried out their leader’s bidding.
He went left at the landing to walk a wide, well-decorated hall. He passed the re-creation of Alexandra’s Maple Room, her Mauve Room, and the Pallisander Room, before approaching the door of the Formal Reception Room. He stood outside and prepared to knock, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.
He turned to see a pair of the white, high-heeled ankle boots lying, unbuttoned, outside the cracked-open door of Alexandra’s Imperial Bedroom re-creation. He tried to peer into the bedroom but only glimpsed dark hints of the overstuffed interior. He thought he might have heard muffled human sounds, but he wasn’t sure. It appeared as if whoever had stood in those shoes had been pulled right out of them.
Dvorkin knocked and pushed open the door. The room was like it had been in Alexander Palace. The walls were covered in artificial marble topped with an ornately molded entablature. Heavy, cranberry-colored curtains covered the windows. The floor was of dark gold parquet topped with a French Savonierre-style rug. Scattered around the room’s edges were various chairs, tables, bookcases, and writing desks, all in the style of eighteenth- century France.
In the middle of the room was a small table, flanked by chairs.
In one sat Grigori Yefimovich Sidorov.
The leader of the Black Robes.
42
The sight of their leader never failed to affect Dvorkin. There was a palpable thrill, knowing how clever and commanding he was, the power he wielded over the Black Robes and beyond. But that same knowledge also conjured a feeling of unease. Even today, it stopped him in his tracks.
The hawk-faced man didn’t seem to notice. He motioned for Dvorkin to sit opposite him. Dvorkin nodded gratefully, then paused in mid-step as he noticed another high-heeled boot out of the corner of his left eye. This one, however, was filled with a dainty female foot. It led to a long, shapely leg attached to the torso of another seemingly comatose young woman in white, draped across a sofa along the wall. She, like the others, seemed unconcerned or unaware of his presence.
Dvorkin looked back to his leader with a silent question. Sidorov stared back, expressionless, then looked over as if seeing the woman for the first time. He seemed to think for a moment, then rolled his eyes, stood, stepped over to the sofa, and perched beside her. He pulled a napkin off a nearby table, folded it carefully, and used it to blindfold the girl. Dvorkin was not overly surprised that she did not react.
Sidorov was about to get up, but he thought better of it. He leaned over her to open the drawer of a table, removed an iPod and headphones, inserted the earbuds deep into the woman’s ears, turned up the machine, and placed it in the crook of her corseted waist. Then he returned to his seat at the table. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Better?’
‘Yes,
Sidorov waved the gratitude away as if it were a pesky fly. ‘You have served me well and our cause even better. You deserve every possible consideration.’
‘Thank you,
