by Rob Preece
"We were lost in the mountains,” Ivy explained. “When we saw your Church, we hoped you'd let us take shelter here, just for the night."
His blue eyes widened. “This is a monastery,” he said. “No women."
He started to shut the door but Zack put in a boot before the monk could slam it closed.
"Look, we're not asking for anyone to violate their vows or anything. We just need a place to sleep. If you've got a shed or a barn, that would do."
The monk's face darkened and he looked like he was going to try to take Zack's foot off with the door, but another monk, this one wearing something similar to the robes old-fashioned priests had worn in Ivy's church years ago, stopped him.
"Let me handle this, Brother Eudor."
Brother Eudor wanted to argue, but a stern look from the priest stopped him. “Yes, Father Stefan."
The priest looked at Zack and Ivy, his glare only slightly more welcoming than Eudor's.
"The Monastery is available only to those seeking the truth through prayer.” He paused, shaking his head slowly. “Years ago, before the Greeks were forced from Anatolia and the slaughter of the Armenians, we had more visitors. The visitor buildings are old and crumbling, but they should provide better shelter than the mountains themselves. Let me take you there, then we'll see about getting you some food."
Stefan's crucifix bobbed on his chest as he led them away from the church toward what Ivy had thought was only part of the mountain.
"You must be lost indeed to end up in our mountains,” Father Stefan told them in practically accent-free English. “We get a trickle of visitors from Russia and Serbia, but I don't remember ever hearing of an English."
"We're quite lost, and a long way from Istanbul,” Ivy admitted. Stefan would probably guess they were Americans and that they'd come across the nearby border from occupied Iraq, but she didn't want to get into a discussion of whether they had deserted. Or why.
"It would be harder to get much further from Constantinople than you are now,” Stefan agreed using the traditional Greek name for that ancient city. Not the ancient word Byzantium that the priestess had used, but the name that under which it had been the center of the civilized world for a thousand years after the fall of Rome.
"I will have one of the brothers bring you food and blankets.” He looked at the Cross sections that Ivy and Zack had been unsuccessful in carrying inconspicuously. “Are you on some sort of pilgrimage? Although our monastery is very old, it is largely contemplative and we don't have the type of relics that bring many worshipers. Certainly not those who follow the Western rites. You do follow those rites, don't you?"
"Yes, we're Catholic. And we are on a sort of pilgrimage,” Zack said, stretching but not quite breaking the truth.
"I see.” Stefan clearly didn't see, but Ivy wasn't going to enlighten him.
The priest nodded and turned to go, then stopped. “Oh, there is one thing. As you may have picked up from Brother Eudor, we are quite strict about sexual relations here. Although I'm sure you are being chaste during your pilgrimage, I'll still have to insist that you use separate chambers during your stay. You may eat together, if you wish. Or Zack may eat with the brothers."
"That won't be a problem, Father,” Ivy said. Zack hadn't shown any sexual interest in her at all. Maybe he was gay, or had a girlfriend or wife at home. Or maybe he was just a good guy who recognized that they were already in a world of trouble and didn't want to add sexual issues to the list. Then again, maybe a couple of days without a shower, makeup, or a comb for her hair had turned her into something that could churn any male's stomach.
"I'll leave you to your prayers, then,” Stefan said. He lit a small oil lamp and then left, his sandal-clad feet slapping against the stone floor.
"He doesn't believe us,” Zack whispered.
"Would you?"
"Not really."
A young monk carried in a pair of blankets and a large bowl of some sort of meat stew. He blushed when Ivy tried to thank him, then almost ran for the safety of the main monastery.
"You'll probably be the center of a couple dozen fantasies tonight,” Zack told her as he reached for the steaming stew.
"If I am, they'll probably be fantasies about a snake-headed gorgon.” She grabbed the stew bowl from him and sniffed it cautiously.
"You think they're going to try to drug us? Come on, Ivy. These are priests. Even if they aren't Catholic, they're still men of God."
"The Foundation people are religious too. Smith was always muttering about Jesus and the trumpets of the end time. What's that prove?"
Zack didn't answer, but didn't look convinced either.
Ivy sniffed the stew again and learned exactly nothing. She'd watched enough detective movies to know that the smell of bitter almonds meant arsenic, but other than that, she wouldn't recognize a poison if one bit her in the butt.
"I'll eat some first,” she finally suggested. “If I fall unconscious, you could lug me out of here. I'd never be able to carry you."
"Hey, I've just been going for forty-eight hours without eating. Why not wait even longer? It probably wouldn't kill me."
"Good.” She took a bite. “So, how do you figure a bunch of Christians got stuck up here in the mountains.
Zack watched her spoon as it moved from the bowl to her mouth and swallowed. “Turkey was Christian once. Remember, Peter and Paul both preached in Anatolia. Some of the great synods of our faith were gathered here in what is now Turkey but was then the Eastern Roman Empire. I think these monks are carrying on a tradition that was already old when the Seljuks tore this part of the Anatolian peninsula from Byzantine rule almost a thousand years ago."
She took another bite. “You really know about this stuff, don't you?"
She could have sworn he blushed. “I've always been interested in history, especially Church history. My mother wanted me to be a priest."
Hum. That might explain his lack of interest, too.
"So you think they'll help us."
"Unless they realize what we have here and decide the Cross is a call for a new war to throw the Turks out. There have been at least three wars between Greeks and Turks since the end of the nineteenth century."
She couldn't remember Smith killing her and dumping her body on the Cross—but she had felt that surge of healing and power when she'd picked it up in the inferno left by the Predator's missile. That sort of power would be a temptation even to the most reclusive. Maybe these monks would decide that the Cross was their sign for an uprising to restore Christian rule to Constantinople.
* * * *
Zack watched Ivy eat, his mouth watering from the scent of lamb and Greek spices.
Ivy was being paranoid about Priests poisoning them, of course. Given what they'd been through, Zack couldn't blame her. After all, who would have thought the U.S. Government would make war on its own soldiers?
Ivy stopped when she'd eaten exactly half of the stew and then pushed over what was left. “Hasn't killed me yet. It would probably be smart for you to wait longer if you can, but if there's poison in it, it isn't fast acting.” She grinned at him. “One thing, though. If I start barfing, you might want to stop."
"Good thinking. And I don't think I can wait any longer.” He dipped the black bread the monks had provided into the yogurt-flavored stew and then savored the spicy tang.
He'd been running on empty for days now and his eyes were already flickering when he finished the last bite.
He yawned, then chuckled to himself when Ivy let out an extremely unladylike snore.
"Guess that means this cell is yours,” he told her sleeping form.
He draped one of the blankets over her and, taking the other, headed toward his own chamber.
Halfway there, he decided the walk wasn't worth it since there was only a stone bed if he made it. His head nearly conked the ground as he collapsed in a corner in the hallway outside Ivy's cell.
A dim awareness shouted a warning. He wasn't just tire
d. He was drugged! Ivy had been right.
* * * *
"Wake up! Danger!” The voice echoing through Ivy's head sounded like a beautiful angel as it pulled her from a sexy dream about her, Zack, and a tropical island somewhere.
She tried to open her eyes and failed. Either she was still dreaming or she'd lost all control over her body.
Panic swept over her and she had to bite back an attempt at screaming. She'd been in the Guard long enough to know that panic killed.
A flickering light shown red through her closed eyelids and she hoped she really was dreaming. It didn't seem likely when she heard the whispered male voices.
She couldn't understand the words, of course. She'd never had occasion to study Greek or Armenian or whatever. Still, she could only think of two reasons why the monks would be coming for her in the middle of the night. Either they wanted her body or they wanted the Cross.
Neither was acceptable.
She gave up on opening her eyes figuring that she might have an advantage, however, small, if the monks believed she was asleep. Instead, she commanded her fingers to clench.
For the longest time, it seemed even that simple exercise was beyond her. Then, operating with an impossible lag, her muscles responded.
Progress. But she wasn't going to win any fights that way.
From the scent of garlic in the air, she knew that several men had entered the small chamber where she'd eaten her dinner. Obviously she'd been right about them drugging her food. Equally obvious, Zack hadn't waited long enough before eating. Awake, he wouldn't have let attackers in without a fight.
The Cross had restored her life and restored her vision when she'd been blinded by the Predator's missile. Maybe it would work against poison too.
She ignored the nagging possibility that using the Cross for personal healing might be blasphemous and commanded her hand to stretch across the stone cot she'd slept on and touch it.
One of the monks must have seen her movement. He snatched the blanket wrapped around her and dumped her on the floor.
Okay, that settled it. They were after the Cross rather than her female body.
Sharp pain from being dropped onto a stone floor cut through the drugged fog, but not enough. There were too many of the monks and there was no way she could fight them all. These men might spend most of their lives at prayer, but they also built the stone walls, herded their goats, and climbed up and down hills even bigger than the Pocono Mountains back home in Pennsylvania.
Since they knew she wasn't sleeping, she risked opening her eyes.
Father Stefan was bent over the two sections of Cross, studying it carefully.
He said something to the monks with him and Ivy caught Zack's name among the unfamiliar Greek words. Three of the monks headed out, but that left three more, plus the priest.
Unfortunately, the odds didn't figure to get any better.
Ivy seemed to be moving in slow motion as she rolled her way into one of the monk's legs, not coincidentally also freeing herself of the encumbering blanket.
They hadn't expected that. The monk she hit fell, his head cracking hard against the stone floor. One down. Three to go.
Father Eudor kicked her in the ribs, hard.
She had seen the kick coming and was already rolling away from him, but that only dampened the impact. The drug continued to hamper her reactions. She hadn't been tagged by a kick that slow since she'd been a green belt years before.
"Don't try to fight us.” Stefan brandished a heavy walking stick. “It's obvious that you're archeological treasure-hunters, taking advantage of the situation in Iraq to loot an ancient crucifix from one of the dwindling churches there. It is our duty to stop you and protect the precious treasure."
Which is why he'd decided to take matters into his own hands rather than notifying the Turkish police? Ivy didn't think so.
Apparently he didn't think his words were convincing either. Without waiting to see if she would surrender, Father Stefan swung the staff at her.
Willing each muscle into action and thankful for the pain which at least partially cut through her drug-induced lethargy, Ivy rolled away from Stefan's strike—and into the Cross.
The Cross's power swept through her body, washing away the effect of whatever drug the monks had added to the stew, filling her with energy and strength.
She back-somersaulted, jumped over Stefan's low back-swing, rebounded from her landing to bounce a front kick into Eudor's knee, but then stumbled when the first monk she'd disabled reached out a hand to grasp her foot.
"Enough of this nonsense,” Stefan said. He raised his staff for a killing blow.
"Exactly.” Zack punctuated his statement by chambering a shell into his Kalashnikov. “Now back away from the woman and the Cross."
"We have thirty monks here,” Stefan warned him. “What are you going to do, shoot us all?"
Zack grinned and slapped his automatic. “You make it tempting, Father. But no, I suspect your monks would stop attacking after I kill only five or ten of them. I'm not sure I could bring myself to kill the survivors when they were running away. I like to think I would, though, if you hurt one hair on Ivy's head. Who'd like to be first to die?"
Stefan paled. “Graverobbers."
"We're not—"
"He's not interested in legalities,” Ivy told Zack. “He wants the Cross for himself."
Stefan glared at her. “As if a mere woman could possibly understand the meaning of our lord's sacrifice. Daughter of Eve, mother of sin."
"Either rush us or shut up,” Zack said.
They shut up.
"In that case, I think we've overstayed our welcome. Perhaps you have a car or truck we can use to depart more quickly."
Stefan laughed. “You're mistaking us for a group with money. If we had worthwhile relics, we'd get pilgrims and be able to afford vehicles. As it is, we walk."
Ivy's heart dropped. The CIA was still after them, the CIA-sponsored Kurds would have contacts for hundreds of miles within Turkey. And now any Christians in the area would be hunting for them, too. There was no way they were simply going to walk out of this.
Zack's eyes narrowed. “Somehow, I just don't believe you. Even a self-reliant monastery needs contact with the outside world. And you need the ability to bring in food you can't grow and maybe to sell your surpluses. You have some kind of transportation."
Stefan started to bluster but Ivy could tell he was prevaricating.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you that telling a lie is a sin?” she demanded.
"I have no need for religious instructions from a female."
"Better instruction from a female than from a Kalashnikov, don't you think?” Zack reminded him. He was yawning and a bit unsteady on his feet, but to Ivy, he looked like a miracle.
"Show us what you've got. After surviving your poison, I'm not feeling especially kindhearted. Or patient."
"It wasn't poison. We never intended to harm you,” Stefan said.
"Right. That's why you dropped me on the ground and took a couple of swings at me with your stick,” Ivy said.
"We have a right to protect ourselves from grave robbers."
"And we have a right to get out of here. Now show us what you've got."
* * * *
"This is kind of fun, isn't it."
"If you're into torture,” Zack grumbled. Unlike her, he'd come down from the monk's poison naturally and was suffering a nasty drug-hangover.
"I haven't ridden a bicycle since I was a kid. I think maybe I'll take it up when I get home."
"We've got to get home first. Even then, I don't think they allow bicycles in the stockade where they'll probably put us for desertion."
"I think getting my throat cut counts as an honorable discharge."
Zack considered a comeback, then decided his attention was better spent worrying about avoiding the potholes that seemed to cover as much of the road as the asphalt did. Besides, he didn't want her to think he was flirting wi
th her. Which, bottom line, he was.
Dawn was barely peeking her fingertips over the horizon, but they'd already pedaled for miles and Zack was hurting.
In the end, Ivy had made him pay the monks for the two three-wheeled bicycles they'd taken, as well as for slicing up the tires of the other two bikes that were the monk's sole transportation.
With luck, they would be well out of the area before the monks could contact the authorities—or talk to anyone in the Kurdish underground. Of course, Zack wasn't counting on getting lucky. They certainly hadn't had much luck since they'd gotten away from the insurgents.
At least the three-wheelers made it possible for them to carry the Cross sections. And, although they had to get off and push when they were going uphill, they could rest on the long downhill stretches and pedal along at a good speed on the rare but welcome flat areas.
The monks had reluctantly turned over an old map of Turkey and pointed them in the direction of the nearest highway, and he and Ivy were making their way west, away from the Iraqi border, away from the heart of the Kurdish underground and their CIA sponsors, and generally toward the Mediterranean coast and Istanbul.
Ivy's drugged dream about a Priestess had pointed them to Istanbul. But Zack was tired of letting others jerk him around. The Priestess, the CIA, the Foundation, the monks, and the Kurds had been dictating their direction, forcing them to react. So far they'd been lucky not to get killed but that was about all they'd been doing. They'd managed to stay ahead of the men sent to kill them and Stefan's monks had been unarmed and over-reliant on their drugs. But Zack's officer training made one thing clear—if you're just reacting, you're losing. They needed to take the initiative.
"We need a plan."
"How about planning to keep pedaling,” Ivy suggested.
"Not bad as a start.” Constant movement and hiding in other religious areas like the priestess cave and the monastery seemed to make it tougher for the CIA to track them. The bicycles made movement easier than it had been on foot. And Turkey was filled with religious sites reflecting its historical role as a crossroads between east and west. Turks had build mosques here for hundreds of years. For a thousand years before that, Greeks, Armenians, and others had built Christian churches. For three thousand or more years before that, Greeks, Hittites, Thracians, Assyrians, and pre-exilic Jews had built their own temples. The entire countryside would create a confusing baffle of religious noise.