“Jagger—?”
He snapped his head up. Owen was turned away from the map, watching him.
“Where to?” Owen said.
[ 34 ]
Jagger blinked, pushing away his thoughts to get back into the here and now. He shook his head. “I thought you’d know,” he said. “You’ve been tracking these guys, Bale and the Clan. You were so anxious to go after them. I thought you had a plan.”
“I do,” Owen said. “Get the God Stone away from the Clan.”
“That’s a goal, not a plan. Where’s their base?” He was thinking of the Tribe’s home in the Paris catacombs—at least where it used to be; he supposed they’d found a new place by now. He wasn’t sure of the vernacular. The dark, bone-filled catacombs—how could anyone call that “home”?
“The Clan doesn’t have one,” Owen said. “They’re nomads, vagabonds. They travel from place to place, wreaking havoc wherever they go. Their strategy for not being caught is twofold: their violence is wanton and random, but typically not so excessive that it becomes an international incident. I think if they had their way they’d kill everyone they meet, but they restrain themselves. They travel from country to country. Police departments have enough trouble communicating, comparing notes with other departments within their own countries, let alone across borders. The Clan uses time and distance to avoid detection.”
“So, what, they stay in hotels?” That fit a vague notion he had of the people who’d attacked the monastery. A rock band with no roots. The anything-goes sort who hit the road and never stop. Bale, the charismatic and Adonis-handsome leader, letting his wild band pursue any debauchery their hearts desired as long as they performed.
“Sometimes,” Owen said. “But by and large they live in their plane. This is a small business jet. Their Bombardier is more like a commercial airline’s. It has more cabin space than the average single-family home, more than twenty-six hundred square feet. There’re six Clan members, and they each have their own bedroom. There’s a kitchen—a galley, like mine”—he gestured toward the rear of the cabin, at a closed door—“but larger, more decked out. A library and computer room, a storeroom and armory. A bathroom, of course, but theirs has a Jacuzzi tub instead of a tiny shower.”
“How do you know all this?”
“As you said, I’ve tracked them, studied them as much as possible. In the case of their jet, I got a hold of the plans from the company that built it out for them.”
“If they’re as nasty as you say, why haven’t you stopped them?”
“I’ve tried,” Owen said, his shoulders slumping a little. “They’re always one step ahead of me. There’s no pattern, no planning . . . nothing I can plot in order to anticipate where they’re going to be. And they never stay in one place for long.”
“You’ve taken their pictures,” Jagger said, waving his hand at the monitor displaying the evidence. “The camera could just have easily been a sniper rifle.”
“Those pictures were taken over many months, one snap at time, in different locales. Sometimes I just happened to see one of them. Other times I was there investigating one of their crimes and spotted one of them before they’d left. About ten years ago I did manage to take one member out. Saw him on the street and got ahead of him, confronted him in an alley. I was going to talk to him, as I try to do with all Immortals—as I did with you before you finally left the Tribe. But there’s no talking to anyone in the Clan. They’re as corrupt as any demon. Pure evil. Before I even opened my mouth, this one attacked. He was like a wild animal, swinging, biting. Pulled a gun, then a knife. I was able to turn the knife on him and he went down, but not before he’d shot me twice, tore my ear half off, sliced and stabbed me in a dozen places. At one point he was sawing on my neck.”
He rubbed the side of his neck, obviously thinking about it. Then he continued: “After that, the rest of the Clan came after me. I was wounded, needed time to heal, so I ran. Took a year to shake them. Besides, I might be able to stand up to one of them at a time, but I’m no match for any number of them together.”
“And this is who you want us to go after?” Jagger shook his head.
“You said that about the Tribe when we went after them.”
“We survived, but just barely.” What Jagger didn’t say was that his motivation for going after the Tribe was greater then than it was now: they had kidnapped Beth, and he would have fought all the demons of hell to get her back. Nevaeh had also shot Tyler, and he’d wanted revenge—a compulsion he wasn’t proud of. He was aware it put him in their camp, justifying violence by calling it justice. But it was true, and he’d have to work it out in time, between himself and God. When he was on better terms with the Big Guy. Owen’s motivation had been to stop the Tribe from destroying a city. Jagger had never pretended that was more compelling than rescuing Beth.
This time Jagger was having a hard time working himself up to go after the Clan. They’d killed three monks, injured Ollie. They were bad dudes, no doubt. But was it really his job to stop them? He didn’t even know how the Stone could help the Clan in their mission to—Owen’s words—grieve God. Why did they have to go after them now?
He said, “You say these guys are exponentially worse than the Tribe, more vicious, harder to track. What makes you think we can do it this time?”
“All I want to do is get the God Stone out of their hands,” Owen said. “That’s different from killing them.”
“Maybe.”
Owen dipped his head, conceding the point. He said, “As far as finding them, whatever they’re going to do with the Stone, it’s something. Instead of following their whims, they’re going to be guided by the Stone, somehow, some way. We have a piece of the Stone. If we can see what they’re seeing, maybe we can figure out what they’re doing.”
“That’s a big maybe.”
“It’s something,” he said again. “And in regards to confronting them”—he grinned—“I have you.”
“Oh yeah, a one-armed man—cursed by God—who doesn’t even know what he’s doing here.”
Owen returned from the map to sit next to Jagger and pat him on the back again. “Have faith, my friend. There’s a reason you’re with me. Now . . .” He leaned forward to get his hands on the keyboard. He pushed a button, clearing the old flight plan, and said, “Where should we go?”
Jagger told him what Ollie had said about calling Bronson Radcliff from the Ice Temple Foundation, and finished with: “I’m guessing Radcliff sent the team he promised Ollie to fetch the artifact.”
Owen was nodding, but said, “You think it was the man who funds the excavation who told the Clan?”
“Who else? He was the only one who knew about the Stone.”
“You don’t look too sure.”
“I just can’t see Ollie being in bed with someone who’d know the Clan, who’d be so ruthless, so corrupt.”
“You don’t know much about archaeological funding, do you?”
“It’s corrupt?”
Owen shook his head. “I’m not saying that. But archaeologists are passionate about digging in dirt, not about money. If a foundation offers to fund a dig, few dirt diggers are going to question it. Not that they don’t care. They just don’t think about it. This foundation, do you know anything about it?”
“I saw a brochure,” Jagger said. “It’s backed digs at Petra, in Mexico—Xochicalco, I think—”
“There you go,” Owen interrupted. “If Radcliff is dirty, chances are he’s covered his tracks. Even if Ollie did look into him, I doubt he would’ve found anything suspicious.” He pulled at his beard, thinking. “Okay, let’s say this Radcliff guy has some connection with the Clan—they threatened him to help them find the Stone, or any artifacts, who knows? Or he’s working with them because he wants to, for whatever reason. Why would he tell them before he had it in hand? Ollie was prepared to give it to him.”
“Yeah, but only if he could go with it. Maybe Bronson didn’t like that. Or he was afraid Olli
e would disappear with it once he realized how valuable it was or decided he couldn’t live without it.” Jagger threw up his arms. “I don’t know, but if Radcliff was the only one who knew . . .”
“Maybe he told the Clan it had been found, not knowing Bale would go after it the way he did.”
“Whatever happened, he’s our only lead,” Jagger said.
“And where is he?”
“The Ice Temple Foundation is based in Stockholm. I think that’s where Ollie reached him.”
Owen typed it in, then their current location. The computer showed an image of the globe. It rotated and stopped when Sharm El Sheikh was in the five o’clock position and Stockholm at eleven. It seemed a long distance away.
Jagger said, “Why would Bale go there?”
“As you said, he’s our only lead. If they’re not heading there, Radcliff knows how to reach them.”
“And he’s going to tell us how?”
Owen gave him a serious look. “Yes.”
He switched his gaze to the second monitor and called up a program. It looked like a form with lots of blank text boxes. He started filling them in: Rape. Murder. Homicide. Mayhem. Kidnapping. Abduction. Gang. Multiple suspects. Multiple perpetrators.
“What’s that?”
“Essentially, it’s a scanner. It’ll monitor the police channels along our route.” He clicked a tab on the screen, and a new group of boxes appeared. He glanced at the flight route and typed: Egypt, Cyprus, Turkey . . . all the countries they would fly over. Another tab, another screen of text boxes, into which he entered Egyptian, Greek, Turkish . . . “The program will listen for the keywords I’ve entered in all of these languages.”
“And you think they’ll stop to commit murder, rape, kidnapping?”
“Hard to imagine they’d pass up the opportunity to pop into countries they haven’t visited in a while. It’s what they do. But now that they have the God Stone, who knows?” He shrugged. “Can’t hurt, looking as we go.”
“This scanner thing works?”
“Seems to, from a few tests I’ve run. Part of my new high-tech arsenal.”
Owen stood and headed for the cockpit. He called back, “Think of some more keywords, anything that might identify our guys. Then hit the Run button. I’m going to get us in the air.”
[ 35 ]
It was after noon, the sun hot overhead, when Bale pulled open the nightclub door—pushing the body of the doorman along the floor—and stepped into the alleyway. The others followed, and Lilit was locking the door with a key she’d taken off the bartender’s belt when Bale stopped her. He backhanded Therion’s bicep. “Clean that up,” he said, nodding toward the slick of blood running down the door from the wicket set in it. “We need some time to get out of here.”
Nightclubs made excellent accommodations for the Clan. Besides the obvious—what Bale called “booze, broads, and bodies”—and the fact that they were typically well insulated to muffle loud noises—music, gunshots, screams—they were also nocturnal businesses; no one expected them to be open until late afternoon, giving the Clan time to sleep in and make a leisurely exit. It was only good luck that no one had yet reported the blood on the door. Either no one had seen it, or they’d figured it was part of the décor. No need to keep tempting fate.
He hit the big man again and said, “There’s a bucket and rag behind the bar.”
Therion sighed and went back into the club.
Stretching his back and limbs, Bale looked down the alley in both directions. One way, warehouses, the Black Sea beyond, cargo cranes pivoting and dipping in the harbor; the other way, shops, restaurants, people.
“I’m hungry,” he said, looking around at his group. Lilit and Hester were leaning against each other, whispering; Artimus and Cillian were holding up the wall on the other side of the alley. Everyone was still tired, hungover, despite the copious amounts of alcohol needed for any one of them to get drunk. “Who’s with me?”
They all nodded, unenthusiastic.
Therion came out and started scrubbing. Bale told him, “Find us that way when you’re done. Make sure you lock it.” Lilit gave him the keys.
Forty minutes later they were all leaning back in metal patio chairs around a table on the sidewalk. The café they’d chosen was a few blocks east of the nightclub, where the harbor pushed farther inland and there was no warehouse to block their view of the water. Therion was pushing another banitsa into his mouth—his seventh or eighth by Bale’s count. Just one of the croissant-like pastries had filled his stomach. The women had ordered tarator, a cold yogurt and cucumber soup, which caused Artimus to make gagging sounds. How the man could have seen all the things the world offered and be as cool in a firefight as he was, yet still be so childish, Bale would never know.
Lilit, Hester, and Cillian were now sipping airian, a mix of yogurt and water—Bulgarians loved their curds—while Bale finished his coffee.
“So,” Cillian said. “Stockholm?”
Bale stood. “Let’s do it.” He walked across a wide plaza to a concrete wall and looked out at the ships coming into and leaving the harbor. He wondered what the spirits did around boats. Did they fly overhead, ride along on the decks, swim in the water around them, the way some had stayed close to the helicopter last night? He reached into his coat pocket and touched the Stone. Light flashed in his eyes, and he saw the glorious creatures in their myriad forms doing a bit of all of it—flying, swimming, standing on decks and cabin roofs—as well as a few things he hadn’t considered. Some spidery fellows—long, spindly legs, but a beautiful shade of white, like mother-of-pearl, and the most fascinating, charming faces—were clinging to the hulls as the ships moved through the water; a few more human-shaped things were actually walking on the water, jumping playfully over wakes. One was skipping over the surface like a rock, heading directly for Bale. The thing leaped up, landed on the top of the wall, not three feet from Bale, and started laughing. Bale laughed back.
It had huge round eyes, a beak-like nose, and canine fangs, but still it was adorable. It was different, no denying it, but so were otters and cats and polar bears—each lovely in its own way. Bale wondered how these beings could be so feared, why they were so often depicted as hideous by artists. Michelangelo, Hieronymus Bosch, and their ilk—ignoramuses who painted what they thought demons should look like, thinking, Bale was sure, Why, these evil beasts must certainly be physically as despicable as their wicked intentions. Or, if they’d had special insight of the spiritual realm, as many people—including Bale—thought they must because of their extraordinary talent and creativity, and because their artwork resonated as only truth does—if they did know better but painted lies, they must have done so thinking, I will paint them ugly and gross, so my brethren are not tempted to give in to their schemes. Never mind truth, never mind how wonderfully glorious demons really are!
Bale wished he could go back in time—or had known the truth sooner. He’d have sought out each one of these so-called masters and slapped them silly. Paint the truth! he’d tell them. Beautiful demons, enticing and gorgeous—the way you depict the angels!
But Bale had to admit, angels were stunning as well. They were out there too, standing on decks, moving through the sky, hanging around those blue beams streaking into the sky from a half dozen ships—as brilliant and visible in the sunlight as they had been at night. Yes, the angels—with their fiery sparks and glowing bodies—were nearly as beautiful as the demons. But their attitudes! They barely gave Bale a second glance, and when they did it was to glare at him—with contempt, Bale thought, and wariness, as villagers might look across a river at a tiger that had been eating their children.
The thought made Bale smile. Apparently he had been achieving his goal of harming God all along. He thought he had been, but there had never been proof outside the grief he could witness in the tears of the people he’d corrupted, the families of those he’d killed. Now he could also see it in the eyes of the angels, the ones closest to God, who k
new Him best and reflected His will. He’d gotten to them, so he’d gotten to God.
If the Stone did nothing else for him, letting him see the contempt in the angels’ eyes was enough. But that’s not all it would do. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out what those blue beams were—if not what they were, exactly, then what they signified, who they pointed out. And that was going to make his job so much easier.
That lovely creature was still poised on the wall before him, blinking at him, tilting its head curiously. Bale laughed again, loud and unrestrained. The creature snapped back, startled, then laughed with him.
He heard the others coming up behind him. He looked around over his shoulder at them, thinking he couldn’t keep the Stone to himself for long. It was too wonderful not to share. The creatures were all around them, the ones from the helicopter, a few others. Once again they were fidgeting, agitated. The big one was pacing back and forth behind them. The little monkey creature hopped from Lilit’s shoulder to Artimus’s to Hester’s. Another was wringing its hands, staring at Bale as though it expected him to toss him a scrap of meat.
He started to say, Wait till you see the company we have, but got only the first word out when the rest caught in his throat. Over the Clan’s heads, over the roofs of the nearest buildings, a sapphire beam was piercing the clouds. He could see it continuing up high, high above them. It was thick, that’s what got him. Thicker than any he’d seen so far. It shimmered and pulsed and seemed to extend forever. He had no doubt that if he were able see into space, there’d be that beam, shooting past planets and stars.
He pointed at it. “That’s where we’re going,” he said.
The others looked, turning back to him with puzzled expressions.
“Where?” Cillian said.
“Right there, over there, beyond the city.” Bale felt like an explorer after the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but knowing it would not move away from him the closer he got to it. Knowing it would be there when he arrived.
“Bale,” Hester said, “I don’t see anything.”
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