The Black Madonna (35 page)

Storm stared out at the endless horizons and thought about all that lay ahead. “Do you believe in miracles?”

“Absolutely not.” Eric turned so that she could see both sides of his face. “Until I heard Raphael speak about you.”

THE WEATHER CLEARED AS
they entered Italian airspace. Eric chattered with the Milan controllers and aimed south. The storm clouds had filtered away, revealing minty green plains. In the distance Milan's earthbound cloud glowed an ugly shade of yellowish gray. Eric held to his course for about fifteen minutes. Then he spoke with the control tower again, announced a change in course, and banked the plane north.

Eric said, “Italy's air traffic controllers are notorious for avoiding paperwork. My flight plan says Rome. They might report our altered course. Someday.”

Eric began descending as they reentered the Italian Alps. The surrounding peaks looked razor sharp and far too close. Eric pushed the nose down. From this perspective, the mountains appeared to cage the valley, hemming in tightly on all sides. A single road formed a tiny dark snake far below. As the village grew in front of them, Storm said, “It looks so quiet.”

“The Livigno Valley missed the twentieth century entirely. Both world wars, the fascists, Mussolini—for the people here it was all nothing but rumors. There are only two roads in and out. The one into Switzerland crosses the Narrow Pass. The road into Italy crosses the Foscagno Pass. Both are above seven thousand
feet. Avalanches close the valley off several times each winter. There is no industry. The mountains are too steep for ski resorts. Also there was the matter of Livigno's unsavory reputation. Livigno has been a smugglers' haven for centuries.” The undamaged side of his face smiled at her. “Which makes the place perfect for us.”

But her idea of walking into Switzerland, with Eric to guide them past the police, no longer seemed such a great one. She swallowed, trying to force down the dread. “I guess.”

“I told you. Raphael and I commanded troops along Italy's border with the Engadine for two years. I have hiked all over these mountains. They are my friends.” He banked the jet through a steep turn. “It's a good plan.”

The airport was a single north-south landing strip. Eric did a flyover. The airport came and went in the blink of an eye. Storm asked, “Can you land on that?”

Eric banked a second time, leveled off, and dropped like a stone. “Theoretically.”

The plane met the runway extremely hard. Eric stood on the brakes and powered the engines into reverse thrust. The entire plane shuddered and the tires smoked. They halted so close to the end all Storm could see was snow-flecked grass and two astonished sheep.

From the back, Emma said, “Something tells me I'm glad I missed that one.”

AS THEY DESCENDED FROM
the plane, Father Gregor greeted each with solemn intensity. He turned to Storm last and said, “My nation thanks you, Ms. Syrrell. Even those who will never have reason to know your name.”

The steep-sided mountains framed the priest in stone and ice. “Now that I'm here, all I can think of are ways for this to go wrong.”

“Which is why you do not go alone.”

“Maybe we should wait and—”

“There is no time. The pressure on us to release the news is growing with each passing hour. Antonin and I both agree. It is a splendid plan.” He waved them toward a Fiat people mover. “Come. Your team awaits.”

Emma asked, “What team would that be?”

Father Gregor smiled. “Come and see.”

THEY DROVE THROUGH THE VILLAGE
of Livigno and continued north. The narrow road ran along a ridge that dropped to Gallo Lake. The lake was four miles wide and so long both ends were lost to the afternoon shadows. Every time Storm lifted her gaze from the lake's steel waters, the mountains loomed high and tight. Watching.

Storm squinted out the front windshield. “They look so high.”

“They are,” Eric said.

“And steep.”

“Extremely.”

Emma said, “You're quite the salesman.”

“You don't have to come,” he replied.

“Yes, I do.”

“I was speaking for both of you.”

Emma glanced at Storm. “So was I.”

Their destination was a twelfth-century monastery. The cloister and its surrounding pasture overlooked both the road and the lake. The meadow extended north into its own miniature valley, over which the mountains brooded. In the distance, sheep grazed between the patches of snow. The view was exquisitely peaceful. So long as Storm kept herself from looking up.

They arrived just as dinner was being served. The medieval hall was jammed. One long table held the monks, while another
held nineteen civilians. All but Antonin looked both young and extremely fit.

Antonin Tarka limped over, leaning heavily upon his cane. He waved to the people lining the second table and said, “My associates insisted upon sending you some help.”

“But—”

“Whether you like it or not, Ms. Syrrell. My associates have insisted on this escort.”

Emma protested. “They're worrying over a fake.”

“You must be Agent Webb.” Antonin Tarka inspected her carefully. “The answer, Ms. Webb, is that they are worrying over my nation's heritage.”

Storm asked, “Who are they?”

“They are no one. They are not here. They do not exist. As for the fake Madonna, these people have brought it with them, and I can assure you that it is perfectly safe.” Antonin Tarka waved them to seats at the table's center. “Your places await.”

As they took their seats along the refectory table, Father Gregor stepped to an ancient wooden podium set by two tall stained-glass windows. The instant he began speaking, the hall became silent, tense. Storm took a long moment to inspect the group. They were about two-thirds male. The women were hard as the men. Young, taut, intent.

The priest led them in prayer, then took the seat on Storm's other side and observed, “I have seen starched linen altar cloths with more color than your face.”

Storm waited as a server placed a bowl of stew in front of her. “I don't like heights.”

Antonin Tarka said, “Then don't go.”

Storm forced herself to take a bite. Swallowed. Tasted nothing. “I have to.”

“Why?”

Storm took another bite. She did not speak.

“Ms. Syrrell intends to take a pilgrimage,” Father Gregor said. “For herself. And for Raphael Danton. Is that not right?”

Storm pushed her plate away.

“I hope you will excuse Tanya for keeping us abreast of the young man's progress.” Father Gregor slid the plate back in front of her. “You must be strong. And you must be rested. Start with this meal. Then we will pray. And then you will sleep.”

“I can't.”

“My dear child,” the priest replied, “I was not making a suggestion.”

S
TORM WAS AWAKE LONG BEFORE
the monastery bell sounded for matins. The ringing was gentle, almost apologetic. Storm heard footsteps in the corridor outside her door and rose from her bed.

When she had sat and talked with Father Gregor the previous evening, the chapel had been empty and lit by two flickering lamps. As she entered the chapel that early dawn, tall candles burned on stands to either side of the nave. The monks filled one side of the chapel. The group Storm was coming to think of as her team filled the other side. Antonin Tarka gestured for Storm to join him in the first pew.

Father Gregor led the morning service, assisted by two monks, wearing robes of red and white and gold. In place of his normal quiet dignity was an almost regal bearing. The candles, the incense, the deep-voiced chants, and the night-darkened windows all came together in a comforting embrace. Her fear did not vanish. Grim dangers still lay ahead. But here in this one brief moment, there was peace. Storm closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying hard to believe that this momentary gift would see her through the coming trial.

They left the monastery at sunrise. Father Gregor remained
in his formal robes. The monks gathered behind the priest and chanted in plainsong as the group passed through the doors. The monastery had an odd little gate facing the private valley and the mountains beyond. The waist-high wall surrounding the building rose into an arch, with a font set in the right-hand wall. A Latin inscription was carved into the stones overhead. For over six hundred years, the monastery had served as a way station for pilgrims traveling from the northern reaches to Rome. The carved words had almost been washed away by the seasons and weather. Father Gregor had translated them for Storm the previous night. They came from Acts and read, “You will be my witnesses to the ends of the earth.”

As the monks sang, Father Gregor sprinkled them with holy water and blessed them in Latin. Three of their Polish team carried the crate bearing the counterfeit Black Madonna. Each of the Poles dipped his or her fingers into the font and made the sign of the cross before passing through the arch. Up ahead rose the hills.

Their path lay alongside a tumbling river. They crossed the meadow, passing through herds of quietly bleating sheep, and entered a forest of alpine fir. The rise, when it began, was subtle, as though the mountains intended to lull them into complacency. Gradually the slope steepened, and the river shouted a warning as they climbed.

They rested when they reached the tree line. The padded straps of Storm's pack bit into her shoulders. She leaned against a rock and stared at the blue-black sky. Too soon they were called back to the trail. They climbed. Each time the path steepened, the snow-swollen river became a waterfall. The backwash struck the climbers like liquid bullets.

They climbed until Storm's lungs burned as fiercely as her legs. They entered a realm of rock and snow and ice. Everything green lay below them now. Here there was only winter.

She wore a pair of felt gloves with leather stitched around the fingers. The gloves were soft and flexible, yet the leather gave
her purchase on the rocks even when wet. Storm did not mind the steep segments of the climb. It drew the boulders in close to her face, blocking the temptation to look back at the paralyzing distance below.

They arrived at a ledge perhaps fifty paces wide and twice as long. A waterfall plunged into a pool at the far end. The rest of the narrow plateau was covered in loose gravel and fresh snow. Immediately the outcropping became littered with exhausted bodies. Eric and Tanya set up paraffin stoves and began brewing tea. Emma filled a mug and brought it over to where Storm was seated on a rock. Emma pointed to the crate holding the Madonna. It had been carried the entire ascent by three people at a time, one in front holding guide ropes, two behind taking most of the weight.

Now that they had stopped, one Pole after another walked over to the crate. They stared down at it for a time, then touched the wood, crossed themselves, and walked away. Emma asked, “What are they doing?”

“It was a habit among medieval pilgrims. They started on the road carrying a prayer.” Storm drained the mug and set it in the snow beside her rock. “Most pilgrims traveled in groups because the roads weren't safe. Someone in the group carried an icon, a cross, a prayer book, something that had been blessed by a priest and was meant to remind the pilgrims of their purpose. Every now and then, they repeated their prayer. Then they touched the object, sending the prayer off to God. This was how a lot of icons became known as sources of miracles.”

Emma crouched on the rock next to Storm. “But the icon is a fake.”

“Tradition has it that any true likeness carries the same power as the original icon.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Father Gregor told me last night. He said if I was going on a pilgrimage, I should understand the rules of the road.”

Emma watched as one military-hardened Pole after another
walked forward, touched the crate, crossed himself, and walked away. “What kind of prayer?”

“Usually something acknowledging the hopelessness of their situation and affirming their faith that they are in God's hands.”

“So, like a lost cause.”

“Think about it. You're leaving comfort and safety behind. You're walking for days. You do this as an act of sacrifice. It all adds to the intensity of a prayer.”

Emma rose slowly, testing each muscle in turn. “More tea?”

“My turn.”

“I got it.” Emma started toward Tanya, then veered over to where the crate leaned against the cliff. She stared at the crate for several seconds, then she reached forward and touched it. She rested her hand there for a long moment.

THEY ROPED UP FOR THE
final ascent. The river that had guided them disappeared under a tongue of glacier ice, but the rocky pass remained clearly evident, framed by niches and hollows. Here and there they came upon images carved into the rocks. A cross, a Latin inscription, a crude font now holding ice and snow, a stone fish. Those climbing ahead of Storm often reached out and touched the images, then their lips. And they climbed.