Touch of Darkness (18 page)

But Jedi was a modern man. He didn't believe in demons. He didn't believe the devil walked the earth making deals with mortals. He didn't believe, and he didn't want to know.

"Did you take the controls from Captain Wilder?" Jacobs's unyielding voice demanded a reply
—
the right reply.

No Air Force pilot ever took the controls by force. Never.

"I relinquished the controls to Captain Clark so I could concentrate on my reconnaissance," Rurik said. No use making a bad situation worse.

"And?" Jacobs wanted something from Rurik—hi reassurance, a denial, something.

"When I get on the ground, I have a report to give."

"All right. Clark, bring her in." The mike clicked off.

Jedi continued to fly the plane, but his control was becoming ever more erratic as he tried to keep one eye on Rurik and his sidearm close.

The plane was too new, and too many mountains loomed around them for that kind of flying.

"Stay calm." Bit by bit Rurik lowered his hands. "Just get us back to the base. You can fly her. You can land her. I'm not going to interfere."

"Shut up/' Jedi said fiercely. "Just shut up and keep your hands away from the controls."

Rurik knew this wouldn't turn out well for the kid
—
or for him. They'd land; they'd have him pee in a cup. They'd test his blood, his liver, his skin. They'd by God find his tonsils, which he'd lost in a hospital in Seattle twenty-two years ago.

Every test would be clean.

Then the FNG would be tested, and when
he
came up negative, he'd be disciplined. They'd pull him out of train-

ing and send him to a psychiatrist. And all the while he'd be swearing he saw what he saw, Rurik would be saying as little as possible, everybody would be taking sides, and the whole thing would be FUBAR.

In the meantime, there was a previously unknown nuclear installation on the ground, with a bunch of maniacs manning it, and if he didn't handle this right, at any moment a bomb could be exploding over—

The threat warning alarm sounded. It was designed to get attention
—
it was eminently successful. One glance showed the situation. The installation below had spotted them. Sent a missile after them.

"Let me fly her." Rurik started to put his hands on the controls.

"No, sir!"

"Then put the gun away and fly the damned airplane right!" Rurik didn't even realize he was using his command voice.

"No, sir!"

"You've got to fly. That son of a bitch will come right up our ass." Rurik couldn't tear his gaze away from the missile streaking toward them.

"I'm flying!" Jedi was, but not well Not well enough to save them. He wasn't concentrating. He didn't have the experience. Worst of all, the kid was more afraid of Rurik than he was of dying.

Jedi sent the Blackshadow into a spiral. He twisted, flipped.

The g's pulled at Rurik'sface and arms and belly until he thought he'd pass out

The missile was tracking them, and gaining.

"We haven't got time for this!" Rurik didn't intend to end in a fiery explosion. Stretching behind him, he yanked the pistol right out of the kid's sweaty hands.

The kid screamed.

"I've got the plane," Rurik shouted as he grabbed the controls.

A stark mountain face loomed before them.

The missile was almost on them.

Rurik drove the plane up and to the side.

They weren't going to make it
—

And they were clear.

The missile hit the mountain and exploded.

At the same time, the canopy blew.

What the fuck?

Jedi had ejected. Ejected over enemy territory.

Because he thought they were doomed to crash into that mountain and die a fiery death? Or because he was too terrified of Rurik to stay in the plane with him?

Stunned, Rurik watched the parachute descend. He marked the spot, then streaked toward the base, determined to head back out there as soon as possible to save that kid.

But it was too late.

Too damned late.

Chapter 17

But it had been too late. Too damned late.

Ever since, Rurik had weighed every option, then moved with lightning precision. He would never be too late again.

Life and death, heaven and hell, depended on him.

Now he stood in the middle of the village of Toul and methodically made plans to find the icon.

"Here's what we're going to do. We'll go to the local historical society and ask them about the one-eyed king. If that doesn't get us any information, we can try the local library, and if the librarians can't help us, we'll use their computers to search the Internet."

"Hm." Tasya looked around at the streets, heating under the morning sun. "Do you speak French?"

"Not well. Why?"

"Because talking to historians and librarians may require some linguistic prowess."

"If we have to, we'll hire an interpreter. And we'll probably have to, because if we can't find any evidence of the one-eyed king and the gift he received, we're going to have to consider the local archaeology society. Usually they're amateurs, but frequently they know the surrounding countryside better than anyone else." Rurik rubbed his hands together. He almost hoped that was the route they'd have to follow. The local archaeology society always contained his kind of people.

"Stay here. I'm going to go to the visitors' center." She strolled toward the largest building on the modern thoroughfare.

For the restrooms, he figured, and called, "Get a map while you're in there."

She waved back at him.

What a hell of a dream he'd had on the plane.

No, not a dream. A reenactment.

Every damned time he got on an airplane, the memories swamped him.

That poor kid. When Rurik recalled finding Matt Clark's body, tortured, shredded, destroyed . .. when he recalled writing the letter of condolence to the kid's parents ... he writhed in remembered guilt.

He'd vowed not to fly. Commercial, sure—he
couldn't avoid that, and no one liked to fly commercial. But the ultralight had been pure pleasure, and In the small plane he'd experienced every air current as the wind had held his wings aloft. . . .

No more. No more flying. Not for any reason.

Rurik owed Jedi to hold to his vow.

As Rurik waited for Tasya, he scanned the locals who hurried to their jobs and the tourists who wandered along the picturesque streets. The Varinskis weren't used to failure, and when their assassin failed to call in, they'd send out reinforcements, and fast. But he saw no signs of danger.

Well, except for Tasya, who came out of the visitors' center. She was dangerous—to him and his peace of mind.

"I've got it." She flapped a brochure under his chin.

"What's that?" he asked.

"The directions to the winery that displays the famous tapestry featuring the one-eyed king."

Dumbfounded, he stared at her.

She shrugged. "I figured the visitors' center was a great place to start, especially since in there, someone has to speak English. Come on, the winery is only a few blocks from here."

Rurik followed, watching Tasya as she charged through the crowds, smiling until the Frenchmen and the tourists fell back and let her pass.

He'd been so intent on protecting her from the Varinskis, he'd forgotten how experienced a traveler she was, and that as a reporter, she could, and would, scout out the information she needed.

The winery was a medieval building that had been remodeled to accommodate the influx of tourists that visited every year. It overlooked the Moselle River, and when they stepped inside, Rurik felt as if he'd been transported back five hundred years. The ceiling was low in the cool, dark sales center. The place smelled like fermenting wine and hummed with the voices of a group preparing to follow a guide down the path to the wine cellars.

"There," Tasya said. "That's the guy we want." j She headed toward the stooped old man, who stiffened with disapproval at the sight of her black-and-white spiked hair. But she was not daunted; she fixed him with a blinding smile, and spoke French to him, badly, until he broke down and smiled back.

The next thing Rurik knew, the haughty Frenchman was ushering them into a long, empty gallery at the back of the building. He turned on the lights and gestured to the wall, then disappeared back into the sales center, shutting the door behind him.

Rurik found himself staring at a tapestry that stretched the length of the room and filled the wall from eye level to the tall ceiling.

"Good God." He walked along the velvet cord that kept any tourists out of range. "What is it?"

"It's a tapestry made in the twelfth century celebrating Lorraine's history. The language used is Latin. Not a lot is known about its origins, but the workmanship is believed to be local." Tasya slowly walked along ahead of Kim, her hands clasped behind her back, and scrutinized each scene the tapestry represented.

"The people at the visitors' bureau said the one-eyed king is here?" Rurik could see scenes of battles and coronations, passages of text, and a blinding complexity of events.

"He's not a king," Tasya corrected. "His name is Arnulf, and he's a warlord, just like Clovus. Clovus probably said he was a king to make his defeat at Arnulf's hands less humiliating."

"More PR."

"For sure." Her expression was intent, and she halted more than once to examine the figures sewn on the brown linen background. "This is more of an embroidery than a tapestry, but the detail is amazing. The whole story of Alsace-Lorraine is here, including—" She stopped. "There he is. Arnulf the One-Eyed."

Rurik joined her at the rope.

The colors were still rich, the figures clearly drawn.
Obviously, Arnulf didn't pay his biographer, for while the scenes were much the same as the ones that portrayed Clovus, the attitude of achievement was missing. Arnulf stood atop piles of bodies, but according to the tapestry, he sacrificed his eye and his nobility for power. The tapestry showed him slashing and burning his way through the countryside until one day, he received a gift from afar.

"Look." Tasya pointed.

"I see it." The gift was the Hershey bar shaped and surrounded by a halo.

"There it is," Tasya whispered.

"Look. Arnulf accepts the tribute gladly, but at once his luck goes sour. He's wounded, put to bed. I'd guess the injury turned gangrenous?" Black spurted from the wound, and his enemies gathered around his bed in attitudes of triumph.

"Serves him right." Tasya smiled. "He blamed the gift for his misfortune, and sent it away to be hidden in a nunnery in the hopes he would be cured."

Rurik could see a lot represented in that tapestry, but he couldn't see that much detail. "Where do you see that business about being cured?"

"It's in this tourist guide." Tasya showed him the pamphlet.

She was such a smart-ass. "If all the information is in the tourist guide, then what are we doing here?"

"The tourist guide doesn't tell us where the nun-

nery is." She stood staring at the last scene involving Arnulf the One-Eyed. "I hoped that the information was somewhere on the . . ." Her voice trailed off.

He followed her gaze to the small picture of the dead Arnulf, his eyes x-ed out, a flower clasped in his hands. "There's writing there." Drawing on his feeble Latin, he read, "But it was too late for Arnulf. The ... I can't read that for sure, but I think it means the holy object—"

"So it is an icon."

"Yes." That he could have told her, but she wouldn't have believed him. "The holy object came to rest in a nunnery in the kingdom of ... I don't recognize the title." He moved closer, trying to match the ancient name with the modern name. "Wait. The nunnery is in ... I've almost got it. . . ."