“Before Ollie started rambling about angels,” Gheronda said, “he said the person who attacked him took something, a stone.”
Jagger nodded. “I saw Steampunk with it. I grabbed it from her, but she took it back.”
“Well, we don’t know why they wanted it, but they have it now. That’s where I’m stuck. I don’t know what to do.”
“Call Owen,” Leo said.
“Why?” Jagger asked. “What can he do?”
“He’s much wiser than I am,” Gheronda said, stripping off his gloves. He walked away, heading for the front door, saying, “He knows Bale. He’s tracked the Clan. If anyone knows what we should do, he will.”
“But—” Jagger started, then reconsidered. He and Leo walked after Gheronda, who flipped the lights off over each section of hallway as they vacated it. “Look,” Jagger said, trailing behind the abbot, “if we have to get Owen involved, let me call him. I was there when the monks died, I saw the—”
Gheronda was holding something over his shoulder for Jagger to take.
A satphone.
[ 19 ]
“Where to?” Cillian asked, seated in the pilot’s seat of the Clan’s Bombardier, a computer screen and keyboard on an articulated arm in front of him.
Bale sat in the copilot seat, head back, eyes closed. The vision of the demons, lovely as they were, and all that came with them—rippling lights in the sky; spotlight-bright stars; the orchestral voices, too faint to understand, but painful to his ears; the feeling of a presence—had finally faded and disappeared. Odd how releasing the Stone didn’t immediately release you of the vision. It was like a bad smell, a noxious chemical, and it had given him a headache. His human mind couldn’t comprehend it all. Yet. He assumed it was something he’d get used it, having the eyes of God. And oh, what he could do with those eyes.
“Bale?” Cillian said. “Where to?”
“Stockholm.”
“Bronson Radcliff?”
Bale nodded.
“Thought we got what we wanted from him. Finally.”
“And that’s why we don’t need him anymore.” The Clan had helped the man for years, making him rich in exchange for his playing front man in their quest for relics and icons that would aid in their mission to be as destructive to God’s world as possible. Now that he had the Stone, Bale didn’t care what else was out there to find. It was too much work, cost too much, and left them too exposed to continue. And nothing could possibly be as powerful as the Stone. It was perfect that it’d come into his possession. Who else could put it to such effective use? The spiritual world would open up to others and they’d ooh and ahh or feel a warm fuzzy or argue that it was a trick or wasn’t from God, it proved nothing. He, on the other hand, accepted its source, marveled at its power, and would do something with it—and the world would ooh and ahh at him . . . after it was finished screaming.
“We’re going to need refueling,” Cillian said. “Didn’t do it earlier because you said you wanted the plane out of sight, and—”
“We were in a hurry, I know.”
“We can do it now, here.”
“After what we left behind at the monastery? I don’t think so. We better get out of here before they close the airport.”
Cillian looked at him over the top of his glasses. “You think times have changed that much, that anyone cares about St. Catherine’s?”
“Only if they think it was a terrorist attack.”
“No reason for anyone to think that.”
“Because people are stupid,” Bale said. “They don’t realize how big of a terrorist attack it was.”
Like stealing all the nuclear bombs in Russia. Too bad they didn’t know, the entire population of the world on edge, terrified, wondering where he’d strike and how bad it would be. Bad, he thought. Apocalypse bad. But they would figure it out soon enough, and they would pray, and the more they prayed, the worse it would get. Then one day, maybe soon, maybe not—he had all the time in the world—they would figure it out, and stop praying.
Cue the scary music.
“We have enough fuel to get to another country?”
“Oh yeah. Fifteen hundred miles or so.”
“So where, you think?”
Cillian studied the screen. He ran his fingers over the keyboard, which drew flight paths on a map. “Varna?”
“Bulgaria?” Bale remembered some good times there. “Why not?” He rolled out of the chair, patted Cillian on the shoulder, and said, “Wake me when we’re there.” He started into the cabin, then turned back. “Hey, Cillian?”
“Yeah?”
“Who discovered DNA?”
“What?” Looking over his shoulder.
“Who discovered DNA?” Bale repeated.
“I don’t know. Uh . . . Watson and Cricket, I think. Why?”
“Just asking.”
“Why do you always do that?” Cillian said, taking off his glasses.
“What?”
“Ask me weird trivia for no reason.”
“No reason.” Bale went into the cabin. The first section was their living room/theater: seventy-inch plasma, chairs as comfortable as your bed, bar. The lights were dim, and Therion was clicking a controller at the screen. Lilit sat in another chair, leg bent over the arm, bottle of wine in hand.
“What’s on?” Bale asked.
“Thinking about Sodom and Gomorrah,” Therion said. He shifted his bulk in the chair, finding a position that accommodated his muscles.
“Is that the snuff film?” Bale didn’t watch movies. He funded a few he thought were appropriately corrupting, PG-13 fare to reach those impressionable teens, but he never partook himself. Too many better things to do.
“No, this one’s based on the writings of the Marquis de Sade.”
“Wonderful,” Bale said. “Enjoy.”
“I’ve seen it five times.”
“That good?”
“That disgusting,” Lilit said.
Bale nodded. “Training film, huh?”
Lilit snorted. Bale knew no artist’s imagination in any media, no matter how depraved or vile, could come close to the Clan’s exploits. One reason movies bored him: why watch a film about an old man using a walker to get up a hill when you climbed Everest on a regular basis?
He left them to it and walked through the kitchen—no galley on this plane; they had a kitchen chefs would die for—into the area of the cabin that housed their bedrooms. Artimus’s and Hester’s doors were closed. Artimus was no doubt reading; he loved popular novels. Bale tapped on his door and opened it. Well, surprise, he was sitting on the bed, wiping a silicone cloth over the barrel of his .50-cal.
Bale asked, “Who discovered DNA?”
“Johannes Friedrich Miescher. At the University of Tübingen, Germany, in 1869. But he was Swiss.”
Bale grinned, shook his head. “I love it.” He started to shut the door, then asked, “Did Watson and Cricket have anything to do with it?”
“James Watson and Francis Crick. They discovered the molecular structure of DNA in 1953.”
“I guess Cillian gets one point for coming close,” Bale said. He laughed and took in the man’s machismo: the big honking gun, the Indian hair, war paint—still on. “Thanks,” he said and continued down the corridor. Cillian looked the part, and no doubt he was an intelligent guy, but Artimus . . . ? Bale laughed again, went into his bedroom, and shut the door.
[ 20 ]
The little girl sitting on her mother’s lap started crying before Owen picked up the syringe. He reached under a table into a large cardboard box and pulled out a stuffed blue monkey. He peeled away its plastic wrapping and jiggled it in front of her. In as squeaky a voice as his vocal cords would allow, he said, “Privet, Taisia! Ya Adeen gōd. Skolko vam let?” Hi, Taisia! I’m one year old. How old are you?
Taisia blinked and brushed the hair away from her face. She smiled, showing a big gap where her two upper central incisors used to be, and said, “Syem.” Seven.
Continuing in Russian, the monkey said, “Ooh, you’re a big girl. Will you let Dr. Letois give you an itsy bitsy shot? It will make sure you don’t get sick, and then I can come home with you.”
Taisia looked suspiciously at Owen . . . for a long time.
“Taisia?” the monkey said.
Slowly the girl nodded.
“Oh, goody!”
Taisia grabbed the monkey and gripped it tightly to her chest, burying her face into the top of its head. Her mother nodded.
Owen raised the girl’s sleeve and swabbed a spot with a water-moistened wipe. Taisia pulled away. Her mother whispered something to her, and she turned her arm back to Owen. He opened a syringe and filled it with BCG tuberculosis vaccine. He laid the syringe nearly parallel to the girl’s arm and gently slipped the needle two millimeters into the superficial layers of the dermis. Injecting the vaccine slowly, he frowned at the bruises on the girl’s forearm and the ones extending out from under the hem of her dress on her thigh.
Taisia was the fourth child—out of twenty-two so far—on whom he’d witnessed bruises. He knew better than to question her mother; the other parents he’d spoken to had become instantly and aggressively defensive, yanking their children away before he’d finished examining and vaccinating them. If word got out that he was asking the wrong kind of questions, chances were high he’d find his long queue of patients suddenly much shorter. He’d have to find another way to uncover the truth.
He had come to Tabashino in the heavily forested region of Mari El Republic, Russia, to give the children physicals, vaccinations, and any other medical care he could provide; in addition, he’d brought boxes of much needed supplies and pharmaceuticals, which he intended to leave with the area’s general practitioner nearly thirty miles away. He hoped to inspire other Western physicians to follow his lead. He’d expected to find all kinds of medical issues—a recent study by the Russian Health Ministry suggested that nearly eight million children were in need of medical attention, most of them in backwoods towns like Tabashino, where the likelihood of receiving care was infinitesimal.
What he hadn’t expected were these signs of abuse.
“All done,” he said in Russian. The injection had caused swelling similar to a mosquito bite. He told Taisia’s mom it should go away in fifteen minutes, to return if it didn’t. He grabbed a handful of Iris Kis-Kis treats, little squares of caramel, from his medical bag and handed them to the little girl. Telling the blue monkey that the shot didn’t hurt at all, she and her mother disappeared around the fabric screen that blocked the patient area from the rest of the basketball-court-sized community center Tabashino’s mayor had provided for Owen’s visit.
He was typing notes into a tablet computer—later, he’d print them and leave the hard copies for each parent to pick up—when his next patient appeared, a boy about ten. Without a word he handed Owen a folded note, which identified him as Dima Morozov and gave Owen permission to examine him and “inject any medicines to make him good.”
“Is this from your mother?” Owen asked.
Dima nodded. From his pants pocket he produced a card and handed it to Owen. It was a prayer card featuring a reproduction of Theotokos of Vladimir—Mary holding a baby Jesus, painted by the Apostle Luke. Owen had seen the original, freshly painted, and smiled at the card.
“Thank you,” he said, and placed it on the pile of other cards he had received today.
“Can I have a monkey?”
“Of course. Take off your shirt and have a seat.” Owen dug into his box of toys and said, “Would you like blue or green?” He turned to show them to the boy. “Personally, I like the—”
Beside bruised biceps, Dima’s stomach bore a fist-sized black-and-blue mark; red welts swelled on both shoulders.
“Dima . . .”
The boy frowned and dropped his head. Owen opened both stuffed animals and handed them to him. “Both monkeys want to be your friend,” Owen said. “Can you handle two?”
Dima embraced the stuffed animals. His grin alone was worth the trip to Russia, as far as Owen was concerned. Then the boy spotted something over Owen’s shoulder and stiffened. His eyes grew wide, his lips trembled . . . then he dropped his face again.
Owen turned and saw a man standing in a short hallway leading to the back door. A mousy-looking fellow, his expression went from glaring malice to smiling welcome when he saw Owen looking at him. The man nodded, then pushed through the door.
“Who is that man?” Owen said, standing. Dima was frozen, staring down at the monkeys in his lap. “Dima? Stay here.” He ran to the door and went through. An alleyway stretched in both directions. It was empty.
He returned to the examination area and sat across from Dima. The boy looked up, and Owen locked eyes with him. Owen hoped the love and compassion he felt for the child came through. “Dima,” he said, “you have to tell me about the bruises.”
That had been eight hours ago.
Now, Owen’s fist made contact with the Russian schoolteacher’s face. Fyodor Titov fell to the street in front of the closed school and lifted his knees and arms to protect himself.
The satphone in Owen’s backpack started ringing.
Owen straddled the little man, grabbed a handful of his wool coat, and lifted him a foot off the ground. His fist was pulled back, ready to strike again.
The phone kept ringing.
Owen shook with anger, his breath forming visible clouds of vapor in the cold air, chugging it out like a steam locomotive. He released Titov and stood, pointed at him, and said in the man’s native tongue, “Don’t move.” He walked to the concrete steps leading to the school’s front doors, fished the phone out of his pack, and answered it.
“Owen, it’s Jagger.”
He smiled despite himself. “Jagger! I’d say it’s always good to hear from you, but since it’s”—he pushed up the cuff of his down jacket and checked his watch—“one o’clock in the morning here, it must be eleven at night for you. I’m guessing there’s trouble?”
He heard shoes scuff the pavement behind him and turned to see Titov getting to his feet.
“Ey!” Owen said. Hey!
The man took off running.
“Ostanovis!” Stop! Owen said into the phone, “Hold on a sec,” and tore after Titov. It took him a block to catch up. He tackled him in the center of the street, blocked his pathetic slaps, and got a grip on his thinning hair. He jabbed a finger at his nose, gave him a serious look, and stood. He planted his boot on the man’s chest and lifted the phone. “Sorry about that, Jag.”
“I caught you at a bad time.”
“No.” He looked up and down the deserted street, just a smattering of dilapidated storefronts, a single parked car, no lights; only the moon kept it from being as black as a cave. The town might have been pleasant once—a tailor, a cobbler, a florist, what looked like an ice-cream shop, boarded over now because the whole place was suffering from economic starvation. Trash rustled along the curbs, paper signs announcing long-over sales flapped on the windows of stores whose owners couldn’t work up the motivation to peel them off, defoliated bushes grew untended from wide cracks between the curbs and sidewalks, their scraggy limbs mirroring the town’s desperation. Over the tops of the stores he could make out the silver onion domes of the local church. “I’m up here in Tabashino. Know it?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Beautiful, forests and rivers everywhere. But horrendous medical care, especially for the children.” He gave Jagger the short version of what brought him to that part of the world and the evidence of the abuse he’d seen. “I found out a schoolteacher’s been sexually abusing them, taking their pictures.”
“Oh man,” Jagger said.
Owen scowled at Titov, pushed his boot harder into his chest. “He was selling the pictures to a porn distributor in St. Petersburg. Even more terrible, the parents know about it. The teacher pays them to look the other way. As impoverished as this area is, I think it’s the only way th
ey can put food on the table.”
“There’s gotta be a better way. So what are you doing about it?”
“I’m having a word with the teacher now.”
And that’s all he had intended to do, until the guy ran from him when Owen approached him in a general store. Owen had found him in a pivnaya—a pub—and decided to wait for him elsewhere, not get into it with all his buddies around. He’d sat on the school steps—between the pub and where some townsfolk said the teacher lived—for six hours, at first chatting with passersby. Then, when they’d rolled up the sidewalks and everyone vanished into their homes, he’d sat alone, thinking about the kids, how they’d come to him with the sweetest smiles, bearing gifts like the prayer cards and a few things they’d made themselves, how they beamed when he gave them handfuls of candy and little toys. Stewing over the abuse they’d endured. Growing angrier and angrier—even through prayer. When the guy came stumbling down the street, listened to Owen’s accusations, and dismissed him with a curt Russian phrase meaning “mind your own business”—but not as nice—Owen had lost it.
Or found it: what the guy had coming to him.
“I see,” Jagger said. “Give him a word from me too.”
“Back to your trouble. What’s up?”
Jagger explained: the attack, the monks’ deaths, Ollie’s injury.
“What did they want?” Owen asked.
He said he didn’t know, but told him about an attacker he’d dubbed “Steampunk” and the rock she had stolen.
Owen said, “And you’re sure it was the Clan?”
“Gheronda showed me a scrapbook with pictures of them. He said you’d taken some of the shots. They were the same people.”
“Okay.” Owen felt as though his stomach had been filled with molten iron.
“I wasn’t sure I should call,” Jagger said.
“I’m glad you did.”
“But what can you do? What should we do?”
“Just hold down the fort,” Owen said. He calculated: an hour to reach his jet at the Yoshkar-Ola Airport, roughly 1,800 miles to Sharm-el-Sheikh—four and a half hours—add an hour to refuel at, say, Erzurum—no sense risking trouble in one of the paranoid Arab countries—then another hour to get a helicopter to St. Cath’s. “I can be there in seven and a half, eight hours.”
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