Five minutes later they were on Saarinen's boat, running without lights, full speed toward Miami. Starcher was on the cot in the cabin. Justin knelt by his side as Dr. Kutsenko cleaned his wound.
"He's going to be all right," she said. "The bullet passed right through."
"His heart?" Justin asked softly.
"It seems to be all right," she said.
Saarinen had put the boat on automatic pilot and entered the cabin.
"I should charge you bastards double for this," he roared. He had a bottle of Finlandia vodka in his hand. "Shooting, fooling around, making me wait. Are you trying to make an old man of me? Making me crazy. I'm steaming toward Cuba and what am I hearing on the radio? That somebody tried to kill Fidel Castro, and it's probably the work of the crazy imperialist Yankees. Is that what I have on my boat now? Assassins?"
"We saved Castro's life," Justin said simply.
Saarinen paused, then roared again. "Well, aren't you the idiot? They're blaming it on you people anyway."
Justin saw Starcher's eyes open. The CIA man was smiling faintly. "It's all right," Starcher said softly.
"So what'd we accomplish?" Justin said.
Starcher spoke softly. "Sure, they can blame it on us. But they'll figure out the truth, Justin. And when they do... you watch. Castro will start being a lot nicer to the United States. Maybe we made a friend for America, Justin."
"Be quiet and rest," Dr. Kutsenko said. "Is there anything you want?"
Starcher grinned. "Yes. A cigar."
Justin stood on the rear deck of the boat. Cuba was far astern now, out of sight, but he kept looking in that direction.
He thought of Duma lying dead on the top of the cliff.
Hers was the most crushing death of all. Everything he had ever loved had died at Zharkov's hands. She had thought him Patanjali, but he was not Patanjali. Justin Gilead was a fake, a fraud who had learned some physical tricks, enough to keep him alive while others died.
But no more.
Zharkov was dead; the Prince of Death was no more. And Justin would soon join him in death.
But he wished he had had time to go over to Zharkov's body and wring its neck. He wanted to feel the last pulse of Zharkov's life under his fingers and to feel it vanish through his hands.
But enough. Zharkov was dead. The game was over.
He remembered the dark lump that had been Zharkov, lying on the sand as their little boat moved away from the shore. And he remembered the other thing he had seen. He tried to focus his concentration and his memory, to try to make the picture come clear in his mind. It was like a chess position; if he allowed himself to flow into his memory, to become his memory, the picture would come clear, unbidden, into his mind.
He stared up blankly toward the bright moon and let his eyes drift out of focus. Slowly, fuzzily, the thing he had seen in the water began to take shape, to form, to become visible.
And then the full picture burst into his mind like a skyrocket, going off, flaring into color, forcing him to blink and turn away.
In that brief glimpse under the moonlight, he had seen not bats, but men.
Four men, dark, crouched, running, their faces painted black.
Varja's men.
Coming for the Prince of Death.
Was it over? Would it ever be over?
He lowered his face to his arms.
The Grandmaster wept.
BOOK SIX
THE RESIGNATION
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Time to die.
Justin huddled in the hollow of snow he had dug for himself. It was night in the mountains near Amne Xachim, and so cold that his spittle froze and cracked in midair.
He had been waiting for death most of his life. From his youth, when he lost Duma, to the massacre of the monks at Rashimpur, to the razing of the Polish village where a woman who had cared for him had died in his place, he had longed for the final release of death.
There had been times when he could actually feel its proximity, roaring and mighty, its bloody jaws agape. At other times, death taunted him from a distance, smiling slyly at his fear. But it was always present, always waiting, always offering up its cold, irresistible promise to him.
But each time he had reached out to embrace it, death had skittered away like a coy girl. He had died for the first time at Rashimpur. It had been death's first joke. It had taken him through the pain of dying only to send him back to suffer the pain of living. And he had died again, in Poland. That, too, had been a trick.
But now was the third time, the third death. And this death would be the true one, because he would inflict it himself.
First Zharkov, then Justin Gilead. Once he was certain that the Prince of Death was finally, truly destroyed, the Grandmaster could at last be free.
It was time.
He lifted himself out of the sheltering womb of snow and continued walking. By dawn he was making his way over the ice-blown steppes with their hidden caves. He stopped short as he passed the cave where long ago, before he had grown to need the sweet, sick lust of death, he had once loved a girl.
Why did it have to be this way? The freezing air burned his lungs. Why? Why were Varja's women murdered? Why did Rashimpur have to burn? Why had Yva Pradziad been killed in the burned village in Poland? Why had he found Duma again, after a lifetime of longing for her, only to lose her a second time?
He had no answers. Perhaps his life had been no more than a monumental game of chess that he had played badly. Perhaps things would have been quite different if he had not been born Patanjali, reincarnation of the spirit of Brahma—or, more accurately, if Tagore and the other monks at Rashimpur had not believed him to be Patanjali.
That was the most bitter aspect of Justin's whole terrible existence; it had been based on a lie. He was not Patanjali; of that he was certain. Brahma would not have permitted his spirit to live in a man who had failed so often, and so miserably.
But the monks had been innocents. They believed in magic. Now they were dead. Nearly everyone who had ever befriended Justin Gilead had been destroyed. And Rashimpur, created by the hand of Brahma the Creator himself in the beginning of the world, was burned to ash.
He would visit Rashimpur—the rubble that remained of it—one last time. After he found Zharkov and killed him. After the Prince of Death and the evil legacy that spawned him were eliminated forever, he would go back. To the ashes of the Tree of the Thousand Wisdoms, to the spirits of his dead brothers, to the place where Tagore's precious blood had spilled. He would go back and join them all one last time.
His spirit would not rest with theirs, because the monks of Rashimpur were holy men, and Justin, in his way, had become as wicked as the man he sought to kill. But he could die where the holy men had died. Perhaps he would find peace in the final moments of his life. If he did, he would go gladly to damnation.
In the distance he could see the shimmering copper dome of Varja's palace. In the cold morning light, it shone like fire.
Everything I have ever loved has been destroyed by fire, he thought.
And so he knew what he would do to Varja's palace when he reached it.
He went no closer. Instead, he combed the area for scrub grass laid beneath the snow and for the brittle little bushes that had grown in summer and now lay brown and dry in the cold. When he had gathered enough, he bound the tinder with rope woven from the grass and dragged the bundle in a large circle toward the garden entrance to the palace.
The garden was bare and snow-covered now. Inside it, Justin stood for a moment and swallowed back the tears of remembrance for the girl who had seen herself for the first time in his eyes. But there was no time for tears anymore. Duma was gone. Tagore. Yva, the holy men of Rashimpur... all gone. He would have to put his regret aside, because it was his last day on earth, and it was going to end, not in tears, but in fire.
From his pocket he took two pieces of stone—one flint, one iron pyrite. They were firestones that he carried to warm h
im on his journey, but now they would serve a much greater function. He knelt down with the stones and a handful of kindling and struck the stones together.
A small spark flew. He struck again, trying to shelter the stones and kindling from the wind, but the kindling would not catch. Even in the freezing cold, sweat poured down Justin's face. Why wouldn't they work? Throughout his long journey to the mountains, the firestones had never failed.
Then he heard it. A deep, soft laugh, neither masculine nor feminine. He looked up and gasped. A small, bald, gnomelike creature stood in front of him in a place where a moment ago had been only air.
Justin clutched the firestones tightly. The little person who had walked so silently that he'd seemed to materialize out of nowhere pulled a long leather thong from out of his robe.
Justin threw the firestones. He aimed for the gnome's head, but the creature's movements were so fast they were almost a blur. Before Justin's eyes could follow the gnome's changing positions, the strip of leather cracked through the air, winding with a slap around Justin's chest and arms.
As he landed, Justin heard a snap and knew that one of his ribs was broken. In his pain, his only thought was of the strange little being who had bested him so easily. How could he move so fast? Justin hadn't seen speed like that since his early days at Rashimpur.
A monk, Justin realized with sudden certainty. The little man had once been a holy man, as well trained as he himself had been.
The monk drew nearer. "You are from Rashimpur," he said, his face expressionless.
Justin struggled to keep the pain of the cracked bone in his chest from his voice. "As are you."
The monk nodded. "My training was at Rashimpur. But I have always belonged to Varja."
"Belonged?" Justin asked, trying to stall for time as he worked the leather knots behind his back.
"Our tie is deeper than this life," the monk said. "My ancestors were of the sect of the Black Hats. You know of them, perhaps?"
Justin didn't respond.
A faint twitch of amusement played at the corners of the monk's mouth. "The most powerful beings on earth."
"The Black Hats no longer exist."
The monk's eyes flashed. "Only because of a fool and his tricks. Patanjali was an old man who believed that the spirit of life was stronger than the magic of death. Through trickery he destroyed our people, but he could not destroy the magic of the Black Hats forever."
A note of passion had crept into the monk's voice. "The magic remained, unharnessed and wild, through centuries. While the Black Hats faded into oblivion, there were many new incarnations of Patanjali, but none powerful enough to evoke the sleeping spirits of the Black Hats."
"Then why do you bother to serve Varja?" Justin asked.
"A generation ago, Sadika, the sage of Rashimpur, predicted that the true Patanjali would be born once again. That was when the spirits of the Black Hats awoke again in anger. I left Rashimpur then to follow the living goddess of evil, who has waited through ages of oblivion to exact her revenge."
Justin tried to struggle out of his bonds, but the knots were perfect. The monk watched him, smiling.
"Take me to Varja!" Justin cried.
"You have no need to see the goddess. You cannot even fight me, and my power is mortal. Varja reserves herself for the great, not the weak and unworthy of the world." He spoke near Justin's face, enjoying his captive's humiliation.
It was the moment Justin had been waiting for. Spinning where he lay, Justin retracted his legs and then kicked with all his strength. The monk crashed against the wall of the palace.
The monk cried out in anger. In one bound he was up and grasping the thong that held Justin, lifting him into the air and whirling Justin's much heavier body as if it were a toy attached to a string.
The monk let go. His aim was flawless. Justin fell in a heap inside the doorway, in the empty room that had once been the living quarters of the palace women. As he tried to right himself, he felt a vicious kick to the side of his head, smashing it against the floor. He passed out.
He came to in another room he remembered, a stark white room devoid of furniture except for a high, square platform. Duma once lay there, he thought. For how long? Years? She still looked young when Justin saw her for the last time. She had been robbed of her life while she still lived, just as Justin had.
He felt for the knots on the thong. The monk's exertions had stretched the leather. In time, he would be able to loosen them enough to free himself. He worked frantically, trying hard to focus with his still fuzzy vision on the little man.
The monk was straining at a corner of the bare white wall. His fingers made a hollow sound on it. It's made of metal, Justin thought. But what is he doing? Then, surprisingly, the wall itself slid open, and the monk threw Justin through the opening.
His broken rib throbbed, but Justin forced himself to think while he continued to manipulate the leather thong. Was he outside? It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. There was no ceiling that he could see, but he was still indoors, in some sort of cavernous corridor. Flickers of light shone dimly from an area some distance away, along with the faint, smoky fragrance of incense. Another chamber?
Varja's quarters, Justin realized. Of course. He was in another section of the palace. During his visit, he had not seen the goddess until his final day in the Sacred Chamber. The women who served her did not normally see her, either. If Varja was anywhere in the palace, it would be here.
One hand slipped free. A flood of relief washed through him, but he could not give himself away too quickly. Grasping the loose ends of the thong tightly to hide them from view, he allowed the monk to drag him down the dark corridor.
At the far end, where the open doorway let out the scent of incense, some flickering light danced on the polished wood floor. But the monk was taking Justin in the opposite direction, toward deeper darkness.
He heard men's voices somewhere, muffled and distant. Men? He remembered the black-painted faces of the men who had executed the young women of the harem while Justin looked on helplessly. The same ones who had come for Zharkov. But where were they?
They stopped before an expanse of darkness that caught the distant light in a sheet. Iron, Justin thought. Another metal door. Like the wall in the Sacred Chamber, the black iron door slid open at the monk's touch. Immediately the sound of voices grew louder and more distinct. Now Justin knew where they were coming from. Below, in the cellar of the great palace, lived a teeming mob of Varja s laborers.
"I must see Varja," Justin demanded. "This is my warning to you."
The monk turned to him. There was hatred in his eyes. "Do you think I do not know who you are ... what you are?" He kicked Justin around to face him. "Patanjali," he sneered, "Varja will never see you. I will spare her the odor of your presence."
He spat. Then, preparing to kick Justin into the dark human-filled hole, the monk took a step backward.
It was the moment to strike. Justin threw his arms open in a wide arc, knocking the monk off balance. As the leather thong flew away from him, he spun and struck the monk in the face. With a high scream, the monk fell head-first into the stinking pit. There was a sudden silence broken only by the little man's frightened wail as he fell with a thud and the crack of small bones.
Justin looked into the pit. It was so deep that the black-painted men, lit by the flames from a huge fire pit, seemed to swarm like rodents far below. There were no stairs leading to the metal door from the depths of the cellar, only a worn rope ladder rolled into a scroll at its top.
The pit was at one end of the corridor. Justin reasoned that the room on the other end, where the faint light glowed, must be the one in which Varja waited. He walked slowly toward the light.
As he neared, the light grew brighter. With an unseen evil force that made the hair on his neck stand on end, the dim flickering light pulsated and brightened until it spilled out of the incense-filled room like a vague, shapeless entity.
&nb
sp; Justin stopped, frozen. The light expanded, seeming to take on a life of its own, as it moved from the room into the corridor. The area where Justin stood, once nearly black with darkness, was now awash with a blinding cold light that moved, slowly and inexorably, toward him.
In the center of the light was a vision. A dream, Justin thought, a trick of the eyes. But he knew it was no dream. It was Varja herself, iridescent, shimmering with pure, violent light, more beautiful than any mortal woman.
She was painted, as she had been on the night of Justin's rite of manhood, with a third eye in the center of her forehead. But where he had once viewed her as disgusting, he now found her irresistible. The third eye was the focus of the light. It was blackness, the beginning. It was the center of Varja's death-nurtured spirit.
"You sought to burn me with your pitiful fire," she said mockingly.
Justin could not speak. He tried to turn away, but the light that burned from her compelled him to look. Her beauty was terrifying, hypnotic. It carried the eternal fascination of death.
"You cannot burn me, fool." Her face, with its three eyes, seemed to look into his very soul and judge it to be contemptible. "You know that you are weak. You have failed in every poor attempt you have made against me. The force behind me is too strong for you, nameless, spineless man. I am too strong, and my prince is too strong. He was strong enough to kill the woman he loved. She was the same woman you loved, but you could not save her. Or the others. You had to let them all die. In the end, it was your weakness that killed them."
She pointed a finger at Justin. He sank, groaning, to his knees.
"Would you like to see fire?" She smiled, and the smile grew into a loud, sadistic laugh. "Here is your fire."
She held out her hand. A spark flew from the tips of her fingers and gathered into a ball, growing as it rolled at tremendous speed toward Justin. It filled the corridor. There was no place for him to hide from it.
Grandmaster (A Suspense and Espionage Thriller) Page 42