Clan Novel Lasombra: Book 6 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Richard E. Dansky

  Ambitious,” murmured Vykos.

  “A simple law of statecraft,” replied Polonia. “It is axiomatic that one expels the spy after he has taken over the local network, rather than before. It disrupts all of his half-achieved plans, and makes it take that much more time for the next spymaster to settle in, after all.” He gave a short bark of laughter. “If you wish to know who’s been spying, my sire used to say, look to see who’s been deported.”

  Vykos nodded. “Still, you’ve given reasons why Bell should be removed, not plans for how to do it.”

  “Patience, my dear Archbishop. Here is what we will do, combining our problems as Don Borges suggested earlier. We will kill Bell. With him removed, Pieterzoon’s operation collapses into temporary chaos. During that opportunity, we drive toward Boston across the heart of New England. To prepare the way, we send out a pack as advance scouts during the first part of the operation, and in the confusion they can slip through the Camarilla cordon into Boston proper. Then they go to ground and begin laying the groundwork for a full-scale operation against the Giovanni.” Polonia smiled, and not kindly. “As you seem to be a bit short-handed on personnel, Don Borges, I will even volunteer one of my packs to run the gauntlet into Boston; I can think of one already who’s been doing so off and on for years, and which has established something of a safe haven there. You, my honored peer, can have the honor of leading the guerrilla operation instead, with Sir Talley at your side.”

  “Hmm.” Vykos waved a finger in the air lazily, as if conducting an orchestra no one else could hear. “I think I see one flaw in your plan, Archbishop.”

  “Oh?”

  “You said ‘kill Bell,’ as if it would be that easy. Do you have any ideas as to how this might be accomplished, or were you just trusting Jove to send down a convenient thunderbolt?”

  “Tsk tsk, such blasphemy. Your patron would not appreciate it. Besides, I thought I might indulge in your favorite political tool.”

  “Ah. I see.” Vykos’s face was expressionless. “That tack failed once already, you know.”

  Polonia waved the objection away. “We failed with the master, now we try the man. I doubt he’ll be as difficult a target. Besides, the Camarilla has a unique blind spot in their tactical vision. For some reason, they think that if they foil a stratagem once, it could never possibly work again. No doubt Pieterzoon and Bell and Vitel and all of the others are sitting around, congratulating themselves on the fact that they’ve outsmarted the assassins we sent after the Dutchman. Surely we would not be so gauche as to try the same trick again. They won’t expect it, not at all.”

  Vykos steepled her fingers and frowned. “I hope you are right, Archbishop. Am I to assume that this portion of the operation is mine?”

  Polonia bowed from the neck. “You assume correctly, Archbishop. And even if we fail here, we succeed. We shake the Camarilla’s faith in what they ‘know’ about us. We decrease their trust in their safety. We make them worry. And a worried enemy, as you both know, is a beaten one.”

  “I’ll think on it,” said Borges brusquely, and he turned and walked off. Polonia raised an eyebrow, and Vykos nodded and went after him. As the sound of their footsteps on wet cobblestones faded, the Archbishop of New York looked at Talley, who remained before him.

  “Excellently played, Archbishop,” said Talley mildly.

  Polonia regarded the templar with disinterest. “You would be referring to…?”

  “Your baiting of Archbishop Borges. You goad him toward…rashness. You drive him to acts that could cause him harm.”

  “And that offends your sensibilities, my dear Templar?” Polonia asked casually. “Tell me, if you feel Archbishop Borges to be in such danger, why are you still here with me?”

  Talley spread his hands. “I assure you, Don Polonia, I am merely doing my job.”

  “Ah. I see. And that job is?”

  “Keeping Archbishop Borges, among others, functioning. Would it surprise you to hear that my actual orders from Cardinal Monçada are slightly different from the ones that were communicated to you?” Polonia inclined his head slightly. “Not at all. Walk with me, Templar.” Without looking back, he headed down the street, in the direction opposite that which Borges had taken. Talley frowned, and then followed.

  “So,” Polonia said, “what are you doing here? Or does the cardinal not wish that to be known?”

  “More or less what you expect. I am to protect you and your fellow archbishops—because while we have very good evidence that one of you has been marked for assassination, the details are still a bit unclear—and generally to make my presence very publicly known.” Talley’s voice was expressionless, his eyes everywhere but on Polonia.

  “Known to whom?”

  “To whomever is employing Lucita, Your Excellency.”

  Polonia sighed. “And that brings you to me?”

  Talley sidestepped a garbage can. “Call it a preventive measure, Don Polonia. Rey Torres, one of Borges’s most loyal associates, has been sent away and cannot reach the archbishop in case of trouble. Don Borges himself is the target of constant goading, and sooner or later he’ll erupt in a fashion that I can’t contain. It behooves me to go to the source of this problem and try to eliminate it.”

  Polonia turned with one eyebrow raised. “I had no idea that Torres was such a matter of concern.” Talley nodded. “By himself, he’s not. He’s a coward and a braggart, but right now I’m more concerned with where he fits into the larger puzzle.”

  “Fit in the past tense, I expect, at this point. But that is neither here nor there. Hmm. Had I known that you were so suspicious of my motives, I would have insisted that Torres not take point. No doubt Borges would have objected to my stealing his people’s chance for glory, however, and…” Polonia’s face curved into an expression of contempt for a second, then he looked up. “Again, that is of no consequence. Say what you have been waiting to say, before we walk ourselves out of the city.”

  Talley stopped and sat down on a concrete step. “If you insist. Tell me, Don Polonia, why do you want Archbishop Borges dead?”

  “That is easy. I do not.”

  “No?” Talley almost snorted in disbelief. “Then please, explain to me how it is that so many signs point to you.”

  Polonia gave a thin smile. “Allow me to explain something to you, Don Talley. Borges is an impetuous man. He is a man of strength and passion, but he has little control or subtlety. He can be led much like the bull is led in the ring, coerced into a rage and then turned at a target. In that, he is useful while the war lasts, and I do not discard tools while there is some use in them. This fight is not yet over, and for all his faults, Archbishop Borges would be a hard man to replace. Besides, I suspect that Borges’s temper will kill him long before I decide it is necessary to bring his name before Les Amies Noir for judgment or execution. So I do not wish Borges dead; or instead, let me say that I do not wish him dead any more than I have for the last two centuries, and possibly less so at the moment.

  “If I wanted Borges dead,” Polonia said softly, “he would have been dead before the gracious cardinal sent you here. Do you understand me, Templar?”

  Talley almost caught himself flinching. He was older than Polonia, and probably more powerful, but the man had an air of veiled menace about him that chilled the blood.

  “But of course,” Polonia came to a stop as he paused, “you ask me if I’ve hired Lucita to destroy a fellow archbishop. What else would you expect me to say?”

  With that, the Archbishop of New York continued on his way, leaving Talley to stand alone in the night.

  Wednesday, 25 August 1999, 10:20 PM

  Iglesia de San Nicolás de los Servitas

  Madrid, Spain

  “I am curious, Cardinal. Tell me: What game are you really playing?”

  Cardinal Monçada spread his hands beatifically. “Why, chess, of course. And I will allow you to take back that last move, unless you truly do wish to sacrifice that bishop.”


  “I thought you were sacrificing an archbishop,” grumbled Don Ibrahim. He peered at the board. “Let the move stand. I would rather lose than take charity and score a tainted victory, bismallah.”

  “If you insist.” Monçada reached ponderously over the board and swept the bishop aside with a knight. “I admit, the symbolism of the move is a bit cloying. One can read too much into such things, Don Ibrahim. As I told Talley before I sent him away, the chess metaphor is a weary one.”

  Ibrahim crossed his arms and sat back. “If it has gotten weary, that is because it has given honorable service upon so many occasions. So what game are you playing, Cardinal? Sate my curiosity. You know I have no stake in these American squabbles, and no interest who lives or dies.”

  “None whatsoever?”

  “Talley will come back.”

  “I should hope so.” Monçada heaved his immense bulk from the chair and stood, blinking. “And Lucita, as well. Vykos? Probably. It is old and powerful, and while it is in danger, it is skilled at survival. As for the others, well, if Lucita survives, one of them will not. It is simple logic.” He began a slow circuit around the room, rubbing his hands and sighing. “As for what my game is, well, I confess to you that I have none. I am protecting my assets and trying to flush out a traitor. There are too many subtle signs of wrongness emanating from this entire escapade. There are too many powers in one place, too many agendas. Sooner or later it will all thin itself out, and I want to make sure that it does so in an orderly fashion. I don’t expect Talley will succeed in his stated mission, in truth. I simply expect his presence to eliminate waste and unnecessary carnage.”

  Ibrahim nodded and studied the board, then moved a pawn forward to threaten Monçada’s knight. “Sensible. Eminently sensible. But what do you do when the smoke has cleared?”

  Monçada stopped and gazed up at a tapestry that was almost as old as he was. It depicted the opening of Jesus’s tomb on the third day, and it had a curious stain down the left side. “We shall see what we shall see when it does, Don Ibrahim. Someone may require punishment, if he has been too avid in following his own agenda and not the greater one that God has allowed us to set for him.” The latter was said mildly, in a matter-of-fact tone that might deceive any who did not know the cardinal. Don Ibrahim, on the other hand, had a very good idea of how Monçada defined “punishment,” and suddenly felt a bit anxious himself.

  “What if it’s one of your archbishops?”

  Monçada frowned. “Then I will punish an archbishop.”

  Ibrahim nodded. “I am pleased to hear that. Some of them grow too confident in themselves if left too long to their own devices.” A sudden thought struck him. “But what do you do if Talley actually succeeds?” The cardinal turned, an unguarded, unwholesome smile on his face. “Against my daughter, Don Ibrahim, do you really think he will?”

  Don Ibrahim said nothing for as long as he dared, then turned back to the board. “It is your move, Cardinal,” he said quietly.

  “Indeed it is, my friend. I thank you for reminding me. Indeed it is.” And he settled himself back into his chair and stared at the board, concentrating once again on the game at hand.

  Friday, 27 August 1999, 4:16 AM

  Forest Hills MBTA Station

  Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts

  “What we have here,” said Angela with a plastic smile, “is a failure to communicate.” The man she was speaking to didn’t answer, possibly because his mouth was filled with blood and fragments of his own broken teeth, but that didn’t seem to be an acceptable excuse to Angela. She reached down and grabbed him by his stained shirt front, then hauled him to his feet. He kicked feebly, once or twice, but to no avail. Overhead, the occasional car rumbled across the Jamaica Way overpass; in the near distance an early Orange Line train screeched its way into Forest Hills station. Other than that, however, the night was deserted, which struck Angela as something of a pity. A witness, in her mind, would make a convenient excuse for more exercise than her current victim was providing.

  He was a small man, with black hair and swarthy features that might have been almost handsome before Angela had gently applied a tire iron to his lower jaw. He wore a shirt that had once been white but now was stained with dirt and blood, a black vest and black slacks. There was a ragged and bloody patch on his scalp where Angela, in her enthusiasm, had torn out a hunk of his hair, and a trail of blood leaked from his ruined mouth. When he breathed, bubbles of pinkish foam formed and burst on his lips.

  Angela figured he had maybe five minutes, ten at the outside. There was plenty of time for her to get the answers she needed and have a little fun be sides. She thought for a second, then grabbed her victim and turned him over. He spat gobbets of half-congealed blood onto the cobblestones. “You have one chance to make this painless,” she said. “Tell me where your boss parks his car, and I end this right now. Play stubborn, and you end up like them.” She pointed straight up with her offhand.

  The man followed her gaze. Directly over them was the overpass that took the Jamaicaway over the southern terminus of the Orange Line subway: four lanes’ worth of concrete and steel stretched thirty feet straight up. On the underside of the construction were corpses, at least a dozen. They were impaled on spikes that jutted down from the overpass, and crudely but securely manacled and gagged. A stench of rot drifted down lazily, to mingle with the garbage and urine smells that were thick on the breeze. “Hmm?” Angela asked.

  The man laughed. Startled, Angela dropped him. “What’s so funny, you little shit? What’s so funny about that?”

  The man spat more blood, choking on it even as he tried to rein in his amusement. “Man, you just don’t get it, do you? That’s what you’re threatening me with? Man, you don’t know a damn thing.” His voice was thick and slurred, but his mocking tone came through regardless.

  Angela looked down at him, tapped his jaw with her foot once, and waited.

  “Lemme explain something to you, okay? You’re gonna kill me? Great. You’re gonna break every bone in my body? Fine. You’re gonna make me hurt like no one has ever hurt before, and eventually you’re going to kill me. Fan-fucking-tastic. Do it. I’ll scream as much as I can, even, if it makes you feel better. But what you don’t get is that in the end, it’s all gotta end. You’re gonna kill me, and I’ll be dead and then you can’t hurt me anymore.” He coughed once, a rattle in his chest that hadn’t been there before. “But once you kill me, it’s over. If I sell out, well, I die anyway and then the hurting really starts. And you know what? Once my boss gets his hands on my soul, I’m gonna hurt forever.” He spat and grinned bloodily. “So do your worst, you bitch. I’m not going anywhere.” He started laughing again, loud enough that it could be heard over the thunder of the eighteen-wheeler passing overhead.

  Angela stared at him thoughtfully for a long moment. “Hmm. That’s a good point. Unfortunately for you, you’ve missed what’s really going on here. Look up again. Look very carefully at the people up there. Then count how many are still moving.”

  The man looked up once again, and his eyes got very wide. “Oh,” was all he said.

  Angela smiled, not unkindly. “The sun never, ever gets under here, you know, and we just drape a tarp across the whole thing and make it look like there’s someone doing maintenance. It’s worked for years.”

  “Years?”

  She nodded. “Years. That’s how long I’ve been visiting town on Polonia’s orders. That’s how long Arnold’s been up there…you remember Arnold, right? I think he had your job before you did, then he disappeared.

  “Even your boss didn’t know what happened to him, did he? Well, here’s the story. He wouldn’t talk, either, so I decided to let him hang around until he changed his mind.” She leaned over and kissed his forehead with an almost maternal gesture. “Don’t worry, Danny. You’re going to be hanging around, too.”

  It was nearly dawn when Angela finally got the tarp back in place, with a little help from an early-rising phone
crew she flagged down and pressed into service by dint of one of her better-developed vampiric abilities. Danny was up there, his mouth still open in that stupid little “oh.” He hadn’t talked yet, but Angela was sure he was going to, soon. And when he had, she’d leave him up there anyway, as a little payback for laughing at her.

  Already, the first commuters were straggling along the path to the train station. Some looked blearily at Angela, no doubt seeing her as a late returnee from a night of partying (never mind that Boston rolled up its sidewalks at 1 AM). All of them walked right under where Danny now rested, two feet of sharp steel through his sternum. None of them even bothered to look up; there were times when the vampire felt that the tarp covering her little menagerie was a wasted effort.

  Angela felt herself smiling, and broke into a brisk walk. The temporary haven where the others were waiting with their news was only a few blocks away, so there was no need for her to rush. She felt good, however. Soon the Giovanni’s chauffeur would break, and they’d know everything they needed to in order to deal with the man’s master. Then that knowledge could be passed back to Archbishop Polonia, and he could get it to those who needed to know.

  It was going to be, Angela decided, an absolutely beautiful day.

  Saturday, 28 August 1999, 11:23 PM

  Residence of D. Peter Munro, Esq.

  Newark, Delaware

  “You’re late.” The voice echoed hollowly through the empty room. The only piece of furniture in it was a straight-backed wooden chair, occupied by a short, black-haired man in an immaculate, and squeakily new, biker jacket. His boots were planted squarely on the floor and his hands were folded neatly in his lap. He was silhouetted against the moonlight that poured through the bay window behind him, but nothing in his posture betrayed the slightest tension or fear. The great wooden doors at either end of the room were barred from the outside, and the walls were featureless white. A single candelabra, marred by the wax drippings from countless tapers, swung silent and black from its chain.