Temple of Spies Read online

  “Really? What exactly?”

  “I think he lied. They knew each other. The priest is hiding something.”

  “Have you had too much alcohol, Tom?”

  “Damn you, Chatchai. I just want to have a word with him.”

  “I don’t see any point. He barely speaks any English.”

  “I bet he’ll be more talkative with a fellow Thai. Do me a favor.”

  “He’s not Thai.”

  “Who the hell is he, then?”

  “I have no idea. What does it matter? Lee’s dead. Case closed. Enjoy your triumph. I got a busy day tomorrow. Good night, Tom.”

  Frey sat in his chair and drained another whiskey in a single gulp.

  It didn’t add up. A Russian priest in Thailand who was neither Russian nor Thai. What if he isn’t even a priest?

  Besides, North Korea remained the world’s number one persecutor of Christians. While it was possible that Lee had kept his faith secret to avoid a firing squad, he was first and foremost a North Korean officer. Worshiping Christ seemed irreconcilable with serving the very government that exterminated Christian believers. If he wasn’t a Christian, then why did he demand to see Dionysius?

  Dionysius. That wasn’t his real name. Orthodox clergy adopted new names as they entered priesthood, much like each Catholic Pope took a regnal name.

  Like Chatchai said, the routine case should have been done and dusted, but it got more confusing instead, given the circumstances of Lee’s death. Without doubt, Lee and his North Korean comrade at Laem Chabang had been low-level spies. The real facilitator of the arms deal was still out there somewhere, the eminence grise pulling the strings.

  Eminence? Priest?

  Frey’s thoughts jumbled together.

  He stepped out on the balcony and peered at the coastal lights of the city’s vibrant nightlife. Pattaya remained the first-choice destination for sex tourism. And located somewhere between the thousands of go-go bars and nightclubs, amid the debauchery of transgender prostitutes and preying pedophiles, stood the All Saints Church of the Russian Orthodox denomination. How bizarre, Frey thought. Who on earth would want to build a church in a place dubbed Sin City?

  Surreal.

  Something clicked in his mind. A sense of foreboding overcame him.

  He picked up his phone again and sent an encrypted message to Langley. He requested all available data on the activities of the Russian Orthodox Church in Thailand. A hell of a long shot, but over the years, checking every fact had become second nature to him.

  Rummaging the minibar, he retrieved a vodka and an orange juice. He mixed the two.

  Hardly had he finished his screwdriver when the reply from Langley came in.

  As he started reading the report, it made his skin crawl. Surreal was an understatement. What he saw was plain crazy.

  “Hot damn.”

  7

  Chatchai lit a cigarette to calm his nerves but his pudgy fingers trembled. He always felt edgy in the presence of Bangkok’s night overlord, Song Dae-Ju.

  The upper-level private lounge of a go-go bar in Silom had a smoking balcony which overlooked the dance floor. Psychedelic music blared from the jam-packed area below, luminous from strobe lights flashing shades of blue, pink and purple. Scantily clad working girls swarmed among the patrons, offering themselves alongside the overpriced drinks. Dancing rhythmically, on-stage performers entertained the partying crowd.

  Chatchai felt none of the excitement emanating from the dance stage. Dread gripped him under Song’s fierce glare. What made it especially chilling was the heterochromia. The right eye was brown; the left had a light hazel hue, almost gold.

  Song possessed a demonic air about him. His hair layered in bangs and dyed red, a short black jacket on his bare torso, ripped muscles bulging. And those piercing eyes, sucking the soul out of Chatchai.

  “No survivors. That was the deal. You screwed up at Laem Chabang.”

  Chatchai swallowed.

  “But—but... it’s all right now,” he stammered. “Lee is dead. No survivors.”

  “Your ineptitude forced Dionysius to risk exposure. Now the American is nosing around.”

  “There’s no way he can prove that Father Dionysius poisoned Lee. I got rid of the body myself.”

  “Proof isn’t necessary. Attention can be damaging enough. A chink in the armor, allowing a lethal blow. We have already suffered a serious setback with the detection of that arms shipment.”

  “I’m sure it’s only a minor upset. Nothing of the sort will happen again. The way you handled the whistle-blower will strike fear into the hearts of others. The American should not pose a threat. He’s clueless.”

  The multi-colored eyes narrowed in contempt.

  “For your own sake, I hope you’re right. Even if Frey figures out what he’s dealing with, it’ll be too late. I’ve already contacted Moscow. Dionysius will be gone tomorrow...”—a flick of the wrist to consult his rose-gold Omega—“today, rather. It won’t matter then. Meanwhile, enjoy the night. And always remember to serve me well, or you’ll end up floating in a khlong.”

  As he departed, Song Dae-Ju tossed a small plastic token in Chatchai’s direction. Chatchai caught it.

  A blue-colored casino chip. His pay. It had no value denoted, no markings except a large letter B on each side.

  Chatchai knew however that it was worth ten times his salary at the DSI.

  8

  He needed no dojo, no gym, no partner to practice his moves. Solitude enhanced his focus. His rigorous training did not even require any special equipment—nature had provided him with everything. He used large rocks for weights and the trunk of an apple tree in lieu of a punching bag. Concentrating in a deep shiko-dachi stance, he struck the leafless tree with bare hands and feet. From perfect stillness, his body exploded to deliver lightning-fast blows. His mind channeled his energy into each strike, feeling no pain upon impact with the stiff, hard wood. His starched, white gi rustled, held tightly by his fourth-degree black belt. The black belt was embroidered with his name, hand-stitched in golden katakana script.

  Due to the phonetic peculiarities of the Japanese language, it did not perfectly match the Russian-sounding Sokolov.

  Nothing was perfect, but he strove for perfection with each strike against the tree. Hundreds, thousands of strikes to polish his technique and, above all, forge his spirit.

  The garden was his training ground and his home. It was all that remained of his dacha in the countryside near Moscow. The loghouse built by his father had burned to the ground in an attack which Sokolov had survived only by the grace of God. He had neither the money to restore the old house, nor the desire to do it. In a recent thousand-kilometer trip down south, he had discovered the original Sokolov estate, ransacked and neglected for decades. His brother, Constantine—a historian—had learned that the mansion of their forefathers had been destroyed by the Bolsheviks almost a century before. The southern estate of their Cossack ancestors couldn’t be brought back. Similarly, Sokolov decided, should he attempt to restore his father’s house outside Moscow, it wouldn’t be the same. His memory of it sufficed. He had no time to live in the past.

  But he still had the garden, which had stayed intact, and the sky above him, the color of his azure eyes. The patch of land around him was spacious enough to perform his kata routine freely. A few naked trees surrounded him. An evergreen forest loomed beyond.

  He completed his workout, his gi soaked through. His breath came in puffs of vapor. Late autumn approached; temperatures were dropping. The ground felt cold under the withered grass as he walked back to his dwelling.

  He lived inside a semi-trailer attached to a massive KAMAZ truck. A twin orange-blue stripe ran along its side, painted in the color scheme of EMERCOM, Russia’s militarized counterpart of the American FEMA. The semi-trailer was a state-of-the-art mobile command post. Employed by EMERCOM for disaster response, the mobile command post was equipped with satellite phone and Internet comms, two-way
radio, EMERCOM intranet, and an auxiliary electrical generator in addition to a connected power line. The eight-by-two-meter body was coated with super-efficient ceramic insulation. Sokolov climbed in, embraced by the warmth of electric heating.

  Growing up at a Soviet airbase in East Germany, he’d seen far worse conditions.

  The semi-trailer was divided into four compartments: office, bedroom, kitchenette and bathroom. Lavishly furnished with a leather chair and sofa, walnut desk and cabinets, a high-end wall-mounted TV, the mobile command unit signified its occupant’s high rank within the government agency. Indeed, Eugene Sokolov commanded EMERCOM’s Extra-Risk Team, the elite rescue unit deployed for the most dangerous missions.

  After Sokolov’s house had burned down, General Klimov, the EMERCOM boss, had donated the mobile command post to his best officer for temporary use.

  Nothing is more permanent than the temporary, Sokolov thought.

  As he traversed the oblong section, the desk phone rang.

  The EMERCOM hotline.

  He picked up the corded handset.

  “Gene,” said Klimov, his voice tense. “Get ready. The matter is urgent. Sergei will pick you up in ten minutes. The plane is on the runway.”

  Abruptly, Klimov hung up.

  Sokolov proceeded without deliberation. His job required absolute subordination. Human lives depended on his actions. For now, Klimov had told him everything he needed to know. He would have the details later.

  He showered and changed into his EMERCOM uniform, sapphire-blue with an orange beret. Lacing his boots, he looked at the dial of his Breitling Superocean chronometer. Nine minutes had elapsed.

  He exited the semi-trailer and heard the distant sound of a rumbling diesel. A Land Rover Defender approached, also painted white with the twin orange-blue EMERCOM stripe. Sokolov’s right-hand man, Sergei Zubov, sat behind the wheel. No sooner had Sokolov got in the passenger seat than the Defender made a sharp turn and drove back toward the highway.

  Neither tall nor athletic, head shaved, brow furrowed, his face craggy and long-nosed, Zubov looked the complete opposite of his commander. But he and Sokolov weren’t just team-mates, they were closest friends who trusted each other with their lives. Zubov drummed his fingers on the steering wheel nervously. Sokolov knew him well enough to sense that something was bothering him deeply.

  “What’s going on, Serge? I’m off duty this week.”

  “It’s an off-duty assignment.”

  “Unofficial?”

  “Our agency has been asked for a favor by that other agency. In no uncertain terms.”

  Sokolov sighed. “Bastards.”

  “Klimov is under a lot of pressure from the SVR.” Zubov referred to the Russian foreign intelligence service.

  “What do they want?”

  “They want us to save their skins.”

  “We’re rescuers all right, but they must have misunderstood the notion.”

  Zubov shrugged. “They want us to clean up their mess, whether we like it or not.”

  “So what’s this mess we’re getting ourselves into?”

  “I only know the gist of it. Their guy blew his cover or something. They want us to fly in and get him out.”

  “Destination?”

  “Thailand.”

  “I see. He can’t do it on his own because of the riots. All of the Thai airports have been closed.”

  “Exactly. And we’re going in under the official pretense of a relief mission. Like, helping out the poor Russians stranded in Thailand. Tourists, diplomats, their families, take your pick. In reality, we’re only bringing back the SVR guy.”

  “Why us, though? The Extra-Risk Team? Sounds like a mundane mission for any crew.”

  “Let me explain. EMERCOM is in good international standing due to our humanitarian program. The aid we provided to Thailand following the 2004 tsunami has not been forgotten. An inbound EMERCOM flight won’t raise any eyebrows, unlike a Russian military plane. But also, the Thai authorities must save face. They want to avoid diplomatic backlash after the dead body of a Russian tourist showed up in a Bangkok canal. So the Thai government would rather grant us permission to land than face a scandal.”

  “And that’s our smokescreen.”

  Zubov nodded. “Klimov thought you’d be the best man to settle the incident. As a matter of fact, the corpse carried a passport issued in your full name. Eugene Ivanovich Sokolov.”

  “What a weird coincidence.”

  “Coincidence or not, the passport holder also shared your date of birth.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  “The embassy guy meeting us there will fill you in.”

  Sokolov found the news disturbing. Whether the man found dead in Bangkok had been an unlikely namesake or an unfathomable impostor, his personal involvement in the affair felt almost fatalistic.

  They reached the EMERCOM airbase. A gleaming white Ilyushin transport jet with orange-and-blue markings awaited on the tarmac, engines running.

  “The exfiltration should be straightforward,” said Sokolov. “We fly in, grab the spy and deliver him to Moscow. Am I right?”

  “Well … Here comes the worst part. It’s not Russia that we must take him to. It’s North Korea.”

  9

  Restless, Tom Frey waited for the sun to rise. He re-read the memo again, overcoming his initial disbelief.

  There were six Russian churches in Thailand.

  Pattaya held not one but two of them.

  The idea of Russian tourists going on a pilgrimage to Pattaya stretched credibility. Neither Thais nor Westerners, who made up the majority of visitors to the country, had any use whatsoever for one, let alone two or six.

  The Russian expat community in Thailand measured in far too insignificant numbers to warrant such a strong clerical presence. What purpose did the churches serve?

  The answer stung Frey as he studied the list of parishes. Using their secular names, he had requested additional data for each priest and combined the results. What he had least anticipated was getting hits as he ran their real identities through all available military records.

  To his amazement, each and every one of them was on file.

  1. St. Nicholas Chapel. Bangkok. Priest: Archimandrite Theodore, secular name Vadim Savin. Retired Sergeant, Russian Airborne Troops, 76th Air Assault Division, with over thirty combat missions in Chechnya.

  2. Holy Trinity Church. Phuket. Priest: Hierodeacon Flavian, secular name Georgi Kirienko. SVR Colonel, retired.

  3. Holy Dormition Monastery. Rachatburi Province. Priest: Hieromonk Agathangel, secular name Vladimir Melnik. Retired Captain, Russian 58th Army, 19th Motorized Rifle Division, involved in the 2008 South Ossetia War.

  4. Holy Ascension Church. Koh Samui. Priest: Father Seraphim, secular name Dmitry Shatsky. Former GRU officer, 22nd Guards Spetsnaz Brigade. Infiltrated Crimea with an illegal paramilitary group to support the Russian annexation. Suspected of fighting in the war against Ukraine as part of covert invasion force.

  5. Church of the Protection of Mother of God. Pattaya. Priest: Hieromonk Nicander, secular name Boris Babich. Graduated cum laude from the Soviet Institute of Marxism-Leninism, degree in Atheism. Previously appointed to the Orthodox Cathedral in Havana, Cuba.

  Could it be? Using the church as a front for clandestine operations?

  It was not by any means unheard of. Tales of diabolical papal intrigues dated back to the Middle Ages. But to think that in the twenty-first century, modern-day spies were disguising themselves as clerics ...

  No matter how far-fetched, the pattern emerged clearly. Four priests with Russian military or special forces background, and one devout communist welcomed by Castro’s oppressive regime as a Christian missionary. The mysterious Cold War connection did not end there. None of the church staff were local Thais. The Russian priests were assisted by immigrants from Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam—all former communist or socialist countries.

  Frey never jumped to conclusions
without hard evidence, yet he found no other logical explanation for the data. The bigger picture needed cross-checking. For the moment, it could wait. Whatever rotten was going on in the Russian Church, it wasn’t his current priority. He got the result he needed. The sixth parish on the list.

  It was the final entry which had stunned him the most.

  6. All Saints Church. Pattaya. Priest: Father Dionysius, secular name Ri Kwang-Hyok.

  The name produced only one known match in the database. There could be no mistake.

  Special Battalion, Reconnaissance Agency of the Korean People’s Army.

  Many Koreans often had matching full names. Tom Frey kept that cultural phenomenon fully in mind but he left nothing to coincidence. Beyond doubt, it was the same man. The man known as Dionysius was serving on active duty in North Korea’s special operations unit.

  10

  A landscape of tropical vegetation and paddy fields appeared in view during descent. The EMERCOM cargo plane landed at Don Muang before the sun reached its zenith, yet the heat was perceptible. The warm temperature presented a welcome change from the bleak, overcast chillness of Moscow. Humidity hung in the air but the monsoon season had passed. The clear sky promised excellent conditions for the return leg with almost no chance of rain.

  Two men greeted Sokolov: a Thai general and a Russian diplomat. Introductions were made, pleasantries exchanged.

  David Kinkladze wore a short-sleeved shirt and tie, gray trousers and blue Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses and carried a leather bag. As a Russian spy, Kinkladze worked under the official embassy cover of a cultural attaché.

  General Udomkul bared his yellow teeth as he spoke.

  “Welcome to Thailand, Major Sokolov. I assure you that your crew will have full cooperation from the ground staff.”

  “Thank you, General,” Kinkladze interjected. “We appreciate your friendship and the growing rapport between our great nations. The plane should be refueled and ready for take-off by the time Mr. Sokolov and I return with our passenger.”