The 731 Legacy Page 14

  "River patrol," Ivanov said. "Tugboat captain must have called them. Sometimes get reward for turning in smugglers. Patrol shoot holes in boat to prevent crossing back to Moldova."

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  "Is there another boat available?" Roberti asked.

  "No chance," Victor said. "At least not on this side of river."

  "Could we get to the bridge and walk across?" Cotten asked.

  "Not without proper papers," Ivanov said. "This is bad news."

  "What if the kidnappers were not really part of the Transnistrian army?" Cotten said. "Do you think they would have notified the border guards of our escape?"

  "Cardinal Tyler said they passed through crossing with no hassle. Tells me someone at crossing part of conspiracy."

  "But maybe not everyone?" Cotten asked.

  Ivanov shrugged.

  "Borodin would probably not want to split the ransom with any more people than he had to, right?" Cotten asked.

  "True." Ivanov rubbed his chin. "General was stingy bastard. Doubt he would spread money around."

  "Then what we need is to catch everyone at the crossing by surprise and hope that whoever is in charge is not part of the conspiracy." Cotten pulled her cell phone from her coat. "How long will it take us to walk to the Dniester River bridge?"

  "One hour, give or take," Ivanov said.

  "We couldn't take the car?" Roberti asked.

  "Impossible to back out," Krystof said.

  "And for someone to drive from Chisinau to the bridge. How long would that take?" Cotten asked.

  "Same," Ivanov said.

  Cotten opened her cell phone and checked the signal strength. Two out of five bars. She gave her friends a smile. "I know how to get us across."

  CROSSING

  Just before dawn, the buttermilk clouds thinned and broke to the east. Sunrise painted gold and orange streaks across the sky causing the surface of the Dniester River to appear ablaze. Even the wind settled, allowing the river to catch its breath on its eight-hundred-mile journey from the Polish border to the Black Sea.

  One of the four soldiers stationed at the Transnistrian border crossing on the eastern end of the bridge turned and stared into the celestial lightshow, sipping his black coffee. A few yards away, a fellow soldier checked the papers of a transport truck bringing fresh produce from Moldova. Soon, the truck rattled on and disappeared around a curve along the forest highway.

  Being Sunday morning, the traffic was light, though it would pick up as

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  the day went on, with families traveling to visit with relatives for the day.

  As the border guards started to settle back into their morning routine, a low, distant rumbling sound drifted across the river. A large box-shaped truck pulled onto the western end of the bridge. It had bright golden lettering on its side and front that read:Satellite News Network. On the roof was an uplink dish folded to lay flat against the top of the box. As soon as the truck was on the bridge, a second appeared and followed. This one was from First Channel Ukraine. A third from the German international broadcaster Deutsche Welle fell in line, followed by others bearing the logos of networks from Russia, Romania, Italy, and Poland. By the time the SNN truck ground to a halt in front of the border-crossing gate, twenty-three international television remote broadcast trucks formed a line on the bridge.

  Almost immediately, doors were flung open and men with portable television cameras on their shoulders jumped to the pavement and headed toward the gates and the border guards. Reporters with microphones rushed forward. Like the opening of metal flowers, the dishes on the roof of each truck started to unfold as their motors lifted the uplinks into position. Even from yards away, reporters were already shouting out questions.

  "Have they arrived yet?"

  "Where are the hostages?"

  "Who's in charge?"

  "How did they manage to escape the castle?"

  "Was anyone killed?"

  "Is it true that Cotten Stone rescued them?"

  "Were KGB agents involved?"

  The first soldier dropped his coffee cup as the mob of reporters and camera operators surrounded him and the other guards. Trying to establish some sense of order, he held his hands up and called out, "Wait! Stop!" He was immediately the focus of attention as microphones were thrust in his face. Questions came at him like automatic weapons fire.

  "Quiet," he shouted. "One at a time. What's going on here? What do you think you're doing?"

  A reporter at the head of the pack said, "The Vatican hostages. We're here to cover their rescue and release."

  "There are no hostages here," he said. "There has been no—"

  "Look!" called one of the reporters, pointing over the soldier's shoulder.

  Like the start of a marathon race, the pack rushed past him. He turned to see what had caught their attention. A small group of people emerged from the forest a few hundred feet away. They looked tattered and fatigued. A woman led the group, and a few of the men carried weapons.

  As they approached and were surrounded by the press, the soldier called,

  "You can't do this. You cannot cross without the proper papers."

  A passing cameraman stopped and said, "The whole world is watching, my friend. Be careful what you say."

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  ***

  Smiling from ear to ear, Ted Casselman stood in SNN master control and watched the video feed from Moldova. Every once in a while, he glanced at one of the technicians in the room, pointed to the monitor, and chuckled.

  Ted watched Archbishop Roberti say, "Once again I wish to thank the government of Moldova for its gracious hospitality in welcoming us here today." Roberti stood on the steps of the Moldovian parliament building. Beside him was the president of Moldova, the U.S. ambassador, members of the government, and the commander of the Moldovian armed forces. A light snow fell as over fifty reporters amassed in front of the building.

  "As you can imagine," Roberti continued, "we are anxious to get on with the work we came here to do. This afternoon, I will meet with the president and also representatives of the Ukraine and Transnistria to start a dialogue on a solution to the ongoing border dispute. We are optimistic that the Vatican can assist in mediating this into a peaceful conclusion."

  "Way to go, kiddo," Ted said when Cotten appeared on camera to finish the report.

  ***

  Cotten, John, Colonel Ivanov, along with Victor, Alexei, and Krystof stood in the back of the large crowd of press and onlookers. The former KGB agents beamed with pride, a result of being informed earlier by the Moldovian president that they would be awarded gold medals for their bravery.

  "Thank you for kind endorsement on news report," Ivanov said to Cotten.

  "I start collecting campaign funds to run for office now that everyone heard of Vladimir."

  "Just don't forget your colleagues," Cotten said, motioning to his friends.

  "He will get big head power crazy and turn up nose at men who do real work," Victor said.

  "Not if I call and check on him every so often," Cotten said with a smile.

  "Nice lady keep you in line," Alexei said, and slapped Ivanov on the back.

  Escorted by Chisinau police, a government limousine arrived. "Here's our ride," John said. He turned to Ivanov. "Thank you." He shook the colonel's hand, then the hands of other three men. "I don't know how I can ever repay you, all of you, for saving my life." He blessed them before holding the door open for Cotten.

  She wrapped her arms around the colonel and kissed his cheek.

  "Goodbye, Mr. Big Shot."

  "Goodbye, Cotten Stone. Next time you want big adventure, call us. By then, we will be bored and ready for new killing spree." He gave her a wide grin.

  "Joke."

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  Cotten shook her head in mock disgust, then hugged each of the other KGB agents before getting into the back of the car.

  With blue and red lights flashing, the police escort led the limousine away from the parli
ament building. Cotten waved to her friends through the rear window. As she turned back around, her cell phone rang.

  Looking at the caller ID, she said, "Ted."

  "Hey, you looked great. Every news organization on the planet has picked up the rescue story."

  "So my theory about Dracula wasn't so farfetched after all?"

  "You won this round."

  "Have you pulled all the info on T-Kup?" she asked.

  "And then some. I came across a story out of the remote Amazon region of Brazil. An anthropologist just returned from spending a stretch with the locals down there while he worked on his doctorate. He witnessed a death of a native that matches the symptoms of Jeff Calderon."

  "So we might have a lead to another victim?"

  "It looks that way," Ted said.

  "Any idea what it all means?"

  "Nothing concrete yet. I need you back here to work on it."

  "We're headed for the airport right now. John has to return to Rome to brief the pope on what happened, then on to London to do the same with MI5

  and the CIA. But I'm coming directly home. I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Stay safe."

  "Yeah, I've heard that one before." She was about to close the phone.

  "Cotten?" Ted said.

  "I'm here."

  "I'm glad you're okay."

  "Thanks."

  She ended the call and turned to John. "Things are really starting to heat up."

  "Just the fact that Burns was part of the Darkness means we're in for a fight. We'll need all the help we can get to confront whatever they've got in store for us."

  "Then you're going to need this." She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out his gold crucifix and chain.

  EASTERN PASSION

  Cotten and Ted walked through the busy News Department on the eighth floor of SNN headquarters.

  "It's getting cold out there this morning," she said, shedding her coat as

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  they entered his office.

  Ted hung her topcoat on the rack next to his before shutting the door and taking his seat behind the desk. "Still got to be warmer than the mountains of Moldova."

  "That's an understatement." She sat in a chair facing him. "I've never been so cold in my life, especially on the cliff ledge looking up at Dracula's Castle in the middle of the night. There were gale-force winds and driving snow trying to blow me into a thousand-foot-deep chasm. Made my walk to work this morning feel like a summer stroll." She noticed his coffeepot was half empty and a drained mug sat on his desk. "You must have come in early."

  "I get a lot done when nobody is around." He lifted a brown envelope with her name written on it. "Fame follows you like a puppy."

  "Everybody gets their fifteen minutes."

  "I think you exceeded your fifteen minutes a long time ago, kiddo. Every talk show wants an interview—Leno, Letterman, even Oprah's people called." He handed her the envelope.

  Cotten glanced inside at a collection of message slips. "I'm much more comfortable as the interviewer."

  "I know. Just roll with it." Then he slid a document across his desk. "I put together an initial report on the Amazon death."

  Cotten scanned it. "You figure this anthropologist, Pierre Charles, has something of value?"

  "Could be. He mentioned the same symptoms as Calderon. Plus, just like here, nobody else got sick. Might be a long shot, but I think it's worth looking into."

  Cotten skimmed the report again. "Doesn't say much."

  "I know, but you're good at digging."

  She glanced to confirm that his office door was closed. "Ted, there are some things that I didn't tell you on the phone. When I was in the castle's dungeon, I overheard Burns and General Borodin talking. They said that the whole kidnapping and ransom thing was a diversion meant to pull me off this investigation. They also referred to a Korean connection and a woman scientist who is involved in some secret experiment. They said that she had health problems and didn't have a lot of time left to finish whatever she is doing. So it sounds like we may be on a short fuse here."

  "And you think she's tied to the deaths?"

  "Not sure, yet. But I haven't told you everything."

  "There's more?"

  "Ted, you're one of the only people on earth that knows about my... legacy."

  "Are you going to tell me that this is connected to The Fallen?"

  "Burns is Nephilim. I couldn't confirm it, but I suspect that General Borodin was, too."

  Ted leaned back. His brow furrowed as he rubbed his face. "If that's the

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  case, then you need to talk to the anthropologist as soon as possible."

  "Exactly. No phone interview. I want to fly down there and meet him face to face. Let me see if I can book a flight."

  "I'll do you one better. The brass upstairs owes you a big one for all the PR you did for us in Moldova. I'll get authorization for you to fly to Gainesville in the corporate Gulfstream. How soon can you leave?"

  "Just need to grab a few things from my office."

  Ted picked up the phone and buzzed his assistant. "I need one of the Town Cars brought around to the front for Cotten Stone." He glanced up at her.

  "You still here?"

  ***

  Cotten pulled up in front of the Gator Lofts apartments and parked her rental. It was located two blocks behind "The Swamp," the nickname for the Ben Hill Griffin Stadium, home to the University of Florida Gators. The apartment wasn't much on the outside, but then again, college students lived on a shoestring budget.

  She climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on the door to Pierre Charles' apartment. A moment later, the door swung open.

  "Ms. Stone?"

  "Yes," she said.

  "Come in. Sorry the place is a bit of a mess. I've been trying to get back in grad school mode this past week." The anthropologist wore flip-flops, a pair of Gator orange sweats, and a T-shirt with a picture of the starshipEnterprise on the front. He had dark eyes and an unruly mop of hair, but a warm smile.

  Looking around, Cotten felt the apartment seemed tidy. Nothing forBetter Homes and Gardens, but certainly a classic example of functional beauty. In a college student tradition that spanned decades, bookshelves were made from CBS concrete blocks with slabs of unfinished one-by-eight pine shelving. The floors were real wood but needed refinishing. To his credit they were clean. Furniture was sparse and simple.

  "Mr. Charles, I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me." Even with his delightful French accent, Cotten found that his English was perfect.

  "Please," the young man said. "Call me Pierre. And it's an honor, Ms. Stone. I have seen you on television many times and followed your amazing adventures. Didn't some writer recently call you a female Indiana Jones with a press pass?"

  "I do have a press pass," she said with a chuckle, "but I'm afraid the rest is fiction."

  "Nevertheless, you certainly have a way of capturing the headlines. So, please have a seat." With a hand gesture he indicated a boxy sofa with a blue slipcover.

  Cotten sat and took out her miniature digital recorder. "Do you mind if I

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  record our interview? I have a terrible memory."

  "It's fine with me."

  "All right then, Pierre, would you tell me about the mysterious death you witnessed in the Amazon. Start at the beginning. I know you've already spoken to someone at SNN. But I'd like to have the entire story myself. Okay?"

  "Yes."

  "Just start when you're ready." Cotten turned on the recorder.

  Pierre cleared his throat. "I was in the Yanomamo village for more than two years. During that time, I had never seen much sickness. Not even common colds. These people are so pure, so unaffected by the rest of the world." Pierre rubbed his knees. "I hate to think what this report might bring on them. They should be protected."

  "Unfortunately, the word is already getting out. I'm just trying to find the source of the sickness, I suppose
like everybody else. The case you cited isn't the only one of its kind, and that's why so many people are already concerned."

  "I understand." He closed his eyes and shook his head as if the memory was vibrant. "It was a terrible thing.Catastrophique."

  "Tell me what happened. How old was the victim and how long had she been ill?"

  "She was maybe in her mid-thirties, maybe a little younger. It is hard to say. She had been feeling poorly for several days and the village shaman tended to her. First she had a fever, headache, chills, and general myalgia. Then she developed a rash on the trunk of her body. But still she did not appear morbidly ill. I didn't pay much attention after that, but was told later that she had experienced vomiting and delirium. And at the end, that is when I saw her, saw the horror of it." Pierre wiped his face with his hands. "It was the worst death. She bled from her nose, her ears and eyes, bloody diarrhea, every orifice seeped blood. Horrible. Horrible."