The Man of Bronze
Page 6
Tink.
Immediately, two Uzis opened up on the source of the sound. Immediately, I opened up on the gunmen holding the Uzis. Aiming at the muzzle flashes, I scored shots on both men; but as soon as I’d fired, I rolled away fast from my original position, just in case I wasn’t the only one trying to trick the opposition into betraying its location.
Another gun flared in the darkness: trrrrrrr. Linoleum fragments stung me, kicked up by a flurry of 9-millimeter Parabellum blasting the floor where I’d been lying a split second earlier. I fired back at the source of this new attack, but the brief light of my muzzle flashes showed the man ducking out of sight behind something big and solid. Without hesitating, I dived back down the corridor, just as another rain of bullets slapped into my previous position.
Darkness and silence returned . . . giving me a chance to sort out what had just happened. The room in front of me was the entry area where the doorman met incoming patients and patted them down. The “something big and solid” between me and the mercenary could only be the doorman’s safe: the vault where he stored visitors’ weaponry. If I recalled correctly, the vault’s walls were four-inch steel that no bullet could penetrate.
The mercenary had taken cover behind the toughest protection in the building . . . certainly tougher than the flimsy walls around me. If the bad guy knew where to fire, he could kill me straight through the plasterboard. Fortunately, he didn’t know where to fire; and shooting at random would just waste ammunition.
I waited for what I knew would come next.
“Oi!” the man called. “Can we talk?”
His accent was Australian . . . not that it mattered. I didn’t answer because the moment I spoke, he’d know where to aim.
“I saw you just now by the muzzle flashes,” the man said. “A woman, right? Right? Don’t know who you are, but you aren’t our target. We’re after a sod named Reuben Baptiste. Actually, we aren’t after him either—just what he’s carrying.”
He waited for me to betray myself. I didn’t.
“Maybe it’s like this,” the gunman said. “You’re, what, a spy or something? An international assassin in Warsaw on a mission? You see guys with guns, and you think they’re after you. Understandable mistake. And I don’t give a damn even if you have killed everybody I came with. More money for me when I bring home the goods.”
Did that mean he was the last mercenary standing? Or was it a ruse? No, it was probably true. I’d seen nobody else in the front room . . . and since that’s where the stairs to the bell tower came out, that’s where the survivors from upstairs would gather.
I tallied up numbers again. If I’d disabled three hooligans with the oxygen tanks—a reasonable possibility—this man was my final opponent.
“I’m willing to let you go,” the man was saying. “I’ll even sweeten the offer with money. You get me Reuben Baptiste and the boss’ll put you on the payroll. He’s generous, you’ll see. And he’s got a good eye for talent. A woman like you, he’d give you a Silver Shield right off.”
A Silver Shield? Meaning a shiny force field? Apparently, the silver grenades were only given to lackeys of a certain rank . . . which explained why few gunmen had them. The man talking to me must not have earned his Silver Shield yet; otherwise, he’d just armor up and come for me.
“So what do you say?” the man asked. “Want to join? The boss’ll be glad to have you.”
I wanted to ask who this boss was. But talking wouldn’t get me answers; it would just get me shot.
Once more, I moved quietly to the mouth of the corridor. I lifted both my Uzis judiciously, trying to gauge which one was lighter—which had less ammo left. Probably the one in my right hand. I unstrapped it and tossed it into the middle of the next room.
Instant gunfire. A single three-bullet burst. Of course, the man hadn’t meant what he’d said . . . but his impulsive shots lit the room enough to show me everything: a chair where the doorman once sat, the safe, the front exit, the entrance to the stairwell.
“Sorry about that,” the man said . . . as if a simple apology could excuse his attempt to shoot me. “I overreacted. But, really, we can work something out . . .”
That was all I heard—I retreated, fast and quiet. Down the corridor, over the gurney, past the OR, back to the hole leading into the church. There was just enough light in the church sanctuary to let me find the spot where Reuben and I had leapt from the upper story. I jumped . . . grabbed the edge . . . pulled myself up . . . and was once more on the higher level, in the patient rooms. Forward, heading for the stairs . . . nearly falling when I tripped over a body but catching myself in time . . . stealthily down the stairs . . . and the last mercenary was still babbling, “Come on, can’t we talk? We can work things out . . .”
My whole journey upstairs and down had taken less than thirty seconds; but now I was on the other side of the room. The man taking cover behind the solid steel vault was totally exposed from this angle.
My Uzi went, trrrrrrr. Its muzzle flash showed the mercenary wearing a look of utter astonishment as he died.
One final errand: checking the getaway vehicles. I donned the winter jacket I’d left on the entrance room’s coat stand and slipped outside.
When I first saw the black Explorers pull up, I’d assumed the mercs would leave a driver in each to allow for fast escape. I therefore flattened myself in the clinic’s doorway, inched through shadows, dodged behind a lamppost, crawled across the pavement on my stomach . . . only to find the cars empty, unlocked, with keys in the ignition. It was a miracle they hadn’t been stolen; Warsaw is no worse for crime than any other city its size, but leaving brand-new SUVs unlocked in the middle of the night is asking for trouble. Then again, Stare Miasto is supposed to be a no-vehicle zone, so maybe carjackers never visited the district.
I took the keys from the nearest Explorer and locked all the doors before jogging back into the building. “Reuben!” I called. “Let’s go.”
“The coast is clear?” His voice came from the OR.
“It’s clear for now. But the police may arrive any second.”
“They’ll take their time.” That was Dr. Jacek talking. “The police try not to disturb us . . . and when they have no choice, they don’t come straight here. They find excuses to take a roundabout route. In case we need time to clean up.”
I wondered whom Jacek had to pay to receive such treatment. Maybe no one. Maybe influential people simply told the police Dr. Jacek was not to be raided. The rich and powerful occasionally need discreet clandestine clinics that deal with medical emergencies . . . and such gentry don’t like interruptions when they’re getting patched up or medicated.
Something clattered down the corridor—something accidentally knocked over in the dark—then Jacek and Reuben appeared. They looked relieved . . . maybe because the crisis was over, maybe just because they could finally see. I was holding the street door open, letting in light from outside. I told Jacek, “Sorry about the mess, Stanislaw. I didn’t mean to demolish your surgery, but I didn’t have much choice. Of course, I’ll pay for the damage.”
“Oh yes?” His voice was immediately cheerful. When he sent me the repair bill, I’d likely be paying for plasterboard at mahogany prices.
“One last thing,” I said to Jacek. “Do you know the combination to your doorman’s gun vault? I’d hate to leave without my pistols.”
Jacek did know the combination . . . but that didn’t help much with the room pitch-black. To get light, we used the dashboard cigarette lighter in one of the SUVs to set fire to a waiting room magazine: a French-language copy of Life, dating back to the mideighties. I held the burning magazine as a torch while Jacek fumbled with the combination. The whole process took so long, I almost said, “Never mind, we don’t have time.” But when I felt the familiar weight of my VADS pistols resting in their holsters, a great weight lifted from my shoulders. Once again, I was ready for anything.
“Let’s move,” I told Reuben. “The Warsaw police m
ay treat this clinic with kid gloves, but they aren’t the ones who worry me.” I nudged him toward the door, then turned back to Jacek. “Sorry again, old man. Trouble seems to follow me around.”
“Ach, Lara,” said Jacek with a shrug, “what’s to apologize? For real trouble, you should have been here last night.”
4
ST. BERNWARD’S MONASTERY:
THE INFIRMARY
We passed half a dozen police cars on our way out of town. They were all heading leisurely for Stare Miasto . . . but by the time they dawdled into Jacek’s, the mercenary corpses would be gone. The bodies and SUVs would turn up elsewhere—probably in some neighborhood noted for gang violence—and in due course, the authorities would write off the deaths as “drug-related killings.”
Though our destination lay to the northeast, I headed northwest on the highway to Gdansk. I was, after all, driving an SUV commandeered from the mercenaries. If it contained a LoJack or some other tracking device, I didn’t want to give away our intended direction.
We stopped at the first petrol station/coffee shop along the road. I made a phone call, then settled down to wait. Reuben had something to eat, while I bought road maps of every Polish province. I also took the chance to do a quick web search on St. Bernward using my mobile phone. Born 960 A.D. in what is now northern Germany. Became Bishop of Hildescheim, 993. Famed for encouraging sacred art in churches, most notably the superbly decorated bronze gates of the cathedral at Hildesheim. Died 1022. Canonized 1193. Now the patron saint of metal workers, architects, and sculptors. No mention of a monastery in Poland, but that didn’t mean much. The Roman Catholic Church has thousands of unpublicized retreats in odd corners of the world, most of them named after saints with no obvious connection to the site or its inhabitants. Whatever awaited us at St. Bernward’s Monastery, we’d have to find out for ourselves.
Half an hour later, a man named Krzysztof with terrible teeth arrived to take our Explorer in exchange for an aging Honda Accord. The Accord had seen years of rough treatment, but that was what I wanted: its dents would be camouflage, helping it fit in with other vehicles in the cash-strapped backcountry where we’d be going. Krzysztof assured me the engine was still “strong like tiger” . . . and since he owed me his life (five years earlier, I’d pulled him out of a giant wasp’s nest in the sewers of Krakow—don’t ask), I was willing to trust him. The car proved peppy enough; not in the same class as a Lamborghini Diablo, but exactly what we needed to trundle through Polish farmland without attracting attention.
Three hours passed uneventfully with Reuben asleep in the passenger seat. His breathing was troubled by gasps that never quite stirred him to consciousness. Once, as we passed through a village with a single streetlight, the mercury glow revealed that his bandages were red with fresh blood. I cursed my stupidity; before leaving the clinic, I should have asked Dr. Jacek for appropriate medical supplies. Krzysztof had left a filthy old blanket in the back of the car, so I ripped off a strip and tied it around Reuben’s torso in the hope it would press his dressings tighter against the bullet wounds. Reuben whimpered in his sleep but didn’t wake.
I checked a road map. The nearest hospital was hours away. I decided to press on to St. Bernward’s Monastery; the monks would surely have a first-aid kit and maybe a full-scale infirmary. Rural monasteries were usually self-sufficient in such matters.
Back on the highway, farmland gave way to snow-packed forests and lakes. In wealthier countries, an area like this would be full of hunting lodges and summer cottages . . . but few in Poland could afford such indulgences. Besides, the Soviet Union had operated military camps here until the Iron Curtain fell. The Red Army had strongly discouraged Polish families from holidays in the region. With the Soviets gone, vacationers might now begin to filter in; but it would take years for a full-fledged tourist industry to develop.
So nobody lived here but lumberjacks and the occasional recluse. Only a few snowy dirt tracks led into the woods—mostly logging roads not shown on the map. Some had signs telling which timber company owned the land, but the majority just said PRIVATE, KEEP OUT in Polish.
“Reuben,” I called. “Reuben. Reuben!”
He woke only when I shook him hard. “Wha . . . what?”
“We’re getting close,” I said. “You’ll have to tell me which road to take.”
“Oh. Right.” He rubbed his eyes as if they wouldn’t focus. His head slipped back against the seat again.
“Reuben. Reuben!”
“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah . . .”
“Talk to me,” I said, just to keep him awake. “Tell me about where we’re going.”
“I told you—St. Bernward’s Monastery.”
“What kind of monastery is it?”
He forced himself to concentrate. “It’s old. There’s been a monastery on the site for more than a thousand years. Parts of the original are still standing. It hasn’t always been called St. Bernward’s, but—”
“What type of monastery is it?”
“Roman Catholic.”
“I guessed that,” I said dryly. “But what order of monks? Franciscan? Dominican? Benedictine?”
“Uhh . . . Dominican.”
“Reuben, here’s a tip: don’t lie unless you know what you’re doing. The Dominican order was founded by St. Dominic in 1215—eight hundred years ago, not a thousand. But then, you’ve always been the type of archaeologist who concentrates on true antiquities. I could never trip you up on prehistoric Mesopotamia, but anything after the fall of Rome is beyond your expertise.”
He said nothing. He should have known I was only teasing, but he was too weak to make a retort. “Who really lives in the monastery?” I asked.
Reuben sighed. If he’d been stronger he might have told me it was none of my business, but he seemed too tired to fight. “They are monks, Lara. And a few really are Dominicans. Also some Jesuits, some Trappists, some Hospitallers . . . some Buddhists, some Sikhs, some Sufis . . .” He sighed. “Nuns, too. Taoists, Jains, Essenes . . . a lot of different types.”
I raised my eyebrows. Hospitallers? They were a tiny order whose members hardly ever left Rome. And the Essenes were a Jewish sect who disappeared from history around the year 200. “An eclectic group to find anywhere, much less the backwoods of Poland. Care to tell me what they’re up to?”
“They call themselves the Order of Bronze,” Reuben said. “The Order is, uhh, quite old.”
I groaned. “An ancient society of religious dropouts hiding in the back of beyond? Reuben, how could you get involved with such people? They could be trying to summon some evil elder god . . . open the gates of hell . . . immanentize the eschaton . . .”
He stared at me blankly. I said, “It means bringing about the end of the world.”
“No, Lara, these people are all right. They’re the good guys. Really.”
I rolled my eyes but said nothing. Reuben had always been too trusting. Finally, I asked, “What were you doing for them?”
“Just research. Investigating rumors about bronze statuary.”
“What type of bronze statuary?”
“Umm. Er. Oh, here’s our turnoff. Turn left down that track.”
Reuben refused to say more. I was too busy driving to argue. The road was light gravel covered with three inches of snow; any moment, I expected the Accord to get stuck in some hollow where the snow had built up too deep. I had precious little room to maneuver around any blockages: snow-hung pine trees crowded on either side, stretching their branches above us. It seemed as if we were driving down a white-lined tunnel into a black unknown. If I hadn’t been worried about Reuben’s bullet wounds, I might have turned around and gone back . . . but my friend needed treatment, and St. Bernward’s Monastery—the Order of Bronze—was the closest place to find clean bandages.
Besides, I wanted to meet these people: to get a feel of who they were. If the Order of Bronze were Satanists or lunatics, I might have to take drastic action to free Reuben from their clutches.
I was glad when we broke out of the forest and saw our destination.
The monastery sprawled gloomily atop a low hill. It showed no lights—not a single candle—so the only illumination came from the few stars not obscured by clouds. Fields had been cleared in a wide ring around the monastery’s stone walls, but the Accord’s headlights picked out nothing but stunted weeds poking through the snow. I suspected the open area wasn’t for farming crops; it served as a no-man’s-land—a zone with no cover—so intruders couldn’t approach the central complex without being seen. Who knew what weapons were trained on our car as we climbed slowly up the rise?
The stone walls, topped with an abundance of razor wire, blocked all view of what lay beyond. When we reached the gates—two slabs of steel more suited to a military bunker than a harmless religious retreat—Reuben said, “Get out of the car. And, uhh . . . maybe you better take off your guns.”
I sighed. It wasn’t an unprecedented request—I’ve visited numerous religious institutions, and the doorkeepers almost always demand I leave my weapons outside. For some reason, they believe firearms are out of place in “retreats of peace and solemnity.” However, it’s one thing to disarm oneself while visiting the Archbishop of Canterbury or the Dalai Lama; it’s quite another to drop one’s guns at the door of an obscure cadre of possible demon worshippers. The Dalai Lama wouldn’t try to cut me open and devour my liver. With the Order of Bronze, I wasn’t so sure.