Mistress of the Mortal Realm, Book One

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

The trip to Georgia to retrieve the grimoire had been a difficult one. Lucy had been able to wrest consent for her week long absence from the firm only after considerable lobbying with her boss. Amanda Shallcross was as ambitious and hard as Lucy. Unlike Lucy, who had received her MBA at State, Amanda was a Stanford grad. She had all the right connections in life, coming from a wealthy, liberal family back east. She was six years younger than Lucy, attractive, blond, decisive and so, so much more than competent. Lucy hated her with a passion and saw her as an obstacle to her own advancement. Let’s face it, the men who controlled the firm, mostly senescent, aged men, wallowing in their riches, comfortable in their male only clubs and their good old boy networks, didn’t have room for many women at the higher echelons in the company.

Amanda was Vice President of Acquisitions and was the favorite for Director when Ben Halsey retired. It was doubtful that Amanda, whose disdain and contempt for Lucy rivaled Lucy’s hatred for her, would tolerate Lucy’s assumption of the post she was to vacate. There were other women in the firm, younger women, Amanda’s Acolytes, Lucy liked to call them, who would be more likely tapped to step in. And they would want their own assistant vice president. Unless something was done to halt Amanda’s rise to the top, Lucy’s days were numbered.

Amanda had caved when she realized that Lucy’s untimely vacation, there were several hot deals boiling on the stove, would be another arrow in her quiver in her campaign to convince the powers that be to let Lucy go. As a result, Lucy was in a race with time. If tonight’s ceremony was unsuccessful, Halsey’s retirement was only weeks away. She might as well pack up her desk and leave in the morning.

Lucy flew to Rome. From there, she caught a flight to Ankara, where she was able to hop a small turboprop jet into Tbilisi, the Georgian capital. She was surprised at how modern it appeared. She had expected to see goods laden donkeys, old women in babushkas sweeping the streets and men in fur hats and peasant’s clothing. Instead, there were modern cars of all descriptions, beautiful, svelte women dressed in miniskirts and men outfitted in designer suits. A number of tall, modern office buildings, all steel and glass, rose up from the ancient city streets amidst the old Stalinist monstrosities of the communist era.

She took a taxi to the hotel where she had booked a room in advance. When she arrived in her room, she called the telephone number for the tourist agency that was going to provide her with a guide. She made arrangements to meet at 7:30 the next morning to begin the trek to the village of Zestura deep in the Caucasus Mountains.

She made another phone call, to a number she had obtained through some very shady operatives during her seven hour layover in Ankara. Two hours later, there was a knock at her door. A tall, lanky young man dressed in blue jeans and a black t-shirt underneath a loosely fitting, black leather jacket, was outside. He carried a black satchel held tightly under his arm. Lucy let him in.

This was, she thought, perhaps the most dangerous part of her trip. She knew that the grimoire would be expensive to obtain and that paper currency would undoubtedly be shunned as a suitable exchange. Moreover, it would be foolhardy indeed to proceed deep into the virtually lawless mountains without some form of protection. The sandy haired man stepped over to the small table provided as an amenity in the room. On it sat Lucy’s laptop. It was open and to her relief there had been no problem getting online. The man put the satchel down on the table and gave Lucy a lascivious look. His mien was contemptuous.

Wordlessly, he opened the satchel and drew out its contents. As he leaned over the table, Lucy observed the form of a decent sized pistol in a shoulder holster under his arm. Using both hands, he placed a heavy wooden box on the table and then another heavy object wrapped in dirty muslin next to it.

He looked up at Lucy and smiled. “Such a pretty lady,” he said in heavily accented English. “What naughtiness brings you to Tbilisi?”

“That’s none of your business,” Lucy spat out. “Just show me the goods.”

He gave her a menacing look and opened the top to the small box. Three rows of glittering gold coins lay inside. $10,000 worth. Lucy quickly counted them. Brand new, sparkling Russian double eagles. She picked one out to examine it. It had the double eagle, icon of the reconstituted Bank of Russia, on the one side, and on the other a figure of St. George on horseback smiting a dragon. It was ironic, she thought as she rubbed her fingers over the precious object, that St. George would be doing the devil’s work if all went well.

She put the coin back in the box and unwrapped the heavy object covered with muslin. It was a small, black semi-automatic pistol. She picked it up and hefted it in her hand. It was snub nosed and about a pound in weight.

“A P96,” the young man volunteered. “A police model. It takes 15 9mm rounds, armor piercing. This will stop just about anything coming at you. Do you know how to use it?”

“That’s not a problem,” Lucy said as she examined the handgun. She had taken handgun training several years ago, although she had never handled a P96. She flicked the safety on and off.

“Be careful,” the man blurted out. “There’s a round in the chamber. No need to chamber it. Slip the safety off and she’s ready to go.”

“How do I know it works?” Lucy asked.

“Don’t worry, it works,” the man said, laughing. “If you want, you can take it outside and shoot somebody. Then you’ll know for sure.”

In fact, Lucy was contemplating just that. It would be nice to know how it handled and its stopping power. But then she pushed the thought out of her mind. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life in a Georgian prison.

“Okay,” Lucy said. “How about extra rounds?” she asked, placing the pistol down on the spread out muslin.

“Here’s another clip, fully loaded,” the man replied, pulling it from his satchel. “If you need more than that, save the last one for yourself.” He laughed again.

Lucy examined the clip for a moment and then put it down on the table. She picked the pistol back up and held it in her left hand while she tapped a few keystrokes into her computer with her right. A website came up. Her Visa card was already coded in. She looked up at the man. “Move over by the door,” she told him.

This was the crucial moment. Once she had made the second half of the payment for the gold and the gun, there would be no reason why the man could not just kill her and take them back. She kept one eye on the man, the P96 raised, not pointed directly at him, but ready to shoot him if he made any kind of a move. The safety was off. She glanced down quickly at the keyboard, hit enter and then looked up again. The man was smiling.

“I just have to check it,” the man said, “and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Lucy nodded. The man went to reach in his inside jacket pocket. Lucy pointed the pistol at him. He smiled again. “My Blackberry,” he said softly.

She watched as he slowly and carefully eased his device out. When he had it fully freed, he held it up for her to see. She nodded at him and he pressed some buttons, accessing the Internet. He looked at the page that came up and then nodded. “Ok,” he said. “Good to go.”

He replaced the Blackberry into his jacket pocket as carefully as he had taken it out. There was a moment of silence between them as if the man were contemplating how nice it would be to go home with a $10,000 bonus tonight. His smile returned to his face. “How about we go have a drink or two, tough lady? I could show you the sights.”

“No thanks,” Lucy told him. Her heart was racing and the palm of her hand that was holding the pistol was sweaty. All of a sudden, the room seemed exceedingly hot. Would this be her fate, the thing which frustrated her goal? Was she to be murdered tonight, judged unworthy by the satanic forces which controlled the grimoire?

Her throat was dry. For an instant, she thought that the man was taking a step towards her. If the gun was unworkable, now would be the time for him to make a move. She resisted the urge to try it out, to drop the man where he stood. If she did that, the search for the grimoire would be over. The police would come. If she wasn’t arrested for his murder, she would be arrested for possession of the pistol.

As if he had tested her fortitude and determined not to confront it, the man leaned back. “Okay,” he said. “Maybe another time. Good luck with whatever you’re doing. You’ll need it little lady.” He felt for the doorknob behind him. When his hand found it, he turned it. Without taking his eyes off of her, he backed out of the room and shut the door behind him.

Lucy issued a heavy sigh of relief. She had bought a bottle of scotch at the duty free shop in the airport. She opened it and poured a double shot into one of the clear plastic cups she had found all wrapped up in tissue in the bathroom. Her hand was shaking as she brought the cup to her mouth. She downed the scotch all at once.

Mindful of Ripley’s ‘accident’, she stayed in her hotel room, ordering her dinner from room service. She watched TV for a while, an episode of Dallas dubbed into Russian, of which the only word she knew was ‘nyet’. She took a few more shots of scotch, just enough to deaden her vibrating nerves. Forgoing a shower lest someone come in the room while she couldn’t hear them, she undressed to her panties and got into the bed. She propped the pillows up against the headboard. She went to sleep with the gold under the pillows and the pistol in her hand.

She awoke early, surprisingly refreshed. She called room service for her breakfast, some croissants and heavy tasting coffee. She dressed in blue jeans and boots and a heavy, maroon woolen shirt, anticipating the cold of the mountains. Over it, she wore a dark brown nylon jacket. Its pockets were just big enough to accommodate the P96 and the extra clip. The gold and a change of clothes she carried in a small gym bag.

Her guide was, to her surprise, a young woman. She was blond, slim and attractive. She was wearing a dark blue, cotton miniskirt, blue and white athletic shoes and a yellow t-shirt that said ‘Welcome to Georgia’ in seven languages. The woman, named Zara, was driving a refurbished, dark blue, ancient Mercedes diesel. Black smoke was exuding from the tailpipe.

Lucy’s heart was pounding as she got into the car. She knew that if she had not been deemed worthy of possession of the grimoire, something untoward would happen to her on this journey. She had half expected the plane to crash on the way here or for an earthquake to demolish her hotel while she slept. Zara smiled after introducing herself and they were off.

It didn’t take long to emerge from the modern city. Soon they were in the countryside, passing farms and villages. The road had gone quickly from a four laned highway to a two laned country road. It was almost 200 miles to Zestura and Zara explained to her that, due to the steep, curvy, narrow mountain roads, it would be dark before they could reach the tiny village. She had taken the liberty of reserving rooms for them in Mestia, the closest thing to a town in the area. They would go into Zestura the next morning.

All during the ride, Lucy’s apprehension grew greater and greater. She held her breath each time a car came towards them on the narrow mountain roads or they skirted the edge of a cliff. She kept going over and over in her mind what she would say to the old woman who, at last knowledge, had possession of the grimoire. Of course there were other possibilities. She might be dead and the grimoire owned now by someone else in her family. Or it could have been sold, or stolen, or, as is often the case with supernatural objects, it might have just disappeared.