Black Madonna

9

“They’re still out,” Serrin told Geraint when he rang the apartment. “Not back yet.”

“Oh, well, never mind,” Geraint said. “I won’t be back until eleven or so, I don’t expect. Fortunately the old bastard usually nods off in his chair about half-past ten and the liveried servants carry him away to sleep it off. See you thereabouts.”

Serrin was surprised that Geraint hadn’t asked him how his own searches were going. He was already intrigued, and after a few more phone calls had gotten even more so.

While adding to his notes, he realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and went to raid the fridge. He managed to put together some highly inept sandwiches from soft cheese and Parma ham, wishing the bread were a bagel, and went back to his writing. Finally, pausing at the last sentence, he caught the time on the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.

Ten minutes to eight.

He was astonished. Subjectively it felt around six at the latest, and with the heavy drapes drawn in the room-Geraint’s suggestion, since they had, after all, been subject to surveillance-he hadn’t realized that it had long since grown dark outside.

Something was clearly wrong. Michael and Kristen had been gone for more than seven hours and they would surely have phoned in the normal course of events.

There was a knock at the door, and a whole host of paranoid thoughts and images leaped into his mind. He found himself walking over to get the Predator from his jacket, and then realized this was only bloody England, after all. Even in this day and age, there was barely one licensed gun for every hundred people-about the exact reverse of the situation at home-and there weren’t that many illegal weapons on the street.

And those that were usually didn’t make it north of the Thames all the way to posh Mayfair.

Opening the door a crack Serrin saw a uniformed delivery man standing outside with his clipboard and pen. awaiting his signature.

“His Lordship isn’t home. Detained on urgent government business,” he said.

The delivery man didn’t look terribly impressed. “Has to be his signature,” he insisted. “Says so on the paperwork. Look,” and he demonstrated the fact with a thick, ink-stained finger.

Senin shrugged. “He probably won’t be back until midnight.”

“Look, mate, this is well out of hours already. Special service extra delivery, know what I mean? Rakk me if I’m coming back at rakking midnight.”

“Yes, yes, all right.” Serrin was irritated at the man’s foul mouth. “Look, I’ll sign and everything will be in order.”

“Rakk off. You’re not a lordship,” the man said huffily. “You can’t even be one of his servants-you’re a bloody Sep. you are! I can’t let you have this, guy. More than my job’s worth.”

Serrin fished into his pockets and located what he considered a reasonable sum in pounds sterling.

The man looked at the bills rather dubiously.

Serrin exchanged the sum for nuyen, and upped the ante fifty percent.

The man shrugged philosophically. “Just sign as ‘im and no one will ever know the difference,” he said casually. Serrin did as he was told.

“So where’s the package?” he asked.

“Down in the parking lot. I’m not lugging it all the rakking way up here.”

“Thanks,” Serrin said dryly, wishing he hadn’t upped the payment. Just as the delivery man turned to leave, a dark-haired elf dressed in black emerged from the elevator and fixed him with a stare by way of greeting.

“Lord Llanfrechfa at home?”

“Frag me, this is worse than Piccadilly Circus!” Serrin sputtered. “He’s out and isn’t likely to be back until midnight.”

“Pity. It was urgent,” the elf said quietly. Serrin appraised him. He was muscular of build, but very lithe and in excellent physical condition. A street samurai or a physad, he thought.

“You Serrin?” the other elf asked suddenly, to which Serrin nodded. “Streak. Maybe Geraint mentioned me?”

Serrin recalled the name from breakfast and said so, making the mistake of mumbling some thanks for the help the elf had given his friends. Streak took the advantage.

“Look, mind if I wait? It really is urgent,” he said insistently.

“This isn’t my place,” Serrin began, but the elf cut him short.

“Look, brother, last p.m. I had five terms working with me on a raid for his lordship. By the time we shipped out again this morning, I had three and a half, with what was left of one of the trolls. Now I’m down to two and a half. Maybe, some time soon, one of my terms is going to find out he’s down to one and a half.” The elf drew his right forefinger across his throat. It was melodramatic, but he was dead serious.

“I reckon I could use at least enough explanation to keep from becoming another statistic myself. Frag it, brother, I’m not here to knock you on the head and take the family silver. Give me a sodding break, okay?”

Serrin decided to let the other elf in, then locked the door and drew the chain bolt as well.

“Not a bad idea,” Streak said. From his amply padded black jacket, he took the component parts of two folding-stock automatic weapons and began assembling them.

“I don’t know if were going to need this kind of heat,” Streak told Serrin, who was studying him doubtfully “but I’m not taking any chances.”

“I’ve got to go investigate a package and I’m not leaving you here alone in the place,” Serrin said.

Streak looked at up him with an intense stare and then nodded. “Fair enough, term. Fortunately for you, I’ve done some bomb disposal in my time.”

“Damn, I hadn’t thought of that,” Serrin said. “Thanks.”

“Only some, mind you. Don’t get too grateful too soon. Anyway, the scanners should have picked up anything suspicious entering this building. They’ve got good security here.”

“Let’s be grateful for that,” Serrin said with feeling, but Streak caught him out again.

“Not good enough to stop me getting in, of course, and if it’s one of those experimental percussion-sensitive gel explosives that scans as biomatter, then we’d be buggered sideways whatever we did,” he said with a laconic chuckle. “But then, live life to the full, that’s what I say. Can’t worry about being blown into bloody fragments every day of your waking life.”

Streak put down the assembled LMG and got to his feet, taking in the look on Serrin’s face. His own broke into a gleeful smile.

“Serrin mate, you’re a worrier, I can see that,” he said, putting an arm around the other’s shoulder. “I like that in a bloke, but don’t let the bastards get you down.

“Now, let’s go say hello to Mister Bomb.”

The wooden crates were bound only with rope. They were not, apparently, even nailed shut, with sliding tops restrained by the thick ropes around them. Streak’s diagnostics took a few minutes, and he looked reasonably content.

“There’s a little metal content but very little indeed. Actually, I think it’s probably a watch, and a ring. Oh, and a portable computer and one or two other little extras.”

“What extras?” Serrin asked.

“There are two bodies in there.”

“Spirits!” Serrin cried out. “How many dead people are we going to-”

“They may or may not be dead,” Streak said. “Anyway I think we can risk this,” and drawing out an evil-looking survival knife, he slashed clean through the ropes on one crate and slid back the panel top.

Kristen, apparently sound asleep, lay within. Serrin made a scrabbling attempt to lift her out, but it was impossible given the height of the crate. With Streak’s help, he gently tipped the crate onto its side and lifted her into his arms.

“Know her?” Streak asked as he slashed at the ropes on the other crate.

“She’s my wife,” Serrin said, hugging the inert body close to his chest.

“Right, then I s’pose you do,” Streak replied. “So who’d Father Christmas put in this one, I wonder?”

Serrin told him. Like Kristen, Michael was fast asleep and absolutely impossible to wake.

“Oh, look, one of the reindeers dropped a message,” Streak said, extracting a waxed scroll of paper and handing it to Serrin. “Nicely done, eh? Dead authentic.”

“Just stick it in my jacket pocket,” Serrin snapped. His arms full of warm, sleeping body, so mercifully alive, he could hardly take the paper and read it there and then. Streak looked at him, stepped backward a few paces, and broke the seal. Serrin was furious, not wanting the other elf to know who had been responsible for this.

“No. I’ll do the town crier act here, I think,” Streak said imposingly. “Your terms are asleep, sep. Mine are dead.”

Given the emphasis on the last word, Serrin couldn’t really argue. He could only wait and listen.

“ ‘This is a reasoned warning’,” the elf read out. “ ‘We kill those who shed our blood, but we do not kill without honor. Desist from your enquiries. This reasoned warning is also a final one. Our honor will not be impugned.’ Phew.”

“That’s it?”

That’s it.”

“No signature?”

“What did you expect, the Spanish Inquisition?” the elf said with contempt. For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Serrin had him absolutely trumped.

“Well, actually, more or less, yes, that’s exactly what I expected.”

Streaks jaw dropped and he just stood and gawked. “You’re fragging serious, aren’t you?”

“You wanted an explanation and now you’re going to get it,” Serrin said with the triumph of an absolute advantage. “Just get Michael into the elevator and into the flat and we’ll talk.”

Geraint was entirely unprepared for the scene he encountered upon returning home sometime around midnight. Using his magkey to let himself in, he entered to find two elves sitting on his sofa so deep in discussion they barely even acknowledged his presence.

“Well, excuse me, but I just live here,” he said tartly while hanging up his coat. “Where are Michael and Kristen?”

“Sleeping,” Sethn told him.

“They retired early,” Geraint observed casually. “They didn’t have much choice,” Serrin shot back, then explained for Geraint’s benefit. Whatever it was hasn’t worn off. Face slaps, cold water, we tried it, it didn’t work.”

“But they’re fine,” Streak put in quickly. “I scanned ‘em. Not the same as a doc, but I didn’t know if you’d want one summoned here and Serrin didn’t either.”

“What are you doing here?” Geraint asked. He hadn’t expected to see the elf again; he’d just been someone useful commissioned for a job, to be paid and then forgotten.

Serrin told him that Streak had a right to know something, what with half his team either dead or incapacitated.

“Since whoever we’re up against has it in for them as well as us, I thought we owed him something,” he finished.

“Thanks for consulting me about it.” Geraint was obviously not pleased.

“You weren’t here to ask. And, be fair, he checked those crates. They could have been rigged. He opened them and took his chances.”

“So he knows everything?” Geraint asked. Serrin paused for the merest instant to let him know that no, the other elf didn’t know everything, but he could hardly tell the Welshman what he hadn’t divulged here and now. It would have to await Streak’s departure.

“So, another warning,” Geraint concluded, after sitting down and reading the missive Serrin handed him. “This is getting ridiculous. They got to my boss as well; he warned me off. That makes three so far-this, him, and old Joan of Arc last night. These bloody Jesuits don’t do things by halves.”

Streak asked him what he meant by referring to Joan of Arc, so Geraint told him about the commotion of the previous evening. Clearly, Serrin hadn’t gone into all the details on that score.

“Well, whoever sent the spirit-if that’s what it was-it wasn’t the NOJ,” Streak said. “I’ve come up against these blokes before. Little job down in, oh well, never mind. But I had to learn some stuff about them, and I know enough to tell you that’s hardly on the menu. That wasn’t them.”

“How can you be sure?” Geraint asked.

“My sources say the same thing,” Serrin added. “Joan of Arc was, after all, a woman.”

“Well, frag me,” Geraint said, “I never knew that.”

Serrin ignored the sarcasm. “it’s just that, well, the NOJ thinks of her as a heretic. A bit too florid. Catholic politics, misogyny, rumors about Pope Joan, that sort of thing. Anyway, they certainly don’t care for her. They wouldn’t summon a spirit to take that form.”

“Then you’re saying that at least two groups, or a group and an individual maybe, have been telling us to sod off and stop doing what we’re doing sharpish,” Geraint said incredulously.

“It would appear so,” Serrin said.

“How the bloody hell did they get on to us so fast?”

“Good question,” Serrin said. “It’s not one we can easily answer, since we don’t know the second interested party. As for the NOJ, well, they have people all over the place.”

“Yes, but why would they be interested? We’re investigating a-” Geraint stopped for a moment, realizing that he couldn’t speak freely with Streak in the room. “Well, a computer dysfunction. Hardly red-hot Catholic politics, is it?”

“Look, mate,” Streak said with some feeling, “I know I’m getting the mushroom treatment here. Kept in the dark, blah blah. Why don’t you level with me? You trusted me to watch your back down in Chelsea. That turned out to be life and death. And as it happens, if you’re in deep drek I’m currently available for work. I also have a vested interest in finding out who’s wasted some of the few people I could trust with my life. I’m not going to be blabbing anything to anyone.”

Geraint thought long and hard. Serrin’s expression was clearly urging him to come clean.

“Well, it was Michael’s job originally,” Geraint said truthfully. “A decker is threatening to do some heavy-duty sabotage to some corp systems. He left an identifying icon behind that seems to have some occult or religious significance. Not that we really understood that at first, but we certainly do now that people are taking an active interest in us and applying the thumbscrews. Its big corporate nuyen on the one hand, and some very odd occult stuff on the other.”

“All right,” Streak said slowly, still unsure that he was getting the full version. “So if it’s sleeping beauty’s job, how come you guys enter the frame?”

“We go back a way,” Geraint said simply. “Michael thought I could help with the corporate angle and that Serrin could help with the magical, occult angle. Not to mention the money.”

“That sounds hopeful,” Streak grinned.

“We could use him,” Serrin suggested, looking to Geraint. “We’re hardly a bunch of street samurai, are we?”

“Maybe, maybe,” Geraint said. “But we need to discuss it with Michael. It’s his job, after all.”

“That’s reasonable enough,” Streak said, satisfied, or at least content, for the moment. “Like I say, reasonable rates and I can scan bodies for damage, crates for bombs, shoot an apple off your head at half a klick and I have specialist friends available if need be. Easy terms. All major credsticks accepted.”

“All right, all right,” Geraint grumbled. “I got your CV first time round. We’ll wait for Michael.”

The phone rang, and after exchanging a few words. Geraint handed the receiver to Serrin. Whoever was calling wasn’t willing to use a telecom. Serrin put the communication through the external speaker so the others could hear, and then realized that maybe he shouldn’t have. Geraint he wanted to hear the conversation, but Streak…

“Greetings, chummer,” the Brooklyn-accented voice said cheerfully. “Did some legwork among the crazies. Not too much on the grapevine, but you know how it is with everyone being so interested in Chicago and Dee Cee and all that drek. Got some background and a name, though.”

“Give me what you got,” Serrin said.

“Well, chummer, I drew a blank on the Seratini guy. No real connections I could find. Must be small beer. Maybe just a contact man.”

“Oh. well,” Serrin said.

“But this Serrault turns out to be a bit more interesting. He may be-and I say may because if there’s a membership list no one has access to it-a member of a hermetic group that goes way back. Take this down: the Priory of Sion.”

“Don’t think I know of it,” Serrin said, even as he dimly sensed that he’d heard the name somewhere and completely forgotten it.

“Not sure how long they’ve been around. It depends on linkages-whether you believe one cult combined with another, that kind of thing. There’s one version that says they go back to the time of those crusaders, the Knights Templar.”

“I’m listening,” Serrin said as the hair rose on the nape of his neck.

“Serrault’s not a member of major importance, but word is he’s a possible recruiter. Be’s a socialite and hangs around to see if he can turn up any interested, talented people the Priory can use in some way. Middling mage, by all accounts. Not drek-hot, but capable enough.”

“Finding people he can use for what?”

“Well, now that depends. The orthodox heresy”-the New Yorker chuckled-“is that the Priory serves to protect the bloodline of the descendants of Jesus Christ.”

“Oh great. More freak-show stuff,” Serrin lamented.

“Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it don’t matter. Maybe the idea is emotive enough that it’s important as a myth in itself Life’s just a big myth, Serrin, you know that.” The voice trailed away into a gale of laughter and then calmed down again. “Sorry about that. Anyway, the HQ of these boys is a place called Clermont-Ferrand in the Languedoc. Did I get that pronunciation right? Down south in France, virtually in Spain.”

The room was deadly quiet.

“I’ve heard of it,” Serrin said, and waited.

“Right. Well, before you head off to warmer climes, if you have some reason for that, and I’m not asking, I’ve got a name closer to home. You want to trawl MagicNet. you can get half a dozen bonehead stories on the Priory, conspiracy theories and the usual pile of drek. You know how mages just spin drek day and night, chummer.”

“Spare me,” Serrin said. “Just give me the name’

“Yeah, sure. Guy down in Glastonbury. All these quaint English names, love it. A German exile, name of Karl-Heinz Hessler. Keeps pretty much to himself, and it’s not really a question of whether you want to see him as whether he wants to see you. Supposed to live in a little place close to the Tor. Serrin, what the frag is a ‘tor’?”

“It’s a small hill,” Serrin said. “Now, anything else on him?”

“Not really, except that he’s the man to speak to. Well, not man, elf rather. One of your people. Might help. He’s an old guy, too, which makes him a bit unusual.”

It certainly did. Elves had been born into the Sixth World for less than half a century and, with their as-yet-undetermined but definitely extra-human lifespan, they hadn’t grown old yet. Serrin was intrigued.

“Oh, and he has a sense of humor too, he’s got some kind of spirit about the place, an ally, I guess. Calls him Merlin. So be respectful. I heard he took up with a cat, too, or it took up with him.”

“Any more trivial details?”

“The cat isn’t trivial. It’s one of those blackberry cats. Like I said, be respectful. OK, chummer, that’s a favor you owe me sometime. Toodle pip, old chum, and cheerio and all that. Must pop over for some crumpet some time.” There was more chuckling.

“You got it. Thanks, McCarthy,” and Serrin placed the receiver back on the handset.

“Clermont-Ferrand.” Serrin simply restated the name and looked at Geraint. “There’s our second interested party, then.”

“I don’t get it,” Streak said as Geraint nodded. Senin gave Geraint a full-on “Shall we tell him?” look.

“He was there, we’ll tell him,” Geraint said, and retrieved the package for Streak to examine.

“I think we should hire him,” Senin suggested.

“I think I might” Geraint said slowly.

“This is music to my shell-likes,” Streak grinned.

“For seven days,” Geraint said, “starting now.”

“Seven days?”

“That’s how long we’ve got, and that includes today, which is almost over, so we’ve got six days really. Before the systems crash. Oh, well, let’s get this over with,” Geraint sighed, and he told Streak the whole story. More or less.