by Lynn Sholes
"Don't do anything foolish," he called. "John wouldn't want it."
***
Moon leaned over a microscope in her lab and peered through it one last time before shutting down the diagnostic systems and preparing to lock up. The
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past few days had been difficult physically, the tremors often interfering with her work. Her doctor advised her to rest, but that was not an option. Not at this point. She was so close to completing her work, a work that would bring the Americans and their allies to their knees, as helpless as flopping fish in the bottom of a boat. At first they would not understand, just as they had not understood thepings. But when the day came that they did...
It was late and the wind outside made the building moan. The night sounds of creaking and snapping were different from those during the day. In the sunlight she never noticed the noises. But at night the howl of the wind made her edgy.
As she switched the last of the computers off, she heard the door to the lab whine open. Moon turned around, clutching her chest as she saw a figure in the doorway.
"Good evening," the Old Man said. "You are working late, Dr. Chung."
Moon let out a long breath. "I am sorry. You startled me."
"Then I am the one to apologize." He walked into the room. "How is your work progressing?"
"Good," she answered, wondering why the late-night visit. "Everything is in its place."
"How much more time do you need?"
Moon shifted her weight to her other foot. She wasn't sure exactly how to answer how many more days it would take to confirm the virus would work as she had engineered it. So far all tests were positive. None of the different ethnic groups tested appeared to harbor primitive genes or mutations that would interfere. All the pings had been successful. There was still one left to complete, one that would test a group of people who had the same genetic makeup of primitive man 8,000 years ago—and that would mean that whatever genes they had were probably from the dawn of man and shared at some level by billions. If that one proved positive, then nothing would stand in her way.
Still there was the final work to be done in the medical labs, preparing the new generation of zealots who would give their lives for the cause. And that was going to be testy. They would probably lose a few. But she didn't want to reveal too many details to the Old Man. Not now. Soon she would present her final report to Dear Leader, and with his blessing they would launch the three waves of attacks. For now, all the Old Man needed to know was that they were progressing as expected, perhaps even a little ahead of the predicted schedule.
"A day?" he asked. "A week, a month?"
"Two weeks at the most. There is a strong likelihood we may be ready before that."
"Good'' he said with a wide smile. "That is what I like to hear. The distraction I have designed is working. No one will be following up on Calderon or T-Kup for a while."
"Not even that woman reporter?" Moon asked.
"No."
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"Has she been eliminated?"
The Old Man laughed. "I am afraid not. That would be a complicated endeavor. But I have arranged to divert her attention."
"You can be certain? If there is an investigation into T-Kup it will lead directly to us."
"Don't worry, Dr. Chung. I promised you additional time, and you have it. I know the Stone woman well and the way she thinks. She is strong-willed. That is precisely what will keep her from investigating T-Kup and the Calderon debacle—at least for a while. I have thrown her off track. But that doesn't mean you have extra time to squander."
She watched his eyes turn even darker, like a deep abyss spiraling into a world of desert heat and sandstorms.
In that instant, Moon was certain who she dealt with. But she dared not utter his name.
GRAY DAWN
John opened his eyes. A predawn gray filtered in from the small window set high up the wall over his bed.
With a sudden jolt, he remembered the night visitor, or at least he thought he did. It had been a dark form against the blackness of the room. No words, no sound—just a presence. And then the sudden cold grip on his neck, the choking that must have caused him to black out.
Had it been real? Or just a reaction to the stress and fatigue of the hostage situation? Perhaps the heaviness of the dust, mildew, and musty bedding had made it hard for him to breathe.
He sat on the edge of the bed trying to recall exactly what had happened. He felt a slight tenderness on his neck. That wasn't his imagination or the result of stress. And it wasn't the remnants of a nightmare still hanging on.
He had no idea who or what had come to stand beside his bed last night. And if he was choked, why hadn't they finished the job? Why just enough to have him black out? Or had the intruder thought he was dead? That was a frightening thought. The last thing John remembered before losing consciousness was a strange alien squeaking sound coming from his throat as the pressure of the grip intensified, closing off his windpipe and carotids. And in what seemed almost the next moment, he was awake, staring at the pale glow of the approaching dawn. The night had ended. At this point, if not for the tenderness that encircled his neck, he could not be sure anything had happened at all.
***
A guard accompanied John to the small dining chamber just off the
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castle's kitchen. Archbishop Roberti and Father Burns were already seated at the table, eating what looked like stale biscuits stacked on a plate. A pitcher of water sat in the middle of the table.
"John," Roberti said, looking up. He slumped in his chair, a woolen blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
"Luigi," John said. "Michael. Were you both able to sleep?"
"Are you kidding?" Roberti said. "I could not sleep for the sound of my teeth chattering. We might as well be sleeping outside in the snow. It would be only slightly colder."
"I slept fine, Eminence," Father Burns said. "Had to get up and stoke the fire a few times."
John lifted a biscuit from the plate and examined it before returning it to the pile. "Hockey pucks." He poured himself some water, and sipped. In a whisper, he said, "Did either of you hear or see anything unusual last night?"
Roberti glanced up. "Like what?"
"I'm not sure," John said. "But I think someone may have come in my room sometime after midnight."
John didn't want to say that someone choked him and maybe left him for dead. There was no sense in adding more tension to the situation. He was alive. So he chose to leave it alone.
Father Burns said, "You mean one of the guards or General Borodin?"
John shrugged. "I don't know."
"Thisis Dracula's castle," Roberti said with a huff. "Check your neck for bite marks."
John humored Roberti and ran his fingers up and down the sides of his neck. He hadn't looked in a mirror to see if he was bruised. As a matter of fact, it occurred to John that there were no mirrors in his room. How fitting for the legend of Dracula. "No bite—"
As his hand took a final pass over his neck, he suddenly paused, then spread his palm across the hollow of his throat. That's when he made the discovery.
THE IMPALER
Cotten bumped the door closed with her hip and kicked one shoe off inside her room at theResidenza Del Roselli Hotel. She hadn't calmed down from the meeting with Cardinal Fazio and Archbishop Montiagro. And she was wrestling with the thought that she had come all this way for nothing. At least Ted gave her the time away from her job, even if the expenses weren't on SNN's dime.
She stood lopsided, one bare foot flat on the floor and the other ramped
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up in a mid-size heel. The damn room was costing her over two hundred bucks a night and it was only a three-star hotel. And for what? To find that the Church wasn't going to lift a frigging finger to get John back. Plus, to further depress her, Cotten knew she had made an ass of herself, saying she was going to go find John on her own. The cardinal must have had a good laugh when she le
ft, or even worse, felt sorry for her, and her friend Montiagro had to be embarrassed for her. But she was going to do it, going to find John no matter what it took. If no one else would help, she would do it alone. She didn't know how yet, but she would find a way.
Cotten plopped down on the bed, then fell back, her legs still dangling over the edge. Yes, I understand why you can't negotiate with terrorists, but still... Priests, men of God, should think differently. To them every single life should be important.
Cotten still gripped the envelope containing the two photos. She raised it above her head and stared up at it. There had to be some clue she could follow.Come on Cotten, you're a reporter. You're good at tracking down leads, good at solving mysteries. What are you missing here?
She turned on the bedside light, opened up the envelope, and removed the pictures. First, she studied the image of the two Swiss Guards.Such gore. Heads impaled on metal stakes. It made her stomach turn. These were barbarians who did this. Animals.
The decapitations didn't look like they had been clean and swift. She prayed the two men were already dead before their heads were hacked off. The photos were clear enough to see that the skin at the separation was ragged with fibrous tissue and filaments of muscle dangling.
Cotten studied the background. Barren trees. Forest. A few evergreens. Snow on the ground. Nothing distinctive or remarkable.
She slipped the picture behind the one of John, Roberti, and Burns. Lightly, she touched her finger to John's face. Her heart sank.
Why was he posing so oddly?What are you trying to tell me, John? There was something bothering her about the picture. It was John and his body language. Particularly the placement of his hand. Not the one out of sight in his coat pocket, but the one he had purposefully posed at his neck. Actually, it was his fingers that bothered her. His right hand was at his neck with his index and middle fingers forming a victory sign. But he wasn't making the traditional V for victory gesture. Instead his two fingers formed a hooking curve, sort of like a claw or talon. The tips of his finger-talons touched the side of his neck as if he were covering two spots. Or was he indicating two spots?
It had to mean something. He wouldn't do that unless he had a reason. Was he attempting to identify his abductors? Was it a letter or phrase in sign language? Maybe that was it: sign language. Or maybe it had something to do with where he was being held. Crooked something, maybe? But it would be crooked in a different language, one he knew she would not understand or speak. No, it was a simple clue from a simple gesture. She was certain. But
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what?
She threw the pictures on the bed beside her, shaking her head. His damn fingers looked more like a snake's fangs than anything. Okay, think, Cotten. John had to be within driving distance of Chisinau, Moldova. The cardinal said they received the ransom demand the same day as the abduction. She would call down to the front desk and ask if they had maps of Eastern Europe. Specifically Moldova or Transnistria. Maybe there was a place with the word crooked in its name, or someplace named after a snake.
"Transnistria," she repeated aloud.Almost sounds like Transylvania. Wasn't Transylvania in the same general area? No, it was a region of western Romania. That much she remembered from European history class. The famous home of vampires and Dracula.
Cotten bolted upright and sat on the edge of the bed. Could it be that simple? John had a split second to think of a way to send a message, to give a clue. He knew the Vatican would see the photo. Did he think that maybe she would, too?
Cotten held the picture under the light again. Maybe his fingers are posed like fangs, but not snake fangs. Like vampire fangs. Like Dracula's bite.
No. That was nuts. No one would buy it. But what else could it mean?
Simple clue, simple answer. Wherever they were being held had something to do with vampires or Dracula.
She checked her watch. 3:15 pm. That meant it was 9:15 am in New York. Ted should be in his office by now.
She placed the call.
"Cotten, you okay?" Ted said as soon as he picked up.
"I'm fine," she said.
"Any news? We've all been keeping our fingers crossed. Absolutely nothing is coming over the wires about the situation. Our crew is just arriving in Moldova, but they're getting hit with a ton of government red tape and runaround. You got anything?"
"I met with Cardinal Fazio. Archbishop Felipe Montiagro was there, too. He was called to the Vatican because of what has happened to John and the foreign minister."
She switched the receiver to the other ear and swallowed hard knowing she had promised the cardinal not to divulge anything from their meeting. But because they didn't seem to be taking action to save John, she had little choice.
"Ted, anything I tell you has to be kept between us for now. Things are fragile, and I don't want to do anything that would risk John's safety. Is that a deal?"
"Whatever you say, kiddo."
"The cardinal confirmed that John and his group have been kidnapped and are being held somewhere in or near Chisinau,
Moldova, or perhaps across the border in Transnistria. The kidnappers are demanding one hundred million dollars in ransom. So far, no one knows for sure exactly who the kidnappers are. There are so many factions there."
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"Are they going to pay?"
"No. The Vatican has emphatically refused to negotiate. I have conflicted emotions about that."
"I can imagine."
"The thing is, Ted, John is in real danger. There were two Swiss Guards who accompanied the group. The kidnappers murdered them. Decapitated. Their heads were impaled on stakes. They wanted it to be a message to the Vatican to pay up or else. These men are thugs with no conscience. They sent pictures of the decapitated heads to the Vatican." Cotten's voice clutched up. "I'm really afraid for John. The powers that be in the Vatican are sitting on their hands, Ted. I have to do something."
"You're just one person. This is an international incident. I think you should leave it to the experts. The negotiators. You stick your nose in the wrong place over there and you'll end up being snatched, too. You want your head to be the next one impaled? I understand how you must be feeling, but—"
"Stop. I don't need a lecture. I need your help. I may have something. But it's a long shot. Just give me a chance, okay? Be my friend."
She heard a long frustrated groan from Ted.
"I am being your friend. I don't want to see anything happen to you." He paused, then said. "Guess I should know by now I can never talk you out of something once you get it in that bull head of yours. Okay, what have you got?"
"Before I tell you, I need you to promise that you won't think I've lost my senses. What I'm about to say is deadly serious, no matter how farfetched it sounds. Okay?"
"Let's hear it."
"In addition to the photo of the two impaled heads, the kidnappers sent a picture of John and the other two priests."
"So they're alive."
"Yes. Well, at least when the photo was taken. You can't tell much from their location except that it's probably someplace old. There's a stone wall behind them that I think is a building. Reminds me of a fort or castle or something like that. Anyway, Roberti and Burns look normal, but it appears to me that John is deliberately posing. I think he is trying to send a clue to his location. What he's doing is too strange, too awkward to be natural. He has one hand at his neck, and his fingers are curved, crooked. My first thought was it looked like he was imitating snake fangs. But then—" She knew this was going to sound ridiculous, but she had to go for it. "I think he's trying to indicate bite marks on his neck."
"Bite marks. I don't get it. You mean like insect bites?"
"No... more like vampire bites."
"Vampire bites?"
She heard him smother a laugh. "Ted, you promised to take me seriously. I think John is sending a clue that he's being held at some location that has something to do with vampires. Maybe with Dracula."
"Know wha
t I think? You're under so much stress with this that you're
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seeing things that aren't there. Cotten, it's just plain crazy. There's no such thing as vampires. What if John was just scratching his neck?"
"Or trying to send us a message. Ted, can you please just humor me for a second?"
"I've got a general staff meeting in five minutes. Whatever you've got left, make it quick. I don't mean to minimize this, but if you were on this end of the conversation, you'd be skeptical, too."
"This will only take a minute more, I promise. I think John is possibly being held in Dracula's Castle. But I don't have Internet access here so I can't research to find out where that might be. Are you at your computer?"
