Snow Wolf Read online

  PRAISE FOR SNOW WOLF

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  “In this big-boned thriller, Meade makes his contribution to the distinguished number of first thrillers premised on the attempted assassination of a world leader (e.g., Day of the Jackal; The Eagle Has Landed) by imagining a CIA hit man targeting Josef Stalin. . . . Meade writes with a silken pen, inking unusually sympathetic leads. Vivid cameos of historical figures, including Eisenhower, Truman, Beria and Stalin, lend credence to the story, which, according to the author, includes events of ‘documented history.’ The Cold War may be on ice, but through this literate, memorable story, Meade shows that it can still freeze readers’ attention and chill their blood.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A tremendous sense of dramatic action and page-turning excitement culminating in a riveting, thought-provoking climax.”

  —The Sunday Times

  PRAISE FOR GLENN MEADE

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  “The Irish-born author teeters on the edge of genius and sacrilege with this thriller about a subject known since the time of Christ. . . . Some who have avoided Christian fiction or only dipped in will find this departure from the mold refreshing, even while some regular readers of Christian fiction may find certain passages revolting. Fans of Davis Bunn or Dan Brown won’t bat an eye at Meade’s unblinking look at the Vatican and the religious secrecy that fuels such novels. With a plot that screams, a controversial edge, and characters with attitude and something to prove, this has all the makings to be the next Da Vinci Code.”

  —Publishers Weekly, on The Second Messiah

  “Dan Brown meets Tom Clancy—Glenn Meade sure knows how to get your pulse racing. I was gripped from page one. Whether The Second Messiah is fact or fiction is up for debate, but one thing’s for sure—it’s one heck of a thriller. You know you’re in safe hands with Glenn Meade—The Second Messiah is a roller coaster of a thriller that lifts the lid on the inner workings of the Vatican and leaves you wondering just how much of the fiction is actually fact.”

  —Stephen Leather, author of Nightfall

  “Reading similarly to both a Thoene novel and The Da Vinci Code, bestselling author Meade’s The Second Messiah will keep readers on the edge of their proverbial seats. . . . The Second Messiah reads quickly and will hold the reader’s attention with its many plot twists. In the story, Meade also addresses the problem of suffering in an insightful comment from the pope. Fans of fiction tied to news headlines will enjoy this geopolitical thriller. Recommended for readers of Joel C. Rosenberg.”

  —Christian Retailing

  “A thrill a minute. A cross between Indiana Jones and Dan Brown. Thriller readers will love this book.”

  —Midwest Book Review, on The Second Messiah

  “This novel is a Da Vinci Code–type thriller, but it’s far more. The secret scrolls and chases are standard thriller fare, but deftly handled. Some of the characters are particularly captivating, especially the new Pope, a true follower of God who’s tormented by his past and struggling with the future of the Church. This suspenseful book is well worth reading.”

  —CBA Retailers + Resources, on The Second Messiah

  “Written in the mold of The Da Vinci Code—sans all the erroneous claims (thankfully)—bestselling author Glenn Meade’s latest geographical thriller, The Second Messiah, keeps readers on the edge of their proverbial seats with multiple plot twists.”

  —Charisma

  “Meade knows how to entangle, and untangle, an exciting array of characters and plots guaranteed to keep the reader hooked . . .a talented storyteller, he sets the scene quickly before taking off on a rollicking ride that keeps the pages turning. It’s a hard book to put down.”

  —Crosswalk.com, on The Second Messiah

  “Reads at a breathtaking, frantic pace from beginning to end. . . . A daring work of fiction that will have people talking.”

  —Fresh Fiction, on The Second Messiah

  “Meade’s second foray into international intrigue imagines that Nazis biding time in South America hatch a viable plot to take over contemporary Germany. The novel opens with a splendidly tantalizing episode of eavesdropping by a Paraguayan reporter who, before he’s caught and killed, hides a telltale tape recording. . . . Fast, sly, and slick, this thriller delivers the goods—tension, action, plot twists—until the smoke clears on the last page.”

  —Booklist, on Brandenburg

  “Meade’s research is so extensive yet unobtrusive . . .that it is often easy to forget you’re reading fiction and not history. This is a completely riveting thriller in the tradition of the Day of the Jackal. A white knuckler!”

  —The Washington Post

  “One twisting, breathless chase . . .”

  —The New York Times

  “A writer of powerfully built and skillfully executed plots. Immerse yourself in his intricately woven intrigue and explosive action, and enjoy them thoroughly!”

  —Oleg Kalugin, former head of the KGB’s First Directorate

  “Chilling—another literate and suspenseful thriller from an estimable storyteller.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A riveting story . . .incredibly well researched. I urge every American to read this book.”

  —Newt Gingrich, on Resurrection Day

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  FOR GERALDINE AND ALEX, AND IN MEMORY OF JULIE-ANNE

  “The most difficult thing to predict is not the future, but the past.”

  —RUSSIAN PROVERB

  “There is a wolf out there, baying for my blood. We must exterminate wolves.”

  —REMARK ATTRIBUTED TO JOSEPH STALIN ON FEBRUARY 17, 1953, MORE THAN TWO WEEKS BEFORE HIS DEATH; TO THE INDIAN AMBASSADOR IN MOSCOW, THE LAST FOREIGNER TO SEE HIM ALIVE

  THE PRESENT

  1

  * * *

  MOSCOW

  I had come to bury the dead and resurrect ghosts, and so it seemed somehow appropriate that the truth and the lies of the past should begin in a graveyard.

  It was raining that morning in Novodevichy Cemetery, and I was burying my father for the second time.

  It isn’t often that a man gets to be buried twice, and as I stood alone under the dripping chestnut trees I could see the black Mercedes come in through the cemetery gates and brake gently to a halt near the grave. Two men stepped out, one of them middle-aged and gray-haired, the other a bearded Orthodox priest.

  It’s a tradition in Russia to uncover the coffin before it’s buried, a chance for friends and relatives to kiss their dead and say their last goodbyes. But there would be no such tradition observed this wet day in June for a man who had died more than five decades before, just a simple ceremony to finally acknowledge his passing.

  Someone had placed a red-flowered wreath beside the grave, I remember that, and then I saw the flashes of forked lightning illuminate the gray horizon and heard the cracks of thunder.

  The Convent of Novodevichy lies south of Moscow, an ancient sixteenth-century Orthodox church surrounded by whitewashed stone walls. Five golden cupolas stand on top, and beyond the gates that lead to the cemetery is a maze of narrow roads, overgrown with weeds and crammed with marble headstones and ancient vaults.

  Until a few years ago, the cemetery had been closed to the public. Khrushchev’s grave was nearby, a massive monument of black and white marble. Stalin’s wife and her family off to the right. Chekhov. Shostakovich. Grand marble edifices to heroes of the Soviet Union and writers
and actors, men and women who had left their mark on Soviet history. And my father, an American, was strangely among them.

  And as I stood there in the pouring rain under the wet trees in the corner of the cemetery, I saw the gray-haired man from the Mercedes put up his umbrella and speak quietly with the priest, who nodded and went to stand under one of the trees a short distance away.

  The gray-haired man was in his late forties, tall and well built, and he wore a smart blue business suit under his damp raincoat. He smiled warmly as he came toward me.

  “A wet day for it, wouldn’t you say?” He offered his hand. “Brad Taylor, US Embassy. You must be Massey?”

  The handshake was firm and as I let go I said, “For a while there I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.”

  “Sorry I’m late, I got held up at the embassy.” He took a pack of Marlboro cigarettes from his pocket and offered me one. “Smoke? I hope it doesn’t seem disrespectful?”

  “No, it doesn’t, and thanks, I don’t mind if I do.”

  He lit both our cigarettes and looked back over at the priest as he arranged his white vestments under his black raincoat and removed a Bible from his pocket, almost ready to begin.

  Taylor said, “Bob tells me you’re a journalist with the Washington Post. Have you ever been to Moscow before, Mr. Massey?”

  “Once, five years ago on a brief assignment. What else did Bob tell you?”

  Taylor smiled, showing a row of perfectly white and even teeth. “Just enough so I wouldn’t be at a loss when we met. He said you were a friend of his from way back, when you were at boarding school together. And he said to make sure everything went smoothly for you while you’re in Moscow. Bob seemed very anxious about that.”

  Taylor went to say something else then, but hesitated and looked back just as the priest had made himself ready, lighting a small censer of incense before he came over to join us.

  Someone had left a fresh marble slab against one of the trees, and I could make out the simple chiseled inscription in Cyrillic letters.

  JAKOB MASSEY

  Born: January 3, 1912

  Died: March 1, 1953

  Nearby was an old unmarked stone slab that had been uprooted from the grave, green with lichen and weathered by the years. There was another one still lying on the ground, marking a second grave beside my father’s, looking just as old, and out of the corner of my eye I saw two gravediggers wearing capes standing a distance away under some trees, waiting to go to work and erect my father’s headstone.

  And as I stood there, I realized how suddenly everything had come together. One of those twists of luck that seem to conspire now and then to make you believe in fate. A week ago and over five thousand miles away in Washington, I had received the phone call from Langley, telling me they had arranged the funeral ceremony and that Anna Khorev would meet me in Moscow. It had taken three days to finalize the details, and by then I could hardly contain my excitement.

  The Orthodox priest stepped forward, shook my hand, and asked in perfect English, “Shall I begin now?”

  “Thank you.”

  He stepped toward the grave and started to pray as he swung the censer of fragrant incense, chanting the prayers for the dead in Russian.

  It was all over in no time at all, and then the priest withdrew and went back to the car. The gravediggers came over and began to place the fresh headstone on my father’s tomb. Taylor said, “Well, I guess that’s it, except for your lady friend, Anna Khorev. She arrived early this morning from Tel Aviv. That’s what kept me.”

  Taylor lit us both another cigarette. “I guess Bob explained the ground rules.”

  “Sure. No photographs, no audio recorder. Everything is off the record.”

  Taylor smiled. “I guess that about covers everything. The place she’s at is in the Swallow Hills outside Moscow. Belongs to the Israeli Embassy, one of their staff houses they vacated for the meeting.” He handed me a slip of paper. “That’s the address. They’re expecting you, and the appointment is for three this afternoon.” He hesitated. “You mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Ask away.”

  He nodded over toward my father’s grave. “Bob told me your father died a pretty long time ago. How come you’re having this service here today?”

  “All I can tell you is my father worked for the American government. He died in Moscow in 1953.”

  “Did he work for our embassy here?”

  “No.”

  Taylor said, confused, “I thought Moscow was out of bounds to Americans during the Cold War, except for those working in the embassy. How did your father die?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

  Taylor looked puzzled and he went to say something else then, but suddenly thunder cracked above us and he glanced up.

  “Well, I’d like to stay and talk, but duty beckons.” He crushed his cigarette with the heel of his shoe. “I’ve got to take the padre back. Can I give you a lift someplace?”

  I tossed away my cigarette. “No need, I’ll find a taxi. I’d like to stay awhile. Thanks for your help.”

  “Whatever you say.” Taylor put up his umbrella. “Good luck, Massey. And I sure hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

  • • •

  This is what I remember.

  A cold, windy evening in March 1953. I am eight. I am in my dormitory in the boarding school in Richmond, Virginia. I hear the footsteps creak on the stairs outside, hear the door open. I look up and see the headmaster standing there, another man behind him, but this man isn’t a teacher or staff. He’s wearing an overcoat and leather gloves, and he stares at me before he smiles weakly.

  The headmaster says, “William, this gentleman is here to see you.” He looks meaningfully at the other two boys in the room. “Would you leave William alone for a while?”

  The boys depart. The headmaster withdraws. The man comes in and closes the door. He’s broad and hard-faced, with deep-set eyes, and looks every inch a soldier with his tight-cropped haircut and polished brown shoes.

  For a long time he says nothing, as if he finds what he’s about to tell me difficult, and then he says, “William, my name is Karl Branigan. I was a colleague of your father’s.”

  Something in the tone of his voice puts me on my guard, the way he says “was a colleague,” and I look up at him and ask, “What’s this about, Mr. Branigan?”

  “William, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. It’s about your father . . .he’s dead. I’m sorry . . .truly sorry.”

  The man just stands there and doesn’t speak again. And then I’m crying, but the man doesn’t come toward me or touch me or offer any comfort, and for the first time in my life I feel utterly alone. A little later I hear his footsteps go down the creaking stairs again. The wind screams and rushes outside the window. A tree branch brushes against the wall, then creaks and snaps. I call for my father. But he doesn’t answer.

  And then a scream from deep inside me, which echoes still inside my head, a terrible cry of grief, and I can’t stop my tears.

  I remember running after that. Nowhere in particular. Out through the oak doors of the school and across damp, cold Virginian fields, grief heavy as stone in my heart, until I found the cold river that ran through the grounds. I lay on the wet grass and buried my face in my hands and wished my father back.

  It was later that I learned something of my father’s death. They never told me where exactly he had died, only that it was somewhere in Europe and it had been suicide. The body had been in water for weeks and it wasn’t a pretty sight for a young boy, so they hadn’t let me see it. There was a funeral, but no more explanations or answers to my questions because no one bothers to tell a child such things. But years later those unanswered questions always came back: Why? Where? It was to take a long time to learn the truth.

  Ten days ago when my mother died I went back to the rooms where she had lived and embarked on the ritual of going through her things. There were no t
ears, because I had never really known her. We hadn’t seen each other much over the years, a card or two, a brief letter once in a while, because we had never been that close, not the way I had been with my father. My parents had divorced soon after I was born, and my mother had gone her own way, leaving my father to bring me up.

  She had been a dancer in one of the Broadway shows, and knowing my father even the little I did as a child, I always guessed they had never been suited.

  She rented a small apartment on New York’s Upper East Side. I remember the place was in disarray. An untidy single bed, a single chair, some empty gin bottles, and a bottle of blond hair dye. Letters from old boyfriends and some from my father, held together with elastic bands, kept in an old tin box under her bed.

  I found the letter from my father. Old and faded with years, its edges curling and the color of papyrus.

  It was dated January 24, 1953.

  Dear Rose,

  Just a line to let you know William is well and doing fine at school. I’m going to be away for a time, and if anything should happen to me I want you to know (as usual) there’s enough money in my account to see you both through, along with my service insurance. Dangerous times we’re living in! I hear they’re building air-raid shelters on Broadway because of the threat from the Russians.

  I’m keeping well and I hope you are. One more thing, should anything happen to me: I’d be obliged if you’d check the house, and if you find any papers lying around in the study or in the usual place in the cellar, do me a favor and pass them on to the office in Washington. Will you do that for me?

  Jake

  I read through the other letters out of curiosity. There was nothing much in there. Some were from men, notes sent backstage from someone who had seen her in the chorus line and liked her legs and wanted to buy her dinner. There were a couple more from my father, but none that hinted at how they might have once loved each other. I guess she destroyed those.