Ancient Deceptions

Chapter 1 "There are two equal and opposite errors into which our race can fall about the devils. One is to disbelieve in their existence. The other is to believe, and to feel an excessive and unhealthy interest in them.” —C. S. Lewis St. Petersburg, Russia Michael Rempart rested his arms on the railing of St. Petersburg’s Trinity Bridge as he gazed at the Neva River far below him. The wide, choppy waters ran cold and gray, while an icy mist shrouded the area in a damp haze. A tall man with coal black hair, dark brown eyes, and forty-three years of age, he was an archeologist. Early in his professional life, he took risks that had led to a couple of incredible discoveries, a Spanish galleon filled with gold doubloons being the most famous. His perilous adventures, along with movie-star good looks, soon earned him a show on television presenting archeological discoveries to an awestruck public. But all that was in the past, and he looked back at that period as his “young-and-foolish years.” Also, as much as he hated everything about it, he had the ability of an alchemist, an innate skill passed through the male line of his family from at least the time of Elizabeth I. Theirs wasn’t simple alchemy, the kind where crazed sorcerers tried to change chunks of worthless metals into gold, but alchemy on a higher plane, alchemy that could change a man from a being who ages and dies to one that’s as incorruptible as gold. In other words, one who is immortal. Michael particularly hated what he had watched the quest for immortality do—the death of his brother, and the soul-crushing destruction of his father. He continued across the bridge. At its end, a brief walk brought him to the Peter and Paul Fortress. The Tsar known as “Peter the Great” had built it in the early 1700s to protect the city he had founded, a city barely visible at the moment through the fog. Many called St. Petersburg the “Venice of the North” because of its canals. It was a beautiful place, but at the same time, sadness hung over it, as if it had seen too much death and chaos. Despite, or perhaps because of its brooding sadness, Michael’s melancholy soul had always felt a kinship with the city. Its location, far to the north, meant that most of the year was cold, with a long, dark winter. A popular local joke was, “This year’s summer was warm and sunny, but I was at work that day.” The happiest time was around the summer solstice, June 21st, when the sun skimmed the horizon. Called the White Nights, it was a time of festivities with people staying up all night, partying, drinking, and acting with wild abandon—a few days of light and joy in a long, dark year. Michael related to that. Only in his case, he felt as if the darkness had lasted many years. On the far side of the fortress stood the Cathedral of Saint Peter and Paul. For centuries its multi-tiered bell tower, crowned with an angel atop a massive copper-sheeted needle, was the tallest structure in St. Petersburg, making it visible throughout much of the city. Usually a long line of people waited to enter the cathedral, but it was now only ten minutes before closing time and the guards no longer checked passes. Michael hurried past them into the main body of the church. It was lush and bright with intricate murals, marble, and extravagant quantities of gold leaf. He didn’t know what had brought him there. Intuition, perhaps. But the feeling had been powerful, and he had learned to follow such instincts. Within the cathedral, nearly all the Romanov rulers from Peter the Great to Tsar Nicholas II and his family lay entombed. At one time the Romanovs were the wealthiest family on earth, and Michael felt the irony that a family with such riches and power had faced so much tragedy, beginning with Peter himself. His son, Alexei, was the first prisoner in that very fortress whose prison grew to be one of the most feared in all of Russia. In it, Alexei had died from being tortured before he could be executed for conspiring against his father. Michael walked toward the altar. Ahead of him, a woman stopped in front of an ornate iron fence near Catherine the Great’s marble sarcophagus. She took off her fur hat and shook her head, causing her long brown hair to fall freely around her shoulders. Then she bowed her head in prayer. Michael’s heartbeat quickened. Something about her was familiar, and he found himself nearing the iron fence to better see her profile. He blinked, unbelieving. She looked like Irina Petrescu, the woman he had come to St. Petersburg to find. But so far, every lead had failed. “Irina,” he whispered. She couldn’t have heard him, yet she glanced his way and just as quickly averted her head and hurried off. Was it her? Her face was similar, so similar. And she was as beautiful as ever, maybe even more so, a woman at age thirty-eight as opposed to a youthful twenty-one when he’d last seen her. He went after her, not letting himself lose sight of the tall, brown-haired woman despite the crowd that suddenly pushed toward the exit as the guards informed them the cathedral was about to close. The woman didn’t turn toward the exit, however. She continued to the left side of the cathedral, and he saw her turn into the room set up with seven caskets as a memorial to Nicholas II, his wife Alexandra, and their five children, all tragically imprisoned and then shot to death by the Bolsheviks during the Russian Revolution. Michael hurried after her. Once he reached the chamber, he found a group lingering there to pay respects to the family that the citizens of the time had turned against. Michael pushed his way past them, hoping to enter the room, only to find his way blocked by a thick velvet rope stretched across the wide entrance. Michael leaned against the rope to see the inside of the chamber. No one was in it. He spun around to search the crowd for the woman he’d followed, with no luck. He had seen her walk into the room and had kept his eyes firmly fixed on the entrance until he could reach it. He hadn’t seen her leave, but she wasn’t there now. He was about to duck under the rope as she must have done, and then to look for an exit door hidden within the paneled walls, when a guard approached him bellowing orders. Michael didn’t know the language, but from the guard’s expression, he didn’t need to. He took one more quick look, then returned to the spot where she had prayed. A beautiful icon of the Virgin Mary was there with a plaque indicating it had been donated by Princess Milica Petrović-Njegoš of Montenegro, a name that meant nothing to him. He then left the cathedral, searching for Irina as he went. His mind whirred with what had just happened. Seventeen years had passed since he last saw her, and perhaps his imagination was playing tricks on him again. It wouldn’t be the first time. Two prior times, there in St. Petersburg, he had spotted a woman who absolutely resembled Irina, and those times, too, she had disappeared. But he hadn’t been as close to her as he’d been in the cathedral, and he hadn’t felt as certain about who he had seen. This time, if he truly had found Irina Petrescu, how had she managed to leave the cathedral without him noticing? Or had she, again, simply vanished from his life?