The Sanctum Sanctorum
Heinlein feels like he’s going to puke. Ouzo is a rough high. The anise spice in it is nice in short bursts – but a marathon is grueling. His head is pounding, and his patience is wearing out. He needs answers.
Father Patros is just sitting there, staring at Heinlein like some scientist examining a bug under his microscope. He seems to be talked out. Perhaps a bit tipsy himself. Finally, the moment Heinlein has been waiting for arrives. Patros asks the million-dollar question.
“Heard you’ve got a reason for coming to the Hook….can I help you?”
The Priest is cagey, a bit less gregarious than when they first met. His boyish charm has darkened into an expressionless poker face. But his eyes are as sharp as ever – searching for Heinlein’s “Tell”, his physical give-away gesture that betrays what cards he’s holding. Is Heinlein going to hold – call – or fold ’em?
Heinlein ups the ante’. He goes “all in”.
“I need Mafuseh. And I need it now”.
Father Petros suddenly looks like somebody has just walked over his grave. He shifts about uncomfortably in his chair. His previous hail-fellow–well-met demeanor evaporates. He struggles to pick his jaw up off the restaurant table. Heinlein notices a slight tremor in his right – weaker – hand as he reaches for more Ouzo. He’s obviously a southpaw – a lefty.
“Whaa…tt is that? Some kind of narcotic? Why do you think that I can get it for you?” The Priest stammers. Sweat is glistening on his forehead.
Father Petros is dissembling rapidly. He’s been sent to feel-out Heinlein – but that word – Mafuseh – has put him in a tailspin. Heinlein might just as well have kicked him in his ball sack.
Heinlein lays it down – cop style. With an edge in his voice and determination painted all over his face.
“Look, Father. I got people dying and I need the cure that will stop it from happening. I know it exists. A little birdie told me. Now get me to this Simon Magus character – now – because every minute you delay puts somebody else in mortal peril. You want that on your ecclesiastical conscience? You gonna’ live your religious vows or are you gonna’ crawl back into the excuses and hocus-pocus you guys are famous for?”
Father Petros stares at Heinlein for an uncomfortable eternity. He’s paralyzed with fear. Heinlein rivets the clergyman with his best Clint Eastwood stare and whispers his next words.
“Now’s not the time for Bullshit, Padre. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. You tell me – how you want to play it?”
Father Petros keeps his eyes on the table before him and whispers his response.
“Follow me.”
Heinlein and Father Patros leave Restaurante Luvis – after Heinlein pays the hefty tab – and walk a short distance down Montgomery Avenue to the intersection of Essex and Hudson Streets. On the corner there’s a twelve story Nineteenth-Century factory that’s been completely gutted and refurbished into – what appears to be – a magnificent rough-hewn combined residence and office building of sorts. It’s ringed by an eight-foot black cast-iron fence with spiked tops – and its front entrance has a similar forbidding gate, obviously controlled by an electronic numerical pad and retinal scanner worthy of Fort Knox. Heinlein sees cameras everywhere. He’s been in Police Stations and high security lockups without this level of protection. Whoever lives here puts a premium on privacy.
Heinlein utters one word as Father Petros positions his right eye at the retinal scanner lens.
“Impressive”.
The unit beeps and is followed by a metallic “click” signifying release of one gate lock. Petros presses a series of numbers into the keypad and a second “click” follows. The sizeable and heavy gate opens enough for Heinlein and the Priest get on a flagstone sidewalk leading to the front building access.
To the left of a large, carved oak door is a tasteful, square cast bronze plaque fixed to the aged, acid-washed brickwork of the structure.
Their daylight is fading fast, but he can make out lettering of a name in block print:
SEMYON THAUMATURGUS
Directly beneath this name is an Ornate Orthodox crucifix, carved in the Byzantine Greek fashion.
Father Petros presses what appears to be an intercom next to the stone doorframe and once again stares into a small retinal scan lens imbedded in the exquisite woodwork of the door itself. There are no hinges, door knockers or doorknobs on the entryway.
A voice from the intercom responds with a few words.
“Thank you, Father Petros. I am Brother Dimitrios. I will take charge of our guest from here.”
Petros extends Heinlein his hand in farewell.
“Good-bye. Go with God”.
Father Petros no sooner beats his hasty retreat than the massive front door springs open and Heinlein stands face to face with a young man – also dressed like an Orthodox priest. He has aquiline features, a thin face and a muscled, sinewy body – a Special Forces physique. Obviously, the young man is in top physical condition and moves with precision and purpose. He secures the door and briefly looks at Heinlein.
“I am Brother Dimitrios. Follow me, please.”
They enter a hallway. On the left wall hangs an Icon of the Angel Gabriel. On the right wall is an Icon of St. Vladimir of Kiev. Heinlein follows Brother Dimitrios into an elevator. They move upwards.
The doors open to a darkening evening sky and a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. They’re on the roof, facing the greatest city in the world – New York. Thousands of lights in thousands of buildings, high and low. Skyscrapers and tenements, docks and high-rises. A teeming cauldron of human achievement, depravity and hopefulness reaching up to God’s own Heaven. Modern man’s Tower of Babble.
Heinlein is drawn to the rail at the roof’s edge. He’s no longer aware of Brother Dimitrios by his side. He’s mesmerized by the spectacle, woozy from Ouzo and uncertain what’s happening to him.
He hears a voice from his right.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?”
Heinlein looks to his right – but sees nothing but empty roof.
He snaps his head left – and he is inches away from a hooded figure that smells faintly of garlic. What facial features Heinlein can discern under the head covering are shop-worn, creased and ascetic. The face of a man who maintains a physical and mental regimen but has seen his fair share of fights. Who has lived his life in rough places. But his eyes blaze like black smoldering embers. Is he some kind of mad monk?
Heinlein blinks his eyes. The figure is gone. But against all logic, he hears that voice again.
“Use the elevator. Floor eleven. Join me for evening repast.”
Now it’s just Heinlein and the skyline of Manhattan. Alone. Punishing chill winds are ripping down the Hudson, cutting into everything in their path. Soon this rooftop perch will be freezing. The elevator is a good idea. Floor eleven it is.
The eleventh floor is a sumptuous living space. Huge, uncovered plate glass windows stare out over Manhattan – the same awesome view he just left on the roof. It’s an extremely open floorplan – obviously made possible by the industrial antecedents of the building itself. A large, modern table stretches before him – and a Chef is busy placing plates of hot food and accompanying items on it. Wines are scattered over the table – carafes of white, bottles of red. Crystal wineglasses and heavy plates and cutlery abound. Candelabra are lit up and down the table, illuminating the victuals in a soft, flickering bask.
The Chef glances at Heinlein and gestures with his hand to a chair opposite the Manhattan view. It’s like eating on top of the world. Heinlein wonders where his host is – and then almost jumps out of his skin.
“Take a seat, Detective Heinlein”.
The sound comes from inches away from him – but Heinlein saw nobody in the room when he came out of the elevator. There was no one in the room when he approached the table or the admired the view of New York in front of his face. What’s going on? Ventriloquism?
His host is now sitting down at the head of the table. Where the Hell did he come from?
He’s middle-aged, gray-haired – and has a trim, athletic build. He has a Levantine, olive complexion. He wears a dark suit and a tab-collared clerical shirt – with a silver chain and Orthodox crucifix hanging around his neck. His hands are large, but delicate – obviously not working man’s hands. He wears a dark belt. His eyes are reddish-green, and his face is narrow – thin with sharp, chiseled features, as if chipped from old granite. His hard face is serene – almost mirthful – and his slight smile reveals white, perfect teeth. His voice has a slight accent but is sonorous and soothing. His words are precise and crisp – his diction perfect. He’s obviously an educated man. He’s worldly.
“Perhaps you saw my name on the plaque outside this building. I am Semyon Thaumaturgus. I am a Priest of the Orthodox faith. I serve Jesus Christ. I studied in Constantinople and at the sacred Mountain – Athos – at The St. Panteleimon, the Great Russian Monastery known as Roussiko. When I was young, I studied at Abydos, Saqqara and Karnak in Egypt.
Help yourself to todays’ repast fare: Eggplant in the Roman style with mozzarella cheese and veal medallions. My Chef, Lacas, makes an excellent salad dressing – try it. I would suggest a basic Chianti with your food – the bottles are open and before you. The bread is from a bakery three blacks away – fresh wheat loaves delivered daily.”
Although he isn’t terribly hungry, Heinlein doesn’t want to appear ungrateful for this regal table of food that stretches before him. Everything smells delicious. He makes himself a small plate and starts eating. Father Semyon is correct – Chianti makes the food erupt with flavor. The meal is excellent. The salad is delightful. With each mouthful, his body’s Ouzo funk dissipates more and more. He can feel his old self coming back. By the time Chef Lacas pours Heinlein a cup of rich, deep coffee and passes it under his nose, the Detective is ready to rumble. It’s time for him to break the ice.
“May I call you Father Semyon?”
His host gestures in the affirmative as he attacks another slice of eggplant.
“I presume you don’t entertain all of Father Petros’ casual acquaintances this way…”
Father Semyon slowly moves his head in the negative – while he devours more veal medallions. He speaks after he chews and swallows.
“Only the ones who say the magic word”.
Heinlein responds with a hint of sarcasm.
“Really? And what word might that be?”
“Mafuseh”, His host replies.
“Can you explain to me why this Mafuseh is such a forbidden item?” Heinlein asks, genuinely interested.
Father Semyon drains his wine glass – and pours himself another. Chef Lacas pours him coffee and carefully whisks away his neatly scraped-clean dinner plate.
“We will have plenty of time to discuss such things, Detective Heinlein. You are staying with us for a few days. Your guest accommodations will be on the sixth floor. Excuses will be made by our Doctor to your Police Chief that you have contracted food poisoning at a Greek restaurant in Jersey City and are being monitored at Saint Mary’s Hospital on Pavonia Avenue. Of course, you will not wish to be disturbed. No worries – my home is an enormous Faraday Cage. No electronic signals from the ether can reach you here. You will experience exquisite solitude. Use it to meditate and draw yourself closer to God. I hope you will enjoy your stay.”
Heinlein instinctively reaches down to his belt holster for his Glock.
“Is this what you are looking for?” Says Father Semyon as he playfully displays the weapon. “I removed it from your person the moment you stepped out of the elevator”.
Brother Dimitrios hovers to his right.
“Brother Dimitrios is assigned to assist you. Think of him as your Valet. He’s very helpful – and has a Black Belt in four schools of martial arts. Serbian Special Forces, I believe. We’ll have wonderful discussions over dinners prepared by Lacas – our Michelin-rated Chef – every evening. All of your questions will be answered. And you will answer all of mine. Good night, Detective.”
Father Semyon vigorously wipes his mouth with his lap napkin and pushes his chair back from the table. By the time Heinlein blinks his eyes, his host is gone. Like a puff of smoke.
Copyright, 2025 Jon Croft
www.bogironpatriot.com
www.bogironslav.com
Email: vlchek1@gmail.com
