"1 saw it clearly, sir." Jedi was righteous—and terrified. He knew the severity of his accusations and actions, but more than that—Rurik scared him pissless. "I have the controls."
Because it wasn't drugs. Somewhere in his mind, Jedi knew it. He knew he'd seen a small part of Rurik shape-shift from a man . . . into a hawk.
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. . . ."
Tasya didn't stir, didn't take her gaze away from the tapestry. Speaking in a voice so low, he almost didn't hear her, she said, "Ruyshvania. The nunnery is in Ruyshvania." She lifted a trembling hand to her forehead. "I have to go back to Ruyshvania."
Chapter 18
Tasya pulled herself together; she didn't think Rurik noticed her small panic attack in front of the tapestry. He didn't say anything, anyway. Instead he briskly arranged their travel schedule.
Rent a car. Drive it to Vienna. Arrive in the late afternoon. Wait four hours for the night train from Vienna to the town of Capraru in Ruyshvania. Shop while they wait.
By the time Tasya settled in the private compartment on the night train, she had a whole new persona. She wore makeup, an expensive pair of jeans, black boots, and a white button-up shirt belted at the waist. The entire studiedly casual ensemble cost more than her camera, and the conductor on the train had bowed and scraped as he saw them to their car.
What did she expect? This was Europe. They wor-shipped fashion.
Although Rurik had also bought a new shirt, he still wore that long leather duster.
He said he liked it because it gave him anonymity.
She thought he liked it because it hid the variety Of weapons she now knew he carried.
As they pulled out of the station, he said, "I'm going to walk the train. Do you want anything?"
"Walk the train. Is that a euphemism for look for trouble?" He didn't answer, nor did he invite her to come along. She'd already figured out he liked to patrol on his own.
"A glass of wine would be nice," she said. "Maybe even a bottle."
He put his hands on either side of her, leaned down close. "The tension gets to you after a while, doesn't it?"
The tension? It wasn't the tension that had got to her. It was their destination. She couldn't believe . . . well, of course, she could. No one knew better that fate was a bitch who always demanded payment.
Rather than answer him, Tasya placed her hand on his cheek and kissed his mouth. "Be careful."
"Always." He kissed her back, his lips lingering, then straightened. "And you lock the door behind me."
She did. She took the opportunity of privacy to shower in their tiny private bathroom and, with a sigh, put her clothes back on sans belt.
Usually she liked to travel, and travel light. But it seemed every leg of this trip involved another disguise—and another revelation. She wanted noth-ing more than to go home to, the States, to her spare apartment, and veg out on the couch, television blar- ing, remote control in hand, and try to remember who she was.
Or was that—who she had taught herself to be? When she came out, clean and damp, Rurik was back in the room. Their dinner waited on the miniature drop-down table covered with a white table- cloth, the requested bottle of wine uncorked and breathing.
At the sight of her, his brandy-colored eyes warmed as if heated by a flame.
Oh, yes. The man had plans. Plans to torment her some more? Plans to make her the happiest woman in the world?
How did she feel about that? She didn't know. If he was less intense ... if this train were headed somewhere else . . . Yeah. If.
So a purposely casual Tasya brushed at the wrinkles where the belt had sat, and asked, "No trouble?"
"Not a sign. Let me wash up, and we'll eat."
"Right," she said to the closed bathroom door.
When he came out, his hair was wet and his face was damp. "I didn't see a Varinski on the train."
He was buttoning his new shirt over his broad chest, and she wanted to whimper as she watched. The man must work out all the time, to have sculpted those pecs—she straightened, riveted by a knife wound that ran eight inches across the right side of his chest, ripping through his tattoo, shredding his skin.
He continued. "I think we lost them in—"
"What happened to you?" She stood, pushed his hands away, a
nd parted his shirt. The wound looked red, sore, and fresh. "You've been in a fight."
"It's nothing."
"A Varinski."
He paused, then inclined his head.
She put the pieces of the puzzle together. "On the ferry. You killed him."
"Yes."
"Varinskis are supposed to be indestructible."
"I can kill them."
"I know it's a myth," she said impatiently, "but I figured they were good fighters."
"They are. So far, I'm better."
She lightly touched the skin around the cut. "I'm pretty good with first aid. Do you want me to—"
"It'll heal."
"It's deep. You should have had it stitched."
"I promise it's fine. I have a very fast metabolism."
"At least tell me you're up on your tetanus shots."
He caught her hand and pressed it to his heart.
The steady beat warmed her palm.
But Tasya couldn't ignore the proof, right before her eyes, that Rurik was willing to put himself in danger for her. "First the explosion, then you're al- most killed. 1 shouldn't have dragged you into this."
"Sit down." He ushered her into her seat. "Relax." He poured the glass full of shimmering red wine and handed it to her. "You didn't drag me into it. Have you not thought that the Varinskis want the icon destroyed, and that's why they bombed the excavation?"
"That's true." She took a sip, and the depth and richness of the vintage warmed her. "But that would be mission accomplished. Why are they still chasing us? You should let me go on by myself."
"I'm not leaving you."
Her heart, her stupid heart, made a bound of rapturous pleasure.
"It was my site, and that's my icon," he added, and pulled the covers off the plates. "The steward said this is spaetzle with cheese, whatever that is. It smells great." He picked up his fork and dug in.
She watched him.
She didn't believe him. She didn't believe any human being would risk death for what he called a Hershey bar.
He was doing it for her. To keep her safe.
She had to tell him the truth.
She owed him the truth.