Black Madonna

by Carl Sargent

  “How the bloody hell did they get on to us so fast?”

  “Good question.” Serrin said. “It’s not one we can easily answer, since we don’t know the second interested party. As for the NOJ, well, they have people all over the place.”

  “Yes, but why would they be interested? We’re investigating a–” Geraint stopped for a moment, realizing that he couldn’t speak freely with Streak in the room. “Well, a computer dysfunction. Hardly red-hot Catholic politics, is it?”

  “Look, mate.” Streak said with some feeling, “I know I’m getting the mushroom treatment here. Kept in the dark, blah blah. Why don’t you level with me? You trusted me to watch your back down in Chelsea. That turned out to be life and death. And as it happens, if you’re in deep drek I’m currently available for work. I also have a vested interest in finding out who’s wasted some of the few people I could trust with my life. I’m not going to be blabbing anything to anyone.”

  Geraint thought long and hard. Serrin’s expression was clearly urging him to come clean.

  “Well, it was Michael’s job originally.” Geraint said truthfully. “A decker is threatening to do some heavy-duty sabotage to some corp systems. He left an identifying icon behind that seems to have some occult or religious significance. Not that we really understood that at first, but we certainly do now that people are taking an active interest in us and applying the thumbscrews. Its big corporate nuyen on the one hand, and some very odd occult stuff on the other.”

  “All right.” Streak said slowly, still unsure that he was getting the full version. “So if it’s sleeping beauty’s job, how come you guys enter the frame?”

  “We go back a way.” Geraint said simply. “Michael thought I could help with the corporate angle and that Serrin could help with the magical, occult angle. Not to mention the money.”

  “That sounds hopeful.” Streak grinned.

  “We could use him.” Serrin suggested, looking to Geraint. “We’re hardly a bunch of street samurai, are we?”

  “Maybe, maybe.” Geraint said. “But we need to discuss it with Michael. It’s his job, after all.”

  “That’s reasonable enough.” Streak said, satisfied, or at least content, for the moment. “Like I say, reasonable rates and I can scan bodies for damage, crates for bombs, shoot an apple off your head at half a klick and I have specialist friends available if need be. Easy terms. All major credsticks accepted.”

  “All right, all right.” Geraint grumbled. “I got your CV first time round. We’ll wait for Michael.”

  The phone rang, and after exchanging a few words. Geraint handed the receiver to Serrin. Whoever was calling wasn’t willing to use a telecom. Serrin put the communication through the external speaker so the others could hear, and then realized that maybe he shouldn’t have. Geraint he wanted to hear the conversation, but Streak . . .

  “Greetings, chummer.” the Brooklyn-accented voice said cheerfully. “Did some legwork among the crazies. Not too much on the grapevine, but you know how it is with everyone being so interested in Chicago and Dee Cee and all that drek. Got some background and a name, though.”

  “Give me what you got.” Serrin said.

  “Well, chummer, I drew a blank on the Seratini guy. No real connections I could find. Must be small beer. Maybe just a contact man.”

  “Oh. well.” Serrin said.

  “But this Serrault turns out to be a bit more interesting. He may be–and I say may because if there’s a membership list no one has access to it–a member of a hermetic group that goes way back. Take this down: the Priory of Sion.”

  “Don’t think I know of it.” Serrin said, even as he dimly sensed that he’d heard the name somewhere and completely forgotten it.

  “Not sure how long they’ve been around. It depends on linkages–whether you believe one cult combined with another, that kind of thing. There’s one version that says they go back to the time of those crusaders, the Knights Templar.”

  “I’m listening.” Serrin said as the hair rose on the nape of his neck.

  “Serrault’s not a member of major importance, but word is he’s a possible recruiter. He’s a socialite and hangs around to see if he can turn up any interested, talented people the Priory can use in some way. Middling mage, by all accounts. Not drek-hot, but capable enough.”

  “Finding people he can use for what?”

  “Well, now that depends. The orthodox heresy”–the New Yorker chuckled–“is that the Priory serves to protect the bloodline of the descendants of Jesus Christ.”

  “Oh great. More freak-show stuff.” Serrin lamented.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it don’t matter. Maybe the idea is emotive enough that it’s important as a myth in itself Life’s just a big myth, Serrin, you know that.” The voice trailed away into a gale of laughter and then calmed down again. “Sorry about that. Anyway, the HQ of these boys is a place called Clermont-Ferrand in the Languedoc. Did I get that pronunciation right? Down south in France, virtually in Spain.”

  The room was deadly quiet.

  “I’ve heard of it.” Serrin said, and waited.

  “Right. Well, before you head off to warmer climes, if you have some reason for that, and I’m not asking, I’ve got a name closer to home. You want to trawl MagicNet. you can get half a dozen bonehead stories on the Priory, conspiracy theories and the usual pile of drek. You know how mages just spin drek day and night, chummer.”

  “Spare me.” Serrin said. “Just give me the name’

  “Yeah, sure. Guy down in Glastonbury. All these quaint English names, love it. A German exile, name of Karl-Heinz Hessler. Keeps pretty much to himself, and it’s not really a question of whether you want to see him as whether he wants to see you. Supposed to live in a little place close to the Tor. Serrin, what the frag is a ‘tor’?”

  “It’s a small hill.” Serrin said. “Now, anything else on him?”

  “Not really, except that he’s the man to speak to. Well, not man, elf rather. One of your people. Might help. He’s an old guy, too, which makes him a bit unusual.”

  It certainly did. Elves had been born into the Sixth World for less than half a century and, with their as-yet-undetermined but definitely extra-human lifespan, they hadn’t grown old yet. Serrin was intrigued.

  “Oh, and he has a sense of humor too, he’s got some kind of spirit about the place, an ally, I guess. Calls him Merlin. So be respectful. I heard he took up with a cat, too, or it took up with him.”

  “Any more trivial details?”

  “The cat isn’t trivial. It’s one of those blackberry cats. Like I said, be respectful. OK, chummer, that’s a favor you owe me sometime. Toodle pip, old chum, and cheerio and all that. Must pop over for some crumpet some time.” There was more chuckling.

  “You got it. Thanks, McCarthy.” and Serrin placed the receiver back on the handset.

  “Clermont-Ferrand.” Serrin simply restated the name and looked at Geraint. “There’s our second interested party, then.”

  “I don’t get it.” Streak said as Geraint nodded. Serrin gave Geraint a full-on “Shall we tell him?” look.

  “He was there, we’ll tell him.” Geraint said, and retrieved the package for Streak to examine.

  “I think we should hire him.” Serrin suggested.

  “I think I might” Geraint said slowly.

  “This is music to my shell-likes.” Streak grinned.

  “For seven days.” Geraint said, “starting now.”

  “Seven days?”

  “That’s how long we’ve got, and that includes today, which is almost over, so we’ve got six days really. Before the systems crash. Oh, well, let’s get this over with.” Geraint sighed, and he told Streak the whole story. More or less.

  10

  Michael woke around five in the morning with a head full of murder. He felt like he’d had a head-on collision with the entire Giants defense, and his head throbbed horribly. Groaning, he tried to get out of bed and found himself tottering
backward. So he stayed put for a few minutes, took a drink from the bottle of mercifully still-cool mineral water, and then stood up and poured the rest of it over his head, He managed to stagger into the bathroom, stuck his head under the cold faucet, and waited and hoped for the best.

  By five-thirty, after two cups of Geraint’s finest coffee extracted from the espresso machine, he finally felt able to peer out between the veins of his savagely bloodshot eyes. He went back to the bathroom, showered and shaved, and by six-fifteen, dressed in one of his best blue Saville Row suits, felt almost human. He was on the verge of contemplating getting something to eat, his hunger having finally overcome the residual nausea from the gas, when Kristen managed to hang on to the doorframe of the kitchen and focus her uncertain gaze on him.

  “That is absolutely the last time I drink lemon vodka with you.” he said with a weak laugh. “Kick like a pack of mules. Good morning. Want some coffee?”

  She slumped into the chair opposite him, the effort of speech apparently beyond her, but she was just about able to lift a cup and drink. Her hair, which seemed to have grown thicker and more lustrous since he’d previously known her, was an untamed mane of frizz around her face. She was wearing only a short nightgown, and her silky brown legs stretched under the table, touching his. Her physical presence was imposing for all that she was small, still young, and having considerable difficulty engaging with reality.

  “Give me a cigarette.” she begged at last.

  “Sure?”

  “Don’t ask.” she said. “Just do it.”

  He didn’t argue. She inhaled deeply, drank the cupful at a gulp, and sat back with her eyes shut.

  “Wish I had the real thing.” she said, looking forlornly at the cigarette.

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea this morning. What happened to us? I can’t remember anything after getting in that taxi.”

  “Me neither.” she said, and stretched like a jaguar in the sunshine. She hadn’t bathed yet, and her scent was musky and sweet. But as he glanced at her, he saw a mark on her arm. Reaching out, he took her arm in his hands.

  “Pinprick.” he said. “Look.”

  Kristen stared intently at her arm, chewing her lip in concern. “How did you see that?” she said doubtfully.

  “Don’t know. It just caught my eye.” Then he slipped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

  His left arm had the same tiny mark. He’d missed it while showering, the slight ache in his arm probably masked by the general feeling of fatigue. His head had still been full of cotton-wool at the time, the world a fuzzy haze around him.

  “Drek.” he said, shaking his head. ‘Someone’s taken blood samples.”

  She looked alarmed. She didn’t know what it meant, but she was probably wondering what else might have been done to her.

  “Blood, maybe for ritual magic.” he said. “It’s not an uncommon practice. They probably snipped off some hair as well. Not good. We’re going to have ask Serrin about this. He’s the expert.”

  Kristen wasn’t reassured. She knew little of the art, and what things Serrin told her were hard to understand. The magically talented and the mundane walked different paths, with many points of simple incomprehension between them.

  On cue, Serrin appeared in the doorway, a silk dressing gown draped around his thin form. The contrast with the graceful figure of his wife could not have been greater. Knobbled knees and a mass of scar tissue on the leg shattered during a botched run for a corp many years ago were visible beneath the garment. He took one look at the coffee machine dispensing dark fluid, and made for it like a polecat after a baby rabbit.

  “What happened? How did we get back?” Michael asked him. Serrin told him. Michael was indignant at first, and then, despite himself, laughed. “Shipped in a crate? The bastards. Well, I can’t say I take offense, not really. They could have killed us, after all.” Then he told the mage about the pinpricks and the possibility that blood samples had been taken from them.

  “Then we’d better get down to Glastonbury damn quick.” Serrin said, rubbing at his short-cropped gray hair. “We’ll have more to ask than just information. We’ll need to be able to build magical wards around us too.” He paused as he heard what he was saying. “What are we getting into? Two days ago I was walking the Scottish coastline. Now we’re knee-deep in drek coming from all directions.”

  “Glastonbury?” Michael enquired.

  “There’s a lot to catch up on.” Serrin said, and briefed them about the events of the previous night.

  “So we’ve got someone else on board?” Michael said doubtfully.

  “Look, we knew we should ask you first, but honestly there wasn’t time, and after all the guy was here when you arrived and when I took a call and he’d seen half the picture already. There was little point in not giving him the rest. After all, in a week’s time it’s all going to be public knowledge if this doesn’t work out.” Serrin said reasonably. “Anyway, we didn’t tell him everything. He thinks that someone’s going to wreck one big corp system and he wouldn’t expect us to say who we’re working for. He doesn’t know it’s the whole works.”

  “Put like that I can hardly argue.” Michael agreed. “We can trust him for a week, I suppose.”

  “Why is he called ‘Streak’?” Kristen asked.

  “A childhood nickname apparently.” Serrin smiled. “He was very thin as a kid and apparently the Brits have an expression for people like that–‘a long streak of piss’?”

  Michael laughed. “Well, I guess if he kept that moniker he must have a sense of humor.”

  “Oh, he has that.” Serrin said with some feeling. “Often at our expense, I find.”

  “You were talking about me?” The elf had snuck up on them while they were absorbed in conversation, and walked past them to the fridge, as if he owned the place.

  “My, this is good.” he said, rubbing his hands at the delights within. “His lordship has real taste. You can’t buy that, you know. That’s one thing you Americans”–he grinned at Serrin–“never truly understand.”

  “Okay, okay, let’s stop this now.” Michael protested. “Serrin says it’s down to Glastonbury today.” Streak was breaking eggs into a bowl. “Want some scrambled?”

  Everyone nodded. Any original resentment at him treating the place like he owned it evaporated at the prospect of his acting as quartermaster-cum-chef.

  “Best go out through the back door then. I assume we don’t want to be tracked.” Streak said. “Can you mask us against watchers, that kind of thing?”

  “There’s a very good hermetic circle protecting this building.” Serrin told him.

  “Yeah and I’m the Queen of bloody Sheba.” Streak said derisively. “You’ll have to do better.”

  “I think I can.” Serrin said quietly.

  “There are some service tunnels linking these buildings.” Streak told him. “We can get out of here half a mile or more away. Best to take an underground route first, I think. Need to arrange the motor, though.”

  “We can’t take Geraint’s limo.” Michael said. “Have to hire one, I suppose.”

  “Brilliant” Streak said derisively. “Traceable by anyone with a Radio Shack. Leave it to me. Unregistered except on hot police systems so we can’t be traced unless someone can deck ice thick enough to cover Antarctica. No names, no pack drill. Be here five minutes after I call it in. You want a limo or an APV?”

  “I think an ordinary saloon will do us.” Michael said with a grin.

  “Have we got any way of warning this guy that we’re about to arrive on his doorstep?”

  “I don’t see that we can.” Serrin said. “Anything we do in that direction would be traceable. I thought of sending a messenger spirit, but it would be detected as soon as it left the area and there are ways of interrogating them.”

  “I can at least find us somewhere to stay.” Streak said thoughtfully. “Want some bacon with this?”

  “Wouldn’t say no. There ar
e some mushrooms in the cupboard.” Michael pointed out.

  “I can get a booking somewhere out of the way through an intermediary.” Streak said. “Hey, you want to go as mellows? I mean, taking in the sacred vibes, all that drek? I could get some wiz clothes for mellows. I know some undercover people, drugs-and-chips guys, who’ve got that kind of gear.”

  That’s probably overdoing it. Anyway, I don’t think Hessler would be any too impressed.” Serrin told him.

  “You know, you don’t all have to go.” Michael put in. “I’m the one who should talk with him. There’s no need for anyone else to go, not really.”

  Kristen grabbed his arm and gave him a very reproachful look, but Michael nipped the idea in the bud anyway.

  “Not a bad idea to stick together.” he said. “We’re a lot easier targets in ones and twos. Ask any taxi driver.”

  “All right then.” Serrin said. The bacon was beginning to grill nicely now, and the smell was making Michael and Kristen, unfed for the best part of thirty-six hours, almost drool.

  “Voila!” Streak dumped the eggs into a serving dish. Milk, just a little cream, and plenty of butter had made them perfection. Kristen couldn’t wait long enough to scoop them onto her plate, but rammed a spoonful straight into her mouth looking as if an angel bad dropped down from heaven hearing her own personalized chalice of manna.

  “This is better.” Streak said, and emptied the second serving, this time complete with melted cheese, onto a second plate.

  “I told you we were right to hire this guy.” Serrin mumbled between forkfuls of egg.

  “I think I’d better call Geraint while there’s still some left.” Michael grinned.

  * * *

  By the time Streak had broken every last egg in the place to feed the eager breakfasters, Michael was already jacked in, data-trawling getting every last piece of data he could before they set off on the short haul to the West of England. The problem was not that he didn’t know what he was looking for, but simply that he didn’t have the background knowledge to evaluate what he found. That was why Serrin was with them.

  The downloads took a long time even for his Fairlight whose transfer speeds most deckers could hardly dream about–which this morning was just too damn long. He was impatient at having to wait for the archival material, and then dismayed by the sheer volume of it all when it arrived.