The 731 Legacy (9 page)

"I'd like a copy of both."

"The Swiss Guards?" Montiagro asked.

"There might be some clue—something we haven't seen yet."

Montiagro looked at Fazio. The cardinal finally gave his approval by handing the images to the archbishop. "Felipe, please go to my secretary's office and make color photocopies for Ms. Stone. Make sure no one else sees them."

Montiagro took the images and left the room.

"Thank you," Cotten said.

"But they are for your eyes only," Fazio said. "We are agreed? If they suddenly appeared on broadcast news or in the newspaper it might be cause for great harm to come to Cardinal Tyler and the others."

"My eyes only," she said.

As the archbishop's footsteps echoed away, Cotten asked, "So what do you intend to do, Eminence? And more importantly, how can I help?"

"We are working with the governments of Moldova and the Ukraine to try to locate the three men. But those countries are embroiled in this escalating border conflict with Transnistria and have little time or resources to assist us. To be honest with you, Ms. Stone, I'm not sure they even care. They want our help when they need it, but are reluctant to return the favor."

"What about the Transnistrian government? Can't you get them to do anything?"

Montiagro returned, handing Cotten an envelope. "Your copies," he said.

"Thank you."

"Transnistria is just barely a government," Cardinal Fazio said.

"Technically, Transnistria is a breakaway territory within the established borders of Moldova. But they're not officially recognized by any state or international organization. We're having little luck in communicating with them or gaining their cooperation."

Cotten's face flushed, and she made a conscious effort to keep her voice from trembling. "So basically, you're just giving up? That's what I'm hearing. You won't negotiate. You have no idea where they are, and you aren't going to do anything about it because you fear more kidnappings, more ransoms. What about the value of a single God-given life? Why isn't that at the top of your agenda? I can't believe you are just going to sit back and risk their lives. And you call yourself a man of God?"

45

Cardinal Fazio rocked back in his chair, and Montiagro grasped Cotten's forearm as if wanting to still her. But it was to no avail.

"You aren't going to do anything... nothing? You might be able to live with yourself if John dies, but I can't. I can't justify in my heart or my head sacrificing even one single life even if it might save thousands. I don't think it is about the numbers. And to tell you the truth, I don't think God thinks in terms of numbers either. God is a father, the Father, and I can't imagine Him abandoning any one of his children. There is no Grace shining on the Church right now. So, if you're not going to do anything to save John, then you leave me only one choice. I'll have to do it."

DESERT HEAT AND SANDSTORMS

Cotten could still feel the anger burning inside her as she left Cardinal Fazio's office.

Felipe Montiagro followed her. "Cotten, wait up."

She didn't look back, but heard his footsteps as he trotted down the hall until he was beside her.

"I'm sorry you didn't hear what you wanted to hear. But it is the only stance the Holy See can take. You understand that. I know you must."

Cotten stopped. "No. That's the position that politicians and governments take. And what about the Venatori? Why doesn't the Church send in a team?" She waved the envelope containing the photos in the air. "If this super secret spy agency is so freaking powerful, why aren't they saving one of their own?"

"The Venatori is an intelligence gathering organization, not a combat or SWAT team. It's made up almost entirely of priests, not commandos."

Cotten resumed her course down the hall, the archbishop beside her.

"Well, maybe it's something they should consider. What good is the intelligence if you don't have any way of—"

"You're wasting your energy. It is what it is, and that's where we are. You can't change that."

She stopped again and looked him straight in the eye. "Then just where do you suggest I focus my energy? In prayer? That's your job. Yours and the cardinal's. I'm no good at that." Cotten pinched the bridge of her nose. "Listen, I appreciate you being my friend and trying to make me feel better, but I'm not going to rest until John is safe and home again." She paused a moment then said, "I've gotta go." She turned away from Montiagro.

"Don't do anything foolish," he called. "John wouldn't want it."

***

Moon leaned over a microscope in her lab and peered through it one last time before shutting down the diagnostic systems and preparing to lock up. The

46

past few days had been difficult physically, the tremors often interfering with her work. Her doctor advised her to rest, but that was not an option. Not at this point. She was so close to completing her work, a work that would bring the Americans and their allies to their knees, as helpless as flopping fish in the bottom of a boat. At first they would not understand, just as they had not understood thepings. But when the day came that they did...

It was late and the wind outside made the building moan. The night sounds of creaking and snapping were different from those during the day. In the sunlight she never noticed the noises. But at night the howl of the wind made her edgy.

As she switched the last of the computers off, she heard the door to the lab whine open. Moon turned around, clutching her chest as she saw a figure in the doorway.

"Good evening," the Old Man said. "You are working late, Dr. Chung."

Moon let out a long breath. "I am sorry. You startled me."

"Then I am the one to apologize." He walked into the room. "How is your work progressing?"

"Good," she answered, wondering why the late-night visit. "Everything is in its place."

"How much more time do you need?"

Moon shifted her weight to her other foot. She wasn't sure exactly how to answer how many more days it would take to confirm the virus would work as she had engineered it. So far all tests were positive. None of the different ethnic groups tested appeared to harbor primitive genes or mutations that would interfere. All the pings had been successful. There was still one left to complete, one that would test a group of people who had the same genetic makeup of primitive man 8,000 years ago—and that would mean that whatever genes they had were probably from the dawn of man and shared at some level by billions. If that one proved positive, then nothing would stand in her way.

Still there was the final work to be done in the medical labs, preparing the new generation of zealots who would give their lives for the cause. And that was going to be testy. They would probably lose a few. But she didn't want to reveal too many details to the Old Man. Not now. Soon she would present her final report to Dear Leader, and with his blessing they would launch the three waves of attacks. For now, all the Old Man needed to know was that they were progressing as expected, perhaps even a little ahead of the predicted schedule.

"A day?" he asked. "A week, a month?"

"Two weeks at the most. There is a strong likelihood we may be ready before that."

"Good'' he said with a wide smile. "That is what I like to hear. The distraction I have designed is working. No one will be following up on Calderon or T-Kup for a while."

"Not even that woman reporter?" Moon asked.

"No."

47

"Has she been eliminated?"

The Old Man laughed. "I am afraid not. That would be a complicated endeavor. But I have arranged to divert her attention."

"You can be certain? If there is an investigation into T-Kup it will lead directly to us."

"Don't worry, Dr. Chung. I promised you additional time, and you have it. I know the Stone woman well and the way she thinks. She is strong-willed. That is precisely what will keep her from investigating T-Kup and the Calderon debacle—at least for a while. I have thrown her off track. But that doesn't mean you have extra time to squander."

She watched his eyes turn even darker, like a deep abyss spiraling into a world of desert heat and sandstorms.

In that instant, Moon was certain who she dealt with. But she dared not utter his name.

GRAY DAWN

John opened his eyes. A predawn gray filtered in from the small window set high up the wall over his bed.

With a sudden jolt, he remembered the night visitor, or at least he thought he did. It had been a dark form against the blackness of the room. No words, no sound—just a presence. And then the sudden cold grip on his neck, the choking that must have caused him to black out.

Had it been real? Or just a reaction to the stress and fatigue of the hostage situation? Perhaps the heaviness of the dust, mildew, and musty bedding had made it hard for him to breathe.

He sat on the edge of the bed trying to recall exactly what had happened. He felt a slight tenderness on his neck. That wasn't his imagination or the result of stress. And it wasn't the remnants of a nightmare still hanging on.

He had no idea who or what had come to stand beside his bed last night. And if he was choked, why hadn't they finished the job? Why just enough to have him black out? Or had the intruder thought he was dead? That was a frightening thought. The last thing John remembered before losing consciousness was a strange alien squeaking sound coming from his throat as the pressure of the grip intensified, closing off his windpipe and carotids. And in what seemed almost the next moment, he was awake, staring at the pale glow of the approaching dawn. The night had ended. At this point, if not for the tenderness that encircled his neck, he could not be sure anything had happened at all.

***

A guard accompanied John to the small dining chamber just off the

48

castle's kitchen. Archbishop Roberti and Father Burns were already seated at the table, eating what looked like stale biscuits stacked on a plate. A pitcher of water sat in the middle of the table.

"John," Roberti said, looking up. He slumped in his chair, a woolen blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

"Luigi," John said. "Michael. Were you both able to sleep?"

"Are you kidding?" Roberti said. "I could not sleep for the sound of my teeth chattering. We might as well be sleeping outside in the snow. It would be only slightly colder."

"I slept fine, Eminence," Father Burns said. "Had to get up and stoke the fire a few times."

John lifted a biscuit from the plate and examined it before returning it to the pile. "Hockey pucks." He poured himself some water, and sipped. In a whisper, he said, "Did either of you hear or see anything unusual last night?"

Roberti glanced up. "Like what?"

"I'm not sure," John said. "But I think someone may have come in my room sometime after midnight."

John didn't want to say that someone choked him and maybe left him for dead. There was no sense in adding more tension to the situation. He was alive. So he chose to leave it alone.

Father Burns said, "You mean one of the guards or General Borodin?"

John shrugged. "I don't know."

"Thisis Dracula's castle," Roberti said with a huff. "Check your neck for bite marks."

John humored Roberti and ran his fingers up and down the sides of his neck. He hadn't looked in a mirror to see if he was bruised. As a matter of fact, it occurred to John that there were no mirrors in his room. How fitting for the legend of Dracula. "No bite—"

As his hand took a final pass over his neck, he suddenly paused, then spread his palm across the hollow of his throat. That's when he made the discovery.

THE IMPALER

Cotten bumped the door closed with her hip and kicked one shoe off inside her room at theResidenza Del Roselli Hotel. She hadn't calmed down from the meeting with Cardinal Fazio and Archbishop Montiagro. And she was wrestling with the thought that she had come all this way for nothing. At least Ted gave her the time away from her job, even if the expenses weren't on SNN's dime.

She stood lopsided, one bare foot flat on the floor and the other ramped

49

up in a mid-size heel. The damn room was costing her over two hundred bucks a night and it was only a three-star hotel. And for what? To find that the Church wasn't going to lift a frigging finger to get John back. Plus, to further depress her, Cotten knew she had made an ass of herself, saying she was going to go find John on her own. The cardinal must have had a good laugh when she left, or even worse, felt sorry for her, and her friend Montiagro had to be embarrassed for her. But she was going to do it, going to find John no matter what it took. If no one else would help, she would do it alone. She didn't know how yet, but she would find a way.

Cotten plopped down on the bed, then fell back, her legs still dangling over the edge. Yes, I understand why you can't negotiate with terrorists, but still... Priests, men of God, should think differently. To them every single life should be important.

Cotten still gripped the envelope containing the two photos. She raised it above her head and stared up at it. There had to be some clue she could follow.Come on Cotten, you're a reporter. You're good at tracking down leads, good at solving mysteries. What are you missing here?

She turned on the bedside light, opened up the envelope, and removed the pictures. First, she studied the image of the two Swiss Guards.Such gore. Heads impaled on metal stakes. It made her stomach turn. These were barbarians who did this. Animals.

The decapitations didn't look like they had been clean and swift. She prayed the two men were already dead before their heads were hacked off. The photos were clear enough to see that the skin at the separation was ragged with fibrous tissue and filaments of muscle dangling.

Cotten studied the background. Barren trees. Forest. A few evergreens. Snow on the ground. Nothing distinctive or remarkable.

She slipped the picture behind the one of John, Roberti, and Burns. Lightly, she touched her finger to John's face. Her heart sank.

Why was he posing so oddly?What are you trying to tell me, John? There was something bothering her about the picture. It was John and his body language. Particularly the placement of his hand. Not the one out of sight in his coat pocket, but the one he had purposefully posed at his neck. Actually, it was his fingers that bothered her. His right hand was at his neck with his index and middle fingers forming a victory sign. But he wasn't making the traditional V for victory gesture. Instead his two fingers formed a hooking curve, sort of like a claw or talon. The tips of his finger-talons touched the side of his neck as if he were covering two spots. Or was he indicating two spots?