Reckoning (2 page)

THREE

Shadow in shadow, the stranger crouched on the balcony outside the room, opening his mind to the night to search by sound, sight, or scent. But he sensed nothing beside him in the dark. There was only the cool breeze, the sound of wind rustling the autumn leaves, distant traversing of traffic.

Moving slowly, carefully, the man reached back and removed the continuous circuit device that had bypassed the contact alarm on the double doors, placing it again within his coat. He turned, allowing his gaze to wander across the estate.

Almost completely concealed behind the balcony wall, he studied the surrounding grounds. He didn't center his gaze, but scanned vaguely, knowing that in the darkness he would recognize shape by peripheral vision before he could discern it from middle focus.

He wondered if the slain guard, or the dog, had been quietly discovered and a trap set. He suppressed the violent urge to rush; it was always a mistake.

Soon.

He took a slow, deep breath and repeated the procedure to slow his pulse, waiting until the trembling stopped.

He shook his head.

Three years
… a long time.

Too long
…

Cautiously he took out the night
-visor, a compact device resembling welding glasses that intensified ambient light sources for night-vision, and slid it over his head. Starlight luminosity registered 64 percent, easily allowing him to penetrate shadows of the distant tree line. He could also discern the faint outlines of three sentries, still holding the standard separation of one hundred feet.

No movement.

Suspicious, always suspicious, he attempted to scan along the tree line for other guards hidden behind the foliage.

He hesitated. Cautious. Uncertain. He initiated a switch on the upper right side of the visor, and the green-tinted screen was doubled over a thermal imaging detector that registered differences in air temperature.

Able to read through fog, windows, curtains, and rain, the heat sensor could detect heat variations as minute as one degree Fahrenheit. Instantly the three sentries were outlined in a reddish-yellow glow of body heat, while the remainder of the field was projected on the green rectangular screen in starlight, everything clear.

With the thermal imaging-starlight synthesis he again scanned his field of observation. But he saw only the three sentries. He knew that the rest would be stationed to the west and north of the estate, or roving.

That would make it more difficult.

Through an internal gauge in the night
-visor he saw that the batteries were nearly depleted and calculated that the double read-out mode was quickly exhausting remaining power. He switched off the heat index, leaving only starlight for visibility. Once more he scanned the layout of the surrounding terrain and streets, drainage pipes, hedges, and other areas that allowed limited visibility. And as he had done for the past night, he mentally familiarized himself with the architecture and landscape of the sprawling manor, preparing his mind for the instant rejection of any escape plan and the immediate selection of another.

Before entering the estate he had predesigned three various lines of retreat, with the last and most desperate being the initial line of entry. But he had never been forced to leave an objective along the path of entry. Never. It was an unbreakable rule, though desperation in past missions had taught him no rule was truly unbreakable.

On penetrating the security he had noted the roving patterns, the equipment, of the teams. He knew that whoever controlled the grounds had also hired military expertise for the job. Even after only a single night of surveillance he had determined that everything was done by the manual: listening posts directed outward, night-vision equipment and microwave transmitters for communications, patrol teams two by two roving interior grounds with dogs on the inside and perimeter.

Standard Operational Procedure
…

Night concealed his dark frown.

None of you can stop me …

Automatically his mind locked into a familiar mode—fiercely focused, emotionless,
concentrating his fear and rage and pain into physical strength and skill. A thousand calculations were formed, all turning intuitively in simplifying combinations: the mechanics of movement, light variations, background and cover, sound factors and noise discipline, tactics of evading detection while maintaining observation.

Then, remembering and ruled by the knowledge, he closed his higher mind. His training, sharpened and alive with instinct, would direct him. The science, the art would automatically select the tactic that his physical conditioning would reflexively execute.

Black gloves absorbed the moisture on his palms, but he wasn't accustomed to wearing gloves and unconsciously shook his hands, as if the cool night air would dry the sweat. Scowling, he noted the wasted movement, and his abrupt anger broke him from his heightened state.

Three years
…

I've lost my edge
…

Shut it down, he thought, shutting his eyes tight.

Concentrate on what you have to do …

He expelled a slow, quiet breath
, and focused.

Opened his eyes again.

No movement in the tree line, all visible listening posts facing outward.

Clear
.

Silently, careful to keep his profile low, he moved slowly over the balcony, descending a thin rope he had lashed to the stone railing. When he reached the ground he eased against the most advantageous background, a trellis of broken ivy and high shrubs that profoundly compromised security, partially concealing him from even ambient light devices. Then, patiently, he moved forward, coldly channeling feverish adrenaline and raging emotion into silent stalking.

An instinct, hot and fresh, that was the center of him, flowed through him. And he was hot with it; thirsty, predatory, finding a familiar way with it.

But he knew he would not surrender to it.

Not like before.

* * *

FOUR

Wild, frantic strides hurled Father Nicholai Santacroce along the shadowed corridor of the cavernous cathedral; reckless strides that threw him past deeply carved images of the dead, cruel images that marked his passage with stony stares, untouched by the panic that propelled his desperate flight.

Yet as the priest emerged from a hallway and into the cathedral, he halted. Frozen in place, he was suddenly struck by a terrible, overpowering presence
– a presence that caused fear to thicken in his chest, his arms and legs, making him clumsy, awkward. With wide, distraught eyes he quickly scanned the sanctuary, his unseeing gaze passing over shadowed recesses, confessionals, and alcoves.

Santacroce's labored breathing and pounding heart seemed to echo in the hall. He eased stiffly along the wall, chilled by an instinct of death.

He reached out to touch the wall, attempting to brace himself. But the movement only increased his fear, for the cold lifelessness of the stones reminded him even more of how truly alone he was within this former sanctuary of God, now a sanctuary of secrets, of pain. The stony chill continued to embrace him, overpowering his will, making him weak, transferring itself from the lifeless stones to invade the center of his being with alien force.

Blinking sweat from his eyes, fear dominating all reason, Santacroce crept slowly, stiffly, along the wall. His frenzied gaze darted between shadows, and he prayed against what he knew was there. But his faith became thinner, more distant with each cold moment of deathly silence. He knew that beside him in the darkness they were there.

Even though he had fled across three continents in four weeks, Santacroce knew that he had only barely eluded their grasp, for he had sensed their haunting, chilling presence that would awaken him from his terrifying nightmares to his even more terrifying life. And now they had finally cornered him in this ruined rectory.

Tormented by the fear that his sin was mortal, unforgivable, Santacroce prayed for absolution. But even as he began a supplication his mind returned to that darkened night when he had finally cast down his vows, had defiled the Secret Archives of the Church of Rome.

Sweating, trembling, Santacroce remembered how it had ended, saw again how he had sacrilegiously violated the Archives to retrieve the apparently meaningless document. He remembered the bright promise of career advancement for his sin, the promise that would forever end his disillusionment and pain.

And yet when his sin was full-born and he stood alone in the dusty light of the Archives, holding the ancient prophecy, Santacroce realized that he could not resist the need to know, the need to fully understand the true purpose of his betrayal. So he opened the manuscript and read the prophecy.

In his horror he could not recall the events following that dark hour but he had not forgotten the terror that had paralyzed his reason and broken his mind. Dimly he remembered leaving the Archives, numbly clutching the yellowed pages of the dusty manuscript against his robe. Narrowly avoiding the silent ones awaiting him, he ran blindly through the Vatican's midnight corridors, sightlessly watching the brilliant, brightly colored tapestries that swept past—incomprehensible images of war and suffering and Apocalypse.

It was his hour of madness.

For only in the last moment of night did he finally calm, knowing he could not return the book without suffering penalty of death. So he buried it in the one place worthy of holding it and then fled as before, using what few funds he thought to remove from the office of the Archives. But no matter how far he fled or how desperate his flight, Santacroce knew they would punish him for his failure. He was a dead man, as dead as the cold stone images surrounding him now.

As he crept stealthily forward along the wall, Santacroce shook his head, still amazed that he had been so deceived, amazed that he had believed their lies.

No, it wasn't theological prejudice or the eclectic, soul-stealing intolerance that caused Pope Clement XV to suppress the prophecy. No, it was something far worse, something evil, final, and terrible; something Santacroce could not fully comprehend even with the knowledge he had gained in that haunting moment of translation.

              He had tried desperately to redeem himself, the guilt of his second crime swallowed unfelt within the overpowering condemnation of the first.

Santacroce smiled wanly as he remembered the ancient tomb where he had re-hidden the manuscript, content that it would never be found again. He had called the old man, the ancient priest who knew what to do.

Yes, old Father Simon would protect him, would save him.

Shocked again by the deathly silence of the cathedral, Santacroce moved a shuffling step, breath catching, releasing
before again catching with the fear that clutched his chest. But almost as soon as his movement began, he halted, sensing even before he heard the terrifying image emerging without visible movement from the shadowed corridor before him.

Livid, the priest whirled to behold a second shape emerging, also without perceptible movement, from the hallway he had just fled. And though they moved as one, the darkly cloaked men did not speak, did not communicate, but coordinated their approach with a precision and skill that scorned the need for words or signs.

Santacroce turned to run, but they seemed to anticipate the priest's thoughts and enclosed him against the wall. And as the two men moved toward him, Santacroce realized that they were, indeed, what their conquering ancestors had claimed to be: consummate in skill, inhuman in patience, makers of their own destiny and the destiny of all those less perfect in power.

As he was.

Then from other, darkened regions of the cathedral, four additional, somber forms revealed themselves, illuminated by the candles of communion. In his horror Santacroce saw each impassive face, each image was vague and unremarkable but for a black, gigantic shape that stood cloaked in the distant shadows. And then they were standing fully in the light as they had always stood in the darkness; waiting, confident, knowing from the beginning that they would win, in the end.

A pale fear, white and trembling, made Santacroce light and faint with each quick gasp. And then the first man that he had seen, the tall man wearing a long, brown tweed coat, moved closer with effortless poise, closer, closer, a graceful smile appearing upon the impassive face as the man closed the final few feet.

The tall, commanding figure was before him, and yet the man seemed to exhibit neither threat nor threatening intent. Santacroce looked into the good and kindly face, a face that might have belonged to a pastor, a father. And for a moment, with his reason defeated by fear, a thin hope flamed in the priest's heart. But then he remembered, and he knew that he would receive no mercy – not from any of them.

Santacroce paled as the man leaned slightly forward.

"Nicholai, my dear friend, why do you do this foolishness?" he whispered in a faint British accent. "Truly, you have nothing to fear. All is forgiven. Come, let me help you."

A second man appeared beside Santacroce; an Oriental, young, in his mid-thirties, his heavily muscled frame apparent even through the loose-fitting clothes. Santacroce perceived vaguely that the massive Oriental was Japanese. His dark hair was cut close above an impassive face that seemed somehow unnaturally hardened, the image of brown skin drawn tautly over chiseled granite. When Santacroce looked into the man's blackened eyes he momentarily forgot his fear, or his fear increased even more; he could not be sure. For the implacable gaze revealed a cold force that did not seem to know life; a force of absolute, pure strength, merciless and cruel.

"Nicholai." The tall man was speaking again. "This misunderstanding is not important. Remember, soon you will have wealth that most men only dream of, and as you so richly deserve. I only ask that you let me help you. Now, tell me, where is the manuscript?"

Icy sweat beaded Santacroce's brow.

"I won't tell you!" he whispered, unable to prevent his pleading tone. "Kill me if you will, but I won't tell you!"

Santacroce tangibly felt the sinister sensation that emanated from the tall man. The smile remained but no longer reached the kindly eyes. With a barely perceptible movement the man leaned forward.

"Nicholai, all games must end," he said quietly. "And this game must end now. I will help you, but you must tell me where you have hidden the manuscript."

Distantly Santacroce heard himself speaking. "You cannot have it! Don't you understand? He will destroy us all! You must..."

A sudden movement by the Oriental twisted Santacroce's shoulder and arm into an unbearable position. It was a movement so swift and cruel with cold skill that the priest was more shocked by the merciless indifference than by the pain that pierced his shoulder. Santacroce surged with hysterical, adrenaline strength, whirling to break away. But he felt as if he had been seized by a force of nature.

Absolute and controlling, the Japanese moved with him. The man's steel grip seemed to obliterate the flesh of Santacroce's fore-arm; remorseless, destroying for the pleasure of destroying, fingers dug deeply into his bones.

              The Japanese held Santacroce for a moment more, with the priest struggling for balance on the balls of his feet. Then the Oriental moved again, and Santacroce felt something deep within his shoulder tear away, lancing pain through his neck and face. He screamed, but he knew that it would make no difference, no difference at all.

"Sato!" The tall man's commanding voice shattered Santacroce's screams. "No!"

The Japanese turned Santacroce toward the tall man, effortlessly holding the priest upright. He lightened the pressure on the injured shoulder, and Santacroce felt a wave of agony flow out from the joint.

Santacroce swayed, jerking involuntarily at the knifing tendrils of electric pain that sparked along his ribs, neck, and face. Shocked, he blinked sweat from his eyes while a groan escaped his lips.

The tall man's face was compassionate, and he leaned forward intimately to speak again.

"Nicholai, forgive me." He lightly placed a hand on Santacroce's injured shoulder. "That was not my wish. I assure you that Sato will be punished. Please, my friend, allow me to help you. I will take you home. Only tell me where I can find the manuscript. I promise that you will not be further injured."

Santacroce shook his head. "No!"

Another figure stepped forward and through a white mist Santacroce saw a broad, tanned face, shaggy blond hair. But when the leader half turned his head, the man stopped silently in place. Though no words were spoken, the blond man stared at the taller, and seemed to understand. Then he moved forward again, and with the Japanese, lifted Santacroce, dragging the priest towards a nearby corridor.

Santacroce only dimly saw lights and shadows as he was dragged swiftly along the darkened hallway. His pleading eyes swept the doorways, the adjoining rooms for someone, anyone, to intercede for him. But there was no one, even as he had known in his heart that there would be no one. He was pushed into a large, unidentifiable vehicle. A needle was thrust into his arm. And then darkness.

* * *