Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.
Side Notes:
Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic".
Thanks to Celeb for assisting me with the Turkish phrases. It's not every day that you pop in to a chat room, ask if anyone speaks Turkish, and find someone who does! The English translations are listed at the end of the chapter, for curious minds.
Thanks to all of the awesome Frat!Pack-ers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. I have a great time reading them! Y'all make this little authoress happy:)
Some of you may have noticed I have started a new story, entitled Golden Day. This will be a side project until Fraternité is finished, then I will hit it full force. It's going to be a fun one!
Tower of Babel
"I want."
"No."
"Yes!"
"No! Enough, Jean-Paul."
"I want the fig!" The boy leaned precariously away from his perch on Erik's shoulders, his tiny fingers grasping for the candied figs on display. Several vendors at the Dung Gate peered at the man and his little boy from behind their carts.
Erik sighed and tightened his grasp upon the petulant child's knees. "Your mother would be very unhappy to learn that you are being bad, Jean-Paul. Do you want me to tell her that you have been bad?"
The boy shook his head.
"Then I suggest you cease your whining."
Erik heard the boy stifle a sob. Just like his mother, he smirked, and enjoyed the brief respite of silence.
In reality, Jean-Paul had been well behaved during their entire morning together. The camels at the Mount of Olives had enthralled his young mind, just as Christine had predicted. He had squealed and clapped in delight at their knobby knees and forlorn faces. The colorful tassels and bells attached to their saddles jingled as they moved about their corrals, causing the toddler to giggle with laughter.
As he had witnessed Jean-Paul's innocent joy, Erik could not help but smile; in truth, he had been secretly glad that Christine had gone away to mass, leaving the two of them to their adventure.
Now, on the other hand…
"I want oooonne!"
The man grimaced, his words sharp and impatient. "Sometimes we do not always get what we want, Jean-Paul, no matter how aggressively we go after it."
He paused in thought, the feel of Christine's gentle embrace from earlier that morning still fresh in his mind.
"And sometimes," he murmured, "we are handed what we want, after we have given up hope of ever receiving it."
Erik absently touched the scrap of paper tucked under his white abaya—Raoul's note. Christine's note, really, for it was addressed to her. It was time for him to do something about it. After his jealous ravings and his angel's frightened tears the previous day, he had to find a way to lay his doubt to rest before the madman he had once been reclaimed his mind. He would speak to Ze'ev; ask about his days with Raoul in Prague. Perhaps the Russian could shed some light on Chagny's plans for his family.
"My family," he whispered possessively.
The boy sat quietly in confusion, then patted Erik's keffiyeh-clad head. "Sil' plais?"
Erik sighed in resignation and swung his burden down to the ground, knowing full well he could no longer chide Christine for spoiling her son. "Very well, you may have one." He nodded to the merchant and handed him a coin. The man placed a fig in the toddler's hand, then offered one to his customer. Erik declined and gazed down at the child.
"Doesn't your Maman normally tell you to say 'Merci'?"
Jean-Paul nodded and removed the fig from his mouth. "Merci, Papa!"
The man stiffened. "No, you may call me 'Erik'."
"Papa!"
"Erik."
The devious boy grinned at the game. "Papa!"
"Stubborn child! Now you must call me 'Monsieur'." He scooped up the toddler and placed him on his shoulders.
They moved through the gate and into the Jewish Quarter, along the edge of the ancient western wall. The streets were rather empty on this Palm Sunday morning. Save for the Christian Quarter, most of the city dwellers had chosen to remain at home and avoid the onslaught of worshippers that would pour from the churches and into the markets once the masses concluded.
Erik slipped down a side street and to the Ma'ase SheHaya bookstore. He found to his dismay that the door, which normally stood open during business hours, was closed and locked. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. It was not like Ze'ev Borochov to deviate from his carefully crafted routine. Lifting Jean-Paul from his shoulders, he settled the boy in one arm and warily proceeded down the alley to the adjoining residence. He knocked on the door…no answer. After a moment he tried again; when no reply came, he tested the handle.
It swung open.
"Gospadin?…Gospazha?" Only the quiet sound of Jean-Paul's breathing found his ears. Something was not right; the tension in the small home was almost palpable. Erik set the child down and securely tucked him behind his tall frame, then inaudibly slid the Persian dagger from its sheath under his abaya.
As he moved from room to room, his sharp gold eyes scanned every dark corner, missing nothing. He stopped and listened. There….a rasping sound, coming from the pantry…someone gasping for air. He warily reached for the door handle…
"Papa?" came the small, unsure voice behind him.
Erik spun around, then cursed as he tucked the dagger behind his back. He put two fingers to the boy's lips and shook his head, his eyes firmly demanding silence from the child. Jean-Paul shrank back from the man's hand and wrapped his arms tightly about his Cesar horse, frightened by the intensity before him.
All of a sudden, the pantry door flew open and Erik felt some hard thing strike the back of his head. His vision blurring, he flung a hand to the floor to steady himself, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass. Somewhere behind him, he heard a woman's cry of rage. Before she had a chance to hit him again, he whirled around, grasped both of her wrists and shook them, forcing her to drop the heavy object. A jar of preserves crashed to the ground, glass and blood-red jam smattering across the floorboards.
Erik breathed a sigh of relief: Rivka Borochova was his attacker. Her eyelids were squeezed shut in terror, her body going limp and sinking to the ground in his grasp. A string of rapid Russian flew from her lips as she shook her head.
"Gospazha Borochova. Rivka, open your eyes." Erik gently took the rattled woman's shoulders, forcing her to look at him.
She slowly opened her eyes and peered up at the man. Realization flooded into her and she slumped against the wall, pent-up air whooshing from her lungs.
"Sir," she said in breathless Russian, "I…I am sorry I hurt you. I did not know it was you; I thought they were here to kill me…" she glanced into the pantry at her two squalling infants, swaddled in blankets. "And the babies. I had to save them," she croaked.
Erik tightened his grip on her shoulders, his voice calm and soothing.
"Who, Gospazha?"
Her voice turned cold. "Who else? Ze'ev has eyes and ears all over the city—I am sure you know that. Three men came into the city last night and asked to speak to the Turkish authorities, so we were told. They asked for help in locating Sergei Degaev and the Comtesse de Chagny, in exchange for information about a masked assassin that has long eluded the Ottomans." She stared at him with knowing eyes. " 'The Lover of Trapdoors', they called him. They said he murdered a priest."
Erik released her shoulders and stumbled backwards, shocked.
"How?" he murmured, absently shaking away Jean-Paul as he whimpered and tugged at his sleeve.
Rivka laughed cynically. "How? Who knows how, exactly? Ze'ev warned you that those murderers have connections throughout Europe. They are patient—take their time to plan before they ruthlessly make their move. All of the time you have been in Jerusalem living a life of ease with your new wife and child, they were looking for your weaknesses, uncovering your past. And you—" she threw her head back, her voice becoming hysterical. "You led them right to us. To Ze'ev and our babies!"
Erik shook her again, his own fear rising with hers. "Tell me where your husband is," he ordered.
She turned her face from his.
"Tell me!" he shouted.
"He went to the convent to warn you and the Comtesse nearly an hour ago, and told me to hide underground." She pointed to the opening in the floor of the cellar. "He said that Raoul de Chagny would have wanted—"
Erik leapt up from the ground, retreating from the woman as if she had scalded him. Pacing about the room, he desperately tried to think of what to do next. He glanced at the clock upon the wall: Eleven thirty. Christine would be at the Palm Sunday mass for another half hour before she and her household returned to the Notre Dame de Sion. If he could somehow intercept her before they reached the convent, they could slip away amidst the crowds of celebrators without being spotted.
Thirty minutes was not a lot of time.
Sasha began to whimper. Rivka scrambled to her feet and scooped up her children, shushing the little girl.
"Gospazha, do you have a lantern?"
She nodded and left the closet for a moment, gently placed her children in their kitchen bassinet, and returned with two lanterns and a box of matches.
Erik took them from her trembling hands, struck a match and lit one, then tucked the box under his abaya. Holding the light high, he glanced through the open hidden door in the ground of the pantry, into the darkness. Suddenly, it struck him exactly where the tunnel led. Ze'ev had obviously planned ahead.
"Are you familiar with the old Roman roads underneath the city?" he called to her as she returned to the kitchen for her children.
Rivka nodded. "Very few are, but Ze'ev made certain that I knew how to find my way out of the city, in case something like this should happen," she said proudly. Then her face softened. "I wanted to wait until he returned, though…"
Erik firmly took her elbow, in no mood to battle with the woman. Not when Christine needed him. "No, absolutely not."
Rivka's face contorted in disapproval at his sharp words, her resolve to wait only increasing.
With a sigh, he released her elbow. Invoking his most mesmerizing, cajoling voice, he leaned into her, his face inches from hers. "Your husband will not want anything to happen to you and your children, Rivka. Think of how much grief it would bring him, should the Narodnaya Volya find you here…"
The woman hesitated, then slowly nodded, clutching her babies closer to her. "Yes…yes, of course. You are right…"
He pulled back to study her face, his powerful gold eyes finding hers. "In any case, he will be moving through the old Roman streets, making his way back to you. We will most certainly meet him down there, if we are traveling towards the convent. It would be better for him to not come all the way back…"
Rivka nodded again, this time with conviction. "Yes. Yes, he will meet us down there. We must leave at once."
Erik smiled at the woman, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes, then picked up the wide-eyed Jean-Paul and swept into the darkness. With toddler in one arm and lantern in the other, he managed to steer Gospazha Borochova down the stairs and into the tunnels, his piercing eyes never leaving her face, until they were well into the black streets.
Along the ancient stones they tread, both as silent as the grave, weaving their way through the labyrinth of passages that spanned the entire old city. Erik moved as rapidly as their young burdens would allow; there was no time to lose. Even now, he could see Mas Quennell combing through the Ecce Homo convent, his lips twisting in hatred as he advanced towards an unsuspecting Christine, his fingers clutching a rope…
Erik cursed and quickened his pace, now heedless of the mother trailing along behind him or the frightened child's arms tightening around his neck. Ten minutes had already slid by. He had to find his angel before they did—
"Rivka!" A dark shape emerged from the gloomy passages and sprinted towards them, nearly sliding down the rock path they had been climbing. "Thank God, thank God!" he cried, pulling his wife and children to him. He held them to his chest, relishing the feel of his precious family.
"I have just come from the convent, Monsieur," Ze'ev stuttered breathlessly, turning to Erik. "The outside is crawling with Ottoman police; every entrance is guarded by at least two men, waiting for you and your household to return. The sisters have barred them entry into the convent, but I daresay they will grow impatient and demand to search the rooms before long."
Erik nodded, his face grim. "My wife is still away, then?" Jean-Paul squirmed in his grip and he let the boy slide to the ground, keeping an eye on him as he toddled over to Ze'ev.
"Yes. I saw no sign of her, or the others. However, there were three men present, with the Turks. One was a People's Will member—Russian. The second was the Marquis de Bourges, Michel David."
"Henri David's elder brother," Erik sneered. "And the last was Mas Quennell, I assume."
Ze'ev nodded. "He seems to be the man leading this raid—and very put out with coming up empty-handed, it appeared."
A snarl stole its way through Erik's features, rage bursting from his veins and contorting his face until a vicious growl tore from his throat and echoed throughout the chambers. He spun around and sent a hand flying against the stone wall, his white abaya swirling out behind him like angel's robes—so unlike the devil's face that rested against the mottled rock. He tried to still the fury-infused racing of his mind. Reason…he had to reason. Another angry cry escaped his lips. Why had he let them find Christine in Jerusalem? They should have left the city long ago, but instead, he had lingered in the warm bliss of denial too long, waiting until it was too late. And he was waiting too long, now.
Erik pulled back from the wall, his gaze hardening with dogged determination. "Ze'ev, you said that the Turks have not yet entered the convent?"
The Russian nodded.
"Then the inside entrance should not be guarded," he thought aloud. He scooped up Jean-Paul and started along the path again. Eighteen minutes…He had time to slip up to the fourth floor; retrieve his lasso, music, and bank notes for passage back to Europe, and catch Christine as she left the Holy Sepulchre mass. It could be done…
"Borochov, take your wife and children to the Lithostratos, under the convent," Erik commanded. "It is next to the cistern—do you know it?"
Ze'ev nodded.
"I shall meet you there, once I have found my wife." Erik thought for a moment, then handed Jean-Paul to Ze'ev. "Take the boy, as well—it will be safer for him."
Ze'ev held out his arm for the child. "From the Lithstratos, we can take the old road out of the city and into the Kidron Valley; the city gates are most likely guarded. From there, we make for Acre. Where are you planning to go once we reach Europe?"
Erik hesitated, then gritted his teeth in resolve. "Prague. We shall go to Prague."
OOOOO
Sunlight burst into the old crusader church as the doors were thrown open, bathing the age-darkened walls in yellow, driving out the shadows. Christine shielded her eyes as worshippers swarmed towards the exit, their bobbing heads and waving palm fronds a jumbled silhouette against the brightness. The organ pounded behind her, sending the mass-goers on their way with a final song of triumph, which only drove the chattering voices to deafening proportions.
Confusion swept her along; she did not even know where Henri and Norry were, until a hand grasped her elbow and steered her through the doors.
When the hand did not relinquish her arm, however, a knowing dread drove away the confusion and settled into its place. She tried to glance at her captor, but a second hand wrapped around her neck, forcing her head down.
"Christine, come with me," a voice hissed in her ear. "And do not look up. They will see you, if you do."
"Erik," she cried, "Where is my son? What in heaven's name—"
"Safe," he interrupted, leading her away from crowds and into an empty side street. "Where are the others?"
"They were just behind me."
He glanced around the corner. "There. There they are. Stay here, Christine," he commanded, pushing her firmly against the rough wall, his glittering eyes warning her that something was indeed wrong.
"Erik, what—" she stuttered, but he was already gone.
She knew, though. She had seen the fear in his eyes, and knew that they had come to Jerusalem. Her throat constricted; suddenly, the air about her was too thick to breathe. It filled her nostrils and choked her, drowned her with an overwhelming sense of terror. Mas Quennell was looming before her with his cruel eyes and twisted mouth… the lasso…it was tightening about her neck…
"Christine!" Erik grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to her feet. "Angel…Angel, look at me," he said more gently, his frantic eyes seeking hers. "Yes, they are here, outside the convent. I saw Mas and Michel David with my own eyes, just moments ago."
She turned away from him, faintly seeing the white faces of Norry and Henri over his shoulder.
"Christine, we have to move quickly. M. Nitot said that his daughter and the daroga are at the orphanage. Someone must go back for them—someone who knows the underground roads." Her eyes slid back to his. "The Borochovs are waiting underground for us with Jean-Paul, in the Lithostratos. Do you remember where it is?"
She nodded, sense slowly filtering back into her. "Yes," she murmured. "The Lithstratos; the Roman plaza, just above the cistern. Our cistern…"
"Good girl." Erik pressed his lips to her forehead and took her hand, leading her along the edge of the towering church, her two companions fast at their heels. They rounded another corner that led to a narrow alleyway, and a small metal grate came into view.
"This leads to the Roman road system under Jerusalem," Erik explained as he wrapped his thin fingers around the bars and hauled it away from the opening.
M. David stared at the filthy hole, sniffing in distain. "You cannot expect us to climb down there, Monsieur. This entire escapade is absolute nonsense! Why, the idea of running from my own brother is so ludicrous—"
Erik grabbed the avocat by the scruff of his neck and shoved him murderously against the wall. "Your brother, sir, would just as soon kill you rather than betray his precious Fraternité," he hissed in the lawyer's ear.
Before Henri could protest, he found himself pushed through the narrow opening and into the dirty tunnel.
Norry scooted through the opening next, then took Christine's hands and helped her slide down into the path. Last came Erik, his sandaled feet shifting precariously on the slippery rocks as he pulled the heavy grate back into place. Leaping down from the ledge, he took up the satchel and lantern he had left at the base of the slope.
The four flew down the road, the drums and cheers of the Palm Sunday processionals just above their heads echoing through the underground. The paths under the Holy Sepulchre were much narrower and rougher than the ones surrounding the Lithostratos, as they were still in the process of being excavated. Every now and again, Christine would bang her toe on a rock that had not been cleared away and stumble. Then Erik would catch her elbow and help her find her footing again, his steady hand there to keep her from falling. So sure, so sheltering…
The path widened again, and Erik came to a halt. Pausing for a moment to gather his bearings, he took a sharp left and led them into the Lithstratos, where the shadowed forms of Ze'ev, Rivka, and Jean-Paul awaited them.
Erik nodded to the man. "Gospadin Borochov: Messieurs Nitot and David. They shall be your traveling companions for the next several days, until our rendezvous in Acre."
The men tentatively shook hands, each careful to hide the fear furrowing their brows and dampening their palms.
"M. Reinard, they are close," Ze'ev whispered hurriedly. "Not a minute ago, Rivka and I heard shouting just outside the door at the top of the stairs. From what I could hear, the Turks were going to find lanterns and make their way into the underground. We do not have much time."
All went silent as they listened for the tell tale voices. Only the gentle lapping of the water in the cistern below could be heard, the sound oddly soothing in the dark cavern. And then the shouts came; so faint they would be missed by those not listening for them.
"…Mas Quennell nerede?"
"Sahsiyet bulmak oteki Francizca pitch!"
"…onlar ar alt gecit, sonraki e gol…"
"Itouulu itt!"
For a moment, they stood still with shock, their predicament weighing heavily upon their shoulders. And then all started speaking at once as their fear was spurred on by confusion.
Norry grasped Erik's arm. "Monsieur, my daughter," the man cried, his old eyes frantic with worry. "You swore that you would go back for her. We cannot leave yet—"
"—no time! They must be left behind—"
"—at the orphanage, just across the street! Let me go with you, Monsieur—"
"—cannot go back up, the Turks!"
"—utter foolishness! My brother would never—"
"Bah! You are a fool, Henri—"
"—cannot be trusted, I say! Delusions, paranoia—plain daft—"
Christine put her hands to her ears and slowly backed away as if in a dream, Norry's words still echoing in her head…You swore you would go back…they are at the orphanage…It was all happening too fast. She couldn't think, couldn't grasp what was going on. Just minutes ago, she had been in mass...
"Enough!" She heard Erik bellow above the chaos. "You!" He pointed at Norry, his patience snapped. "You are old, and will only be a hindrance. I will go for the daroga and your daughter, and you will go with Christine." He turned angry eyes upon M. David, sending the man recoiling against the wall. "And you! I should slit your throat here and now," he hissed, "to save your brother the trouble. Worthless! If you bring any harm to my wife, I will show you no mercy."
Then Erik was at her side, looping something around her waist. He pulled her sash tight again and patted it into place, then lifted her skirt and tucked some cold metal object into the top of her stocking. Slipping his satchel over her head, he pulled out a small brown coin purse and tucked it under his abaya.
"There is more than enough money in the bag to keep you comfortable for a long time, if you should need it. Clothing, residence, food; whatever you should want for. I also managed to obtain a few of your smaller possessions before the authorities found our quarters. I am sorry, but I was not able to take your father's violin."
She tried to meet his eyes; he avoided her gaze, instead glancing just over her shoulder.
"You…you are leaving me behind?" she whispered incredulously.
He continued on, as if he had not heard. "Your lasso is at your waist, just in case. I have given you my Persian dagger, as well. You are more than proficient with both weapons—just remember not to hesitate before striking."
"No!" Christine grasped her husband's arm. "You promised me! You swore that you would never leave me alone."
"Christine," Erik choked, pulling the woman to him, his defenses crumbling. His fingers tangled in her soft hair as he pressed her face to his shoulder. "Angel, I am not leaving you alone. Look behind you." He nodded towards the gathering of people silently observing them.
She shook her head, burying her face in the soft folds of his abaya.
"Christine." He brushed a thumb along her jaw line and lifted her face to his. "Now is the time to be strong—I know you can be—I have watched you time and again. That night in the London cellar. Your mastery of a punjab lasso. Capturing a husband. You have a son."
He smiled faintly. And then his face became grim.
"Understand, my wife—if we leave Nadir and Papi behind, the Turkish police will do horrible things to them. I know—I have seen it with my own eyes." His teeth gritted at some long ago memory. "Once, the daroga risked his life to give me freedom. I left him behind, forgot him while he suffered in prison for me. I cannot do such a thing again."
Christine searched the fiery gold of his eyes. At last she nodded.
Erik sighed and pulled the woman to him again, kissing her cheeks, hair, lips. He held her for a moment as if engraining the feel of her in his memory, then let her slide from his arms. "If we do not find each other in Acre, I will come to you in Prague."
"How? Where?"
"The St. Charles Bridge, in two weeks' time." He turned to go, and then halted, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white.
"Christine, if for some reason I do not make it to Prague—" He put a finger to her lips to silence her protest. "If I do not find you…"
Erik grasped her hand and pried her fingers open, placing a small, white piece of paper in her palm.
"This note—it is yours. I took it, and you never saw it." He tucked a curl behind her ear, his eyes searching hers. "Angel, I cannot say with certainty who is on the other side of this note. If it is him—" the man's voice broke "—he will care for you and Jean-Paul, as he always has. If it is not..." he shook his head. "Please be careful."
Christine opened the note and skimmed over the words, her eyes swimming with tears. Slowly, her fingers crumpled around the bit of paper and she thrust it into the satchel, her resolve strengthening.
"I love you, Angel."
Erik closed his eyes. When they opened, a single tear slid down his cheek.
"I love you, Christine. You have made me happy."
And with those parting words, he wrenched himself from her gaze and fled down the second Roman road, towards the orphanage.
She watched his retreating form as it was swallowed by the darkness, frozen in place until she could no longer hear his footfalls. At last, she turned to her companions and reached for her little son. Holding him close, she exhaled a shuddery breath, set her shoulders, and motioned down the first road.
"Gospadin Borochov, if you would be so kind as to lead us out of the city."
Ze'ev nodded and started down the path to the Kidron Valley, his lantern held high.
OOOOO
It was not the cries of the children that warned Nadir and Papi of the danger that was closing in upon them. A scream or a wail was not an uncommon thing at the Notre Dame de Sion's orphanage. Many of the children came from tragic backgrounds in which their parents had been slaughtered in some gruesome way for being at odds with the Ottoman Empire.
However, when several of the children in the courtyard began to cry "The redcaps…the redcaps have come for us," Nadir knew that trouble had sprung upon them with an unrivaled alacrity. The Turks' shouts of "Francizca kashar nerede? E Iranli ile onun" only confirmed his suspicions that he and Mlle. Nitot were indeed the objects of their pursuit, and there would be no easy escape for either one of them.
Grabbing the maid's hand, he put a finger to his lips and silently pulled her from the third story classroom where he had been assisting her in her Arabic studies. Pressing his back to the wall, he peered through the banister bars into the courtyard below. Seven Turkish soldiers gathered there, resplendent in their blue uniforms and red fezes, their rifles cocked and ready.
Nadir muttered a curse and flew along the hallway, towards the front of the orphanage. Slipping into an empty corner room, he moved to the window and pulled back the curtain, examining the streets below. Just as he had feared: each door was guarded by at least three men. They were trapped on the third floor of the building. He felt Papi's hand begin to tremble in his.
"The children," she whispered, her face a deathly white. "Will they harm the children? If it is us that they want, perhaps…"
Nadir shook his head. "They will do what they will do, Mademoiselle, whether we turn ourselves in or not." He released her hand and turned to the window again, studying the ledge just outside. It was slim, but it might be large enough for two people to stand. The gilding on the corner of the building jutted out just so, effectively concealing the side ledge from the busy Via Dolorosa. And the side street was narrow enough that anyone peering up to the third floor would not see two people perched on the stone ledge. If they could hide there until the soldiers left, then double back…
Nadir glanced over the glass pane with frantic eyes, looking for a way to open it. He tried to slide the window open, but it would not budge. He examined the frame…no locks, no bolts…his fingers ran along the outer seal. It was painted shut.
"…Bakmak dolayi onlari ust katlar…"
The sound of boots tromping up the stairs of the orphanage echoed through the hallway. Doors began to open and close, one by one. The Turks would soon be upon them…
"Please!" Papi whispered, her voice edged with fright. "Hurry, they are coming!"
Digging the tips of his fingers into the paneling, the Persian desperately scraped at the thick paint until his fingers were splintered and bleeding. It was no use; the only difference he had made was to leave tell-tale traces of blood upon the wood panels.
"…Karsilastirmak e daire!…"
Suddenly, a strong hand gripped his shoulder and shoved him back, nearly flinging him to the ground. Nadir glanced up to see Erik towering above him, his normally crisp white clothing caked in dirt and grime. The band for his keffiyeh was missing and his headscarf was haphazardly flung over his shoulders, his dark hair clinging to his sweaty face. He reached under his abaya and drew out a small knife. Running the blade along the edge of the windowpane, he slit the thick layer of paint, working it around the wood panel and prying it apart until the glass slid open.
Another bellow…the voices were just next door, flying through the room…
"For the love of God, Nadir," the masked man hissed, "are you just going to simply stand there, or are you going to escape?"
The daroga sprang forward and grabbed Papi by the waist, helping her out onto the ledge. Tucking his robes up, he hoisted himself up through the window and scooted onto the rooftop ledge, careful to leave enough room for Erik. Turning back to assist his friend, his hand instead knocked against a closed glass pane.
Shouts from inside the room met his ears… "Zorla almak onu!...Grab him!"
Nadir tried to slip his fingers under the window frame, but it was impossible to open from the outside. The only way they could reenter the room was to break the glass, and then all three of them would be captured, arrested…he could not think of what would be done to Papi were that to happen.
It was too late.
Nadir listened in vain to the scuffling and curses just beyond the glass. Peering through the window hopelessly, he watched the barely discernable figures through the thin cotton curtains. Turkish soldiers swarmed over the man in white—ten, perhaps twelve of them. He could see Erik swinging away with his knife, his movements still precise as one, then two men fell to the ground, their throats slit.
And then Erik was wrenched backwards, his arms held tightly by the guards. A man strode into the room, his features obscured by the gauzy material. Even through the haze, however, Nadir could distinguish his snakelike movements…sleek and evil.
"Well, what have we here?" the man hissed, his perfect French twisting from his mouth. He ran a long, thin finger along the captured man's mask, his touch playing at the edge of the white leather.
Erik struggled in fury; the soldiers' hands clamped down upon him until he was completely immobile.
The wicked man threw his head back and laughed; the cold, hateful sound sent chills up Nadir's spine, and at last he knew who the laugh belonged to.
"My friend, you remember me, I am sure. And as much as I would like to stay and reminisce with you over our brief time together in London, I have other things to attend to. You see, your little songbird has flown away and we must catch her." Mas Quennell sneered. "Do not be afraid for the Comtesse, Monsieur. We shall find her soon enough, now that you are out of the way."
And with another peel of horrid laughter, he turned on his heels and strode from the room, motioning to the guard captain to continue.
The guard cleared his throat and stared at Erik. "I am instructed to place you under arrest for crimes committed against the sovereign Empire of the Ottomans, in service to the shah of Persia, occurring in the years of eighteen sixty-one to eighteen sixty-three. You are charged with the vicious murders of the Vizier Muhammad Ulzner, Vizier Hikmit Kundakçı, Hâkim Sinan Aktas, and Father Cyril of the Franciscan order in Jerusalem. You shall be held in custody for an indefinite length of time until you stand trial for your crimes…"
Nadir eased away from the window and let his head slump against his chest, the weight of Erik's sacrifice unbearably heavy. His friend would be taken to a Turkish prison, and only Allah could protect him there. His fate was now out of his hands.
OOOOO
Christine dashed through the black tunnel, her skirts whipping around her bruised ankles and satchel painfully thumping her tailbone. Trying to force the stinging pain from her mind, she focused instead on the bobbing head of her toddler in front of her, his tiny arms wrapped around Norry's neck.
"Maman?" Jean-Paul whimpered.
"Do not be afraid, little man," she reassured the boy, her voice breathless and fatigued. "I should not say 'little man,' should I? For you are a big boy—so brave—no tears at all!" Christine smiled at the child, her eyes promising him things that she could not guarantee.
They ran for what seemed like hours, though the woman knew it could not have been more than twenty minutes. The old Roman cardo should empty into the Kidron Valley at any moment, Ze'ev had explained. The tunnel ended at a hidden exit in the ruins of King David's city, just south of the city wall.
"No one will think to look there," the Russian encouraged them as they fled through the underground.
Sure enough, as they rounded another bend in the path, the blackness began to fade away and light gradually filtered in, signaling the exit into the valley. Christine breathed a prayer of thanks and hoisted the satchel onto her shoulder with a burst of fresh energy. From there they could make their way to the crossroads, where one of Borochov's Jewish colleagues waited with a merchant's wagon to carry them to Acre. Then Erik would find them at the port in several days' time, and they could sail away to freedom…to Prague…
Christine fell into Norry's back, unaware that the party had halted. Puzzled by the sudden stop, she glanced down the path and froze as the reason came into view.
She had seen this man before, many times—the stout little Arab with the roving eyes. He was the Lion's Gate guard. Every time she had passed through the wall on her way to the Mt. of Olives with Erik, he had been there…watching her with beady eyes, undressing her in his mind. He had made her uncomfortable then…
And now he stood in the way, barricading their path to freedom.
Barricading their path, with a pistol pressed to little Benyamin Borochov's head.
"Rivka," Ze'ev murmured, his Russian words low and careful as he clutched his son. His wide-eyed wife slowly backed away from the gatekeeper, clutching her other child tightly to her breast.
"Sadik," Christine whispered as she slid along the wall past Norry and Henri, inching closer to the man. "Sir, I have money. A great deal of it, and I can pay—"
The gatekeeper sneered and swung the pistol round to Christine, his trembling hand betraying his nerves. "La atakalum," he sneered, shaking his head. With his pistol, he pointed to her satchel then raised the muzzle to her head again.
"How—much?" he asked in broken French, and gestured for her to open the bag.
Christine swung the satchel from her arm and pulled back the flap for the man to glance inside. His eyes grew bright with greed as he saw the piles of bank notes and liras—a small fortune, his for the taking.
Over the gatekeeper's shoulder, she could see Ze'ev slowly handing Benyamin to Rivka, his eyes never leaving the squat man's back. Her fingertips just grazed the lasso coiled under her shawl…if she could just distract the man…
The gatekeeper looked up, catching her eyes as they darted to Ze'ev. With a cry of fury, he swung around and pointed the pistol at the Russian's chest, his hand now shaking in rage. The ominous click of a pistol being cocked resonated through the air. A Hebrew prayer flew from the trapped man's lips, his eyes looking towards heaven.
Erik's voice echoed in her head. …the worst thing you could do is hesitate because you are afraid. Do you understand? To think first would mean death…
Banishing her fear, Christine's hand wrapped around the punjab lasso coiled at her waist before she could falter. Grasping the noose in her fist, she pulled the rope away from her sash and whipped it into the air towards her target.
The gatekeeper's hands flew up over his head. The sound of the pistol firing rang in the air and Christine screamed, yanking the rope taut with all of her might. Her eyes squeezed shut and she pulled back even harder, digging her heels into the ground as her prey fell with her, horrible gagging sounds coming from his throat. She screamed again, and this time she did not stop screaming as the rough, leathery rope burned her palms.
She pulled and pulled, pouring every ounce of blind, red hatred into the single act, her muscles quivering with fatigue. Hatred towards the gatekeeper…hatred towards Mas Quennell and his brotherhood… the Marquis de Bourges for his cruelty… Philippe de Chagny for his insufferable duty… hatred for the nightmares and the ghosts that tore her to pieces at night…
Tear to pieces…tear to pieces…
"Christine! Christine!" Two hands grasped her shoulders and shook her, halting the screams in her throat. She opened her eyes and glanced about wildly, her gaze coming to rest upon the corpse at her feet.
He was dead, to be sure. Well past dead. The gatekeeper bore the marks of one who had been brutally strangled to death…neck black and bruised, face and eyes red with blood…neck muscles strained and bulging…
Another cry rose up in her throat, but this time it caught there, the bile swimming up and making her sick…dizzy. She dropped the end of the rope in horror and stumbled away from the dead thing, her entire body shaking with exertion. Leaning over a rock, she heaved and heaved, retching violently until there was nothing left. With a feeble cry, she pressed her face to the cold stone and wept, her mind filled with blackness and despair.
"My…my son," she choked, her eyes never leaving the rock. "Jean-Paul—did he see? Oh God, did he see?"
"No. M. Nitot took him away when the gun fired." Ze'ev gingerly removed the lasso from the dead man's throat and re-coiled it, then tucked it under his cloak. He knelt next to the woman and rested a hand upon her back, waiting for her tears to subside.
When her sobs had at last slowed to shuddery gasps of air, the Russian helped her to her feet, placed her satchel over her shoulder, and started down the path.
"We must keep moving," he commanded, looking directly at Christine, "or they will soon be upon us." He slowed his gait and waited for the stunned woman to reach his side so he could speak with her privately.
"You have saved my life, and for that I am grateful," he murmured. "In return, I give you this guidance: Put this from your mind until we reach Acre. Do not think upon it, do not conjure the images. Block it away, banish it from your soul, never to return. This is my advice to you, from one killer to another," he said candidly, leaving no room for discussion.
Christine watched his back as he strode down the path ahead of her, her eyes glazing over.
"Block away the darkness…banish it from your mind…from your soul, never to return…" she whispered, repeating the words like a mantra.
Above the chant, however, Borochov's last words echoed in her head. From one killer to another…
Yes, she thought grimly…yes…I truly am a killer, now.
She wondered if Erik would be proud of her.
Turkish translations:
Mas Quennell nerede: Where is Mas Quennell?
Sahsiyet bulmak oteki Francizca pitch: Someone find that French bastard!
Onlar ar alt gecit, sonraki e gol…: They are underground, next to the lake.
Itouulu itt: son of a bitch!
Francizca kashar nerede? E Iranli ile onun: Where is the French slut? The Persian is with her.
Bakmak dolayi onlari ust katlar: Look for them upstairs
Karsilastirmak e daire: Check all of the rooms
Zorla almak onu: Grab him
A/N: I'm going to try a little experiment with y'all, if you don't mind. All the time, I read about how phans find it hard to locate really good stories. I know ffn'ers have their favorites lists and such, but for me, I would like to know why a story is considered a favorite. Therefore, I'm going to use this little author's note at the end of my chapters to promote well-written phics (both well-known and obscure) I have run across, that I think my readers might also enjoy. We'll try it for a bit and see how it goes. Hopefully, this will help boost other stories' readerships.
Recommendation: The Innocent, by The Grasshopper
I had seen this story before, but had never read it until last week, when several phans muscled me into it. I couldn't tear myself away. It is a very believable, modern retelling set in New York City, with wonderfully dark overtones. Erik's characterization is incredible—mysterious, manipulative, sexy and demented. Christine is very Lerouxish, down to her pretty blonde hair. You will recognize other POTO characters, with delicious updated twists. The best part about it? You don't have to wait for updates, because it is complete. Enjoy!