Wycliffe reached for his smartphone and cursed as he remembered its fate. “Fletcher. Call the O’Hare information desk and ask if the flight’s landed yet. It’s private flight number 567, as I recall.”
“Yes, sir,” said Fletcher. He produced his own phone, asked a few questions, grunted acknowledgement, and slid the phone back into his jacket. “The plane landed ten minutes ago. Our guests are on their way.”
“Good.” Wycliffe watched the terminal’s doors. He had wasted a lot of time on this, time that could have been better spent campaigning. But Marugon had been insistent about this for years. Why did this have to happen during the campaign? Public opinion was so fluid, and if any whiff of scandal attached itself to the Gracchan Party…
Four men walked out the terminal doors and made for the limo. Three wore black, and the fourth wore a hideous mauve suit with a plaid tie and a battered fedora.
Wycliffe grinned and opened the door. “Gentlemen. It has been entirely too long.”
“Oh? I am not in agreement,” said Vasily Kurkov. He settled on the seat between Wycliffe and Goth. “The weather is always miserable when I come to this country. Always. It snowed nine inches the last time.” Kurkov had aged in the five years since his last visit to America. He had lost weight, and his eyes had sunk deeper into his skull. The man looked mired in the later stages of drug addiction.
“Bah.” Dr. Krastiny sat opposite of Wycliffe. The mauve suit had kept the worst of the rain from him. His grim-faced protégés Bronsky and Schzeran settled on either side of him. “It is still better than life in the Army. And a little spring rain never hurt anyone.” He took off his hat and settled it on his knee. Krastiny, unlike his employer, had not aged a bit. He glanced at Goth, flinched, and looked away.
Bronsky and Schzeran remained as silent as ever.
“Fletcher,” said Wycliffe. “Make for the compound.”
“Yes, sir,” said Fletcher. He put the limo into drive, joining the constant mass of traffic around O’Hare.
“So,” said Wycliffe. “I trust you had a pleasant flight?”
Kurkov snorted. “What, are you a flight attendant now? Are you going to offer me peanuts and watery Pepsi?”
Krastiny chuckled. “Don’t mind him, Senator. It’s been two days since he had a cigarette.”
Kurkov snapped his fingers and slid a pack from his pocket. “The airlines have gone to hell. No smoking. No alcohol. No women, at least willing ones. Nothing to do but stare at out the window at the ocean.” He lit up, inhaled, and let out a long sigh of relief.
Wycliffe coughed. “I do hope those aren’t Stanford Matthews cigarettes.”
Kurkov frowned. “Stanford who? No, these are Camels. Russian cigarettes are no good.”
“Our baggage has already bent sent on to your compound, Senator,” said Krastiny. “It should be waiting for us when we arrive.”
“Good,” said Wycliffe. “And your weapons?”
Krastiny grinned. “Why, right here, of course.” He patted a bulge under his left armpit. “We are Mr. Kurkov’s bodyguards, and we can’t be expected to do our jobs without our weapons, can we?” His eyes gleamed with that chilling razor light Wycliffe remembered. “The benefits of flying a private jet. And a few hundred dollars in judicious bribes, of course.”
“I trust you did not bring anything that would cause me undue embarrassment?” said Wycliffe. “This is a very delicate time.”
Kurkov laughed. “What, the election?” He coughed, his throat rasping. “Do you have anything to drink?”
“Of course,” said Wycliffe, reaching for the refrigerator. “Water, soda, and wine coolers.”
Kurkov scowled. “Wine coolers? What, are you a teenage girl? You have nothing stronger? Damn it all, I’ll take a wine cooler.”
“I as well, if it’s no trouble,” said Krastiny.
“Of course,” said Wycliffe, opening the fridge and passing out the bottles.
Kurkov drained off half his bottle in one drink. “So. I hear you are running for the office of vice president.”
“That’s correct,” said Wycliffe.
Kurkov laughed. “Vice president? Not president? What good is a vice president? There is a joke. A woman had two sons. One became a monk. Another became vice president. Both…”
Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “Were never heard from again. Yes, yes, Vasily, I’ve heard that joke before. Numerous times.”
Kurkov lit another cigarette. “I thought you had more ambition. I’ve seen pictures of this William Jones. He looks like a shriveled-up old corpse.” Kurkov himself did not look much better, but Wycliffe remained silent. “Why run as his vice president? Why not run as president yourself?” He finished the wine cooler and dropped the bottle to the floor. “Then I would not need to do all this scrounging and searching for your weapon.”
“Oh,” said Krastiny, smiling. “I think our Senator Wycliffe has much more ambition than he lets on. Much more. William Jones is an old man. Perhaps he will not live for very long once he becomes president, hmm?”
Goth’s lips almost twitched into a fanged grin.
“Perhaps,” said Wycliffe, his tone neutral. “I hope and pray for Senator Jones’s continued health. But you did not come all this way to discuss politics, I would assume.” He turned to Kurkov. “The weapon. Have you found one?”
Kurkov took a long draw on his cigarette. “Yes. It was not easy. The Russian army is the Russian army, of course, and soldiers are never paid enough to live. Krastiny, if you ask him, will prattle on for hours about the subject.” He scowled. “But the soldiers who are in charge of the nuclear weapons, they are paid a bit more. And they know what they guard is dangerous. So they are not so willing to sell as the regular soldiers.”
“But the bomb,” said Wycliffe. “How did you find it?”
“There was a secret base in Armenia,” said Kurkov. “No one knew about it. Khrushchev built in the early 1960s when the Americans put missiles in Turkey. A small base, with only four missiles, but enough to destroy Istanbul and a few American bases.” He snickered. “Of course, when the Americans took the missiles out of Turkey, the missiles in Armenia stayed. The base sat there until…”
“Until the earthquake in December of 1988,” said Wycliffe.
Kurkov nodded. “Yes. The quake destroyed the base, buried it under rubble.”
“And here is the stroke of good fortune,” said Krastiny. “As it happens, the quake also killed the military personnel who knew about the base.”
Wycliffe raised his eyebrows. “Indeed?”
Kurkov nodded. “Everyone who knew about it was killed, except for a common infantryman who had been on guard duty. He had the good luck to go on leave the day before the quake. When the Soviet government collapsed, the military command forgot about him. But he did not forget about the base. And when I began searching for a weapon, he remembered. For a substantial fee, of course.”
Wycliffe’s lip twitched. “Of course.” He leaned forward. “So did you find a weapon there?”
“Yes,” said Kurkov. “Well. Not entirely. The quake destroyed the weapons, the missiles, and their housings.”
Krastiny rolled his eyes. “So much for fail-safes, eh? It was probably a favor to the locals that our men dug out the radioactive material and bomb components. I shudder to think of the neighboring village’s cancer rate in thirty years.”
Kurkov rolled his eyes. “No one cares. Besides, we paid the mayor and the village council much money to look the other way during excavation. They better not care, if they know what’s good for them.”
“So were you able to find enough parts and plutonium to build a working weapon?” said Wycliffe. His mind crawled with the potential dangers this held to his campaign. If any whiff of this reached the press, even the Voice might not suffice to contain the damage. He wished Marugon could wait until after the election. The United States had tens of thousands of nuclear weapons, and once Wycliffe was vice president, Marugon could have one. But, no, Marug
on wanted his damned bomb now. So Kurkov had to scrounge around on the black market.
“Enough? Yes,” said Kurkov. “Finding someone to put it all together, that was hard. It took us two years to find a competent nuclear scientist.” He dropped his cigarette to the floor, ground it out, and lit another one. Wycliffe was going to have to replace the carpet. “Finally found one a year past. Some Pakistani fool…ah, what was he, Krastiny?”
Krastiny grunted and adjusted his ugly tie. “Him? I believe he started his career as a secular atheist. Sometime in his mid-thirties he converted to one stripe or another of radical Islam. And he was disgruntled at the CIA and the World Health Organization for some reason. Why, I’m not sure. I could never quite work my way through his unending rants.”
Kurkov made an irritated noise. “Obnoxious bastard. He never shut up.”
“So you have a functional bomb?” said Wycliffe.
“Yes,” said Kurkov. “It is not quite in my hands yet. That is why I have come to America. The bomb is still in Russia. It would have been hard to get it through customs at Petrograd, impossible in any of the European countries. The Mediterranean would have been no better. The Turks and the Israelis are bastards about customs. So I am shipping it via the Trans-Siberian Railroad to Vladivostok. I have hired a freighter captain who knows to keep his mouth shut. He will take the bomb straight to Los Angeles. My agents in the port there will bypass customs, and from there it is a small matter to have the bomb loaded onto a truck and taken to Chicago.”
Wycliffe laughed. “So that’s why you’re in America, isn’t it? In case the authorities in Russia catch the bomb. You’ll already be safe here.”
Kurkov helped himself to another wine cooler. “I have not lived this long by doing stupid things.” Wycliffe almost commented on the cigarettes, booze, and drugs, but thought better of it.
“But the bomb does work?” said Wycliffe.
Kurkov drained off a large portion of the wine cooler. “It’s not as if I’ve tested it.” Krastiny snickered. “But it works. That Pakistani, he is nuts, but he is good.” Kurkov held his hands out about four feet apart. “The bomb was about as big as a large steamer trunk when he was done. Very small, but heavy. And he used parts from all four wrecked missiles.” He grinned. “So instead of four little bombs, you will have one great big bomb.”
Wycliffe suppressed a shudder. “Marugon should be pleased.”
Krastiny frowned. “What does our mysterious friend need with an atomic weapon? His opponents are armed with swords and spears. Fifty men with AK-47s could conquer his world.”
“He said something like that,” said Wycliffe. “I don’t know what he intends to do with the bomb. Something big and dramatic, I suppose. It’s hardly my problem.” He looked at Kurkov. “And just how much is this wonderful little bomb going to cost me?”
Kurkov grinned. “Thirty million dollars.”
Wycliffe sputtered. “What the hell? You can’t be serious.”
“Thirty million dollars,” said Kurkov. “This was a very expensive operation. More expenses are coming, once all the bribes have been paid out. A nuclear device will cost you thirty million dollars.”
“Thirty million?” said Wycliffe. “I thought you said ten.”
Kurkov shrugged. “Expenses.”
Wycliffe swore. “Fine. Thirty million goddamn dollars. Do you have any idea what a serious hole this is going to put in my pocket?”
“No.” Kurkov smiled. “But it will patch many holes in my pocket.”
“Fine. Damn it. Fine.” Wycliffe rubbed his forehead. “Marugon had better send a lot of gold with his next caravan. No. He’s coming himself in a few days. I can tell him then. He’ll be impatient.” Wycliffe shook his head. “When can we expect delivery?”
“October,” said Kurkov. “Or possibly September, if everything goes well.”
“October?” said Wycliffe. He swore again. “So not only am I paying thirty million dollars for an atomic bomb, you’re going to be driving it through the middle of the country at the very height of campaigning season?”
Kurkov shrugged. “Doctor. What is it that Americans say?”
“About what?” said Krastiny.
“Life,” said Kurkov.
Krastiny thought for a moment. “Ah…life is a bitch?”
Kurkov nodded. “Yes. That’s quite right.” He turned to Wycliffe. “Senator, life is a bitch.”
Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “I hadn’t noticed.” He sighed. “All right. Fine. Thirty million dollars.” He waved a finger. “But this bomb better work.”
Kurkov grinned and spread his hands. “Boom! Don’t worry. Very big boom.”
Chapter 14 - A Doorway
Anno Domini 2012
An old man’s voice, deep and sonorous, whispered in Ally’s ear. “You cannot run.”
She sprinted down a corridor of dark stone, Lithon wailing in her arms. Things of nightmare and shadow pursued her, claws of icy nothingness reaching for her neck. She risked a glance over her shoulder. The old man with two burning swords stood in the midst of the shadow-things, his blades flashing and whirling.
The rune-carved door loomed before her. Hope flared in Ally’s heart. She would be safe…
###
“You cannot run forever,” said the soft voice. “Sooner or later, you will remember. And they will find you.”
Ally sat in the back seat of a van, the engine roaring. Lithon leaned against her, shaking with fear. Simon sat in the middle seat, thinner than she remembered, his face taut with strain. Katrina drove, her hands clenched around the wheel. A lean man in a suit leaned out the window, a staff of burning light in his hands.
Metal shrieked, and bullets tore through the ceiling and shredded the seat. Lithon screamed.
Ally heard a thump. Something huge and terrible landed on the hood of the van. The windshield exploded in a spray of glass, and a winged fiend seized Katrina and dragged her kicking and screaming through the windshield…
###
“They will find you,” murmured the old man’s voice. “You must be ready. You must face them.”
Ally lay dying on the cold ground.
Red flames lit the courtyard, billowing smoke rising from the ruins around her. She groaned, tried to stand, and fell back to the ground. She felt the hot blood seeping into her clothing, pulsing from the gaping wound in her chest. Her heart shuddered like a dying child beneath her ribs.
Something dark and monstrous plummeted from the sky. The creature stood over her and roared. Its black wings blotted out the night sky.
“No,” sobbed Ally, “no, damn you, help me, no, no…”
The beast’s clawed hand plunged into her chest, iron talons tearing flesh and sliding between her ribs. Ally screamed, her back arching, her heels drumming against the cold stone. Fingers curled around her heart and pulled…
###
Ally sat up with a shriek, her legs tangling in the sheet. She looked around the dark bedroom. Her eyes saw nothing, and she felt her chest, half-expecting to feel a gaping wound there. Pain lingered beneath her ribs for a moment, and then faded away. She lay back down and stared at the ceiling.
“God,” she muttered. “I’m too young to have a heart attack.” She pulled the sheet tighter against herself. “It was just a dream. Just a dream.”
“Ally?”
Ally shot upright, her heart kicking back to high gear. She saw a looming shadow standing over her bed, dark wings enveloping the room. She blinked and the shadow resolved into Mary, a blue bathrobe wrapped around her.
Ally closed her eyes and blew out a long breath. “Mary. You scared me half to death.”
“Sorry,” said Mary. She sat down on the bed, the faint light from the window playing across her face. She looked so thin and tired. She had lost a lot of weight in the last few months. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Ally shook her head. “It’s not your fault. It…I did a pretty good job of scaring myself, I’d guess.”
; “You were shrieking and thrashing,” said Mary.
“I hope I didn’t wake you up,” said Ally.
“No,” said Mary. “I was up already.”
Ally frowned. “How come? You aren’t having nightmares too, are you?”
Mary laughed. “Um…no.” She shook her head. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you, after…everything. But I wasn’t having nightmares. Your…um…your parents woke me up.”
Ally blinked. “They did? Why did they do that? It’s…oh. Oh.” She grimaced. “Gross. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Mary paused. “Sounds like they’re pretty energetic, for old people.”
“Mary!” said Ally. “Now that is gross.”
Mary giggled. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“And they’re not that old,” said Ally.
“I still don’t think your dad wants me here,” said Mary.
Ally sighed. “Dad’s…well, I think he’s afraid you’re going to try and live here forever. You know, mooch.”
“I’m not going to do that,” said Mary. "I’m trying to find a job right now. I was going to try and find one right away, but the trial…it got in the way.”
“I know,” said Ally. “But the economy’s bad right now. That Senator Wycliffe guy is complaining about it on TV all the time.”
“I’m afraid your dad wants to throw me out,” said Mary. She looked at the floor. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“Mary,” said Ally. “Dad’s not going to throw you out. Mom would never forgive him. She understands. They won’t throw you out. They didn’t throw me and Lithon out. They never told me how we were adopted, but I think we just kind of dropped into their laps, the same way I brought you home. I’m not going to let you go home to your father.”
“Thank you,” said Mary.
“Okay,” said Ally. She looked at her clock and yawned. “It’s three in the morning. Go back to sleep.”
A Knight of the Sacred Blade Page 16