Jonathan Maberry - Assassin's code

Mr. Church traced a small circle on the arm of the chair. “As usual, Hugo, you twist the truth to get what you want. John Newton didn’t renounce the slave trade for four more years, and he captained slave ships until 1754. It was only when he had a stroke and feared that he was going to die that he underwent that conversion. Even then… he continued to invest in the slave trade.”

Vox smiled. “My version’s better.”

“Your version is a lie.”

“Toys, though.”

“You took all his money and threw him to the wolves. If that’s your attempt at tough love, you should reconsider your strategies.”

“Hugo… when I look at this whole thing, all the players, all the factions, all of the secret agendas, it doesn’t add up to anything. It’s chaotic. But as I sat here I believe I figured it out.”

“Think so, huh?”

“It’s simple, when viewed from a certain distance. When you got involved in this, you were dying and you wanted to throw yourself a going away party. My guess is that the Upier 531 is working. You’re going to live. You don’t want anything to blow up because that would close the candy shop for you. And you used everyone-your allies, your friends, and me-to cancel each other out. I thought it was clumsy at first, but now I appreciate it. It’s so utterly chaotic that no one would ever sort it out; there are too many missing pieces. However I know you, Hugo. Those pieces are irrelevant because they wouldn’t make a clear picture no matter how they were assembled. Chaos is the best way to hide your tracks.”

Vox smiled, but he neither confirmed nor denied Church’s allegations.

“And if the nukes had gone off? What then? No, don’t bother to answer. You wouldn’t even wait for the dust to settle. You’d find a safe place to build your next web and start all over again. Now that you have the Upier 531, there will be no end to the chaos, will there?”

Vox said nothing, but his eyes shifted toward the door and back.

Church half-smiled. “Please, feel free to try and run.”

Vox’s face underwent a change. He let the mask of pretense slip away.

“Come on, Deacon…” he said. “Give me a pass. I’m no threat to you anymore.”

Church continued to trace the circle.

“I’m begging you,” said Vox. “I’ll get down on my knees if that’s what you want.”

“Sure,” said Mr. Church. “Let’s see you on your knees.”

The big man blinked at Church. “Really?”

“Really.”

Vox licked his lips again and slid out of his chair onto his knees. The jolt knocked a single sharp cough out of him, but it was a small thing. A fading echo of what was. Upier 531 was doing its job. They both knew it.

“Please,” said Vox. “I’m on my fucking knees and I’m begging you.”

“Betraying me and betraying your country is one thing,” Church said. “You provided the Sabbatarians and the Upierczi with lists of all of the DMS staff and their families.”

Vox licked his lips. “Nobody got hurt, did they? You stopped all that shit. It was a scare tactic, a diversion.”

Mr. Church studied him for a long time. An unbearable time for Vox.

“Circe’s name was on that list, Hugo.”

“Hey, come on, Deke… you know I’d never hurt a hair on her head. You know that.”

Without comment or change of facial expression, Mr. Church reached inside his suit coat and withdrew a pistol. He shot Hugo Vox once in the heart and once in the head.

The bullets were low caliber. There were no exit wounds and Vox’s body was solid enough to withstand the foot-pounds of impact. He stayed there on his knees for three full seconds before he canted backward and collapsed onto the floor.

Mr. Church laid the pistol on the table and folded his hands in his lap.

He did not move at all for over an hour.

(6)

Dr. Rudy Sanchez sat next to Dr. Circe O’Tree in the Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano. It was midafternoon, and a tour group was following a guide up a side aisle as the man droned on about how this church had been burned, sacked, ravaged by earthquakes, and rebuilt several times over the years. Circe had her eyes closed, listening to her own thoughts, but Rudy eavesdropped on the guide. The story seemed appropriate to all that had happened.

“It’s different,” Circe said quietly and Rudy turned in surprise, wondering how the comment fit the speech.

“What?”

“The world,” she said. “It’s different.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding.

“Today and tomorrow and from now on. It’s different.” Circe wiped away a tear.

“I know.”

The tour guide moved off toward reliquaries containing bones of dead saints, his flock following, cameras flashing.

“It’s not fair.”

“I know.”

“The dark isn’t the dark anymore. There are things in it.” Circe bared her teeth in an almost feral snarl. “I don’t want it to be real.”

“No.”

“But it is.”

“Yes.”

“Vampires,” she said. “God help us.”

Rudy wrapped his arm around her and held her close and looked up at the statues of the holy people who were supposed to keep them all safe.

“ Dios mio, ” he whispered.

(7)

The bishop and the gathered priests stood in the multicolored rays of light which slanted down through the tall stained glass windows. The bishop stood in the Great Entrance of the Liturgy, flanked by assisting priests, watching as the young candidate for ordination came forward, carrying the Aer-chalice veil-over his head, following the procession of other members of this holy event.

The bishop took the Aer from the candidate and covered the chalice and diskos with it. A priest brought a chair for the bishop to sit in, setting it in front and to the left of the Holy Table.

Two priests flanked the candidate and brought him through the Holy Doors, escorting him three times around the altar, allowing the young man to pause and kiss each corner of the Holy Table. At the end of each circuit the candidate bent to kiss the bishop’s palitza and right hand. The priests guided him then to the southwest corner of the Holy Table. The young man knelt and rested his forehead on the table’s edge. The bishop then placed his omophor and right hand over the ordinand’s head and read the prayer of ordination.

The other clergy quietly recited a litany amongst themselves and the faithful in the pews chanted “Kyrie eleison.”

When the prayers were completed the bishop clothed the new priest in the sacerdotal vestments. As each garment was placed, the people in the pews cried out, “ Axios.”

He is worthy.

Throughout the ceremony the man looked slightly dazed, as if this was all such a mystery and a wonder to him. In the pews, his parents beamed at him. They had never figured this lad for the priesthood, not when he was a boy. But God has His own needs and His own ways. If the call comes, then what man of true faith can turn away?

“By what name will you be known as you serve God?” asked the bishop. It was a formality, rooted in old traditions, echoed down through time since popes had chosen not to take the name of Peter out of respect for the first of their line. These days, priests usually kept their own name. But the young man surprised the bishop.

“I will be Nicodemus,” he said.

The bishop nodded, his approval outweighing his surprise. Nicodemus was a righteous name, and there had been many priests from right here in Verona who had chosen to serve God with it.

“Receive thou this pledge, and preserve it whole and unharmed until thy last breath, because thou shalt be held to an accounting therefore in the second and terrible Coming of our great Lord, God, and Savior, Jesus Christ.”

The new priest turned toward the gathered people as the colored light from the stained glass windows patterned his face. His eyes no longer looked confused or doubtful. Instead, the mingled lights seemed to paint them in shades of green and brown.