Xavier Varvarinski slipped off his wire-rimmed glasses, placed them beside the Bible cradled in his lap, then eased back against his hard, pine chair. Instantly, a rush of relief flooded the ache between his shoulder blades.
Even so, Xavier held his sigh of pleasure in check, not wanting the soft sound to rupture the peace that surrounded him. It wasn’t the heavy silence of the faithful which dominated most Sunday masses. Instead, it was a comforting silence—a reassuring murmur so fluid, it slid easily past the miniscule gaps in the confessional’s aged maple walls.
With his joints aching from arthritis and his lungs frail from years of tobacco abuse, Xavier had little that comforted him physically.
A true sign of being old he supposed. Still, he found solace in the midweek confessions and had insisted on upholding St. Stanislaus’s tradition when the current, younger pastor would’ve forgone the routine.
The hinges of the confessional door creaked, interrupting his thoughts. The priest’s lips lifted into a small empathetic smile. There was nothing wrong with finding reassurance in the familiar.
After a few seconds, cloth rustled against the wooden kneeler, forcing Xavier to shift forward in his chair and put his glasses back on. Reverently, his palm slid over his Bible’s leather cover—his fingertips automatically settling into its aged creases. Another comfort. The most important.
“Good afternoon, Father.” The hushed feminine greeting penetrated the screen.
“Eos,” Xavier said, turning toward the familiar voice, wincing slightly at the sharp jab of pain deep in his chest.
The ceiling light cast a slim, feminine shadow against the confessional screen. The woman was young, not more than thirty, he assumed. Her temperament soft, serene.
Xavier reached in his pocket and withdrew his pills. “Once again, your promptness astounds me,” he answered in Russian, then swallowed two tablets, dry.
“I received your message this morning.” Her tone remained hushed, her dialect now Russian, also. “Do you have the package?”
“Yes,” Xavier responded quietly. “You’ve told no one?”
“No one,” Lara replied, the lie sliding easily off her tongue. “But time is not our friend right now, Father. I need that package.”
“First things first, my child.”
Lara’s lips tilted into a half smile, forgetting for a moment the priest inside the man. “Of course.”
Xavier made the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit.”
“Amen,” Lara answered.
“May God keep you safe in his kingdom, Eos.”
“Thank you. And you, also,” she responded automatically, somewhat taken aback by the gesture. Something is wrong.” She noticed it in his tone—an underlying despair that Lara had heard many times during her career as a government operative. “What is it?”
He sighed. “I had prayed that this day wouldn’t come, but it seems God’s will is stronger than my pleas.”
“What do you mean? Have you been discovered? Are you in danger?”
“Danger? No,” Xavier responded slowly, as if searching for the right words. “I’m too old, and no longer a threat to anyone.”
“Then why pray for—”
“Did you know that the true test of faith is when God doesn’t answer our prayers? Most always he has a higher purpose. One that may eventually come to light. Still it is hard for me to believe that he would not prevent this. No matter his purpose.”
“Surely, our purpose is the same, Father. To protect the innocent. You’ve done the government a huge favor by confiscating the substance. If there is anything I can do—”
“That’s exactly why I sent for you, Eos. I need help in saving a great deal of lives.” The priest hesitated, the uncertainty palpable. “I want to give you something. It’s under your kneeler.”
With deliberate movements, Lara reached under, her fingertips instantly touching small round beads. Slowly, she picked up the rosary. It was beautiful and old. “Is it yours?” A string of freshwater pearls looped a simple silver cross—on it, the image of Jesus suffering. The stark lines, the agonized expression were vivid in the dim light of the confessional.
“Yes. I’ve had it for many years.”
“It’s beautiful,” Lara murmured. She grasped the cross in her fingers, surprised over the chill of the metal against her skin. Somehow she’d expected it to be warm. “I can’t take this.”
“You must. It is the key to my situation.”
“I don’t understand.” Lara frowned, turning the cross over in her hand.
“You will.”
“Father, I don’t have time for cryptic puzzles. Tell me what you need.”
“I need you to bring Anton Novak to me.”
“The arms dealer?” She let out a low laugh. “I realize what you’ve provided to our government is beyond our expectations. But Novak?” She shook her head. “That’s impossible. He’s Mikhail Davidenko’s right-hand man.” Lara’s fingers tightened on the rosary. “Why?”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I must see him within the next forty-eight hours.” He slid an envelope through a thin gap at the bottom of the screen. “He is meeting a client here. At midnight tonight.”
Lara glanced down at the information, saw an electronic key card with it. “And the key?”
“The key is to a room at the Château Bontecou. Room seven twenty one. I’m registered under the name Jim Brisbane. Bring Novak there and wait for me.”
“Father, maybe if you tell me what you’re involved in—”
“It’s personal, little one. Very personal.”
“A vendetta?”
“More like a contract,” he admitted. “With God.”
Trepidation slithered, coating her spine like slick oil. “I will keep your secrets. I always have. I promise. You have only to tell me—”
“I’ve told you what I need. And you can keep your promise by doing what I ask.” Impatience deepened his accent.
With his impatience, came hers. “I’m sorry, Father, even if I could figure a way, I would need a reason. And my superiors’ approval. Even then, I would require more than forty-eight hours. Anton Novak is a dangerous man.”
“Dangerous is a relative term,” he whispered. “Look, Eos, I have the biochemical your government wants. Enough to wipe out an entire city.”
Everything in Lara stilled. “And I told you, we are very grateful.”
