Disappeared

by Lynn Mason

  “Your master is no longer with us,” Sydney interrupted. “I will go and investigate.”

  “No! Don't m'leddy!” Mrs. MacDougall grabbed her arm, crying harder. “It's witchery! Ye'll be killt fer sure!”

  Sydney shook her off. “Stay here!” she ordered. “If I do not return, go and hide somewhere until the other people arrive.”

  “No! No!” Mrs. MacDougall yelled, growing more frantic. “I'll not stay here by meself! I'll die of fright!”

  “Then come with me. But you must stay silent. Do you understand?” Sydney fixed Mrs. MacDougall with an intense stare.

  The woman sniffled and nodded.

  Sydney grabbed a candlestick and opened the door. Inside was a narrow set of stairs that disappeared into the darkness below. She descended slowly, Mrs. MacDougall directly behind her. The air was dank and musty, and the moaning grew louder with every step they took. Eventually they reached another door. Sydney turned the knob, but it was locked tight.

  “Do you have the key?” she whispered to Mrs. MacDougall.

  The servant's face glowed white in the candlelight. She thrust her hand into the folds of her housecoat and pulled out a small iron ring with several keys hanging from it. The steel keys jangled in her shaky grip. Sydney closed her hand over them, silencing the noise, and took the ring from Mrs. MacDougall's grasp.

  “Which one?” Sydney asked, opening her palm. Mrs. MacDougall pointed quickly, then screwed up her face and backed away from the door.

  Sydney eased the key into the lock, turned it until she heard a faint click, and then flung the door wide open.

  The room was bitter cold, dark, and nearly empty. Sydney held out her candlestick and glanced about. A fireplace stove gaped dark and ominous along one wall. Along the other stood a couple of wooden barrels, a few burlap bags, and an old sink basin. The floor was covered with piles of ashes shoveled from the hearth oven, and a large mound of rags and linens had been heaped in the middle of the room. A high, narrow window along the top of the far wall was broken, spilling rain and icy air inside.

  Sydney sighed in relief. “See, Mrs. MacDougall,” she said, gesturing toward the window. “It was the wind, just as I—”

  At that moment, the moaning came again, and the pile of rags on the floor wriggled. Mrs. MacDougall gasped and staggered backward. “'Tis a demon!” she shrieked.

  Sydney ventured forward and nudged the mound with her foot. It thrashed again. She reached down and began pushing aside layers of cloth until she came upon the squirming figure of Malcolm. He lay on his side, his hands and feet bound by twine and a handkerchief stuffed inside his mouth.

  “Oh, praise the Laird! Malcolm! It's me, Malcolm!” Mrs. MacDougall rushed forward. “What the devil has happened to ye, lad?”

  Sydney gently pulled the handkerchief from his mouth. “Yes. Tell us. Who did this to you?”

  Malcolm's lips quivered. “A ghost.”

  “A ghost?” Sydney repeated. “What do you mean? What ghost?”

  “Him.” He nodded past her toward the exit.

  Sydney whirled around and sucked in her breath. There, looming in the doorway in front of her, stood the ghostly pale figure of Nigel Hubbard.

  14

  Sydney heard a thud as Mrs. MacDougall collapsed in a dead faint beside her. But she didn't turn to look. She couldn't. Her eyes would not leave the unearthly sight of Hubbard leering at her. She shook her head slowly. Was she actually seeing a ghost?

  And yet there he was. He was pale gray, except for his eyes and lips, which were dark slits. The sleeve of his shirt was torn, and a ruddy line, like dried blood, stood out on his arm.

  “H-Hubbard?” she stammered incredulously.

  Before she could react, he sprang forward, grabbing her. They tumbled roughly onto the cellar stairway. Her candle fell to the dirt floor and went out. The keys were suddenly wrenched from her hand. Sydney scrambled up the stairs. There's no way he's locking me down here, she thought as she reached the top. He was just a few feet behind her.

  She leaped over Rifat's body and ran into the main corridor. Then she instinctively took the darkest route, disappearing into the shadows of the library.

  Sydney could only see the embers of the fire and the hulking shapes of the two chairs in front of it, with a tall metal ashtray stand in between. She grabbed the stand and fled to a corner on the far side of the fireplace, waiting.

  Seconds later, Hubbard stepped into the room. “I know you are in here,” he called out. His cockney accent was gone, replaced by lighter, French-sounding inflections.

  Sydney tightened her grip on the stand, holding it like a baseball bat as she stood in the shadows. She tried desperately to still her rapid breathing, and wondered if he could possibly hear her heartbeat, which echoed deafeningly in her ears.

  “You might as well give yourself up,” he shouted. “Whoever you are.”

  Her pulse accelerated even more. So he had seen through her disguise. He was on to her. Now she had even more to worry about. Even if she managed to escape this lunatic, she was still exposed. She'd failed her mission.

  “Yes, I know you're not Adriana,” he went on, as if conversing with her thoughts. “I got to know the real Adriana quite intimately when we were both teenagers.”

  She could hear his footsteps creaking against the stone floor. It sounded as if he was circling the bookcase by the window. She swallowed hard and held her arms as steady as possible. All she had to do was wait until he got within batting range and let him have it.

  “Don't feel too bad,” he continued, his voice drawing nearer. “You had me fooled for a while. You were taller, but I figured she could have grown since I last saw her. And you looked young for her age. But I thought, Adriana knows how to take care of herself. I even worried you would recognize me, under my disguise.”

  Sydney's mind whirled. Sure enough, not only was this man not Hubbard's ghost, he wasn't Hubbard either. He wasn't even English. Who was he? And what did he want?

  “I thought, Maybe she knows me, but she doesn't want to reveal our affair. Or maybe she doesn't know me through the disguise.” He went on talking to himself. “Then I realized you were not who you said. I began to suspect at dinner. The real Adriana had a fierce hatred of mutton. She wouldn't have taken a single bite of that pie. But I decided to give you one final test, just to be sure.”

  Sydney could see him now. He was standing right in front of the fireplace, his body outlined in the dim orange glow. He crouched down, grabbed a stick from the tinder box and began poking the coals.

  “I went to your room after the meeting and showed you my scar,” he continued, tossing kindling into the fireplace. “The real Adriana would have had no doubt who I was at that point. But you said nothing. I then spoke in Romanian, even tossed in a few words I made up, wondering how you would react.”

  Made-up words? Sydney drooped slightly. How could she be so foolish? He'd been testing her with gibberish and she'd completely revealed herself as a fake.

  The coals broke into a line of fresh flames, and his face blazed into view. Sydney slid farther back into the canopy of darkness.

  She watched as he reached up onto the mantle and brought down a large candelabra. He held it forward into the fire. When he pulled it back, all four candles were lit. He held the light out at arm's length and slowly turned in a circle, scanning the room. Sydney backed as far as she could into the shadows

  As he turned toward the cranny on the other side of the hearth, a faint smile glimmered on his boyish features. He stooped down and lifted up a fireplace poker—identical to the one sticking out of Konstantin's chest.

  “And now,” he said, placing the candelabra on a table, “it's time for us to talk face to face.”

  In a flash, he ran toward Sydney, the poker raised high in his hand. It was as if he'd known where she was all along. Sydney was startled by his sudden rush of movement, but she quickly pulled her wits together and lunged forward, swinging the ashtray stand with all her
strength.

  He parried the blow with the fireplace iron. The harsh vibrations of metal on metal traveled up her arms, rattling her teeth. She fled sideways, keeping her weapon pointed at him. He thrust the pointed end of the poker directly toward her, and she whirled the stand around and deflected it, just in time.

  On and on they dueled, circling though the vast room in a ferocious, bloodthirsty dance. The metal rods whistled through the air, clanging violently as they collided. Their eyes locked, and Sydney could see a fierce light in the imposter's eyes.

  All of a sudden, he swung a mighty blow that bent the ashtray stand and sent it clattering off into the shadows. Then he dove forward, pinning her down backward against the long table with the length of the poker pressed against her neck.

  “You should stand down, lady,” he said, slightly out of breath. “You know how good I am with this tool.”

  “So it was you.” She stared back at him in revulsion. “You killed Konstantin.”

  He nodded. “I did.”

  “Did you kill Rifat, too?”

  “Yes,” he replied in a somber voice. “Both very undignified deaths, but then von Muller's rules made it difficult. The poison I had pressed into the tread of my shoes, sneaking it past his guards, and the poker . . . well, the poker was simply handy. Like this one.”

  He pressed down even harder. The sharp edge of the table dug into Sydney's spine. So this was it. Now he was going to crush her throat and kill her. Yet another undignified death. If she could only buy some more time. Maybe she could just keep him talking?

  “But why?” she rasped. “Why did you kill them?”

  The imposter glared at her suspiciously. “No! It's your turn to talk. Tell me. Who are you? Who sent you here?”

  Sydney glowered back at him. It was unacceptable, failing like this. But if she had to die, she would die loyal to her country.

  He reached up with one hand and snatched the wig off of her head. The cap came with it, and Sydney felt her own hair tumble freely onto the tabletop.

  “Tell me!” he yelled. “Or I'll relieve you of your real scalp!”

  With one of his hands off the poker, she sensed a change in his equilibrium—a slight shifting of pressure onto her right side. Taking the opportunity, she kicked her left knee into his groin. As his body recoiled, she slid her hands under the left side of the poker and pushed it as hard as she could. It flipped sideways and crashed into his head, sending him sprawling to the floor.

  Sydney bolted from the room and down the corridor. She needed to hide again—in a better place this time. No! She needed a weapon. A real one. Something like . . . Carmina's brooch!

  She ran through the parlor toward the first-floor landing. Behind her, she could hear the man's angry grunts and rapid tread. He was coming after her again. She had to be fast. She raced over to Carmina's lifeless form and yanked the window drape off her. In her haste, however, she knocked the pin from its resting place. She heard it skitter along the floor someplace out of sight. Sydney fell to her knees, searching everywhere with her eyes and hands.

  Just then, the imposter rounded the corner. He leaped at Sydney, throwing punch after angry punch. She dodged his jabs, ducked under his arm, and elbowed him in the ribs. As he crumpled forward, something shiny caught her eye. Carmina's pin was lying a few feet away, beneath a dusty antique chest.

  She was just about to run toward it when the man grabbed her legs from behind. She fell flat on her stomach, knocking the wind from her lungs and causing her teeth to clamp down on her tongue. The warm, pungent taste of blood filled her mouth.

  She kicked and squirmed and managed to roll over onto her back.

  “Who are you?” the man shouted as he clawed at her, trying to pin down her arms.

  Sydney butted him with her head and he cried out. Blood gushed from his nostrils and his hands instinctively flew to his nose. She scrambled to a sitting position and crawled toward the pin, which was now only a foot away.

  She was just about to grasp it when the man's hand grabbed her shoulder and roughly spun her around. “This is the last time I will ask you,” he said, holding the pointed end of a candlestick an inch away from her face. “Who . . . are . . . you?”

  Sydney slumped against the floor as if giving up. She fixed him with a broken, defeated look as her left hand inched beneath the nearby chest.

  “I'm . . . ,” she began, blood dribbling out of her mouth. He listened intently as he kneeled on her legs, the spiked base of the candlestick still poised above her. “I'm . . .” Just then her hand found the pin. “. . . not telling!” she finished, arching upward suddenly and bucking him onto his back. The candleholder fell from his hand and rolled out of reach.

  “Now,” she said, pinning him down and dancing a razor-sharp wing in front of his eyes. “Tell me who you are.”

  The man let out his breath and stared back at her with a proud, steely gaze. “I am Frederique,” he replied. “Crown Prince of Suratia.”

  * * *

  “You're . . . who?” Sydney felt as if she'd been jerked awake from a dream. She wasn't sure what was real anymore.

  “I am Prince Frederique,” he said again, a tinge of irritation in his voice.

  “But . . . I don't understand.” She shook her head slowly, trying to determine if he really was who he said he was. “Why are you here?”

  “I heard about the meeting, and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to cripple the forces that have hurt my country for so long,” he said. He shook his head and stared thoughtfully into the distance. “I wouldn't feel worthy of my throne unless I'd taken action against these threats. And I knew it wouldn't be fair to risk my people's lives in this matter when it was my family that put them in this predicament. So I decided to come alone. I tracked the real Hubbard down in London and quietly . . . took care of him. Then I shaved off my beard and cut and dyed my hair to match his. I arrived here a couple of days later as Hubbard, and I faked his death so I could go about my business in secret.”

  “But how did you survive the fall?”

  “I didn't fall,” he replied, looking back at her. “My country is mountainous. Climbing up to the roof parapet was easy for me. The stone tracery made excellent grips.”

  “How do I know you're telling the truth?”

  “You don't,” he said. “I couldn't exactly bring a scepter with me.”

  “And you disguised yourself as a ghost in case any of us spotted you?” Sydney asked. She reached forward and rubbed some gray powder off his forehead.

  The prince laughed and shook his head. “Not on purpose,” he said. “I needed a place where I could hide. So I climbed down a stone buttress on the other side of the house, kicked open the cellar window, and dove inside. I landed on a pile of ashes shoveled out of the cooking stove. I was quite wet from the storm and they stuck to me like glue. When Malcolm saw me, he assumed I was a ghost.”

  Sydney frowned at him, studying his features more closely. He no longer resembled a bloodthirsty devil. He looked proud, determined, and very weary. The angry intensity with which he fought her hadn't stemmed from homicidal mania, but from a strong sense of purpose. She believed him. He was Prince Frederique. He'd been on a mission, just like her. A mission to protect his country.

  “All right. I am prepared to die now,” he said in a tired yet confident voice. “But I ask one thing. I would like to know who you are before you kill me.”

  His words jolted Sydney from her thoughts. She stared from his eyes to the blade gleaming between her fingers. It occurred to her that he thought she was evil and corrupt. As they fought, she must have looked just as maniacal to him as he had to her.

  She lowered her arm with the weapon and held out her other hand. “My name is Sydney Bristow. And I work for the CIA.”

  “The CIA?” He smiled and grasped her outstretched palm, shaking it firmly. “Well then, it's nice to meet you, Ms. Bristow. And I'm glad to hear you'll be keeping me alive, because I think you need my help.”


  “Your help?” she repeated. She stood and wiped the blood off her face with the sleeve of her sweater.

  The prince blotted his own bloody face with the bottom of his shirt. “You have to get off this island,” he explained. “If you're the only representative left alive when everyone's entourages arrive, your identity could be revealed, and they'll probably suspect you as the killer.” He carefully rose to his feet and fixed her with a sympathetic stare. “I've only planned an escape for one person, but maybe we can manage something together.”

  Sydney hesitated. She wasn't sure what she should do. Only minutes before she had been in a brutal battle with this guy. Now she was going to place her life in his hands? “I don't know,” she said, shaking her head. “I'll probably just figure something out on my own.”

  Prince Frederique considered her. “I think we're very much the same, you and I. We're used to handling problems alone. But”—his voice became grave— “you have to trust me now. For your safety. And for the sake of your own mission and country.”

  She looked at him and saw the urgency behind his eyes. He's right, she thought mournfully. I have no other choice.

  Things were pretty bleak if she had to team up with someone who'd been systematically killing people in cold blood. But she couldn't let down SD-6. And she didn't want to die on that cold, gloomy isle. She wanted to go home.

  Besides, the prince didn't seem threatening to her anymore. She didn't want to, but her instincts were telling her to trust him.

  “All right. Tell me your escape plan,” she said, smiling weakly. “Maybe I'll come up with an idea.”

  15

  Sydney walked carefully over the sandy soil, her eyes straining against the heavy darkness to make out gaping crevices or boulders. Lighting the path would have been too risky. It would have alerted each representative's camps and caused everyone to converge, en masse, on the isle. At least the storm had abated. There was no more lightning, and the rain was now a swirl of wetness rather than a steady torrent of drops.

  Prince Frederique strode softly beside her. After working on their plan for the last two hours, she felt much better about him, admired him even. She still hadn't entirely let go of her caution, but it felt good to have an ally at last.