Pandora's Curse

ABOARD THE SEA EMPRESS

As if enraged that its power could not rock the great cruise liner, the North Sea surged ferociously, generating huge waves that would have swamped a commercial fishing boat or pitched the largest freighter. Because of her wide-spaced twin hulls and tremendous length, the Sea Empress had several distinct wave patterns under her at any moment and their opposing crests and troughs canceled each other out. This phenomenon allowed her to sail serenely under the pewter skies as if the swells were nothing more than ripples.

Father Anatoly Vatutin had spent the first days of his journey safely in his cabin, having an occasional light meal sent to him rather than venturing to one of the many restaurants or eating in the vessel’s four enormous dining rooms. He’d left word with Bishop Olkranszy, his superior, that he hadn’t felt well since the ship had gotten under way. That wasn’t far from the truth.

Vatutin had come from peasant stock, with farmer’s hands and shoulders like a plow ox. Yet his imposing size, fierce countenance, and unwavering strength masked the fact that he possessed a delicate stomach. Even the ship’s gentle motion made him ill. Such was his dedication to his mission that he rode waves of nausea stoically, spending hours either in his bunk or hunched over the toilet bowl.

He skipped the Universal Convocation’s elaborate opening ceremonies and what some said had been the most beautiful papal blessing ever given. His rare forays to the deck to get fresh air were all under the cover of darkness, and he intentionally avoided any of the attendees he saw. Vatutin had become a nonentity at the most famous meeting in history and he was glad for it.

He had only one thing in mind. The icon.

Other than the waiters who brought him broths and bread and calls from Bishop Olkranszy inquiring about his condition, the only person Vatutin had spoken with was a cardinal named Peretti who was the pope’s secretary of state, the Vatican’s number two man. Peretti had been charged by the pontiff with returning thousands of religious artifacts belonging to other faiths that the Catholic Church had in its possession. He was the only person at the Convocation that Vatutin cared about.

Because of the sheer volume of items being returned, only a portion of the hoard was actually on the ship. These were the most precious relics — ancient texts, rare books, the most valuable statues and icons. Peretti’s shipboard office had been deluged with requests from various people to obtain an item early in the voyage rather than at its end, which had been the plan. In the name of cooperation and fellowship, Peretti had granted all such requests, detailing a dozen floreria, members of the Vatican’s technical services department, to search through the shipping containers stored in the vessel’s holds.

Peretti’s office had finally gotten to Father Vatutin’s request, and now he found himself following the broad back of a floreria. The workman wore crisp coveralls and had a pair of white gloves tucked into his belt for handling the more fragile objects. While the worker strode with arm-swinging ease, Vatutin shambled down a carpeted hallway with one hand brushing the wall for balance, although the ship was rock steady. His mouth brimmed with saliva.

They descended into the working section of the liner, where the hallways were sterile and narrow and the lighting came from institutional fluorescent fixtures affixed to the ceiling. The air had a humid chill that told Vatutin they had moved below the water line.

At a set of large watertight doors the floreria exchanged a few words with the Swiss Guards stationed there and produced a ring of keys from his pocket. A sign on the door proclaimed this to be Cargo Hold 3. As the workman unlocked and then opened the door, one guard made a joke that Vatutin believed was at his expense and the others laughed. He didn’t care. His chest felt hollow, and as he stepped into the vast hold, his pace involuntarily slowed. He couldn’t believe he had come this far. In a few moments he was about to end his lifetime quest.

Vatutin couldn’t possibly put into words what he was feeling. Everything he saw took on an added dimension of holiness. It didn’t matter that the dimly lit hold was like an industrial warehouse that managed to smell musty despite its newness. He felt he was walking into the greatest cathedral in the world, a sacred place because of what lay within. The floreria spat on the floor, and Vatutin almost struck him before realizing that this man had no idea what he was about to give back to its rightful owner.

No, Anatoly thought, there is no rightful owner except Satan himself. I am nothing more than a temporary trustee.

Checking a large manifest, the worker guided the priest through the rows of containers and boxes. Peretti’s organization had been impeccable. The manifest detailed everything from the largest painting to the smallest set of prayer beads. After a moment they were in front of a steel shipping container. The floreria produced his keys again and unlocked the mammoth crate. He waited while Vatutin unfolded the seventy-year-old photograph of the icon he was here to recover. The picture was stained in one corner with brown spots that even the priest didn’t know was blood.

Taking the photo and motioning Vatutin not to enter the container, the workman ducked inside, snapping on a small flashlight he’d carried in his other pocket. He returned in just a few minutes.

The icon was only about two feet long and one foot wide, yet the floreria staggered under its weight. It was nearly six inches thick. Vatutin knew immediately that this was the relic he sought. The workman laid it on a nearby table. Although Vatutin took back the photograph he didn’t need it to verify the piece’s authenticity. He knew the icon better than any man alive. He could reproduce it in his mind any time he chose. From where it had been created near the city of Vanavara, Anatoly Vatutin had traced the artifact’s century-long journey to St. Petersburg to Stalingrad to Berlin and finally to Rome. It had entered a thousand dreams and kept him awake on a thousand nights. He knew it better than his own face.

Unlike most icons, this was no wooden painting covered by a gold veneer. The relic was almost solid gold. He traced his finger over the bas-relief of the Virgin Mary holding her crucified son, noting the distinctive drape of her robe and the vividness of Christ’s wounds, especially the blood that leaked from his side. He bent close to study the mark over Mary’s shoulder, verifying that it was indeed a faint comet’s tail.

Anatoly Vatutin fell to his knees, his seasickness and every other hardship he’d endured for the past forty years forgotten. He prayed harder than at any time in his life, giving thanks to God, Christ, Mary, and Brother Grigori. His decades of exacting research had been correct. The icon had ended up in the Vatican following the Second World War, given to them by a mistaken American soldier working for a repatriation commission. It had been one of thousands of items looted by the German Army and returned to the wrong owners after the war.

He was physically exhausted by the time he got back to his cabin, his muscles aching from the effort of carrying the icon from the hold. His spirit, however, had never felt more invigorated. He laid the icon on his bed, the mattress springs protesting at such a dense object. Tossing aside the clothes at the top of his trunk, he removed the chain-mail garments fashioned for Brother Grigori.

First he opened the special flask at the bottom of the chest. The liquid inside was as clear as water. It was actually “heavy water,” or deuterium, a substance used for handling the most dangerous elements on earth. He could only hope it would add protection for him from an element that was not of this world. Lying in the deuterium bath was a hammer and a six-inch molybdenum awl. He went to the bathroom and retrieved an item from his toilet case. The fact that a man who hadn’t shaved since his teens owned an electric razor was one more inconsistency he was thankful had not been noticed. Of course, it wasn’t a razor at all.

He needed to strip to his undershirt to put on the lead-armored mantle. He used a liberal amount of petroleum jelly to work his hands into the golden gloves. Before donning the priceless gold hood, he tested his grip on the hammer and awl and made sure that the golden plug that he’d had in his pocket matched the diameter of the spike. He was ready.

He pulled the icon off the bed and groaned as he lowered it into the pan at the bottom of the trunk, ensuring that the artifact was fully awash with deuterium. He brought the cordless razor close to it and turned it on, satisfied when nothing happened. He’d know in a moment if his crusade was successful. Again he prayed.

Placing the metal spike over Christ’s heart at the center of the icon, Anatoly Vatutin lowered the hood’s visor over his eyes, took a deep breath, and brought down the hammer with all his strength. Quickly he checked the razor again, dismayed that it hadn’t reacted. Hands trembling, he replaced the tip of the spike in the dimple his first blow had created and hammered it again.

This time the razor emitted a steady series of clicks coming so close together they sounded like a continuous tone. The instrument was a disguised Geiger counter, and it had just encountered a radiation source unlike any on the planet. Considering the origin of the radiation, Anatoly hadn’t been sure if the device would work. Balanced between elation and fear, he fumbled for the small plug and set it in the scar, bringing down the hammer to seat it properly. The Geiger counter fell silent once again.

Father Vatutin chanced rolling up his visor so he could accurately tap the plug more firmly in place. Only then did he look at the counter. Through three inches of gold, the second densest natural element in the universe, and several more inches of a fluid meant to absorb radiation, the device had registered a dose that equaled a lifetime worth of X rays. He swept the Geiger counter over the trunk and the cabin’s walls. As predicted by Grigori, and later proved by another, Brother Leonid, the radiation had not been absorbed by inorganic material. It was only when he pointed the counter at his own hand that it began to click again. The exposure had been less than five seconds yet would likely rob Vatutin of a few years of life.

Enshrined within the icon, and protected by an abnormal reaction it had with gold, was a fragment of what the Brotherhood called Satan’s Fist. Anatoly knew that hundreds, maybe thousands of people had been victims of this piece or the others like it. The realization that he now possessed the power to kill everyone on the Sea Empress made him shudder. From Brotherhood records, Anatoly knew that before Brother Grigori was murdered, he had amassed fifty such icons in Vanavara and all but one had been destroyed later by Brother Leonid. This was the last one.

He tidied the cabin, hiding his protective clothing in the trunk once again. He was too emotionally wasted to finish his mission. In fact, he was ravenously hungry and checked his watch, thinking that maybe he would finally venture out for dinner.

Before he took care of his body’s needs, he had to pray. Thankful for his success, Anatoly Vatutin knew that his mission would be a wasted gesture if another endeavor far from the exclusive confines of the cruise ship failed.

The Brotherhood didn’t yet have all elements of Satan’s Fist. There was still one other source.