THE SMALL BOY SITTING STIFFLY erect in the straight-backed wooden chair
tried hard to be brave as the blade approached his face, but
couldn’t
stop himself from first flinching, then turning his head away. The
knife stopped. His father, a heavyset farmer of about thirty,
standing behind his son with his visibly pregnant wife beside him,
gripped a small shoulder. His mother, a thin, red-headed young woman,
spoke a low word.
Johann
and Axel, watching from the kirk attic, saw the boy take a deep
breath, then turn back to the audience. When the blade started
forward again, he shut out fear by closing his eyes. But Johann saw
that his little hands, gripping the arms of the chair, were white
with strain.
Johann
had drawn the eleven-millimeter autopistol from his sidepak when the
knife appeared. He eased it forward in a two-handed grip, carefully
aiming at the shoulder of the black-robed Vitharian priest holding
the blade.
“Don’t!”
Axel said in a whisper. “It’s just the marking
ceremony. Now give
me some room.” He had taken their camera out of his own
sidepak.
Johann
hesitated, but then lowered the pistol and slid to one side, careful
to keep his butt on a sturdy ceiling joist. He could still see the
priest between two of the vanes in the ceiling heater outlet. The
elderly man placed his free hand on the boy’s head and
semi-sang
some ritual words. Axel focused the camera and Johann heard it click.
Both the shutter and manual film forwarding mechanisms were
especially designed to operate quietly. The sound would not be
noticed three meters away.
It
was just past midnight on a Thursday, but the lights shone brightly
in this little All Gods country kirk. The unlocked building had been
dark and empty when the two Ansvar Internal Security agents arrived
at nine. A quick survey had proven the attic the one place where they
could observe without being seen. It had been a hot and sweaty job to
disconnect a heating duct, then reposition the movable vanes in the
ceiling outlet. The attic was still uncomfortably warm, and the dusty
air stifling, but they had gained a good view of the upper nave and
the first several benches.
The
Vitharian priest, a tall, lean man with thinning gray hair, a lined
face, and wire-rim glasses, pulled the boy’s head forward and
to
the side. Johann saw that three fingers held the upper earlobe, bent
sharply forward. The knife came back and made a short semicircular
cut in the skin close behind the ear, then a second, parallel line. A
strip of bloody flesh came free. The priest handed it to the father.
The
boy’s mother placed an alcohol-soaked cloth on her
son’s wound,
and held it in place. The boy had opened his mouth to cry out in
pain, but managed to stop himself. The priest tilted the small head
the other way, made a second permanent mark, and handed the strip of
flesh to the mother. The father attended to the second cut. Both
parents were smiling, though tears trickled down the thin
woman’s
tanned cheeks.
The
priest put the knife away without cleaning it and went into another
sing-song invocation, his hands waving in front of the
child’s
face. This time Johann caught a few words; the language seemed to be
Old Norse. The black-robed man placed his right hand on the
boy’s
thick yellow hair in a final benediction, then turned away, ending
the painful but thankfully brief ceremony. Only the new
initiate’s
barber would notice the two small scars, well hidden behind the
earlobes. And Johann would have bet ten to one that if this
youngster’s hair was cut by anyone other than his mother,
that
person would be a fellow member of the local Vitharian cult.
About
twenty people, farmers and several folk from the nearby little town
of Ingleberg, had been sitting quietly on the forward benches. Most
wore workman’s clothes, but a few, middle-aged or older, were
better dressed. Now they crowded around the family and heartily
congratulated them, especially the seated boy. Johann saw him smile,
pleased at all the attention, trying manfully to suppress his tears
of pain. One woman handed the mother a girl of about three,
apparently a younger child she had been holding for her. The father
took over keeping the second cloth in place, checking to see if the
cuts were still bleeding.
Axel
kept shifting the camera back and forth to focus on and capture faces
in the crowd. Experts at Internal Security Analysis would try to
identify them, determine if any had open Arrest Orders. Johann
already knew there was one on the priest, whom he had recognized
immediately. The man called himself Eiger Helgenstadt, but a year ago
Analysis, routinely checking fotographs of members of the large
Vitharian kirk in the national capital, Trondheim, had matched him to
a known no-collar Catholic priest. Helgenstadt had vanished before
the order could be served.
The
crowd began to break up, still talking but drifting out the door.
Most had come as couples, though there were several single men.
Johann noticed that one group of four, dressed in town clothes,
seemed to be traveling together. He saw no unaccompanied women.
The
two men settled back to wait. The priest of Vithar had already
vanished, probably to the little priesthaus behind the kirk; he was
staying there with the local All Gods cleric. That information had
been included in the anonymous fonecall to Ansvar Headquarters in
Trondheim two days ago that had brought them here.
The
family of the newest Vitharian initiate was the last to leave. The
boy stopped trying to be manly, once their friends and neighbors were
gone, and began openly crying. The farmer, looking disgusted, picked
up his son and carried him out the door, while his wife turned off
the lights. A minute later the two agents heard the sound of their
little truck, receding into the distance.
It
was dark as pitch in the high-roofed, windowless attic. Johann turned
on his electric lantern. They realigned the outlet vanes and put the
duct back in place. It was twisted from where they had forced it
aside, but no one should be coming up here anytime soon to notice.
They
checked carefully, making certain they had all their weapons and
tools, then Axel led the way down the narrow access stairs. Johann
followed, turning off the lantern as his partner opened the door into
the back room. A few steps in the dark took them to the rear door.
They emerged into a clear night, bright with stars, an almost full
moon riding high in the early May sky. The clean, fresh air tasted
good after the dusty attic.
The
kirk back door was visible from front windows in the priesthaus, but
they were dark. Their black clothes made the Ansvar agents hard to
see as they walked around the main building and onto the unpaved but
well-graded country road that passed in front. It was a ten-minute
hike to their hidden autovan, during which their eyes adjusted to the
moonlight. There were no houses on this stretch of road close to the
kirk. They walked rapidly, and in silence.
Johann
was remembering the face of the initiate under the knife. A small
boy, struggling with fear and pain but determined to be brave; not
shame his parents in front of their friends. That was a heavy burden
to lay on a child who looked about five or six The farmer and his
wife had both encouraged and forced their son through a traumatic but
unforgettable experience, impressing on him a belief in Vithar that
would probably last the rest of his life.
Vithar,
Johann remembered from extensive studies of this cult, was a god of
vengeance; also one of the strongest in the Norse pantheon. He was
ordained to avenge the prophesied death of his father Othin by
killing the great wolf Fenrir at Ragnarok. His followers believed
they would survive the final battle along with Vithar and becomes as
gods themselves, living forever in the “new age.”
And most
accepted the recent declaration of war by the Catholic States
Alliance as a sign Ragnarok was coming. Nyscandia had entered the
greatest conflict in its nine-hundred year history, against half the
western world. The Vitharians might be right.
This
was the first new assignment for Johann and Axel since the surprise
invasion from Aztecland eight days ago. Officially, their southwest
neighbor had declared war to reclaim territory they claimed Nyscandia
stole from them in the Treaty of 1762. Unofficially, after two
decades of undeclared war, the Pope in Rome had decided it was time
had for a direct assault on the largest non-Kristian nation in the
western world.
The
disputed treaty had ended frequent local conflicts between Nyscandian
and Aztec settlers in the southwest, establishing the longest part of
the official border along the river system then renamed the Rio
Dividir. But a sizable Azteca population remained on the northern
side, forming the largest known group still secretly practicing
Kristianity.
On
the same day three divisions of armored infantry crossed the Rio
Dividir into the disputed area—part of the huge Karlskroner
Province—Incaland and a dozen more strongly Kristian nations
declared war on Nyscandia, citing treaty obligations. The supposedly
new group, which included half of Europe, had immediately named
itself the Catholic States Alliance. The four Scandinavian countries,
plus those from which large Viking groups had emigrated to Nyscandia
—France, England, Russia and a few smaller
nations—remained
neutral.
The
invasion force, all Aztec at present, had rolled over the scant local
defenses with ease. The Nyscandian army units stationed in the
southwest had hurried to meet them, but at the moment could barely
slow their advance.
Nyscandia
had a population of 200 million in the year 1900, but a small
standing military. The nation's real strength lay in its huge
reserves, and units were being called to active duty as fast as
people could be notified. But Johann and Axel had been informed
within a day that Ansvar agents would be exempt from the call-up. And
Axel had protested immediately that he didn't want an exemption.
Adelbern Hendricks, Ansvar Branch
Chief for Illinoi
Province, had called the two agents into his office the morning after
the invasion to give them a new assignment. A big, balding man who
had put on weight after being promoted to a desk job, Hendricks gave
Axel a hard look. “Haraldson, no one can make
you use your
exemption. If you want active duty, just wait; you’ll get
your
notice soon enough. But this could be the first war in history where
infiltration and sabotage hurt a country as much as an invading army!
Analysis says no-collar priests and other spies have been penetrating
the big Vitharian cult for twenty years. Their kirks are scattered
all over Nyscandia. In more than half, secret Catholics have taken
over the priesthood—making it worse than even we
knew.
They’ve had years to plan for major acts of sabotage, once
open war
broke out. In the meantime, these fake priests of Vithar have been
convincing gullible draft-age men to go into hiding, wait for
Ragnarok. Since the Alliance forces already outnumber ours three to
one, large-scale defections could seriously hurt us.”
Axel
just looked stubborn. “Sorry, chief; I’m
going.”
Hendricks
shrugged, and pushed a thin folder across the glass to Johann.
“Can’t
stop you. But in the meantime, here’s what we know about a
growing
Vitharian group centered on a kirk near the little town of Ingleberg.
Analysis recently sent us a report that says it's likely master spy
Sebastian Silvestri is hiding under a well established identity
somewhere nearby. Taking him could break up the whole Illinoi
network. We just received an anonymous fonecall that said a Vitharian
initiation will be held in that kirk tomorrow night. Maybe Silvestri
will attend .Get down there and see if you can find him. And arrest a
few more spies while you're at it.” He dismissed them with a
wave
of his hand and returned to the paperwork always waiting on his desk.
Johann
had driven home through the bustling streets of Trondheim, a city at
war. In the year 1700 the Nyscandian Althing, in recognition of the
fact the constant flood of immigrants had occupied the entire north
continent, had decided to move the capital inland from the east
coast. For the more central location they chose a small port at the
bottom of Lake Illinoi, named Windyberg for the constant strong
breezes that blew south over the longest of the five stórr
lakes. Windyberg had been flattened, rebuilt, and renamed. The new
national capital had been in a steady growth pattern now for
two-hundred years.
Next
morning Axel picked up Johann in an Ansvar autovan, and they drove
400 kilometers south and west to Ingleberg.
Axel
had parked their vehicle behind a small but thick grove of oaks,
twenty meters off the road. The bright moonlight revealed the large
branch Johann had dragged to the edge of the shallow ditch to mark
the place. When they reached the vehicle Johann focused the lantern
light for Axel, and he unlocked the driver’s door. As Axel
withdrew
the key they heard a sudden crackle of breaking brush, and several
forms rushed headlong at them from the nearby trees.
Johann
swung the lantern around. In the seconds they were in the clear he
saw four husky young men, the ones from town who had sat together in
the kirk. They were followed by a tall form in black
robes—the
supposed traveling priest of Vithar. Johann could see the attackers
carried only light clubs—not a pistol or edged weapon in
sight.
“Don’t
kill anyone!” Johann said aloud as he dropped the lantern.
His
answer was an angry growl.
Apparently
some cult members in town had seen through their cover story of being
farm machinery salesmen. Someone had observed them when they drove to
the kirk after lunch, guessed they would be coming back that night.
They had gone ahead with the planned ceremony anyway, in the
certainty they could destroy the usual Ansvar fotographs afterward.
In addition, the agents who took the fotos were in for a beating that
would discourage other snoops. Killing them was not a good idea; that
would just bring in a flood of agents.
Johann
never knew in advance what he would do in a fight. Something faster
than his brain seemed to take over, and he reacted or struck without
conscious thought. In fact his mind could be off on a tangent, and
that happened now. As the two who had selected him came close enough
to hit with those raised clubs, he was thinking they must know a lot
about Ansvar. There had been time enough for them to draw the pistols
in their sidepaks. These young men were risking their lives on the
assumption Ansvar agents wouldn’t use deadly force. That
assurance
had to have come from the priest.
Johann
leaned forward and put one foot ahead of the other. Before the clubs
started downward he jumped hard between the charging bodies. Both
swings aimed at his head missed, but the one on the left still caught
him a solid blow on the upper arm. The men skidded to a stop,
slightly past Johann. He took a quick step back to stay between them,
pivoted on the ball of his left foot, and planted his right fist just
below the belt of the man who had hit him. It was a short punch, but
he put all of his ninety kilos behind it, pushing upward. The fist
went deep, the man’s breath whooshed out, and he bent sharply
forward. Johann was ready, and caught him with a right knee under the
chin. He heard teeth crunch. The blow straightened the attacker up,
hurling him backwards against the side of the autovan.
Johann
knew that one was out of the fight as he followed him, jumping left
past the remaining man, crouching again as he spun around after one
step, trying to avoid the swing of the second club. He failed. The
blow caught him on the left upper temple, a glancing impact that went
on over his head because he was ducking. Still pivoting on the left
foot, he swung into a right kick that caught the second man in the
ribcage as he raised the club again.
At
the last second, realizing where his foot was going, Johann held back
a little; if his thick boot heel broke bones, they might puncture a
lung. But in one of those oddities that happen when the action is
very fast, the kick threw the man against the back of one of
Axel’s
two, who was stumbling backwards toward them. Johann heard their
heads crack when they met. Both went down, and lay there.
The
wide beam from the lantern Johann had dropped happened to be on the
first of Axel’s attackers, already on the ground. Bleeding
profusely from a smashed nose, mouth open wide, the sound of his
heavy breathing became clearly audible in the sudden quiet.
Johann
picked up the light and flashed the beam around, looking for the
priest. He had vanished.
Axel
wanted to arrest the four, but Johann pointed out that attacking an
Ansvar agent brought an almost automatic sentence of five years in
prison. These young dupes could better serve their country in the
military.
The
agents dragged the four to one side, out of the path back to the
road, and Johann checked to see if anyone was likely to die from his
injuries. All four appeared to be between eighteen and twenty,
healthy and muscular, with tanned faces and arms. Not one wore a
wedding band. Johann would have bet they were recent high school
graduates, killing time before entering compulsory military service
at age twenty-one. Except that these four, as Vitharians, were
probably planning on going into hiding instead.
Two
of the men on the ground were semiconscious, and groaning with pain.
The remaining two were breathing well. They should all live to enjoy
their visits to the hospital, when one felt able to drive. At least
two would need to see a dentist.
Johann
considered letting Axel leave in the autovan while he hid, in hopes
Helgenstadt would emerge to help his four volunteers. He decided it
would be a waste of time. The priest, knowing he faced a long prison
term if caught, was probably already on the way to his next
assignment. The fate of four young men he considered idolatrous
heathens meant nothing to him.
***
Axel
parked the Ansvar autovan in front of their room at the
Traveler’s
Friend, on the north side of Ingleberg and the town's only autohaus.
Johann lost the toss for first shower, and decided to start on their
report while waiting. His head hurt, and he had large, swollen
bruises on the left temple and arm. When Axel came back, wearing
pajama bottoms, he went straight to one of the two beds and got under
the covers, mumbling a good-night.
But
Johann refused to let him sleep. “Axel, are you really going
to let
them call you up? I’m not. I think Hendricks is right; what
we’re
doing now is more important.”
Axel
rolled over to look at Johann. “We hide in attics and take
fotos. I
want to fight.” He turned back the other way, ending the
conversation.
Johann
tucked the incomplete report away in his lockcase, showered, brushed
his teeth, and got into the other bed, while wondering what he could
do to change Axel’s mind. His partner was by nature as
stubborn as
the mules being steadily replaced by tractors on Nyscandia’s
ten
million small farms. Anything he said now would only make Axel more
determined. He decided to wait for a better time.
***
Next
morning over breakfast, Johann and Axel agreed to split up for the
day. They needed to get their film developed quickly, and
couldn’t
chance turning it over to a local fotography shop; its owner might be
a Vitharian. Axel would drive 60 kilometers northeast to the small
city of Kateberg and find a safe shop; they could pick up the
fotographs on the way home tomorrow. Johann would visit the local
high school. The headmaster was on the short list of people they were
supposed to see, and they needed copies of the school yearbooks.
Any
Vitharians at the initiation who had recently moved here and not
attended the school were going to be lucky. But this was a settled
farming community; there wouldn’t be many. Also, the agents
had
been told to break up the cult, not put every member in jail.
Axel
dropped Johann off at the high school before heading out. Johann
found the office of the headmaster and presented his credentials to
the secretary. The day was warm, but he had dressed in tie and the
usual summer jacket. The latter concealed the holstered pistol under
his left arm, mandatory Ansvar routine when on duty. His nice clothes
didn’t prevent the thin old woman from looking at him as if
he were
a rabid dog, but she took the credentials in to the headmaster.
Loren
Holmstader, a plump, balding man of average height, about fifty, with
sharp gray eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses, came out of his office to
greet Johann with extended hand. He had a strong grip; some muscle
beneath the fat. The headmaster ushered Johann into his cluttered
office and closed the door.
Holmstader
seated himself behind his large desk, giving Johann a stern look.
Then he suddenly smiled, and leaned forward. “You
can’t imagine
how glad I am to see you, Agent Kirkwood. I was starting to think
Ansvar was going to just ignore my letters.”
No,
sir; we’ve kept a file.” Johann and Axel had read
the
headmaster’s two letters, along with several more.
“A few other
people in Ingleberg have also written. But the matter didn’t
seem
that urgent until the war started. Now we have reason to think Aztec
and Inca priests have infiltrated our home-grown cults, and are
persuading young men to hide from the draft.”
Holmstader
nodded. “The Illinoi Superintendent of Education sent me here
two
years ago to replace a retiring headmaster who'd been almost openly
proselytizing for the Vitharians. He was fairly successful; maybe
twenty percent of the faculty, many students. The cult can be very
attractive to the young and restless. The adult townspeople are
pretty much against them, and a good majority of the local farmers.
But these misguided folk are a big minority here; they are also our
friends and neighbors. We want to stamp out the practice, not hurt
the people.”
Johann
had noted that Holmstader’s unfriendly secretary sat at a
desk only
two meters from his door. He leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“Were you the one who foned in about last night’s
initiation
ceremony?”
Holmstader
shook his head. “I didn’t know about it until this
morning. The
news of what you did spread pretty fast, though. It’s all
over town
today.”
Ansvar
would probably never know who had called in, but that wasn’t
important. Half the people who provided information to Internal
Security refused to give their names.
I
need copies of your yearbooks for the past two decades,” said
Johann. “We have fotos of maybe ten of the adult hard-core
members, male and female, and about the same number of young men. I
think we can arrange for most of the latter to be immediately
drafted. The older ones will be identified and enter our
‘watch’
file. Then we’ll have the group declared a threat to internal
security, and order it to disband. That’s usually enough to
break
up a local cult. The older members will quietly drop out, hoping
people will forget they were ever involved. Attendance will improve
for Sunday services at the main kirks, and there will be no more
midnight gatherings.”
Holmstader
nodded. “I’ve heard that's how Ansvar deals with
cults. It’s
what I hoped for. I like this little community. These are good
people, Agent Kirkwood, honest and hard-working. I don’t
think
jailing a lot of them is the answer.”
Holmstader
rose and walked to the door. He opened it and asked his secretary to
get the yearbooks from 1880 through 1899 from the library. They
talked a little more while waiting. When the books arrived in a
little pushcart, 1897 and 1898 were missing. The secretary said there
were no spare copies left.
Holmstader
gave the gray-haired old woman a hard look. “Then bring me
the file
copies, Miss Erlanger. Tell Mrs. Bolton I want them. And I want them
now!”
Miss
Erlanger left again. Five minutes later she was back with the missing
years.
I’d
like all these returned when you’re through,
please,” Holmstader
said, as he sent the now subdued Miss Erlanger off for a box. Johann
assured him that he would.
Miss
Erlanger called him an autotaxi, and Johann lugged the somewhat heavy
box out to it. Back in their room at the autohaus, he thumbed through
‘97 and ‘98. He quickly found two of the young men
who had
attacked them. Which meant the sour Miss Erlanger, the librarian, or
both, were Vitharians.
All
the books had class fotos of the sophomores, juniors and seniors, and
individual portraits of the graduates. The identification experts in
Analysis were going to have a fairly easy job here.
The
telefone rang. Johann answered with a cautious
“Hello” and heard
the familiar voice of Emily Grayson, Hendrick's long-time secretary.
“Johann? Identity code, please.”
Johann
gave it to her, and a moment later Adelbern Hendricks came on the
line. “Hello, Johann. Have a little more data for you.
Analysis
just sent over a refinement from the original possible location
report on Sebastian Silvestri. Six of his coded telegrams we found
during arrests around the province show a pattern. It indicates he's
driving to different telegraph offices from somewhere between
Ingleberg and Kateberg. Most likely an isolated farmhouse."
As
a spion, the Aztec head of operations in a given
province,
Silvestri had to communicate regularly with his primary subordinates;
usually the heads of small cells, or well-trained Catholic priests
masquerading as leaders of Vitharian kirks. The file on SS indicated
he had been in Nyscandia for well over a decade, setting up an
elaborate spy network in Illinoi Province; primarily in and around
Trondheim.
Ansvar
had a twenty-year old fotograph of Silvestri in its files. Apparently
he knew this, and took elaborate precautions to prevent them from
updating it.
Johann
told Adelbern about the twenty cultists of whom they had fotos, how
they had gotten them, and the school yearbooks. “The
yearbooks
won’t help with SS,” Adelbern pointed out.
“But he could
possibly be one of the other people you mentioned. Get those fotos up
here and into Analysis as quickly as possible.”
Johann
said that was already in work, and after the usual warnings to be
careful, Adelbern went on to his next call.
Axel made it back by one
o’clock. Johann shared the
new information on SS as they drove to the nearby small restaurant
where they had been taking their meals. The menu featured plain
country cooking, well prepared. Johann noticed on entering this time
that they drew quick looks and smiles from several customers, though
no one spoke to them. Cults could be frightening. This one might be
based in that little country kirk, but some of those people lived in
town, and the rest traded there.
***
Next
morning they checked out of the autohaus and headed for Kateberg. The
trip northeast was uneventful, and quiet. Axel frequently glanced in
the rearview mirror as they followed the two-lane blacktop road. But
after a half hour he grunted, “Nobody,” which
Johann knew meant
they were not being followed.
A
sizable nearby electric parts plant provided employment for much of
Kateberg, a town three times the size of Ingleberg. Axel parked on a
side street, in front of a cheerfully bright storefront window with
the words “Friendly Fotography” and
“Commercial and Family”
in smaller letters, painted on the glass. When they stepped inside
Johann saw the usual framed portraits and wedding groups on the
walls, several glass-fronted display cases spread around the room,
and a young man with thick, curly black hair standing behind the
service counter at the rear.
Axel
handed over his ticket, and the clerk read it with slow care. When
his gaze rose again to meet Axel’s, his professional smile
looked
pasted on.
There’s,
uh, been a problem with your order, sir. Nothing major I think, but
the owner said he wanted to talk with you. Would you mind?”
He
gestured toward a door behind him, near the center of the wall that
ran the full width of the building. Johann could hear the muted
sounds of machinery operating behind it. “Just follow the
aisle to
the rear, and it’s the desk on the right.”
Axel
growled in disgust, but started around the counter on the right side.
Johann looked at the clerk again, and that insincere smile and
nervous manner bothered him. He hurried after his partner, almost
running, and was only a step behind him when Axel opened the door.
Developing,
printing, and other machines and worktables occupied most of the
large room, with what was obviously a darkroom in the left rear
corner. A clear aisle led to a back door in the rear wall. Several of
the machines were running, but Johann could see no one except a
stout, almost bald man with a thick gray mustache, sitting behind a
desk just to the right of the back entrance. He looked up at Axel and
waved for him to enter.
Axel,
not aware Johann was close behind him, took a step through the open
door. Johann looked back at the clerk, his gaze fixed intently on
them, but one hand reaching into the glass case in front of him.
And
Johann knew. As surely as if he could see through the wall where they
hid on either side of the door, Johann was certain two killers
waited, pistols ready.
Even
as Johann sprang after Axel, his mind veered away from what was
happening now. In a flash of intuition, he understood how the trap
had been set. Someone thoroughly familiar with how Ansvar functioned
had gone into action, after the attempt to destroy their camera
failed. They had been watched every minute. When Axel left for
Kateberg Friday morning, that someone had foned ahead. A local
Vitharian in some inconspicuous vehicle had been stationed by the
single road from Ingleberg, with a description of the Ansvar autovan.
Once inside the city, Axel would have stopped checking behind him.
Yesterday afternoon this unseen hand had assembled an assassination
squad. They had been ordered to take over Friendly Fotography this
morning and prepare an ambush.
Which
confirmed with near certainty that Sebastian Silvestri had been in
that gathering at the initiation. Only he had the authority to order
the killing of two Ansvar agents. He wanted the new fotographs of him
destroyed, no matter how much Ansvar attention that brought to the
Vitharians around Ingleberg.
Axel
was taking his second step into the room when Johann caught up and
slammed into his upper back with both hands, arms extended and stiff.
At the same time he shouted “Ambush!”
A third step
would have brought Axel past the point where the waiting killers were
in each other’s line of fire, and they would have been
shooting.
Axel,
thrown suddenly and violently off balance, tried to turn his forward
stumble into a controlled dive. “Your left!”
Johann
yelled, and took a more deliberate header to the floor, moving enough
to the right to avoid hitting his partner.
Axel
managed to reach under his jacket and draw his pistol as he hit the
floor, softening the impact with his left arm alone. Johann caught a
single glimpse as Axel rolled over, raising his weapon, seeking a
target. He too got his gun out as he went down, slid ahead, and
stopped beside the comforting steel bulk of a printing machine, a
full four meters into the room.
Johann
heard the first loud hiss of a silenced pistol firing, and almost
instantly the thunder of Axel’s 11-millimeter replying. The
printing machine hid him from the assassin on the right, but not the
one on the left; and his partner lay on the open floor. Johann took a
chance the right side killer would be ignoring Axel to concentrate on
him, got to his knees, and crawled rapidly ahead for a meter. Then he
rocked back on his heels, grabbed a convenient corner of the machine
with his left hand, and rose to where his head and shoulders were
above its steel frame, pistol extended.
Johann
searched the area where the killer should be, and saw him. A short
man, in dark clothes and a cap, crouched behind another machine,
pistol gripped in both hands. The assassin got off the first shot,
and Johann felt the bullet slam into his left shoulder, just before
he pulled his own trigger. The impact jerked his right arm enough to
make him miss.
Johann
heard Axel’s second shot, and his own an instant later. The
crouching man also got off another bullet, but it went over
Johann’s
head. He had shifted his aim and shot faster, the slug catching the
assassin in the center of the neck, knocking him backward.
When
Johann saw his opponent going down, dead or dying, he swung his
pistol around to cover the other side of the room. A man dressed in a
dark suit lay on the floor between two tables, kicking and
convulsing. Axel still lay in the center aisle, gun trained on the
downed man.
Johann
continued turning until he faced the rear, where the heavy-set man
with the mustache had produced another silenced pistol from his desk
drawer. The older man hesitated, as though uncertain whether to fire
or surrender—but then the black-haired young clerk charged
inside,
gun in hand. The seated man decided they could still win. The pistol,
held in a firm two-handed grip, steadied on Johann.
The
pain from the wound in his shoulder had been delayed a few seconds by
an adrenaline rush, but it hit hard as Johann jumped left into the
aisle, firing without consciously taking aim. Shooting that way was a
highly developed skill, but he had put in the needed days and weeks
and months on the practice range. That work paid off now. The bullet
caught the bald man at the top of his bulging stomach. His went
through the space Johann had occupied a half-second before.
Johann
heard Axel yell “Drop it!” But
then his gun fired again.
The supposed clerk had ignored the order.
Johann
raised his pistol one-handed, this time aiming, and waited. If rushed
to a hospital, the mustached man stood a good chance of surviving
that first bullet. He chose to swing the pistol barrel toward Johann
instead.
Johann
shot him again, this time in the center of the upper chest. The
impact jarred the seated man backward as his finger pressed the
trigger; the bullet went into the ceiling.
The
gun fell from nerveless fingers as the thick-bodied man hit the back
of his chair, then bounced forward, to slump over the desk. It was
safe to turn around and check on Axel. Johann saw his partner still
on the floor, gun extended back down the aisle. The clerk had been
knocked backward by a bullet in the center of his chest. He lay flat
on his back, almost at the door, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.
Only
seconds had passed since Johann yelled, and pushed Axel. It seemed
much longer.
Johann
took another look at the man between the tables. The wire-frame
glasses had come off when the Rev, Helgenstadt fell, and were lying
on the floor by the gray head. As Johann watched the priest
shuddered, a final strong seizure that ran the length of his lean
body—then relaxed into stillness.
Helgenstadt
had to be sixty or older. Johann knew his background. A fully
qualified priest, he had received a college-level education at a
Catholic seminary—much of it taught in Latin. He had then
tackled
the much more complex Norse mythology, learned to speak Old Norse as
well as New, become knowledgeable enough in both dogma and ritual to
qualify as a Vitharian priest. By education and training, he was a
scholar. Yet all those years of study and devotion, the celibate
dedication, had led him at this mature age to end up trading shots
with expertly trained Ansvar agents in their thirties. And that had
cost him his life.
Axel
scrambled to his feet. Johann saw he also had taken a bullet. Blood
ran off his left arm, starting at the height opposite his heart. Ten
centimeters over and he would have died. Helgenstadt had been well
trained with the pistol.
The
clerk on the floor gave a long sigh. He took a last deep breath and
exhaled, making the awful sound of the death rattle. Neither of the
other two had made such a noise.
Ignoring
the pain in his arm, Johann hurried to the pot-bellied man.
“Time
to call the local police,” he said to Axel as he lifted the
seated
man’s upper body off the desktop. “And an
ambulance. This one’s
still alive.”
Johann
let the mustached killer lie back on the desktop and went to check on
the last assassin, though certain the man was dead. That second, fast
shot he had gotten off had gone through the spinal cord.
Johann
proved to be half right. The prone body wasn’t breathing, but
the
black cap had fallen off in the tumble backward, and a tangle of
blonde hair framed a face that must have been pretty when alive and
animated. She wore a man's shirt and pants, and some type of tight
undergarment that flattened her breasts. Young, she appeared about
the same age as the dark-haired man.
By
the time they heard the first siren in the street outside, the seated
man had also died.
Two
uniformed local police came in with drawn pistols. Johann and Axel
had holstered their weapons and wore their Ansvar shields, large
silver badges that seldom saw light outside the Headquarters
Building. The two officers were cautious, and made them show foto
i.d. as well. Johann saw them glancing around at the four dead
bodies. Both young men, they seemed equally admiring and appalled.
They finally holstered their weapons, just as a second set of sirens
announced that the medical people had arrived.
A
police sergeant came in, an older man with gray hair and a commanding
presence. He saw the abundant blood on the Ansvar agents, and told
the two women medics following him to take them to the hospital. As
Johann and Axel refused the offered gurneyss and walked out, they
heard him ordering his men to leave the bodies where they were. The
district coroner would take charge of the crime scene.
***
The
bullet through Axel’s triceps muscle had missed the bone, and
cut
only small blood vessels. He was out of the hospital on Sunday, with
his arm in a cast. But the doctors decided Johann needed an operation
to repair the damage to his left shoulder, and scheduled that for
Monday morning.
The
Kateberg Chief of Police came to see Johann on Tuesday, as soon as he
had recovered enough from surgery to talk. Axel had been forced to
tell the chief about the importance of their fotographs, and enlist
the help of his men in searching for them as soon as the coroner
opened up the crime scene. They soon found them—in the large
wastebasket under a cutting board. The assassins had chopped both
prints and film into small useless fragments, impossible to
reconstruct.
One
good fact the chief shared with Johann was that the three people
normally employed at Friendly Fotography had been found alive. They
said the Vitharians had entered just after they opened at nine. No
other customers were present at the moment. The assassins had herded
them into the darkroom, and warned they would be shot if they yelled.
They hadn’t uttered a sound until the police opened the door.
Was
one of the three from here—or from Ingleberg?”
Johann
asked the
Chief, whose badge gave his name as Manheim.
Manheim
gave Johann a sharp look. But it was common practice for spions like
Silvestri to use cultist dupes familiar with a given area.
“The
young woman, Angelina Kretchman, grew up here. She’s been
working
in Trondheim for the past two years. Left to live with the
dark-haired one, Helmut Schoderskin. One of my men recognized
Kretchman, which gave us Schoderskin. He was a Vitharian priest in
training, studying at a seminary in Trondheim. Your partner
identified Helgenstadt. No i.d. yet on the last one.”
Only
the fact Johann had shot faster than Angelina Kretchman had left him
alive, and her dead. It could easily have been the other way around.
But he found little comfort in that thought. A gullible young woman
fell under the influence of a fanatic lover. She gave up home,
friends and family to join his kirk—unaware, as was he, that
Catholic spies had deeply penetrated its priesthood. She took weapons
and tactics training, thinking this was glamorous and exciting
preparation for the coming Ragnarok. When called on by someone in the
Trondheim kirk she trusted, probably Helgenstadt, she took a final,
fatal step—agreed to commit murder.
A
moment had passed while Johann remained silent. He looked up to see
Chief Manheim studying him, as though trying to read his thoughts.
Having no idea of how much Axel had shared with the chief, Johann
decided to say no more than required. He gave the short answer of,
“Sorry; national security” to the next two
questions. Manheim
gave him a disgusted look, and left.
Axel
came in an hour later. Johann shared his thoughts with his partner,
who nodded in agreement and said, “But at least we flushed
out
Silvestri. The local sheriff put on an all-out manhunt, and they
found his house this morning. An isolated farm home, as we expected.
He'll have to set up again in a new identity, and that will take
time. We hit them a hard blow.”
Axel
hesitated a moment, then added, “And I've changed my mind
about
the call-up. Adelbern is right. What we're doing is more
important.”
Johann
assured Axel he was happy that their long partnership would continue.
Axel
left for Trondheim, leaving Johann alone with his unhappy thoughts.
He had been in Ansvar for seven years. Angelina Kretchman was the
third person he had killed in a firefight—but the first
woman. The
image of that long blonde hair, falling to the floor around the
pretty, dead face, would haunt him for the rest of his life. Johann
had three sisters; the youngest looked somewhat like Angelina, and
was about her age.
The
big irony here was who they had probably saved, the four husky dupes
from Ingleberg; young men who had tried to beat them up. With luck,
they would survive the war and finish their five years of compulsory
military service, followed by sixteen in the reserves. That was
usually enough to make loyal citizens of the pliable young.
Silvestri
had escaped for now, but they had eliminated two spies, along with
the sad necessity of killing two young dupes. The Ingleberg Vitharian
cult would break up, ending the likelihood of more gullible young
people being corrupted.
This
was one of the underappreciated but frequent results of his job in
which Johann took the most satisfaction. The strength of religious
conviction could be an overwhelming force, capable of subverting
sound judgment and normal good sense. They had witnessed a compelling
example of that, the midnight initiation ceremony in the little
country kirk. As a non-believer, he had never quite understood why
anyone would willingly accept a set of unproven and unprovable
beliefs, and shape their lives around them. But they had just seen
how the power of faith could affect a sizable number of the otherwise
sound and sensible people of Ingleberg.
Johann
knew the image of the still pretty but dead face of Angelina
Kretchman was seared indelibly into his memory. But if her death led
to a hundred others being saved from a similar fate ... he found
comfort in the thought. It wasn’t enough, but he’d
take what he
could get.