Chapter Seventeen

"Through clever and constant application of propaganda, people can be made to see paradise as hell, and also the other way round, to consider the most wretched sort of life as paradise." – Adolf Hitler

Although this wasn't her first visit to the Archives, Heinkel was still struck by how ordinary they appeared. A building containing the Church's darkest secrets should have been imposing, but the squat structure before her offered no indication of its true purpose save for a sign advertising the bookstore on the ground floor (which served to disguise the more valuable information in the basement).

She'd left the orphanage shortly before dawn—though not before leaving a note for Ana. Her foster mother had enough to worry about; the last thing she needed was to fret over Heinkel, too.

Now, the sun was inching over the horizon, bathing her surroundings in pale gold light. It promised to be a beautiful day—but Heinkel wasn't here for the scenery. Glancing at her watch, she winced at the time. I could really use a cup of coffee. Breakfast had been forgotten in her eagerness to complete the mission. (With the advent of a new day had come a surge in optimism.)

This early in the morning, the place looked deserted, but Heinkel knew better. When she visited the Archives on Iscariot-sanctioned errands—Maxwell considered himself too important for such menial tasks—the complex had been heavily guarded; after all, the Vatican's sacred knowledge would never be allowed to fall into the hands of heretics. (Technically speaking, Heinkel was a heretic now, but she'd worry about the theological ramifications of this later.)

While she would do her best to avoid killing the guards, ultimately they were expendable; only the Archivist mattered, since she was the one person who knew the location of the Millennium file. In keeping with the Church's deep-rooted mistrust of modernity, the Archivist—like her predecessors—refused to digitize the information she guarded, relying instead on a complex filing system that only she fully understood. Without a guide, Heinkel could spend hours or even days paging through dusty documents.

I'd rather listen to Victoria's blabbering…Almost.

Entering the building was easy enough; she just circled around to the back and jimmied the lock on the rear door. (Heinkel had noticed it was broken on her last visit; apparently no one had bothered to fix it. Probably they'd assumed no one would be foolish enough to attempt a break in.) It swung inward without a sound; and she entered a dim hallway that smelled of leather and old paper. Heinkel waited for an alarm to sound or footsteps to approach, but only the click of the door closing broke the silence. The moment she entered the building—before that, even—the guards would have been aware of her presence. Were they hiding somewhere, waiting to ambush her?

She waited another moment, the silence stretching her already-raw nerves to the limit, but no one came. Fuck it. Ignoring her instincts, which screamed that this was a trap, Heinkel headed for the stock room. Disregarding the Employees Only sign, she shoved open the door—no point in subtlety now—stopping at the sight of the bookcase which concealed the basement elevator shoved aside, the entrance in plain sight. Even though the store wouldn't open for several more hours, no Vatican operative would be this careless. Something was seriously wrong.

Ordinarily a code was required to activate the elevator, but the doors were already open, the keypad flashing green. At first Heinkel thought the compartment was empty, but then she caught sight of the huddled form in the corner, nostrils flaring at the faint but unmistakable scent of decay. A nun lay slumped on the floor, neck bent at an unnatural angle, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Shaken, Heinkel bent to close them.

Who could have done this? And why?

Despite her innocuous appearance, the nun was no civilian but a trained operative; killing her—and in such close quarters—would have been no easy feat. And shooting her was one thing; snapping someone's neck required a strength and skill even Heinkel didn't possess. Maybe she was in over her head…Still, she couldn't turn back now, not when she was so close to achieving her goal.

Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go…

Mumbling a prayer under her breath, Heinkel dragged the nun's body out of the elevator—even she wasn't keen on sharing a compartment with a corpse—before jabbing the down button; sweat beaded on her brow as the compartment lurched lower. What horrors would she face when the doors opened?

At first, the Archives appeared innocuous enough: a room crowded with bookcases and file cabinets. In the center sat a mahogany desk covered with books and papers; a handful of similarly cluttered tables were scattered throughout the room. And then Heinkel noted the body sprawled on the floor; a second was slumped against a wall. The scent of death was stronger here; bile coated her tongue as she examined the most grotesque corpse of all.

The woman was nailed to the wall in a grotesque parody of the Crucifixion. Mouth open in a silent scream, splashes of congealed blood surrounded the body like a grotesque painting. Although the corpse's features were bloated and discolored, Heinkel would know that uniform anywhere: the dead woman was none other than the Archivist.

Cursing, she kicked the nearest bookcase, barely feeling the throb of pain the action sent through her toes. How I am supposed to find the file now?

"There you are. Don't you know it's rude to keep people waiting?"

Whirling around, Heinkel aimed her weapons at the speaker, who smirked but made no move to retreat. The newcomer had no weapon that she could see, but the malice in his eyes made her body tense, finger tightening on the trigger. Why hadn't she heard him approach? The only person who could sneak up on her was Seras, and then only because of her vampiric abilities. But the sun had long since risen.

While he may have been human, the man lounging against the bookcase—careless of the body at his feet—made Heinkel's skin crawl. He looked harmless enough: at least a foot shorter than herself, with a cherubic face that made it impossible to guess his age. And yet, a sense of wrongness clung to him, a sensation that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and her palms sweat. Had he murdered the Archivist? And more importantly, was he alone? Or were his comrades hiding, waiting for the right moment to strike? Heinkel hated to admit it, but she could really use some backup right about now.

"Did you kill them?"

Her fury was so all-consuming she could hardly think. There was no honor in the deaths of the Archivist and her assistants, only pain and horror. If this man had killed them, Heinkel would ensure he suffered every bit of the agony his victims had experienced.

He shook his head in mock disappointment. "You may have been raised in an orphanage, but that's no excuse for such poor manners."

The smirk on his face made it impossible for Heinkel to restrain herself any longer. Blinded by rage, she fired, hitting her opponent in the knee. Not a fatal injury, but a painful one—a mere taste of the torment he would soon experience.

"I asked you a question." She growled, barely resisting the urge to empty her clip into the bastard's head.

To her surprise, the man didn't so much as flinch, even though Heinkel could see the blood gushing from his wound. Instead, he laughed. "I had no idea you would be so amusing. Maybe I won't kill you just yet."