“I see,” van Wagoner said, taking it back. He folded it carefully and put it in his pocket.

Father Giorgi’s coffee arrived and the man followed him to a table by the window.

“I’ve helped you. Now please, go away,” Father Giorgi said. He had a lot to think about.

“The note was left by a man who was watching you and Alex Zhukovsky at your church last night.”

The vanilla soy latte flew off the table as Father Giorgi’s hand jerked reflexively. Van Wagoner caught it neatly and set it back on the table.

“Who sent you?” Giorgi said. He looked at the license that was being held out toward him. “Who do you represent?” He looked at the man’s hands-not even a wedding ring, at his feet-expensive loafers, and into his eyes-where he saw something tough but not, at the moment, threatening.

“I’m here to prevent the breaking of some more Commandments,” the investigator said. “I think the sixth and the ninth have already been broken by Mr. Zhukovsky. I don’t have much time, and my car is in the shop, and I had to sleep in a noisy hotel room without so much as a toothbrush last night. So please bear with me if I’m a little brusque.”

“What’s this about the Commandments?”

“You know. The one that says you shouldn’t kill people, and the one that forbids bearing false witness against your neighbor. Mr. Zhukovsky lied in a court of law yesterday. And he may have killed his sister.”

“That is ridiculous. What’s this got to do with me?”

“He spent the evening with you. Did he talk about it?”

“If he did, I couldn’t tell you,” Father Giorgi said. “The sanctity of the confession…”

The man interrupted, “The Russian following Mr. Zhukovsky-any idea who he might be?”

“I couldn’t say.” But what crushing news.

Sergey Krilov! Still here, still making trouble!

Alex’s confession had been heartfelt. They had stood side by side in front of the Book of Gospels and the Cross, and Alex had said, “I lied to the Court, Father. I distorted the truth.” They had talked, and Alex prayed the prayer of Absolution. Then Giorgi made his pitch, and Alex rejected it.

Could Alex have killed Christina? He would have confessed, Giorgi thought; he is a believer. This comforted him for a moment. He sipped at the hot coffee, studying the investigator. Was it nevertheless possible that Alex had gotten rid of Christina out of some subversive desire to take her place?

If so, he would have been more accommodating to Giorgi’s plans. No, it made no sense. This investigator must be trying to trick him. Why should he trust this man with those narrowed, flecked eyes? Maybe he was actually sent by Krilov and his gang to intimidate and confuse.

“I can’t help you,” Giorgi said. He needed to warn Alex, but he didn’t want this man to see how flustered he felt. He drank the hot foamy liquid, resenting the fact that he couldn’t enjoy it, set it down carefully, and laced his hands.

A complete silence ensued. Father Giorgi was used to silence. He began praying sub voce. Holy Mother, send this guy away.

Van Wagoner studied him, then his whole body seemed to relax. “I understand there are things you can’t say.”

“Right.” Giorgi straightened his cassock and took another sip of his coffee. “Now then, who are you?”

“As you saw on my card, a licensed private investigator. I’m working with the defense in the matter of the murder of Christina Zhukovsky.”

“You’re helping the man accused of killing her?”

“Is there something you should confess to me, Father? I can’t believe you would allow my client to be sentenced to life in prison if Alex Zhukovsky confessed to the murder last night.”

“He did no such thing; I will tell you that. Your client must have killed her. His blood was found in her…” Father Giorgi stopped.

“You know about the case, Father. Following the trial?”

“Not really. I just-it’s a tragedy. A matter of interest to the Russian community in Northern California.”

“I see. Why is that?”

Giorgi thought hard for an answer. He could not tell the truth. The pain had dulled after four months of daily prayer, but the greater disappointment remained. All that Christina could have been, dashed to bits by this young American, Wyatt…

“Was Christina a prominent member of the community?”

“Yes, that’s it. She was a great organizer. You know about the conference she set up at the college?”

“Yes.”

“That conference brought many factions of the community together.”

“Were you there?”

“Briefly. I went only the first day. She asked me to be there. I think she was a little nervous.”

“How well did you know Christina?”

“From the time she was a little girl. Do you actually believe this accused person might be innocent?”

“I’m working on it. How did you come to know Christina and Alex?”

There seemed no harm in discussing the past, so Father Giorgi said, “A family of the faithful. Their parents always came to the Holy Virgin Cathedral, even after they moved to Monterey many years ago. Their mother passed away, but Constantin still brought Alex and Christina to us. Christina was a-good woman and a true believer. I miss her.”

“So you knew Constantin Zhukovsky?”

“Of course, but he died many years ago.”

Paul pulled out some photographs. He handed one to Father Giorgi.

“This was buried with Constantin Zhukovsky.”

“Yes. I remember the medal. I performed his burial service, as I did for Christina.”

“Can you tell me something about it?”

“Saint George was a Christian martyr, and is venerated as sacred in the Orthodox tradition. He represents a valiant, selfless warrior. It’s suggested by some scholars that the story of his slaying the dragon is a recasting of the Greek legend of Perseus, who rescued Andromeda from a sea monster. I’ve seen very old ikons at Novgorod State University dating back to the tenth century.”

Actually, he was a good saint who interested Giorgi. He didn’t mind talking about Saint George. He just didn’t want to discuss the medal.

The tall man listened for a while, until Giorgi veered way off the point and he got exasperated. “So Constantin really was a page of the tsar of Russia. Where else would he get something like this medal?”

Father Giorgi cringed at this turn of conversation. “He used to tell that story, among others.”

“He knew them, then. The imperial family.”

How many times had Constantin talked about his youth, the incredible last days of Old Russia, the tsarevitch’s pony, the padded saddle and stirrups, the excruciating attacks the boy endured whenever he bumped his hand or body, the blood leaking slowly through the capillaries, ballooning into terrifying hematomas. And yet the boy had wanted to play; he wanted to ride, wanted to live.

Constantin had said, “He was brave, but he did cry.” The tsarina weeping in the anteroom outside his bedroom. Rasputin, summoned, murmuring unknown things to the boy, passing his hands over the boy’s body, while Constantin stood in a corner, invisible, waiting to be called for any task.

As he recounted these memories of his early life, Constantin would always tear up. He had only escaped the purges by accident, he told them. Then his stories would begin to conflict. Once he said he had fled to Estonia, once to Finland. His parents died in various ways, in labor camps in the thirties, on a farm in Finland, even during the Revolution while still in Russia.

The details never matched, and Father Giorgi had begun to wonder. So many people who had gone through these terrible experiences made up stories to fill the holes in their memories. So many people lived ordinary pasts and embellished them, because who does not enjoy a good story?

What Russian does not have many secrets? What was Constantin’s real story? He had tried many times to cajole the truth out of the old man. But the truth had been left for much, much later.