The Cotten Stone Omnibus: It started with The Grail Conspiracy... (The Cotten Stone Mysteries)

by Lynn Sholes

“It worked. That’s all that matters.”

  John looked at Burns, then at another man standing in the doorway, a man with a pistol in his hand. “Whoever you are, I can’t thank you enough.” Then he turned to Burns.

  “He betrayed you,” Cotten told John. “He set you up.”

  Ivanov pulled the ski mask from his face. “Time to go.”

  “Archbishop Roberti? Is he safe?” John asked Burns.

  “Where is he?” Ivanov poked Burns in the back with his gun barrel.

  “Next room.” Burns motioned toward the wall.

  “Why did you do it?” John asked.

  “He’s Nephilim.” Cotten stepped away from John to face Burns. “This whole thing was to distract me from a much larger issue. But it didn’t work the way they planned. They never figured I’d show up here so soon.”

  Ivanov moved into the hall. “Hate to spoil reunion, but time to go.”

  John grabbed his coat. “I’ll go awaken Luigi.” He headed into the hall with Cotten behind him. Stopping short, he saw the dead man. Making the sign of the cross over the body, he went to the next bedroom door.

  “Want me to shoot Nephilim piece of shit?” Ivanov called to them as he aimed his pistol at Burns.

  “Lock him in the room,” Cotten said. “If they thought it was a good enough prison for John, then it’ll do for him.”

  Ivanov locked Burns in, using the key he had recovered from the dead guard. He followed John and opened Roberti’s room.

  “Luigi, wake up,” John said. He shook the priest until the man turned and stared at him.

  “What’s going on?” The older man looked terrified.

  “You’re safe, Luigi.” John threw back the blanket and helped Roberti swing himself out of bed. “It’s good you slept in all your clothes.”

  “It was freezing,” Roberti said.

  “Put on your shoes and coat,” John said. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “What about Michael?” Roberti asked. “We must awaken him.”

  “He’s already awake,” John said. “Luigi, Michael betrayed us. He was in on our kidnapping.”

  Roberti’s eyes grew big, and he seemed even more confused than when John had burst into the room. “Impossible.”

  “Discuss later,” Ivanov said.

  Roberti stared at the man with the gun.

  “He’s a friend,” Cotten said.

  For the first time, the archbishop noticed Cotten. “Sweet Jesus, what are you doing here?”

  “She and this man have rescued us,” John said. “But we must leave now. Please, Luigi, hurry. We’ll explain everything later.”

  “This must be a nightmare,” Roberti said, tying his shoes. He stood and John helped him into his coat. “All right, I am ready … I think.”

  “This way,” Ivanov said. He directed them to the stairs leading to the great hall.

  “What about the guard at the entrance?” Cotten asked the colonel. “The one Burns told us about.”

  “Victor has relieved him of duty.”

  “Are you sure?” Cotten asked.

  Ivanov stopped short and turned to her. “Trust Vladimir, future mayor big shot of Chisinau.”

  She smiled. “Forgive me, Vladimir. I trust you with my life.”

  He looked at John. “Smart lady.” Then he turned and started down the stairs.

  At the bottom, they entered the great hall. Ahead, near the main doors, Cotten saw a dark heap on the floor. Standing nearby was Victor, his machine pistol at the ready. As they got closer, Cotten noticed the spreading pool of blood and gaping slit in the guard’s neck.

  “Nice work,” Ivanov said.

  “Caught him sleeping on job,” Victor said with a smile.

  They burst through the doors into the snow-blown night. Cotten spotted the limousine near the front gate, clouds of steamy condensation billowing from its exhaust. The drawbridge was down and Krystof was in the driver’s seat. From across the courtyard, Alexei ran toward them, his sniper rifle in his hands.

  Everyone converged on the ZIL at almost the same moment. “Quickly,” Ivanov ordered. “We must go.”

  Once they had piled into the car, Krystof shoved the accelerator to the floor, and the old engine roared as the car barreled through the gate and across the bridge.

  With sickening thuds, bullets slammed into the metal trunk lid. Ivanov turned to look out the back window. “Last two guards woke up,” he said.

  Cotten peeked above the back seat for a second and saw the muzzle flashes as the two men fired from the steps of the main hall. But just as quickly as the bullets hit the old car, it swerved around a curve and raced down the steep mountain road. Cotten leaned into John next to her and rested her head on his shoulder.

  Behind them, the imposing silhouette of Dracula’s Castle disappeared into the driving snow.

  setback

  “Careful, you idiot,” Ivanov shouted as the ZIL swerved around a sharp bend in the narrow mountain road. “Long way to fall.”

  “You want drive, big shot future mayor?” Krystof wrestled with the steering wheel of the cumbersome limousine.

  “Who are your interesting friends?” John asked Cotten as he tried to maintain his balance in the back seat of the swerving car.

  “This is Colonel Vladimir Ivanov, formerly of the Soviet KGB, currently considering a career in politics. And these are his colleagues, Krystof, Alexei, and Victor. I would predict they might also have a future in local government.”

  “Never work for lazy prick like him,” Alexei said, motioning to the colonel. “Unless I become director of whore house inspection.”

  “That is all you are good for,” Victor said.

  “Well, whatever you gentlemen do in the future,” Roberti said, “we cannot thank you enough for assisting Ms. Stone and coming to our rescue tonight.”

  “Rescue easy,” Victor said. “Getting back into Moldova a bitch.”

  “We are almost to turn-off,” Ivanov said to Cotten. “Must get off road before border crossing.”

  “Won’t the two soldiers back at the castle have already notified the border guards of our escape?” Cotten asked.

  “Maybe, but Vladimir is smart guy.” Ivanov smiled broadly. “Once they find old limousine, we will be back across river.”

  Krystof slowed the car as they rounded a turn and took a sharp left onto a narrow forest road. At the lower elevation the snow had slowed. The road wound through a mile or so of thick evergreens on a gradual descending grade. Finally, it ended in a tangle of underbrush. He switched off the lights and ignition. The heavy darkness of the forest rushed in and surrounded the old car, while the howling wind replaced the rumble of the engine.

  Ivanov turned and peered out the back window watching for any sign they were followed. “Okay, everyone out,” he said. “Don’t want to spend rest of life in big Russian coffin.”

  The group exited the limousine and gathered around the front of the car trying to absorb the last of the warmth radiating off the engine block.

  “Victor and Alexei bring up rear,” Ivanov said. “Krystof, take point. Everyone watch step. Many hidden rocks under snow.”

  With only their flashlights and the moon to light the way, they zigzagged down a hillside on an unseen path beneath a shallow crust of snow. Although the grade was manageable, the fear of twisting an ankle or tripping over a hidden root or rock kept their progress slow.

  Within fifteen minutes, Cotten realized that she recognized a few rocky landmarks. They had rejoined the original mountain trail leading to Wolf Castle and the back door. Next, they moved onto the hunting trail and left the incline behind. A hundred paces later, she saw the reflections of the moon on the river. Moving down the embankment, they stood at the water’s edge. Before them sat their rowboat, the netting shredded, the hull filled with enough water tha
t the stern disappeared under the gentle lapping waves.

  Sucking in her breath, Cotten knew they were in trouble.

  Like mourners at a funeral, the group gathered in silence on the riverbank and stared at the half-sunken boat. Despair, like the numbing cold, seeped deeper into Cotten as she shoved her hands into her coat pockets. She couldn’t believe that their luck had run out after coming this far.

  “What happened?” John asked.

  “River patrol,” Ivanov said. “Tugboat captain must have called them. Sometimes get reward for turning in smugglers. Patrol shoot holes in boat to prevent crossing back to Moldova.”

  “Is there another boat available?” Roberti asked.

  “No chance,” Victor said. “At least not on this side of river.”

  “Could we get to the bridge and walk across?” Cotten asked.

  “Not without proper papers,” Ivanov said. “This is bad news.”

  “What if the kidnappers were not really part of the Transnistrian army?” Cotten said. “Do you think they would have notified the border guards of our escape?”

  “Cardinal Tyler said they passed through crossing with no hassle. Tells me someone at crossing part of conspiracy.”

  “But maybe not everyone?” Cotten asked.

  Ivanov shrugged.

  “Borodin would probably not want to split the ransom with any more people than he had to, right?” Cotten asked.

  “True.” Ivanov rubbed his chin. “General was stingy bastard. Doubt he would spread money around.”

  “Then what we need is to catch everyone at the crossing by surprise and hope that whoever is in charge is not part of the conspiracy.” Cotten pulled her cell phone from her coat. “How long will it take us to walk to the Dniester River bridge?”

  “One hour, give or take,” Ivanov said.

  “We couldn’t take the car?” Roberti asked.

  “Impossible to back out,” Krystof said.

  “And for someone to drive from Chisinau to the bridge. How long would that take?” Cotten asked.

  “Same,” Ivanov said.

  Cotten opened her cell phone and checked the signal strength. Two out of five bars. She gave her friends a smile. “I know how to get us across.”

  crossing

  Just before dawn, the buttermilk clouds thinned and broke to the east. Sunrise painted gold and orange streaks across the sky causing the surface of the Dniester River to appear ablaze. Even the wind settled, allowing the river to catch its breath on its eight-hundred-mile journey from the Polish border to the Black Sea.

  One of the four soldiers stationed at the Transnistrian border crossing on the eastern end of the bridge turned and stared into the celestial lightshow, sipping his black coffee. A few yards away, a fellow soldier checked the papers of a transport truck bringing fresh produce from Moldova. Soon, the truck rattled on and disappeared around a curve along the forest highway.

  Being Sunday morning, the traffic was light, though it would pick up as the day went on, with families traveling to visit with relatives for the day.

  As the border guards started to settle back into their morning routine, a low, distant rumbling sound drifted across the river. A large box-shaped truck pulled onto the western end of the bridge. It had bright golden lettering on its side and front that read: Satellite News Network. On the roof was an uplink dish folded to lay flat against the top of the box. As soon as the truck was on the bridge, a second appeared and followed. This one was from First Channel Ukraine. A third from the German international broadcaster Deutsche Welle fell in line, followed by others bearing the logos of networks from Russia, Romania, Italy, and Poland. By the time the SNN truck ground to a halt in front of the border-crossing gate, twenty-three international television remote broadcast trucks formed a line on the bridge.

  Almost immediately, doors were flung open and men with portable television cameras on their shoulders jumped to the pavement and headed toward the gates and the border guards. Reporters with microphones rushed forward. Like the opening of metal flowers, the dishes on the roof of each truck started to unfold as their motors lifted the uplinks into position. Even from yards away, reporters were already shouting out questions.

  “Have they arrived yet?”

  “Where are the hostages?”

  “Who’s in charge?”

  “How did they manage to escape the castle?”

  “Was anyone killed?”

  “Is it true that Cotten Stone rescued them?”

  “Were KGB agents involved?”

  The first soldier dropped his coffee cup as the mob of reporters and camera operators surrounded him and the other guards. Trying to establish some sense of order, he held his hands up and called out, “Wait! Stop!” He was immediately the focus of attention as microphones were thrust in his face. Questions came at him like automatic weapons fire.

  “Quiet,” he shouted. “One at a time. What’s going on here? What do you think you’re doing?”

  A reporter at the head of the pack said, “The Vatican hostages. We’re here to cover their rescue and release.”

  “There are no hostages here,” he said. “There has been no—”

  “Look!” called one of the reporters, pointing over the soldier’s shoulder.

  Like the start of a marathon race, the pack rushed past him. He turned to see what had caught their attention. A small group of people emerged from the forest a few hundred feet away. They looked tattered and fatigued. A woman led the group, and a few of the men carried weapons.

  As they approached and were surrounded by the press, the soldier called, “You can’t do this. You cannot cross without the proper papers.”

  A passing cameraman stopped and said, “The whole world is watching, my friend. Be careful what you say.”

  ___

  Smiling from ear to ear, Ted Casselman stood in SNN master control and watched the video feed from Moldova. Every once in a while, he glanced at one of the technicians in the room, pointed to the monitor, and chuckled.

  Ted watched Archbishop Roberti say, “Once again I wish to thank the government of Moldova for its gracious hospitality in welcoming us here today.” Roberti stood on the steps of the Moldovian parliament building. Beside him was the president of Moldova, the U.S. ambassador, members of the government, and the commander of the Moldovian armed forces. A light snow fell as over fifty reporters amassed in front of the building.

  “As you can imagine,” Roberti continued, “we are anxious to get on with the work we came here to do. This afternoon, I will meet with the president and also representatives of the Ukraine and Transnistria to start a dialogue on a solution to the ongoing border dispute. We are optimistic that the Vatican can assist in mediating this into a peaceful conclusion.”

  “Way to go, kiddo,” Ted said when Cotten appeared on camera to finish the report.

  ___

  Cotten, John, Colonel Ivanov, along with Victor, Alexei, and Krystof stood in the back of the large crowd of press and onlookers. The former KGB agents beamed with pride, a result of being informed earlier by the Moldovian president that they would be awarded gold medals for their bravery.

  “Thank you for kind endorsement on news report,” Ivanov said to Cotten. “I start collecting campaign funds to run for office now that everyone heard of Vladimir.”

  “Just don’t forget your colleagues,” Cotten said, motioning to his friends.

  “He will get big head power crazy and turn up nose at men who do real work,” Victor said.

  “Not if I call and check on him every so often,” Cotten said with a smile.

  “Nice lady keep you in line,” Alexei said, and slapped Ivanov on the back.

  Escorted by Chisinau police, a government limousine arrived. “Here’s our ride,” John said. He turned to Ivanov. “Thank you.” He shook the colonel’s hand, the
n the hands of other three men. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you, all of you, for saving my life.” He blessed them before holding the door open for Cotten.

  She wrapped her arms around the colonel and kissed his cheek. “Goodbye, Mr. Big Shot.”

  “Goodbye, Cotten Stone. Next time you want big adventure, call us. By then, we will be bored and ready for new killing spree.” He gave her a wide grin. “Joke.”

  Cotten shook her head in mock disgust, then hugged each of the other KGB agents before getting into the back of the car.

  With blue and red lights flashing, the police escort led the limousine away from the parliament building. Cotten waved to her friends through the rear window. As she turned back around, her cell phone rang.

  Looking at the caller ID, she said, “Ted.”

  “Hey, you looked great. Every news organization on the planet has picked up the rescue story.”

  “So my theory about Dracula wasn’t so farfetched after all?”

  “You won this round.”

  “Have you pulled all the info on T-Kup?” she asked.

  “And then some. I came across a story out of the remote Amazon region of Brazil. An anthropologist just returned from spending a stretch with the locals down there while he worked on his doctorate. He witnessed a death of a native that matches the symptoms of Jeff Calderon.”

  “So we might have a lead to another victim?”

  “It looks that way,” Ted said.

  “Any idea what it all means?”

  “Nothing concrete yet. I need you back here to work on it.”

  “We’re headed for the airport right now. John has to return to Rome to brief the pope on what happened, then on to London to do the same with MI5 and the CIA. But I’m coming directly home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Stay safe.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” She was about to close the phone.

  “Cotten?” Ted said.

  “I’m here.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Thanks.”

  She ended the call and turned to John. “Things are really starting to heat up.”