Pandora's Curse

by Du Brul, Jack

  They were through!

  It took a few minutes for the fire on the floor to extinguish itself completely, and as it died they could see smoke being drawn up the vent from deeper into the base.

  “It’s just a matter of time before someone fighting the fire at the main entrance sees smoke billowing out of this vent and comes to investigate,” Mercer said, looking up at the sky.

  He turned to Anika. She had an enigmatic smile on her face, a mixture of astonishment and respect.

  She placed her arms on his shoulders and drew him down, planting a feather-soft kiss on his cheek. “That’s twice you saved me. Now I owe you.”

  Mercer’s heart tripped. He believed she was going to kiss him on the mouth. He thought he had recognized that look and for a selfish moment he wished she had. But he was glad she hadn’t. Shared danger did strange things to people, created instant bonds, and he’d learned that such passions weren’t real. The emotions were usually nothing more than the aftereffects of adrenaline and relief.

  He recalled some of her accomplishments that Igor had mentioned, realizing that she probably handled this kind of stress much better than he did. It was his own relief he’d seen reflected in Anika’s expression, not hers.

  “We’re even.” His gruff tone covered his embarrassment.

  From above, a voice called, “Hello.” It was Erwin Puhl.

  Startled that their signal had been seen so quickly, Mercer checked his watch. Thirty minutes had passed since the fire had started, more than enough time for the expedition members to begin combating the subterranean blaze at the facility’s entrance.

  “Erwin, it’s Mercer.”

  “When you weren’t leading the firefighting efforts, we feared you were trapped down there. Is Dr. Klein with you? No one has seen her in a while.”

  “Yeah, she’s with me. Can you lower a rope? The smoke is getting pretty thick, and the heat’s rising.”

  “Back in a minute.”

  “Hurry. Once the flames break through the fire doors protecting the garage, there’s going to be one hell of an explosion.” Mercer eyed the diesel tank hulking behind the wavering glow of Anika’s campfire. “Also warn the others who are working at the main entrance to clear the area.”

  Ten minutes later, they were pulled up the air vent by the winch mounted on the front of a Sno-Cat Ira had driven out to rescue them. “Everyone’s back at the base camp,” Ira said as they jumped into the boxy vehicle.

  “Let’s go. We’ve only got a few more minutes. The fire doors can’t hold much longer, and it must be over a hundred degrees in the garage already.” The drop in temperature from inside to out had left Mercer light-headed and trembling.

  Ira didn’t need to hear anything further. He put the Sno-Cat in gear, twisted it around on its axis and tore off across the ice, feathers of churned snow blooming from under its treads. He circled around the long access trench near Camp Decade’s entrance. Smoke streamed from deep underground and a huge swath of snow was stained with soot.

  He braked once they reached the mess hall a quarter mile away. Mercer was just stepping down when out across the frozen plain, the fuel tank erupted like a volcano, vaporizing a ragged eighty-foot circle of glacier. Chunks of ice the size of automobiles blasted into the sky, propelled by a towering column of flame. The concussion hit a second later, rocking the Sno-Cat on its suspension and tossing Mercer onto his backside.

  Powdered ice drifted for many minutes before falling back to earth. When the last of the snow finally settled, smudge continued to billow from the hole, smearing the pristine horizon.

  “What the hell were you two doing down there?” Ira asked sharply after hauling Mercer back to his feet.

  Mercer fingered the scrap of paper they’d retrieved from Jack Delaney’s dead fingers. “I’m not sure yet.”

  ABOARD THE SEA EMPRESS

  As if enraged that its power could not rock the great cruise liner, the North Sea surged ferociously, generating huge waves that would have swamped a commercial fishing boat or pitched the largest freighter. Because of her wide-spaced twin hulls and tremendous length, the Sea Empress had several distinct wave patterns under her at any moment and their opposing crests and troughs canceled each other out. This phenomenon allowed her to sail serenely under the pewter skies as if the swells were nothing more than ripples.

  Father Anatoly Vatutin had spent the first days of his journey safely in his cabin, having an occasional light meal sent to him rather than venturing to one of the many restaurants or eating in the vessel’s four enormous dining rooms. He’d left word with Bishop Olkranszy, his superior, that he hadn’t felt well since the ship had gotten under way. That wasn’t far from the truth.

  Vatutin had come from peasant stock, with farmer’s hands and shoulders like a plow ox. Yet his imposing size, fierce countenance, and unwavering strength masked the fact that he possessed a delicate stomach. Even the ship’s gentle motion made him ill. Such was his dedication to his mission that he rode waves of nausea stoically, spending hours either in his bunk or hunched over the toilet bowl.

  He skipped the Universal Convocation’s elaborate opening ceremonies and what some said had been the most beautiful papal blessing ever given. His rare forays to the deck to get fresh air were all under the cover of darkness, and he intentionally avoided any of the attendees he saw. Vatutin had become a nonentity at the most famous meeting in history and he was glad for it.

  He had only one thing in mind. The icon.

  Other than the waiters who brought him broths and bread and calls from Bishop Olkranszy inquiring about his condition, the only person Vatutin had spoken with was a cardinal named Peretti who was the pope’s secretary of state, the Vatican’s number two man. Peretti had been charged by the pontiff with returning thousands of religious artifacts belonging to other faiths that the Catholic Church had in its possession. He was the only person at the Convocation that Vatutin cared about.

  Because of the sheer volume of items being returned, only a portion of the hoard was actually on the ship. These were the most precious relics—ancient texts, rare books, the most valuable statues and icons. Peretti’s shipboard office had been deluged with requests from various people to obtain an item early in the voyage rather than at its end, which had been the plan. In the name of cooperation and fellowship, Peretti had granted all such requests, detailing a dozen floreria, members of the Vatican’s technical services department, to search through the shipping containers stored in the vessel’s holds.

  Peretti’s office had finally gotten to Father Vatutin’s request, and now he found himself following the broad back of a floreria. The workman wore crisp coveralls and had a pair of white gloves tucked into his belt for handling the more fragile objects. While the worker strode with arm-swinging ease, Vatutin shambled down a carpeted hallway with one hand brushing the wall for balance, although the ship was rock steady. His mouth brimmed with saliva.

  They descended into the working section of the liner, where the hallways were sterile and narrow and the lighting came from institutional fluorescent fixtures affixed to the ceiling. The air had a humid chill that told Vatutin they had moved below the water line.

  At a set of large watertight doors the floreria exchanged a few words with the Swiss Guards stationed there and produced a ring of keys from his pocket. A sign on the door proclaimed this to be Cargo Hold 3. As the workman unlocked and then opened the door, one guard made a joke that Vatutin believed was at his expense and the others laughed. He didn’t care. His chest felt hollow, and as he stepped into the vast hold, his pace involuntarily slowed. He couldn’t believe he had come this far. In a few moments he was about to end his lifetime quest.

  Vatutin couldn’t possibly put into words what he was feeling. Everything he saw took on an added dimension of holiness. It didn’t matter that the dimly lit hold was like an industrial warehouse that managed to smell musty despite its newness. He felt he was walking into the greatest cathedral in the world, a sacred plac
e because of what lay within. The floreria spat on the floor, and Vatutin almost struck him before realizing that this man had no idea what he was about to give back to its rightful owner.

  No, Anatoly thought, there is no rightful owner except Satan himself. I am nothing more than a temporary trustee.

  Checking a large manifest, the worker guided the priest through the rows of containers and boxes. Peretti’s organization had been impeccable. The manifest detailed everything from the largest painting to the smallest set of prayer beads. After a moment they were in front of a steel shipping container. The floreria produced his keys again and unlocked the mammoth crate. He waited while Vatutin unfolded the seventy-year-old photograph of the icon he was here to recover. The picture was stained in one corner with brown spots that even the priest didn’t know was blood.

  Taking the photo and motioning Vatutin not to enter the container, the workman ducked inside, snapping on a small flashlight he’d carried in his other pocket. He returned in just a few minutes.

  The icon was only about two feet long and one foot wide, yet the floreria staggered under its weight. It was nearly six inches thick. Vatutin knew immediately that this was the relic he sought. The workman laid it on a nearby table. Although Vatutin took back the photograph he didn’t need it to verify the piece’s authenticity. He knew the icon better than any man alive. He could reproduce it in his mind any time he chose. From where it had been created near the city of Vanavara, Anatoly Vatutin had traced the artifact’s century-long journey to St. Petersburg to Stalingrad to Berlin and finally to Rome. It had entered a thousand dreams and kept him awake on a thousand nights. He knew it better than his own face.

  Unlike most icons, this was no wooden painting covered by a gold veneer. The relic was almost solid gold. He traced his finger over the bas-relief of the Virgin Mary holding her crucified son, noting the distinctive drape of her robe and the vividness of Christ’s wounds, especially the blood that leaked from his side. He bent close to study the mark over Mary’s shoulder, verifying that it was indeed a faint comet’s tail.

  Anatoly Vatutin fell to his knees, his seasickness and every other hardship he’d endured for the past forty years forgotten. He prayed harder than at any time in his life, giving thanks to God, Christ, Mary, and Brother Grigori. His decades of exacting research had been correct. The icon had ended up in the Vatican following the Second World War, given to them by a mistaken American soldier working for a repatriation commission. It had been one of thousands of items looted by the German Army and returned to the wrong owners after the war.

  He was physically exhausted by the time he got back to his cabin, his muscles aching from the effort of carrying the icon from the hold. His spirit, however, had never felt more invigorated. He laid the icon on his bed, the mattress springs protesting at such a dense object. Tossing aside the clothes at the top of his trunk, he removed the chain-mail garments fashioned for Brother Grigori.

  First he opened the special flask at the bottom of the chest. The liquid inside was as clear as water. It was actually “heavy water,” or deuterium, a substance used for handling the most dangerous elements on earth. He could only hope it would add protection for him from an element that was not of this world. Lying in the deuterium bath was a hammer and a six-inch molybdenum awl. He went to the bathroom and retrieved an item from his toilet case. The fact that a man who hadn’t shaved since his teens owned an electric razor was one more inconsistency he was thankful had not been noticed. Of course, it wasn’t a razor at all.

  He needed to strip to his undershirt to put on the lead-armored mantle. He used a liberal amount of petroleum jelly to work his hands into the golden gloves. Before donning the priceless gold hood, he tested his grip on the hammer and awl and made sure that the golden plug that he’d had in his pocket matched the diameter of the spike. He was ready.

  He pulled the icon off the bed and groaned as he lowered it into the pan at the bottom of the trunk, ensuring that the artifact was fully awash with deuterium. He brought the cordless razor close to it and turned it on, satisfied when nothing happened. He’d know in a moment if his crusade was successful. Again he prayed.

  Placing the metal spike over Christ’s heart at the center of the icon, Anatoly Vatutin lowered the hood’s visor over his eyes, took a deep breath, and brought down the hammer with all his strength. Quickly he checked the razor again, dismayed that it hadn’t reacted. Hands trembling, he replaced the tip of the spike in the dimple his first blow had created and hammered it again.

  This time the razor emitted a steady series of clicks coming so close together they sounded like a continuous tone. The instrument was a disguised Geiger counter, and it had just encountered a radiation source unlike any on the planet. Considering the origin of the radiation, Anatoly hadn’t been sure if the device would work. Balanced between elation and fear, he fumbled for the small plug and set it in the scar, bringing down the hammer to seat it properly. The Geiger counter fell silent once again.

  Father Vatutin chanced rolling up his visor so he could accurately tap the plug more firmly in place. Only then did he look at the counter. Through three inches of gold, the second densest natural element in the universe, and several more inches of a fluid meant to absorb radiation, the device had registered a dose that equaled a lifetime worth of X rays. He swept the Geiger counter over the trunk and the cabin’s walls. As predicted by Grigori, and later proved by another, Brother Leonid, the radiation had not been absorbed by inorganic material. It was only when he pointed the counter at his own hand that it began to click again. The exposure had been less than five seconds yet would likely rob Vatutin of a few years of life.

  Enshrined within the icon, and protected by an abnormal reaction it had with gold, was a fragment of what the Brotherhood called Satan’s Fist. Anatoly knew that hundreds, maybe thousands of people had been victims of this piece or the others like it. The realization that he now possessed the power to kill everyone on the Sea Empress made him shudder. From Brotherhood records, Anatoly knew that before Brother Grigori was murdered, he had amassed fifty such icons in Vanavara and all but one had been destroyed later by Brother Leonid. This was the last one.

  He tidied the cabin, hiding his protective clothing in the trunk once again. He was too emotionally wasted to finish his mission. In fact, he was ravenously hungry and checked his watch, thinking that maybe he would finally venture out for dinner.

  Before he took care of his body’s needs, he had to pray. Thankful for his success, Anatoly Vatutin knew that his mission would be a wasted gesture if another endeavor far from the exclusive confines of the cruise ship failed.

  The Brotherhood didn’t yet have all elements of Satan’s Fist. There was still one other source.

  GEO-RESEARCH STATION,GREENLAND

  “This is not a point of debate,”Greta Schmidt ‘snapped. “If you had been here when the communication window opened, you would have heard that the Danish government is calling for your evacuation. It is not a Geo-Research decision.” Marty Bishop’s face reddened another shade. “And I’m sure you did everything in your power to argue our case,” he said sarcastically.

  “What case?” she scoffed. While her arms were crossed in a defensive posture, her attitude and tone were belligerent. Werner Koenig was at her side as they stood over the dining table. He said nothing. “Two people were almost killed this morning, and Camp Decade—your whole reason for being here—is a smoldering hole in the ice.”

  “We can still go down there once it cools,” Marty sputtered.

  “Mr. Bishop, there is nothing left.” She seemed to be enjoying herself. As she showed more and more control over the expedition in the past days, her once attractive features had turned as hard as the ice outside. In contrast, Koenig seemed to have physically shrunk since establishing the base. “The fire Dr. Mercer accidentally started destroyed it.”

  Mercer had told that lie shortly after their rescue as a delaying tactic. Anika had agreed to go along with the decep
tion because she was equally determined to discover the real arsonist and murderer. Had they told Werner and Greta that it had been intentionally set, they were certain that Geo-Research would have ordered them from the ice as a safety precaution.

  Which, as it turned out, was happening anyway.

  Mercer’s expression remained unchanged when she looked at him, her face made ugly by a superior smirk. “Then why,” he asked deliberately, “are you also sending away Erwin Puhl, Dr. Klein, and the other members of their team? The loss of Camp Decade doesn’t affect their research.”

  “Without Igor Bulgarin to lead them, Dr. Puhl has done nothing but sit in his room. The other two meteorologists haven’t accomplished much of anything either. And Dr. Klein has no function here, no real job except for some foolish interest in stress research. With you and Puhl’s team gone, she has nothing to study. Besides, she is only here because of Bulgarin’s insistence.”

  Mercer opened his mouth to reply but stopped himself. That last fact was something new. Igor had made it sound like Anika had been the one to petition him to join their expedition. Schmidt’s statement meant it was the other way around. While he hadn’t gotten the impression that she knew more than she’d admitted, he wondered again if she did. When he thought about it, she hadn’t told him much of anything about herself or her interest in coming to Greenland.

  Werner spoke for the first time. “There is no reason to continue this conversation. Tomorrow morning the weather is going to clear for a few hours and the DC-3 that came out a couple days ago will return to take you back to Reykjavik. I am sorry.”

  “This according to the same weatherman who sent a chopper into a hurricane?” Ira asked sardonically.

  Greta glared.

  Mercer wondered what Werner Koenig had ever seen in her. He was easygoing and caring and seemed like a dedicated scientist. She strode around the camp like a dictator. He suspected that dating the new owner of Geo-Research had somehow changed her because he couldn’t imagine a guy like Werner ever loving the woman she was now.