State Of The Union

STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS-3 DAYS

Leaving St. Petersburg’s Dom Knigi bookstore with two fly-fishing books and a thick Russian atlas, Harvath stopped at a local sporting goods shop and then met up with Alexandra at the Moskavskya metro station, where they caught the shuttle for Pulkovo Airport.

Popov’s forest-green Jeep Grand Cherokee wasn’t as bad as Harvath had thought it was going to be. In fact, the vehicle was relatively unremarkable in a country where conspicuous consumption ran rampant.

It took them a little over four-and-a-half hours driving north-northeast to reach their destination. The tiny, Byzantine domed chapel sat alone in the heavily wooded countryside on the outskirts of the city of Petrozavodsk. Petrozavodsk, located on the western shore of Lake Onega-the second largest lake in Europe, was the administrative center of Karelia, an autonomous republic in the Russian Federation. The city was not only the site of Petrozavodsk State University but also a branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences. In his dossier, Alexandra’s father had identified Petrozavodsk as the location where the Russian scientists were working on the secret air defense system.

As Alexandra pulled the Cherokee to the side of the road, Harvath gave his map and coordinates a final check.

“This is it?” she asked, staring out the windshield at the little church. “This is where we’re supposed to find Nesterov’s Albert?”

“It looks like it,” replied Harvath, as he placed one of his fly-fishing books onto the dash and carelessly threw the other into the backseat. Coupled with the rods, reels, waders and other gear he had purchased and left in the cargo area, to anyone who might come upon them, he and Alexandra would look like two New Russians pursuing the hottest sporting craze to sweep the country since golf. Even in winter, fly-fishing was still a very popular pastime, especially in the Karelia region where the winters were much milder than the rest of Russia. If anyone should happen to ask what business they had at the church, they would simply state they were taking a break on their way to fish one of the many popular rivers that fed the nearby lake.

As it was, they didn’t have to worry about feeding anyone their cover story because the church was completely empty. In fact, were it not for the supply of fresh candles, Harvath would have sworn it had been abandoned altogether.

Alexandra left a coin and lit one of the candles. She closed her eyes for several moments and when she opened them, she saw that Harvath was looking at her. “For my parents,” she said.

Harvath nodded his head and began walking around the small church, which was formed in a perfect circle. It smelled of earth and cold stone, solid, as if it had been there since the beginning of time and would continue to stand until the very end of it. The whitewashed walls were decorated with painted panels depicting the lives of saints and various religious events. “Who uses this place?” asked Harvath as he continued studying the copious artwork. “There aren’t any houses for miles around.”

“Country people most likely, though sometimes people from a nearby town or city will adopt a small church and help with its upkeep and maintenance, as well as buying or donating other things that it might need,” answered Alexandra from the other side of the room.

“This would go a lot faster if we knew what this Albert guy’s connection with this church is,” said Harvath as he abandoned his review of the paintings. “Why do you think Nesterov picked this place?”

“Who knows? It’s close enough to Petrozavodsk and the Academy of Sciences to have been convenient for him, yet remote enough to keep whatever he was doing well hidden. Maybe Albert is the priest,” replied Alexandra as she continued around the edge of the room, examining the paintings and artifacts.

Alexandra was making her second pass of the artwork, this time paying less attention to the images and more attention to their titles. When she arrived at a rather unimpressive iconostasis and read the neatly written placard proclaiming that she was looking at, “St. Albert in Agonyby Andrey Rublyov,” something didn’t seem right. She stood back to examine the faded triptych that greatly resembled Da Vinci’sMadonna of the Rocks and after several moments said, “I think I’ve got something.”

“What is it?” asked Harvath as he came over to join her.

“According to the title plate, this work of art is by Andrey Rublyov and is calledSt. Albert in Agony.”

Bingo, thought Harvath, but there was also something else about the title that rang a bell with him. It was as if he’d heard the saint’s name before, sometime long ago in his past. “What about it?”

“Well, first of all, I don’t believe the Russian Orthodox Church has a St. Albert.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

Harvath was pretty sure, too. Pretty sure he knew that name and that Alexandra was right. It didn’t belong in this church. Then it came to him. “The patron saint of scientists.”

“The what?” said Alexandra.