Jack Du Brul - Pandora's curse

The icon was only about two feet long and one foot wide, yet the floreria staggered under its weight. It was nearly six inches thick. Vatutin knew immediately that this was the relic he sought. The workman laid it on a nearby table. Although Vatutin took back the photograph he didn’t need it to verify the piece’s authenticity. He knew the icon better than any man alive. He could reproduce it in his mind any time he chose. From where it had been created near the city of Vanavara, Anatoly Vatutin had traced the artifact’s century-long journey to St. Petersburg to Stalingrad to Berlin and finally to Rome. It had entered a thousand dreams and kept him awake on a thousand nights. He knew it better than his own face.

Unlike most icons, this was no wooden painting covered by a gold veneer. The relic was almost solid gold. He traced his finger over the bas-relief of the Virgin Mary holding her crucified son, noting the distinctive drape of her robe and the vividness of Christ’s wounds, especially the blood that leaked from his side. He bent close to study the mark over Mary’s shoulder, verifying that it was indeed a faint comet’s tail.

Anatoly Vatutin fell to his knees, his seasickness and every other hardship he’d endured for the past forty years forgotten. He prayed harder than at any time in his life, giving thanks to God, Christ, Mary, and Brother Grigori. His decades of exacting research had been correct. The icon had ended up in the Vatican following the Second World War, given to them by a mistaken American soldier working for a repatriation commission. It had been one of thousands of items looted by the German Army and returned to the wrong owners after the war.

He was physically exhausted by the time he got back to his cabin, his muscles aching from the effort of carrying the icon from the hold. His spirit, however, had never felt more invigorated. He laid the icon on his bed, the mattress springs protesting at such a dense object. Tossing aside the clothes at the top of his trunk, he removed the chain-mail garments fashioned for Brother Grigori.

First he opened the special flask at the bottom of the chest. The liquid inside was as clear as water. It was actually “heavy water,” or deuterium, a substance used for handling the most dangerous elements on earth. He could only hope it would add protection for him from an element that was not of this world. Lying in the deuterium bath was a hammer and a six-inch molybdenum awl. He went to the bathroom and retrieved an item from his toilet case. The fact that a man who hadn’t shaved since his teens owned an electric razor was one more inconsistency he was thankful had not been noticed. Of course, it wasn’t a razor at all.

He needed to strip to his undershirt to put on the lead-armored mantle. He used a liberal amount of petroleum jelly to work his hands into the golden gloves. Before donning the priceless gold hood, he tested his grip on the hammer and awl and made sure that the golden plug that he’d had in his pocket matched the diameter of the spike. He was ready.

He pulled the icon off the bed and groaned as he lowered it into the pan at the bottom of the trunk, ensuring that the artifact was fully awash with deuterium. He brought the cordless razor close to it and turned it on, satisfied when nothing happened. He’d know in a moment if his crusade was successful. Again he prayed.

Placing the metal spike over Christ’s heart at the center of the icon, Anatoly Vatutin lowered the hood’s visor over his eyes, took a deep breath, and brought down the hammer with all his strength. Quickly he checked the razor again, dismayed that it hadn’t reacted. Hands trembling, he replaced the tip of the spike in the dimple his first blow had created and hammered it again.

This time the razor emitted a steady series of clicks coming so close together they sounded like a continuous tone. The instrument was a disguised Geiger counter, and it had just encountered a radiation source unlike any on the planet. Considering the origin of the radiation, Anatoly hadn’t been sure if the device would work. Balanced between elation and fear, he fumbled for the small plug and set it in the scar, bringing down the hammer to seat it properly. The Geiger counter fell silent once again.

Father Vatutin chanced rolling up his visor so he could accurately tap the plug more firmly in place. Only then did he look at the counter. Through three inches of gold, the second densest natural element in the universe, and several more inches of a fluid meant to absorb radiation, the device had registered a dose that equaled a lifetime worth of X rays. He swept the Geiger counter over the trunk and the cabin’s walls. As predicted by Grigori, and later proved by another, Brother Leonid, the radiation had not been absorbed by inorganic material. It was only when he pointed the counter at his own hand that it began to click again. The exposure had been less than five seconds yet would likely rob Vatutin of a few years of life.

Enshrined within the icon, and protected by an abnormal reaction it had with gold, was a fragment of what the Brotherhood called Satan’s Fist. Anatoly knew that hundreds, maybe thousands of people had been victims of this piece or the others like it. The realization that he now possessed the power to kill everyone on the Sea Empress made him shudder. From Brotherhood records, Anatoly knew that before Brother Grigori was murdered, he had amassed fifty such icons in Vanavara and all but one had been destroyed later by Brother Leonid. This was the last one.

He tidied the cabin, hiding his protective clothing in the trunk once again. He was too emotionally wasted to finish his mission. In fact, he was ravenously hungry and checked his watch, thinking that maybe he would finally venture out for dinner.

Before he took care of his body’s needs, he had to pray. Thankful for his success, Anatoly Vatutin knew that his mission would be a wasted gesture if another endeavor far from the exclusive confines of the cruise ship failed.

The Brotherhood didn’t yet have all elements of Satan’s Fist. There was still one other source.

“This is not a point of debate,”Greta Schmidt ‘snapped. “If you had been here when the communication window opened, you would have heard that the Danish government is calling for your evacuation. It is not a Geo-Research decision.” Marty Bishop’s face reddened another shade. “And I’m sure you did everything in your power to argue our case,” he said sarcastically.

“What case?” she scoffed. While her arms were crossed in a defensive posture, her attitude and tone were belligerent. Werner Koenig was at her side as they stood over the dining table. He said nothing. “Two people were almost killed this morning, and Camp Decade — your whole reason for being here — is a smoldering hole in the ice.”

“We can still go down there once it cools,” Marty sputtered.

“Mr. Bishop, there is nothing left.” She seemed to be enjoying herself. As she showed more and more control over the expedition in the past days, her once attractive features had turned as hard as the ice outside. In contrast, Koenig seemed to have physically shrunk since establishing the base. “The fire Dr. Mercer accidentally started destroyed it.”

Mercer had told that lie shortly after their rescue as a delaying tactic. Anika had agreed to go along with the deception because she was equally determined to discover the real arsonist and murderer. Had they told Werner and Greta that it had been intentionally set, they were certain that Geo-Research would have ordered them from the ice as a safety precaution.

Which, as it turned out, was happening anyway.

Mercer’s expression remained unchanged when she looked at him, her face made ugly by a superior smirk. “Then why,” he asked deliberately, “are you also sending away Erwin Puhl, Dr. Klein, and the other members of their team? The loss of Camp Decade doesn’t affect their research.”