The Phoenix

by Sidney Sheldon

  Two nuns in full habit glided silently around the room, fetching plates and cups and tableware, presumably in preparation for the feast day breakfast. They smiled briefly at the three women from the bakery, but otherwise ignored them, going about their business and letting Fatima and her helpers do the same. Ella unpacked her loaves, using any respite to practice taking mental photographs of the two sisters. Dix had made it sound so easy back at Camp Hope. ‘Just use your eyelids as shutters, mentally focus, and blink.’ But in the real world, all sorts of conflicting stimuli ended up blocking or blurring the picture. Besides which, it wasn’t that easy to stand stock-still and stare at someone, blinking furiously, without them noticing.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Fatima whispered in Ella’s ear, grabbing a loaf out of her hand and nudging her hard in the ribs. So much for that shot. ‘Something in your eyes?’

  ‘Just dust I think,’ muttered Ella, returning her attention to unpacking and waiting for a suitable moment to slip away and track down Sister Elena. She would head in the direction of the music, which presumably must be coming from the chapel. Fatima, who’d been here many times before, clearly knew her way around the various cupboards and began arranging the madeleines and simple pastries onto long, wooden trays. Helen followed her lead. While both were engrossed, Ella quietly picked up a stack of plates from the cupboard that the two nuns had just opened and followed the sisters out of the room. If anybody challenged her she would say she was helping set up for breakfast and lost her way.

  The refectory was down a passageway to the left of the kitchens. Ella remembered passing it on their way, as she’d followed Helen and Fatima. The singing from the chapel came from the opposite direction. Heading right, Ella hurried towards the sound, sticking close to the walls and looking down so as not to attract attention, clinging on to her stack of plates like a shield.

  The music grew louder, a hypnotic Gregorian chant comprised of upwards of a hundred female voices. ‘Benedictus, Dominus, Deus Israel …’ Did one of those angel voices belong to Athena Petridis? To the devil woman whose husband had murdered both of Ella’s parents, one of them in front of Athena’s eyes? Ella moved towards the sound like a moth to the moon, her heart hammering in her chest.

  How would she find Sister Elena, among all the identically robed nuns? And if she did, and Elena was Athena, would Ella recognize her? All of the photographs Ella had been shown of Athena Petridis were at least fifteen years old.

  Gabriel’s words came back to her. ‘Whether you positively ID Athena or not …’

  ‘Not’ was a possibility, whether Ella liked it or not. She might fail. If she did, all of her training, her time with Makis, her carefully constructed covers as Persephone and now Marta would be for noth—

  ‘No!’

  Out of nowhere a man – strikingly tall, dark-skinned, and as out of place in this tranquil, all-female setting as a grizzly bear at a wedding – came staggering out of a side door and crashed straight into Ella. As broad and strong as a boxer, his weight instantly knocked her off her feet. With a gasp of horror, Ella watched in slow motion as the clay plates were knocked out of her hands and fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces, before she too landed on the hard ground. The pain was bearable, she’d just have bruises tomorrow, but the noise was deafening, a cacophony to wake the dead. Within seconds, four or five sisters had come running, all of them looking at the bakery girl with curiosity and confusion as she staggered to her feet.

  So much for keeping to the shadows, thought Ella miserably. She could hardly have drawn more attention to herself if she’d climbed up onto the altar and started tap-dancing to ‘Singin’ in the Rain’.

  The man who had hit her seemed barely to notice the commotion, however. As he turned briefly to check that Ella was OK, she noticed that his face was desolate and streaked with tears. He mumbled something that might have been ‘sorry’, and continued on his way, stumbling towards one of the spiral staircases a few feet down.

  ‘Are you all right?’ A gray-haired priest suddenly appeared on the scene. The sisters around Ella immediately stepped back, parting like the Red Sea to make a path for him. ‘I’m Father Benjamin.’ He had a neatly clipped mustache and a kind face, and looked strangely out of place in his priest’s robes, as if he would have been more suited to civilian clothes. ‘You look like you twisted your ankle on the way down. May I take a look?’

  Ella nodded as he gingerly felt the muscles around her left foot.

  ‘It doesn’t look too bad.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m fine, really. I banged my arm a little, that’s all.’

  An older nun with an air of quiet authority came up and laid a comforting hand on Ella’s shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Father,’ she told the priest. ‘I’ll see to the young lady. You’re from Maria’s bakery, aren’t you?’ she asked Ella, as Father Benjamin bowed his head and took his leave.

  Ella nodded silently, still in shock, staring after the man who’d knocked her down while the nuns who’d stepped aside for the priest got back to work, calmly cleaning up the mess at Ella’s feet.

  There’s something familiar about him, Ella thought. But try as she might, she couldn’t seem to retrieve the memory.

  ‘Don’t look so worried my dear,’ said the older nun. ‘It’s only a few plates. We have plenty more where those came from. I’m more worried about your bruises. Father Benjamin seemed to think your ankle was all right, but I’d like to see your arm.’

  ‘Honestly, there’s no need,’ pleaded Ella.

  ‘Marta!’ Fatima’s voice rang out down the passage. She sounded a lot less sympathetic than the nun. ‘What on earth are you doing out here?’

  ‘It was just an accident,’ the nun began.

  ‘I am so sorry, Mother Superior,’ Fatima said, glaring at Ella.

  ‘Please, don’t apologize,’ said the nun, a beatific smile on her strangely bird-like face. ‘And you must call me Magdalena. The young lady was only trying to help, setting up our breakfast table. It wasn’t her fault the plates fell.’

  ‘Yes, well. Please clean up and then get back to the kitchens, Marta,’ Fatima shot Ella a look that clearly indicated she would have liked to say more but was holding back due to present company. ‘I know Mother Magdalena appreciates your help, but we’re leaving shortly. We still have a full day ahead of us back at the bakery.’

  ‘Yes, Fatima.’ Ella nodded dutifully. Once Fatima left, she turned back to the Mother Superior. The two of them were alone in the corridor now, the other nuns having disposed of the broken crockery and then retreated into the shadows as if nothing had ever happened. ‘Who was that man?’

  ‘A troubled soul,’ Mother Magdalena answered with a sigh. ‘Deeply troubled, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘He’s come to talk to Sister Elena.’

  The name shot through Ella’s body like an electrical charge.

  ‘Sister Elena?’

  ‘One of our most blessed, cherished sisters,’ Mother Magdalena positively glowed when she spoke of her. ‘She has a gift for healing the sick of heart. That poor man lost his family. He’s been without hope.’ Reaching out, the older woman touched Ella’s face compassionately. ‘You also look troubled, my dear, if you don’t mind my saying so. Perhaps Sister Elena could help you too?’

  ‘Oh … I don’t know about that,’ said Ella, flustered.

  She wasn’t supposed to confront the target directly. Nikkos had been unusually insistent on that point. But she was supposed to ID her from a safe distance, and take a mental photograph if at all possible. This might be her only chance. Fatima had just said she wanted to leave soon, and Gabriel had made it crystal clear that Ella’s future with The Group would be in jeopardy if she wasn’t on that boat with the others.

  ‘You know that you and your colleagues are welcome to stay here and pray with us today, or for as long as you’d like,’ Mother Magdelena said, sensing the girl’s hesitation.

 
‘Thank you,’ said Ella. ‘But I think the others are eager to get back to the bakery. The feast day’s busy for us on Folegandros too.’

  ‘Well,’ the Mother Superior smiled. ‘Perhaps another time, then. But I know it would be Sister Elena’s honor to offer comfort, if she can.’

  Nodding farewell to Ella, she wandered away, disappearing somewhere into the recesses of the convent like a ghost. Once again Ella was alone.

  Mother Magdalena’s words rang in her ears: ‘That poor man lost his family.’

  Just like me, thought Ella. Was that what had made him seem familiar? Was there some look in his eyes, some unspoken connection that helped loss recognize loss; that made kindred spirits of the suffering?

  Hurrying over to the spiral staircase, she began to climb.

  Sister Elena’s room was at the very top of the tower, set into the eaves of the turret roof. It was circular, and must have been small, although Ella could see almost nothing of the interior through the inch-wide crack in the door. It was only the low, growling sound of the man’s voice and his intermittent sobs of anguish that let her know she’d found the right room. Pressing herself back against the stairwell wall, Ella listened.

  They were speaking in English, not Greek, and it was a second language for both of them, although Sister Elena’s fluency far exceeded the man’s. Frustratingly, Ella could only make out every third or fourth word.

  ‘Pain myself … lose … a child …’ The woman was saying. ‘Unknowable … only God …’

  The man’s responses were angry, sometimes incoherent. ‘God? NO! … kill them … my family … I can’t!’

  Ella edged nearer, till she was right outside the door. What about ‘a child’? She must hear more.

  ‘Marta! Maaaar-taaaaa!’

  Goddamn it! Below her, Fatima’s raucous, irritated voice drifted up the staircase, ricocheting off the walls, making it even harder to hear. Clearly she and Helen were ready to leave and searching for Marta. Already?

  ‘You can,’ the woman’s voice was saying, clearer now. ‘God himself saw his only son die on the cross. I saw my son die. Only through suffering can we be redeemed, my son.’

  ‘NO!’ The man’s voice was rising. ‘You don’t know—’

  ‘I do know. I wear the face of suffering.’

  ‘No, no!’ And then, as clear as day, Ella heard a roar of pure rage followed by heavy feet pounding. He’s running at her! He’s going to attack her!

  In panic, and not knowing what else to do, she kicked against the door. She’d expected it to be locked but instead it swung fully open, slamming hard against the inside wall. The man who’d run into her earlier turned and stared at her, the carving knife in his right hand still pressed murderously at Elena’s throat. Then, without warning, he stepped back and suddenly sank to his knees, sobbing. Turning away from Ella, he gazed bewildered up at the nun, like a pilgrim looking reverently up at a statue, or a savage struck down in awe before an idol. But then Ella looked at the nun’s face herself and she realized it wasn’t awe on her would-be assassin’s face. It was horror.

  Like the other nuns at the Sacred Heart, Sister Elena wore a full habit, although hers came with an additional veil, almost like a Muslim hijab, so that only her eyes were visible. In the instant Ella walked in, however, she was pulling off this veil, yanking it upwards over her forehead and hair to reveal a face so grotesquely disfigured, it could hardly be described as human.

  ‘I wear the face of suffering.’ Ella gasped. Jesus Christ. She obviously meant it literally.

  Apparently unperturbed, either by the knife-wielding maniac at her feet or by the bakery girl standing in the doorway, the disfigured sister looked from one to the other before focusing her attention wholly on Ella. Ella stared back, aware of the danger but unable to look away, like a cat mesmerized by the sun.

  Was this creature Athena Petridis? This monster? This gargoyle? Surely it couldn’t be …

  Slowly, too slowly, Ella came back to her senses.

  Take a picture. You need to take a mental picture.

  She blinked, again and again, but for some reason the image wouldn’t stabilize, wouldn’t fix in her brain. I’m focusing, Ella thought desperately. I’m doing what Dix told me. Why isn’t this working?

  A crackle in Ella’s skull became a voice. Gabriel’s voice. In her confusion she must have somehow allowed his signal back in.

  ‘Ella. Where are you? They’re looking for you, they’re leaving. You must get out. Get out of there, NOW.’

  ‘Marta!’ Fatima’s voice was closer, more insistent, a sound from another world. ‘Marta, for God’s sake. We have to go!’

  Ella blinked again, furiously, her eyes dry and apparently useless, just when she needed them most. Meanwhile, the disfigured nun made no attempt to cover herself and seemed every bit as fascinated by Ella’s face as Ella was by hers. Was it Ella’s youth and beauty that transfixed her? Or something else? Something more … personal?

  She was cocking her head to one side, her eyes narrowed, like someone trying to figure out a puzzle. And that was when Ella saw it. Those eyes! Cat-like and dancing, the eyes that had hypnotized an entire generation of the world’s most powerful men. The eyes Ella had first seen on the plane to Greece, staring out at her from Athena’s file. Eyes that no fire could melt, and no surgeon’s knife disfigure.

  Ella’s breath caught in her throat.

  It’s her. It’s definitely her.

  It’s Athena.

  The moment the thought came to her, she watched, horrified, as the nun’s melted face contorted into a smile, at once gloating and repellent.

  She knows. She knows I know.

  Every fiber in Ella’s being screamed at her to do something. To scream Athena’s name out loud. To lunge at her and throttle the life from her evil body with her bare hands. But that smile and the burned skin and the unflinching gaze all combined to paralyze her in some awful way, freezing Ella to the spot in an agony of indecision and immobility.

  ‘MARTA!!’

  Fatima’s voice broke the spell, but it was too late to act. Instead Ella turned and ran, out of the room, back down the stairs, so quickly she felt dizzy, then back towards the kitchens where Helen emerged and grabbed her, her chubby fingers closing around Ella’s skinny arms with surprising firmness.

  ‘Marta! Where the hell have you been?’ Picking up an empty crate she shoved it into Ella’s hands. ‘Didn’t you hear Fatima calling? She’s been yelling the place down looking for you.’

  ‘Sorry, I … I got lost,’ stammered Ella.

  ‘Well, lucky I found you because we were about to leave without you. Fatima’s probably halfway down to the beach by now. The boat’s waiting. Come on.’

  In a trance, her mind racing, Ella followed Helen out of the convent, back through the iron gate, past the elderly nun, and down the steep steps they’d ascended less than an hour earlier. Since then the sun had risen fully in the sky and it dazzled now, its light blinding Ella and making her squint like a mole emerging from its burrow.

  I saw her. I saw Athena Petridis. And she saw me!

  She scanned the horizon for the boat she’d seen earlier, that she’d assumed was Gabriel’s ‘eyes on’ her, but it was nowhere to be seen. Ella’s heart sank.

  I saw her, but I didn’t get the picture.

  I failed.

  Would Gabriel believe her, without proof? Would any of them?

  They had to. Ella must make them. Even without the precious mental picture, she could describe what she’d seen. The charred wreck of a woman. Those eyes. The way she looked at me!

  She would describe the man too. The giant who’d sounded so threatening, yet whom Ella had found kneeling at the monster’s feet, like a supplicant before a saint.

  ‘There you are!’ Fatima rolled her eyes at Ella, relieving her of the empty crate and tossing it into the boat before helping her and Helen aboard. ‘We were starting to think you’d decided to stay for good. Take Holy Orders and be done with it
.’

  ‘Bless me, Sister Marta, for I have sinned!’ giggled Helen.

  Ella forced herself to laugh, slipping back into her cover character as she’d been trained to.

  ‘I got distracted. Sorry.’

  They pushed out to sea, the skipper pulling the cord on the low outboard engine as soon as they were far enough from the beach. Helen and Fatima leaned back against the cushions and closed their eyes, content to rest and let the new sun warm their tired faces. But Ella sat tense and watchful, looking back, her eyes still fixed on Sikinos. They’d barely passed the safety buoys that marked the edge of the bay when she saw it: a town car, dark and sleek and out of place on such a remote island, pulling up outside the convent. A priest stepped out of the driver’s door and waved a rushed greeting to the nun on the gate, before a second sister emerged. Ella instantly recognized the second, burka-like veil. It’s her! It’s Athena!

  She was carrying a small carry-on suitcase and what looked like a laptop bag. The priest opened the rear door for her and she disappeared into the car. Seconds later they drove away, the road taking them around the headland to the other side of the island.

  Ella felt sick. She’s getting away. We’re losing her!

  ‘Wait!’ Her loud cry woke the others with a start. ‘I forgot something. At the convent. We have to go back!’

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Fatima, refusing even to open her eyes.

  ‘Please!’ said Ella.

  ‘What did you lose?’ asked Helen, who felt sorry for Marta. For such a young girl she seemed awfully tense and stressed out a lot of the time. And she kept clutching her head, like she was in pain, or something was bothering her. It crossed Helen’s mind that she’d come to Folegandros to escape from something, or someone. No one was that skittish without a reason.