Chapter 32 #2
I hang up as I meet Tristan and Isolde near the pile of organ pipes, Tristan looking around the church and Isolde assessing the woman who’s still sitting and smoking like nothing’s changed.
Isolde’s posture shifts subtly into something slightly more feline and aware. She also recognizes a fellow monster.
“Tristan, Isolde, this is…” I pause politely, and the woman correctly interprets the prompt.
“Barbara,” she says. Finishes off her cigarette. “Pleasure to meet you both.”
“Marvelous.” I turn to my two troublemakers. “Now can I ask why you two are here and not in Manhattan doing any number of productive and pleasant things?”
“The doorman gave me this when I returned with Petitcrieu from a walk.” Isolde hands me a piece of paper, thin but finely milled. I still have the gunmetal rosary twined through my fingers, and the beads clank as I unfold the note to see a typewritten address.
The address of the auto shop.
“It’s from the Scales,” says Isolde. “There was no good reason I could think of that the Scales would give me an address in Albany on the same day you told me you had an errand upstate. I was worried. So we left Petitcrieu with Goran and the others and came up here in a cab.”
“Have we met before?” Barbara asks, staring at Isolde. “You look familiar.”
As my wife shakes her head, my phone rings again, the bats lose their shit again, and I pick it up with an irritated sigh. “Yes?”
“We have a problem,” says Andrea. “The FBI is here, and they have a warrant. Do you remember the congressman whose toothbrush you poisoned last year? The warrant says that you obstructed a congressional proceeding, committed wire fraud, and a whole lot of other shit. Anyway, the FBI is claiming that Lyonesse and everything in it are now forfeited assets, and they’re trying to seize the club. That would mean the servers too.”
Fuck .
This is Cashel’s doing, I’m certain of it.
I’m not sure how he learned about my date with the congressman’s gastrointestinal biome, but there’s only one entity that could topple my carefully balanced bulwark of local bribery and international sin peddling, and that’s the Church and its saints.
I might woo bodies, but Cashel deals in the seduction of souls, and the faithful are everywhere.
“Call Anguish,” I say quickly. “She needs to come to the club right away. The assets are fully hers, not mine, so they can’t be seized in connection with any of my alleged crimes.”
“Fully hers? But?—”
“Remember when I told you that I sold Anguish half the club?”
“Yes,” says Andrea slowly. “I reviewed the contract before you signed it.”
“Well, I’m sorry to say that you reviewed the version I wanted you to see. I sold Anguish the entire club in exchange for unlimited access to the data in perpetuity. But everything physical about Lyonesse is hers, including the servers. No one can touch the club, for now at least.”
“They’ll be able to take your work computer and any personal electronics here though…”
“I’m quite hygienic when it comes to information,” I assure her. “Don’t fight them on taking anything from my office or apartment. They won’t get anything of value there.”
Andrea blows out a long breath. “Why didn’t you tell me that you sold all of Lyonesse to Anguish?”
“You hating it was fantastic cover,” I explain without regret. “It made it look like I sold off part of the club as an inadvisable whim and not as a planned strategy. Now call Anguish, get Dinah, and tell the FBI that they can serve me the warrant in Manhattan.”
“Are you really going to let them arrest you?” she asks disbelievingly.
“Andrea, even with Cashel’s maneuvering, no one has the stomach for a headline with president’s aunt and sex club anywhere near each other.
And that’s exactly what will happen when they arrest me.
Amid the embarrassment and Embry Moore being very grumpy with everyone, my extremely well-paid lawyers will have me home and in my own bed in a matter of hours. ”
“As long as you’re confident,” she grumbles.
“ Call Anguish. We’ll talk soon.”
I hang up and look at my audience.
“You’re a busy man,” remarks Barbara. And then to Isolde, “Are you sure we haven’t met?”
“She’s Cashel’s niece,” I say, not saying the implication aloud—that she’s Inis Laurence’s daughter, so Barbara should choose her next words with care.
Isolde should know about how her mother really died, but I’d rather she learn when she has time to process something that fucked up, and apparently we’re on the FBI’s timetable now.
Fuck me, why did it have to be the FBI? Isn’t it bad enough getting arrested without having to look at a suit purchased with Kohl’s Cash?
When my phone rings for a third time, I seriously consider smashing it with the heel of my shoe. The bats fuck off for good, disappearing up the belfry at the far end of the church. “I’m a little busy—” I say as I pick it up, but I hear Jago’s heavy breathing, and I stop talking immediately.
“Nine or ten, sir. Coming into the church now.”
“Jago, don’t risk yourself?—”
The front doors of the church swing open.
I strip off my coat as I move toward Tristan and Isolde, tossing it on the floor, reaching into my suit jacket?—
The air itself splits, snaps, cracks back into place, and Barbara falls to the side and then to the floor, part of her face missing. From the belfry, I hear the very faint fuss of the sleep-deprived bats.
Appropriately warned, I stop moving and slowly lift my hands as they surround us. The crucifix of Barbara’s rosary swings and thumps against my palm.
They’re not wearing any kind of uniform—just dark tactical clothing with no helmets, eye protection, or packs—but they move with a silent, sinuous grace that belies years of experience.
Isolde stiffens when she sees one young woman step forward.
She has burnished skin, a thick black braid slung over one shoulder, and a battered brown scapular over her vest—undeniably a saint.
Someone Isolde has worked with before, if memory serves.
Luckily, my memory always serves. A handy gift for the lord of Lyonesse and the keeper of its treasury of secrets.
So the saints are here. Which means that I was being watched or that Cashel was watching Barbara.
More important than either possibility is that the Scales moved so quickly to have Isolde sent here.
Which means Isolde’s uneasy reprieve under Cashel’s trust has ended.
Cashel can have only one outcome planned then, with only two variations likely.
The short way or the long way.
And as three saints break off to move behind each of us and press a gun to the backs of our necks, I have to imagine that the short way is very short indeed.
“The Holy Father would like to see you, Mr. Trevena,” the leader of the group says with a level, almost courteous voice.
I can tell which saints are newer, I think, because the more seasoned ones remind me of Isolde—contained and shuttered—while the others have a feverish glitter in their eyes.
The soul-rusting reality of homicide hasn’t yet dulled the shine of their zeal. “And you too, Isolde.”
“Is your plan to drag the three of us to Rome?” I drawl.
I discreetly scan the space as I speak, wondering if Jago has ignored my bitten-off warning.
One brave bat has fluttered back to the rafters, determined to sleep in his own bed apparently.
“Surely the Episcopus Romanus has better things to do with his time than come to Albany.”
“The three of you? No.” The leader looks at Tristan. “The Holy Father hasn’t asked for this one. There’s no need to bring him with us.”
Not good. If they leave him here, they won’t leave him alive.
I slouch back a little, loosening my posture into that of a well-dressed inebriate.
“He should have asked for him,” I volunteer.
“He thwarted Cashel’s plans in Carpathia last year, didn’t you, Tristan?
I’m sure the pontiff wouldn’t mind a word or two with the hero who saved the Carpathian prime minister from a premature death? ”
The muzzle at the back of my head is unwavering, the pressure consistent even as I sway and shift. I wouldn’t expect less from a saint, but it does make me miss Filip Drobny’s crowd. They were much sloppier and so, so easy to fool into making a mistake.
“What do you think, little wife?” I say, turning my head a little to see Isolde.
She stares back at me with a completely blank expression, having gone into saint mode herself.
Perfect. “Should we talk your uncle into meeting some military royalty? Maybe Tristan can walk him through how fucking flimsy the assassination plan was from start to finish?” I gesture a little to emphasize start and finish .
Above Isolde’s head, I see the blurred, drunken flap of more bats returning from the belfry.
“Enough,” says the leader. Her voice is still utterly neutral. “We’re not changing our plans.”
Isolde’s eyes are now on my left hand, where my thumb is in the middle of my palm. One of our signals.
Watch me .
Her gaze slides to mine. Her chin dips ever so slightly. She’s watching.
Tristan for his part has gone completely still, his eyes roving from saint to saint, his breathing even. He might as well be back in the hills of Carpathia on a dangerous patrol.
I toy with the rosary in my right hand as I talk.
“Was Barbara part of these plans? Did you know about her? It’s a waste of time to lecture you all on holiness, obviously, but I would have thought some loyalty would be in order.
But maybe you don’t know exactly what she did for your fearless leader.
” The beads aren’t looped around my fingers any longer.
The crucifix makes a slow, dizzy pendulum in the air.