The 731 Legacy

by Lynn Sholes

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  meticulously executed as yours."

  "Dear Leader, I fully realize—"

  He held his hand up. "I know you do, Dr. Chung." His voice was almost a whisper. "We sympathize with your tremendous task and marvel daily how you manage to accomplish so much. It is a mountain of an undertaking for anyone—

  even someone of your unquestionable talents and abilities."

  Moon sighed silently, thankful that he was not upset. "Thank you, Dear—"

  "But from time to time, we all must come to the realization that we require a little extra help."

  "I don't understand. My team is working without regard to their own needs to make this a reality. I can't imagine who I could add to my staff that would increase our chances of success anymore than those whom I have handpicked over the last year."

  A bead of sweat ran down the spillway of her spine at the threat of losing control of the project. "My scientists bring with them years of unquestionable knowledge in the field of genetics and viral research, not to mention the thousand warriors we have assembled who have taken an oath to arm themselves with our deadly weapon, walk right into the midst of our enemies, and execute them. Although it is small, there is no finer, more dedicated army on the face of the earth. What we have experienced with this minor glitch in New York is a momentary setback." Her palms dampened, and her hands shook more from nerves than the Parkinson's. "This news reporter—this Stone woman—is no danger to us. She will soon realize that there is nothing to pursue, nothing to report, nothing—"

  The General Secretary turned to face Moon. "Dr. Chung, I am sure that you are completely correct. I have not one second of doubt about you or your team of scientists and soldiers. You have done an outstanding job of conceptualizing and developing a plan that goes beyond even the most extreme boundaries of my own imagination. And that in itself is an accomplishment. For that, you have my admiration and blessing. But like any wise investor, it is my resources that underwrite your efforts, and I must protect my interests. And that is why I have asked an acquaintance to come and lend a hand."

  Moon felt as if she had taken a blow to her chest. For a moment she seemed to teeter, and wondered if she could maintain her balance. Her breathing was labored. The words of the General Secretary washed over her like glacial runoff, sending a frozen blade of fear to the core of her being. This was her life-work being threatened. No one could take that from her. She would not allow it.

  From behind her, Moon heard footsteps on the gravel path. She turned to see a man approach, but in the darkness, few details were visible. In fact, he seemed to be a part of the darkness itself—his features as indistinguishable as the deep forest shadows surrounding her.

  When he was only a few paces away, Moon saw that he appeared to be in his late sixties or early seventies, with hair the color of ash and skin the texture

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  of leather. His shirt, pants, and long coat, all the shade of coal, hung like an extension of his skin. There was a general darkness about him, except for his eyes, which glinted in the reflected starlight like smoldering embers.

  "Good evening, my dear friend," the General Secretary said as the Old Man approached. "I am most grateful that you have come."

  "How could I not accept such a compelling invitation?"

  Moon realized this was the first time she had ever heard anyone address the General Secretary without referring to him as Dear Leader. There was something about this stranger that took command of her attention as absolutely as gravity took control of a falling object. His presence affected her like the sudden heaviness one senses when emerging from a pool. A shudder coursed through her, and a bitter taste rose in her throat.

  The General Secretary motioned toward Moon. "It is my pleasure to introduce Dr. Chung Moon Jung."

  Moon respectfully and briefly bowed her head. She expected the General Secretary to in turn name the visitor, but he did not.

  "My compliments, Dr. Chung," the Old Man said. "Your ability to bring about such a work of genius has exceeded even my expectations."

  Who was this man who knew of her work and had placed his expectations upon her? How dare he be so presumptuous!

  "You were about to ask my name?" he said. He turned to the General Secretary. "A logical question, don't you think?" Before the

  Communist leader spoke, the Old Man reached out and touched Moon's arm. "For now, consider me a special advisor. And don't be concerned, Dr. Chung. I have no intention of interfering with your work or your authority. I am here at the request of my friend to assist you in guaranteeing the success of your project."

  "Guarantee?" Moon said. "How is that possible?" She glanced at the General Secretary. "I don't understand."

  The Old Man took his hand away. "We share common goals, you and I, Dr. Chung. You seek revenge. For a different set of reasons, so do I. As does your Dear Leader and so many others who have experienced the atrocities committed by your enemies and their allies. All you have to understand is that I am willing to assist you. For me, this is just a stop along the way to my ultimate goal. At the end of all this, I must bring a dear family member home again. You and your project are a rung in the ladder that will lead to my success. So, I have chosen to help your endeavor. I have the ability to create a diversion that will take away the unwanted attention you are now getting and allow you to proceed with your project unhindered."

  "A diversion?" Moon said. "From what?"

  "Not what, but who."

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  WOLF CASTLE

  The Soviet-era ZIL limousine carrying its six passengers glided along the two-lane highway fifty miles east of Chisinau, Moldova. John watched the farms and woodlands roll by—a mixture of hornbeam, oaks, linden, maple, and beech. Most had already shed the last of their autumn leaves as their sap retreated into the protection of the earth before the onslaught of winter. At one point, the limo was waved through a border checkpoint and crossed a bridge over the Dniester River into Transnistria.

  Soon, they turned off the main highway onto a hard surface country road. The terrain became hilly and finally transformed into a range of low but rugged mountains.

  "Reminds me of the Great Smokey Mountains," John said to Archbishop Luigi Roberti, the Vatican Foreign Minister sitting next to him. "My family had a summer cabin in North Carolina. I spent a lot of time there as a kid."

  "Simpler times, yes?" Roberti said.

  "Much." John had grown up in a suburb of Boston but spent vacations and summers at the family cabin. His life had been a journey of faith—faith in his calling to serve God and his passion to find the secrets that man left buried in antiquity. It was after he and Cotten had destroyed a diabolical plot to clone Christ from blood residue found in the Holy Grail that he was called to Rome to take on the position of Prelate of the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Archeology. His immediate elevation to the rank of bishop, and later archbishop, along with the secret recruitment into the Venatori put him on the fast track to leadership in the clandestine organization. Within five years he moved into the position of director of the Venatori, an office that came with the rank of cardinal. Now as the chief advisor to the pope on matters of intelligence and security, John was considered by a select few in the spy communities of the Western world as the second-most powerful man at the Vatican.

  After arriving in Moldova from Rome the previous day, he and the small Vatican delegation had stayed the night at the LeoGrand Hotel in the capital city of Chisinau before departing the following morning for a remote location near the Transnistrian border—a last-minute change of location, they were told. John knew it was not uncommon when dealing with fragile diplomatic issues for arrangements to change at the last moment. Their schedule called for meetings with representatives of the Moldova state department and their counterparts from Transnistria and the Ukraine.

  Major General Nikolai Borodin of the Republic of Transnistria sat opposite John in the limo. The officer appeared to be nodding off. John stared at him,
thinking it peculiar that the general himself was their escort rather than some military attaché. But he supposed their resources were limited. One of the last Communist bastions, the Transnistrian Parliament was not recognized by any government in the world. The general's uniform seemed a little tattered, and the man wearing it was on the brink of being unkempt, which John thought was a sure indicator of the disastrous economy.

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  He also noticed that the driver's appearance was just as ragged. Even the limo was old and worn—parts of the headliner sagged, and the paint flaked in places.

  The ZIL made another turn onto a narrow country road leading into the shadows of the mountains. They approached a security fence and passed through a gate guarded by a half-dozen heavily armed soldiers. John saw a sign written in Russian and English that said:No Unauthorized Vehicles or Personnel beyond this point.

  A bump in the road stirred the general and he looked out the window.

  "We're getting close, gentlemen," he said, with the faintest of accents. "I predict you will be impressed with our destination. It's called Wolf Castle and was built in the mid-1400s by Vlad Tepes III, known as The Impaler, Prince of Wallachia. He was the son of Vlad Drucul and came to be known as Dracula. So you will be spending your first day in Dracula's Castle. Dracul, by the way, is Romanian for devil."

  John smiled as he listened. One way or another, I'm always fighting the same enemy.

  Borodin continued, "Many years ago, Comrade Brezhnev would visit here during the summer months to get away from the political heat of the Kremlin. He called it his Russian Camp David, like the Maryland retreat of the American presidents."

  The ZIL wound its way along an ever-increasing incline as the road snaked up the side of a particularly steep mountain. Thinning forest turned to rocky terrain and finally to sheer cliffs. Leveling off, the ZIL rounded a bend and John saw a medieval structure loom out of the mountaintop as if it had grown from the very granite. He heard the deep rumble as the heavy limousine rolled over the thick wooden drawbridge and entered the courtyard.

  "We have arrived," Borodin said as he waited for the driver to get out and open the side door. Stepping from the limo first, the general waited for the others.

  John and Archbishop Roberti got out next, followed by Father Michael Burns, a young priest who traveled with the group as Roberti's new assistant. The last to exit the ZIL were two plainclothes members of the Swiss Guard assigned as a diplomatic security unit.

  "Welcome to Wolf Castle," Borodin said, motioning the entourage past him and toward the steps leading to the front entrance of the central building.

  John looked up at the great walls that rose to challenge any medieval invasion. Their colossal battlements were imposing, and numerous conical roofs resembled giant missiles ready for launch.

  A sudden muffledPOP - POP made him stop and spin around.

  The two Swiss Guards sprawled prostrate on the ground, blood pooling at their heads. General Borodin stood over them, a smoking automatic pistol in his hand.

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  CASTLE KEEP

  "Sweet Jesus, what have you done?" John stared at the two bodies on the ground. He took a step toward them.

  "Don't be foolish," Borodin said, aiming the pistol.

  "Have you lost your mind?" Archbishop Roberti's voice shook— his whole body shook.

  Borodin waved the gun. "Shut up!" He spoke to his driver in Romanian, then ordered the priests to hand over their cell phones. After the driver collected the phones, Borodin commanded them to move inside.

  John turned away from the bloody scene, sickened by what he had just witnessed. Obviously they had walked into a trap. The last-minute change of pickup time and meeting location, the tattered appearance of the soldiers and the car—it was a setup, and it had cost two good men their lives.

  With the driver in the lead, they passed through a set of thick wooden doors into the largest of the buildings inside the walled fortress. Entering what John assumed was once a ceremonial great hall, their footfalls echoed off the ancient riverstone floor. Except for a handful of wooden benches and a few metal folding chairs, the room was bare. He saw a spotting of mounted antler racks, and a couple of ragged tapestries hung on the walls. Overall, the fortress appeared neglected and in need of maintenance and repairs.

  The priests were taken to a wing of the castle that contained a number of small bedrooms. They passed a handful of armed soldiers along the way.

  "To use the toilet facilities, knock on your door for the guard," Borodin told them. "Otherwise, you will remain in your rooms. If you leave your room without one of my men as an escort, you will be shot. Remember your dead friends outside? That will be you if you disobey."

  One of the soldiers shoved John into the bedroom. The door closed. He waited a moment before confirming it was locked.

  The room was sparsely furnished with a straight-back chair and woodframe bed with carvings of winged demons in the headboard. The mattress was thin and without linens, and the air heavy with the smell of mold and damp stone.

  John sat on the bed and said a prayer for the two men murdered in the courtyard below. They had been his friends, serving him faithfully for years. He knew their families. It was such a waste of life, such a tragedy. He reached to hold the small cross hanging on a chain at his neck and whispered a plea for guidance.

  ***

  As evening fell, the priests were taken from their rooms to a small chamber adjacent to the castle's kitchen. They were provided hard

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  bread and what John assumed was the equivalent of beef jerky. But he was certain it wasn't beef. They washed the food down with water from metal cups. An armed soldier stood guard by the kitchen exit.

  "They must come to their senses," Roberti said, sitting next to Father Burns and across from John at the rough-hewn wood table. His Roman nose pointed like the tip of a sword and his thick, dark hair seemed as unruly as his increasingly nervous manner. "Murdering two innocent men is beyond belief." He wheezed as he spoke. "We came here at the request of their country."

  John shook his head. "Luigi, they are impostors."

  "Then who are they?" Roberti asked.

  "Terrorists," Father Burns said. He bore a round face with short blond hair and dark, brown eyes.

  "That would be my assessment, as well," John said. "They have kidnapped us. Probably for ransom."

  "Liniste!" the guard shouted from his position by the door.

  "I think he wants us to be quiet," John said.

  They sat in silence for a few moments. Roberti, whose back was to the guard, whispered, "Do they really expect the Vatican to negotiate with terrorists?"

  "Perhaps they're tempted by the perceived wealth of the Church, Luigi," John said, covering his mouth with the metal cup as he pretended to drink.

  Father Burns whispered, "And they are probably counting on the fact that, unlike most countries, we have no real army to come and rescue us. They have little to fear in reprisal."

  "The Church won't negotiate," John said, taking a bite of bread. "Think what that would mean. Every priest, every church official, would become an instant target."

  "They won't strike a deal," Burns said. "They can't. And if they refuse to negotiate, as I'm sure they will, there's only one choice left."

  "Are you saying you think they would shoot us, too?" Roberti said.

  John gave Burns a look of disapproval. The archbishop was already on edge. There was no reason to put him over. "Without us," John said, looking at Roberti, "there is no chance their demands will be met. Besides, it's too early to make predictions. As irrational as these men are, they know that we must be kept alive to collect."

  "But the Holy See will never pay a ransom," Burns said.

  Roberti glared at Burns, then John. "We will never leave here alive."

  MISSING

  Cotten stood in the middle of the dark room, the glow of video monitors

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  washing her face with soft paste
ls. "Advance the source video by three frames then back-time the theme music into the bumper."

  "You haven't lost your touch," the editor said as he programmed the change into the computer. "Here's a preview." A moment later, the new edit appeared in the program monitor.

  "Perfect," Cotten said. It was rare that she made an appearance at the edit of her weeklyRelics program. Having done so many shows, the editor usually assembled the whole program alone, then sent a DVD to Cotten for weekend review. The show aired on Monday night. But since she was still at the office doing research into T-Kup, she decided to visit the Friday night edit session.

  "So you didn't tell me, what brings you into the cave of Edit C?" the editor asked as he instructed the computer to continue assembling the show from the offline edit decision list.