Kiss Of The Butterfly Part 20

After a week of brainstorming the Order's reincarnation and learning about vampires, on Friday Steven bade farewell to Slatina. By mutual agreement Steven would travel to Petrovaradin, examine the vampires' chamber, retrieve the journal, and then proceed to Belgrade, where he would tape the local television news and talk shows for Slatina to scan for vampires. Steven would stay for two weeks and then return to Budapest. Slatina had instructed him to get a map of the Petrovaradin underground from Mrs. Lazarevic and to find out from her how to access the chamber. His final words to Steven were: 'Trust no one.'

Steven took the mini-bus back to Novi Sad on Friday. Although the television and VCR attracted the attention of the Serbian customs officials, a twenty Deutsche Mark banknote resolved the issue quickly. 'I'm learning, Neso,' Steven said to himself.

He arrived at Mrs. Lazarevic's home shortly after mid-day and she greeted him warmly: the first question she asked was: 'What did Marko tell you?'

After lunch she brought out a large flat map case, from which she withdrew a sprawling yellowed diagram on thick parchment, over a meter long and half a meter wide. At first glance it appeared to be nothing more than an intricate series of star-shaped geometric lines with interconnecting and crisscrossing diagonals. But an intricate hand-stenciled legend read Souterrain-Plan der Festung Peterwardein, in Dermahlen Befintligen Stant Nebs. Denen Mayerhoffen und Umbligenden Schantzen, anno 1797, with a scale of 1:4000. It was a map of the fortress' defenses and underground corridors from 1797. 'You will copy this,' she said.

She drew his attention to the markings. 'The fortress has four underground levels in the Labyrinth, and each intersection has a marble tablet or marker stating the name of the corridor. The lettering on the tablets is color-coded: red for the first level, green the second, blue the third and black the fourth. That way you can keep from getting lost, if you know which level you are on and have a map. If you don't, then you could starve to death down there if your batteries die. So you must have a guide.'

'Professor Stojadinovic will lead us. He says he knows the underground galleries well.'

'No one knew them better than my Rade,' Mrs. Lazarevic said. 'He was stationed here as a soldier until the outbreak of World War Two, and he could find his way around the tunnels in the dark. There is also a fifth level. My Rade and Marko built it long ago, and it is unknown to anyone else...you read about that in the archives.'

'Yes. And Professor Slatina told me about it in detail.' He studied the map more closely. 'But the fifth level isn't on this map.'

'Do you see this pa.s.sageway here, where it says IV/500 Kom. Gall., and then it leads to IV. H.G. 507?'

He stared at the faded print in the maze of intersecting lines. 'Yes.'

'In this pa.s.sageway lies the entrance to the fifth level,' she stated matter-of-factly, 'where they interred the eleven vampires.'

'Have you been there?'

'Yes, many times. But the ground water rose and flooded the entrance to the lower chamber, so neither Rade nor I have checked the seals for more than fifteen years. Now even parts of the fourth level are flooded.

'What's it like, this chamber? What's in it?'

'Just vampires in coffins. If they are still there, then they are very, very hungry. And angry.'

'Are they still there?'

'I think they escaped years ago,' she said with a polite smile. 'When you go tomorrow, make certain everyone stays together. Have Professor Stojadinovic lead you to the entrance to the fifth level, but make certain he doesn't know that you know. I will tell you how to open the lock. If the seals are intact, just leave them as they are.'

'Is it safe?' Steven asked.

'Yes. Marko has always been a strong, good man, but he is a fool sometimes when it comes to women. It is because of a woman that this is happening.'

'A woman?'

'Never mind. We shall speak only about what is important, not gossip,' Mrs. Lazarevic said, reprimanding herself again. 'You will be safe.'

'Are you sure?' Steven said, his voice uncertain.

'Yes. If they escaped there is no reason for them to linger in the Labyrinth. They will have moved to another location. Take Marko's journal and leave.'

'Are you sure I'll be okay?'

'Steven, if I let you do anything dangerous my Katarina would never forgive me. Now, make certain you take a dry pair of socks and a warm jacket. It's chilly down there, and I don't want you to catch cold. And I will make some fresh apple strudel to take with you...'

She reminded him of his mother, and he smiled.

'Now, I shall make you a warm supper. I hope you like garlic.'

Interlude IX: Vakufgrad, Bosnia and Herzegovina: April 1992 The Serb-controlled Yugoslav People's Army had encircled the town two days earlier and begun lobbing artillery sh.e.l.ls indiscriminately into the town center every so often, simply to frighten the inhabitants. From inside there was no contact with the outside world. All phone lines had been cut, there was no electricity or running water, and army roadblocks prevented the residents from leaving the terror of the bombardment. The town was defenseless, the only weapons at the residents' disposal being a few scattered hunting rifles. People huddled in their cellars or on the ground floors of their homes seeking refuge from the incoming sh.e.l.ls.

Their Serb neighbors had all left a few days earlier, and the remaining members of the town council sent a delegation to the army to announce that the town was open and undefended. But the army maintained the roadblocks and the cordon around the town, while continuing to sporadically lob sh.e.l.ls on the defenseless inhabitants.

Low clouds and a heavy mist descended on the town as the weather turned everything murky, the only color coming from the fires started by artillery. Buildings shuddered with the impact of high explosives on concrete, brick and plaster. A few bodies lay in the streets, persons unlucky enough to be caught in the open when the sh.e.l.ling started. The artillery tore apart cars, peppered street-lights and light posts with shrapnel, demolished storefronts, shattered and cracked windows and rained dust everywhere. The townspeople found themselves caught in a h.e.l.l they could not flee.

At dusk the artillery fire lifted and a small convoy of dark jeeps and military trucks approached the army roadblock to the east of town, a black Mercedes SUV in the lead. A tinted window lowered and the commander looked at the regular army officer manning the roadblock.

'You have orders to let us pa.s.s.'

The officer in charge nodded grimly, recognizing the face in the Mercedes as belonging to a man whose nickname Ris or Lynx instilled fear in the hearts of all who heard it. 'We've softened up the town for you. There'll be no resistance. Just send them out to us and we'll send them to refugee camps.'

'How we do our job is none of your business,' Lynx said arrogantly, s.h.i.+fting his silenced Heckler & Koch MP5 machine pistol in his hands as he petted a small wolf cub on the seat beside him. He disappeared behind his tinted window and the convoy drove on towards the town center.

The Wolves descended on the village at nightfall, wool balaclavas covering their heads, their shoulders sporting a patch with a ravenous wolf's head, jaws open, teeth glistening. They waved large Bowie knives, Kalashnikovs and German Heckler & Koch MP3 rifles as they rousted people from their homes and lined them up in their yards, shooting indiscriminately. One Wolf formed ten captives in a line, let his men place bets, then pressed his pistol against the skull of the last man and pulled the trigger. Three fell over dead and the winner collected his jackpot.

They herded the inhabitants into the local high school auditorium. The Lynx walked among them, patted the children on their heads and gave them candy. He then left them without food, water or the use of toilet facilities for the next four days, the men on the right side, the women and children on the left. They took the more attractive women and girls to a local motel, where the Wolves satisfied their l.u.s.ts in a non-stop orgy of gang-rape that lasted until the women pa.s.sed out, and continued even after.

They came for the men individually, starting with the mayor and town councilmen, then local business leaders and anyone with a university degree. The Wolves bound their hands behind their backs with wire and dragged them from the auditorium as their wives and children screamed and protested. The screams and shrieks of the tortured echoed down the school hallways day and night, filling those in the auditorium with terror as they awaited their turn. Sometimes the Wolves would throw a lucky survivor back into the auditorium, too badly beaten to walk or crawl. More often than not, they were never seen again.

Lynx took over the mayor's office. The Wolves brought him a prisoner every several hours, hands bound. After inhumanly loud sessions of torture, Lynx would throw each victim's bloodless corpse out the window into the parking lot below.

While he feasted, the increasingly bloated commander ordered his troops to strip all the homes and buildings of anything of value: jewelry, toilets, hot water heaters, stereos, televisions, was.h.i.+ng machines, sinks, door and window frames, electric fixtures, personal possessions, even books. They loaded everything onto trucks that disappeared in the direction of Serbia to be sold on the black market. Those cars still able to run were also taken. When everything of value had been stripped from the homes, they were put to the torch or demolished with explosive charges.

On the third day a Wolf brought a man to Lynx, bent with age over a gnarled cane, born he said when a Sultan still ruled Bosnia. 'He says he has information that he'll give only you, boss.'

The old man stood hunched before Lynx, lifted his eyes and stared the commander in the eye. 'I know what you are,' he said knowingly, pulling a Hawthorne cross from his s.h.i.+rt. 'And I know what you want.'

'Don't waste my time, old man,' Lynx growled.

'The Vlach...I know where he hides.'

Lynx jumped to his feet. 'The Vlach?! Where?' He shrieked, grabbed the old man and lifted him off his feet. 'Tell me before I break all your bones and suck you dry.'

The old man stared at him impa.s.sively. 'You can do nothing to me that time has not already done.'

'What do you want?'

'Freedom for my children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren and their safe pa.s.sage to Hungary.'

'You ask for much.'

'I offer much.'

'How do you know such information? How do I know you can be trusted?'

'We are Saxons. My ancestors came as miners and constructed his lair.'

'Tell me where he is,' Lynx snarled furiously, shaking the old man again. But he said nothing.

The next day the Wolves turned over most of the surviving women and children to the Army for processing and transfer to refugee centers. The most attractive ones were taken away to be sold as s.e.x slaves. The surviving male prisoners, their hands bound behind their backs, were loaded in trucks and driven away to a special detention camp, or as Lynx so artlessly put it: 'food storage.'

Lynx left Vakufgrad with an elderly pa.s.senger beside him on the seat of his SUV, while two trucks full of men, women and children and their belongings headed for Hungary.

CHAPTER TEN.

THE CHAMBER OF CROSSES.

Petrovaradin, Belgrade: 16 May 1992 Steven sat in front of the old officers' club on the Petrovaradin terrace and looked across the Danube, apprehension etched on his face as distant, towering banks of black thunderclouds drove a strong wind before them. From their base threads of lightning darted earthward, chasing the scent of rain and fresh ozone. Frantic waiters scurried across the wind-swept terrace, chasing runaway tablecloths and tumbling sun umbrellas. He felt the occasional large, isolated drop of rain fall from the light grey clouds overhead.

'How was Budapest?'

Steven jumped at Stojadinovic's voice and slammed his knee against the table. Only Stojadinovic's quick reflexes kept Steven's gla.s.s from falling to the ground, but the professor winced in pain as he caught the gla.s.s. 'd.a.m.n it,' Stojadinovic said. 'My back.' He sat down gingerly, across the table from Steven. 'It's an old injury.'

'Sorry.' Steven was jittery. 'You scared me.'

'No problem. Steven, I don't wish to be rude,' Stojadinovic said. 'But you smell of garlic.' He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

'I ate dinner at a friend's house. Her mom fixed meat with garlic, garlic mashed potatoes, baked peppers in oil with garlic, garlic soup and fresh salad with garlic. And for dessert there was an onion pie.'

'Yes, I can tell from over here.' Stojadinovic winced, pulling his scarf over his nose. 'Waiter, double scotch,' he called, then turned to Steven and grinned sheepishly: 'Hair of the dog...so how is Professor Slatina? What'd he say about your research?'

'Not much. He's okay,' Steven said.

'What's that?' Stojadinovic inquired, pointing to the hand-drawn map on the table.

'It's the Petrovaradin underground. I traced it.'

'Where'd you find it?' Stojadinovic was suddenly quite curious. 'In all my years of research I've never seen such a detailed map.'

Steven hesitated, not wis.h.i.+ng to lie, yet remembering Mrs. Lazarevic's advice: 'Trust no one.' He chose his words carefully. 'It's from a friend. She's from an old family here in Petrovaradin. The daughter's in the US, and they let me copy it.'

'That's the problem with Serbia: all our best families and people are moving abroad and taking priceless heirlooms with them,' Stojadinovic muttered angrily. 'A map that valuable should've remained in the country and been placed in a proper archive, but then the archives probably wouldn't know how to take care of it. There are few reliable maps of the Petrovaradin underground remaining, and this one looks more accurate than any I've seen.'

Relieved, Steven didn't correct Stojadinovic's incorrect conclusion.

'What's this you have marked on the map?'

'It's a section I want to see. I heard there's a Maltese cross on the wall.'

'You're in luck. That's exactly where I'll be taking you today, because that's where I think the lock is and where I had that trouble in 1983. I even brought some rope, so if anyone's interested they can climb through the hole and see what's under the floor.' He opened his backpack to show Steven, who s.h.i.+vered in antic.i.p.ation of what they might find. 'But I'm afraid I won't be able to do much, not with my back acting up...it's between the fourth and fifth vertebrae,' he added.

A large drop of rain hit Steven on the forehead, and he quickly folded the map.

'Haalloooooo....Steeefaaan.'

Steven turned to see Vesna run across the terrace, dressed in blue jeans, dark hair falling across her old flannel s.h.i.+rt and dark blue windbreaker. Her smile dispelled the darkness of the gathering clouds. She ran up and hugged him, kissing him on the cheeks.

'Blyak!!! You smell like garlic!' she exclaimed, smiling. 'Your breath is awful!' And then she moved in and hugged him again, this time a little longer. 'This is horrible,' she said. For a brief moment all thoughts of vampires and his commitment to his studies disappeared.

He didn't notice Bear and Tamara as they walked towards them. 'Hi Stefan,' they said. 'h.e.l.lo Professor Stojadinovic.'

'Stefan is Mr. Stinky.' She hugged him tightly around his waist and laid her head against his chest, smiling at the others.

They walked the length of the fortress to the Hornwerk section, ignoring the sporadic, yet increasingly frequent drops of rain, Vesna holding Steven's arm while Bear and Tamara listened to Stojadinovic explain the Fourth Imperial Grenadier Company. Finally they came to a high arching brick vault in the steep gra.s.sy hillside at the edge of the St. Elizabeth Bastion, barred by a ma.s.sive wooden door. Steven noticed an orange and black b.u.t.terfly perched above the arch on the stone tablet with the word MINEN carved on it. The b.u.t.terfly opened and closed its wings several times as Steven regarded it warily, then decided it was not the one from the book store and relaxed, all the while asking himself if he was crazy for fearing a b.u.t.terfly.

'It's the Vanessa cardui, what the French call "la belle dame",' Stojadinovic gestured at the b.u.t.terfly, then removed his sungla.s.ses, revealing bloodshot eyes and a puffy face. 'I believe in English they call it the Painted Lady. We have them everywhere.' He took a key from his pocket and pulled on the padlock that held the door shut. As he did so the entire door fell against his shoulder. Steven and Bear jumped to his aid and grabbed the heavy door, wrestling it away.

'd.a.m.n! My back,' Stojadinovic winced. 'Someone's been here and removed the hinges.'

Steven touched his backpack, rea.s.sured by the stake inside.

'Pay attention now,' Stojadinovic said. 'This is the second largest fortress in Europe, after the fortress at Verdun in France. But Petrovaradin has more underground tunnels than Verdun, and it was not destroyed during the First World War.'

They turned on their flashlights and climbed down a narrow stairway to a vaulted tunnel of brick covered with flaking white plaster. A crunching noise echoed up as they trod on broken gla.s.s, plastic bags, condoms and animal bones that carpeted the dirt floor. Their flashlights revealed graffiti-covered walls: "Mirko was here," "Nikola is a f.a.g" and "Red Star #1".

The yellowish flashlight beams played tricks with the darkness, as shadows appeared and disappeared suddenly in the most unexpected places, the light darting and flowing. Colors seemed less crisp to the eye, faded and bleached by the flashlights. They continued down a long, sloping pa.s.sageway until Stojadinovic's flashlight illuminated a three-way junction defended by a bunker with musket ports.

'Everyone remain together,' Stojadinovic called. 'Make certain you know who's in back of you, and if they're not there, then yell loudly and we'll go back for them. If you get separated, yell loudly and stay put. And Steven, because you stink of garlic you may bring up the rear.' As the others laughed, Stojadinovic turned left, followed by Bear, Tamara, Vesna and Steven.

Suddenly they felt a faint rumbling shake the earth. 'Thunder,' Stojadinovic said as he looked at the floor.

'Will the tunnels flood?' Bear asked.

'No. Ground water rises slowly: sometimes it takes a year for a one centimeter rise,' the professor answered.

As they continued down more tunnels, ramps and steps, Steven traced their progress with difficulty on his map. Everywhere his light shone on graffiti, cigarette b.u.t.ts and beer bottles.

'Is there a cafe in here?' Bear joked, making them laugh.