The 731 Legacy (11 page)

"That's all fine, ambassador, but it still doesn't explain what happened to Cardinal Tyler, Archbishop Roberti, and Father Burns." Cotten glanced around the hotel lobby. There was a scattering of guests moving about. The closest was an older man sitting in a chair nearby reading a newspaper. She lowered her voice. "Are you aware that two Vatican security guards were murdered—

executed?"

"Yes, I read about it in my security briefing this morning. It's so tragic." Russell shook his head. "I was shocked, but not entirely surprised."

"What happened to the legitimate representatives of the three countries that were to take part in the meetings and negotiations?"

"Once the news got out that the Vatican delegation was missing, perhaps kidnapped, the entire agenda for the meetings vaporized. Until there is some definite news of what really happened, I'm told there will be no further negotiations."

Cotten knew she was getting nowhere with Russell. He had completely ignored her question. But she had to play out her requests before deciding what to do next. "What are you doing to locate the missing men?"

"At this point, there's really nothing I can do." He brushed his hair again.

"I have no authority here. All I can try to do is encourage the local government to take action and attempt to find the men. But so far, they've been preoccupied with counterpositioning themselves against their rivals across the border. I'm afraid my hands are tied."

Cotten leaned toward Russell, deciding to get to the heart of the issue.

"Are you familiar with a medieval structure called Wolf Castle?"

He seemed to consider the question first. "It's an old castle in the mountains northeast of here, just across the border into Transnistria. I'm afraid it's not open to the public. Are you thinking of doing some sightseeing, Ms.

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Stone?"

"Can you arrange transportation for me to go to Wolf Castle?"

"Out of the question. First of all, they would never let you cross the border without an invitation from the Transnistrian government. And second, it used to be heavily guarded and may still be. I don't know. It once serve as a secret getaway for Soviet government officials and foreign communist dignitaries."

Russell glanced at his watch. "I hate to break our visit short, Ms. Stone, but I have a pressing engagement and really have to run." He stood. "Is there anything else I can assist you with while you're in Moldova?"

Cotten shook his hand. "I wish there were, Mr. Ambassador. Thank you, anyway."

"Don't hesitate to call me if you think of anything." Before she could answer, he spun on his heels and headed across the lobby to the front entrance.

Dropping back onto the couch, Cotten felt the heat rise in her face. Anger made her grit her teeth. What a waste. Russell was no help whatsoever. Either he was hiding something or he simply didn't give a shit. Whatever the case, she couldn't count on him for any assistance. She was going to have to do this on her own.

"Excuse, please."

Cotten looked up to see a man standing over her. He appeared to be in his sixties, had small, dark eyes and a wide, bulbous nose billowing out over a bushy mustache. His skin was pasty white and his brown-stained teeth were probably the result of years of smoking the popular Sobranie Black Russian cigarettes. In his hand was a folded newspaper. She recognized him as the man who had been sitting nearby reading.

"Yes?" she said, hoping he wasn't one of the scam artists that targeted tourists and foreigners.

"May I join you?"

Cotten motioned to the ambassador's vacant chair. "Help yourself."

He eased himself down and seemed to take a moment to get comfortable. His smile was gentle and warm as he silently gazed at her.

"What can I do for you, Mr... ?"

"Please forgive me, but I couldn't help overhearing that you desire to visit Wolf Castle?"

"Yes," Cotten said with a bit of hesitation.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance."

YANOMAMO PING

The dark shadows of the Amazon rainforest fluttered across the ground, surfing on beams of moonlight that sliced through the thick canopy. This was the time forayahuasca, the ritual drink that took one to an altered state of

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consciousness—another dimension—a place where one learned who he was and came to connect with all the elements on earth and in the universe.

Pierre Charles swallowed the bitter brew made from thebanisteriopsis cappi vine, knowing that the purging would soon follow in all its violence. The bowl for his vomiting rested between his knees, and moments later was put into use. But the healing, the transformation of his soul was worth the twenty-five minutes of misery.

Afterward, his body's reaction to the concoction would calm, and the vomiting cease. Pierre reclined on a straw mat in the hut. The village shaman continued his constant beat of bundled leaves, a repetitious swishing that blotted out other sounds, a white noise and monotonous rhythm, a vibration that helped set Pierre's brain free.

Soon the psychedelic flashing and geometric patterns superimposed on serpents filled his mind, and he was immersed in the visions.

***

When the sun burned off the early mist, Pierre reflected on his visionary journey the previous night. He was convinced there really were other dimensions and universes that existed on alternative, vibrational levels. This morning, as always after such an experience, he felt refreshed and self-assured. Initially, he hadn't come here to discover or experiment with native drugs and hallucinogens, but rather he came as part of his doctoral program to study the horrific practice of infanticide amongst the Yanomamo and other primitive tribes of the Amazon. But his curiosity and his yearning to find the meaning of his life had led him toayahuasca. And he was thankful.

After spending more than two years with these people, he finally had no desire to return to the University of Florida to present his dissertation. Here in the jungle he had found peace. He hoped no one would ever seek to intervene and subject these people, this spectacular culture, to modernization. Instead, every effort should be made to protect their right to maintain their culture at all costs.

Just a week ago, an Asian anthropologist traveling along the Amazon River had spent a day with the tribe. Something had bothered Pierre about the man. Call it an inner sense, a gut feeling that he should drive the man away. He suspected that the Asian viewed these people as subhuman and had no interest in their survival as a culture, but might find a way to exploit them. To his relief, the man quickly departed.

Pierre stretched and decided to go for a refreshing swim in the creek that ran from the river. The cold water would further invigorate him.

He had long given up his clothing, but still had not freed himself enough to throw away his boxer shorts. Beside the creek he pulled the threadbare Hanes shorts past his ankles and left them on the bank, then stepped into the clear water. It wasn't blue like the ocean, but a crystal clear that made him feel he

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was swimming through glass.

Pierre sunk beneath the water, letting it wash over him. He swam below the surface, basking in its pristine cleanness when suddenly he thought he heard someone calling. Springing to the top, he wiped away the sheet of water from his face.

"Ven! Ven!"

He had learned some of the basic language, enough to get by, but understood more than he could speak. However he did speak Spanish, and so did many of the tribe members.

Pierre scrambled out of the water and pulled on his boxers. "What is it?" he called in Spanish to a tribesmen standing on the bank. "What is wrong?"

The man answered, "You must come quickly. Hurry."

Pierre sprinted through the brush. When he arrived at theshabano, a round communal hut with individual living quarters, he saw the shaman ministering to a woman who was curled up in a hammock. Pierre knew that this woman had been sick for several days, and over the course of her illness he had watched the Indian prepare medicines, blow special smoke on her, and try to suck the evil from her mouth.

The shaman motioned for Pierre to come close.

Approaching the woman in the hammock, Pierre got a good look at her. Fear resonated through him as if his nerves had been plucked like a guitar string.

Blood seeped from her eyes, leaked from her nose, trickled from her ears, from every orifice.

"My God," Pierre said. It looked like Ebola or Marburg hemorrhagic fever. He'd seen detailed photos of the outbreak in Angola in 2005. Slowly, he backed away.

The shaman stared at him, his face filled with anger. The cords in his neck stood out and his mouth grimaced. "This sickness comes from your world!"

KGB

Cotten walked through the glass and chrome revolving door of the LeoGrand Hotel's Varlaam Street entrance, turned left and headed for the Central Park a block away. Crossing busy Puskin Street, she entered the expansive park situated in the heart of the city. A few fluttering leaves were still on the trees while most formed a soggy brown carpet of decay preparing for the bitter cold that was only weeks away. The wind chilled Cotten as she pulled her coat collar tightly around her neck.

A large, round fountain dominated the center of the park. The powerful water jets were turned off, and the pool drained for the winter. Rather than coins, a collection of twigs and rubbish covered the bottom.

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Cotten wandered over to a bench beneath a statue of Stephen the Great, the fifteenth-century ruler of Moldova. It was a workday and the nasty weather caused the park to be virtually deserted—a few individuals moved in anonymity on their paths to other places. Sitting on the bench, she waited.

Ten minutes passed before she heard footsteps approaching. Moving toward her was the man from the hotel lobby. He had instructed her to meet him in the park. He motioned toward the bench before getting a nod from Cotten to sit.

He joined her in silence as his eyes scanned the park, almost as if he were taking inventory of every plant and object.

Finally, he turned to Cotten. "I am Colonel Vladimir Ivanov, former KGB, now retired."

"Cotten Stone, Satellite News Network."

"Yes," he said, shaking her hand. "I recognize you in lobby. I have seen you many times on American television."

"You speak good English, Colonel."

"Many of my comrades learn your language. Part of job. I still use English working as part-time tour guide at Museum of History in the Old City."

"Tell me what you know of Wolf Castle."

He smiled. "Dracula's Castle is scary place."

"Because of the vampire legend?"

Ivanov chuckled. "No, Ms. Stone, vampires are only in movies."

"How do you know about Wolf Castle?"

"Place has been used for many years as location to detain and question those suspected to be danger to old Soviet Union. I conducted interrogation sessions there that were... productive. And when special persons like Comrades Andropov or Chernenko visit, I would be in charge of security unit during stay in castle."

"Are you aware of the recent abduction of the Vatican delegation?"

"Yes. Although I am retired, I still keep fingers in pie."

"Then do you believe that could be where the kidnappers are holding them?"

"Odds are good. It is perfect place."

"What else have you heard?"

"Two men shot."

"What about the others?"

"They were alive this morning."

Cotten leaned back against the bench. "Thank God." She felt a swelling of relief rush through her. "You're certain?"

He shrugged. "Nothing is for certain in this life. But I would stick neck out and say they are still alive. Men who took them want money. Without proof of life, they get spit."

"The people at the hotel told me that the priests were picked up by the Moldovian military. One was an army general. Is that true?"

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Ivanov laughed again. "They are gangsters from across border. Everyone there is either gangster or victim."

"Why isn't the Moldovian government doing anything to help get the delegation back?"

"Wolf Castle is in Transnistria. Border war already on verge of blowing up again. This would set fuse to explode. Moldovian officials turn away. Say it is not their problem. Priests came at own risk. Very tragic. Too bad. Have nice day."

"And the Transnistrian officials won't help, either?"

He smiled at her. "You are not listening to Vladimir. You do not deal with gangsters."

She stared at the fountain for a few moments. "You could get me into Wolf Castle?"

"You don't want to go there."

"I have to help my friend and his colleagues. If the government won't do anything, I will."

"You are brave soul. I admire your backbone and stupidity."

"Excuse me?"

"Not meant to insult, Ms. Stone. But there is nothing you can do against armed gangsters. You would quickly become hostage and your American TV

company would get ransom demand."

"So why are we having this conversation, Colonel? If you're not going to help me, then we're wasting each other's time."

"Didn't say I would not help you." He reached to pat her leg. "Only that you would be stupid to go alone."

"What other choice do I have?"

"Perhaps some of my old comrades and I help you get friends back."

"What do you mean? Who are your comrades? And why would they want to get involved?"

"So many questions." He paused as a woman pushing a baby stroller walked by. When she was out of earshot, he said, "Many reasons why comrades and I would like to embarrass criminals who take your friends. Despite fact that this is no longer Soviet country, we still have to survive. We had good times before fall of Moscow. After that, life went to shit. But now things are better. We enjoy pretty good life. Plenty food and work, and we rarely have to shoot anyone." He smiled broadly. "Joke."

"I still don't understand."

"New Moldova is partner with West. They do not want to have blemish on record with NATO. Want to join European Union. Be big shots. This thing with Vatican priests is best left to others. Out of their hands. But gangsters make fools of my country. Good times may go away. Have to start shooting people again." Another big smile. "Must maintain sense of humor, Ms. Stone."