Father Boris Popovich, a tall, broad, effusive man with a swishy black cassock, shiny black shoes, and a bushy black beard that hung halfway down to his waist, clutched a small black leather suitcase as he lurched down the corridor, his gold pectoral cross banging against his chest like the clapper of a great Russian church bell.

He realized that going back to the Soviet Union was likely certain death for an outspoken cleric such as himself, but he hoped he could do some good among his frightened flock before he was hauled off to the Gulag. And even there he hoped he might serve his God before starvation and cold closed his eyes for the last time.

Thinking such melancholy thoughts, he hardly noticed the man with the violin case slam into him, bounce against the bulkhead with a muttered apology, and continue down the corridor the old priest had just come up.

Then he heard the scream that he couldn't ignore, and will always remember.