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Authors: Mario Reading

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‘The Prince had come across into what is now Moldova from the Maramure
ş
in pursuit of this beast. His favourite hound, Molda, was hard on its trail. But the beast was strong. It fought off all the dogs. But finally Molda killed it in the river. Only he killed it by choking off its windpipe with his teeth. And when the aurochs fell beneath the surface of the water, Molda followed him down and was swept away by the current. Prince Drago
ş
wept. Then he named the river after his hound. And our country after the river. Do you like this story?’

‘Yes, Dracul. Yes. I like it very much.’

‘Why?’

Antanasia could feel her throat seizing up. She knew all the signs now. Dracul would question her on some subject she knew nothing about. He would become angry. He would strike her. Then he would make love to her, and weep into her shoulder for his guilt at the killing of their father and at laying his hands on her. She would comfort him. He would avoid her for days after that. Days in which she often despaired to the extent of wishing to take her own life. Then, just before she made her final decision, Dracul would come to her. Bring her an expensive present. Tell her he loved her. That she must only ever be his. That she must never look at another man again.

Two days later he would be pimping her out to some minor official he needed to placate. When she came back from doing whatever it was he had ordered her to do, he would be angry with her, and force her to reveal all the most intimate details of what had occurred. Down to the very slightest intake of breath – the most fleeting of caresses. Antanasia felt bewildered, in consequence, for most of the time she was with him. But the blood tie was strong with her and Dracul – she knew it. He was a part of her. If he lived, she lived. If he died, she died. It was as simple as that. It was a marriage made in hell.

Antanasia sometimes wondered what she had done in a past life to deserve the way she felt. Now that Dracul had ten thousand followers, what did he need her for? He was the New Messiah to these people. Christ reborn. Since Moldova’s independence, there was freedom in the country for those who had money and connections. And Dracul had both.

Soon after the breakaway from the Soviet Union, the authorities had granted Dracul permission to build his very own village high on the Moldavian Plateau – after he had greased certain palms and guaranteed delivery of a set number of votes. For nothing ever came free in Moldova. But Dracul could afford the kickback. He had persuaded his followers that a full 25 per cent of their annual income must go to his Church, and that their votes must come with it. For Dracul had learned one valuable lesson from the Russians – that the spiritual high ground was valueless without real political power.

And the number of Dracul’s followers was indeed rising daily. Even in a country where a fair proportion lived on less than $2 a day, the sums and the voting power were beginning to add up. Add to that the donations Dracul/Mihael now received via the Hungarian, Ukrainian, and Romanian diaspora, and the numbers rose exponentially. Only a foolish politician would risk alienating a man believed by many to be the earthly reincarnation of the Godhead.

It was a long tradition in the East to donate part of your income to the Church. The perception was that this brought you closer to God. The normal tithe was 10 per cent of income. But Mihael had to be different. His people needed to make an actual, visible sacrifice. In this way they felt that they were different from the norm. Cleaner. More spiritual. That they were suffering for their faith. Martyrs, even. The fact that some of the poorer members came near to starving in the depths of winter as a result of Mihael’s tithes worried Mihael’s alter ego, Dracul Lupei, not at all. If they needed help, they would get it – other people would see to that. Some individuals were born to lead, and others to follow. And he was a born leader.

To add further cement to Mihael’s standing, his model village was blooming. It had its very own sawmill and forge. A village hall. Vegetable allotments for every family. And a church that Dracul had designed himself, and which looked like a cross between an observatory, a planetarium, and a football stadium. Gold leaf had been imported from India for the roof. Russian stained glass had been commissioned for the windows. The place was a marvel. Each Sunday, Dracul/Mihael would walk barefoot to the church, his hair flowing about his shoulders, smiling distantly at his adoring followers.

Every now and then he would stop and fall into a brown study, as if he were communing directly with God. His followers would surround him silently, their eyes fixed on his. The silence might continue for as long as five minutes. Then Mihael would smile and raise his hands in benediction, and the procession would continue on its way as if nothing had happened.

It worked every time. When Dracul had been recovering from his injuries in the stone dormitory at Orheiul Vechi, eleven years before, he had had ample time to observe the old monk’s idiosyncrasies. Now he based his own behaviour on that of the old man. The hermit would often drift off into a contemplative trance right in the middle of one of his Bible readings – such trances could last five, or even ten minutes. At the time they had irritated Dracul intensely – all he had wanted was for the monk to get on and read his story. But even then Dracul had sensed the possible uses to which one could put such a technique.

Yes. Everything was going swimmingly for Dracul. He had his flock. He had Antanasia. He had money in the bank. And very soon he was going to try his hand at a little enlightened chicanery.

He was going to order the most zealous of his male followers to go down in secret and torch the local mosque.

 

Outskirts of Samois Gypsy Camp
12 November 2009

 

28

 

‘What’s your name?’

The boy darted a sideways glance at the girl beside him. Then back to Abi. ‘She is Koiné. I am Bera. Who are you?’

‘None of your business.’

‘What do you want? Are you a bad man? Why do you have guns?’

Abi nodded. ‘Yes. I’m a bad man. This...’ He jerked his head at Rudra. ‘This is a bad man too. And these...’ He chucked his chin towards Nawal and Dakini. ‘These are bad women.’

‘Are you going to sell us?’

‘Not if your sister does what we say.’

‘What do you say?’

Abi made a face. This one was a sassy little runt. ‘That she’s to go back to the camp and tell your headman to come out to speak to me. Privately. Quietly. Without making a song and a dance out of it. Meanwhile, this bad man will hold you in another place. I have a phone. When your chief tells me what I want to know, then I phone the bad man and you get to go home. If he doesn’t, this man will hurt you. She’s to tell him that.’

‘Why you do this?’

‘That’s none of your business either.’

‘Koiné. You don’t go.’

‘Listen here, you little guttersnipe. If she doesn’t go, we drop you both down a convenient mine shaft. I’ve heard there are old mines around here. We’ll drop you down and you’ll break your legs. Then you’ll starve to death. We’ll be long gone by then. Nobody will know you’re down there. It’s not a nice way to die. Take it from me.’ An image flashed into Abi’s brain from the cenote, but he shunted it away into his unconscious. He noticed, though, that Rudra looked as pale as a fish belly beneath the remnants of his Mexican tan.

Bera turned his dark eyes onto Abi. ‘You killed my cousin Babel. I know who you are. I know why you are here.’

‘You’re a smart little bleeder, I’ll give you that much. But we didn’t kill anybody. That was someone else. We need information, that’s all. And you’re going to get it for us. Either that, or we drop you thirty feet down an open mine shaft. It’s a simple equation. Take it or leave it.’

Bera looked at his sister. ‘You go tell Radu. You tell him about the mine shaft. What they are going to do.’

Abi pointed to his pistol. ‘You tell no one else, mind. Only this Radu person. We don’t want the whole camp in an uproar. If you don’t do as we ask, we will hurt your brother.’

Koiné began to cry. Bera approached his sister and yanked her by the pigtails. ‘Listen. You talk to Radu. Tell him about the mine. Only him. You understand me?’

Koiné glanced up at her brother. Her mouth twisted itself out of shape in an effort to fight back her tears. She nodded.

Abi took a step forward. ‘He’s to meet me in an hour. Centre of Samois. By the post office. He’s to come alone. On foot. He’s to wear something red. If I see anybody with him, I’ll order this man to hurt you. Make Radu understand that. If he talks to me, you can go free. We don’t want you. I never liked kids. Untrustworthy little blighters.’

‘You are a bad man.’

‘You’d better believe it.’

‘Go, Koiné. Talk to Radu.’

With a backward glance at her brother, Koiné started up the track.

Abi watched her go. Then he turned to Rudra. ‘Okay. Take this little brat off in the car. The girls can go with you – they’re far too memorable to be let loose on a sleepy little village like Samois. I’m going to walk – that way the timings will be right. I’ll call you when I need you.’

Rudra urged the boy away with the barrel of his gun. He didn’t look at Abi. Neither did Dakini or Nawal.

Abi shrugged. Well. Maybe he still wasn’t flavour of the month with those three. But Madame, his mother, had clearly put him in charge again, so he didn’t much care what the others thought. This time around he was going to do things his way. He’d follow the Countess’s agenda, sure. But he’d follow his own agenda too.

The four of them had lucked into the children twenty minutes before. Found them playing alone, three-quarters of a mile from the camp, while they were scouting the area prior to moving in on the headman. Abi didn’t like involving children in Corpus affairs – not altruistically, but on principle, because children refused to behave and think like adults. They were ungovernable. Unpredictable.

But their presence had given him his idea about how to persuade the headman to tell them where Sabir and his Gypsy friends were hiding. Originally, he had intended to watch the camp until he was certain of the chief’s identity. Then kidnap and torture him. But why use violence when you could use psychology instead? And not queer your back trail into the bargain?

He knew that the others weren’t comfortable with him sidetracking them all the way back to near Paris. Madame, his mother, had ordered them to go directly to Moldova. Once there, they were to exert pressure on some certifiable nutter called Mihael Catalin, who claimed he was the Second Coming, and had amassed an army of fanatical followers to support his claim. The same nutter whom Sabir had indiscreetly identified as Nostradamus’s Third Antichrist whilst he was still pussy-struck with their sister Lamia.

‘Look. This so-called Antichrist isn’t going anywhere in a hurry. We can catch up with him whenever we want to. He’s got his own town. He’s got his own airport. He’s even got his own bank. So he’s going to be busy as hell. Plus he doesn’t believe he’s the Antichrist – he thinks he’s the Second Coming, for pity’s sake. The fucking Saviour of Mankind. So he’ll keep. Sabir won’t. He’s on the run. He knows we’ll be coming after him and his Gypsy friends. And I have a score to settle with that bastard. If it hadn’t been for him and Calque torching the crystal meth factory, we might have been able to bribe our way out of that cenote. So I blame the two of them directly for Oni’s death. And for Vau, Asson, Alastor, and Berith’s earlier. And it wouldn’t surprise me if they weren’t involved in Lamia, Athame’s and Aldinach’s disappearance somehow too. So they owe us – they owe us large. And I, for one, aim to collect.’

 

29

 

BOOK: The Third Antichrist
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