Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (23 page)

“Not so fast, mate. Where's the button for the speakerphone?”

“This call doesn't concern you, Moose.”

“Let me be the judge of that. How's your bloodsucking secretary doing?” Moose smiled. “Actually, it's not blood that she's sucking. Is it, mate?”

Moose leaned over the phone and ran a dirty finger down the buttons. Up close, his smell was pungent and sour, reeking of unwashed flesh. Wilkerson gagged and clapped a hand over his nose.

Moose pushed a yellow button on the phone, and the speaker crackled.

“Er, this is Dr. Popovici,” the caller said, his voice deep and exotic. “I have the postmortem results on Teo Stamboliev.”

“What?” Moose cried. “Teo's dead?”

“Er—to whom am I speaking?” the doctor said.

Moose motioned to Wilkerson with a karate chop.

There was a thrumming silence as Moose and Wilkerson glared at each other. “Yes, Dr. Popovici, do go on,” Wilkerson said.

“Shall I go over the postmortem with you, sir?”

“No,”
Wilkerson snapped.

“As you wish.” The doctor sounded confused. “When will the British woman arrive?”

Wilkerson mashed the red button and disconnected the call.

“Why'd you do that?” Moose cried. “And why didn't you tell me about Teo? He was my mate.”

Wilkerson smoothed back his hair and didn't comment.

Moose snorted. “What's the purpose of a postmortem?”

“Company policy.”

“What a load of cack. That call came from Romania.”

“So? Wilkerson Pharmaceuticals has research labs everywhere.”

Moose sat down on the conference table and the mirrored surface cracked. “Why did you order a post on a vampire? Are you studying us?”

A muscle worked in Wilkerson's jaw. “Don't be foolish.”

“And who's the British woman that Dr. Dracula wants? Could it be the Clifford girl?”

“She's none of your concern.”

“Will it be my concern when you send me to Romania to kill Dr. Dracula? The day
will
come, you know. Either he won't cooperate, or he'll threaten to go public.”

Wilkerson flinched.

“Oh, keep your hair on. It's the Clifford girl, isn't it? Why are you really after her? What did she do—badmouth your cosmetics line?”

Wilkerson almost said yes. That would have been a mistake, possibly a fatal one, even with Yok-Seng lurking in the hall. “I have a billion-dollar corporation to run. And you have the audacity to question me?”

“You couldn't organize a piss-up in a brewery.” Moose grabbed Wilkerson's neck and squeezed. “Tell me what the bloody hell is going on, and if you lie, I swear on the queen's dogs that I will cut off your billion-dollar balls.”

Wilkerson flailed, slapping at the vampire's large hands. He felt his body rise from the chair. His limbs felt heavy and he couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He passed wind. Moose slung Wilkerson to the floor.

“More tea, vicar?” Moose fanned the air.

Wilkerson lifted his head, checking his extremities one by one. Nothing seemed broken. He licked his lips and tried to appear calm, but his mind raced in all directions. If he told the truth, Moose would kill him. He sorted through classified information, plucking out sordid secrets, and emerged with one tidbit. It was death or disclosure.

“Caroline Clifford is my daughter,” Wilkerson said. “But you mustn't tell.”

Moose blinked. Cor blimey, this was old news; but it wouldn't be smart to mention that Mr. Underwood had already blabbed it. Wilkerson was hiding something bigger. Maybe he was experimenting on vampires. Whatever it was, Moose intended to find out, even if he had to be submissive. He pressed two fingers to his lips and twisted them back and forth, as if turning a key.

“My lips is sealed, mate,” he said. “I'd offer to take your secret to the grave, but I'm already dead.”

 

Caro dreamed of the wild dogs again. Jude was with her, and they were running into the desert, kicking up waves of sand. The sun beat down, roasting their skin. She woke up with a jolt and felt her forehead. She was burning up.

They got dressed and took the lift down to the lobby. Jude bought aspirin at the gift shop, and they stopped in the café for juice and poppy seed muffins. She shook two tablets into her hand.

“Take one more,” Jude said.

By the time they left the Capsis Hotel, her ears were ringing, but her fever had lessened. The chilly air felt good, and she pushed up her sleeves. Jude reached for her hand as they turned down Aphrodite Street. She waited outside the rail station while Jude paid for a locker and stowed the evidence bag they'd brought from Momchilgrad. Then they caught a bus to Aristotelous Square. Through the window, she glimpsed Byzantine architecture here and there, though much of the city had burned during the 1917 fire. They stepped down onto a crowded sidewalk where Aristotle's statue overlooked old manses that had housed shops and cafés. The city still held a hint of Ottoman influence, with a nod to the West. At one end of the square, workmen erected a massive public Christmas tree.

“I'd quite forgotten about the holidays,” Jude said.

“Me, too.” Caro felt the gloom creeping back, and she tried to distract herself by focusing on the far end of the square, where the Aegean glittered. They stopped in front of a crowded outdoor café. Smells of roasting meat wafted from the tables.

“This smells like authentic Greek food,” he said. “Shall we pop in?”

Caro had expected folk music, but American music drifted from the ceiling. As Snow Patrol sang “Run,” a waitress led them to a table facing the street. They ordered lemon rice soup, mussels pilaf, and hot tea. Jude traced his finger over the back of her hand. “You look worried.”

“I'm thinking about those phrases.
Sa kal Okyrv
and the other one.”

“The Internet has a plethora of deciphering tools. After lunch, we'll find a cyber café.”

Their waitress returned with their food. Caro broke off a golden hunk of garlic bread, then hesitated. “Garlic won't hurt me, will it?”

He blinked. “Why would it?”

“It repels vampires—and I was bitten by one.”

“Garlic has mild antibiotic properties. It might alter the taste of blood.” He patted her arm. “You'll be fine.”

“What about crosses and holy water?”

“The myths seem to be cultural. Would a Muslim fear holy water and a crucifix?”

“No. I suppose not. What about silver bullets?”

“Lead might cause a mild anaphylactic reaction,” he said.

“Anaphylactic?”

“A severe allergic reaction—like with bees or seafood. The blood pressure falls, the airway closes. The silver could react with the vampires' chemistry, preventing the wound from healing.” He leaned forward. “I've been thinking of ways to explain the science behind vampirism. So you'll understand.”

A shy grin flitted across his lips, as if he were giving her a bouquet of wildflowers instead of simplified information about stem cells. She hid her smile by taking a sip of tea.

“Have you heard of the MRSA bacteria?” he asked. “Methicillin-resistant
Staphylococcus aureus
. It's an antibiotic-resistant bug. To create a strain, all you need is a petri dish filled with staphylococcus. Add penicillin. It will kill ninety-nine percent of the staph. Take the surviving one percent and culture them. You have bacteria that are resistant to penicillin.” He paused. “Are you following me?”

“So far.”

“Actually, the bacterium's resistance is a defense mechanism,” he continued. “If you put the penicillin-resistant strain into a petri dish and apply erythromycin, the antibiotic will kill a majority of the bacteria. Culture the survivors, and you have an organism that's resistant to penicillin
and
erythromycin. If you repeat this process ad infinitum, adding various antibiotics, you will eventually have a superior organism. One that's resistant to all antibiotics. And indestructible.”

“You're saying vampirism evolved like MRSA?” She set down her teacup harder than she'd intended and it clapped against the saucer. Several diners glanced in her direction.

“It's evolution. Survival of the fittest. Vampires began in small numbers and multiplied. They're adaptive—strong, hard to kill. And they destroy the competing organism.” He pushed his soup bowl away, its contents swaying. “They're still evolving.”

“Into what?”

“We'll have to wait and see. If we're still around.”

They found a cyber café at the other end of Aristotelous Square. Inside, the air reeked of burned coffee and stale pastries. Cigarette smoke pooled beneath the pendant lights, floating over metal tables where people stared at computer monitors.

Jude paid the clerk, and they found a terminal in the corner. Caro pulled up a chair beside him. The keyboard made soft tocking noises as he typed
Sa kal Okyrv
.

“No hits,” he said.

“I hope it's not cipher text.” Caro leaned toward the screen. “Wait, could it be backward?”

“Let's try.” He typed in
Vrykolakas
. Thirty-five thousand hits popped up. “Wiki says it's a Slavic word for ‘vampire.' But there's also a death-metal band named Vrykolakas. They're on MySpace.”

“Uncle Nigel stumbled onto something,” she whispered. “And it got him killed.”

“That goes without saying. What about the other phrase?
Nrot htah setaf a?
Could it be reversed?”

She grabbed a pen and scribbled on her hand.
A fates hath torn.

Jude typed
A fates hath torn
.

“No results,” she said. “Let's try an anagram solver.”

After three tries, they found the right website. Jude typed in
A fates hath torn
. “Only 55,452 results,” he said. “See anything familiar?”

She leaned toward the screen. “A northeast haft? Afar that honest?”

“Tartan hath foes?” Jude asked. “Or was your uncle referring to torn faith?”

“I don't know.” A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes, and she rubbed the bridge of her nose. She'd solved the other clues, but now she couldn't focus. Cobwebs filled her brain, and each thought scattered like a dust mote. She'd have to try later, after she'd rested. But if the phrase was a Caesar Shift cipher, she'd never solve it without a cryptographer. Jude pressed his hand against her forehead. “You're still feverish. Let's go back to the hotel.”

On the way out of the café, they passed by a newsstand. Caro's photograph was on the front page, her blond hair flying in all directions.

Jude said something, but she couldn't hear. A roaring sound filled her head. Her picture? It didn't look like her, but still. Why would a Greek newspaper care about a traffic accident in Bulgaria? Or was this about her uncle? She leaned closer to the rack. “Damn, it's Cyrillic,” she said. “I can't read it.”

Jude lifted a paper. “It says, ‘British National Sought for Questioning.' Then it gives your name and says that three people are dead—”

“Three?”

“Sir Nigel Clifford, Phoebe Dowell, and Teo Stamboliev.” He scanned to the end of the article. “There's a toll-free number that people can call if they spot you.”

She swore under her breath. “They think
I
hurt Phoebe?”

“You're a person of interest. Eyewitnesses claim that you pushed Teodor Stamboliev into the path of a lorry. You're described as dangerous and unstable.”

“Great. I'm the fall guy, like in
The Maltese Falcon
.” She made a fist. “Dammit, what are they playing at? I'm
sought
for questioning? That's wicked. Newspapers use
sought
when mass murderers are on the lam.”

Jude shoved the paper back into the rack and took her arm. “Let's go.”

On the way to the bus stop, they debated whether they should catch a train to Kalambaka or spend another night at the Capsis. “How long does it take to reach Kalambaka?” he asked.

“Two and a half hours,” she said. “We change trains at Larissa. I wish I remembered more, but I don't. I was a little girl.”

“How old?”

“Six.” She hesitated, wondering if she should tell the rest of it. Before she could decide, the bus pulled up to the curb and discharged a plume of black smoke. They found seats near the back.

“I hope we find answers in Meteora,” she said. “But that whole period is sketchy. I was still shell-shocked. My parents had died a year earlier.”