Authors: Gilliam Ness
Florence, Italy.
The black sports car rolled
slowly over the cobblestones, its headlights cutting through the heavy downpour. Natasha was looking intently through her window, scanning the shadows as they proceeded. They were driving along a narrow alleyway in the city centre, the heavy rain blanketing them.
Given the weather, the drive from Rome had taken more than twice what it should have. It was almost sunrise, and they were only approaching Natasha’s workshop now. They had decided to take the back entrance as a precaution.
“So far so good,” said Gabriel, easing the car forward along the constricting laneway.
He pushed a button and Natasha watched as the side view mirrors collapsed inwardly.
“You are like a little boy with your new car, Gabriel,” she said, laughing.
Gabriel was tired from the long drive.
“Just keep an eye out for the opening,” he said. “If you’re good I’ll let you play with the mirrors later.”
Natasha guffawed in surprise.
“Don’t you tell me what to do,” she said. “I will look where I please!”
Gabriel pretended to ignore her, looking through the windshield to scan the peeling plaster walls that passed outside.
“Did you hear what I have said?” she asked, frowning.
“Did you hear what I have said?” he mimicked inaudibly.
“You are a
testa di cazzo
…” said Natasha.
On an impulse, Gabriel turned to Natasha and began to sing. It was a romantic piece of music from a famous opera by Puccini; his voice mimicking that of a tenor’s.
O soave fanciulla, o dolce viso
Di mite circonfuso alba lunar,
In te ravviso il sogno
Ch’io vorrei sempre sognar!
Gabriel finished proudly. He was an avid opera fan, but hardly a tenor. He had tried his best to sing the part as correctly as possible, and Natasha had at first been wooed by its melody, her peevishness dissolving instantly. But as the passion had gained in intensity, Gabriel’s voice had become more and more abrasive, until Natasha was at last able to regain her perspective. She looked over at Gabriel as though he were crazy, still laughing at his botched crescendo.
“You think you are really a good opera singer, don’t you?” she said, shaking her head in disbelief.
“Oh, yes,” said Gabriel, nodding emphatically.
He continued his scanning.
“Hey,” he said. “There’s an opening in the wall here.”
Natasha rolled her eyes and looked out the window.
“You can park your fancy car now, Pavarotti,” she said. “We are here.”
By positioning the car next to the opening, Gabriel allowed Natasha to open her door directly into it. He climbed over to her side and followed her out. They made their way through a narrow passageway and into a drenched inner courtyard, arriving at a pair of old wooden doors. Natasha produced a large iron key from her bag in the pouring rain.
“I really hate this storeroom,” she said, inserting it into the lock.
In a moment the smell of raw earth and ancient mildew had wafted out of the darkness to greet them. With the increased humidity, the musty air could almost be tasted on the tongue, and Gabriel breathed it in deeply, savouring the antiquity like a connoisseur.
“Got a flashlight?” he asked, squinting into the darkness.
Natasha produced one from her bag.
“Follow me,” she said.
They made their way through the maze of shelves until they had reached the front room. It was not as dark here as in the storeroom. The bluish light from the street lamps was filtering in through the watery panes, casting shifting patterns of light on the floor.
“Please, make yourself at home,” she said, beginning to pack a field case with equipment.
Just then Gabriel’s phone rang.
Gabriel remained on the phone the entire time that Natasha packed the equipment. She could see that he was doing more listening than talking, but it was not until she had finished, that it looked as though his conversation might end.
“Alright then, Amir,” said Gabriel. “If all goes well we’ll be seeing you later this afternoon then. Stay in touch.”
He pocketed the phone, turning to Natasha.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Natasha,” he said, “we’ve got some driving to do.”
* * * * * *
Gibraltar
The old Bishop awoke to find the plane in a sharp bank. It was no longer raining. Looking out his window he could see the Rock of Gibraltar turning below him, its small cosmopolitan centre twinkling with a thousand lights. Stretching out into the distance, the shimmering waters of the Bay of Algeciras could also be seen, dotted with freighters and ships of all kinds.
To the starboard side towered Gibraltar’s majestic peak, silhouetted against a predawn sky. It was a time sculpted rock formation, topped with the famous single white cloud that had come to be known as
El Levante
, named after the easterly wind that was responsible for its formation. In minutes they had circled the small peninsula, leveling off to make their landing approach on the short strip of runway that separated the British colony from the Spanish mainland. The Bishop smiled in delight.
“Gibraltar!” he exclaimed. “One of the two great pillars of Hercules! The fortified bastion of the British Royal Navy, and home to the largest per capita density of pubs in all of Christendom! Aye, but a pint of stout would be nice. That and a breakfast of steak and kidney pie!”
Amsterdam, North Holland.
It was just past six in the morning
when Prince Vladimir Rodchenko arrived at the Vanderhoff suite. The front desk had awoken him with orders from the Nautonnier to go there immediately. Christian met him at the door and led him into the room, locking the door behind them.
The old Prince gasped in horror. Resting on a table at the back of the suite could be seen the severed head of the Nautonnier, propped in a pool of coagulated blood. In a facing chair, Christian had placed the headless corpse. It sat there stiff and macabre, like a gruesome figure in a wax museum.
“As you can see,” said Christian, positioning himself behind his mortified uncle, “there has been a change in command. The Nautonnier has ceded his position to me.”
The Prince seemed only then to come out of his shock, and would have fled the room had Christian not placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Do you remember when you used to drop me off, and pick me up from school, Uncle?”
“Before and after every holiday,” stammered the Prince.
“Was it ever difficult for you?” asked Christian. “Knowing that you were taking an innocent boy to be buggered by the man who is now dead before you?”
The Prince froze, unable to respond. The psychologists had assured them that Christian’s memories would remain suppressed for the entirety of his life.
“I had nothing to do with it!” he stammered. “It was something between your father and the Nautonnier.”
“You had everything to do with it! You knowingly allowed it to happen!”
“I will not be held accountable for your father’s actions!” said the Prince with rekindling authority. “I am leaving!”
He attempted to move, but found that an invisible force was holding him fast. He struggled to free himself from it, his eyes bulging from the effort. Christian looked on. In the space of a few seconds, the Prince’s face had gone from a pasty, ashen white to a vivid purple.
“Sit down!” barked Christian with icy hatred. “I am the Nautonnier now. You will leave when I am finished with you!”
“Please, Christian. I am your family,” said the Prince, giving up his struggle and sinking into a chair.
It was on hearing this reference to his family that yet another deep, childhood wound surfaced in Christian. Impossible as it might seem, it had been the cause of more pain than all the abuses suffered at the hands of Father Adrianus. Christian had once had an older brother named Isaac. He had been the only source of love and support in his deprived life.
It was not long after the birth of their sister Alina, and the death of their mother, that Isaac had been sent off to study at Vatican City. From that point onward, everything in Christian’s life had changed. Christian lost all contact with his brother, and two years later would himself be shipped off to school, returning home on his first holiday to find that his baby sister had also been displaced.
“What happened to my brother and sister?” said Christian, trembling with a strange combination of fear and rage. “Tell me about my brother and sister!”
The Prince remained silent until he felt the force of a vicious slap to the back of his head.
“Your father sent Isaac to be manipulated by Father Adrianus. He was persuaded to disown himself from the Antov family. Your sister Alina was sent to be raised in another household.”
The Prince held up a hand to ward off another blow. Christian obviously wanted the full story. He proceeded with trepidation. He could well imagine the effect that the truth would have on Christian, and he feared for his life.
“Your father repeatedly raped your sister in Satanic rituals, Christian. He drove her to madness, and then disowned her at sixteen. She became a prostitute. Years later, in accordance with their plan, she was recovered and brought to Father Adrianus at the Vatican. She and Isaac were then made to marry. Of course, they did not know that they were brother and sister, but through their union a hermaphrodite child was conceived. Alina died giving birth to it.”
Christian looked down in silence, unable to comprehend what he was being told. It made no sense.
“The child was created to fulfill a Satanic prophecy,” said the Prince slowly. “Your father and the Nautonnier were obsessed with the occult. They used our science facility in Jerusalem to genetically mutate the child while it was still in Alina’s womb. They used the genes in our bloodline to create a monster.”
Christian broke from his stupor and turned to face the Prince, his eyes smoldering with deadly rage.
“And you knew all this?” he said, coming slowly out of shock.
The Prince shook his head from side to side as Christian bent down over him.
“No,” gasped the old Prince, his eyes wide with fear. “You do not understand.”
Christian’s face was contorting with the pain of betrayal now. This was his uncle. His family. How could he have allowed this to happen to innocent children? He reached out a hand, as if to caress the Prince’s face, but instead took him by the throat and began to shake him violently.
“You did nothing to stop it,” he snarled. “You didn’t give a shit.”
Christian was beside himself with fury. How could such a thing be possible? It was too repugnant to even imagine. He stopped shaking the Prince and released him suddenly in disgust. The same dark-self that had possessed him when he had killed the Nautonnier was paying him another visit. All he could do was watch as it took control.
“You’re responsible!” he bellowed suddenly, the veins exploding from his neck. “You stinking SON OF A BITCH!”
The force of Christian’s violence and hatred caused the old Prince to recoil in his chair, his head jerking backwards in fear. He brought one of his hands to his chest, and the other he thrust outward, beseeching his nephew to desist. Christian positioned himself directly over the old man, smiling cruelly.
Under the candlelight, the Prince’s unfocused eyes were blinking erratically now, his facial features contracting with pain. He was clearly having a heart attack. In his cold eyes there could almost be seen a cry for mercy, but it seemed wooden and insincere. Christian drew closer until his lips were physically touching the old man’s ear. He smiled coldly, his wickedness ringing like an icy bell.
“Dear, Uncle Vladimir,” he said with mocking innocence, his words twisting into the Prince’s head like a carving knife. “Now you will DIE!”
The Prince’s pupils contracted with fear, a look of surprised desperation contorting his features. He struggled to breathe, trying frantically to ward off the icy hand of death. Christian moved away from him in disgust. He could see the life force slowly leaving the body. He smiled wickedly, watching with great satisfaction as his uncle executed a long, drawn out death rattle. When all was over, he spat on the corpse, and then bent immediately afterwards to tenderly kiss the forehead, a tendril of saliva stretching and breaking as his lips pulled away.
* * * * * *
The morning was still young when the chief inspector left the Vanderhoff suite with Christian. Behind them, in a shaft of sunlight, the dead Prince could be seen sitting opposite the decapitated corpse, the Nautonnier’s waxy head still on the table.
“A tragic incident, Mr. Antov,” said the inspector solemnly, closing his notebook. “It is clear that your uncle died of a heart attack after murdering Father Adrianus. No investigation will be needed.”
“Very good, Inspector,” said Christian darkly. “Thank you for your diligence, and please have this mess cleaned up. I will have my assistant make the funeral arrangements.”
“Very good, Mr. Antov,” he said. “And a peaceful day to you, sir. You have my most sincere condolences.”
Christian watched the inspector leave.
The matters of the Permanent Secretary are above the law.
Suddenly Christian felt himself being pulled back into the room, as though by an invisible hand. He made his way to the Nautonnier’s body, and acting on an impulse, removed a bejeweled ring from the corpse. He placed it on his finger, directly next to his father’s ring, and moved to look at himself in the mirror. A chorus of whispers sounded at once in his mind.
“Hail the new Nautonnier. And all power to Ahreimanius, the Lord of Darkness and Matter.”
Christian shuddered as an icy chill rushed up his spine. In the mirror’s reflection he could see the repugnant Zurvanites standing behind him now. They were positioned around the Nautonnier’s severed head; their grainy forms jerking violently from side to side, untouched by the sunlight that streamed into the room. Christian spun around suddenly with boiling wrath.
“Get away from me!” he bellowed, but they had already vanished.
In that moment Christian knew that he had indeed become the new Nautonnier, and he recalled what his wicked predecessor had told him of the Zurvanites only days before.
“They are the Four. Since ancient times they have served the Nautonnier, and given him knowledge and power.”
Like a floodgate opening, Christian was at that moment made privy to many strange and mysterious things, and he was certain that the Zurvanites had imparted this knowledge on him. As though through churning mists, there came to him strange and formless recollections. In the blink of an eye he had been taken back through time; past the days of Herod, past the rule of the Zoroastrians, and further back still to when the world was watery, and men were like reptiles, and they were murderous and cruel. This was his ancestry; the lineage of all the Nautonniers who had gone before him. With it came a knowledge of the things that needed to be done at present, so that the dark plans of Lucifer might come to pass. He picked up a handset from its place on a table below the mirror.
“This is Christian Antov,” he said. “Get me Cynthia.”
“Hello, Mr. Antov,” came her silky voice. “How can I help you?”
“We will be checking out tonight.”
“Of course, Mr. Antov,” she said. “I will arrange to have your things packed immediately. Will you be needing anything else?”
“Dr. Bennington will be getting here shortly. Call me the moment he arrives.”
“Yes, sir,” she said seductively. “Anything else?”
Christian turned to study his reflection in the mirror again. For a split second he saw himself shift and transform in much the same way that the Zurvanites did. He bent closer to the glass. For that fraction of a moment he could have sworn that his features had become reptilian. Christian ran his hands over his face. He was beginning to understand.
“Connect me with the head secretary of our Jerusalem office,” he said.
Cynthia was silent for a moment, surprised by Christian’s odd request.
“Right away, Mr. Antov.”
Christian waited impatiently.
“Yes, Mr. Antov,” came the voice of a man, his accent Israeli. “How can I help you?”
“We will be moving all operations to the Jerusalem complex this afternoon. Coordinate with Cynthia. I want our pilots ready for takeoff at thirteen-hundred hours, and I want everyone in the Steering Committee on that plane. I will accept no excuses. Set up a group meeting for tomorrow morning. Have my private jet fueled and ready for immediate takeoff. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Antov. Immediately, sir.”