Black Madonna

5

When the limo returned Geraint, Serrin, and Kristen to Mayfair, it was a pale and drawn Michael who got rather unsteadily out of the armchair to greet the trio when they exited the elevator. Geraint was angry, and almost lost his temper and shouted at his foolish friend.

“I told you not to do anything until I got back,” he said firmly.

“Sorry,” Michael said meekly. “But we’ve only got nine days, after all. It doesn’t look like Fuchi got the image, so far as I can see. The frames are still sifting through the data.”

“You got into Fuchi?” Geraint’s anger evaporated slightly as it mixed with admiration. The Fuchi datacores were the hardest to crack on the planet.

Michael grinned. “No persp. Had to stage a decoy, though, and I may have fried one of my frames.” He glanced at Serrin and Kristen. “But let’s not talk shop already. We can go into that after dinner.”

“So Geraint really does have some work for me,” the elf said thoughtfully. “Well, we’ve been living off his hospitality long enough.”

“Nonsense, you’re welcome to stay as long as you want,” Geraint protested, and again Michael had the sense that something wasn’t quite right between the nobleman and his elven guest, but he said nothing.

They began to chitchat, starting with the matter of the weather and before the pleasantries were completed the caterers had arrived with their boxes and cases and had set up camp in the kitchen The skies darkened and Geraint clean forgot to check the data on the registration number as he busied himself with mixing cocktails and relaxing into the bonhomie of the early-evening. If he’d done it, of course, the evening’s unexpected and most unwelcome guest might not have arrived and he’d have saved his insurance firm a small fortune in the cost of repairing his apartment.

Serrin stared at the chromalin turning it over in his short-nailed, chewed fingers. Opposite him, toying with the remains of the filet mignon, Michael awaited his response.

“So, what do you think?”

“You told me what your data showed,” Serrin said, and I don’t think I could add anything. “But you’re not telling me exactly why you want to know.”

Michael hesitated. “I told you it was left in a corporate Matrix system after an induced crash,” he said defensively. “Let’s say it was a big crash. This is the signature of whoever did it. I just think there’s more to this image than I’ve been able to find out. I’m good at trawling through Matrix data and operations. This is a little more on the arcane side. You’ve got contacts. I was hoping you could tell me more.”

“I’ll do what I can,” the mage said thoughtfully. I take it you don’t want this to get too public, but if I start asking questions, word is going to get around.”

“That’s inevitable,” Geraint said as he refilled their glasses. Given the confidentiality of what they were discussing, he’d dispensed with waiters from the catering outfit. “There’s so little time left anyway that I don’t think we should worry about that too much.

“Anyway, that’s for tomorrow,” he continued cheerfully, “Tell me what you’ve been up to on that godforsaken island of mine.”

Sarrin grinned. “Making friends with the druids, mostly,” he said. “Wandering along the seashore. Being happy. That sort of thing.”

He exchanged swift glances with the dark Azanian woman next to him. They shared a kind of secret smile before he returned his gaze to the other two men.

Well, well. He really is happy, Michael thought. That makes a nice change.

“I’m grateful,” Geraint said carefully. “The druids can be difficult at times. I leave the place to them to run, but some of them still get prickly about the issue of ownership sometimes.”

“Well, they say it’s been a sacred place to them for several thousand years and you can’t buy that with money,” Serrin said tartly. “But there aren’t any real problems. The wiser of them hold sway and they’re content that you leave them undisturbed. It took me some time to gain their trust, and I’m still learning. But they’re good people.”

“They’re improving the value of my real estate,” Geraint said mischievously. “Thanks to them, the marine wildlife around the coasts has flourished. The fishing rights have tripled in value these last five years.”

“Don’t give me that,” Serrin mocked him. “You’re not in it just for the money.”

There was a short silence, broken by the chink of chromed steel against porcelain as Geraint began a coffee-pouring ritual. If anything, the tiny sound made the situation more uncomfortable because it was so easily discerned, underlining the silence.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, what is it with you men?” Kristen burst out suddenly. Frustration sparked in her brown eyes. “You’re so good at not saying anything that matters.” Michael turned and stared at her, one eyebrow raised. “There’s something wrong between you, and you talk about fishing rights!”

“Kristen-” Serrin began in a slightly weary voice, but she would not be stilled.

“You’re very good to us,” she said to Geraint, “but there’s something wrong. You don’t look at Serrin straight on. You look guilty. And you” she continued, giving Serrin an accusing stare, “you’ve been edgy ever since Geraint asked you to come. It’s because of Michael isn’t it?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Serrin said flatly. “And you’re spoiling a very pleasant dinner.”

“Is it because of what happened? Because he married me to get me out of Cape Town with you, and you didn’t? That’s so bloody silly! You’d know why he did that if you weren’t a man,” she said exasperatedly.

“Actually, we all know why I did it, and sometimes men just do things and don’t talk about them,” Michael said firmly, but not unkindly. “Things are just understood, Kristen. Maybe you’re making something out of nothing.”

Her eyes flashed angrily, but she sat back a little in her chair, unwilling to pursue the point. Michael knew that she had touched on something; he too had sensed the awkwardness between Geraint and Serrin, in their over-politeness and slightly strained exchanges. He also fell that it was something better not brought out into the open.

The returning silence was disturbed by a sudden rustling sound from the heavy, silk-lined drapes at the far end of the cavernous dining room.

“What the-” Serrin began, and then his eyes grew as wide as the dinner plates set before him. He shot out of his chair, fumbled for a medallion about his neck, and began a hurried, rapid recitation.

He’s spellcasting, Michael realized. He can’t, not in here, the building has a hermetic circle better than- The windows blew in with a rush of flying glass, and a storm-force gale howled into the room. Plates and glasses went flying from the table and Geraint, being closest to the windows was nearly flung from his chair. Michael lunged across and grabbed his arm even as Kristen clung to Serrin. Geraint freed himself from Michael’s grasp and with a Herculean effort managed to struggle to a chest of drawers two meters behind him and wrench a drawer open.

Michael saw the gleam of gunmetal as he clung on to the solidity of the huge dining table for support. That’s not going to do you any good here, he thought. It seemed like the massed legions of Hell were about to arrive in person at any moment.

The howling winds suddenly stopped, absolutely and in a split second. Everything was shockingly still. The drapes didn’t even flutter back to their initial positions, they just hung in space, frozen in time. Then they parted and the figure strode into the room from the night air outside. There was no balcony outside for the woman to have climbed in from, but then she wasn’t exactly flesh and blood.

“Get behind me,” Serrin hissed and Michael guessed he must have created a magical barrier around himself He needed no second invitation What was left of the crockery on the table went flying as he threw himself across the table and went sprawling at the elf’s feet. Kristen was at Serrin’s side, hugging him close. Geraint had no time to make that safety, and stood facing the figure with the machine pistol in his hand and a determined stare. He didn’t even bother to shoot.

The woman was clad almost head to toe in plate mail armor, and carried an ornate kite-shaped shield lacquered with white, a red Maltese cross adorning its face. A slender, scabbarded sword hung at her side. She wore no helm, and her long dark hair tumbled down her back. She was beautiful, but cold and expressionless her blue eyes seeming to stare through and beyond the scene of mayhem before her, Soundlessly, she stepped into the room and walked in a direct line toward the table. She didn’t even seem to acknowledge their presence. They stood and watched in amazement, stepping back a little from her as she approached. When she reached the table, an antique scroll of parchment seemed to appear in her hand, bound with red silk and bearing a wax seal. She let it fall onto the table, then turned around, walking just as silently back toward the blackness of night. She didn’t lift a hand to disturb the drapes, which seemed to enfold themselves around her as she stepped out into the air and vanished.

Geraint’s gun dropped from his hand and he gawked disbelievingly at the place where she’d been. Michael getting to his feet, was the first to recover his senses and reach for the scroll.

“That’s impossible,” Geraint said flatly. “The magical protections on this building Would keep Lucifer himself out.” The sound of rustling parchment being carefully unfolded, came from just over his shoulder.

“That was a powerful sending indeed” Serrin confirmed, giving Kristen a reassuring squeeze, his eyes were like a raptor’s. If he’d been uncertain about what Michael had asked him to do, his curiosity and stubborn determination were roused now. The arrival of the spirit and whatever it was that Geraint and Michael were involved with, could hardly be coincidental.

“This is a warning,” Michael told them, dispensing with a complete recitation. “Written in medieval Latin. I can’t translate the whole thing for you, but the gist of it is to keep our noses out or we’ll be damned for all eternity.”

“Colorfully put,” Geraint said sarcastically regaining his composure.

“No, I mean literally damned for all eternity,” Michael said wryly.

“And keep our noses out of what, exactly?” Serrin enquired.

“Doesn’t say,” Michael said offhandedly putting the scroll back on the table.

“Maybe not, but you know and I think I’d like to know everything too,” Serrin said pointedly. Kristen nodded emphatically for her share of revelations as well. “But first, I’m going to see if I can trace that spirit. Excuse me a moment.” He wandered off toward Geraint’s study, away from the confusion and animated voices as the others began to discuss what had happened.

Geraini looked at the scroll closely. It was entirely written in Latin, and he couldn’t comprehend it. “Get a full translation in the morning,” he said.

“Is that a good idea?” Michael said. There might be something there we don’t want anyone else to know.”

Geraint looked wearily at him. “Are you kidding? The Foreign Office translators spend their entire lives translating documents filled with information we don’t want other people to know. No problem there”

“Hmmm,” Michael mused. “Look, there’s something I need to do. My version of a head camera. Be back in the world of the living inside a few minutes.” He walked over to where his computer system sat safe and undisturbed due to the security bolting and cables that had held it firmly to a table weighing a couple of hundredweight, and jacked into the Matrix.

Geraint used the telecom to call some fast-response building and repair firms he’d dealt with when government security installations had been hit by terrorists, animal-rights maniacs, or ether disgruntled factions. Dealing with the interior decor could wait. The police might need some reassurance or insist upon a call to the Metropolitan Commissioner, but he could do that later if the need arose.

Once he put the phone down, Kristen ushered him into the kitchen and steered him purposefully to one corner.

“What’s happening, Geraint?” she demanded.

“I have no idea,” he said truthfully. “That was a bolt from the blue.”

“Not just that. What is it with you and Serrin?” He avoided her gaze and said nothing. Her right foot tapped on the floor. She was much smaller than him, but for all the world she looked like a feral predator and he like hapless prey unable to escape.

“You’re getting into some kind of trouble here and I need to know what’s happening,” Kristen insisted. She stood with hands on hips, defiantly awaiting a reply.

“It’s before he knew you,” Geraint said quietly and a little hurriedly, hoping that Michael and Serrin were still busy with their own self-absorbed activities. “Something we were involved with.”

When you got involved with some murders here, something to do with the Royal family,” Kristen offered.

“Yes.”

“He wouldn’t go into details,” she said.

“Neither will I,” he said firmly. “It’s just that there was a certain… aftermath Something later. Something that he doesn’t know, and I can’t tell him about.” Please Geraint was all but pleading. “It’s nothing he needs to know. It doesn’t compromise his safety by not knowing. It would hurt him if I told him. Believe me.”

Kristen stared determinedly at him for a time before she judged that he was telling the truth. She made her decision. “Very well,” she said grudgingly. “But you’ll have to come clean about what’s going on here.”

“Oh, I think we will,” Geraint said fervently. “I very much think we will.”

Half an hour later the four of them sat around Geraint’s study, drinking dessert wine and port and waiting for the repairmen to finish fixing the windows.

“Couldn’t trace the spirit,” Serfin said glumly. “That’s not really my forte anyway and the masking was excellent. The trail petered out almost instantly. Nothing to sense in the astral and there’s a lot of interference around here.”

“I’m nor surprised,” Geraint said. “Anything strong enough to bust through the hermetic barrier here has to be good enough to mask its departure. I’m going to have some serious words with the house mages tomorrow morning. We’ll have to improve security here. I could ask if the watchers saw anything, though.”

“Better not,” Serrin advised. “Lets not get too many people interested.”

“Very well,” Geraint conceded. “And so what has our genius decker come up with?”

“I was using a little program I composed myself,” Michael said. The port was very, very good and he was really more interested in another glass than in reflecting on his discovery, since his frames were still busy analyzing Correspondences and associations. “It translates recalled perceptions into objective form and makes a range of corrections based on our understanding of errors in perception and recall. Basically, it tries to take something I’ve seen in my mind’s eye and asks, ‘What did this guy really see if we strip away all the bulldrek inside his brain?’ ”

“So what did we really see?” Kristen asked, intrigued.

“Well, the analyses aren’t complete and-”

“Cut the drek,” Geraint put in. “What did we see?”

“Joan of Arc,” he said simply.

Geraint’s jaw dropped. In comparison Kristen, brought up in a culture where the name meant nothing, registered no response at all.

“God, you’re right,” Geraint said. “I realize now. What the frag-Oh, idiot, idiot!” He thumped a clenched fist into midair. “There was something I forgot. Better late than never, I hope.” He began frantically keying in instructions to a souped-up laptop sitting demurely beneath the lowlight lamp on his smaller study desk, rapping in passwords and ID. Within a minute or so he had his answer.

“Our pursuer this afternoon can be found in Chelsea,” he said cheerfully. “One Monsignor Giovanni Seratini. a cultural attache for the Tuscany Republic. Something of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say? I was followed by this chappie on the way to pick up you two, and before the day is out an icon of the Holy Roman Church comes waltzing in to say, ‘Rakk off, chaps, or it’s a thousand years of purgatory for you.’ ”

“Eternal damnation in the flaming fires themselves, actually,” Michael said laconically.

“I rather think we should visit Monsignor Seratini and make some enquiries of him,” Geraint said.

“The car had diplomatic plates,” Michael pointed out.

“Oh, yes, well, I wouldn’t have got the woodentops of the Met in anyway. If you want something more complicated than knowing the correct time these days, you do not ask a London copper,” Geraint replied. However, one of the fringe benefits of working with the MoD most days is that one gets access to some very interesting personnel?”

“MoD?” Serrin wasn’t familiar with the British acronym.

“Ministry of Defense,” Geraint explained. “Now, the MoD has a long list of ex-military personnel who work in, shall we say, semi-official security. They won’t do anything that actively messes with officialdom, but they don’t worry too much about what currently passes for the law. Especially when it comes to diplomatic immunity and dastardly foreigners. I know of some ex-SAS men who should be just the ticket. They even have enough sense not to kill our Italian term on sight and to realize that we’d like to talk to him, which is a lot better than you can get from most military lardbrains. Excuse me While I put through an encrypted call from my bedroom phone.”

“Isn’t this a bit premature?” Michael said. “I mean, it could be just coincidence. Not much to base a raid on.”

“I don’t think so. Our friends car was parked outside the building all last night. Harold got him on the security cameras, He’s had the place under surveillance, and then followed me. Dammit, we can’t have one of His Majesty’s ministers being spied on by a representative of a foreign power, can we? Have to put a stop to it. It’s my patriotic duty, Geraint replied in a suitably, not to mention deliberately pompous tone of voice. There’s also an easy way to cover our tracks, as it happens. There’ve been suspicions concerning alleged elements of the Tuscan embassy in London regarding certain art thefts in recent years, Nothing the Met specialists could prove. But the word is that no one would be terribly surprised if some, shall we say, competing criminal element, ahem, took a shot at finding out if there are any tasty Old Masters on the premises. Especially since Seratini has an interesting Interpol file implicating him-nothing proven, again-with certain smuggling operations in the Italian states. I’m sure my associates will be able to dress things up to look as if that’s what will have happened by the time they’re through.

“How long have we got anyway?”

“Nine days,” Michael said. “Didn’t I already say that?”

“Right, then. Would you like to spend a few of them digging on our friend Seratini or shall we take a reasonable chance and go say ‘Howdy’ to him now?” Getting only a nod in reply, Geraint turned and left the room.

“This is going to be interesting,” Michael said after the Welshman had left them to their drinks. “Midnight rambling again.”

“Just like old times,” Serrin grinned. “This time yesterday I was peacefully examining some shellfish down by the rocks. Now it’s magical assaults. Latin warnings, and trolls with big guns in Chelsea.

“It’s all right, lekker,” he added as an aside, hugging his wife to him. “We’ll be fine.” She looked a little anxiously at him, and nestled into his warm side. But for all her apprehension, Kristen could never have survived so many years as a Street kid in Cape Town’s predatory culture without strength and resourcefulness to spare.

“You know, I think it’s about time we got the whole story,” she suddenly demanded of Michael. “Everything you know, from the top.”

“You’re right,” he said. “it’s overdue.”

He began at the beginning, and told them the full works. By the time he was through, Geraint already had the guns.

“The repairmen have gone. I’m expecting half a dozen very large gentlemen with military weapons and attitude to appear in the parking lot in a black van very shortly,” he said as he offered them the latest range of hardware. “Coming?”

“Couldn’t keep us away,” Serrin said cheerfully.