Shadows Across America Page 45

  Her face sank into the stain on her chest.

  The Jackal stood up, still marveling at her willpower; he let Thiago go out the back window first before following, taking care not to step in the puddle of blood spreading across the floor.

  12

  The Open Mouth of Hell

  Vienna, 1935

  At the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth, a unique period when the future was coming into being, Vienna was the grand capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Our contemporary society, the way we see the world today, was defined at that time. A vibrant Europe resounding with new discoveries could be seen in Paris and London while in Vienna, amid the secessionism and ornate palaces, the thrusting modernity of Loss, Klimt, and Freud clashed with a history that refused to go away, taking refuge in a morbid, decadent beauty. It was a worthy metaphor for Europe as a whole. Thirty-five years later, the empire was just a memory and Austria a small nation begging to be swallowed up by the thousand-year Reich. Like a psychological disorder, nostalgia for greatness had won over rationality.

  When she opened her eyes in the smoky room, Michi was immediately aware of all this. She knew that she was present at a moment when democracy had committed suicide. It didn’t matter that she had never heard about that city before and knew nothing of the period. The fire had already raged through the rear of the mansion, burning up the servants’ quarters and leaping from one tapestry to the next. Soon it would be unstoppable. The books on the shelves warped in the heat from the flames until their spines were gone. They took off like large flaming butterflies, tracing an arc through the air until they disintegrated into ash. The fire was focused in a dining area, separated from them by a lead-and-glass screen that was about to explode, while the smoke hung thick and black like an inverted oily sea. In front of her she saw four figures arranged like actors waiting for the play to start. Suddenly they came to life, as though their puppet strings had grown taut. The oldest of the four characters was lying on the floor; it wasn’t clear if he was still breathing. He wore a pearl-gray three-piece suit and patent leather shoes, but his most striking feature was a patch over one eye. Behind the black fabric, it was just an empty socket. Michi knew that she’d seen him before. She’d dreamed of him, and yet he was different somehow. Of the other three, the chief, who was short and squat like a brewer, with a waxed fringe and small moustache, was only thirty but looked older. He was retreating toward the exit and calling to the kids under his command, but they ignored him. They were just children and had all the arrogance, insolence, naivety, bravery, and camaraderie of late adolescence. It had led them straight into the arms of a banned terrorist National Socialist sect. One of them was hugging the dying old man and seemed unable to come out of his trance, while the other, who believed more in friendship than the party, refused to leave the other one alone in the death trap. This was a decision that would change his life and those of many others. It all seemed inevitable, as though it had all already been preordained. Michelle knew that this was a dream but also real, a year long ago that was also somehow her immediate present. It was happening right now.

  The Suzuki’s fluorescent-yellow chassis stood out against the vegetation, bouncing along the dry riverbed before coming to a stop. They strapped on heavy, old-fashioned bulletproof vests whose efficacy Ethan seriously doubted and shoved small first aid kits in their pants pockets, thinking more of the girl than themselves. Two old FN FAL rifles were handed to Caimão and Ari; Ethan got a Beretta, his only weapon; while 4:20 packed a Kalashnikov. They hoped that they wouldn’t have to use them. They drove on for half a mile until they got to the perimeter fence. Birds sang from the thick line of trees that blocked their view of the compound. Just as they’d hoped, they were the only ones there. 4:20 cut the wires, and they stealthily crept onto the grounds. Ferns came up to their waist while their skin was dappled with the light that shone through the foliage. Five minutes on, the area began to clear, the trees were more widely spaced, and the mud was covered in dead leaves, indicating that more traffic went through here. In front of them they saw the first sheds indicated on the map, and 170 feet farther on was the imposing nineteenth-century silhouette of the hospital, an industrial structure of five floors with large windows, most of which had lost their glass panes. In front of the first sheds were gravel paths and tools that had been left out. They kept watch for several minutes but saw no signs of life. 4:20 ran out into the open on his own, crouching low, until he got to the first shed. He hid behind a barrel and looked inside. It was empty. He signaled for the others to come over. They found that the door was locked up with a chain. From there, the approach to the hospital was more risky, a dirt track that ran around each storage shed to a service entrance. There weren’t any trees to provide cover, but the prevailing quiet was encouraging.

  The Jackal was traveling comfortably in the second Range Rover in a convoy of five. Like his younger brother, he enjoyed flaunting his status, but his manners were more brusque and aggressive. Tactless, the Bloodhound might have said. And yet on this mission the gesture of arriving in force wasn’t just gratuitous; even his younger brother would have had to concede that. They were heading right into the center of a cult to snatch its aged founder, a dangerous psychopath who’d enjoyed being a messiah for too long not to put up a fight. Even though they’d already made arrangements with local political leaders, they couldn’t leave anything to chance, especially given the value of the target and the potential risk involved. In addition to Thiago, they were traveling with sixteen commandos. The old man would be taken with or without the help of his followers.

  The row of cars stopped at the gate, and it opened automatically. The drive went on for seventy-five feet to a small plaza, where an attendant showed them where to park. Behind it was a guardhouse with a barrier, the original entrance, which was still used. The Jackal ordered the entire team to get out, just for the shock value. It had the desired effect. Another attendant in the guardhouse picked up a phone. The Jackal didn’t like that at all.

  About three hundred feet ahead, palm trees provided shade for the community’s main houses and buildings, which today were festooned with bunting and other decorations. Children carrying trays, dressed up as the original colonists, were being led to the right by their teachers. One of them turned to stare at these scary-looking adults with their guns and armor but was immediately chided by a teacher. The big party was being prepared a prudent distance away, protected only by a flimsy barrier from these emissaries of an ominous present.

  “Don’t make us kill your people,” Thiago murmured to the attendant.

  Michi stood stock still, a secret spectator to a mysterious act she knew she shouldn’t be a party to. But she couldn’t move, and she couldn’t just wake up because she knew that the distinction between dreams and reality no longer existed. They were one and the same. Then the young man on the ground started to have a fit, and her terror increased. She’d seen this image before: it had been waiting for her since 1935. Then the indescribable began to take shape. The boy, whose name she knew was Stobert, opened his eyes to look at her. His body remained still, but somehow he also floated up like a ghost. Michi shivered when she saw him there, translucent, blind to everything. His friend couldn’t see him: he was still trying to wake him up. She knew that she was trapped like a fly in a web of time and dreams. The flickering phantom approached her with opaque white eyes, even though one of the sockets was also empty, and he was in a three-piece suit and patent leather shoes. It was as though the image of the young man was superimposed over that of the dead old one. She realized that the entity inside didn’t know who its host was—it had been disoriented and confused for eighty years. But there was no question of feeling pity for it; it represented a pit of pure evil. It was dangerous and wanted to consume her. The being that now occupied the bodies of two men, sucking up their energy and lives without ever really being a part of them, was floating around the room searching for her, stumbling around in no d
irection in particular. As if the knowledge had always been within her, she suddenly knew that the dead old man had been its master. He had possessed the arcane knowledge that could invoke and control it, but the ability could be inherited only by blood and controlled through generations of committed study, studies that the unfortunate boy did not possess. It had come to him like a curse with the old man’s final breath, but both bloodlines combined in her. Michi learned all this about herself in her dream. It was a part of her genetic memory. She thought she heard the words You were born to be a great master, but she didn’t know where they had come from. And then she realized in horror that the incomprehensible creature standing in front of her like a living memory heard it too. The entity, like the demons of which her grandmother was so afraid, was currently stretched thin and empty between different existences. Then it raised its head like a dog that had detected a scent while its knowledge passed into her: it would need the entire life of this Stobert, her great-grandfather, to prepare for her possession. It would take decades of torture, abuse, murdered girls, and failed experiments, but this was nothing but a rehearsal before they returned to this moment so she could be inoculated in the present, when Stobert himself was about to die. Unable to move, Michi knew exactly what was going to happen. The shadow came toward her, dragging its feet past furniture it couldn’t see, its nostrils opening and closing as they picked up her scent. It was establishing a bond with her skin that could never be broken. From that moment in 1935, she would become the next host, and it would grow inside of her, its power increasing. She was a future mistress, but she didn’t have the knowledge she needed to defend herself. This beast was from another reality, the stuff of hell itself. It licked its lips as it tasted her on the air. Michi shivered; the cold it emanated burned her skin. Alarmed by the steam coming off of her, she tried to wake up, telling herself that it was just a dream, even though she knew it wasn’t. This was real—the two different times had merged into one, on the same date, the same moment eighty years apart. She saw an awful claw emerging from the combined images of the hands. It reached for her, blurry, damp, and freezing, the embodiment of horror. Michi screamed.

  4:20 went around the first shed and carefully crossed the dirt track. The second row of buildings was more solid. They were the original medical storage sheds, with brick walls and wooden windows surrounded by a two-foot-wide pavement. He sheltered behind one of the sheds and then signaled to the others. A narrow passage between two of the sheds seemed the perfect way into the empty lot behind the hospital. He checked that it was clear. Then he stepped out, keeping watch for any hint of activity. There was still no one to be seen. Caimão loped casually along after him, followed by Ethan, who remained cautious. Ari brought up the rear. The three of them were halfway between the sheds, exposed without cover, when 4:20 saw a gleam. Something was glinting in the window. He turned around and hissed. “Back, back!”

  It all happened in the blink of an eye. A flash and a roar exploded inside the building, followed by a hail of bullets. At the end of the passage a shadow started to fire at 4:20, who shuddered half a dozen times and was sent flying backward, as though he’d been smacked by a car. He landed six feet back from where he’d been standing. Ethan immediately hit the deck as bullets whistled over him. His instincts kicked in, and he withdrew, looking to see where the fire was coming from, but he was blinded by the dust that had been kicked up. The lines of fire crisscrossed. Ari was running for cover at one corner when a burning piece of metal went right through her left wrist. She screamed involuntarily. Caimão was the only one who hadn’t moved, and he was laughing like a maniac. Then two bullets bounced off his Kevlar vest, knocking him down, but he didn’t seem to care. He raised his rifle and fired blindly at the shed. His straightforward strategy managed to quiet one of the shooters, but fire still came from the passage. Ethan crawled over to him and grabbed him.

  “Let’s go! Are you crazy?”

  Caimão let out an insane cackle. “Fire, gringo, fire!”

  A third shooter joined them from the other flank, trapping them in a sweeping cross fire. 4:20 tried to get up, raised the AK-47, and fired back as best he could, but the bullets kept coming, and the new shooter finished him off with a bullet through his hand and two more in the groin, smashing his hip and burning his insides. He writhed around, still shooting in a reflex action. His bent knees fell into the line of fire and were soon cut off at the joint. And yet he continued to pull the trigger. Ethan aimed a little more rationally, looking for puffs of gunpowder. Caimão reloaded calmly, seemingly unhurried. Additional shooters appeared to join the existing ones. Ari, trapped in a corner, ignored the whistling bullets and inspected her wrist, which had a hole right through it. The good news, she told herself, was that it had an exit wound. She wrapped a bandage tight around it. Her left arm had gone numb, so she dropped the now-useless rifle and took out her P99. She was amazed that she didn’t feel more pain: it was the adrenaline surging through her. She stepped out to fire back, with no clear idea of her target. From her corner she saw 4:20, who’d gone into shock and was shaking in violent spasms in an expanding puddle of blood. Ethan and Caimão fired back at the shed as the circle closed around them. Ethan tried to pull the bodyguard back, but he was enjoying the senseless exchange of fire too much. His luck would surely run out soon. A bullet knocked Ethan down. Caimão stood up and walked forward as though he were out for a stroll, still firing. He was the only one of the four still standing.

  Lucas, the head of administration, hurried over. He was in fancy dress as a traditional peasant, much to the amusement of the commandos. He was flanked by four armed guards, but they hardly presented a threat to the much larger commando team. The Jackal barked at him: “You weren’t expecting us?”

  “Of course I was, but . . . there wasn’t time. I thought you’d get here later, during the celebration so, you know . . . it would be more discreet. And we haven’t seen any hint of the attack you warned us about.”

  “Oh, they’re out there. We thought we’d drop by in case they put up resistance.”

  “We’ll find them. We can’t cover every inch of ground, but our men have been on patrol since this morning. As soon . . .”

  Suddenly they heard gunfire to their left. It sounded far away, as though it were echoing out from the forest. Their walkie-talkies started to chatter.

  “West facade . . . located-zzz-west facade of the hospital-zzz-backup.”

  Thiago and the Jackal smiled.

  “It seems that your guests have arrived.”

  A little farther on, in the garden under bunting and paper lanterns, the teenagers and the children who were left, all in period costume, started to lay long tables for the banquet. They were shaken by the noise, but the guardians supervising their activities told them there was nothing to worry about and urged them to get back to work, strictly enforcing community discipline. From the vantage point of Fausto Aspiazi’s greenhouse, one could appreciate the simple geometry of the preparations. At the entrance, the head of administration stood submissively in front of the Jackal.

  “We appreciate the warning. You’ve saved us from a grave threat.”

  “Good. Now lead us to the old man. We want to get this over with quickly.”

  “There’s . . . um,” he stammered, “some disagreement on that point.”

  The Jackal stared at him impatiently.

  “Don’t get me wrong: as agreed, Herr Aspiazi shall be delivered to you as soon as the intruders are neutralized.”

  “That’s your problem, not ours. I want him now.”

  “We . . . we’ve come to an agreement with the security team,” Lucas said. “Herr Aspiazi has requested a few minutes to finish an experiment . . . about half an hour. You have my word—”

  “What manner of idiocy is this? This isn’t a negotiation. Where’s Armando, your head of security?”

  “He’s not . . . he’s . . . with Herr Aspiazi.”

  At a sign from Thiago, ten guns pointed straight
at Lucas and his guards.

  “You guaranteed the handover, and the head of security isn’t with you? He’s the only one of you morons worth a damn!”

  Surrounded by smoke, Michi shivered and shouted pleas that no God would ever answer. The air swirled around the presence while the claw felt for her. The nose savored the scent of her flesh like a wild beast. It would soon possess her for all eternity. The girl cried out, and her soul writhed in fear. Searching desperately for help, she called for the only person with whom she’d ever felt safe. Then she heard a voice behind her: “Michi, Michi, where are you?” She saw Ethan. He was far away, walking along a hallway in an abandoned hospital, right at that moment, which was a few minutes in the future, or maybe the past, but also in an unnerving dream from months before about a lavish mansion in flames in a country she’d never been to. “Michi, where are you?” Tears ran down her cheeks. She longed to hug him, knowing that it was the wrong thing to do. She knew she shouldn’t call out to him, but she couldn’t help stammering, “I’m still alive.”

  Ari watched the tragedy unfold from a position of helplessness. Ethan was lying still on the ground, 4:20 was having a fit, and Caimão was ahead, darting back and forth to avoid the gunfire with a success that owed more to dumb luck than skill. He finally got to the shed in front and leaned on the wall, but his move only protected him from the first two shooters. He crouched to return fire at the new threat from the side, but his position was precarious. The shoot-out had transformed the area into one big cloud of gunpowder, giving them perhaps their only advantage. Ari ran toward 4:20 with no clear plan in mind. Something moved to her right. Ethan appeared to come to and sat up. The two original shooters turned to them, and Ethan crawled under the low mist.