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Copyright 2011
Text and Photographs by Harrison Gradwell Slater
All Rights Reserved
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living
or dead, is purely coincidental.
Chapter Ten
Saint Petersburg
Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto, 1st Movement
Surrounded on all sides and above by the dramatic frescoed saints
of the Church of Our Savior on Spilled Blood, Matthew sat silently in wonder ... and thanks.
In his hands was a photocopy taken from the elusive diary of Tchaikovsky: Identical size of unlined paper and margins,
with the unmistakable handwriting of Pyotr Ilyich. Events had progressed so rapidly that Matthew was having difficulty comprehending
what had happened.
At a café in Tbilisi, Matthew had picked up a newspaper and was stunned
to read that his friend and colleague, the renowned Nikolai Rubinstein scholar, Dr. Laura Akhillyes had been pushed down the
stairs of her home in a wheelchair, and left for dead. "Home invasion" was the term The Saint Petersburg
Times had used.
Matthew's admiration and respect
for Laura (as she insisted on being called) was enormous, even though they had managed to disagree on many issues, particularly
whether Tchaikovsky had died of cholera, or suicide.
Within an hour of reading the newspaper
article, Matthew Pierce had packed his suitcase and was on his way to the airport, to reach the hospital in St. Petersburg
where Dr. Akhillyes was recuperating.
* * *
Trying to stop his eyes from welling up with tears, Matthew asked, "Laura, how could anyone do this to you?"
Calmly, she replied, "Thank God for my low blood pressure. They thought I was dead.
Even here in the hospital, they can't find my pulse."
"But why did they do it?"
Matthew asked.
"It's a long story, but maybe I'll tell you someday before I die."
Matthew didn't force the issue. Instead, he told her about his misfortunes with the Tchaikovsky
diary, and about the Orthodox priest and the elderly woman who had been shot to death over a page of the diary.
Dr. Akhillyes thought for a few moments, then said solemnly, "I might have a page from that diary you're looking
for. It's over there on my laptop."
The nurses at the hospital had set up Laura's
computer on a desk and, guided by Dr. Akhillyes, Matthew found the file easily.
"Print
it out," she said. "I've already sent copies to experts at several Russian institutes."
Watching
the printed document emerge, Matthew asked, dumbfounded, "Where did you get this?"
"From the men of the 'History Foundation'," she replied. "They wanted to exchange it for
my Rubinstein letter."
As Matthew started to inquire, she interrupted him. "Matthew,
tell me something. Do Palestinians speak Yiddish?"
After thinking, he replied, "To
the best of my knowledge, no."
Dr. Akhillyes reflected a second, then said, "The men
who put me here were wearing Palestinian scarves. But I could understand them when they talked quietly among themselves.
And they were speaking Yiddish."
Matthew gazed up once again into the ecstatic splendor of the frescoed domes of the Church of Our Savior
on Spilled Blood, and began to read and translate the diary, thanking God for bringing Laura Akhillyes back into his
life, like Lazarus from the grave. And once again, he joined Pyotr Ilyich on his journey.
Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto, 2nd Movement
January 28, 1879
In Clarens, on
Lake Geneva, I tried in vain to recover from my disastrous marriage with Antonina (God, how I dread even the mention of that
terrible name!).
That was until my composition pupil, Iosif Kotek arrived.
Then everything changed.
Immediately upon his arrival, we began performing violin and piano
together, and I opened the score to Lalo's Symphonie espagnole. Iosif's delightful violin playing inspired
me to undertake a new work of passion and immediacy - my violin concerto - which I completed in less than a month's time.
Iosif threw himself into every new page I wrote (and threw himself into my arms, as well).
Each day, it was astonishing to hear him working out technical difficulties of my new concerto, which was not written,
but rather born ... of hope, and joy and optimism.
Yet, at the height of creative exhilaration,
I find myself once again thwarted and humiliated by these infernal Khazars, who seem to work in concert, as if guided
by some kind of diabolical communal mind.
This afternoon, I left Leopold Auer's home in
a state of suicidal exasperation, reminiscent of when Nikolai Rubinstein tried to prevent the premiere of my piano concerto,
using every deceptive and underhanded trick imaginable. Today the same thing happened with my Violin Concerto.
When I arrived at Auer's home, in my hands was the ultimate gift and hommage, born of love and spontaneity, and
dedicated to him.
Auer had premiered my Sérénade mélancholic,
and partially because of my recent difficulties with Rubinstein and his host of collaborator spies, I had tried to include
one from among their ranks. This time, however, the results were disastrous, in fact worse than when I asked Rubinstein
to premiere my piano concerto, because my present confidence and reputation as an established composer had led me to
believe that Auer could only welcome my new work.
Instead, this healthy newborn child,
my violin concerto, was received more like a sacrifice to the insatiable bloodlust of the god Moloch, who in times
past received the offerings of infant boys burnt alive in his arms.
After many superficial
pleasantries over my dedication of the work to him, already printed, Leopold proceeded to scrutinize the concerto, then to
say exactly what Nikolai Rubinstein had said of my piano concerto, as if rehearsed: "Unplayable and worthless."
While Auer did not specifically use the word "unplayable," he nevertheless managed
to convey that meaning, using every possible phrase and synonym. And while he did not use Rubinstein's favorite
epithet - "worthless" - he nevertheless said, with a golden forked tongue and erudite phrases, the same thing:
"It seems to me that the concerto is lacking in intrinsic worth."
And, unlike
Rubinstein, he did not generously offer to perform it if I changed every note. Rather, he categorically stated
that he would not play it at all, though the date of the premiere had already been scheduled. Thus, singlehandedly,
he succeeded in sabotaging the premiere, so that my gift to the world, a work which stands alongside my piano concerto in
buoyant inspiration and beauty, would not be performed.
* * *
Matthew finished the page of the diary, and reflected on the grievances Tchaikovsky had expressed against
Leopold Auer and Nikolai Rubinstein. Painfully, Matthew remembered what had happened to his own country, one year
earlier, during the spring and summer of 2012, when World War III had been triggered by Israel's unprovoked attack on
Iran.
Having opted for a long walk
through the streets of St. Petersburg, Matthew recalled that terrible spring and summer of 2012, which
had led to massive destruction of the American homeland and Europe. Coupled with the Israeli bombing of Iran,
there had been a nuclear false flag attack on the Willis Tower in Chicago.
Although
Israeli leaders and the media had immediately announced that Iran had been responsible for the attack, this time
the American military provided their own intelligence indicating that, like 9/11, the destruction of the Willis
Tower had been "planned and executed by the American CIA and the Mossad, with the help of the Zionist world."
As he entered St. Isaac's Cathedral, Matthew felt immersed in the greatest
art of Christian civilization, which had somehow been spared the terrible conflagration that had reduced most of
the Western world to ashes. His eyes immediately met those of a young and incomprehensibly triste Madonna,
holding her infant, surrounded by a dazzling sea of elaborated silver and precious stones.
Matthew shuddered when he remembered the terrible retribution meted out by the U. S. military,
the American people and the Almighty, to the wicked perpetrators of that crime against humanity. Those immediately responsible
were arrested and imprisoned, and public execution by guillotine was chosen as a just and effective means of punishment.
The country of Israel had been left uninhabitable as a result of the explosion of hundreds of nuclear
bombs hidden deep beneath the sands of Dimona - weapons of mass destruction that David Ben-Gurion and Menachem Begin had
wanted so much, they had contracted Meyer Lansky and the CIA to assassinate JFK.
Citizens of that country were refused entrance into all other places in the world, except those that
were radioactive and barren. Thus they were forced to live the remainder of their lives in a virtual Hell on earth ... a
smouldering ashtray.
Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto, 3rd Movement
As Matthew continued his walk by
pastel façades lining the canals of St. Petersburg, the sound of a violinist playing the third movement of the
Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto reached his ears, filling him with a lightness of existence that was fresh and inextinguishable.
"Hope," Matthew thought. "And joy ... and optimism."
Once
again, he understood that Tchaikovsky's music was totally life-affirming.
And Matthew
Pierce knew, despite all the obstacles and sacrifices he was experiencing, that everything he was doing was for
good. "I'm in this for the long run," he said. "Even Eternity."
"The Ritual" by Apostolos Paraskevas
(Begin "The Ritual" at tracking 2:01)
Father Jerzy was stunned by
the cacaphonic madness taking place in the Church of St. James, which had been set up as a huge anatomical theater, to accommodate
hundreds of the most famous surgeons and theologians in Europe. Watching from above in the theatrical loges were erudite
ecclesiastics and medical specialists from every corner of the Western Christian world.
On the anatomical table was a woman with restraints on her wrists and ankles, gyrating in a genuinely mad and perverse fashion,
as two older priests tried desperately - and unsuccessfully - to keep her breasts and private parts covered.
"The devil has really outdone himself," Father Erynn whispered to Jerzy. "Can you imagine the irony of
all these old priests being forced to watch this? Many of them have never even seen a woman's body in their
entire lives."
"What's happening to her?" Jerzy asked.
Erynn reflected for a moment. "It seems to me like the devil is having carnal relations with her, right here on
the table."
Above their heads, shadows of huge flocks of bats swooped down from one side
of the frescoed ceilings to the other. Jerzy had difficulty deciding if they were real, or just shadows.
"Don't pay attention to anything going on here," Erynn said, shouting above the wild noises - sacred and profane.
"Moloch is a liar. These are tricks and illusions."
Chandeliers loaded with
huge candles were causing bizarre lighting effects throughout the church. The flames of tapered candles were suddenly
popping off, then reigniting with a bright flare. Because of the changes in the light, each time Jerzy looked,
the candles seemed to be a different color: At first, they were traditional ivory; then the diabolical ebony of
a Black Mass; then the shifting light made them a deep mahogany red, dripping with what looked like thick clotted
blood.
"I told you not to pay
attention," Father Erynn shouted, bolting Jerzy back into the real world. "We have to stop this exorcism."
There were so many experts packed into the church that Father Erynn found himself exasperated in
his attempts to get to the Archbishop reciting the first-century rite of exorcism in Aramaic. "What part is he
reading now?" Erynn shouted.
"I just heard the word, 'Moloch',"
Jerzy replied, pushing harder through the mad scene. "You know what that means."
Erynn
and Jerzy crossed themselves fervently. Using the full weight of their bodies, the two priests slammed against
the crowd blocking their way, shouting, "One, two, three!"
Suddenly,
they found themselves lying on the floor, immediately in the center of the ceremony.
When the Archbishop spoke the Aramaic word, "Come," the entire church shook as all the windows blew outward
into the dark with a noise that resembled a punctured balloon racing around a room.
"Saints
preserve us," Erynn said, crossing himself and reverting back to the Irish brogue of his youth. "Don't
look."
But Jerzy had yet to see what had happened, and instantly he regretted it.
"Oh, God," he said. "Oh, God."
The limp body of the woman on the table resembled
an inflatable doll that had lost all of its air. Her internal organs, moist and still throbbing, were lying
on the table beneath her: Pancreas, liver, lungs, intestines, heart, gall bladder. All had passed out
of her body cavity from between her legs and were as easily recognizable as the transparent charts of a grotesque anatomical
textbook.
After a full day of exploring
Paris on foot, Matthew settled into his suite at the Four Seasons George V, and realized he still had time before his dinner
engagement with Viscount René de Laguerelle at the restaurant, Le Cinq. "Viscount René paid $10,000
for this photocopy," he thought. "And several people lost their lives over it. So I'd better be
able to at least tell the viscount what it's all about."
As he unwrapped his Aramaic
dictionary, just purchased on the Rue du Louvre, Matthew looked at his watch and thought, "I have about an hour."
Because of his training with old diaries, Matthew immediately noticed that there were two distinct
handwritings in the pergament. He counted the differing words: Five.
Methodically,
he began a translation of those words. Leafing through the old dictionary, he spoke the first word aloud in Aramaic
: "I."
Inexplicably, the desk where Matthew was seated bolted up a
few inches above his knees, where it remained suspended in the air, then crashed back forcefully on the floor.
Speechless, Matthew called the concierge. "Did we just have an earthquake?"
"No, Monsieur. Why, did you feel some shaking in your suite?"
Straightforwardly,
Matthew replied, "My desk just came up, then fell down on the floor."
"I don't know what to tell you, Monsieur." As an afterthought, he
added, "Should I send someone up to refill your minibar?"
"No, thanks,"
he replied.
After Matthew hung up, it occurred to him that
the concierge was implying, in a very French way, that he was intoxicated.
Once again, Matthew
leafed through the Aramaic dictionary: "Embrace."
With the sound of a bomb going
off, every door and window in his suite flew wide open, violently. Breathlessly, Matthew whispered, "That
scared the shit out of me. Pardon my French."
Calling the concierge again,
Matthew asked, "What was that loud noise?"
"What loud noise?" the concierge
replied.
Realizing the futility of asking the concierge, Matthew closed back all the doors and
windows of his suite, and proceeded with the third word of his translation. "You."
Without warning, every light in Matthew's apartment shut off, and he found himself in total darkness. Silently, he
contemplated the best thing to do. As he sat thinking, Matthew felt the macabre sensation of numerous kabuki actors
dressed in black, attempting to grip his ankles and wrists.
Indignantly, Matthew stood up, slapped
off the "hands in the dark" and exited his suite defiantly, determined never to return. "What the hell
is going on here?" he said aloud. "For a five-star hotel, this is simply unacceptable."
Martin Libby imagined that
he was flying his wife-to-be to Dublin for a romantic weekend that would outshine all others. In his pocket was
the most expensive diamond he could find in the least amount of time: A Cartier Solitaire 1895.
When Nicoletta boarded Martin's new jet, she had much bigger issues to deal with than a marriage proposal. Her father-in-law,
Sid, international arms dealer and President of B'nai B'rith, was experiencing serious setbacks that he attributed
to his purchase of Martin's new "weapon."
"So how do you like it?" Martin
asked.
"How do I like what?" Nicoletta replied.
"My
new private jet. It's a Gulfstream G650."
"Oh, please, Martin. It's
a jet. To me, they all look the same."
That was not the response Martin was expecting.
As he fingered the felt Cartier box in his pocket, he thought, "Wow, this babe is a real live wire."
As the flight attendant brought champagne and roasted almonds with three kinds of herbs, Martin launched ahead. "We
have two suites in the Shelbourne in Dublin. There are some great pubs, and the Irish National Gallery is right around
the corner. Caravaggio's 'Judas Kiss'...."
Calmly, Nicoletta interrupted
him. "Martin, my father-in-law is losing his mind. And he thinks it's because of what you sold him."
"Slow down," Martin said. "Just the facts, ma'am."
Nicoletta took a breath. "He hears voices coming up from the ground. And he feels hands pulling at him whenever
he's in the dark. All his dreams are nightmares of Hell."
Martin thought for
a second. "Maybe he needs psychiatric help." In college, Martin had worked for a medical health insurance
company and had learned how to deny every claim.
Exasperated, Nicoletta screamed, "He's
eighty years old. And Jewish. Now all of a sudden, he's begging me to find him an exorcist."
All Martin could come up with was, "That's really weird."
Practically in tears,
Nicoletta asked, "Have you had other problems with this 'weapon'? Where did you get it from?"
Martin thought back to his experience in Afghanistan, and decided it would be better not to reveal it to his future bride.
Martin had been part of the special forces unit that had been "approved ... all
the way to the top" to put four bullets in the head of the great peace activist and American hero, Pat Tillman.
Likewise, when Martin first met the young soldier who had found the Aramaic rite of exorcism in Bamiyan, where the explosion
of the Buddha had opened ancient hiding places in the cliffs, Martin's natural reaction was to deliver four bullets directly
to his forehead. After Martin wiped his fingerprints off the gun and placed it in the hand of the young soldier,
he reported his best CIA response. "Obviously a suicide, Sir."
Martin looked up to see Nicoletta staring at him with an incredulous expression on her face. "I don't
know what to tell you," Martin said. "Why don't you find him a good therapist?"
Immediately, both Nicoletta and Martin understood that their weekend in Dublin was not going to be the "romantic getaway"
planned.
Nicoletta smiled elusively, like Leonardo's Mona Lisa. Her real purpose
for the trip was to record voice samples of Martin, using her small, ultrasophisticated recording device, which would then
be emailed to Sid's son, Erik, in his bunker of supercomputers used for surveillance, where he posed as
a sound engineer. Nicoletta's script, which she rehearsed with Sid and his Mossad handler, included questions like,
"So, you're happy with your new jet?" With flawless splicing and voice morphing, Martin's reply,
"I'm very happy with it," would become, "I'm very happy I killed them all."
Martin was being set up to "confess" to all of the killings caused by the Bamiyan rite of exorcism, using the most
modern weapons from the CIA arsenal: Heart attack tasers, carbon dioxide pellets that explode and leave no trace, and
microwaves that bake and liquify the internal organs of an unsuspecting subject.
Unfortunately
for Nicoletta, Martin Libby had been tipped off to the Mossad plan, and was quite happy to answer all her questions, as he
snorted the abundant supply of CIA cocaine on his jet. When the time came, he knew, Nicoletta's betrayal
was going to be rewarded with the most violent, brutal rape Martin had "achieved" to date.
As he washed roasted almonds with thyme and tarragon down with champagne, Martin smiled and thought, "Man, am I going
to enjoy this."
Chapter Fourteen
Barcelona
"Our Father" from Tchaikovsky's Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom
Fathers
Jerzy and Erynn walked beneath the astonishing pillars of Gaudi's La Sagrada Familia in wonder and awe. "So
what happened to the parchment of the rite of exorcism in the anatomical theater?" Jerzy asked. "Did you destroy
it?"
"No," Father Erynn replied. "Because it's a precious document.
Only the five words evoking Moloch had to be obliterated forever. The rest is a genuine rite of exorcism from the first
century, very possibly with the original words of Christ."
Father Erynn continued, "Over
a thousand years ago, when I was in seminary...." When he suddenly realized what he had said, he stopped short
and apologized. "I think that was 'too much information'."
Ignoring
his gaffe, Jerzy asked, "What did you learn in seminary?"
"That every time Moloch
is invited into this world, over a million innocent people will die. Look what happened in Prague in 1711.
The Black Death. And in America in 2001. 9/11."
Jerzy looked up into Gaudi's
masterpiece, and reflected. "So we're here to stop the CIA agent who is disseminating Moloch all over the world."
"Yes," Father Erynn replied.
"And how are we going
to do that?"
Erynn took a deep breath. "We have to kill him, of course."
Seeing the look of complete shock on Father Jerzy's face, Father Erynn added, "But first,
we have to get rid of every single copy he's sold of that damned rite of exorcism."
Chapter Fifteen
Saint Petersburg
Dr. Akhillyes
looked out her window to watch the most beautiful sunset she had ever seen on Palace Square where, at the summit of the
Alexander Column, a proud angel held the crucifix defiantly. Like Laura, faithful to her beliefs
until the end. Somehow she knew this would be the last sunset she would ever see from her apartment.
Defiantly, she rolled her wheelchair back to her desk. Picking up the phone, she dialed Matthew's cell. As
she looked at the marvelous wood inlay from the eighteenth century, Laura remembered her deceased husband's excitement
when he had found the desk in St. Petersburg. "Look, Laura," he had said, full of optimism. "A
French 'lover's bow' from the period of Louis XV."
Even after they had been
married, Laura and Dr. Akhillyes had always remained, first and foremost, "lovers."
"Hello, Matthew," she said. "It's Laura."
Although Matthew Pierce
was thrilled to hear the voice of his friend and colleague, the call arrived, unfortunately, at the exact moment when
an entire crew of waiters and sommeliers at Le Cinq in the Four Seasons Hotel George V were waiting to hear if he would accept
a bottle of white wine, a 2007 Criots-
Bâtard-Montrachet, Domaine Fontaine-Gagnard.
"Viscount," Matthew apologized to his host. "My colleague, Laura Akhillyes is calling from St. Petersburg."
In the Grand Lobby, Matthew asked, almost whispering, "How are you, Laura?"
"Look, Matthew," she said. "I won't keep you. I just sent you in
the mail today a photocopy of a document that I think you'll like. I received it from the gentlemen of
the 'History Foundation'."
Breathlessly, Matthew replied, "Thank you,
Laura."
"It's a page from your Tchaikovsky diary," she continued.
"Maybe even the one you were trying to buy in Tbilisi."
Matthew was speechless.
When he didn't respond, Laura continued. "Matthew, do you remember I was going to tell you about the 'History
Foundation' before I died?"
"Yes, Laura, of course."
"Well, tonight might be a good time. However, it's very dangerous to talk about these things. Never discuss them
with anyone."
"Agreed," Matthew replied.
"They're
doing everything to buy or exchange my Rubinstein letter. Just remember, it's hidden in the 'lover's bow'."
Matthew made a mental note. "Who are these 'History Foundation' people?"
Laura began whispering. "I've discovered that they are waiting for a 'world
event' and that they're planning to completely replace Western history for future generations.
The proofs for all the encyclopedias and textbooks have already been typeset and are waiting to go."
"Music?" Matthew asked. "And Tchaikovsky?"
"They're
planning to 'disappear' every trace of Tchaikovsky's name and music from the written record. They call it,
"Yemach Shmo u'Zikro: May his name be blotted out." And Nikolai Rubinstein is going to take
his place as the greatest Russian composer of the nineteenth century."
"That's
bizarre," Matthew said. "Why Tchaikovsky?"
"Because they want to instill
fear in people, so that they can better control them. Tchaikovsky's music has the opposite effect. It gives
people hope."
Trying not to sound paranoid or illogical, Laura continued, "And they
have enormous wealth. They want complete and virtual control of the flow of information on this planet."
As she spoke, she heard the door of the ground floor entrance to her apartment open. And she knew exactly
what that meant.
Laura reached for the small, eighteenth-century icon of the Madonna
on her desk as six or seven men in black ski masks entered her second-floor studio. Wrapping her fingers tightly around
the silver frame of the icon, she continued talking calmly with Matthew as if nothing were happening. "Well, Matthew,"
she said, ignoring the intruders, "I don't want to disturb your dinner. Call me when you're back in St.
Petersburg."
"Laura," Matthew said softly. "I have no words to thank
you."
"Good night, Matthew. God bless you...." As Matthew
heard her voice taper off, Laura looked up to find herself surrounded by a gang of street hoodlems holding
a clear plastic sack and a rope. Within seconds, Laura could feel the bag being tied around her head, and a rough,
thick noose being pulled tightly around her neck.
The last words Laura heard were in Yiddish:
"So, Dr. Akhillyes, you think you're so smart...."
The Embrace Part Three: Apocalypse
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