Pandora's curse m-4

by Jack Du Brul

  He skipped the Universal Convocation’s elaborate opening ceremonies and what some said had been the most beautiful papal blessing ever given. His rare forays to the deck to get fresh air were all under the cover of darkness, and he intentionally avoided any of the attendees he saw. Vatutin had become a nonentity at the most famous meeting in history and he was glad for it.

  He had only one thing in mind. The icon.

  Other than the waiters who brought him broths and bread and calls from Bishop Olkranszy inquiring about his condition, the only person Vatutin had spoken with was a cardinal named Peretti who was the pope’s secretary of state, the Vatican’s number two man. Peretti had been charged by the pontiff with returning thousands of religious artifacts belonging to other faiths that the Catholic Church had in its possession. He was the only person at the Convocation that Vatutin cared about.

  Because of the sheer volume of items being returned, only a portion of the hoard was actually on the ship. These were the most precious relics — ancient texts, rare books, the most valuable statues and icons. Peretti’s shipboard office had been deluged with requests from various people to obtain an item early in the voyage rather than at its end, which had been the plan. In the name of cooperation and fellowship, Peretti had granted all such requests, detailing a dozen floreria, members of the Vatican’s technical services department, to search through the shipping containers stored in the vessel’s holds.

  Peretti’s office had finally gotten to Father Vatutin’s request, and now he found himself following the broad back of a floreria. The workman wore crisp coveralls and had a pair of white gloves tucked into his belt for handling the more fragile objects. While the worker strode with arm-swinging ease, Vatutin shambled down a carpeted hallway with one hand brushing the wall for balance, although the ship was rock steady. His mouth brimmed with saliva.

  They descended into the working section of the liner, where the hallways were sterile and narrow and the lighting came from institutional fluorescent fixtures affixed to the ceiling. The air had a humid chill that told Vatutin they had moved below the water line.

  At a set of large watertight doors the floreria exchanged a few words with the Swiss Guards stationed there and produced a ring of keys from his pocket. A sign on the door proclaimed this to be Cargo Hold 3. As the workman unlocked and then opened the door, one guard made a joke that Vatutin believed was at his expense and the others laughed. He didn’t care. His chest felt hollow, and as he stepped into the vast hold, his pace involuntarily slowed. He couldn’t believe he had come this far. In a few moments he was about to end his lifetime quest.

  Vatutin couldn’t possibly put into words what he was feeling. Everything he saw took on an added dimension of holiness. It didn’t matter that the dimly lit hold was like an industrial warehouse that managed to smell musty despite its newness. He felt he was walking into the greatest cathedral in the world, a sacred place because of what lay within. The floreria spat on the floor, and Vatutin almost struck him before realizing that this man had no idea what he was about to give back to its rightful owner.

  No, Anatoly thought, there is no rightful owner except Satan himself. I am nothing more than a temporary trustee.

  Checking a large manifest, the worker guided the priest through the rows of containers and boxes. Peretti’s organization had been impeccable. The manifest detailed everything from the largest painting to the smallest set of prayer beads. After a moment they were in front of a steel shipping container. The floreria produced his keys again and unlocked the mammoth crate. He waited while Vatutin unfolded the seventy-year-old photograph of the icon he was here to recover. The picture was stained in one corner with brown spots that even the priest didn’t know was blood.

  Taking the photo and motioning Vatutin not to enter the container, the workman ducked inside, snapping on a small flashlight he’d carried in his other pocket. He returned in just a few minutes.

  The icon was only about two feet long and one foot wide, yet the floreria staggered under its weight. It was nearly six inches thick. Vatutin knew immediately that this was the relic he sought. The workman laid it on a nearby table. Although Vatutin took back the photograph he didn’t need it to verify the piece’s authenticity. He knew the icon better than any man alive. He could reproduce it in his mind any time he chose. From where it had been created near the city of Vanavara, Anatoly Vatutin had traced the artifact’s century-long journey to St. Petersburg to Stalingrad to Berlin and finally to Rome. It had entered a thousand dreams and kept him awake on a thousand nights. He knew it better than his own face.

  Unlike most icons, this was no wooden painting covered by a gold veneer. The relic was almost solid gold. He traced his finger over the bas-relief of the Virgin Mary holding her crucified son, noting the distinctive drape of her robe and the vividness of Christ’s wounds, especially the blood that leaked from his side. He bent close to study the mark over Mary’s shoulder, verifying that it was indeed a faint comet’s tail.

  Anatoly Vatutin fell to his knees, his seasickness and every other hardship he’d endured for the past forty years forgotten. He prayed harder than at any time in his life, giving thanks to God, Christ, Mary, and Brother Grigori. His decades of exacting research had been correct. The icon had ended up in the Vatican following the Second World War, given to them by a mistaken American soldier working for a repatriation commission. It had been one of thousands of items looted by the German Army and returned to the wrong owners after the war.

  He was physically exhausted by the time he got back to his cabin, his muscles aching from the effort of carrying the icon from the hold. His spirit, however, had never felt more invigorated. He laid the icon on his bed, the mattress springs protesting at such a dense object. Tossing aside the clothes at the top of his trunk, he removed the chain-mail garments fashioned for Brother Grigori.

  First he opened the special flask at the bottom of the chest. The liquid inside was as clear as water. It was actually “heavy water,” or deuterium, a substance used for handling the most dangerous elements on earth. He could only hope it would add protection for him from an element that was not of this world. Lying in the deuterium bath was a hammer and a six-inch molybdenum awl. He went to the bathroom and retrieved an item from his toilet case. The fact that a man who hadn’t shaved since his teens owned an electric razor was one more inconsistency he was thankful had not been noticed. Of course, it wasn’t a razor at all.

  He needed to strip to his undershirt to put on the lead-armored mantle. He used a liberal amount of petroleum jelly to work his hands into the golden gloves. Before donning the priceless gold hood, he tested his grip on the hammer and awl and made sure that the golden plug that he’d had in his pocket matched the diameter of the spike. He was ready.

  He pulled the icon off the bed and groaned as he lowered it into the pan at the bottom of the trunk, ensuring that the artifact was fully awash with deuterium. He brought the cordless razor close to it and turned it on, satisfied when nothing happened. He’d know in a moment if his crusade was successful. Again he prayed.

  Placing the metal spike over Christ’s heart at the center of the icon, Anatoly Vatutin lowered the hood’s visor over his eyes, took a deep breath, and brought down the hammer with all his strength. Quickly he checked the razor again, dismayed that it hadn’t reacted. Hands trembling, he replaced the tip of the spike in the dimple his first blow had created and hammered it again.

  This time the razor emitted a steady series of clicks coming so close together they sounded like a continuous tone. The instrument was a disguised Geiger counter, and it had just encountered a radiation source unlike any on the planet. Considering the origin of the radiation, Anatoly hadn’t been sure if the device would work. Balanced between elation and fear, he fumbled for the small plug and set it in the scar, bringing down the hammer to seat it properly. The Geiger counter fell silent once again.

  Father Vatutin chanced rolling up his visor so he could accurately tap the plug mo
re firmly in place. Only then did he look at the counter. Through three inches of gold, the second densest natural element in the universe, and several more inches of a fluid meant to absorb radiation, the device had registered a dose that equaled a lifetime worth of X rays. He swept the Geiger counter over the trunk and the cabin’s walls. As predicted by Grigori, and later proved by another, Brother Leonid, the radiation had not been absorbed by inorganic material. It was only when he pointed the counter at his own hand that it began to click again. The exposure had been less than five seconds yet would likely rob Vatutin of a few years of life.

  Enshrined within the icon, and protected by an abnormal reaction it had with gold, was a fragment of what the Brotherhood called Satan’s Fist. Anatoly knew that hundreds, maybe thousands of people had been victims of this piece or the others like it. The realization that he now possessed the power to kill everyone on the Sea Empress made him shudder. From Brotherhood records, Anatoly knew that before Brother Grigori was murdered, he had amassed fifty such icons in Vanavara and all but one had been destroyed later by Brother Leonid. This was the last one.

  He tidied the cabin, hiding his protective clothing in the trunk once again. He was too emotionally wasted to finish his mission. In fact, he was ravenously hungry and checked his watch, thinking that maybe he would finally venture out for dinner.

  Before he took care of his body’s needs, he had to pray. Thankful for his success, Anatoly Vatutin knew that his mission would be a wasted gesture if another endeavor far from the exclusive confines of the cruise ship failed.

  The Brotherhood didn’t yet have all elements of Satan’s Fist. There was still one other source.

  GEO-RESEARCH STATION, GREENLAND

  “This is not a point of debate,”Greta Schmidt ‘snapped. “If you had been here when the communication window opened, you would have heard that the Danish government is calling for your evacuation. It is not a Geo-Research decision.” Marty Bishop’s face reddened another shade. “And I’m sure you did everything in your power to argue our case,” he said sarcastically.

  “What case?” she scoffed. While her arms were crossed in a defensive posture, her attitude and tone were belligerent. Werner Koenig was at her side as they stood over the dining table. He said nothing. “Two people were almost killed this morning, and Camp Decade — your whole reason for being here — is a smoldering hole in the ice.”

  “We can still go down there once it cools,” Marty sputtered.

  “Mr. Bishop, there is nothing left.” She seemed to be enjoying herself. As she showed more and more control over the expedition in the past days, her once attractive features had turned as hard as the ice outside. In contrast, Koenig seemed to have physically shrunk since establishing the base. “The fire Dr. Mercer accidentally started destroyed it.”

  Mercer had told that lie shortly after their rescue as a delaying tactic. Anika had agreed to go along with the deception because she was equally determined to discover the real arsonist and murderer. Had they told Werner and Greta that it had been intentionally set, they were certain that Geo-Research would have ordered them from the ice as a safety precaution.

  Which, as it turned out, was happening anyway.

  Mercer’s expression remained unchanged when she looked at him, her face made ugly by a superior smirk. “Then why,” he asked deliberately, “are you also sending away Erwin Puhl, Dr. Klein, and the other members of their team? The loss of Camp Decade doesn’t affect their research.”

  “Without Igor Bulgarin to lead them, Dr. Puhl has done nothing but sit in his room. The other two meteorologists haven’t accomplished much of anything either. And Dr. Klein has no function here, no real job except for some foolish interest in stress research. With you and Puhl’s team gone, she has nothing to study. Besides, she is only here because of Bulgarin’s insistence.”

  Mercer opened his mouth to reply but stopped himself. That last fact was something new. Igor had made it sound like Anika had been the one to petition him to join their expedition. Schmidt’s statement meant it was the other way around. While he hadn’t gotten the impression that she knew more than she’d admitted, he wondered again if she did. When he thought about it, she hadn’t told him much of anything about herself or her interest in coming to Greenland.

  Werner spoke for the first time. “There is no reason to continue this conversation. Tomorrow morning the weather is going to clear for a few hours and the DC-3 that came out a couple days ago will return to take you back to Reykjavik. I am sorry.”

  “This according to the same weatherman who sent a chopper into a hurricane?” Ira asked sardonically.

  Greta glared.

  Mercer wondered what Werner Koenig had ever seen in her. He was easygoing and caring and seemed like a dedicated scientist. She strode around the camp like a dictator. He suspected that dating the new owner of Geo-Research had somehow changed her because he couldn’t imagine a guy like Werner ever loving the woman she was now.

  He cleared his mind of unnecessary speculation and concentrated on the problem at hand. He cocked a questioning eye at Marty. “This is your show. What do you think?”

  “My father shelled out a ton of money for this expedition. He won’t be happy, but since Camp Decade’s gone there’s no real reason to hang out here.”

  “Ira?” Because Ira knew more about what was going on, Mercer was confident how the ex-Navy man would vote.

  Lasko cracked his knuckles before answering. “I say we get back to Reykjavik, have ourselves a decent night’s sleep, and call Mr. Bryce in New York. I think he’ll have us back here in a matter of hours. There’s still a lot we can do. Not all the base was burned.”

  Greta watched the vote but didn’t wait for Mercer to voice his opinion. “This isn’t a democracy. You are being ordered back to Iceland. The plane will be here in the morning. You will be on it when it leaves.”

  She turned to go. Werner paused for a second, looking apologetic. He was about to speak when he closed his mouth and followed her out of the mess hall. The Society’s team was left to themselves at their table. There were a few others scattered around the mess, mostly scientists who’d shown no interest in the argument.

  Mercer went to get a cup of coffee. Ingrid, the cook’s assistant who was sleeping with Marty, motioned him into the kitchen when no one appeared to be looking. Standing with her was Hilda Brandt, the other assistant chef. A heavy woman, she’d learned her craft in the German Army but her skills had improved since then. Both looked anxious. “I heard what just happened,” Ingrid said in her delightful lisping accent. “That witch is also sending away the contract employees: me and Hilda.”

  “You don’t work for Geo-Research?”

  “No, only the head chef is their employee. We work for a commercial catering company.”

  The implication was clear. “After tomorrow the only people left here are actual Geo-Research staff?”

  “Ja.”

  Just what the Danish government wanted to avoid, Mercer thought. “Thanks for the info.”

  He returned to the table, accepting a shot from Ira’s flask to fortify his coffee. He was quiet for a moment, his gaze lost in the black pool swirling in his ceramic cup.

  “You with us, Mercer?” Ira asked.

  “For what it’s worth, I think Ira’s idea has the most merit.” They looked at him, waiting for him to continue. “The fire that leveled Camp Decade and nearly killed Anika and me wasn’t an accident.”

  “You started it on purpose?” Marty cried, nearly coming out of his chair.

  “Quiet down!” Mercer said. “I didn’t start it.”

  “Anika?” Ira asked.

  “She was with me the whole time.” Mercer shook his head. “It was started deliberately by the same person who murdered Igor Bulgarin.”

  Jaws dropped around the table. “Igor was murdered?” Marty finally gasped.

  Mercer explained Anika’s findings, concluding that the fire was most likely set by the murderer to cover his tr
ail. He had probably seen Mercer and Anika headed toward the underground facility, realized that they might be trying to prove the murder, and started a fire that would trap them. “Ira, did you get a chance to check the doors leading into the camp when you were fighting the blaze? I suspect they were chained shut to prevent us from escaping if we somehow managed to reach them.”

  “There was too much smoke coming up the access shaft. We never got down that far before you were found by Erwin.”

  “Damn. That would have been the proof I needed.”

  “Sorry, none of us were looking for evidence.”

  “It was my fault.” Mercer’s voice was thick with self-recrimination. “I forgot to go back after the diesel tank blew up. If they’d been locked, the killer’s had plenty of time to remove the chain.”

  “Why’d you say my idea has the most merit?”

  “Because Ingrid just told me that she and Hilda are being evacuated with us. Geo-Research is going to have this whole place to themselves, a situation they’ve wanted all along. When we land in Iceland, I’m calling Charlie Bryce. He’s got the leverage to get us back out here.”

  “Why bother?” Marty said. “None of this has anything to do with us.”

  “I don’t like leaving unsolved mysteries,” Mercer replied. “And I especially don’t let people trying to kill me get away with it. Because of the solar-max effect we can’t communicate with anyone, which means until I’m in Reykjavik I can’t get the answers I want. Geo-Research isn’t what it’s pretending to be, and Charlie’s the only person I know who can find out who they really are. And just because Igor was a virtual stranger doesn’t mean I won’t find the son of a bitch who murdered him.”

  Mercer decided he would also contact Dick Henna. He hated using his friendship with the director of the FBI but since he was looking into a murder this was more than a personal request. If Bryce couldn’t find out what Geo-Research was up to, Henna certainly could.