crudely replacing the head of a jackal with the head of a man. If Sayce is right, then the Book of Abraham is hokum too. And all of the stuff about Kolob is wrong as well. Kolob the star, Kolob the nearest planet to heaven. All that space-alien stuff we believe in.’
Elder Thring wanted to interrupt, but something about Zeke made him hold his tongue. It never crossed Zeke’s mind, but the elder was afraid of him. They all were.
‘This summer I went to New York State to examine the court records myself, with my own eyes.’
Now it was the turn of the committee members to shift uneasily in their high-backed chairs.
‘So I went through the paperwork and found court records showing that Joseph Smith was a confidence trickster. The word for it back in the 1820s was “glass-looker” – someone who duped others into thinking that he had magical powers and could find treasure in Indian burial mounds. So, gentlemen, this fall I came to the conclusion that I have spent my entire life in the sway of a false belief, based on the word of a liar and a fraud. And so have all of you.’
His words fell on the committee like pebbles lobbed into a silent pool. After a time, Elder Thring squared his chest and studied the faces of the other four committee members in turn. All four nodded. He faced Zeke directly: ‘Brother Chandler – we, the Committee for Strengthening Church Members, do unanimously find that you have mortally abused the good name and goodwill of our Church by writing this poison, and we recommend that your name be struck out of the records as a Mormon of good standing. You may now leave.’
He gestured to the pamphlet lying on the table.
‘And you can take your filth with you.’
Zeke picked up his leaflet and left the room, his head held high. He crossed the street, walked four or five blocks downhill, entered a 7-Eleven and bought himself a packet of cigarettes and some matches. Then he found a bar – Harry’s Bar – secured an empty table and went to order a drink or two.
‘Hi. Can I have a bottle of white wine, a bottle of red, an Irish whiskey, a beer, a screwdriver and a coffee?’
‘I’ll bring the drinks over. Where’s your party sitting?’ asked the barmaid.
Zeke smiled thinly and said, ‘I’m sitting at table seven. Oh, and a crème de menthe.’
SOUTHERN RUSSIA
O n the edge of town, stout homes of brick gave way to wooden shacks, becoming poor and poorer, but what was virtually the last house was a shrine to kitsch, seven storeys high, concrete, as ugly as sin, its frontage of fake gold glittering in the winter’s sun.
‘More money in pigs than you’d think,’ said Reikhman.
The others held their tongues.
The palace was guarded by a high brick wall and lay behind two large blue gates. They sat in the SUV and waited, until the gates opened and a big black BMW saloon eased out onto the road and headed off, fast, away from the town. The driver was a conspicuously short man, all but a dwarf, in his early sixties.
‘Target number two,’ said Reikhman. ‘They call him Vysoky, the Tall One.’ Konstantin got ready to follow, but Reikhman called out from the back, ‘Don’t move for now. I know where he’s going.’
After ten uneasy minutes, Reikhman gave the order for Konstantin to start up. They headed out into the countryside, turned down a side road with good asphalt, which led to a broad river, frozen from bank to bank in a milky carapace. The BMW was parked close by. Vysoky had walked out into the middle of the frozen ice and was occupied with turning a hand drill to carve a hole in it, his fishing rod lying by his side. Reikhman took his camera, adjusted the focus, then handed it to Iryna. ‘It’s on autofocus. Just point it at him. I won’t be long.’
They watched as Reikhman walked out onto the ice, carefully, slowly, so that he didn’t slip. The two men had a conversation, but they couldn’t be heard from the SUV. Suddenly Vysoky made to run, as fast as his little
Elder Thring wanted to interrupt, but something about Zeke made him hold his tongue. It never crossed Zeke’s mind, but the elder was afraid of him. They all were.
‘This summer I went to New York State to examine the court records myself, with my own eyes.’
Now it was the turn of the committee members to shift uneasily in their high-backed chairs.
‘So I went through the paperwork and found court records showing that Joseph Smith was a confidence trickster. The word for it back in the 1820s was “glass-looker” – someone who duped others into thinking that he had magical powers and could find treasure in Indian burial mounds. So, gentlemen, this fall I came to the conclusion that I have spent my entire life in the sway of a false belief, based on the word of a liar and a fraud. And so have all of you.’
His words fell on the committee like pebbles lobbed into a silent pool. After a time, Elder Thring squared his chest and studied the faces of the other four committee members in turn. All four nodded. He faced Zeke directly: ‘Brother Chandler – we, the Committee for Strengthening Church Members, do unanimously find that you have mortally abused the good name and goodwill of our Church by writing this poison, and we recommend that your name be struck out of the records as a Mormon of good standing. You may now leave.’
He gestured to the pamphlet lying on the table.
‘And you can take your filth with you.’
Zeke picked up his leaflet and left the room, his head held high. He crossed the street, walked four or five blocks downhill, entered a 7-Eleven and bought himself a packet of cigarettes and some matches. Then he found a bar – Harry’s Bar – secured an empty table and went to order a drink or two.
‘Hi. Can I have a bottle of white wine, a bottle of red, an Irish whiskey, a beer, a screwdriver and a coffee?’
‘I’ll bring the drinks over. Where’s your party sitting?’ asked the barmaid.
Zeke smiled thinly and said, ‘I’m sitting at table seven. Oh, and a crème de menthe.’
SOUTHERN RUSSIA
O n the edge of town, stout homes of brick gave way to wooden shacks, becoming poor and poorer, but what was virtually the last house was a shrine to kitsch, seven storeys high, concrete, as ugly as sin, its frontage of fake gold glittering in the winter’s sun.
‘More money in pigs than you’d think,’ said Reikhman.
The others held their tongues.
The palace was guarded by a high brick wall and lay behind two large blue gates. They sat in the SUV and waited, until the gates opened and a big black BMW saloon eased out onto the road and headed off, fast, away from the town. The driver was a conspicuously short man, all but a dwarf, in his early sixties.
‘Target number two,’ said Reikhman. ‘They call him Vysoky, the Tall One.’ Konstantin got ready to follow, but Reikhman called out from the back, ‘Don’t move for now. I know where he’s going.’
After ten uneasy minutes, Reikhman gave the order for Konstantin to start up. They headed out into the countryside, turned down a side road with good asphalt, which led to a broad river, frozen from bank to bank in a milky carapace. The BMW was parked close by. Vysoky had walked out into the middle of the frozen ice and was occupied with turning a hand drill to carve a hole in it, his fishing rod lying by his side. Reikhman took his camera, adjusted the focus, then handed it to Iryna. ‘It’s on autofocus. Just point it at him. I won’t be long.’
They watched as Reikhman walked out onto the ice, carefully, slowly, so that he didn’t slip. The two men had a conversation, but they couldn’t be heard from the SUV. Suddenly Vysoky made to run, as fast as his little
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