The Lost Sisterhood (42 page)

I stared at the handwritten address, not really seeing it. “Could I reach you through the Aqrab Foundation? … If I don’t catch you before you leave?”

Nick’s smile disappeared. “This is it, Diana.” He put an arm around me and pointed toward one of the illuminated bridges over the Bosphorus Strait. “The narrowest point between our worlds.”

“I appreciate it,” I said. “But—”

He kissed my temple softly, right where the old bruise was hiding beneath the serpentine glitter paint. “Go back inside, find your friends, and get them out of here.”

“Wait!” I tried to hold on to him, but he backed out of my embrace.

“I mean it,” he said. “Leave now. There
will
be trouble.”

I
FOUND JAMES AND
Rebecca on the second floor, waiting outside one of the guest bathrooms. “There she is!” exclaimed James, taking a step back at the sight of me. “We were worried about you.”

“This house is very confusing,” I replied, hoping my face was not as flushed as it felt. “I’ve been looking for you two everywhere.”

“Well, here we are,” said Rebecca, not meeting my eyes. There was something about her tight lips and one raised eyebrow that told me she suspected exactly what I had been doing and with whom. From where she stood, I realized, she would have had a perfectly unhindered view of Nick returning downstairs … preceding me by no more than half a minute.

“Wonderful,” I said, taking them both by the elbow. “Come, let’s get out of here. We’re obviously wasting our—”

I was silenced by a hand on my bare shoulder. “James. Ladies.” Reznik looked at us all with the gamesome gravity of a haunted house usher. “The ambassador has left. Are you ready?”

Reznik’s little museum, as it turned out, was right on the other side of the concrete wall. A humble and utterly ignorable metal door served as gateway between the two worlds—one public, one private. Through the evening, I realized, I had walked right past the door several times thinking it was just an emergency exit.

“Normally, this entrance is electrified,” explained Reznik, reaching into his trouser pocket. “But, of course”—he produced a small bundle of keys, held together by a golden chain—”I don’t want to electrocute my guests.” He tested the door with a fingernail before unlocking it. “Excuse me for going first.”

We followed him into the darkness and heard the door drop shut behind us with an inauspicious clunk. Then a small green light came on as our host stopped to punch in a code on a wall panel. With increasing impatience, he did it three times before exclaiming, “
Chyort voz’mi!
I just upgraded the alarm system. Idiots!” Reaching out abruptly, he flicked on the ceiling lights in what turned out to be a narrow room—apparently a sort of air lock chamber between the two sides of the house. “Strange,” he went on, waving his hand before a wall-mounted sensor. “It says it’s on but it isn’t. Oh, well.” Perhaps reminded he had an audience, Reznik turned toward us with a forced smile. “In the old days, things
worked.
You know what I mean?”

We all nodded. I guessed from Rebecca’s pallor that she, too, was reminded that to this hardened Marxist, culture and the arts went hand in hand with theft and coercion.

Frowning with apprehension, Reznik opened another door and walked ahead of us into a perfect replica of an old-world London townhouse, complete with brass chandeliers and a carpeted staircase going up all the way, I assumed, to the top floor.

Every piece of décor suggested that, by walking through the two fortified doors, we had stepped back in time one hundred years. Paneled with dark wood and lined with glass cabinets full of antiques, the room where we stood had the air of a gentlemen’s club; the only feature missing was a stony-faced butler in white tie and tails, asking whether we should like to take our tea in the library as usual.

Alarmed by the dysfunctional security system, Reznik trotted ahead, giving us a quick tour of all the artifacts on display on the first floor. One cabinet held a gilded samurai costume surrounded by four swords, and on his way past, Reznik stopped to take out one of them. “Just to be safe,” he said to us, giving the impression that he was only too accustomed to walking around like this, armed against potential foes. “So far nothing is missing. I think we are okay. Come with me.”

We followed him up the first flight of stairs, and as we walked, Reznik said to James, “While I remember, I want to talk with you about a friend of yours, Diana Morgan.”

I was not the only one who jolted at the sound of my name; Rebecca shot me a grimace of pure panic and nearly tripped in her long skirt. Fortunately, Reznik was walking ahead and didn’t notice. The first to recover, James said, “What about her? I haven’t heard from her for a while.”

“Huh,” said Reznik, as if he sensed James was lying. “Do you know where she is?”

Coming up the stairs we found ourselves in a library that took up the entire second floor and framed the grand stairwell with a gallery of built-in bookcases. “What a magnificent room!” exclaimed James, doing his best to change the subject. “How many volumes do you have here?”

But Reznik did not even register the question. Rushing across a large Persian rug, he lunged himself at a bookstand with a yelp of outrage. “No! The bitches!”

Beneath a green velvet cushion, illuminated by miniature spotlights, was a brass sign that read
P. EXULATUS:
HISTORIA AMAZONUM.
The cushion itself, however, was empty.

E
VEN THOUGH THE ALARM
system was down, a dozen strategically positioned surveillance cameras were apparently still operative. They were all controlled from a computer on the windowless top floor, which turned out to be a Louis Seize bedroom, complete with a colossal painting of Marie Antoinette as well as a miniature guillotine for cutting cigars.

Judging by the stale, rather sour smell of the place, this dark cave was where Reznik slept, and I couldn’t help feeling we shouldn’t be there—that we were quickly becoming too intimate with a capricious tyrant.

“I’ve got you,” muttered our host, excavating the mouse from a pile of paper. “I’ve finally got you. Satan’s bitches. Very clever—distracting my boys with the pickpocket and the ambulance. But ha! I have you on tape!”

While we stood behind Reznik, not sure what to do, Rebecca nudged me and nodded agitatedly at two mannequins in the corner. One was dressed in a chain mail bikini, the other in a short snakeskin tunic; judging from their weapons and furry boots, this was how Reznik imagined Amazons.

Except … both had lost their right hands. And it must have happened recently, for the two eerily realistic pieces of plastic lay discarded on the floor. Looking at Rebecca, I realized we were both thinking the same thing. Those mannequins had lost their jackal bracelets.

Just then, Reznik made a sound of great consternation, and we were all drawn to the computer screen. “Who the hell is that?” he exclaimed. Freezing the image, he zoomed in on the person caught on camera, then said, even louder, “Can someone
please
tell me who that is?”

We leaned forward to study the blurry black-and-white image of a man standing in front of the bookstand with what could only be the
Historia Amazonum
in his hands. Despite the poor resolution and the fact that the thief wore a mask over his eyes, I recognized him immediately. I had, after all, been in his arms just fifteen minutes earlier.

“What do you think?” James looked at me with a highly unattractive blend of anger and triumph. “Do we know this worthless piece of shit?”

I was so shocked I couldn’t conceal it. Without a doubt, I was the blindest, most gullible victim into whom the Aqrab Foundation had ever sunk its perfidious teeth.

“Not worthless!” Reznik glared at the screen as if he wanted to beat it to smithereens. “That manuscript cost me a fortune. And now it’s gone.”

I felt James’s eyes on me as he cleared his throat and said, “Not necessarily. Maybe a phone call to Dubai would clear things up?”

Even though I heard him speak the words, I was still so paralyzed by the sight of Nick on the screen that I didn’t fully realize what James was doing until Reznik grunted with surprise. “You think al-Aqrab is behind this?”

James shrugged, ignoring my horrified grimacing. “We both know his people never play by the rules. Who else would dare do this to you?”

A
S NEWS OF THE
break-in spread to the other half of the house, the fashionable gathering devolved into chaos. Security guards ran to and fro, barking belated orders, but the confusion was nothing compared to the mayhem in my head as I elbowed my way through the guests, desperate to get out and away.

“Morg!” said James behind me, as he had done several times already. “Don’t be such a bore. Where’s your sense of humor?”

I didn’t bother replying. No matter what I said to him, and no matter what he made up in answer, the mere fact that James could serve Nick up to a notorious sadist like this had made me so incredibly furious I felt like picking up one of the creepy busts of Alex Reznik and hurling it at him.

“Fine!” said James, fed up with me at last. “I’ll get our things in the wardrobe. We’ll meet back at the car in five. Those who aren’t there can find their own way home.” With that he walked off.

“I have to pee,” said Rebecca. “Give me
one
minute—”

As I waited for Rebecca to return, I again became aware of someone staring at me, this time from the open terrace door. It was the young woman in the silver mouse suit—my Rollerblade nemesis.

Through the pandemonium, our eyes met. Then, with an impudent half smile, she produced a bag and casually slung it over her shoulder, making it impossible for me to miss the obvious.

It was my handbag, the one lost in the Knossos labyrinth.

“Hey!” I exclaimed, instinctively stepping toward her. But as soon as I did, she turned and fled into the garden.

I followed. The silver suit was eminently visible against the greenery, and although the woman looked supremely fit, I was able to stick with her all the way to the property line despite my shoes and the dew that made the grass treacherously slippery. Once there, she squeezed through a tear in the tall wire fence, paused to see if I was still at her heels, and scampered down the road, bag swinging.

The odds were not good, but I wasn’t about to let this woman get away again—not without a fight. Muttering curses I had never known existed, I squeezed through the fence, sacrificing my hairdo, shoes, and common sense in one fell swoop, to follow the long-legged heister down the steep road in the direction of the water.

It was strangely liberating running barefoot on the rough concrete pavement, my long skirt clutched in a bundle around my hips, and I was amazed at my speed. Even as lamppost after lamppost flipped by, the gap between me and my quarry never grew, and the woman kept looking over her shoulder until, at one point, she turned a corner and disappeared.

It didn’t take me long to reach the corner, but when I did, she was nowhere to be seen. I was standing in a quiet residential neighborhood with parked cars everywhere. The possibilities for hiding were plenty. Stopping, I listened for footsteps or any other sounds suggesting she was still close by … and that was when I saw it:

A British passport. Lying on the pavement, at my feet.

Puzzled, I stooped to pick it up. It was my own.

Walking down the silent street with an absurd sense of accomplishment, I espied another object lying on the sidewalk ahead, directly under a streetlamp.

My wallet.

Perhaps it should have occurred to me then, but it wasn’t until I also found my diary—lying conspicuously under yet another lamppost, just around the corner of yet another side street—that I realized what was happening.

She was baiting me. First the bag, then the passport, then the wallet … and I, like a ninny, was playing along, flattering myself that
I
was the hunter.

Looking ahead, I saw on the pavement what looked very much like the key chain with all my precious Oxford keys. But this time, I did not run toward it. Instead, I very carefully backed up, half-expecting to see a band of strongmen pour out of a van to gag and bind me.

I backed up all the way to the corner before daring to turn around. My head spinning with jumbled questions and nonsensical answers, I ran as fast as I could up the street, back as I had come, until finally reaching the Reznik property. Relieved to recognize the chicken-wire fence I had squeezed through earlier, I walked along it until I came up to the tall entrance gate where guests in costumes were still milling around, sparring over taxis.

Weaving through the crowd on throbbing bare feet, I continued down the road on the other side, still so busy making sense of what had happened that I walked right past the empty parking spot twice before the truth hit me….

James’s Aston Martin was no longer there.

Unwilling to believe it, I looked up and down the road several times, my pulse at a frantic gallop, but it changed nothing. The magic carpet had left without me.

TROY

T
HE NORTHERLY BLEW WITHOUT RESPITE FOR THREE LONG WEEKS.
To Myrina, they were three weeks of hateful room arrest, and of watching from her balcony the distant Aegean shore fill up with ships unable to round the headland until the wind changed. Paris assured her they were all merchant ships commanded by peaceful sea captains, and yet their growing presence was threatening all the same. Were not all sailors in constant need of food and entertainment? And had she not seen with her own eyes how readily such men would steal their pleasure at the point of a sword?

“I never thought there were so many ships in the world,” she said to Paris one day, when they were standing on the balcony together.

“When the wind turns,” he assured her, his hands on her shoulders, “they will all be on their way.”

Myrina leaned against him. “Except for the Greek ships.”

“I wager,” said Paris, kissing her neck, “even
they
will have had enough.”

Agamemnon, Lord of Mycenae, had given King Priam one month to punish the Amazons allegedly hidden behind his tall walls, and to hand over the innocent Helena, who had been so cruelly abducted from his house. As for the fate of the man-killing Myrina, it would obviously not do to demand the punishment of a princess of Troy, at least not while she was still young enough to be of interest to her husband. But perhaps atonement for her sins could come in the form of a reaffirmation
of the good relations between Mycenae and Troy—relations that ensured the free passage of ships and goods through the Hellespont.

Myrina had never fully grasped the origins of the enmity between Agamemnon and King Priam, but she knew that for ten years a Greek pirate named Achilles had been raiding the Trojan coast. “His men carry away our crops like an army of ants,” Paris had told her, “and, most grievously, they steal freeborn citizens and sell them into slavery. Agamemnon, of course, claims these raids are outside his control, but it is common knowledge he benefits greatly from them.” Paris had shaken his head with disgust. “My father eventually decided to put pressure on Agamemnon to leash Achilles, by levying a tax on all Greek ships going in and out of the Hellespont. These sailing restrictions have understandably infuriated all the Greek sea captains who make a living in these waters. Believe me, I have had many discussions with my father about the wisdom of his policies, for I fear they will lead to nothing but further enmity.”

Considering this history of reciprocal grievances, it should perhaps surprise no one that Agamemnon had decided to use the issue of his abducted daughter to pressure King Priam to abolish the Hellespont tax. But the request had a cauterizing effect on Priam’s sympathetic ears; repelled by the grieving father and scheming administrator rolled into one, the king of Troy sent Agamemnon and his delegation away with no promises whatsoever. Yet in the same breath he turned to Myrina and demanded she produce both Helena and the Amazons immediately, to ensure the Greeks had no excuse to start a feud.

And so it came about that Hippolyta and Animone were sent to Ephesus to explain the situation to Lady Otrera and prevail upon Helena to come to Troy and face her father. Once the two had left, there was nothing Myrina could do but wait. Locked in her room by decree of King Priam, she received all her news through Paris. Poor Kara’s attempted suicide, Lilli’s gentle intervention … it all came to her secondhand, and although she could understand why the king felt an urge to punish her for the trouble she had carried into his house, Myrina hated her own helpless confinement.

“Be patient,” Paris had begged her many times. “The more noise
you make, the longer his anger will last. My father is a man who must have his way; the only effective response is silent submission.”

As for the queen, she had come to see Myrina only once, to stroke her cheek with cold, bloodless fingers. “My poor child,” she had whispered, her eyes brimming with sadness. “I knew it would be thus. I knew it from the day you came. My poor girl. My poor boy.”

All Myrina could do was cling to the hope that her sisters in Ephesus would know how to act and rush to her rescue. Surely the arrival in Troy of Helena—appearing after so many months as wholesome and virginal as ever—would calm Agamemnon and win his forgiveness on behalf of them all.

When a group finally returned from Ephesus, Myrina watched eagerly from her balcony, trying to make out the faces of her sisters. She counted twelve women altogether, but was at a loss to recognize anyone before they disappeared into the stable to attend to their horses.

Unable to contain her excitement, she ran to the door and banged on the wooden boards. But there was no response until Paris finally came to fetch her and take her to the throne room. “Do you realize,” he said, his face set in a frown, “your clatter can be heard in the entire building?”

“Then why does no one answer?” Myrina rushed ahead of him down the corridor. “What must my sisters think? That I am a slave?”

Paris caught her by the elbow and stopped her abruptly. “There may come a day when you will remember this time of enslavement and wish it back.”

Myrina stared at him, suddenly chilled. “Do not speak like that—”

“Then let us both be silent,” said Paris, putting his arms around her, “and not pollute these hours with jaundiced words.”

W
HILE THE TEMPLE OF
the Earth Shaker was where King Priam received his enemies, the throne room was where he welcomed his friends. Seated on an elevated marble chair against the far wall—a chair with armrests carved as talons and a back fanning out like the wings of a
bird—he was already absorbed in the news from Ephesus when Myrina and Paris arrived.

If Myrina had anticipated a sisterly greeting by the group she was sorely disappointed. Standing in the middle of the floor, speaking to the king with bold gestures, the broad-shouldered Penthesilea barely acknowledged her presence, except for a stern nod that said, plainly, “This is your fault.” And around Penthesilea stood mostly women Myrina had spoken to only rarely at Lady Otrera’s farm: hardened riders and hunters who had considered themselves vastly superior to the newcomers and spent no time trying to make their acquaintance. The only truly familiar faces were those of Pitana and Helena, the latter of whom looked just as resentful as Myrina remembered her. But at least she had come.

“I am not surprised,” said King Priam, shifting in his marble seat, “to hear of these new raids along the coast; the Greeks grow bolder every day. If Agamemnon ever did attempt to leash that pirate, Achilles, he has most certainly unleashed him again now. It is wise of your Lady Otrera to give up the farm before it is overrun. Where does she plan to go?”

Penthesilea straightened. “We will travel east, to settle among the horse-breeding Kaskians on the rocky shores of the Black Sea. It is a region that lends itself to independence; as you probably know, the Greeks call it the Inhospitable Sea, and it has never been conquered by anyone. Even you”—she looked boldly at King Priam, as always incapable of humility—”would not dare send an army through those narrow valleys.”

“Why does Lady Otrera not consider settling here in Troy?” countered the king, whose even tone suggested he was intrigued rather than annoyed by the provocation. “It is much closer, and our walls are unbreachable.”

Myrina knew Penthesilea well enough to spy something as rare as embarrassment in her eyes. Embarrassment, she guessed, on behalf of the king whose city was not good enough for Lady Otrera. “That is very generous of the Trojan people,” said Penthesilea, looking down.
“But … Lady Otrera is determined to remove us from this coastline altogether.”

“I see.” King Priam drummed his fingers on the marble armrest. “I see.”

There was a nervous silence, full of stolen glances, then Myrina stepped forward, unable to keep her peace. “What news of my sisters?” she asked. “Where are they now?”

Penthesilea turned to her reluctantly. “We are camped up the Simoeis River, northeast of here. Those who preferred to stay behind in Ephesus were free to do so. No one did. It has become too dangerous. And those who wanted to stop at Troy, to deliver the little firebrand to her loving father”—Penthesilea shot a glare of disgust at Helena, then made a dignified gesture at the group—”are those you see. No one else felt they had business here.”

Myrina winced at the unforgiving look in Penthesilea’s eyes. Naturally, she could not blame Otrera’s daughters for resenting the situation that had forced them to abandon their home, but she had hoped they would at least still look upon her as a friend, even if she was no longer their sister.

“Now,” Penthesilea went on, “with your permission, King, we will ride out to the beach and return this girl to Agamemnon that we may rejoin Lady Otrera as soon as possible—”

“Wait!” said Myrina, angered by Penthesilea’s imperious manner. “Should we not confer with Helena about the wisest conduct in this matter? She knows her father better than anyone.”

Penthesilea snorted. “Do not speak to me of wisdom! You were the one who stole her away, and you will be the one to formally give her back.”

“I certainly intend to,” said Myrina, “but—”

“Absolutely not!” exclaimed Paris. “I forbid it.”

No sooner had King Priam approved Penthesilea’s plan to let the women deliver Helena to the Greeks than he ordered the palace guards to seize Paris and lock him in his room. Too shocked to even try to intervene, Myrina followed the men down the corridor and overheard the furious exchange between father and son as Paris was dragged away.

“I am doing what must be done,” said King Priam, gesturing at the guards to be firm. “You will thank me when you regain your senses.”

“You are a murderer!” yelled Paris, struggling so hard it took four strong men to restrain him. “You are sacrificing these women—and my wife! At least provide them with a detachment of guards—”

“And make it look as though we intend further aggression?” King Priam shook his head grimly. “Have not these women angered the Greeks enough? As a king, I must wash my hands of them. As a father—”

“Do not speak the word!” cried Paris, as the guards closed the door in his face. “I swear to heaven, I shall never share a meal with you again!”

The terrible exchange still ringing in her ears, Myrina returned to the throne room where Penthesilea and her companions were waiting, impatient to depart. Upon their backs sat recurve bows modeled after her own and quivers with arrows she had designed … and yet they looked upon her as a traitor not worthy of a single conciliatory word. Even the fact that she was coming with them despite Paris’s wishes did not earn her as much as a nod of approval.

Once mounted on their horses, grudgingly equipped with the crested helmets and half-moon shields King Priam had forced upon them at the last moment, the women left the citadel in a gallop. Townspeople and poultry dispersing before them, they sped through the streets of Troy with eyes for nothing but a swift conclusion to their loathsome mission.

T
HE FOUR SHIPS THAT
had brought Agamemnon and Menelaos to Troy were drawn ashore among hundreds of other foreign vessels in the protected west-facing bay opposite the island of Tenedos. To get there, the women had to cross the Scamandrian Plain with the setting sun in their eyes, and Myrina was not the only one to ride with her shield up against the blinding light.

Approaching the coast, she was amazed to see the sprawling city of tents that had grown up around the beached ships. Had she not known better, she would have guessed the many thousand sailors had come
together on this vast shore primarily to celebrate, for over every bonfire hung a side of meat on a spit, and there was not an unhappy face to be seen.

When they reached the Greek camp, however, a few guards came forward, spears in hand, to hear their errand and ascertain that they were not carrying other weapons than the negligible bows on their backs. But as soon as the men realized they were dealing with women, their amazement grew into a tempest of hooting ridicule and bawdy invitations.

“Take off your helmet,” said Penthesilea to Helena, “that they may recognize you and cease this intolerable jeering.”

But Helena did not remove her helmet. She had remained silent since arriving in Troy and was clearly insulted to be cast from the sisterhood with so little ceremony. Despite her determination not to be swayed by sympathy, Myrina felt a throb of pity for the girl now that the handover was imminent.

As they approached Agamemnon’s tent, the handsome Menelaos emerged first, carrying a spear. After him came the Lord of Mycenae, leaning on a silver staff. “There he is!” exclaimed Penthesilea, drawing her horse to a halt. “Now take off your damn helmet—”

Riding slowly ahead, Helena reached up … to toss aside the shield and free her bow. Before anyone could intervene, she had an arrow on the string, pointing straight at Agamemnon. “Father!” she yelled, in a voice too feeble to carry far. “I will come with you on one condition—”

But what she had meant to say was cut off abruptly by the unfeeling blade of Fate. For a spear, hurled by Menelaos to protect the king, struck Helena right in the chest and threw her off the horse with a sound too terrible to be called a scream. Landing on her back in the sand, the girl kicked once, then went limp, her head falling to the side without another word.