The Converging

Chapter Thirteen: The Seduction

Chapter Fourteen: Setting the Stage

Part Three: Cynara’s Dark Mastery

Chapter One: In the Den of the Witch Pt. 2

Chapter Two: Through the Looking Glass Pt 1

Chapter Three: Through the Looking Glass Pt. 2

Chapter Four: One Comes Back

Epilogue: The Departure

Prologue

In this creature, we are seeing the true face of evil, unadulterated and free of disguise. The gleam in Jonathon Ashford’s eyes shifted in rhythmic, pulsing syncopation as he related his story to David Stillman. The two men sat at a small table at the back of the Brookman Lounge, which was deserted save for themselves and two other adventurous couples. The other couples seemed too preoccupied to notice the two men, despite an intensity which hung about the pair like a glowing corona. Ashford's face was pallid and drawn, yet there was also an animation in his features, one that was totally alien to the normally reserved lawyer. A strange balance of fear and joy worked to shape his expression, casting a spell which held Stillman like a vice.

Each of us, at one time or another, is confronted with difficult choices, David. Some choices we make with relative ease, others with great pain and deliberation. There are occasions when our actions baffled even ourselves. All of us are confronted with temptation from one source or another, but the basis for temptation is always an internal creation. We are subject to greed, lust, envy and hatred. We breed our own demons like infectious insects. Once born, these insects multiply and feed, undermining the purity of spirit, eventually killing it. Ashford paused to sip his whiskey. As he did, the hand that lifted the glass shook slightly. Outside, the rain broadsided the building furiously, making the patrons glance uneasily toward the bay window which looked out onto Justin Drive. The darkness of the night and the intensity of the storm lent credence to Ashford's monologue. Many of our misdeeds are fairly vapid, though sometimes horrible, he continued, but in no way, unique. Susceptibility to corruption is an inherent part of human nature. Each of us possesses a measure of ‘evil’ and ‘good’ and we are judged by which force exerts the most influence upon our actions. This mix decries the notion of purity of spirit, does it not, David?

I suppose it does, Stillman murmured thoughtfully. He could discern the underlying anxiety in the other man’s thoughts. Sipping nervously at his beer, he waited for the lawyer to continue.

I never really believed that actual evil existed, other than in the forms that I've just mentioned. But now, David, I do believe there is an evil beyond the tawdry human variety. This thing is a creature of pure evil. It exists for the purpose of spreading misery and suffering. It’s strange, but despite the terrifying aspects of all of this, I find it all rather engrossing…even exhilarating. Ashford gazed off into the middle distance, absorbed in the intrigue of his own suppositions. Stillman noted, with a touch of dismay, the strange new light that gleamed in the older man's eyes. He could sense the intensity of Ashford’s new passion…the dangerous allure of the demon's existence excited Ashford. The older man seemed enchanted by the prospect, lost in a world of new possibilities, where all of the old rules would no longer apply. So you really believe what you have been told by this hunter?

Yes, I believe it to be not only possible, but quite probable, Ashford replied evenly. With dawning horror, Stillman saw that not only did Ashford accept the story, he wanted it to be true…somehow needed it to be real. He told Ashford this. Ashford smiled his cryptic new smile and observed, Yes, you may be right. In a way, I hope that what I've been told proves valid. My entire life has been governed by rigid structure. What is the law but a system of unyielding borders and formats? Everything is precise and ordered and thus ultimately, so mundane. We all become so intractable in our beliefs and prejudices that the very thought of something new is frightening. You and I have a rare opportunity to see something new, something totally foreign to our commonly accepted reality. I won't tell you that I am not afraid, but I also feel more alive and vital than I have in years. Confronted by a thing so alien to our nature, we have but two choices: to accept what we see or go mad. I accept this hunter’s tale, David. In truth, I even want it to be so. If something so foul can exist, then surely a thing of equal splendor and beauty may also exist.

At that exact moment the power failed with a dramatic flash, plunging the room into sinister shadows. The very air came alive with unseen forces, cavorting and dancing just beyond the limit of vision. A second later, the power came back, banishing these malicious shades with a civilized white light. Visibly unsettled, Ashford continued, but now his strange internal glow had guttered somewhat. David listened to the other man talk, riveted by his words and struck by his unexpected willingness to consider, if not accept, Ashford's contentions.

This all strikes me as something that was destined to happen. The possibility that destiny was anything more than a writer's tool touched me as absurd… until now. Then again, very little of what I previously believed matters now, does it? Evil is a weak force, David. Though it may be pure in intent, it is weak in structure, feeding off of not only its victims, but ultimately itself. Liken it to a cancer if you will. That is why no evil force has managed to sustain itself for prolonged periods of time throughout history. If not outwardly destroyed, then it is vanquished from within and quite often by the weight of its own corruption. This creature is old and maybe, just maybe, its time has come and gone. Perhaps it is our destiny to bring it down. With these words, he reached across the table and clasped both of Stillman's hands. David noticed how soft they were   felt how soft his own were   and wondered if hands such as these could shape destiny. Morosely, Stillman doubted if they could.

What will you do? he inquired, already knowing how Ashford would respond.

Go to it, confront it and hopefully defeat it. Resolutely, Ashford stood and walked slowly toward the exit. None of the others in the room noticed his departure, though to David, he seemed to be cloaked in a shroud of electricity. At the door, he turned, smiled slightly, and raised his hand in a way of parting. Jonathon Ashford opened the door and stepped out into the stormy night. David Stillman watched him go, knowing in his heart that he would never see him again; knowing that he had gone to seek validation in the fires of iniquity.

Chapter One: The Arrival

1

In the grand structure of things, very little is conceived on the strength of a single component. For life of any type to exist, it is necessary for several very specific conditions to occur. Even natural phenomena, such as storms, require delicate balances to ensure their occurrence. A tornado is a classic example of this struggle for balance. It requires several meteorological conditions to grant it life. If even one of these conditions is absent, a potentially destructive storm may never exceed a gentle breeze. I now believe that the events which took place in the small Washington town of Semelar fall into this category. It may well be that a converging of forces (or more concisely, a collision of forces) instigated the disaster that nearly destroyed this town ... then again, perhaps not. Of this matter, I will let you be the judge.

2

On September seventh, a two toned brown Oldsmobile moved steadily along Highway twelve, toward the town of Semelar, Washington. Its engine hummed with contained power and efficiency in the morning air. David Stillman eased off the Olds’ gas pedal, dropping the speed from 55 to 50. The morning was quite lovely with bright sunshine promising pleasant warmth for later in the day; a happy contrast from the torrential rains that had beleaguered the State for the past several days. Stillman depressed the power window button to allow in the fresh morning air. The stretch of highway this far south of Seattle was virtually deserted and he relished the feeling of isolation that this provided him. He had always loved to travel by car whenever he had the time to do so, detesting the sardine can feeling that commercial transport always gave him. Out here on the open road, he was free to pursue the whimsical meandering of his thoughts without distraction.

Stillman was 27 and had written and published four fairly successful novels in the five years since his graduation from UCLA. ‘Four novels and some fairly good reviews,’ he thought, as he drank in the beauty of the State woodlands which delineated the highway. ‘But this is the one that I really want to work for me. If I can make this work, I can put this obsession with the past behind me.’ Each of his first four novels had been thematically similar, in that they had been social condition studies. In each of these stories, Stillman created characters that were essentially moral, yet trapped by circumstances and forced to choose between the lesser of two evils just to survive.

But it’s time that I got all of this out of my system and got on to something new, he muttered sourly. Even he could see that he had ridden this topic into the dirt of catharsis and hoped that one final outpouring might permanently silence his restless ghosts. This was his prime reason for returning to Semelar after a seven-year self imposed exile. If he were to exorcise his personal demons, he knew that this was the place to do it. Stillman had grown up in Semelar under circumstances that were less than ideal for any child. He bore the psychological scars of his childhood like millstones and after a seven-year absence, he was returning home to cast these stones aside.

A large green sign, decorated with the state colors and bearing the state flowers, proclaimed;

WELCOME TO THE TOWN OF SEMELAR, WASHINGTON

Population: 45,678

Please preserve our beauty for your next visit

Please do not litter

At that moment, a cold wind swept through the Olds' open window causing Stillman's flesh to rise in a mass of goose bumps and his body to shiver violently. A vivid image exploded in his head with the vehemence of a detonating landmine, ‘Run, turn and go now, while you still have a chance. Run!!!’ His eyes closed in an involuntary reaction to the pain. When they again opened, the road had vanished. His breathing seized and his face contorted in a mask of shock and terror that might have been comical under other circumstances. His windshield had turned completely red with what appeared to be blood. It flowed upward in a slow viscous stream, spurred on by the head winds. Then in an escalation of the madness, the car was suddenly filled with appalling wails of pain and fear, some low and vibrating, others high and piercing; shrieking upwards, coming to a crescendo at intolerable, nerve shattering pitch. Stillman's hands flew to his ears, trying to mute the tumult. He quickly discovered that the sounds were originating in his mind.

He blinked his eyes, hoping that the hallucination would vanish, but the phantasms only grew more macabre. Now, parts of bodies had begun to rise to the surface of the blood pool. Slowly at first, here a hand, there a severed head, all soaked with blood: parts began to bob to the surface. His mind fastened on the image of some ghastly cannibal stew, goading him to the brink of nausea. The entire surface of the windshield was afloat with the detritus of butchery. Repulsed and terrified, he screamed for the nightmarish vision to stop, his cry thundering off of the interior of the Olds’, matching the roar blasting in his own head. He tried to avert his eyes, but they seemed transfixed to the screen, as if his head were being held in place by immensely powerful hands. At the center of the blood pool, bubbles began to percolate, eventually materializing into words. When they finally had resolved themselves, they read: Come unto me and cleanse yourself in my waters.

‘God, gonna crash, gonna hit hard, baby!’ Stillman thought. He reacted quickly, more out of instinct than thought, releasing the accelerator and wrestling the wheel to the right. For a second it seemed that the car would not respond and would go crashing into the trees, but then it corrected itself, coming to a dead halt scant inches from the edge of the ditch.

It was twenty minutes before Stillman had sufficiently regained enough of his composure to resume his drive toward town. After the vehicle had come to a complete stop, he lowered his head toward the steering wheel and began to shake uncontrollably. ‘Holy shit! What was that?’ he wondered. Like most other college students of his era, Stillman had his obligatory go with hallucinogenic drugs during his years at UCLA. After a string of bad acid trips during his third year at college, he had gladly disentangled himself from the hobby of chemically induced mind expansion.

‘Fuck, was that one of those flashbacks that I've heard all of the ‘cid jockeys’ talk about,’ he wondered, rationalizing the episode must surely be one of the fabled flashbacks. Though this seemed to be a plausible enough explanation, instinct admonished him against drawing trite conclusions. The whole experience seemed to have an air of prophecy about it.

‘Christ, that is crazy. Next I'll be seeing trolls in the trees and hearing banshees in the night.’ Still, try as he might, Stillman could not allay the impression that the episode had been a moment of augury.

Doing his best to dismiss the whole thing from his mind, he dropped the gearshift into drive and swung the Olds' back onto the asphalt roadway, headed south once more. Ten minutes later, he reached the northern outskirts of Semelar. The north section had always been the Town's suburbia; the residential section which housed what elite a town the size of Semelar might have. The Semelar elite consisted of paper company executives and the usual contingent of doctors, lawyers and the like. Stillman was mildly surprised to find that he still harbored envy toward the people who lived their lives in these houses. As a child, he had spent hours wandering along these neatly maintained streets, admiring the beauty of these houses, with their perfectly groomed lawns and manicured hedges. Upon returning to his own section of town, he would pass the remainder of the day dreaming about the lives that such fortunate people surely must lead. A life free of malodorous smells, crowded housing and worst of all, washed out, embittered people, who tended to solve most of their problems with their fists. Time and experience had shown him that the inhabitants of such houses were beset by problems similar to his own and could be just as miserable, despite the material comforts they had accumulated. However, as a teenager, these impeccably maintained houses stood as edifices of hope for a boy mired in indigence and resignation.

Eventually, the residential district gave way to Nathan Civic Park which was more than one mile in length. The park began on the south extremity of Woodland Heights and ran all the way to the north edge of the Semelar business district. Stillman slowed to a crawl as he absorbed the verdant splendor of the park. He had spent many long, slow afternoons here, playing with other children or just meandering through the well-spaced trees. Nathan Park had provided him with a requiem from the tensions of home. The park and the clean, neat streets of the heights were both a beacon and an inspiration to a boy who had been in desperate need of both. Stillman entered the business district, heading south along Woodcrest Hill, and turned right onto Justin Drive. Again, he was struck by a feeling of déjà vu, mixed with bitter anxiety. ‘This is just like it always was,’ he thought. ‘Every time I turned this corner, that feeling of panic would begin to eat at my insides.’ There had been countless nights when that tiny feeling had grown into a monster of fear which had threatened to rip his small stomach to shreds. The desire to turn and go back the way he had come returned, but this time it was more of a thought than an actual vision and anyway, it was best to just forget what had happened there, back on the road.

Traffic at this point slowed perceptibly because of the Western Pulp and Paper tracks that intersected Justin Drive. The tracks were privately owned by the logging company and were used to receive shipments of logs from the company's cutting operations far to the north. The resulting pulp and paper products were shipped to Seattle along the same tracks. To long time residents of the town, the tracks served a less apparent, but equally tangible function; they separated the haves from the have nots. The area west of the tracks was known as the Lowlands - unofficially, of course. If a member of the town council or municipal chamber of commerce thought that this was common knowledge to outsiders, they might just have had a cerebral hemorrhage. Not that there was any real concern for the area’s unfortunate inhabitants (one of the town selectmen had been heard to say, If the whole damned area would just slide into the bloody Witly Marsh, all of our major problems would be neatly solved.)

The Lowlands was a name given to the area, not only as a derisive reference to its residents, but for the actual fact that it was built on a flood plain of the Witly Marsh. On those few historic occasions when the Witly had over flown its banks, a good portion of the Lowlands stood under four feet of water. All of the residents of Semelar were familiar with Walter Brinter, who had been the town's reigning drunk during the dim, dark Seventies. On a hot, humid night in July of 1978, Brinter had been sleeping off a bender in the Western P and P shipping yard, when a torrential downpour had caused the ancient Witly river dam to spring a leak. The resulting deluge had caused a flood which had, among other things, toppled a pile of logs in the P and P yard. The subsequent landslide had demolished a Western storage shed and the unfortunate Wally Brinter, who had been sleeping in said shed. Brinter had been the only casualty of the flood and several of the more cynical townspeople had praised nature for allowing them to have a new dam built and for ridding them of the town drunk in the process. Much to their chagrin, there had been several aspiring contenders waiting to ascend to his throne.

Stillman descended the hill into the heart of the Lowlands and knew that, despite the wealth that he had acquired since leaving, he had finally come home.

3

Ernie Simms slammed the Silver Surfer comic book onto the counter with a petulant curse. Goddamn things are getting more fuckin’ hard to understand all of the time.

Ernie was the manager of the West End Towers Motel, a position that he had held for the last fifteen years. He liked the job because it paid fairly well, gave him and his good for nothing wife and son free housing and didn't require great expenditures of energy. Just then, the front door gave its customary teeth rattling screech, causing Simms to wince and curse again. A tall, thin man with dark hair had opened the door and stepped inside. He stood in the foyer of the motel gazing about with unconcealed disgust. To say that the lobby was somewhat messy would not have been a terrible injustice to the management. Simms noticed the crisp crease of the man's dress slacks and the expensive cut of his gray sports jacket.

‘Hey, this guy ain't from around here and Christ is he in the wrong place,’ he guessed. ‘He’s looking at the floor as if he had just stepped into an ankle-deep pool of shit.’ This last analogy made Simms grin with amusement.

'Scuse me, mister, can I be of some help to you? Simms inquired. There was something vaguely familiar about the other man, but Ernie just couldn't place what it was.

Yes, the other man replied, stepping into the lobby and coming over to the registration desk. I believe that you have a reservation for me. The name is David Stillman.

Stillman, uh. You wouldn’t be old Tim Stillman's kid, would ya?

Guilty as charged, Stillman responded dryly.

I kinda figured you looked familiar, but I ain't seen you around these parts in about seven or eight years.

Well, I've got some business in town and I thought that I would come back and see how the old neighborhood has changed.

By the looks of the clothes that you’re wearing, you've done pretty well at whatever business you've been up to. Makes me sort of wonder why you would want to be comin' back here for. Ernie glanced closely at Stillman, trying to gauge what the other man was about. A vague current of anxiety washed over the old man, but Simms lacked the imagination to question its source. Still, this man seemed like the harbinger of some manner of ill fortune.

I've had the same thought myself, several times actually. You're Ernest Simms, right? Stillman asked amicably.

Yeah, that's me. Plain, old Ernie will do, I guess. Ernie extended a callused right hand and Stillman shook it firmly and vigorously, partially divesting Simms of the notion that all writers were wimps.

You know, it seems to me that my wife might have mentioned somethin’ about you writing books for a livin’, is that so?

Your wife is as right as rain, Ernie.

Simms was becoming more than just a little excited by the prospect of having a celebrity staying right in his hotel. You wouldn't be thinkin' about writin' a book here would ya?

An indecipherable grin spread across Stillman's face and for an instant, it appeared that he might not answer, but then he said, I think I'm here on a ghost chase, Ernie. Yes, that's exactly what I think I'm here for. Now, about that room …

Sorry, Mr. Stillman, coming right up. Simms turned away from the counter and went over to the pegboard to retrieve the proper key. He returned to the desk and handed Stillman a small silver key. It was affixed to a plastic tab with a gold number fifteen on its surface. Your room is the second one from the end of the building. If I was you, I'd make sure that my door was good and locked every time that I stepped out. People around here ain't quite as honest as they should be.

Thanks, I'll keep that in mind, Stillman answered absently, taking the key from Ernie's outstretched hand. He smiled at Simms and turning, walked out of the office. The parking lot was deserted, save for his Olds and a battered Ford Pickup.

‘Strange,’ he mused, as he made his way back to his vehicle, ‘until he had mentioned his name, I had completely forgotten about good old Ernie Simms.’ Back in the not so good old days, Simms and Tim Stillman had been a notorious drinking duo. David recalled innumerable occasions when he had bitterly watched the pair staggering down the street, pissed to the gills drunk, and clinging to each other for support, much to the amusement of everyone who had seen them. He flushed at the recollection and again had the odd feeling of coming disconnected in time. The memory evoked sensations of profound embarrassment and shame, as if the images of the past had magically reappeared, waiting to be given new life by his very presence. Yes there are ghosts to be hunted here, he murmured. Hunted, and put to rest, once and for all.

4

Rome, Italy. The hand grasping the red manila folder shook perceptibly. Cardinal Umberto Rossi had conditioned himself to conceal his emotions well in the fifteen years that he had been in office at the Vatican. Yet, in those years he had never encountered anything as compelling or as dreadful as the contents of the report before him. He closed his eyes in an effort to collect his thoughts. ‘Could this be legitimate?’ he wondered. ‘Or is it the by product of an over imaginative mind.’ He closed the red leather bound folder and placed it neatly on a pile of similar folders that occupied his desk. Can the contents of this report be verified, Giancarlo?

The research that our committee has conducted on this matter would suggest that it is at least possible, replied the other man. The man opposite the Cardinal was Bishop Giancarlo Fabrizzi. He had served as an assistant to the older man for the past seven years. In that time, he had never known the Cardinal to be so close to openly losing his equanimity. Considering the delicacy and potentially explosive ramifications of the decision that the Cardinal was about to make, some measure of ambivalence was to be expected.

And the American, the author of the initial report, is he reliable? The man whom the Cardinal was referring to was Bishop Edmond Winters.

Yes Excellency, the Bishop is a most scholarly man, very well respected by his peers, many of whom consider him to be an intellectual giant, the Bishop remarked. The research material in the remainder of the report was collected, with painstaking efficiency I might add, by our own historical research centre.

Assuming that the contents of this report are fact, do you then condone the recommendations of the committee?

The Bishop hesitated, knowing the moral dilemma that this ‘recommendation’ created. Again, he did not envy the position in which the Cardinal now found himself. I realize the moral conflict that such a proposal creates, but if we accept the conclusions of this report... He let the remainder of the thought hang.

The man recommended in the report would be the most ideal for the task? The Cardinal asked, finding it difficult to keep the quavering out of his speech. The reality of the decision that he had to make weighed upon him like a granite block.

We believe that he is, your Excellency.

But suppose that we are wrong, Giancarlo? What then?

Then we will atone for our error on the Day of Judgment.

The Cardinal closely scrutinized his old friend, a man whom he loved and whose judgment he respected. No doubt could be seen on the Bishop's face. The Cardinal picked up his pen and signed the report, authorizing the implementation of its recommendations. Taking a small key from his breast pocket, he unlocked the upper right hand drawer of his desk and removed a small silver box. He placed the box on the desk beside the red folders, and opened the lid. Then, with great care and reverence, he removed the holy seal from the box and affixed it to the document.

He had done this routinely over the course of his years in office, but never with such uncertainty and trepidation. The authorization completed, he handed the document to his assistant, glad to be rid of it. I will sanction this, Giancarlo, but I leave you with the responsibility of dispatching it and overseeing its implementation. It is imperative that this document is kept an absolute secret. Should such a thing become public the very existence of the Church would be jeopardized.

I swear to you, Excellency, that discretion will govern my every action. The Bishop stood up and moved around the table to where the Cardinal sat then knelt before him, held his hand and kissed his ring. Then, smiling at his old friend, he turned and strode from the office.

When he was alone, Rossi bowed his head and closed his eyes. ‘I am a tired man,’ he thought wearily. His love of God had sustained him in the face of many a crisis. He had witnessed much suffering and pain in his 62 years, but none of those experiences had prepared him for the decision he had made today. On this day he had used the seal of the Holy Church of Rome to sanction murder.

5

Thirty six hours later, Air Italy flight 17, inbound from Tel Aviv, landed on runway 16 of the Rome International Airport. One hundred and twenty-six passengers disembarked into a heavy, wind driven rain which had drenched them within seconds. Among these arrivals was a stocky, middle aged man with a rough, chiseled visage that appeared to have been carved from a slab of granite. The man was slightly less than six feet tall with broad shoulders and a distinct fluidity to his movements that hinted at panther-like reflexes. Though his face remained impassive, he often caused strangers to look away quickly when his gaze happened to fall upon them.

The man carried a battered brief case and wore a rather rumpled raincoat that was only partially buttoned against the torrential rain. The man passed through the security system's metal detector and onto the customs inspection station, where he joined a line of tourists waiting to have their passports inspected and stamped. When his turn came to be processed, he produced a passport, which announced him as one Lewis Freedman of New York. After a cursory inspection and the customary stamping, the customs official handed the man his passport and motioned him to proceed to the baggage area. At the counter, he gave the attendant his check and reclaimed his small suitcase. This done, he strolled slowly along the airport terminal's main concourse, apparently perusing the various gift shops and restaurants that lined the concourse like a blight. After five minutes of discreet observation, he spotted the man in a crisp black raincoat shadowing him on the opposite side of the concourse. He stopped at a magazine rack, randomly selected an Italian magazine and began to flip through its pages. Behind him, the man in the black coat had also come to a stop and commenced checking the airport time boards for arrivals and departures. Freedman glanced around the terminals, trying to spot others, but everyone appeared to be moving too quickly to be engaged in any type of surveillance.

Replacing the magazine on the rack, Freedman picked up his case and resumed his meandering stroll toward the exit. The man behind him also began to move forward, but suddenly his target was nowhere to be seen. Alarm swept over his pursuer and he suddenly quickened his pace, thinking that the man had disappeared into one of the many shops. Abandoning the pretext of being a casual browser, the man began hurrying ahead, trying to look in all directions at once. After several minutes, it became rather obvious that his target had somehow eluded him and he stood in the middle of the crowded terminal trying to decide what to do next. Suddenly, his left wrist was gripped with bone crushing force and his arm wrenched up behind him. A sharp object was pressed into the centre of his back. He could feel its point penetrate the fabric of his topcoat until it give way, as did the clothes beneath, and it pressed ever inward until the tip of what he presumed to be a knife dimpled his skin.

Make any attempt at getting attention and you die, do you understand? a voice rasped into his ear. It was low and toneless, as if issued from the depth of a glacial valley. The man had no doubt that the possessor of such a voice would not hesitate to make good on his promise.

Yes, I understand, he stammered, finding it impossible to subjugate the fear that threatened to overwhelm him.

I have a knife poised to sever your spinal column should you decide to raise any kind of fuss. We are going to walk toward the exit doors and then out into the street. Once outside, we’ll walk north until we find a secluded spot where we can talk. You will tell me who you are and why you have been following me. If I sense even a hint of deception, I’ll be forced to kill you for my own protection. Now move!

The two men moved toward the exit, maneuvering through the throng of people, all of whom took no apparent notice of the pair. The captive had to marshal all of his powers of concentration just to make his feet move. Experience had not prepared him for the remorseless killer and the alien menace that he exuded petrified the captive. They passed through the exit doors, out into the night which was growing increasingly bitter. Now cold rains swept across the pavement with a ferocity that could only be inspired by malice. The rain lashed the captive's face, making him flinch and squint his eyes. Once he nearly stumbled, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest, fearing that the man holding him might interpret this as an attempt to escape. But the other merely pulled him upright and continued to move him along the crowded street. Eventually, they came to a narrow alley that ran along the northern edge of the terminal building. The man in the back grasped the shoulder of the other's topcoat and brusquely jerked him into the alley. They proceeded some forty yards into the service lane, stopping at a point where the shadows made it impossible to see them from the street. The first man stood shaking visibly, not knowing what to expect. Abruptly, a tremendous pain flared in his kidneys. The impact of the blow buckled his knees and he pitched forward onto his face. He laid in the centre of the alley, unmoving, and for an instant, the man who called himself Freedman feared that he might be more seriously injured than intended. However, a few seconds later, the downed man began to stir, clutching his back and groaning loudly.

Freedman bent down and turned the man over, then dragged him to the wall of the building, where he propped him against a large wooden crate. He knelt down beside the other man and produced his stiletto from his coat pocket. Gripping the man roughly by the hair, he tilted his head back, exposing his bulging throat. Placing the business end of the weapon against the man’s jugular, the needle portion still retracted within the body of the weapon, the assailant growled, With a press of this button, the needle of this stiletto will spring out directly into your throat; within one minute from that time, you will be dead. If you wish to live, you will tell me what I want to know.

The fear in the other man's eyes was huge and Freedman knew that he would provide him with everything he required. Please, I’ll do what you ask. If you will just reach into the inside pocket of my topcoat, you will find my identification. I swear this will begin to help you understand. Please, do as I ask.

Deciding that the man was effectively cowered, Freedman reached into his pocket and removed a small leather bound folder that he knew to be a passport. He opened the passport folder and peered at the picture within. Then he examined the slightly battered face of the man before him, recognizing them to be one and the same. He quickly read the passport description and stopped, nonplussed by what the document revealed. The document identified the man before him as Roman Catholic Bishop Giancarlo Fabrizzi.

6

A half hour later, the two men sat opposite each other in a suite of the Rome Plaza Towers Hotel. The room's subdued lighting illuminated only a small circle of space about the two men. Bishop Fabrizzi held an ice compress to his left eye, which was badly bruised and beginning to swell. After Freedman had satisfied himself that the other man's identity was authentic, he had assisted Fabrizzi to his feet and guided him to his vehicle which was parked in the airport lot. They had driven in silence to the Plaza Towers, where Freedman was registered as a guest. Though he had been extremely helpful in making the Bishop comfortable, Freedman had not offered an apology for his belligerent behavior. In my business it is prudent to be cautious, he said. Failure to detect and neutralize any perceived threat is often fatal.

Again, Fabrizzi shuddered at the imposing strangeness of the other man, wondering how one could suffer existence in a world such as his. Now, as they sat facing each other, the Bishop scrutinized the other man, trying to gauge his character. Though he was usually a good judge of men, he found that he could not divine the essence of Freedman's nature. The man was a fortress whose gates were drawn shut and sealed to the outside world. The muted lighting caused Freedman's face to be lost in shadow, his facial features obscured by the gloom. His eyes, however, regarded the Bishop with cool, patient detachment and Fabrizzi knew that he was capable of murder with the casual efficiency of one crushing a particularly annoying bug.

‘And yet it is a man such as this that we must turn to do our work,’ he mused. Before I tell you why you were summoned here and what I propose, I must confirm one thing, He said, watching the other man intently. Are you Major Zved Neghev?

The other man's eyes widened slightly, but he managed to conceal his surprise, despite the immensity of his shock. To the world, save a small few, he was Lewis Freedman, the Jewish American businessman. However, to a select portion of the MOSSAD, the Israeli Secret Service, he was Major Zved Neghev. The fact that a Roman Catholic Bishop could possibly be aware of this was both disconcerting and terrifying. Neghev's alarm grew at a geometric rate. If Fabrizzi knew of his true identity, then surely others must and if they did, then he was dead already, now nothing more than a walking corpse.

‘I've got to keep calm. Think, what could this man possibly want from me?’ he thought. ‘I have to determine the extent of his knowledge and the reason for his summons.’ He suddenly wished that he was very far away from this place, or even better, that he had never come at all. The pragmatic side of his character realized that evasion was not the solution, for not coming would have done nothing to erase the fact of the other man's knowledge. If he could establish who else possessed this information, and if that circle was small enough, then just maybe they could all be eliminated. His professional calm descended upon him like a veil and his anxiety eased if only a little.

The previous day, Neghev had returned to his apartment, in Haifa, to find a small, plainly wrapped package sitting on his kitchen table. He had thoroughly searched his apartment for signs of theft or disturbance, but had found none. Closer examination of the doors and windows indicated no sign of forced entry. It had then become evident that whoever had placed the package on the kitchen table was a professional leaving no possible clue as to their identity or means of ingress. He pondered this for a moment and had then gone down to the lobby to question the security guard. The man had been unable to recall any inquiries concerning his whereabouts or any deliveries in his name. Freedman was allowed to examine the service register which contained the name, source and destination of all deliveries to and from the building. Perplexed, he had closed the register and handed it to the guard, who stood watching him curiously. Freedman had tried to allay that curiosity by remarking that the package must have been a joke from some of his friends.

Back in the kitchen, he had examined the package without touching it. The address tag stated his assumed name and street number. Years of indoctrination had instilled a strong sense of instinct and a great deal of patience. He resisted the impulse to open the package, instead choosing to sit at the kitchen table and consider its implications. Obviously, whoever had left the package had only its delivery as their objective. Nothing had been taken and nothing had been disturbed, meaning that the intruder had not taken the time to search the locality. The possibility that the package was an instrument of assassination, an explosive perhaps, had occurred to Neghev, but again he dismissed the idea. This method of elimination was much too subtle for most of the fanatics that he dealt with and was not direct enough to suit the style of the more renowned intelligence agencies of the world. Deciding that the package posed no immediate threat, Neghev slowly removed the wrapper. Inside there were three identical and nondescript brown manila envelopes. Neghev opened the first one and drew out a number of American one hundred dollar bills. He had counted fifty of these bills and set them aside. The second envelope contained a round trip ticket for an Air Italy flight from Tel Aviv to Rome, Italy and a hotel registration slip. He laid these beside the pile of bills and then tore open the final envelope. It contained a note, typed in block letters on a single sheet of lined paper. The note read:

Mr. Lewis Freedman:

It is our wish to discuss with you a business proposition of the utmost urgency. In the interest of security, it is necessary that you come to us. Enclosed are an airline ticket and a hotel registration ticket dated for tomorrow, as well as 5000 American dollars which has been included as a retainer. Upon your arrival, you are to check into the hotel, where you will be contacted and given complete details of the proposal. Failure to appear will be interpreted as a negative response. In this event you may keep the retainer as a sign of our continued benevolence.

The note was unsigned, but in light of the manner in which it was delivered, this had not surprised Neghev. The Bishop coughed lightly, bringing Neghev out of his reverie. How could you possibly know my true identity, Bishop?

Fabrizzi smiled, trying to reassure the other man that his motives were not adversarial, partially compelled by the brutality that the other man had displayed at the airport. I am constantly amazed by the way that we are perceived by the world. Even the majority of our own clergy view the Vatican as a cloistered Roman Catholic enclave, with an obsolete perspective of world affairs and morals. We are perceived as whimsical spiritualists, lacking the inclination or the practicality to be interested in what goes on in the world. I might have expected a less jaded opinion from you, Major Neghev.

How so, Bishop? Neghev asked, genuinely confused.

You are a Jew, a member of a despised and besieged culture. Yet you realize the need for security and intelligence to protect you from your enemies. Without that hard edge your religion, indeed, your very culture would not survive located where it is. If you chose to play the detached spiritualist, you would soon be obliterated by the hatred that surrounds you. The Roman Catholic Church is a religious entity but it is a political one as well. The concept of separating the two is naive and rather fatuous. Our Church has existed for two thousand years, Major. It has ruled nations and forged policies. It would be foolish to assume that we no longer do. It is true that, due to the changing role of the church in the world, our power is now less vulgar, more subtle, but have no doubt that it still exists. He paused to allow Neghev to absorb this, and then continued, As anyone with political insight knows, if a leader or an institution wishes to persevere and flourish, that leader must be sharply attuned to tides of affairs flowing around them. Furthermore, that leader must divine which operative forces are forging the paths of change. It is necessary to differentiate between which one is a gust and which one is a prevailing wind. Only then can these forces be harnessed, diverted or destroyed. Only immortals or fools choose to be totally oblivious of the dynamic world about them. We are not fools and we are most definitely survivors.

Neghev felt a certain grudging respect for Fabrizzi, despite himself. It was apparent that the man possessed a formidable intellect. He would have to be handled with great caution. Your point is well taken, but that still doesn't answer the question of how you came to discover my true identity.

Fabrizzi discerned a thread of disquiet in the Israeli’s voice and could almost sympathize with the man. With one simple declaration he had destroyed Neghev's sense of order in the world. His entire life, which he had presumed to be controlled and relatively safe, had been thrown into chaos. Like your country and religion, the Roman Catholic Church is not without its enemies in every country in the world. Centuries ago, it was decided by the presiding Pope and a group of Cardinals that the Church should establish what could best be described as an information collection service. This plan was conceived and implemented just after the Protestant Reformation. A small number of clergymen, those who demonstrated the desired qualities, were selected for specific tasks. They were sent to all of the major European centers of power to observe and record, in as much detail as possible, the internal workings of the host court. An accent was placed upon intelligence regarding covert activities. The success of this program was astounding and the information that was gathered invaluable. This program was and is the primary reason that the Church has been able to accurately anticipate the fluid shifts of political change.

Neghev found it impossible to disguise his astonishment. The Bishop's revelations were both fascinating and mind boggling. His story was so intriguing that the Israeli momentarily forgot his own peril.

You mentioned having men with the right qualities. What were these qualities? he asked, genuinely engrossed in the fascinating revelation of a network which might well rival his own Country's intricate intelligence program.

Those selected were intelligent and resourceful, but, above all of this, they were zealots. You see, Major, it was necessary to find people who were assiduous in their devotion to the Church and the execution of its will. It might seem like a rather inappropriate view for a Bishop, but we sought men who were able to use the end to justify the means. He considered this for a moment and then amended, Within very definite limits.

So I take it that this network still exists?

That should be rather obvious considering that you are here. Not only does it exist, but it has grown dramatically. Our reach is far and our penetration deep. We have access to the supposed secret information of every government on earth… including your own.

Surely, Bishop, you realize the potentially explosive implications of what you've told me. The fact that you are aware of my existence indicates how extensive your information network is. New plans of action rapidly unfolded in Neghev's thoughts, all frantically screaming for attention. Yet one thought stood out among the others, if the MOSSAD could abduct this man and debrief him, it would be the biggest intelligence coupe that Israelis had made in years. Excitedly, he began to assess the viability of such a plan.

Ah, yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look, the Bishop intoned in a soft, lyrical voice. Neghev reddened visibly, bewildered by the man's ability to divine his thoughts. Do you think me such a fool, that I would be unable to anticipate your hunger for the knowledge that we possess? Do you not think that I would be able to foresee this and take appropriate precautions to protect myself from your machinations? The Church assembled this information for its own protection and refuses to be drawn into the espionage game. I can assure you that if I were to disappear suddenly, my colleagues would see to it that our entire MOSSAD file would find its way into very hostile hands. The benefit of my information would be lost, as your entire intelligence structure would be compromised and left in exposed shambles. I, personally, sympathize with the plight and struggle of your people. It would sadden me if this became necessary.

Do you understand that such an action would condemn hundreds of our operatives to death? Neghev demanded angrily, horrified by the prospect of such a disaster.

Yes and I am sure that you are aware of the similar effect the exposure of our network would have on the Church. As you can see, continued secrecy on both of our parts would be mutually beneficial. Again the Bishop's tone hardened and he said, And should you remain unconvinced of the prudence of this, I might remind you of the similar axe that is poised over your own neck. He reached into the left pocket of his jacket and withdrew a red envelope. He then handed this to Neghev. The Major broke the seal and slipped out a single sheet of paper. He scanned the brief quickly, his face reflecting the shock and concern which were threatening to erode his ability to reason. The sheet summarized, with complete unerring detail, his personal and military history, beginning with his birth in Hungary in 1944 and ending with his latest MOSSAD classification. There could be no further doubt about the reach and power of this man, and Neghev realized that he had no option but to comply with whatever was requested of him.

What is it that you want of me? he inquired, his voice barely audible.

The Bishop smiled, deriving a cynical delight from the Israeli's discomfort. The paper that Neghev had just read was merely a synopsis of what was in the actual file. The Israeli was a competent, efficient killing machine, unencumbered by emotion or compassion. Fabrizzi was pragmatic enough to accept that brutality was an immutable fact of life in what was a far from perfect world. If Neghev were to be judged for his actions, it would not be by him. The request that I wish to make is rather delicate and complicated. Please be patient while I try to detail our situation.

For the past half hour, I've lectured you about the worldly disposition of the modern Catholic Church, irrespective of this, we have never dispensed with our spirituality. We exist to propagate the ideals of God as put forth to us by his son Jesus Christ and his apostles. It is our duty to prepare and fortify the soul of man for its journey into the kingdom of heaven and to combat evil, which is the soul's avowed and defiling enemy. If we fail in this, all of our worldly accomplishments serve little purpose. We must expound the doctrine of love and purity, while struggling to vanquish the forces of Satan that threaten to engulf us all. Do you believe in the existence of metaphysical evil, Major Neghev?

Neghev was now totally baffled, unable to discern an apparent motive in the other man's summons; especially if that summons was connected to the dealings of the Catholic Church. Surely, he had not gone to such lengths to tell him fairy tales about that overblown demon, Satan. Yet there was an ominous undercurrent to Fabrizzi's patter and Neghev sensed himself being inexorably drawn into something alien and perhaps menacing. In this new world he would have no understanding of the rules and limits. For the first time in his life, the inchoate stirrings of true fear gnawed at his insides. ‘Yes’ he thought, ‘I believe in evil, priest, but not your fairy tale variety. The evil that I know is a purely human contrivance, but no less vile. You sit there, in your world of smug intellectual theology and proclaim that true evil can be bettered with a few mystical incantations from an ancient book of bedtime stories. The real evils of this world are the ones that we gleefully let loose on each other.’ A woman in Lebanon cradling her steaming intestines in her hands, stomach slit open from hip to hip by one of the fanatical Antichristian groups that thrive there. He bitterly recalled a small boy in the Golan Heights with half of his head blown off. Neghev remembered happening upon the boy, whose skull had been shattered by a stray mortar shell. He watched his mouth open and close soundlessly for what had seemed like an eternity until, unable to bear any more, he blew what was left of the child’s skull to pieces with his service revolver. The child had been no more than five years old. He wanted to shout Yes I know evil on intimate terms. I know its face and I know its smell and I'm sure that you don't know a fucking thing about it. Instead he confined himself to a simple yes.

It has always been the duty of every Catholic clergyman to search out and combat the miscreant wherever they may be found. Some pursued this task a little too arduously and caused us some rather lamentable and embarrassing moments. Of course, I'm talking about the inquisition and various other Church sanctioned witch hunts during the dark and middle ages. There were fanatical zealots in the Church who saw demons everywhere and while trying to destroy them, became demons themselves. In an effort to prevent a repeat of these unfortunate aberrations, The Papal commission created what has sarcastically been referred to by its critics as the demon squad. Its main task is to investigate alleged Satanic and supernatural episodes such as cult worship and possession. In nearly two hundred years, this commission has generated literally tons of paper on both subjects. Most of the reports discounted the incidents of occult phenomena as wishful thinking on the part of a few demented Satanists, but a small percentage of the episodes could not be so tritely dismissed. It is with one of these unexplained occurrences that I would like to begin my story.

"In 1826, there existed a small Barony, located several hundred kilometers north of what is now Bucharest, Romania. This territory had been endowed to Emile Saravic, for his part in some obscure regional conflict. Saravic ruled this fief in a very benevolent fashion if one compares him to other such men of his era. He was married to a local beauty called Olga Zarov in 1820, and she bore him two children over the next four years. The first was a boy named Peytor, who had given the Baron great pleasure, in that he had provided him with an obligatory heir. The second child came three years later; a girl named Alasha. The