Read Online Ekaterina by Susan May Warren, Susan K. Downs - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan May Warren, Susan K. Downs
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followed her to an office building. Inside, the austere white walls, the planked floor, and the smell of polish whisked him back in time, to the painful halls of his childhood.
Institutions were all the same.
He clenched his jaw. This was no haven.
A tall monk, dressed in the traditional garb of brown tunic and somber expression met them at a reception desk. “Can I help you?’
Vadeem flipped open his identification. The monk met it with a stoic face that had Vadeem wondering how often they had the FSB darken their doors. “We’d like to see the director.”
Efficient as he was stern, the monk had Vadeem and Kat seated inside the rather humble office of Father Lashov within moments. The monk stared out the window, at the limestone formations, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his tunic as he mulled over their situation.
“I don’t know how I can help you.” He turned, and he had the wise eyes Vadeem would associate with a religious man.
Or a seasoned agent. Vadeem tried not to shift under the man’s scrutiny. What was it about men of the cloth that caused panic to climb up his spine? He felt like regurgitating every last secret he’d swallowed over the past twenty years. He gulped the gathering lump in his throat and eked out an FSBish tone.
“Miss Moore just wants answers to her questions. I know Brother Timofea is dead, but can you lead us to anyone who might know why he’d want to send a key to Miss Moore, in America?”
Kat sat forward, and he felt freshly punched at the raw anticipation on her face. She had poured so much hope into this trip, into these two hours. He was going to make dead sure she got any information they had.
“I suppose you could talk to Brother Papov. He attended Brother Timofea until his last breath.”
“Yes!” Kat was out of her seat, and Vadeem put a hand on her arm.
She looked at him, delight lighting her expression. Oh my, if he could get that kind of smile to appear. . .
“Sounds good. How do we find him?”
“Our cloister is what they called a “working” monastery,” the old monk explained as he led them out of the compound, into the fields beyond. “We keep cows, horses, sheep, pigs, chicken, and raise our own crops.” The sun gleamed through an azure, cirrus- scattered sky, and turned the potato sprouts emerald green. Monks moved like ants over the field, working under the sun, their heads covered with straw hats. “We try to have as little contact with the outside as possible.”
He turned to his assistant, a tall monk, who walked beside Father Lashov like a bodyguard. The father whispered something to him, and the man strode over to another brother, lean and small and in his mid twenties. The younger man came up to them without a smile, but curiosity ringed his brown eyes. Then his gaze settled on Kat.
He flinched.
The saintly kid knew something. Vadeem watched him hide it, but fear streaked into the young monk’s eyes, now shifted away and down. The young monk rocked from heel to toe, listening to Father Lashov’s explanation of their presence, nodding as if agreeing to help. He even shook Vadeem’s hand, his grip loose and weak.
But the young brother never let his gaze travel to back Kat.
“Where can we talk?” Vadeem asked, hoping to get out of the sun, away from the sight of so many monks wielding rudimentary farm implements. He wasn’t sure how loyal they were. . .didn’t monks have some sort of non-aggression code?
“Perhaps the chapel.” Father Lashov led the way beyond the white fence, further, past the field toward the limestone cliffs. “The monastery is quite old,” he said like a tour guide to his little ensemble. “Dating back to the first century, the first cells were in these limestone cliffs. We had our cells, a kitchen, a threshing room, and barns. The cliffs even hosted our first chapel. Perhaps you will find it a soothing place to ask your questions.” He flicked a gaze at Vadeem, no menace in his eyes.
Institutions were all the same.
He clenched his jaw. This was no haven.
A tall monk, dressed in the traditional garb of brown tunic and somber expression met them at a reception desk. “Can I help you?’
Vadeem flipped open his identification. The monk met it with a stoic face that had Vadeem wondering how often they had the FSB darken their doors. “We’d like to see the director.”
Efficient as he was stern, the monk had Vadeem and Kat seated inside the rather humble office of Father Lashov within moments. The monk stared out the window, at the limestone formations, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his tunic as he mulled over their situation.
“I don’t know how I can help you.” He turned, and he had the wise eyes Vadeem would associate with a religious man.
Or a seasoned agent. Vadeem tried not to shift under the man’s scrutiny. What was it about men of the cloth that caused panic to climb up his spine? He felt like regurgitating every last secret he’d swallowed over the past twenty years. He gulped the gathering lump in his throat and eked out an FSBish tone.
“Miss Moore just wants answers to her questions. I know Brother Timofea is dead, but can you lead us to anyone who might know why he’d want to send a key to Miss Moore, in America?”
Kat sat forward, and he felt freshly punched at the raw anticipation on her face. She had poured so much hope into this trip, into these two hours. He was going to make dead sure she got any information they had.
“I suppose you could talk to Brother Papov. He attended Brother Timofea until his last breath.”
“Yes!” Kat was out of her seat, and Vadeem put a hand on her arm.
She looked at him, delight lighting her expression. Oh my, if he could get that kind of smile to appear. . .
“Sounds good. How do we find him?”
“Our cloister is what they called a “working” monastery,” the old monk explained as he led them out of the compound, into the fields beyond. “We keep cows, horses, sheep, pigs, chicken, and raise our own crops.” The sun gleamed through an azure, cirrus- scattered sky, and turned the potato sprouts emerald green. Monks moved like ants over the field, working under the sun, their heads covered with straw hats. “We try to have as little contact with the outside as possible.”
He turned to his assistant, a tall monk, who walked beside Father Lashov like a bodyguard. The father whispered something to him, and the man strode over to another brother, lean and small and in his mid twenties. The younger man came up to them without a smile, but curiosity ringed his brown eyes. Then his gaze settled on Kat.
He flinched.
The saintly kid knew something. Vadeem watched him hide it, but fear streaked into the young monk’s eyes, now shifted away and down. The young monk rocked from heel to toe, listening to Father Lashov’s explanation of their presence, nodding as if agreeing to help. He even shook Vadeem’s hand, his grip loose and weak.
But the young brother never let his gaze travel to back Kat.
“Where can we talk?” Vadeem asked, hoping to get out of the sun, away from the sight of so many monks wielding rudimentary farm implements. He wasn’t sure how loyal they were. . .didn’t monks have some sort of non-aggression code?
“Perhaps the chapel.” Father Lashov led the way beyond the white fence, further, past the field toward the limestone cliffs. “The monastery is quite old,” he said like a tour guide to his little ensemble. “Dating back to the first century, the first cells were in these limestone cliffs. We had our cells, a kitchen, a threshing room, and barns. The cliffs even hosted our first chapel. Perhaps you will find it a soothing place to ask your questions.” He flicked a gaze at Vadeem, no menace in his eyes.
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