We looked into each other’s eyes for a long time. There were all kinds of things being said without either of us having to say another word. Eventually, though, I did say one word.
“Evil.”
He nodded. “Yes,” he said softly. “It is the worst face of evil.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
The Warehouse
Baltimore, Maryland
June 15, 6:55 a.m. EST
“Hey, docs!” Bug called. Circe and Rudy glanced up and saw him waving to them on the big monitor.
“What have you got?” asked Circe.
“Weird, weird stuff,” he said, tapping the main screen on which were dozens of overlapping windows and text boxes. “I’ve been going through the field notes and even with most of the stuff corrupted there are hundreds of pages of stuff. I had MindReader index the words, and I hit a few I didn’t know. One in particular came up and I tried to translate it from Arabic or Persian, but it’s neither of those languages. Turns out its Russian.”
Rudy bent close to turn and make sense of the data on Bug’s screen, but there was too much that he didn’t know. “What’s the word?”
“Upierczi.”
“That’s the same word Joe heard from the Greek man, Krystos,” said Rudy.
Circe nodded. “Right. It’s the Russian word for vampires.”
“Ouch,” breathed Rudy. “Joe won’t like that.”
“What’s the context, Bug?”
Bug grinned. “That’s the part he really won’t like. According to Rasouli’s field agent, the Upierczi are high on the list of groups suspected of having planted the bombs.”
They looked at each other for several moments.
“Okay,” said Bug, “I found this stuff out, I forwarded it to the Big Boss, Auntie, and Joe, but I have no idea where to go with it, if you know what I mean.”
“I do,” admitted Rudy. “We can all say the word ‘vampire,’ and speculate about whether they are real or not, but that doesn’t connect us to the actual phenomenon. There are people involved in this case who other people believe to be vampires. The point is, what do we believe?”
“We can’t begin to answer that, Rudy,” said Circe. She chewed her lip for a moment. “I think we need an expert.”
“Who?” mused Bug. “Stephen King?”
“Close enough.” Circe looked at the wall clock. “God, it’s almost seven in the morning. Have we really been here all night?”
Very quickly, Rudy said, “At least last night ended well.”
Even though Bug could not hear the comment, Circe turned away to hide her flushed checks. She dug her cell phone out of her purse and searched for the number of Professor Jonathan Corbiel-Newton.
“This is her day off. She always sleeps in on Sundays.” Circe murmured as she listened to the rings. “She’s going to kill me.”
Rudy snorted. “She’ll get over it. Maybe Mr. Church will bring her inside his ‘circle of trust’ as the permanent DMS vampire expert.”
“Don’t joke.”
“I’m not,” he said.
Interlude Nine
Jerusalem
March 3, 1229 C.E.
“It is as cold as the grave in here.”
The young nun, Sister Sophia, scolded the old priest with her disapproving stare as she hustled around the room to pull closed the shutters and draw the heavy drapes.
Father Esteban, a hawk-nosed man of seventy, raised his head from the letter he was writing and watched her with mingled annoyance and amusement.
As Sister Sophia wheeled on him with a fierce scowl. “And look at you! By the blessed virgin you are positively blue with cold. What could you be thinking to let yourself get into such a state?”
“I’m sorry,” said the priest, his voice thick with fatigue, “I have been very busy.”
“You’ll be less busy if you get sick again, Father Esteban. You know what the doctor advised.” Sister Sophia was many years younger than the priest and ostensibly his servant during his retreat; however, Father Esteban knew that he had no authority in her presence. Not unless there was a third person present, at which point she would play the role of the dutiful bride of Christ and pad around him with quiet deference. But that was all an act. Sister Sophia had been charged by her mother superior-a harpy of mythic ferocity-to nurse Esteban back to health and prevent him from doing exactly what he had just done: work himself to the point of exhaustion while ignoring the needs of the body.
Father Esteban muttered some apologies as he accepted a cup of hot wine. He sipped the wine and peered through the steam to the last lines he had written. The report was the latest in a series of such missives he had prepared for the Holy Father in Rome. Reports on the murders of pilgrims on the road to Jerusalem, of churches burned, of nuns raped and sodomized. Saracens at their worst. From eyewitness accounts to blasphemous passages of the Koran written in feces or blood upon church walls. Two months ago the tone of his letters had changed, and these recent letters included accounts of retaliation by Knights Hospitaller and other remnants of the crusaders. Retribution was swift and it was brutal. Mosques were burned. Families of suspected Saracen raiders were tortured and put to the sword. Imam were skinned alive or burned at the stake. Father Esteban did not approve of such harsh actions, but he understood their purpose. To respond in kind and with greater ferocity to show that the children of God were not lambs for the sacrifice of heathens. After his most recent journey to collect reports, his latest letter had yet another flavor. The last week has been without incident. The pilgrim road is now under the protection of the Knights Hospitaller and the senior knight, Sir Guy LaRoque, assures me that the Saracens have been dissuaded from further attacks upon the children of God. However, I remain unconvinced that the threat has so easily been resolved after…
There was a clang behind him and he flinched as he realized what it was. Sister Sophia had raised the metal cover of his dinner tray and then slammed it down again as she saw the uneaten dinner.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God…”
If it had been anyone else, Father Esteban would have admonished her for swearing, but he knew better. It was more than his peace of mind-and perhaps his life-was worth to duel with Sophia when she held the moral high ground.
Before Sister Sophia could get to full gallop, however, there was a sharp sound at the window.
“What was that?” asked the young nun, her voice suddenly hushed.
“Perhaps a bird flew into the shutters,” suggested Father Esteban.
“Perhaps,” said Sister Sophia dubiously, and she took a reflexive step forward as if to stand between Father Esteban and harm.
They listened for several moments, but all they heard from outside was the fierce desert wind blowing across the endless wastes.
“A bird, then,” conceded Sister Sophia, though she did not open the window to confirm this. Both of them had heard the stories about this desert. About the jinni and other unholy demons who haunted the Arabian sands. Lost souls who lured travelers to oases and then feasted on them, flesh and bone.
Then the sound came again. A blow upon the casement, sharp and hard.
The nun crossed herself.
Father Esteban did not. Though a priest and investigator for the church, he privately regarded himself as a political cleric rather than a man of deep faith. It was not true to say that he had entirely lost his faith, because he had never entirely had it. He was the youngest son of his family and, as was traditional among the nobility, after his oldest brother began to manage the estates and his middle brother went to war, Esteban had gone into the priesthood. It had been expected of him, and gainsaying the policies of a thousand years of tradition and the iron will of his widowed mother had been impossible options.
Father Esteban slid his hand under a sheaf of old parchments to touch the handle of the thin-bladed knife he used to cut the tapes on official documents. It was not much, but it was better than prayer, at least in his experience.