The Distant Temple
Act I The courtyards of St Petersburg in the late seventies were a grid of frozen commerce, where the fog burned off by ten to reveal the grimy brick of a city that was selling its bones to the highest bidder. In the back room of a crumbling monastery on the flood plains, Pyotr Pavlov, forty-two, rubbed the grit from his knuckles and stared at the two identical sets of ceremonial vestments...
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