HUNGER OF THE WICKED

10.

Astana, May 1, 2011

The elevator stopped on the tenth floor and the doors opened. Ecclesio Majorana advanced into the hallway covered with a fine carpet of floral motifs, then stopped, at the height of astonishment. The address itself—a new residential building—was a real surprise, as his target couldn’t claim to live there discreetly. Still, if he had chosen an apartment on the ground floor... But at this level, the chances of an escape if needed were almost zero in the middle of the day. And even at night, a hunter with any experience would soon have taken the advantage. What the hell did this mean? Suspicious, Ecclesio pulled out of his pocket his priceless pendulum. He held it out at arm’s length and concentrated for a moment. Very quickly, the tip oscillated gently, then turned to apartment number twenty-five. Satisfied, he stowed his instrument and exchanged it for the necessary lock picking tool. Used to this kind of exercise, he finished with the lock in a few moments and stepped inside, on guard. The main room, a living room with large bay windows, was a bleak spectacle: all the furniture was covered with white sheets. He was gone.

“Damn!”

Majorana relaxed. Bad luck seemed to be following him. He was chasing the wind, or this would not have been possible. He went in every room, opening drawers and cupboards, without finding a single item. He completed his visit with the study, which offered a surprising contrast to the rest of the apartment. The medical equipment by which he had found this address was lying on a table, against a wall. The floor, strewn with an impressive amount of crumpled paper, no longer offered a square centimetre of free carpet. Pinned to the walls in the greatest disorder, newspaper cuttings were mixed with photos and news reports taken from internet sites. On a work table, maps were dragged here and there, accompanied by historical books. A true shambles. A first for Ecclesio who came to the delectable conclusion that his target was losing his footing. He had already sensed his distress, his impatience, but never to the point of losing himself. He was at the end of his wits.

He entered the room, being careful not to crush too much paper. Valuable clues could easily be destroyed in this mess. He approached the only table, took surgical gloves out of his coat, and put them on while inspecting the boxes of medical equipment. They were open, their contents stored without the slightest precaution.

Ecclesio inspected a haematology analyser—a device capable of delivering a blood test in three minutes—plugged it in, turned it on, and called up the last operations performed. None. He navigated the menu and selected the custom settings. Nothing. The machine had been reset to factory settings. He grumbled. Since the beginning of his hunt, he had had many occasions to question the actions of his prey, to the point that he had come to doubt his sanity. Yet despite his strange behaviour, he had never forgotten to empty the memory of the various equipment he used. A very embarrassing detail, to tell the truth.

Annoyed, Majorana began a review of the newspaper articles and reports. They dealt with a wide variety of topics such as tourism, architecture, or local entertainment; without being sorted in any way. It’s getting weirder and weirder.

“Buongiorno signor Majorana.”

The man turned around without any abruptness. He had recognized the thin voice with a strong French accent. He smiled at Father Roland, affable.

“Buongiorno, Padre.”

The priest entered the office, his nose wrinkled as if the pile of paper gave off some unpleasant odour. He avoided getting too close to his competitor.

“I knew you were in town, but not that you had a fresh lead.”

“Rather, say you hoped so,” Ecclesio retorted, stroking his moustache.

“Hum? Oh, let’s skip these unnecessary verbal games, please! Our goal is the same, we both know it, so why not help each other? We would only be more efficient.”

“What will our superiors say?”

“Ah, to hell! They don’t have to come and freeze in this damn country, they prefer to stay warm! So?”

“The idea is appealing, but once our man is captured, what happens to him? I know that France and Italy are neighbours, yet the choice of his prison will cause many tears, won’t it?”

“We are two influential members of our respective organizations, to be honest. So I propose this, simple and practical: let’s stay in Russia.”

“Aren’t you afraid of catching a cold?” Ecclesio asked in a mocking tone.

“I fear above all that our man will escape or die foolishly on the journey home!”

Roland took off his scarf and his gloves. He was starting to warm up, in the soft warmth of the apartment. He observed the study, concerned, then turned his attention back to the Italian. The latter nodded, looking pleased.

“I love your proposal, Padre,” he waved his hand to encompass the room. “Especially as the behaviour of our man turns to schizophrenia, or whatever other mental disorder. He rented analytical equipment, like the other times, but didn’t use it. And look at this mess!”

The priest nodded. It wasn’t reassuring for the future, indeed. He stared at the articles, eyebrows raised, then leaned over to retrieve three sheets of paper that he smoothed with care. Consternation quickly spread to his face and he picked up several others to compare them.

Ecclesio had undertaken to list the various maps of geography and to classify them by oblast. He placed them to reconstruct Siberia, which they represented in its entirety.

“Padre,” he said wearily, “I feel like he’s lost. See these maps. Thousands of kilometres to cover, without any clues. He didn’t take any notes and doesn’t seem to have selected a particular destination.”

“There’s worse,” said the priest sharply. “His memory isn’t looking good.”

“Sorry?”

“All these sheets on the floor are pages of his diary. They’re all dated the same day, but tell a different story that contradict each other. His memories are muddled.”

“What’s the date?”

“October 14, 1947.”

Ecclesio’s face lit up and he looked at the Internet articles, then at the maps. The puzzle was slowly settling in his head. He gave a friendly pat on the priest’s shoulder, who responded with a hilarious frown.

“He has but a few clues,” Majorana whispered. “As you just mentioned, his memories are lacking, everything is blurred in his mind. This date is likely a landmark, he knows he can rely on it. Starting from there, he’s trying to locate the site of his hiding place by ingenious detours, focusing on the events that concern him. In the end, it can be said that he’s traveling Siberia in search of other indications that will awaken his failing memory.”

“Hum. It’s a very risky technique,” Roland replied, dubious.

“But he can’t do anything else! Remember! You and I have been chasing him all over Europe for years. This isn’t the first time that his behaviour has surprised us. We hold the explanation here!”

“I agree, but I’m suspicious: he could have staged all this to misguide us.”

“No. I think he doesn’t know where to turn.”

“That’s not impossible. But if he doesn’t know exactly where he’s going, we’ll have even more trouble catching him: we’ll be forced to wait until he has left traces to follow. I don’t like it.”

“Me neither, we agree.”

“We have to speed it up. Reach his goal before him.”

“How?”

“This important date is key. We know that our man has never been particularly good at discretion, it may be that archives of the time can help us to discover where he has stayed. We’ll only have to wait for him there.”

“1947, Padre. I’m afraid you’re deluding yourself.”

“The Korshunovka Monastery has a well-stocked archive of everything that makes it possible to locate God’s enemies.”

“Where is it?”

“In Siberia,” the priest said with an eloquent smile.

“Good. We leave as soon as you buy snowshoes?”

“Please, Ecclesio, tell me that at this time of the year, they have no more snow!” Roland whined.

“Sorry,” chuckled the Italian.

The priest looked at the desk one last time before going out. Their mission deserved, thankfully, all the immense sacrifices he had made. Soon, they would hold at their mercy the only vampire who, by his knowledge, would cause the fall of his kind. The end of this race rejected by God. And he, Roland, a very respectable member of Opus Dei, would have the promise that his soul would shine in the firmament of his Creator.