Black Madonna s-20

by Carl Sargent

  “Ah yes: ‘The submerged fields will display waters carrying tables, beds, boats, and other improvised craft, out of both necessity and fear of death; on them, men, women, and children, huddled together, will be crying and lamenting, terrified by the furious tornado that whips up the waves and with them the corpses of the drowned… The waves strike against them and repeatedly buffet them with the bodies of the drowned, and these impacts destroy those in whom a breath of life still pulses… Oh, how many people you will see stopping their ears with their hands, so as not to hear the mighty noise with which the violence of the winds, mingled with the rain and the thunder, and the cracking of the thunderbolts fills the darkened air! Others, losing their reason, commit suicide, despairing of being able to bear such torture; some hurl themselves from the top of ridges, other strangle themselves with their Own hands, others again seize their children and kill them with a blow. Oh, how many mothers brandish their fists against the heavens and weep for the drowned sons they hold on their knees, howling curses on the wrath of the gods.”

  “By the spirits, I had no idea be ever wrote anything like that.” Serrin closed the book; he looked genuinely distressed by what he’d read.

  “But it makes sense,” Michael said. “It’s the Biblical apocalypse, isn’t it? And at the same time he paints John, the author of Revelation? For reassurance about deliverance? The Baptist may be a strange figure, but he looks incredibly serene to me.”

  “Does it occur to you that if this kind of apocalypse was in Leonardo’s mind at the end of his life, that our quarry may be filled with something of the same horror and madness? And what could you do with twenty billion nuyen?” Serrin said, shaking a little.

  “Oh, hell,” Michael breathed, turning a little pale himself. “You don’t think, surely-”

  “I don’t know. We could be following the wrong route entirely. We just don’t know. And what did his biographer mean by saying that John the Baptist leads to every temptation?”

  “Look, guys, I’ve had enough of this bollocks,” Streak said suddenly, getting to his feet. “You two are talking out of your arses. How about finding me someone to shoot? That, I can do.”

  Michael had just opened his mouth to hurl some reply when there was a soft knock at the door. It was a maid, small and dark, holding a silver tray with a small card on it. When bade enter, she looked about her.

  “You are English Michael?” she said, looking at the man.

  “I am, thank you. That is for me?” he replied, puzzled. “Thanyou,” she said sweetly, putting the tray down on the table before him and sashaying out of the room.

  “Who knows we’re here?” Michael questioned.

  “Don’t touch it,” Streak growled. “It could have contact poison.”

  “The maid isn’t dead,” Serrin said sarcastically. Streak pulled a pair of tweezers from one of his pockets and held up the card for Michael to read.

  “A small token of esteem will arrive for you at five clock this afternoon,” Michael recited. “Beautiful handwriting.”

  “That’s it?” Serrin enquired.

  “That’s it.”

  “From whom?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “Get that bloody maid back in here!” Streak snarled. He took a couple of paces to the doorway.

  “Let me,” Michael stopped him in a weary tone of voice. “I think I can handle this a little more diplomatically.”

  He left for the domestics quarters and returned within couple of minutes, looking distinctly puzzled. “She doesn’t remember.”

  “Oh, great, someone called no more than five minutes ago and she can’t remember what he looked like?”

  “No. She doesn’t remember anyone calling. She doesn’t remember giving me the card. She says she’s been stocking the linen cupboards.”

  “Did you get the right maid?”

  “Give me a break,” Michael complained, “I can tell the difference between a maid in her twenties, five foot one or so, slim and dark, and one who looks like a retired member of the Bulgarian Olympic shot-putting squad.”

  “Can you deal with it?” Streak asked Serrin. He drew the obvious implication that the maid must have had some memory-affecting suggestion implanted magically in her mind.

  “Possibly, but why? He’s going to be back at five o’clock, right?”

  “I suppose so,” Streak said, fidgeting. “I’ll be waiting for the bugger when he gets here.”

  “We might actually want to talk to him,” Serrin pointed out.

  “I had lasers in mind,” Streak said defensively. “I think we might opt for something a little less aggressive,” Serrin replied sharply. “Whatever, we’ll wait for Geraint. He should be back soon, and we’ve got three hours before the little token turns up.”

  “Can we go sightseeing?” Kristen asked plaintively. “I’d really like to get out of here and look around.”

  Serrin was on the point of refusing, when he stopped to think about it. “I don’t see why not if we stick to a car,” he said. “After this morning it would be best not to go about on foot. If they were prepared to take a crack at us outside a church, they’d take a crack anywhere.”

  “Okay.” She was a little disappointed, and not able hide it very well.

  “Look, when this is all over we’ll come back and see the place properly. And it’ll all be over one way or another very soon,” Serrin said soothingly.

  “Yeah, and whether the Jesuits still want to kill you may still be up for grabs,” Streak pointed out. “Sorry be a party-pooper, but-”

  “I think Geraint just got back,” Michael said, looking out the window. “Keep any wisecracks down. I was winding him up before, but I think this won’t have been much fun for him.” He decided, on impulse, not to trust Streak’s discretion in particular, so he got up and raced downstairs to the hallway.

  It didn’t look good, “You okay?”

  “Don’t ask. It’s no use. Nothing has changed. If anything, she drinks even more than before.” Geraint’s voice was filled with sadness, weariness, but above all resignation. “I want to be out of here tonight. I’ll fix something with the consulate. Get packed.”

  “Someone is delivering something for us at five o’clock. I guess,” Michael extrapolated wildly, “that it may be some kind of message from our target. From the blond man, probably.”

  “All right,” Geraint said, too drained of emotional energy to argue. “Get packed so we can be out of here right afterward. I have some calls to make. See you later.”

  He didn’t even ask about their continuing researches, just made his way to his room and locked the door behind him.

  That’s the difference between us, Michael thought after his friend had disappeared from view. We can both do the British gentleman act to a tee. Everyone looks for the deeper stuff behind that facade. I’m the lucky one. I don’t have any depth. I am facade. It’s a lot less stressful like that. I don’t end up locking myself in my room.

  With a shrug, he turned and followed his friend up the stairs.

  Across the city, three men stood ashamed before a seated figure, their heads held rigid but their eyes downcast. Their interrogator wore clothes akin to those of a Vatican cardinal, but simpler and more austere. Eyes the gray of graite stared out at them over the bridge of his hooked nose.

  “So you failed,” was all he said speaking in harsh Spanish.

  The men stayed silent.

  “And now they may be one step nearer. Fortunately, we ahead of them. We know where the heretic is now. And against my better judgment, I shall grant you a second chance. Not that I will trust you alone, needless to say. Nadal will command the unit.”

  The men did not look at each other, did not move at all, but their hearts sank. Juan Nadal was as fanatical as any commander they could have hoped to avoid. Formally titled an Assistant, nothing could have been further from the truth. Nadal was as powerful as the General himself and when he spoke at the Gesu, everyone listened. Those wh
o had worked with Nadal in the New Inquisition didn’t speak of it. His name itself was only whispered, and then in fear.

  “I hardly need add that if you fail this time, you will have an eternity to pray that you might receive the blessed mercy of purgatory. Remember that the faithful who disappoint God are more damned than those who have never heeded his words. Do not fail Him again.”

  The men turned away and said nothing as they trooped quietly toward the unvarnished wooden door. The one to the left of the group twitched just slightly, a muscle in his left hand overtensed and dysfunctional. He bailed his hand into a fist and said nothing.

  22

  Michael had shooed the others out of the room and was busy skipping through the electronic static, He knew the LTG number of the Priory system at Rennes-le-Chateau, and now that he’d recovered he was finally doing what he should have done much earlier.

  Somewhere there has to be a directory, he thought; somewhere, I can find who was connected to that system; who entered it, the records will be somewhere. Oh, I just love these blind hunts, and I don’t expect the icons will be the obvious ones.

  It took him a frustratingly long time to hunt down the numbers. When he did, what he found annoyed and frustrated him further. Nothing remained in either of the first two systems he cracked but a single icon in the stripped databanks: an icon of a plain stone throne. When he found it a third time, he jacked out and scratched his scalp in irritation. To his surprise, the clock opposite him read four forty-eight. He went to join the others, but Geraint was not among them.

  “I’d better get him,” he said. “Leave this to me.”

  Slightly apprehensive, he hurried to Geraint’s room and knocked gently.

  “Yes, come in.” The voice was still tired and weary.

  Almost reluctantly, Michael opened the door. Geraint was sweeping away four cards from the table before him, back into the silk wrap in which he kept them. Michael knew enough of the designs to know what they were.

  The Empress, The High Priestess, Queen of Cups, and lastly Art, the angel usually named Temperance. Not difficult to see what’s on his mind, he thought. As Michael sometimes did with anything outside his own expertise, he made the mistake of taking the surface appearance for the underlying one. The explanation was too facile, but he wasn’t going to ask about it in any event.

  “It’s nearly five. We’re expecting a visitor, remember?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Geraint didn’t look at him. He was lost in thought.

  I may have to do my world-famous impression of an alarm clock with a snooze function in five minutes, Michael thought glumly. He retraced his steps.

  Streak was polishing a gun barrel. Michael would have been disappointed if he’d been doing anything else. The elf hadn’t been hired for his analytical intellect, after all.

  “I’ll take the front, you take the back,” he grinned. “Serrin can sit up here and do the ju-ju all over the shop. We’ll net the plonker, bet your life on it.”

  “Elegantly put.” Michael said wryly. “I think I’ll have to some explaining to the servants, though. Excuse me one moment.”

  As the clock ticked on to one minute before the hour they grew tense. Serrin was getting no signal from any of his watcher spirits, and Streak was almost twitching with apprehension. At last, a carriage meandered down the street. Remarkably, it didn’t appear to have a driver.

  “Here he comes,” Streak said through clenched teeth to Geraint beside him. “Right, term, let’s see more than your visiting card.”

  The carriage stopped precisely before the front door and Streak slipped into the doorway, taser readied, hawksh eyes scanning the scene.

  The young man opened the carriage door. Streak didn’t move.

  He wore an ostentatious costume, a floppy dark blue cap, a silk doublet with gold threading, and powder-blue hose. His shoes were exquisitely soft leather, with gilded buckles. Whether he was smiling as he had been at the Baptistery was impossible to see: the gilded mask covering his face didn’t permit his expression to show.

  He stepped up to Streak without any undue hurry, and handed him the medium-sized wooden box he was carrying. The elf took it dumbly, and the man turned around and got back into his carriage. Leaving a motionless pair of men behind, the carriage moved at a sedate pace down the street and disappeared into the crowd at the crossroads beyond.

  Streak snapped back into wakefulness and almost dropped the box. Very gingerly, he put it down in the doorway and reached for his scanners.

  “What the-”

  “I couldn’t stop him,” came Serrin’s voice from behind him. “Couldn’t touch him. He had enough power around him to bust right through the barriers. The watchers never even twitched. No trace either. I tried to have a watcher follow him and it looked more confused than I’ve ever seen. It’s out there wandering around somewhere, but I don’t think it’s going to find anything”

  “He pulled this same stunt at the Baptistery,” Streak growled. “I’d like to meet Blondie again when he isn’t expecting it, the little scumfrag.”

  “What’s in there?” Serrin pointed to the box.

  “Nonferrous metal,” Streak said.

  “Open it,” Geraint ordered.

  “I haven’t finished-”

  “If he wanted to do us any harm he could have cut our throats in the doorway,” Geraint pointed out. “He’s hardly going to bother with a bloody bomb, is he?”

  “He also stopped us getting scragged this morning,” Serrin added.

  “Okay, you got it,” Streak said, whipping out a heavy knife and prying open the wooden lid of the box.

  “Oh, very slick,” he said as he lifted out the item inside.

  It was a clock, of sorts. A hand’s length high, the gold filigree-decorated clock sat inside a glass case. A pair of exquisitely sculpted angels were bracketed to either side of the clockface and housing. Beneath the clock at the base of the case was a pool of liquid, and an intricate motor-driven mechanism rotated, lifting tiny buckets of the water to drive the clockwork mechanisms inside the housing.

  “Exquisite,” Geraint said softly. “It’s worth a few nuyen, I can tell you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any thing like it.”

  “I think I have,” Serrin replied, amused.

  “Really? Since when did you start taking an interest in antiques?”

  “Since, oh, a few days ago. Unless I’m much mistaken, this is a superior working version of Leonardo’s design for a water-driven clock. Let’s go and check it against the sketches in the book I got this morning.”

  It took only a couple of minutes to confirm the identification. The clock continued to function perfectly and soundlessly, keeping immaculate time.

  “Bet you a monkey the sodding thing goes bang at six o’clock or something,” Streak said, grumbling.

  “We’ve been through that,” Geraint said laconically. “So why this? And why now?”

  “Now, because we’re here. As to why this,” Serrin mused, “I really don’t know.”

  “Well, we can worry about it at the villa I’ve found for tonight,” Geraint said. “I had some words with the cosulate. You packed?”

  “More or less. Michael still has to get his deck squared way, Did he tell you what he got?”

  They walked slowly back up the stairs, Michael explaining to Geraint that the Priory of Sion’s systems beyond Rennes had been stripped bare and closed down, leaving only the throne icon behind them.

  “Some kind of message or signal,” Serrin suggested. “But it’s so general, it could mean anything. It must mean something specific to the Priory, but without someone to explain it to us we can’t know what it means.”

  Idly, he turned on the trid. They had a few minutes to kill while Michael gathered together his equipment. The tail end of the local news was showing. Thick red and white smoke swept over the heads of a roiling crowd waving banners and gesticulating wildly.

  “The Milan soccer derby,” Serrin estimated. “Usually tw
o or three get killed each year.”

  “These Eyeties don’t know squit,” Streak growled. “Take ‘em down to the Dogs, down Milwall. We know how to have a decent soccer riot down there. And look at that crowd, has to be a hundred thousand, Too many by far.”

  “The San Siro,” Senin told him. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

  “Not bad,” Streak said. “Oh! Ouch, look at that tackle. I’ll give them that: their footballers really know how to break legs,” and then he had no more time to expand upon the subject as the tridcast cut to an entirely different scene. After a few moments of trying to figure out what was being discussed, they dissolved into laughter.

  “Oh, lovely icon that.”

  “The evaporating turd? Yeah, good one. What the frag is this?”

  Florentine local trid was using some graphic icons to illustrate the tail-end news item. Since it concerned a rival city-state, it wasn’t going to get better than last-spot status, but it was important enough that it couldn’t, regrettably from the Florentine point of view, be ignored entirely.

  Waterways were shown with icons of various toxic effluent, from the graphic pile of excrement to clouds of steaming vapor with skull-and-crossbones motifs, evaporating from them. The scene panned back to show the canals. Serrin sat bolt upright in his chair.

  “What am they saying?”

  “Can’t make much out, he’s jabbering too fast,” Streak said.

  “Call up the bloody subtitles,” Serrin demanded.

  “Don’t know how, not on this!” Streak complained.

  “Give me the gist, then.”

  “It’s about de-polluting the canals in Venice” Streak paused, listening hard to the next chunk of excitable commentary.

  “Big change. Lots of drek disappearing. You can fall in and not be dead inside the hour now, apparently. Tourists come to Venice, that sort of spiel. This local commentator’s getting right sarky about that.”

  The scene cut again to the advertisements. Apparently soap powder moved scantily clad young Italian females to implausible states of hopeless excitement.

  “Venice! The bastard’s in Venice,” Serrin yelled.