Chapter No. 10 The Sixth Seal

The Lincoln Towne Mall was quieter than normal for a Sunday, a situation that pleased Marian Stram. She hates crowds. Crowds give her the willies. She prefers the solitude of the lab where she is free of prying eyes and ears and she can do as she pleases. As a matter of fact, a shopping spree is not something she looks forward to. Shopping in malls is such a bore, not to mention a waste of time. She prefers simple utility to frivolous fashion. Her wardrobe is comprised of durable work clothes instead of fragile haute couture.

But, like most women, she likes to browse among the bourgeois purveyors of materialism, and Saks is just the location to see the latest and best of what women want most. She enjoys smelling the latest erotic perfume scents, scanning her eyes over the most expensive sparkling jewelry, running her hand down the new fall silky fabrics. Tactile pleasure is such fun.

You might say she has a duplicitous nature.

Her sojourn into the pleasures of shopping did not go unnoticed. A tall muscular man with short black hair, attired in a loose-fitting black suit jacket over a turtleneck, spoke softly into a hand-held radio. He kept a safe distance from the slender raven-haired female, watching her but not letting his presence become alarming.

Marian assumed that he's with security. She had nothing to fear. She's simply browsing, not trying to steal anything. Besides, when she moved from petite dresses to shoes, the man didn't follow.

Instead, Marian acquired a small shadow. She turned to stare down into large brown wet eyes staring back at her from a narrow cherub face framed by straight anthracite hair. The five-year-old girl dressed in a jumper held out her hand and sobbed, a solicitation that even Marian couldn't resist.

She saw a little waif lost in a big bad world, a world full of cruel indifference. No parents. No caring relatives. An orphan.

She saw herself in an earlier time.

"What's the matter, child?" She squatted down and placed her bony hand on the young girl's shoulder. "Are you lost?"

Only tears.

Marian felt a flush of depression. Tears are a waste of biological fluid, a useless sign of inexorable loss. But, tears from one so young deserve compassion, an emotion not easily evoked.

"We need to find your mother," Marian said, gently taking the young girl's hand. "Let's go find her."

The tears stopped

Less than two steps outside the door to Saks, a large hand enveloped Marian's bony shoulder.

"Ma'am, we'd like to have a word with you."

She turned to contemplate insensitive eyes and a determined mouth on a young but experienced face. "Why are you detaining me? I've done nothing wrong."

No compassion here. "Come with us, ma'am."

"Wait. This child is lost. You just can't leave her here alone."

As if on cue, another young muscular man, dressed in black, appears along with a similarly clad woman.

"We'll take care of the child, ma'am."

"Hey!"

Everyone turned to watch the approach of a woman with short red hair wearing white bungi-tie capris and crew-cut jersey top that bared her midriff.

"That's my kid," she yelled, her eyes blazing with indignation. "Did this woman take my kid?"

"I was taking her to the security office," Marian said. "I was only trying to help."

"Then why are they arresting you?"

Marian turned to glare at the security people. "I have no idea."

"The girl has nothing to do with this matter," the security man told the woman.

The woman gave Marian a disgusted look, grabbed the girl and stormed off.

"Thank you, too," Marian yelled after her, but it had no effect.

No reward for a good deed today.

The security people worked in unison to hustle Marian back into the store, past the Clinique booth, around the Ralph Lauren Collection, through Sag Harbor Petites, to an elevator.

"Where are you taking me?"

No answer. Only stone faces--all the way to the third floor and down a long hall to an office without a sign to reveal its purpose. In fact, there was something suspicious about it. The office was fairly large, much larger than the usual security office in most malls, and it had couches, chairs, and appointments more fitting of a corporate officer's suite.

"Sit here," one of the men ordered.

Marian flopped into a solid walnut chair and pouted. One of the men took up position near the door, the second stood near her, and the woman took a seat on a couch against the wall. All three stared at their captive as if they were afraid she would vanish into thin air.

Their captive had enough sense to remain quiet. Admit nothing and claim ignorance is the primary rule of entrapment. There's no reason to panic. They've made a mistake and once they realize it, all will be right.

She scanned her eyes over a large painting in back of a black marble desk directly in front of her. Photographically accurate, the painting depicted a vista of the Valley of Kings in Egypt. Not surprisingly, much of the office decor was Egyptian in nature: a sleek onyx black cat in the corner, a large vase circled with hieroglyphics in another corner, and wallpaper infested with Ra symbols.

A new man appeared from a door at the back of the office. He's older than the others, judging by his gray hair, and he's not dressed in black. Wearing a tan double-breasted suit with wide lapels, he struts with the confidence of a man in charge. Interestingly, his face is not set in a security frown like the others. In fact, he seems almost fatherly, appearing more like an executive with a paunch.

The man examined the contents of the suspect's pocketbook, paying special attention to her wallet.

"Mrs. Stram." He looked up at her from a driver license. "We have reason to believe that you have sticky fingers."

She flashed a mocking smile. "Why would I have sticky fingers? I haven't eaten any glazed doughnuts."

She didn't get her smile returned. "Shoplifting is a serious crime, Mrs. Stram, and we do prosecute here at Saks."

Marian wasn't smiling now. "I didn't steal anything. I'm just a simple housewife on a shopping spree. If you think I did something, you are mistaken." She looked up at the ceiling. "Don't you have security cameras? Review your tapes, then you will see that I didn't do anything."

The executive shook his head. "It doesn't work that way, Mrs. Stram." He stared at her with stern eyes. "Cameras don't reveal everything. As a matter of fact, most professionals know how to avoid cameras. No, we prefer the old fashion way. We subject the suspect to a strip search, examine his or her clothing, and then we give the suspect's body a thorough inspection."

Defiant silence.

The contents of Marian's purse cascaded to the desk in a cacophony of clanging keys, clinking coins, and a banging compact and cell phone. A small plop signaled the finis.

"What's this?" the executive asked, eyeing a small plastic packet.

After zipping it open and taking a whiff, he ginned. "Ah, this smells like an illegal substance. I'm surprised that a simple housewife," He emphasized the last two words, "would have marijuana in her procession."

"It's not marijuana. I prefer hashish. It burns smoother."

"I believe we should begin our procedure now." He gestured to the woman security person. "Samantha, why don't you help Mrs. Stram undress?"

Marian's eyes widened for a millisecond before they returned to slits. "I would think that your procedure represents a serious invasion of privacy, not to mention a violation of corpus."

The executive stared at her for a few seconds as if not sure how to reply. "That may be so, but it's necessary."

Marian twisted her face into a scowl. "Do you usually make women strip in front of a male audience?"

"If we wanted to be entertained, we would have picked on a much younger and more fully figured women."

Marian huffed. "No need to be insulting. Despite the fact that I'm not young or . . . or fully figured, as you put it, I still resent being disrobed in front of males."

The executive was not moved. He gestured to the woman security person.

When she saw the woman move toward her, Marian stood up and unbuttoned her suit jacket. "No need to have your goon strip me. I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself."

Marion handed the jacket to the female goon, who immediately spread it out on a small table near the desk. The woman removed a knife from her jacket pocket and slit the liner from the jacket. When she ripped the right pocket's liner, a gold bracelet fell to the table. She handed it the executive.

"Well, well, well! What do we have here?" He examined it closely, twirling it around in his hands. "Why this seems to be one of ours, Mrs. Stram." He held it out. "See. It still has our tag on it."

Marian's eyes were very wide. "I have no idea how that got there. Why would I have to steal something like that? I have plenty of money. Check my wallet."

The executive grinned. "We run into this all the time, Mrs. Stram. Wealthy women with plenty of money come here and steal things quite often. It's called kleptomania."

"I'm not a kleptomaniac."

The executive frowned. "It doesn't matter. We have the goods on you. We're going to give you the works."

"The works?"

"Yes. We reserve the works for our most blatant thieves."

"But, I didn't steel that. Why can't you believe me?"

He stabbed his finger at her. "Remove your clothes, Mrs. Stram."

Marion's face exhibited complete surprise. "Everything?"

He grinned. "Every last stitch."

"Completely nude?"

He nodded. "Yes. Au Natural. In the buff. Butt naked. Without a stitch. In your birthday suit . . ."

"But . . . but . . . you have your evidence."

"I believe this--," He held up the bracelet, "--is only the tip of the iceberg. We find evidence, as you put it, in bras, panties, in every possible article of clothing."

"Ok. Ok," Marion said in a dejected tone. "But, I think it's totally indecent making a poor little housewife like me remove all her clothing in front of males."

"We haven't all day, Mrs. Stram."

When she tried to unzip the side of her skirt, Marion jammed the zipper. The security woman moved closer, but Marian stepped away. "I'll get it." She did and she quickly squirmed out the skirt.

The woman picked it up and quickly ripped the seams to remove the liner. And, inside the liner near the waist, she found a gold necklace.

"Why, Mrs. Stram, you had a good haul today."

Marian's eyes were wide with panic. "I did not steal that!"

Her eyes were met with harsh demanding eyes. "Get busy, Mrs. Stram. Undress."

Marian hand shook as she fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. A snap made her jump. She turned to watch the woman pull a latex glove on her right hand.

"What's that for?" Her voice had a nervous jitter.

A wider grin graced the executive's face. "We do a thorough search here, Mrs. Stram. You would be surprised where we find evidence."

Marian swallowed hard. Her hands trembled as she struggled to remove her blouse. She immediately handed it to the woman, who immediately dissected it. The woman found nothing in the shredded remnants of the expensive silk chemise.

The shoes came next. The woman ripped them apart with a sharp tool. Again, she came up empty handed.

"I hope you people intend to replace my damaged clothing."

"Where you're going, you won't need any street clothes. They provide you with orange coveralls."

"What do you mean?"

The executive frowned and pointed at his suspect. "We'll take the bra next."

"I find this procedure of yours to be most humiliating."

"The bra, Mrs. Stram."

Marion reached around her back to unsnap her bra, but she hesitated.

"What's the matter, Mrs. Stram?" the man behind the desk taunted. "Afraid we'll laugh at your pimple tits?"

His taunt was reinforced by giggles and sniggers from the security people.

"Come on, Mrs. Stram, the bra."

She reluctantly unsnapped it and allowed it to drop down to her waist, but instead of bowing her head in shame, she jutted her jaw out in defiance.

The executive laughed. "One thing's for sure, you couldn't possibly have hid anything in your cleavage."

The object of his taunt frowned and she opened her mouth to protest, but she was interrupted by a knock.

A look of annoyance on his face, the executive motioned to the man near the door to open it. The door opener's lack of caution was rewarded by a bullet in the center of his forehead, propelling him to the floor with a sickening thud. The second man and the woman allowed momentary surprise to slow their reactions. Two men, wearing black suits and high-neck jerseys, shot them both with silencer-equipped automatics.

His face twisted with shock, the executive held his hands up as if he could stop the bullets he knew were coming. When they struck his chest, he fell to the floor, overturning a chair and pulling papers from his desk.

Marian watched the slaughter with wide, fascinated eyes. To her, death is only a consequence of life, a natural event that is both inevitable and inexorable. She stared at the two gunmen with her eyes expressing the big question: am I to be or not to be?

###

Julius Stram hates Sundays. Sunday is the day his wife insists on going out to shop, and he dreads it. She's prone to rashness, and rash behavior can result in trouble, and trouble is not what he wanted to deal with right now. He's up to his ears with demands: demands from his superiors, demands from his wife, and demands from his sponsors. They all demand results, results he's having trouble producing.

A knock.

"Yes?"

A door opened.

"A call on the secure line," Franklin said without emotion.

Julius rushed out of his office as if he were in a fire drill. The secure phone was in a special soundproofed room down the hall. He wasted no time in securing the door and picking up the receiver.

"Yes?"

"Your wife has been jeopardized," the voice said. "She was picked up by security at Saks."

"Why?"

"We are not certain. Two gunmen abducted her from Saks. They terminated three security people and the manager."

"Will this make the news?"

"Irrelevant. The FBI has been called in, though."

"Where was she taken?"

"We were unable to determine the destination, but we have reason to believe that it was the SVR."

That introduced a queasy feeling into Julius' gut. The Russian intelligence community is very efficient . . . and ruthless. He paused before saying: "Keep me informed."

"Yes."

Click.

Julius returned the receiver to its base, but instead of rushing out of the room he stood there staring at the wall, rubbing his hand down over his face as if he were trying to wipe away his problem.

This was precisely the trouble that he did not want, but there's no convincing his wife. She's too bullheaded to listen. Now, he had a situation: his wife has been compromised, and the existence of his covert operation has been exposed. How will he extricate himself from this mess?

###

Light--little streamers radiating through fog from above. Groggy feeling in my head. Pressure on my wrists and my neck. I can feel hard cement with my feet. Looks like wires around my head.

Where am I? Am I dead? Is this Hell?

No, wait. This can't be Hell. I can still feel my bra and panty . . . and my pantyhose. Shit.

A voice. "Ah, Mrs. Stram. I see that you're awake." The voice was that of a man with a slight Eastern European accent.

She couldn't see the face belonging to the voice.

"Who are you?" her voice sounded strained and higher pitched than normal.

"That is not important. We want your cooperation."

"Why would I want to cooperate with you? I don't even know you."

"It is of no importance. We want information."

"What information?"

"We want to know about the creatures you and your husband are pursuing."

"What creatures?" she screeched. "What are you talking about?"

"Come now, Mrs. Stram. We know that you and your husband are trying to create a strategic biological species. We are well aware of your efforts."

"What are you talking about? I'm just a housewife out on a shopping spree. What the hell do I know about . . . what did you call it . . . a strategic biological species?"

After a few silent moments, the light became much brighter. Marian could now see the bizarre situation she was in. She was standing with her arms up, her wrists and neck trapped in a contraption much like an eighteenth-century pillory used to punish criminals. She couldn't see her feet but she knew that she was not wearing shoes. What was really confusing was that her head was surrounded by what appeared to be a wire cage not much larger than her face. Directly in front of her face was a solid black metal wall.

"Don't toy with me. You know perfectly well what I'm talking about."

"You're not making any sense. I know nothing of what you speak."

"I see that you need some persuasion, Mrs. Stram."

The metal wall slowly rose to reveal a hellish scene. In a cage attached to the cage surrounding her face, no further than a foot away, Marian beheld pure terror, the one thing that truly frightened her. A huge hairy rat, its ugly mouth open to reveal sharp little teeth, its gooey saliva dripping down to splatter the cage floor, its eyes wild with rage, hissing and snarling, jumped up and down like a mad dog, throwing itself against the only barrier between it and its potential meal: a wire door.

Marian's heart raced so fast she could hear it. Sweat broke out on her face and her eyes widened like saucers. She breathed so hard it came out as pitiful moans.

"Little Albert, here, is hungry, Mrs. Stram. He'd just love to get in there with you. He'd just love to munch on your nose, nibble your ears, rip your cheeks, chew your lips . . . and gouge your eyes. Your nice face would make a tasty meal for him, don't you think?"

The rat reinforced the statement by jumping more wildly and hissing more loudly, its saliva splattering her face.

Marian was near complete panic. She could barely breath--just little huffs and hisses. She hated rats with a passion bordering on insanity. When she was a little girl, no more than five or six, some asshole put a dead rat under her covers, right near her face. When she awoke to the grizzly sight, she freaked out. The orphanage people thought if was funny. How could they be so insensitive? Rats are known to attack--and kill--babies and small children, and she was deathly afraid of them. She often had nightmares in which rats bit her in the night, tearing her face and ripping her body.

And now, she was faced with that old fear. What irony. She had never dreamed that she would actually suffer such an inauspicious end.

"I don't think you understand how this works, Mrs. Stram. Little Albert has a leash around his neck. We won't allow him to tear into your face and devour it completely. That wouldn't be any fun, don't you agree?"

"I . . . I don't . . . know what . . . you mean." Her voice was almost a whisper through clenched teeth.

"Well, we'll only allow him to take a few bites before we yank him back. That way, we can prolong his meal. I don't know. Perhaps the first thing he'd eat will be your nose. On the other hand, he might prefer an eye. It's hard to say."

The rat's potential meal could only manage a whimper.

"I'm waiting, Mrs. Stram."

Marian hyperventilated when she observed the wire door separating her face from the ferocious rattus norvegicus slowly moving up. Soon, the rodent advanced toward her, straining against its leach with a rabid fury. Ravenous sharp teeth were only a few centimeters from her face and those teeth were snapping wildly amidst snarling and hissing.

She felt terror like never before, and it fascinated her. Is this how her victims feel? She had no idea what they really felt when she subjected them to horrors. What would it be like to have your face eaten away while you were still aware? How long would the pain last before death provided relief? Would the pain be unbearable? Would it spare my eyes so that I could see it chew off my nose or lips? How long could I endure the pain? How fascinating.

What was that?

She felt a vibration that was barely perceptible at first, but it was strong enough to impart a high-pitched falsetto to the steel cage surrounding her head. The rat had no trouble sensing it. In fact, it seemed fearful, turning on its heels and jumping back into its cage to claw at the back with a frenzied preoccupation.

Then it stopped, but the rat continued to claw at its prison as if escape was more imperative than satisfying its hunger.

Marian felt a rumble, a distant groan that became stronger with each second before it erupted as a loud clanging. The floor beneath her feet heaved up and down, pitching her from side to side like a rag doll. Chunks of concrete rained down, accompanied by a torrent of dust and debris.

The lights went out, blanketing her with complete darkness--and abject terror. But that was the least of her problems. She was slammed down hard to a floor that had the consistency of liquid, churning and welling like a sea beset by storm.

But, all she could do was hear and feel. Her personal Hell was pitch black. Her only thought was the rat. Was it near? Would it still try to make a meal out of her face? She preferred a quick death to slow torture.

###

A buzzing sound stunned Julius. He jumped up from a chair in the secure room but sat down again when he realized that the phone was on a desk only a meter in front of him.

"Yes?"

"Your wife was being held in a building near the old university. It was destroyed in the earthquake."

Julius felt his stomach turn over.

"Are there any survivors?"

"The authorities are at the scene, but they are spread thin by the disaster. We will keep you informed."

"Thank you."

He hung up, but his stomach continued to feel queasy. He pushed an intercom button.

"Franklin."

After a few minutes of anxiety.

"This is Franklin. What is it you wish?"

"Monitor the frequencies for information on the earthquake."

"I am doing so. It was centered near Santa Anita. Preliminary data indicates a strength of six point eight."

"Yes. Yes. I am interested in information concerning victims.

"I understand."

Julius shook his head and sighed.

No you don't understand. 

###

Light--only a small pinprick of light, but light nevertheless. She couldn't see anything, but how wonderful it is not to be in total darkness. Such a little beam of light, but it represented hope.

Marian tried to move but she was being held tight by a large block of concrete. Good thing she's skinny. A normal woman would have suffered crushing bone injuries. The good news was that she could move everything, if only a few centimeters.

She tried to shout, but it only aggravated her coughing. She could barely breath for all the dust and it burned her throat and lungs. What she wouldn't give for a cigarette right now. Then again, it could be dangerous to strike fire. The air smelled of natural gas.

Oh, well. At least the rat wasn't around. Maybe it got smashed. Then again, maybe it got the hell out of here. Rats, no matter how large, can squeeze into the smallest of spaces. How lucky for it.

Time drags when you can only think. The image of the rat about to eat her face fascinated Marian. She had never thought of using such a devilish method to torture someone. The sheer terror of it is pure genius. What fun it would be to witness such a spectacle.

A thumping sound jolted her to reality. She heard a rushing sound, like escaping gas. Soon, she felt heat.

Oh, no: a fire. Am I to be burned, cooked, fried? What a horrible way to die.

I don't know which is worse: a fire or the rat.

The heat grew more intense, and she could detect a faint glow behind her. She screamed and yelled, and her screaming intensified when she felt the heat searing her feet.

Her screams increased directly in proportion to the pain.

Burned at the stake, although, my stake is horizontal and I am not a saint expecting eternal reward.

Hissing sounds. The heat subsided.

Thank, you. Thank, you.

She breathed easier, but she did not feel relieved.

What is that sniffing? Is that damn rat around?

She coughed before she yelled: "Is someone up there?"

A commotion.

"Are you ok, lady?" asked a rough masculine voice with traces of stress.

"I think so . . . I can't move."

"Don't. We'll dig you out of there as soon as we can."

She tried to laugh. "I'm not going anywhere."

Indeed.