Gray prepped some gear from his pack, including a digital monocular spyglass, one that was capable of taking pictures. He then set up a tactical parabolic microphone for eavesdropping. It had a range of six hundred yards, more than enough to cross the distance to the church.
But will I need any of this equipment?
Minutes ticked past with no sign of anything suspicious.
Even the rats got bored and traipsed past the interlopers with brazen disregard.
And apparently it wasn’t just the vermin who needed some distraction.
“Our wedding,” Seichan said abruptly, her voice neutral.
Still, Gray heard the slight catch in those two words. “What about it?”
“Maybe we should postpone.”
He lowered his spyglass. “Why? July twenty-fourth is perfect. It’s when we first met.”
She gave him a sidelong look. “If you recall, we shot each other back then.”
He shrugged. “It’s our meet-cute.”
She cast him a withering glare. “With everything in flux, with Sigma on the edge of termination, maybe we should wait until matters settle. Who knows where we’ll be when—”
The growl of an engine cut her off.
They both turned to the window, lifting their respective scopes.
A black limousine wended through the monastery gates. Rather than heading to the church’s portico, the vehicle circled to the back of the building.
“Maybe someone is preparing for an evening wedding,” Gray mumbled. “Someone who hasn’t gotten cold feet.”
The driver climbed out and opened the door for a figure dressed in an ankle-length black cassock, sashed in gold. Even in the shadows, a large orthodox cross glinted under the man’s prominent, oiled beard.
“If it’s a wedding,” Seichan whispered, “there’s the priest.”
Using his spyglass, Gray snapped a few pictures of the man.
From the other side of the limo, another figure exited, unfolding his large frame. He had to stand seven feet tall. He was dressed in a dark robe. As he straightened, he adjusted a cylindrical flat-topped hat, a clerical chapeau called akamilavka, typically worn by an orthodox monk. Gray only knew such details because he had studied up on the owners of this place—the Russian Orthodox Church.
The tall fellow crossed around to the other, his shoulders and head dropping in clear deference to the priest. The monk’s arms and hands fluttered for a moment. It appeared to be sign language.
Gray continued taking pictures.
“Too bad Kowalski’s not here,” Seichan whispered.
Gray understood what she meant. Kowalski—who had a deaf younger sister—was fluent in American Sign Language, but the Russian versionwas distinctly different due to cultural and linguistic variances, though likely a few phrases were shared.
The priest clearly understood the monk and waved to the church’s rear. The large man headed up the steps to an arched doorway, which was flanked by ornate iron wall sconces. The priest remained below.
Gray wondered if the monk had any ties to this church. From his research, he knew the building had been turned into a museum in the twenties, then a cinema in the thirties, before becoming a school for the deaf and hard of hearing in the nineties. Even the services held in the current church were accompanied by sign-language interpreters.
Still, there was only one way to know more about these new arrivals.
Gray raised the microphone’s parabolic dish to the window. The device was wirelessly patched to the earpieces that both he and Seichan wore and had been equipped with real-time translation.
The monk tapped an iron knocker on the old door. The amplified sound was loud enough in Gray’s ear to make him cringe. The monk stepped back, folding his arms. He glanced back to the priest as he waited for a response.
Finally, the door swung open.
