Cold Warriors

by Rebecca Levene

  "Great," Anya said. "So much for stealth."

  "It's not like we'd be able to sneak past them," Morgan snapped. "There's only one way out, and they're blocking it. Give me the gun."

  She rolled her eyes at him, then lifted the Beretta and shot out the lock herself.

  "Jesus!" Morgan jumped away from the shards of shattered metal. "Give a man some warning."

  Anya shoved the door with her shoulder, smirking.

  As soon as it was open, Morgan pushed past her and ran down the short tunnel beyond, stooping beneath its low ceiling. At the very end, a stalactite he hadn't seen grazed his forehead. A bead of blood dropped into his eye, but he barely registered it.

  The tunnel opened into a far wider area - a cavern that had been carved into another church. The torchlight picked out the glitter of salt crystals everywhere inside.

  Anya saw his expression immediately. She stood beside him, studying the high vaulted ceiling, the rotting remains of wooden pews. "Is this it? Is this the one you saw?"

  Morgan nodded, throat too tight to speak. He held out his hand, and after a moment's hesitation she put the torch in it. Its light preceded him in a narrow cone as he walked deeper inside. This was smaller than the place the tourist guide had taken them, more of a chapel than a church. But everything in it was just as he'd dreamed.

  The walls were lined with statues, as tall as him. Torchlight picked out the nearest, and he couldn't stop himself letting out a cry of alarm. The face was hideous, nose melting into its mouth, and one eye dragged halfway down its cheek.

  "The water came in through here," Anya said, a whisper that echoed sibilantly from the other side of the room. "Look."

  Morgan swept the beam of the torch across the far wall. Anya was right. It had caved in, the rock curving down in a gentle arc from floor to ceiling where the first gush of water must have come, shallow runnels scoring the soft white floor as it spread. He had a sudden flash of The Wizard of Oz - the Wicked Witch melting as she died. He knew why this place made him think of it. There was something evil and unnatural here too.

  He studied the wall a moment longer, then walked to the altar in the centre of the room.

  At first he assumed the thing lying on it was another statue, smaller than the rest. Even when he was right next to it, he still thought it was man-made, a facsimile of the thing it seemed to be. It was only as he reached out and touched the sharp curve of its ribs and felt bone rather than rock that he knew the skeleton was real.

  The skull was thrown back on the jigsaw bones of its neck, as if it had died screaming. The knife which had killed it was still buried where its heart had once been, blade heavy with rust. Every bone glittered in the torchlight, coated in a thin layer of salt. There was a whisper-thin gold chain around its neck. The unblemished crucifix lay against its breastbone.

  The skeleton was tiny. The child couldn't have been more than eight years old when it died.

  "Christ," Anya said beside him, her breath the only warmth in the place. "What happened here?"

  "I don't know." But that wasn't entirely true. Morgan remembered his dream, the figure bending over the altar, the little girl on it. On the back wall of the church, an ornate silver cross still hung. There was something wrong with it, and it took him a second to figure out what. It was upside down.

  Anya was on her knees in front of the altar. Morgan thought she was praying, then saw that she was brushing her fingers over the ground. "Look," she said.

  Morgan knelt beside her. The white rock of the floor was streaked with something darker. It was blood, though in this light it looked black. Close up the marks seemed random, but when he stepped back he saw the pattern radiating from the altar: a pentagram, and around that other symbols he didn't know.

  "I think someone held a black mass here," Anya said.

  "That's... summoning the devil, isn't it?"

  "Or communing with him."

  "Is that - is it the sort of thing the Hermetic Division does?"

  She shook her head. "Your people and mine researched those rituals, but we never used them. Most of the magics we work with are outside of Christianity, part of an older faith. This stuff..." Her voice wavered for a moment as she looked around. "This is anti-Christian. Pagan beliefs are a denial of the One God. This is a rejection of Him."

  Morgan could hear Raphael very clearly, saying that he and Nicholson had once been friends. If Morgan's dream had lasted longer, would he have seen his father here too? "It's deliberate evil," he said.

  "Yes." She closed her eyes a moment, seeming to steady herself. When she opened them again they were less shocked and more determined. "No wonder this place isn't on the tourist route. But why were you drawn here?"

  He'd opened his mouth to reply when he heard the footsteps behind him - and it was only then he remembered they were being pursued.

  He spun to face the entrance a moment before Anya. But she was the one with the gun, and by the time she brought it to bear, four were already trained on them. The newcomers had lanterns, and in their brighter light the desecration of the church was even plainer to see. One of the men gasped, and another backed away. Morgan didn't recognise any of them, but all four were Japanese and there was no doubt who they were working for.

  The fifth man, the one Anya had called Richard, stepped forward. He holstered his own gun as he approached, holding his hands up in a peaceable gesture undercut by the ordnance still on display behind him. His thin face looked drawn. "You led us a merry chase," he said. "Hello again, Anya."

  Morgan almost smiled at the guilty expression on her face. "Richard."

  "My colleagues thought I was being unnecessarily cynical, planting that tracking device on you. Thanks for proving them wrong."

  Anya shrugged. "You split me in two, and you sent the half which remembered how to feel loyalty back to the BND. What did you expect me to do?"

  A network of wrinkles seamed Richard's forehead as he frowned. "The diary won't do you any good. It's a terrible thing. Why do you think I hid it for so long?"

  Morgan shifted, drawing Richard's eyes to him. "You hid it?"

  "Nicholson gave it to me for safekeeping. That's one of the faults of the fanatic - they can't believe anyone would fail to find their cause as compelling as they do."

  There was something in his expression when he said Nicholson's name, the way he looked only at Morgan. Morgan had noticed it before, on the train. It was as if Richard knew the relationship between them.

  "Why did he give it to you?" Morgan asked. "What were you supposed to do with it?"

  Richard studied him intently. "You know, you're not what I expected. I thought... It doesn't matter."

  "Tell me about the book," Morgan said, firmer this time. "I have to know."

  "Yeah, I think maybe you do. The diary was meant for Raphael - it really is his. He was in Russia when Nicholson died, and that isn't the kind of thing you send through the post. That book... I didn't truly realise what it was until I tried to destroy it. I threw it in a fire hot enough to melt metal, and the flames didn't even singe it. Knives won't touch it. It's indestructible. In the end, all I could do was hide it in a deep vault and pray. But I knew that wouldn't hold it forever. The book wanted to be found, and six months ago, it finally was.

  "Understand this: Nicholson put more than his words into that book. He poured every ounce of power and magic he had into its pages. That's why he couldn't send it to Raphael until after he'd hung himself. It was born out of his death. Just like you, Morgan."

  The words jolted like electricity up Morgan's spine. Richard did know. Morgan was both terrified and exhilarated. He could hardly bear to hear the things this man was telling him - but he wanted to know them all the same.

  "What's the book for?" Morgan asked. "Why does Raphael want it so badly?"

  Anya stepped forward suddenly, reaching out to grip Richard's arm. Behind him, four fingers twitched on four triggers, but she didn't seem to notice. "It's the artefacts, isn't it - the Ragn
arok artefacts? Their location is hidden somewhere in the book."

  Richard placed his own hand on top of hers, an almost comforting gesture. "Is that what you've been told? In a way, you're right - but not the way you think. The artefacts were never something that could be found. They have to be created."

  Anya looked almost desperate, and Morgan realised that he hadn't had the chance to ask her why she wanted the book. "Then tell me how to create them!" she said.

  Morgan thought Richard would. He wanted them to know, Morgan could see it in his face. That was why he'd come here, to tell Morgan exactly this. Their eyes caught and held, and Morgan's breath stuck in his throat.

  Then Richard's eyes flicked aside, and he saw the skeleton on the altar. "You idiot!" he said to Morgan, suddenly furious. "What were you thinking, bringing us here?"

  As if in answer, a sound began to grow around them, a low, growling rumble. It seemed to be coming from everywhere - the walls, the ceiling, the rock beneath their feet.

  For a disoriented moment, Morgan thought that he was shaking. Then, like an optical illusion snapping into focus, he saw that it was the world which was moving, not him. The whole church was juddering in violent, uneven bursts. Salt shook from the ceilings and walls in a bitter snowfall. And as Morgan watched, horrified, the skeleton on the altar twitched and started to rise.

  When they were half a mile away, the other boat caught sight of them. Tomas saw its wake suddenly froth a creamy white as the engine gunned and it began to draw away again.

  "Hold on!" the captain shouted from his cabin.

  He gave them only a second to grab the railing that circled the open deck, and then their own engine growled and the distance began to close. Tomas could see brown ovals of faces, staring back at them from the deck of the boat ahead.

  "What kind of weapons do you see?" Anya asked.

  "Can't make out anything from this distance," Tomas told her. "There's more of them, though. They're bound to outgun us."

  "Still, we've got you." But the look she shot him was doubtful. He'd caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the cabin's window, and he knew that he was corpse pale, finally looking like exactly what he was.

  "They know about me," he said. "They'll be prepared."

  "And no sign of Belle..."

  "They'll have her below decks, in the living quarters."

  They'd be in range soon. Tomas had drawn the Beretta the BND had supplied him, but he couldn't risk firing till he had a clearer target. A stray bullet could penetrate the hull and anyone inside it. A stray bullet could hit Kate.

  For the first time, Tomas admitted to himself that talking to her had become his main priority. Nicholson had faked Kate's death. Kate's death had led Tomas to embrace his own. And when she'd learned of that, Kate had gone to work for Raphael. Nicholson and Raphael must have been working together all along. It was the only explanation that made sense - and Tomas hadn't had a clue. The thought that his own naivety had led to this was unbearable. How many other people were going to pay for his stupidity? No more, he promised himself. Not one more.

  He could see the faces on the other boat now, staring at him down the barrels of their guns. The woman wasn't Kate. Too young, her features too sharp.

  "I know her!" Anya said. The was a discordant note in her voice, out of tune with her earlier mood.

  The boat ahead veered suddenly to port, and theirs followed a second after, scything a broad sheet of water to splash back into the grey ocean. Anya staggered and Tomas did too, putting an arm around her waist to steady them both. Her body felt light and thin in his arms, as if there were less of her than there should be.

  He grabbed her hands and pushed them against the railing, clinging onto it himself as the boat swerved again, a tighter arc this time that took them back into the choppy waters of their own wake. "How do you know her?" he shouted above the splash of the waves and the roar of the engine. "Who is she?"

  Anya's throat worked as she swallowed. "It's the girl from the park in Budapest. The one who... the one who killed Karamov."

  The boat was veering every few seconds, as if they were following some invisible slalom course. Tomas dropped to his knees to steady himself and peered through the railing at their quarry. The girl didn't look like anything, barely old enough to be out of school. As he watched, she raised her right hand.

  Tomas ducked, dragging Anya down beside him. He expected to hear the whine of a bullet or the blast of its impact. But the noise he heard was longer and shriller.

  "Not again," Anya whispered. The skin of her face looked as white and fine as copy paper.

  "What does it mean?" Tomas asked, though he had a horrible suspicion. He'd seen what was left of Karamov after the dogs had finished with him.

  Anya pushed herself to her feet without replying. She fired her gun twice before Tomas could prevent it. The smell of gunpowder briefly overpowered the briny tang of the ocean.

  Tomas grabbed her arm before she could let off a third shot. Over on the other boat, he could see milling confusion. They hadn't expected to be fired on for the same reason Tomas hadn't fired: the danger to Belle. He thought he saw one of them on the deck, clutching an injured arm. But it wasn't the girl. She smiled as she took the whistle out of her mouth.

  "Oh god," Anya moaned. "It's too late."

  Tomas shook her, hard. "Listen to me - we're faster than them. We need to get alongside and get on board. Then whatever she's summoned will have to get through them to get to us."

  "Too late," Anya said again, and for a moment Tomas thought terror had locked her into a fugue state.

  Then he followed her gaze through the ship's rail, to the open sea beyond.

  All around the boat, the water was churning. For a moment he thought they'd hit a reef, that the white froth was just water breaking over hidden rock. Then he saw that there were bodies inside the foam. Thousands of them, writhing beneath the surface, everywhere he looked.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Morgan could feel the earth shaking. They were hundreds of feet underground. If the roof caved in they'd die here, and no one would ever find their bodies.

  Anya fell to her knees beside him, toppled by the violent convulsions. Behind her, the Japanese agents were scrabbling on the ground for the guns they'd dropped. Richard grabbed Morgan's shoulder, fingers clawing hard enough to leave bruises.

  Morgan didn't remember making the decision to move, but somehow he was standing next to the altar, close enough to touch the body rising from it. It was a body now. As cracks appeared in the floor beneath it, flesh grew to cover the bare bones. He saw the white threads of nerve fibres crawling across the red meat of muscles and round globular yellow pockets of fat. The skin came last, tightening to draw everything else within it.

  Richard was still clinging to him when Morgan turned and punched him, then grabbed his shoulders and shook. "You're doing this!" he yelled. "Stop it!"

  "I can't. I can't. It's too strong." Richard's voice was breathy with fear. "She's wanted to be free for so long. I can open the door but I can't close it. I told you that. I warned you!" Even as Morgan shook him, his eyes remained fixed on the altar and the unspeakable resurrection that was happening there.

  When the process had finished, the little girl was naked, but whole. She was petite and blonde with improbably soft white skin. The gold crucifix glittered against the hollow at the base of her neck.

  She turned her face towards Morgan, and he saw that her eyes were still empty black sockets. He flinched in horror as they slowly grew back to a bright, crystalline blue.

  "It's you," she said. "I saw you watching me as I died." She wasn't speaking English, but somehow he understood her.

  He backed away. "I didn't do it. I wasn't here."

  "But you're here now." And when the last word left her mouth, everything changed.

  The shaking stopped. The church was clean and bright, black candles burning in the sconces lining the walls. In their light, Morgan saw that Richard was still
beside him, but everyone else had disappeared. There were only two other people in the church: the little girl trussed to the altar, and Raphael.

  Raphael was dressed in a priest's red vestments. His hair was nut-brown and his face was round-cheeked and unlined. He couldn't have been much older than Morgan. He was holding the same knife that Morgan had seen buried in the skeleton's chest.

  Morgan staggered forward two steps and reached out to wrench the knife from Raphael's hand.

  There was no contact. His arm drifted through the other man's, as insubstantial as mist.

  "You can't," Richard said. "Here, we're the ghosts. It's all already happened."

  Raphael didn't acknowledge their presence, gazing through them as if they didn't exist. But Morgan saw the little girl's eyes tracking the movement of his arm. She could see them. Maybe the approach of death had opened a window the living couldn't usually see through.

  "Help me!" she screamed.

  Raphael seemed to think she was talking to him. "It's your own fault, darling," he said. "You shouldn't have told your parents the things we did together. I said there'd be consequences if you blabbed."

  She was shaking and terrified, but the look she shot him was almost defiant. "I couldn't help it! They saw the blood on my dress."

  "But you told them I forced you, when you know that isn't true. It was a nasty lie, and God hates liars. He sends them all to Hell." Raphael's voice was horribly reasonable. Morgan felt his hands twitching towards the other man's throat, desperate to silence him.

  "Don't pretend you didn't want it," Raphael said. "Why did you dress that way? Why did you smile at me? You knew you were leading me on." His hand reached down to touch her between her legs, his face rapt with remembered pleasure. Morgan had to look away, the gorge rising in his throat.

  The little girl whimpered and Raphael seemed to come back to himself. "It's too late now. They've roused all the miners against me, and the barricade across the door won't last long. I've got no choice, I have to do this. He told me if I did, he'd save me. And since it's the only form of salvation currently available, I'm planning to take it." On the final word, he raised the knife high.