Destroyer of Worlds (ARKANE Book 8)

by J. F. Penn

  "It's been many years since I visited Goa," Ben said, as the plane landed and taxied along the runway. His eyes were bright with excitement. "But it has haunted my dreams and I've wanted to return many times."

  His words trailed off and Morgan was suddenly glad they could have this time together. Whatever happened, it was worth it for this moment of renewed vigor.

  "I guess we're not heading for any of these beaches?" Jake brandished the airline magazine at them. It showed palm trees waving over white sand on the edge of a turquoise ocean.

  "This place is more than beaches," Ben said. "It's a UNESCO World Heritage Site for the Portuguese Catholic monuments. Goa was the capital of the Portuguese Indies from 1565 to 1760, and its convents and churches are protected."

  "But what has it got to do with Marietti?" Morgan asked, finally unable to restrain her curiosity any longer.

  "You know that he was here on an archaeological dig back in the '80s," Ben said. "But afterwards, he was based here for longer than was strictly necessary. It's unclear what his small team found on the dig – perhaps your mysterious sculpture – but this place was certainly special to him and I've heard that he returned secretly a number of times." Ben smiled, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. "Elias Marietti is just a man, like any other. Of course, he has been faithful to the Church for many years, but a long time ago, there was someone special in his life. I believe she is still here."

  Jake's eyes darkened at this revelation and Morgan wondered what he was thinking. Marietti was like a father to him, but there were clearly so many secrets between them.

  After navigating customs, they were soon in a taxi speeding away from the airport towards Velha Goa, the old city. Ben gazed out of the window as they drove through the busy streets, his excitement infectious at the sights.

  A group of women walked by in brilliantly-colored saris, saffron and purple, bright pink and yellow, some stitched with gold edging. One woman wore the elaborate clothes of Rajasthan, her skirt embroidered with mirrors. The sunlight flashed in their reflection, each tiny piece of glass catching a different part of street life, as each Hindu incarnation echoed a different part of God.

  Harsh exhaust fumes choked the air but underneath, the smell of incense lingered, a sense of ancient faith underlying modern technology. There was a different approach to time in India. Belief in the cycles of creation, destruction and reincarnation meant that waiting a little longer to get anywhere wasn't that important.

  Finally, they pulled up in front of the Basilica of Bom Jesus.

  Morgan stepped out of the car, grateful to stretch her legs after the long journey. The sun was high, the air tropical, and she could feel a trickle of sweat beading on the small of her back.

  She looked up at the facade of the Basilica, the extravagant baroque style incongruous in the heat and verdant green of southern India. It had four towering levels with aspects of red brick and white marble giving the church a distinctly European feel. The first level had a huge door flanked by two smaller entrances, and above that two levels of rectangular and round windows were topped with a heavy sloping roof. A lawn of perfectly clipped green grass surrounded the church and two gardeners watered it while stepping softly in bare feet, heads bent to their work.

  "This is where the mortal remains of St Francis Xavier are kept," Ben said. "To some, he is the patron saint of Goa, a man of faith worthy of veneration. To others, his body is a reminder of the dark past of the Portuguese in this area. He requested the Inquisition be brought to India in 1545, and although the records are lost, it's clear that thousands died here, burned alive at auto-da-fé. They forbade the practice of Hinduism and persecuted Sephardic Jews who lived here too." Ben shook his head. "I'm not proud of what the Church did back then, and I'm not surprised that few wish to honor that past. But there are many of faith who love this country and some who try and correct the sins of the past. Nataline is one of them." He pointed to the entrance. "Let's go and find her."

  Jake led the way while Morgan helped Ben across the lawn at a slower pace. She could feel how thin he was beneath his cotton shirt and she squeezed his arm gently. "I'm glad you're here," she said. "We need you. Marietti was so secretive about his past."

  "For good reason," Ben said as they entered the Basilica.

  The interior was spacious with high ceilings, the wide windows and cream walls lending the light a buttery tone. The main altar was a wall of gold with paintings of angels singing Gloria to God.

  Tourists crowded around one of the side altars, a gigantic Florentine mausoleum with ornate carvings of cherubs and stars. The body of St Francis, believed to be incorrupt and still fresh after nearly 500 years, lay inside a casket within the mausoleum.

  But they hadn't come all this way to see the dead.

  A security guard stood at the side of the shrine. Ben shuffled over and Morgan smiled to see him emphasize the stoop of age. He put out a frail hand to touch the man's sleeve, as if he needed support. The guard looked down with concern.

  "Perhaps you could help me, my son," he said. "I'm looking for Sister Nataline. Is she here today?"

  The young man nodded.

  "She works in the soup kitchen," he said, in heavily accented English. "You'll probably find her out back."

  Ben led Morgan and Jake out of the church and onto the lawn again.

  "I'm not surprised she's still here," he said. "It's beautiful, a good place to spend one's later years. I can feel my arthritis improving already."

  Jake grinned. "So Sister Nataline is a nun?"

  Ben nodded. "But back then, when Marietti was first here, she was an assistant on the archaeological dig. She became a nun later, after he left India. Let's walk around to the kitchen."

  They found the soup kitchen area easily, marked by the long line of hungry people outside. More emerged from the tiny doorway with bowls of dahl and rice and sat to eat it on the grass.

  They waited until the crowd thinned and then entered the kitchen. It bustled with energy and several nuns stood behind the counters washing dishes and serving food to latecomers. One of the women caught Morgan's eye. She wore a light blue habit, her hair covered with a wimple. Her bearing was almost regal, her back straight and she was clearly of mixed race origin by her light caramel skin. Age only seemed to intensify her delicate features and she was still beautiful. She turned as they entered. Her dark eyes narrowed as she looked more closely at Ben.

  She put down her dishcloth and walked to greet them.

  "You're welcome here," she said with a humble smile, "but you can find places to eat in the tourist area down the road. This is our charitable kitchen for the poor."

  "Are you Sister Nataline?" Ben asked. The nun nodded.

  Jake pulled out his smart phone, tapped it and then turned it to show her. Her eyes widened and her hand flew to cover her mouth.

  "We'd like to talk to you about this man," Jake said. "Do you recognize him?"

  Nataline reached out with one hand and took the phone, zooming in with her fingertips to examine the face more carefully. Her eyes darkened as she smiled and Morgan read a secret history there.

  "Of course." Nataline's voice was musical, lighter now. "It's been a long time and we're both old now, but I could never forget Elias."

  "Is there somewhere we can talk in private?" Morgan asked.

  Nataline led them away from the kitchen to a manicured herb garden, sheltered from the sun by a sailcloth tethered by strong rope, a simple yet effective shade. It smelled of rosemary and thyme, and the soft buzz of insects filled the air.

  "We grow these herbs for the kitchen," she said, as they sat down around a small garden table. "I come to think sometimes and it seems appropriate to talk here of the past. How is Elias?"

  "I'm so sorry, but there was an explosion and he was badly hurt," Morgan explained. "The attackers took something, a statue of Shiva Nataraja." Jake pulled up the image of the complete sculpture on his phone and showed her.

  Nataline paled.
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  "I didn't ever expect to hear of that again," she whispered. "I thought I would take its secret to my grave. Elias promised that I could walk away, that I would not have to bear the burden, and yet, here you are." She shook her head. "Perhaps we cannot escape the deeds of our past."

  "What can you tell us about the statue?" Jake asked.

  "Elias found a Nazi map that pointed to a certain cave system where a weapon might be found. I had my doubts." She smiled. "I was young and cynical back then. But in the cave I saw–"

  Before she could continue, a scream rang out across the garden.

  A volley of shots cracked through the air from beyond the Basilica.

  Jake jumped up and both he and Morgan drew their weapons. They spun around, scanning for danger.

  "We have to go," Morgan said. "This can't be a coincidence."

  The screaming intensified, the sound of a panicked crowd running from gunfire. Morgan knew that they would be outnumbered if they stayed to fight.

  They had to run.

  "This way," Nataline said, leading the way out of the garden. "We can get round the back of the church and into the streets beyond. We'll lose them there."

  They ducked down into an alleyway, Morgan and Jake at the rear to cover their escape.

  A bullet pinged near their heads and a rattle of gunfire peppered their location.

  "Keep going," Morgan shouted to Nataline and Ben. "We'll be right behind you."

  The two hurried on as Morgan and Jake returned fire until the gunman receded.

  Morgan spun around to find Nataline and Ben out of sight, the dogleg streets hiding their location. She and Jake ran onwards and rounded a corner into a suddenly quiet alleyway. People had melted into doorways, standing silently. Even the dogs had stopped barking.

  "Something's wrong." Morgan's heart pounded. "Where are they?"

  She sprinted to the end of the alley to see Nataline and Father Ben being bundled into a sedan car. Men with automatic weapons stood by the vehicle, muzzles pointed at Morgan and Jake.

  "Morgan!" Ben's voice was weak, and she started towards him.

  Jake pulled her away as the men by the car opened fire, driving them back into the alley.

  As they drove off, Morgan pushed Jake away and fell to her knees, her eyes filling with tears as she realized how much she had failed Ben. They had to get after the men.

  Jake's phone rang and he answered it quickly.

  "We have a situation, Martin."

  He fell silent and his face paled as he turned to Morgan.

  "They have Marietti too."

  Chapter 18

  The streets began to fill again, busy with people continuing with their own daily drama, the little scene quickly forgotten. Morgan and Jake ducked into a side street, away from prying eyes. The heat was now oppressive, the sounds about them threatening. The knife-edge of India had shifted in just a few minutes.

  Jake put Martin on speakerphone.

  "Marietti was abducted from the hospital twenty minutes ago," he said, his voice crackling a little over the line. Morgan could hear his concern and she felt an echo of it inside herself. "He was unconscious when they took him, but he has a tracker implant. He insisted on having one inserted a few months back. I wondered why at the time, but clearly he's been worried about something like this." A pause, and then Martin's usual no-nonsense voice came back on. "Oh, don't worry, you two don't have one."

  "I'm actually thinking it might be a good idea," Jake said, shaking his head. "So are you tracking him right now?"

  "Yes, and they're clearly heading towards Heathrow Airport. Of course, I could notify the police before he's taken out of the country–"

  "But to find Ben and Nataline, we need to leave him in play," Morgan interrupted. "We have to assume that they'll be held in the same place by the same people who took the sculpture piece."

  Jake kneaded his temples with his fists, his muscles tense with anxiety. "But Marietti is unconscious. The travel might just make his injuries worse. We have to get him back to hospital."

  Morgan put her hand on Jake's arm. "You know Marietti. He clearly expected something like this and he kept it quiet, presumably because he didn't want to jeopardize anyone else's safety. From what Ben said about his past with Sister Nataline, he would want us to go after her … and I'm going after Ben, whatever it takes. This is the best lead we have. Please, Jake."

  Morgan watched conflict flicker over his features, concern for the man he respected above all others jostling with the desire to follow the mission to the end.

  Finally, he nodded. "So be it. Martin, let them leave but keep tabs on that plane and as soon as it's clear where they're heading, get us on a flight. We'll head back to the airport and await your call."

  Back at Goa Airport, they found a corner to wait. Morgan curled up on a hard plastic chair and pulled her headscarf around her eyes to block out the light. She could sleep anywhere and while they could do nothing but worry, it seemed better to rest and be ready for the next step. The last thing she saw before she pulled the scarf down was Jake, his jawline taut with tension, his fists clenched on the chair arms, his body braced for action. He had come back from New York a physically stronger man, but he still had his demons. She slipped into sleep.

  "Morgan, wake up."

  She pulled the scarf from around her eyes, blinking at the harsh light of the airport.

  "The plane has landed in Kolkata." Jake held his phone out and she could just make out the sound of tapping.

  "There's a plane in the next thirty minutes," Martin's tinny voice said. "The flight will take just a couple of hours. You'll be there by nightfall. By then, I should know exactly where they've taken Marietti."

  And Ben, Morgan thought, conjuring his familiar face. As Jake loved Marietti in his way, so she realized that she loved Ben. After her father had died, murdered in Israel as one of the Remnant, Ben had played the part of mentor and guide.

  She had to find him.

  "We're on our way," said Jake.

  ***

  Each minute seemed like an hour as they traveled east towards Kolkata, formerly known as Calcutta. Jake gazed out the window, lost in thought. He suddenly realized that his fists were tightly clenched and he deliberately relaxed them, exhaling as he tried to release the tension in his body.

  He was angry with Marietti for working alone and not telling anyone about his concerns for the sculpture piece. The man was not an island anymore, not when there were ARKANE agents in the field who depended upon him. And yet, Jake knew that his anger was more personal. His own father had been massacred along with the rest of his family in South Africa, and in the last twenty years the greatest impact on his life had been first the military and then ARKANE … and Marietti.

  Jake thought back to that night in South Sudan when they had stood on the veranda of one of the local houses listening to the sounds of the African night. The croak of cicadas, the patter of gentle rain and the smell of frangipani trees were suddenly broken by shouts of surprise and then screams of pain as the militia took more lives in an endless civil war. That night he and Marietti had witnessed harsh brutality and yet they were not allowed to intervene. Nowadays, Jake hated politics and it was a relief to work with ARKANE, spanning the borders of country and religion.

  Marietti had spoken that night of a greater evil that lurked on the edge of civilization, how they could not hope to defeat man's everyday violence, but that Jake could choose to join the greater fight. This supernatural battle wasn't about one army or one country, it was about light versus darkness.

  That night, the bush around them had reeked of blood and death, the stink of hatred and violence. They couldn't stop that evil but since then, Jake had worked with ARKANE to prevent nights like it. Sometimes they failed, but each win was another chink of light. After some missions, he dared hope that someday ARKANE would triumph and banish that which crept in the shadows for the last time. But now this blow at the heart of the organization. Why hadn't Marietti
shared his concerns?

  "You OK?" Morgan said. She put her hand on his and squeezed gently.

  Jake turned to look into her blue eyes, the violet slash in her right eye brighter as the light from the window rested on her face. In that moment, he wanted to take her in his arms and lose himself in her embrace. What was the point of all this striving if in the end, the darkness triumphed?

  Perhaps together they could forget the fight and move on.

  No, Jake thought. Morgan was just as addicted to this life as he was and they fought for something greater than themselves.

  But as he looked at her, a dark sliver of doubt crept into his heart. He wanted to tell her to leave, to forget ARKANE, because one day he might be just as worried about her as he was about Marietti.

  There were few people he really loved left in the world.

  He couldn't lose her too.

  "I could really use a beer," he said and reached up to press the call button. The hostess brought them two cold Kingfishers and Jake took a long swig, banishing his dark thoughts.

  "I know you're worried about Ben," he said after a moment. "But they're really after Marietti and what he knows of the sculpture piece."

  Morgan sighed. "That's what worries me. Ben doesn't know enough, so why would they even keep him alive? I shouldn't have involved him in this, but he was so eager to help."

  "He loves you," Jake said softly. "He'd help you with anything, you know that."

  "True, but I think he's forgotten how old he really is." Morgan smiled. "He likes to pretend he's an agent like us."

  Jake laughed. "I hope I'm as sprightly as he is when I'm his age." He pulled out his phone and tapped it to bring up the information that Martin had sent. "We might as well check out Kolkata before we land."

  He scrolled through the images, a juxtaposition of the extravagant Victoria Memorial, a hangover from the British Raj, and the slums of grey, high-density dwellings where millions eked out a living within the pulse of the city.