Innocent Blood(57)

He had come upon the crystal while searching for the mythical philosopher’s stone, a substance said to grant eternal life. He had hoped it would offer a clue to his own immortality. He had unearthed the crystal from under the cornerstone of a ruined church.

In the end, it wasn’t the philosopher’s stone—but something far more powerful, tied to death not immortal life. He rubbed his thumb across the mark carved on the underside of the stone. After years studying both this symbol and the stone, he knew many of its secrets—but not all.

Still, he knew in the right hands this simple green stone could upset the balance of life on Earth. For centuries, he had waited for the right time to release its evil into the world, to accomplish what he had been put on Earth to do.

He pocketed the stone and stared up at the sun.

At last, it was now time.

But first he needed to secure two angels.

One from the past, one from the present.





21





December 19, 1:48 P.M.

The Arctic Ocean



Far above the deck of the icebreaker, Tommy gripped the metal cross braces of a red crane, holding tightly with his thick gloves. He had no fear of death, knowing a plunge to the hard steel below wouldn’t kill him—but he could do without the pain of a shattered back, pelvis, and skull.

Instead, he carefully pulled himself higher.

His captors let him climb whenever he wanted.

They also had no fear of Tommy’s death—or escape.

He worked his way around to the back of the crane. Even with the biting wind, he loved being up here. He felt free, leaving his fears and concerns below.

As the Arctic sun sat leadenly on the horizon, refusing to fully rise this time of year, Tommy stared at the endless spread of sea ice, at the dark trail of open water forged by the bow of the ship. The only living things for miles around were the crew of the icebreaker. He wasn’t sure if Alyosha or the kid’s master counted as living things.

A creak of a door drew his gaze from the horizon back to the deck. A dark shape stepped through a hatch, having to bend his tall form to exit. He held the edges of his robe against the fierce wind—not because he was cold, but simply to restrain the wool from whipping about his body. It was easy to spot the thick beard, the dour expression.

It was Alyosha’s master.

Grigori Rasputin.

The Russian monk held a satellite phone in one hand.

Curious, Tommy climbed toward him, intending to eavesdrop from above.

Aboard the ship, everyone went dead silent whenever Tommy entered a cabin. They looked at him as if he were an alien creature—and maybe he was now. But from up here, unseen, he could hear and watch ordinary life pass below. It was another reason he liked climbing up here. It comforted him to watch somebody smoke or whistle or joke, even if he couldn’t understand the Russian.

Quietly, he worked his way down until he reached a perch close enough to listen, while keeping out of direct view of Rasputin.

The monk paced below him, muttering in Russian and glaring out at the ice. He kept checking his phone, as if expecting a call. Something clearly had the guy agitated.

Finally, the phone rang.

Rasputin snapped the phone to his ear. “Da?”

Tommy kept very still on his braced perch. He prayed the person on the other line spoke English. Maybe he could learn something.

Please . . .

Rasputin cleared his throat after listening for a full minute and spoke with a heavy accent. “Before we negotiate for the boy,” he said, “I want a photograph of the Gospel.”

Tommy was relieved to hear English, but what did Rasputin mean by negotiate for the boy? Was someone trying to buy him? Was this call about his freedom or another prison?

If only I could hear the other end of the conversation.

Unfortunately that wish wasn’t granted.

“I know what the Gospel revealed, Cardinal,” Rasputin growled. “And I won’t negotiate unless I can verify that it remains in your possession.”

Questions popped like firecrackers in Tommy’s head: What gospel? What cardinal? Was he talking to someone in the Catholic Church? Why?

Tommy pictured the eyes of the priest who had comforted him after the death of his parents atop Masada. He remembered the man’s concern. The priest had even offered a prayer for his mother and father, though he knew they were both Jewish.

Angry sounds erupted from the other end of the phone, loud enough to reach Tommy’s perch.

Rasputin said something again, switching from English to what sounded like Latin.

He recalled the priest’s prayer had also been in Latin.

Was there some connection?

“Those are my terms,” Rasputin spat out and ended the call.

His pacing resumed again, until his phone beeped with an incoming text.

Rasputin looked at the screen and sank to his knees on the icy deck. His face looked rapturous as he scanned the ice, clutching the phone between his palms as if it were a prayer book.