Brotherhood of the Tomb by Daniel Easterman Page B

whisper. Patrick bent his
    head closer, his ear against the old man’s trembling lips.
    ‘I can hear you, Eamonn. What is it? What are you trying to say?’
    Again the lips moved.
    ‘Pass ... Pass ... over...’
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘Soo ... soon ... Pass ... over ... soon. Find ... Balzarin ... Gave him papers ... Knows ... something ... Ask ... Balzarin ...’
    De Faoite’s hand relaxed and let go of Patrick’s wrist. His body fell back limp. At the foot of the Virgin, another candle gave itself up to darkness.
    EIGHT
    The footstep was soft, but magnified in the stillness. Patrick whirled round. Shadows. Darkness that was not quite darkness. A sound high up in the ceiling: mice? bats?
    ‘Al-salam alaykum, Patrick. You’re a long way from home.’
    The soft voice sounded exaggeratedly loud in the hushed emptiness. It had come from a clump of shadows in the central aisle. Patrick took a step back, almost tripping at the foot of the altar.
    What’s wrong? Getting nervous? You were never nervous, old friend.’
    The voice was so familiar. Familiar yet strange, as though someone had borrowed it. The greeting had been Arabic, but the speaker was not an Arab.
    ‘Alex? Is that you?’
    ‘Who were you expecting? Jesus Christ? That famous Jew who abandoned the working classes for...’ A figure stepped out of the shadows into a pool of weak light. He gestured vaguely with a gloved hand. ‘... for this.’ What did he mean, Patrick wondered. The wood? The plaster? The cheap candles? The silence?
    What are you doing here, Alex?’ Patrick’s voice was stiff and unwelcoming.
    We’re on neutral ground now, Patrick. Relax.’
    The newcomer held out a hand, but Patrick stayed where he was. Aleksander Chekulayev had been RGB station chief in Beirut during Patrick’s last spell of duty there. They had met several times before that, twice in Cairo, often in Baghdad, once in Najm al-Sharq, a dirty cafe in Damascus where Patrick had
    contracted food poisoning. His stomach remembered the fat little Russian in the same mouthful as it did rancid hummus. According to the political winds, they had been rivals, enemies, friends, partners in crime - sometimes all at once. Alex had tried to have him killed on one occasion. There is no such thing as neutral ground.
    ‘What is it, Alex? What do you want?’ He was not prepared for Alex. His thoughts were still on the altar with Eamonn.
    ‘I was about to ask you just that myself.’
    Chekulayev took a cautious step forward. Patrick could see him more clearly now. The Russian seemed greyer than he remembered. Beneath its natural pallor, his skin appeared as though covered in a fine grey dust, and his eyes were circled by darker lines, like the hair-thin cracks on a raku bowl. Patrick wondered if the greyness was the price or the reward for a lifetime of thought and lies and insinuation.
    Glasnost had sniffed at Chekulayev’s edges and drawn back, perhaps more saddened than frightened. He was too old to change, too young to have learnt how. The system might mellow, but he could wait. In the end, it would grow grey like him. In a sense, he was the system.
    The Russian nodded in the direction of the altar.
    ‘May I see?’
    Patrick said nothing. At least he had no reason to think Chekulayev was responsible for this particular mess.
    ‘Don’t worry, Patrick, I’m quite alone.’ He came forward slowly, like a mourner approaching the bier to view the deceased. Patrick stood aside to let him pass. The Russian stepped up to the altar and stood for about a minute, his head bowed, as
    though in prayer. When he turned, his face was grim.
    ‘Not a pretty sight. You knew him?’
    ‘Yes. He was the priest here. And he was my friend.’ Patrick still felt numb, unable to take in the horror of Eamonn’s death.
    ‘Yes, of course, the priest.’ Chekulayev looked round, as though aware for the first time he was in a church. ‘The letters on the wall. Hebrew and Greek. You understand