Innocent Blood(42)
Smart.
Two Israeli soldiers ran into the room, their weapons up and ready.
The stranger hurled a chair through the window, grabbed Thomas, and threw the boy out the window before the soldiers could open fire.
From the attacker’s speed, he had to be strigoi.
The stranger turned to face the soldiers, finally showing his face. He looked to be a boy himself, no more than fourteen. He sketched a quick bow to the soldiers before jumping out the window himself.
“How far was the drop?” Jordan asked, watching the soldiers rush to the window and begin silently firing below.
“Four stories,” the cardinal answered.
“So Thomas must be dead,” Jordan said. “He can’t be the First Angel.”
Erin wasn’t so sure. She glanced to Bernard as he whispered to Leopold. If Thomas was dead, why waste everyone’s time showing this video?
“The boy survived the fall,” the cardinal explained and pointed to the screen.
Another video file appeared, this one from a parking lot camera on the ground.
Caught from this angle, Thomas fell through the air, his blood-soaked hospital gown fluttering around his body like wings before he crashed headlong to the black asphalt. Shards of broken glass sparkled and danced around him.
As they watched, the boy stirred, plainly alive.
A split second later, the stranger in the suit landed, on his feet, next to him.
He grabbed Thomas by an arm and sprinted with him into the desert, vanishing quickly from view.
“We believe that the kidnapper was strigoi, perhaps in service to the Belial,” the cardinal said. “But we know for certain the child who survived Masada was no strigoi. He was reported in sunlight. The Israeli medical machines showed he had a heartbeat.”
“And I heard it, too,” Rhun added. “I held his hand. It was warm. He was alive.”
“But no human could survive a fall like that,” Leopold said, awed, still typing rapidly, as if trying to search for answers.
Erin caught a glimpse of a text box being opened, a message sent, then closed again. All done so quickly, in less than two seconds, that she failed to make out a single word.
“But Thomas survived,” Jordan said. “Like he did in Masada.”
“As if he’s under some divine protection.” Erin touched Leopold’s shoulder. “Show that first video again. I want to see that attacker’s face.”
The monk complied.
As the stranger turned toward the camera, Leopold froze the image and zoomed in. The kidnapper had an attractive face, oval, with dark eyebrows, one raised higher than the other. He had light-colored eyes, with short dark hair parted on the side.
He didn’t look familiar to her, but both Rhun and Bernard tensed with recognition.
“That’s Alexei Romanov,” Bernard said.
Erin let the shock ring through her.
The son of Czar Nicholas II . . .
Rhun closed his eyes, clearly aggrieved by sudden insight. “That must be why Rasputin let go of the Blood Gospel so easily back in St. Petersburg. He had already put plans in motion to kidnap this boy. He was playing an entirely different game from us, keeping cards up his long sleeves. I should have suspected as much back then.”
“You speak of the Romanovs,” the countess interrupted. “In my time, that Russian royal family lost power and were exiled to the far north. Did they then return to the throne?”
“They ruled from 1612 until 1917,” Rhun said.
“And my family.” The countess leaned forward. “What became of them? Did we also return to power?”
Rhun shook his head, looking reluctant to say more.
Contrarily, Nadia was more than happy to extend the branches of the countess’s family tree, to fill in her lost history. “Your children were charged with treason for your crimes, stripped of their wealth, and exiled from Hungary. For a hundred years, it was forbidden to speak your name in your homeland.”
The countess raised her chin a couple of millimeters, but she gave no other sign that she cared. Yet something in her eyes cracked as she turned away, revealing a well of grief behind that cold demeanor, a peek at her former humanity.
Erin changed the subject. “So Rasputin kidnapped this boy. But why? To what end?”
No one answered, and she didn’t blame anyone, remembering her own dealings with Rasputin. The monk was shrewd, conniving, and out merely for himself. To guess the twisted intentions of the Mad Monk of Russia, it would take someone equally as mad.
Or at least, a kindred soul.
The countess stirred and gazed around the room. “I would surmise he did it because he hates you all.”
15
December 19, 12:22 P.M. CET
South of Rome, Italy
As the rattling set of coaches tunneled through the bright middle of the day, Elizabeth pulled on the chain that connected her manacles to the wall of the last car.