Pandora's curse

lift its leg against a wall. A dark puddle formed on the carpet, and the woman scooped up the Pekingese before its feet became soiled. The thought that these people worshipped the same god he did made Vatutin wince.

Unlike many who had preceded him, Father Vatutin did not pause when he got his first look at the luxury liner. He paid scant attention to the guards either. Head down and cheap shoes clomping, he moved across the pier toward one of four embarkation points, his expression one of anxious determination. The sun soaking into his black clothes was only partially responsible for the sweat that caught in his beard and trickled down his flanks.

He presented his ticket to a uniformed woman at the top of the gangway, not returning the cheery greeting. “You are in cabin E429, Father Vatutin,” the assistant cruise director said in passable Russian. “That’s on the starboard hull. Go straight into the ship, and when you reach the first atrium, you’ll see a broad hallway to your right. That’s the Champs Elysees, one of four main throughways connecting the two hulls. When you reach the atrium on the other hull, another attendant will direct you to the elevator bank closest to your cabin.”

“Spesiva,” Vatutin grunted, clutching at his shoulder bag as if afraid the bubbly attendant would take it.

He moved quickly through the ship, pausing for a flicker of a second to gaze upward when he reached the lofty, glass-crowned atrium that was the centerpiece of each side of the vessel. The balconies ringing the upper floors dripped with flowering plants, reminding Vatutin of an artist’s rendition of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. He found the long corridor called Champs Elysees, then threaded through clusters of people conversing in excited bursts. He noted that the men outnumbered the women by a factor of fifty.

At the next atrium, he again presented his ticket and was directed to an elevator bank near the stern of the vessel, where he took one of the cars downward to the lowest of passenger decks. While his Spartan cabin had a small porthole, it presented a shadowy view of the channel between the hulls. The cabin pulsed with the vibration of the Sea Empress’s engines. He paid no attention to the view or the vibration. His heavy antique wooden chest had already been delivered and sat in the middle of the tiny room, taking up so much space that Vatutin had to tuck his legs under the bed to face it. He checked the lock carefully, relieved to see that it hadn’t been tampered with. He had no idea what kind of scrutiny the luggage was given, and he had been concerned that if the contents had been examined, he wouldn’t have a ready explanation for what lay within.

He used a brass key on the lock and lifted the lid. The case was a clever disguise, meant to look solid and heavy when in fact it was made of wood veneer over an aluminum shell that weighed just ten pounds. It was what was at the bottom of the trunk that gave it such weight.

Below the few items of clothing and toiletries that Vatutin needed for the two-week cruise were a pair of gloves, a hood, a type of smock, and a specially designed metal flask. The gloves almost looked like medieval chain mail except they were crafted of tightly woven gold thread and weren’t yet a hundred years old. Each one weighed three pounds. He knew from experience that they were clumsy and awkward to wear and even harder to work with.

Next to them was a long hood similarly fashioned of gold thread. Two eyeholes were woven into the mesh, and over them, a special flap could be drawn down to completely cover the eyes if necessary. Fortunately for Vatutin, the cowl’s original owner had had a larger than normal head, so he could slip on the hood without difficulty. He set the glittering gloves and hood aside and strained to withdraw the last item of clothing. This was a recent addition to Vatutin’s collection because the original smock had long since disappeared.

This one weighed almost ninety pounds. It was composed of lead-impregnated cloth with hundreds of small lead plates sewn in place to form a solid shield extending from the waist to the throat. The sleeves were banded with lead rings of various sizes that allowed limited movement at the shoulder and elbow.

Anatoly Vatutin wished that the Brotherhood could have afforded to assemble the garment out of gold, like the original, but they no longer had anywhere near that kind of money. As it was, if they failed in the next two weeks, the Brotherhood would not have the funds to continue their work.

A high-strength stainless-steel flask was left at the bottom of the trunk. Though it was the same size as the trunk and about a foot tall, only half its volume was filled. Its liquid contents had been smuggled at tremendous cost from the Chernobyl nuclear plant before its closure. He looked at it with dread before lowering the smock back into the chest and replacing the gloves and hood. He had just started a prayer of thanks that his secret was still safe when there was a knock on his cabin door.

His heart slammed against his ribs. Oh, God, no! It had to be the Swiss Guards coming to question him. Either he had been betrayed or they had X-rayed the trunk. Not now that I am so close, he cried silently to God. Please, this is your work I am doing.

Frantic, he threw his other clothes into the trunk, slammed the lid, and turned the lock again. “Moment, please,” he croaked in English.

“Father Vatutin?” a man called from the other side of the door. “I am from the purser’s office. Please open the door.”

“I am on the toilet,” Vatutin improvised, eyeing the porthole as a possible escape route. It was much too small, of course. Trapped, he resigned himself to trust in God to see him through. “I am coming.”

On the way to the door, he had the presence of mind to reach into the closet-size bathroom to flush the toilet, maintaining his thin veil of deception. If there was only one of them outside the door, Vatutin wondered if he could kill him. For what he needed to do on this trip, taking the life of a purser was a small price. He had the element of surprise, and even without a weapon, he was formidable at six foot three inches tall and two hundred thirty pounds. He composed himself, wiping sweat from his face. The door swung smoothly and standing in the corridor was an innocent-looking young man wearing a white uniform and holding a bunch of flowers.

“Father Vatutin, these are compliments of the cruise line.” He smiled and offered the flowers to a befuddled Vatutin. “When the sailing arrangements were made, your bishop, Bishop Olkranszy, assured us that you wouldn’t mind being on the lowest deck. However we felt brightening your cabin with flowers was the least we could do.”

“The cabin is fine,” Vatutin stammered, his relief immeasurable. They knew nothing! “Perhaps you can give the flowers to the person in the next cabin.”

“We have them for all guests staying on the inside of E deck, Father,” the young man said and smiled again.

“Ah, thank you, then.” Vatutin closed the door, leaning his back against it as he tried to slow his breathing. He wished he had brought along something to settle his stomach. He wanted to vomit.

Get hold of yourself, Anatoly, he thought. He felt like he was having a heart attack. No one knows why you are really here.

He knew he would not relax until he took possession of the icon being presented to Bishop Olkranszy by the Vatican and confirmed what lay hidden behind its golden cover. Anatoly gave little thought to his own death if he mishandled the relic just as long as he accomplished his mission. It was little wonder that knowing the secret of Satan’s Fist had driven the Brotherhood’s founder insane. Grigori Efymovich had handled dozens of such icons while Vatutin was responsible for only one. It would be days before he received the icon, and the tension was already tearing him apart.

EAST OF THE GEO-RESEARCH STATION, GREENLAND

Over the anemic throb of the helicopter’s faltering engine Anika Klein could hear her grandfather’s voice in her head. “Go to Greenland, liebchen. There you will be safe.”

She could never remember a time when Opa Jacob had been more wrong.

The chopper lurched again, a sickening plunge that made her restraining harnesses dig into her shoulders. The pilot, a young Dane contracted by Geo-Research, fought to keep the dying craft in the air. The grim set to his jaw and the undisguised fear in his eyes told Anika that he wasn’t likely to win the fight. Around them, the storm that the Njoerd’s meteorologist promised wouldn’t hit for another six hours raged with banshee fury. Anika had been on enough helicopters to know that, even if the engine wasn’t about to let go, they had little chance of reaching the research camp. The snowstorm was too intense. For the hundredth time she cursed herself for flying, cursed the daredevil pilot for thinking he could beat the storm, and cursed Opa Jacob for convincing her she’d be safer in Greenland than at home pursuing Otto