Legacy in Blood (Book 1 of The Begotten of Old Series) (16 page)

Marisa finished her soup and tossed her spoon into the bowl. It made a ringing noise.

“Oh, fuck,” she muttered angrily.

“What’s with you?” wondered Volsky.

“I was just remembering that that whore slipped away from me yet again!” Marisa said then started swearing under her breath.

“You know, I quite like it when women curse,” Volsky grinned archly.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Marisa continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “I set a PR storm on her yesterday – she won’t know what hit her.”

“Oh yes, I saw that on TV,” said Pavel approvingly. “But why did you only send out debriefings on one of them?”

“Oh, I’m going after the second as well, just not through those channels. You see,” Marisa pulled a steaming casserole full of the next dish towards her, “this Dutchwoman is a bird of an entirely different feather. She’s sharper than most we’ve come across. It’s unlikely that she’s holed up in a basement somewhere, hiding. Here a different approach is necessary.”

“In other words, she’s more than a match for us.”

“I guess, but the other one’s not really an idiot either,” Marisa tossed her head expressively. “She did manage to stay off the police radar. It would be strange if she was suddenly caught standing around in the market, like a side of newly slaughtered veal. But you can be sure, the phone’s going to be ringing off the hook, so much so that you’ll want to stick your head in a noose. Half of Stockholm will call to tell us they saw someone who looks a bit like her here and there. That kind of headache isn’t so easy to deal with.”

“Oh yes,” said Volsky significantly. “Run, run as fast as you can…. But what do we have on the second one?”

Inside the casserole was a dish of beef brains in a sour cream sauce. Marisa picked up a fork and dexterously speared a delicious smelling morsel of the delicacy. Volsky followed Marisa’s lead and attacked the little ceramic dish in front of him. The process repeated itself – once again they were silent as they consumed their portions with delight, accompanied by the quiet rumblings of Volsky’s stomach and the energetic clinking of cutlery.

“Don’t you think that she could have already fled from Stockholm?” Pavel asked Marisa finally, pushing the empty casserole away. “That sauce was delicious.”

“It’s not bad,” agreed Marisa. “Yes, in theory she could have. I’m sure she’s already had new IDs made. She could have changed her appearance and hauled ass to another country. She could have gone anywhere, even to Madagascar. What can I do? Fuck it. I have no idea. But that is exactly why I think it’s a good idea to concentrate on that little bitch of a princess for the time being. This is her native land. But I won’t forget about Van Glek, or where she might be, for a second. It’s actually the only thing on my mind. And, you know, something tells me that she is still here in Stockholm. So the most important thing is to understand
why
.”

“Why, oh why, oh why,” Volsky sighed theatrically.

“Okay, Pavel, it’s your turn to talk,” declared Marisa, plunging a small spoon into a soft dessert – a strawberry mouse, abundantly strewn with shaved chocolate.

“Can you wait until the food settles?” asked Volsky, glancing at the trays stacked on the edge of the table.

“Oh no, lay it out for me.”

“Okay,” said Volsky reluctantly. “But don’t tell me later that I didn’t warn you. Take a look at this.”

With these words Pavel extracted a transparent envelope with a roll of photographs from the pocket of his jacket and placed it on the table. Marisa took the pictures out of the envelope and intently gazed at what the photographer had managed to capture. To be sure, she’d seen dismantled human bodies before, parts strewn over the floor, blood sprayed over the walls and ceiling, but this time the offender had managed to surpass all the previous targets of the Homicide Division of CRUSS rolled into one.

“How many bodies are there?” asked Marisa after three minutes of detailed inspection of the photographs.

“Two,” replied Volsky. “A man and a woman; their identities are still being established. They were found yesterday morning not far from the Ekebysjon. It seems they were getting it on in the car. Then they were simply sliced into noodles.”

“More like into mincemeat,” said Marisa, pushing the unfinished dessert away from her. “I suppose that gastronomic metaphors are appropriate here, right?”

“You suppose correctly,” grimaced Volsky. “This monster…whatever it was…really tucked into this poor couple… You should see the imprints of his teeth!”

Marisa raised her eyebrows quizzically.

“A werewolf?”

“Presumably – yes,” nodded Pavel. “And it seems that this is part of a series. Of course, I need to verify it, but I believe that there have already been eight similar murders.”

“So, a werewolf is on the loose,” she stretched out the words mirthlessly. “Fucking hell, don’t we have enough with all these vampires?”

“You don’t say,” concurred Volsky. “And more importantly, not just anywhere, but in Danderyd.”

“Uh-huh, and we have enough to keep track of without werewolves in the mix.”

“That’s for sure,” concluded Pavel, putting the envelope of pictures back into the pocket of his jacket. “Alright, let’s change gears. How are you feeling?”

Marisa suddenly observed a strange tenderness in Volsky’s voice. Then, as if accidently, he brushed her hand with his fingers. Marisa’s hand jerked, catching the dessert spoon that was lying on the table. Smiling, Volsky picked up the spoon and once again touched her hand. This time Marisa reacted passively, noting to herself, however, that the touch of Volsky’s fingers was far more pleasant than unpleasant.

“So how do you feel?” Pavel repeated.

“Pasha, I’m trying not to think about how I feel,” she replied honestly.

“I understand – I’m not an idiot.” Volsky covered Marisa’s hand with his own. “You know, I’m looking at you right now and realizing what an idiot I’ve been.”

“I don’t understand the connection,” said Marisa with a slightly sarcastic grin.

Volsky started to cautiously stroke her palm.

“You know, you were the most beautiful girl at the Academy,” said Pavel.

He smiled again, but this smile was of an entirely different character. Once, Marisa had lost her head over his smile. Indeed she had, but he had been unaware of it.

“So you were and so you remain,” added Pavel.

She looked him in the eyes…and suddenly everything spun around her. It was only for a moment, but it was long enough that Marisa once again lived through a whole range of emotions from annoyance and disappointment in herself to sweet suffering, which was just how she had felt then, in her first year at the Academy, when she melted and pined under his gaze…

Someone dropped a tray full of plates, and Marisa descended from the imaginary heavens back to the earth that was located in the dining room for agents of the Homicide Division. The lunch hour was coming to a close. Marisa freed her hand, suggesting that it was time to pack it in.

“Well, first of all, we weren’t at the Academy together – it was a special training – and there is no way you noticed me, Pavel, because you were four years older than me.”

And Marisa stood up, not giving Volsky the chance to find an appropriate reply.

“Alright,” she said. “I’m off. Vampires and werewolves wait for no woman. See you!”

Not waiting for feedback from the crestfallen Pavel, she turned around and began to walk away. She didn’t want to think about that brief flicker of forgotten emotions. She had almost an entire day’s worth of work ahead of her and she simply could not allow herself to waste energy flirting with Volsky. Or with anyone else, for that matter. Still, Marisa was sure that in all of CRUSS there was no man who could compete with Pavel, so magnificent, such an overwhelmingly masculine man. Rumor had it that he was a fantastic lover. As a student, Marisa had nearly gone mad from jealousy and had hated all the women who had spread such rumors. But today she caught herself thinking that her former jealousy and malice had been exchanged for some new feeling, or more accurately for an entire palette of hitherto unknown sensations. And one of the main ones was curiosity. Yes, she was damnably curious to find out how true those rumors really were.

The restaurant in which Soigu apparently loved to dine was located in the Gamla Stan, Old Town and was called Den Gyldene Freden (The Golden Peace). Dalana laughed wholeheartedly, it was reputed to be one of the oldest restaurants in the world and would probably be a tourist trap.

With the help of a new wig, Dalana had turned into a blonde, and her skillfully applied makeup gave to her face a hint of ugliness, which should indicate a certain weariness in the world of excessive employment. In other worlds, Dalana now looked like a stereotypical businesswoman, a character that was, in her opinion, quite serviceable for the plan she meant to implement.

All morning, while Dalana had clothed herself in ‘another’s skin’, Vasilisa had circled around her. An
enfant terrible
, the girl was weary from boredom; she desired attention and therefore she asked innumerable questions in an effort to converse with Dalana, an effort which drove Dalana crazy.

“So, what’s your real name?” inquired Vasilisa, perching on the edge of the hot tub.

At that moment Dalana was standing in front of a massive mirror, armed with tweezers, bringing her right eyebrow into ideal alignment.

“A night spent in the same apartment is no reason for familiarity.”

“I was wondering what I should call you,” Vasilisa said resentfully. “Secret agent woman?”

“According to my most recent passport, I am Diana Pechorina,” Dalana informed her.

Vasilisa laughed loudly, banging her fists against her knees.

“Yes, you look just like a Diana. Especially a Pechorina.”

“Before that I went by the name of Darla.” Dalana shrugged her shoulders.

“That’s better, but still not great,” concluded Vasilisa. “Tell me, why do all of you…well, the Begotten of Old, so dislike giving out your real names?”

“The more you know, the worse you sleep,” Dalana cut off the inquiry. “You could simply call me Dee.”

“Okay,” sighed Vasilisa. “Just so you know, I sleep very poorly.”

“That was your choice,” said Dalana.

“Not really,” Vasilisa let slip gloomily. “But let’s not talk about that… So, Dee it is then.”

By this time Dalana had already finished plucking her eyebrows and was now making her wig tidy.

“Can I help?” Vasilisa asked.

“You’d better buzz off. Or else I’ll lock you in the pantry,” Dalana threatened.

Having transformed her appearance as much as she could, she gave Vasilisa a spare wig and was amused at how unskillfully she put it on. After Dalana’s intervention, Vasilisa appeared to be a woman with long, fiery-red hair.

“I recommend vulgarly bright makeup,” said Dalana, looking Vasilisa over thoroughly. “It’ll add years to your face, which will lessen your chances of stumbling across the crusaders.”

“I look like a whore in this wig,” said the transmog sullenly. “And you want to put me on bright makeup on top of that? I won’t go outside looking like this.”

Vasilisa stubbornly folded her arms across her chest.

“Whatever you want,” replied Dalana. “But if I don’t receive my advance by midnight you’re on your own, is that clear?”

“Yeah, it’s clear,” grumbled Vasilisa and she walked over to the mirror with a dejected look.

“You can use my cosmetics,” said Dalana. “I hope that you can paint yourself a vulgar little face without my help.”

“A little whore’s face,” said Vasilisa in a half-voice, rummaging around in the interior of a plump cosmetics bag.

“Can you or not?” asked Dalana.

“I’ll manage somehow,” snorted Vasilisa and in the same breath declared: “But, you know, I need some things of my own. I don’t even have a toothbrush.”

“I’ll get you a toothbrush,” promised Dalana. “The rest is your problem, and you will not attend to it before we take our leave of each other.”

“But what am I supposed to wear to the bank?” the transmog snapped. “Have you forgotten the state of my clothes after yesterday?”

For a moment Dalana again repented of yesterday’s good deed.

“Fine, wear something of mine,” she relented after a minute.

“Your clothes are too big for me,” informed Vasilisa.

“Do you have a choice?” asked Dalana.

There were such blatant hints of menace in her tone that the girl decided to back down.

“All right, all right, I guess they’re not that big. Thank you.”

“That’s more like it,” said Dalana. “There’s a second set of keys on the vanity. And do me a favor– don’t get into any more trouble.”

“Don’t worry,” said Vasilisa as she began to smear an oily layer of foundation on her skin. “You’ll get your money this evening.”

“Only time will tell,” replied Dalana philosophically.

Leaving the apartment, she thought that she might possibly have to move to the cottage today if the girl blew her cover. However, she was accustomed to dealing with problems as they arose if, of course, she was not able to prevent them from arising. Vasilisa was proving to be the kind of problem that was impossible to forestall. There was nothing else to do but keep her eyes open and await the next development.

And she could not forget her original task, Soigu. At least with him everything was so far going according to script, or rather, according to a complicated, bifurcating system composed of a multitude of plans that made provisions for many different situations. As of today there were three such plans.

Plan A involved active reconnaissance, pursuant to which Dalana would stealthily listen in on all the thoughts of the target as he sat at a nearby table, after which she would return home and develop another plan – the perfect assassination – on the basis of the extracted information.

Assassination was also at the heart of plan B, but it was far from perfect. Rather it was adapted according to her present information, which, admittedly, might not be sufficient. If she found an opportune moment, Dalana intended to stab Soigu in the base of the skull using a special weapon called an injector. An injector was a long metal object that fit easily in the palm. Outwardly it resembled a handheld flashlight. Pressing a small button set the machinery working, and the weapon shot out a sharp, sturdy bolt with lightning speed. The bolt penetrated the bone at the base of the skull, passed into the brain and caused fatal damage. The flashlight ‘with a surprise inside’ killed the victim quickly and relatively painlessly. From the outside this whole complicated ritual looked entirely innocent – the assassin walked by and brushed the back of the victim’s head with his hand then disappeared, leaving the victim with a dismally lowered head. The most important thing was that the movement of the hand not be unduly strong or sharp, otherwise the target could fall face first into his plate and arouse unwanted suspicion. Dalana had twice made such a blunder in the past, but now she was certain of her every gesture. The injector worked quite well on humans.