The 731 Legacy

by Lynn Sholes

  "Yes."

  "Google Dracula's castle for me. Don't argue that it's a stupid idea, just do it, and then I'll leave you alone and you can go to your meeting."

  "Okay, hang on. I'm indulging you as a friend, but I think you are grasping at wisps of smoke." There was a pause and then Ted came back on.

  "I'm putting you on speaker, but there's nobody else in my office, and the door is closed. God knows if anyone overheard this conversation, they would have us both committed."

  She heard the clicking of his keyboard. "What have you found?"

  "Bran Castle in the Carpathian Mountains is the famous Dracula castle. It's a major tourist attraction. I don't think that would be practical for the kidnapper's purposes. No better than holding the hostages in the middle of the Acropolis. And it would be a long drive from Moldova."

  Cotten's shoulders sagged. Maybe Ted was right about her grasping smoke. "All right. You win. Sorry to have bothered, I was so hoping ..."

  "Cotten, I understand. I'm on your side. I want to get John back safely, too. You're doing the best you can."

  "Will you indulge me, as you put it, a little longer? Just dig a little deeper. Maybe there was more than one castle or Bran Castle has secret dungeons or something."

  "Well, now, wait a minute. Here's another one. It's in Romania. Poienari Castle in the Fagaras Mountains. But it's in complete ruins and virtually inaccessible."

  "Anything else? Anything at all?"

  The line was silent for a few moments. Finally, Ted said, "Cotten, you still there?"

  "I'm here."

  "Hang on, kiddo. You might have actually come up with something in that pretty little head of yours. Listen to this. There's a third castle. It's called Wolf Castle, located in the mountains of Transnistria, just across the border with Moldova. It was built by Vlad Tepes III, aka Dracula. Seems that Vlad would torture his enemies, cut off their heads, and then he would..."

  "Would what?" she asked.

  "He got his surname,Tepes, from his favorite method of killing.Tepes

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  meansThe Impaler."

  THE CROSS

  John realized that his crucifix and chain were missing as he rubbed his neck—the same crucifix given to him by his grandfather on the day of John's ordination into the priesthood. He never took the crucifix off.

  "No bite marks?" Father Burns whispered, staring at John from across the table.

  "Apparently not," John answered, "but it appears I've lost something." He stood and called to the guard to take him back to his room.

  ***

  On his hands and knees, John searched under the bed in his room for his cross and chain. He had already thrown off the blanket and mattress.

  "Lose something?"

  John looked up to see General Borodin standing in the doorway. He had been so preoccupied with searching for the cross that he hadn't heard the man enter.

  "Yes," John said as he stood and brushed off his hands. "I've misplaced my crucifix and chain. I hoped it might have come off during the night and fallen to the floor."

  The General glanced around the room. "It's said that strange things happen when darkness falls upon this place."

  He moved about the room as if he were a hotel manager checking to see if housekeeping had done a good job. He touched the chair and slid his hand across the headboard carvings of winged demons. "How can you sleep beneath such grotesque images?"

  John returned the mattress to the bed frame and decided to take advantage of Borodin's visit. "I don't believe you fully understand the position you're in with our abduction. We are diplomats protected by international protocol. Holding us against our will is a violation of—"

  "I'm well aware of the situation." Borodin folded his arms. "The international condemnation of our actions is of no importance to me. We are opportunists, here to collect a large sum of money in exchange for your freedom. If your pope decides not to pay, you will be executed like your friends."

  "Killing those men accomplished nothing."

  "It sent a clear message that if our demands are not met, the same thing will happen to you and the others. The Vatican has received a photo of the two dead men. A picture is worth a thousand words, wouldn't you say? Everyone

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  needs motivating, Cardinal Tyler. Without proper incentive, there is hesitation, doubt, and miscalculation. We want to expedite this exchange as quickly as possible. Giving them good reason to meet our demands lowers the chances of any kind of interference or foolhardy rescue mission—although I would find it hard to believe there would be such an attempt."

  "Have they responded to your demands?"

  "It is only a matter of time." He walked to the door, paused, and turned back to John. "Legend says that Count Dracula was not fond of the Christian cross. Perhaps it was his ghost who took your crucifix."

  LOBBY MEETING

  "Hello, Ms. Stone."

  Cotten looked up to see a tall, well-dressed man in a business suit approach her table. She sat on an L-shaped couch in the lobby of the LeoGrand Hotel near the business center of Chisinau, having arrived from Rome on Air Moldova that morning. It was the same hotel where John, Roberti, and the others stayed before disappearing. "Ambassador Russell?" Cotten stood and extended her hand.

  "Sorry I'm late."

  The U.S. Ambassador to Moldova was well over six feet tall, with a slender face and pale complexion, mud-colored hair with an extreme comb-over, and horn-rimmed glasses. Cotten estimated he was in his late forties.

  "Please join me," she said, sitting up straight and pointing to a wingback chair opposite the couch. "I really appreciate you taking the time to meet with me."

  "It's the least I can do for such an important member of the international press," Russell said. "And such a beautiful one, I might add."

  "Thank you." She settled back into the thick cushion. "Care for something to drink?"

  "Just had lunch," he said, taking his seat. "What brings you to Moldova?"

  "I'm hoping you can shed some light on the disappearance of the Vatican delegation. Anything would be helpful. What do you know?"

  "Not much, I'm afraid. At the request of the Holy See, I've made some inquiries with the local government, but they seem reluctant to get too involved. I was told by their chief of national security that the delegation came here at their own risk and may have fallen into the hands of the extremist breakaway group who are fueling this nasty border dispute. To be honest with you, it's getting more and more dangerous to travel to the outlying areas."

  "I was under the impression that the State Department helped arrange for the Vatican to get involved, and that they did so at the request of the Moldovian

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  government."

  "Well, there is some truth to that." Russell scratched his head and hand brushed his comb-over. "But this is a crazy part of the world, Ms. Stone. For starters, the self-declared republic of Transnistria is an enigma to everyone. Because of the rising political and economic turmoil, traveling across the border can be very dangerous. The few times I've done so, I felt like I was being watched every moment."

  "Yes, but you're a high-profile American diplomat. Wouldn't that be expected?"

  He shrugged. "I hear reports of people being detained just for speaking English in public or taking a picture of a government building. It's like the old Soviet mentality of paranoia and fear hanging on by its nails for one last breath. The Ministry of State Security, which is nothing more than a modern-day KGB, has all-encompassing, extensive powers. Most of the citizens live in dread. There's widespread corruption at all levels of government. And there is no middleclass to speak of. You're either dirt poor or rich beyond most of the world's standards."

  "That's all fine, ambassador, but it still doesn't explain what happened to Cardinal Tyler, Archbishop Roberti, and Father Burns." Cotten glanced around the hotel lobby. There was a scattering of guests moving about. The closest was an older man sitting in a chair nearby reading a newsp
aper. She lowered her voice. "Are you aware that two Vatican security guards were murdered—

  executed?"

  "Yes, I read about it in my security briefing this morning. It's so tragic." Russell shook his head. "I was shocked, but not entirely surprised."

  "What happened to the legitimate representatives of the three countries that were to take part in the meetings and negotiations?"

  "Once the news got out that the Vatican delegation was missing, perhaps kidnapped, the entire agenda for the meetings vaporized. Until there is some definite news of what really happened, I'm told there will be no further negotiations."

  Cotten knew she was getting nowhere with Russell. He had completely ignored her question. But she had to play out her requests before deciding what to do next. "What are you doing to locate the missing men?"

  "At this point, there's really nothing I can do." He brushed his hair again.

  "I have no authority here. All I can try to do is encourage the local government to take action and attempt to find the men. But so far, they've been preoccupied with counterpositioning themselves against their rivals across the border. I'm afraid my hands are tied."

  Cotten leaned toward Russell, deciding to get to the heart of the issue.

  "Are you familiar with a medieval structure called Wolf Castle?"

  He seemed to consider the question first. "It's an old castle in the mountains northeast of here, just across the border into Transnistria. I'm afraid it's not open to the public. Are you thinking of doing some sightseeing, Ms.

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  Stone?"

  "Can you arrange transportation for me to go to Wolf Castle?"

  "Out of the question. First of all, they would never let you cross the border without an invitation from the Transnistrian government. And second, it used to be heavily guarded and may still be. I don't know. It once serve as a secret getaway for Soviet government officials and foreign communist dignitaries."

  Russell glanced at his watch. "I hate to break our visit short, Ms. Stone, but I have a pressing engagement and really have to run." He stood. "Is there anything else I can assist you with while you're in Moldova?"

  Cotten shook his hand. "I wish there were, Mr. Ambassador. Thank you, anyway."

  "Don't hesitate to call me if you think of anything." Before she could answer, he spun on his heels and headed across the lobby to the front entrance.

  Dropping back onto the couch, Cotten felt the heat rise in her face. Anger made her grit her teeth. What a waste. Russell was no help whatsoever. Either he was hiding something or he simply didn't give a shit. Whatever the case, she couldn't count on him for any assistance. She was going to have to do this on her own.

  "Excuse, please."

  Cotten looked up to see a man standing over her. He appeared to be in his sixties, had small, dark eyes and a wide, bulbous nose billowing out over a bushy mustache. His skin was pasty white and his brown-stained teeth were probably the result of years of smoking the popular Sobranie Black Russian cigarettes. In his hand was a folded newspaper. She recognized him as the man who had been sitting nearby reading.

  "Yes?" she said, hoping he wasn't one of the scam artists that targeted tourists and foreigners.

  "May I join you?"

  Cotten motioned to the ambassador's vacant chair. "Help yourself."

  He eased himself down and seemed to take a moment to get comfortable. His smile was gentle and warm as he silently gazed at her.

  "What can I do for you, Mr... ?"

  "Please forgive me, but I couldn't help overhearing that you desire to visit Wolf Castle?"

  "Yes," Cotten said with a bit of hesitation.

  "Perhaps I can be of assistance."

  YANOMAMO PING

  The dark shadows of the Amazon rainforest fluttered across the ground, surfing on beams of moonlight that sliced through the thick canopy. This was the time forayahuasca, the ritual drink that took one to an altered state of

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  consciousness—another dimension—a place where one learned who he was and came to connect with all the elements on earth and in the universe.

  Pierre Charles swallowed the bitter brew made from thebanisteriopsis cappi vine, knowing that the purging would soon follow in all its violence. The bowl for his vomiting rested between his knees, and moments later was put into use. But the healing, the transformation of his soul was worth the twenty-five minutes of misery.

  Afterward, his body's reaction to the concoction would calm, and the vomiting cease. Pierre reclined on a straw mat in the hut. The village shaman continued his constant beat of bundled leaves, a repetitious swishing that blotted out other sounds, a white noise and monotonous rhythm, a vibration that helped set Pierre's brain free.

  Soon the psychedelic flashing and geometric patterns superimposed on serpents filled his mind, and he was immersed in the visions.

  ***

  When the sun burned off the early mist, Pierre reflected on his visionary journey the previous night. He was convinced there really were other dimensions and universes that existed on alternative, vibrational levels. This morning, as always after such an experience, he felt refreshed and self-assured. Initially, he hadn't come here to discover or experiment with native drugs and hallucinogens, but rather he came as part of his doctoral program to study the horrific practice of infanticide amongst the Yanomamo and other primitive tribes of the Amazon. But his curiosity and his yearning to find the meaning of his life had led him toayahuasca. And he was thankful.

  After spending more than two years with these people, he finally had no desire to return to the University of Florida to present his dissertation. Here in the jungle he had found peace. He hoped no one would ever seek to intervene and subject these people, this spectacular culture, to modernization. Instead, every effort should be made to protect their right to maintain their culture at all costs.

  Just a week ago, an Asian anthropologist traveling along the Amazon River had spent a day with the tribe. Something had bothered Pierre about the man. Call it an inner sense, a gut feeling that he should drive the man away. He suspected that the Asian viewed these people as subhuman and had no interest in their survival as a culture, but might find a way to exploit them. To his relief, the man quickly departed.

  Pierre stretched and decided to go for a refreshing swim in the creek that ran from the river. The cold water would further invigorate him.

  He had long given up his clothing, but still had not freed himself enough to throw away his boxer shorts. Beside the creek he pulled the threadbare Hanes shorts past his ankles and left them on the bank, then stepped into the clear water. It wasn't blue like the ocean, but a crystal clear that made him feel he

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  was swimming through glass.

  Pierre sunk beneath the water, letting it wash over him. He swam below the surface, basking in its pristine cleanness when suddenly he thought he heard someone calling. Springing to the top, he wiped away the sheet of water from his face.

  "Ven! Ven!"

  He had learned some of the basic language, enough to get by, but understood more than he could speak. However he did speak Spanish, and so did many of the tribe members.

  Pierre scrambled out of the water and pulled on his boxers. "What is it?" he called in Spanish to a tribesmen standing on the bank. "What is wrong?"

  The man answered, "You must come quickly. Hurry."

  Pierre sprinted through the brush. When he arrived at theshabano, a round communal hut with individual living quarters, he saw the shaman ministering to a woman who was curled up in a hammock. Pierre knew that this woman had been sick for several days, and over the course of her illness he had watched the Indian prepare medicines, blow special smoke on her, and try to suck the evil from her mouth.

  The shaman motioned for Pierre to come close.

  Approaching the woman in the hammock, Pierre got a good look at her. Fear resonated through him as if his nerves had been plucked like a guitar string.

  Blood seep
ed from her eyes, leaked from her nose, trickled from her ears, from every orifice.

  "My God," Pierre said. It looked like Ebola or Marburg hemorrhagic fever. He'd seen detailed photos of the outbreak in Angola in 2005. Slowly, he backed away.

  The shaman stared at him, his face filled with anger. The cords in his neck stood out and his mouth grimaced. "This sickness comes from your world!"

  KGB

  Cotten walked through the glass and chrome revolving door of the LeoGrand Hotel's Varlaam Street entrance, turned left and headed for the Central Park a block away. Crossing busy Puskin Street, she entered the expansive park situated in the heart of the city. A few fluttering leaves were still on the trees while most formed a soggy brown carpet of decay preparing for the bitter cold that was only weeks away. The wind chilled Cotten as she pulled her coat collar tightly around her neck.