“No more than you . . . priest,” Lucian snapped back. “You Franciscans and Benedictines and Jesuits, you watch and watch and watch . . . for centuries you watch . . . while these animals bleed my people dry and lead our nation into ruin.”

O'Rourke stared without blinking. Lucian turned away and busied himself with the IV, resuming the drip.

“You can't just leave it . . . him . . . here,” said Kate, gesturing toward the tank.

Lucian licked his lips. “There are others who will benefit from the data even if I die. Even if all of us die. “ He whirled at them and clenched his fists. “And do not worry. There are few of us in the Order of the Dragon who have survived, but even if I die someone will come here and cremate this . . . this dracul. There is no way that I will allow it to live and prey upon us again. No way at all. “

The medical student removed a large syringe from the drawer, extracted blood directly from the body's neck, resumed the IV drip, locked both the inner door and the morgue, and led them upstairs to the lab. He finished the assay in ten minutes and showed Kate the results: three normal samples and one teeming with the Jretrovirus attacking introduced blood cells.

Lucian led them out of the lab, out into the rainy night again. Kate breathed deeply in the parking lot, allowing the soft rain to wash away the stink of formaldehyde and blood from her clothes.

“What now?” asked Kate. She felt exhausted and emotionally brittle. Nothing was clear.

Lucian turned on the single wiper blade, its squeak timing the night like a metronome. “One of us should stake out this man's house.” He held up Amaddi's slip of paper.

“Let me see that,” said O'Rourke. He looked at the slip of paper in the dim light, blinked, and then laughed until he collapsed against the hard cushions of the backseat.

“What?” said Kate.

O'Rourke handed back the slip of paper and rubbed his eyes. “Lucian, does this man work for the ONT?”

Lucian frowned. “For the Office of National Tourism? No, of course not. He's a very rich contractor who dabbled in the black market for heavy equipment . . . his statesupported company erected the presidential palace and many of the huge, empty buildings Ceausescu ordered built in this section of the city. Why?”

O'Rourke looked as if he was going to laugh again. He rubbed his cheek instead. “The name . . . Radu Fortuna. Is he a short man? Swarthy? A thick mustache and a gap between his front teeth

“Yes,” said Lucian, puzzled. “And one of us should be watching his house around the clock.” He glanced at his watch. “It is almost eleven P.m. I will take the first shift.”

O'Rourke shook his head. “Let's all go,” he said. “We'll watch the house while we watch each other.”

Lucian shrugged and then pulled the Dacia out into the empty, rainglistened streets.

Chapter Twenty-six

Mr. Radu Fortuna's home was hidden behind high walls in the Nomenclature section of east Bucharest. Large homes like this in the center of the city had long since been converted into embassies or offices for state ministries, but here in the oldest and finest section of the city, Ceausescu and his political heirs had rewarded themselves and the chosen of their Nomenclature with fine homes unchanged since the prewar reign of King Carol.

“Shit,” muttered Lucian as he drove by the walled estate. “I should have realized from the address.”

“What's the matter?” said Kate.

Lucian turned and went around the block. The streets here were wide and empty. “During Ceausescu's days, no one but the Leader and his Nomenclature cronies were allowed to drive here. This entire eightblock section was offlimits.”

O'Rourke leaned forward. “You mean you could get arrested just by driving here?”

“Yeah.” Lucian dimmed his headlights and came around the block again. “You could disappear just for driving here.”

“Did that change when Ceausescu died?” asked Kate.

“Yeah. Sort of.” Lucian stopped and backed into an alley that was all but hidden by low trees, most still heavy with their sodden leaves, and bushes that had not been trimmed in decades. Branches scraped against the side of the Dacia until only the windshield looked out at the walls and gate and entrance drive of Radu Fortuna's mansion. “The poligie and Securitate still patrol here, though. It wouldn't be a great idea to get stopped, since I'm certainly on their detention list and you don't have any papers at all. “ He backed the Dacia deeper until they were peering through scattered branches at the street.

The rain stopped after a while, but the dripping from the branches onto the roof and hood of the car was almost as loud. The interior of the Dacia grew cold. Windows fogged and Lucian had to use a handkerchief to wipe the windshield clean. Sometime around midnight a police car cruised slowly down the street. It did not stop or throw a searchlight in their direction.

When it was gone, Lucian reached under the seat and brought out a large Thermos of tea. “Sorry there's just one cup,” he said, handing the lid to Kate. “You and I will have to share the flask, Father O'Rourke.”

Kate huddled over the hot cup, trying to stop shaking. Since O'Rourke's revelations about Lucian a few hours ago, the center of things seemed to have fled. She did not know who or what to believe now. Lucian seemed to be saying that O'Rourke was also part of some plot involving the strigoi.

She did not have the energy to question either of them. Joshua! she thought. With her eyes shut tightly, she could see his face, smell the soft baby scent of him, feel the silky touch of his thin hair against her cheek.

She opened her eyes. “Lucian, tell us an Our Leader joke. “

The medical student handed the Thermos to O'Rourke. “Did you hear about the time that Brigitte Bardot visited our workers' paradise?”

Kate shook her head. It was very cold. She could see floodlights in the compound across the street glinting on coiled razor wire atop the wall. It had started to rain again.

“Our Leader had a private audience with Bardot and was smitten at first sight,” said Lucian. “You've seen photos of the late Mrs. Ceausescu. You can understand why. Anyway, he begins babbling in an attempt to impress the French actress.

`I am in charge here,' he says. `Anything Mademoiselle wishes is my command.' `All right,' says Bardot, `open the borders.' Well, for a moment Ceausescu is . . . how do you say it? . . . nonplussed. But then he regains his composure and leers his monster's smile at her. `Ahhh,' he says in a conspirator's whisper, `I know what you want.' He winks at her. `You want to be alone with me.' “

Lucian took the Thermos back from O'Rourke and sipped tea.

The priest cleared his throat in the backseat. Kate wondered if his leg hurt him on cold, wet nights like this. She had never heard O'Rourke complain, even when the limp was very visible.

“I was in Czechoslovakia when Chernobyl happened years ago,” said O'Rourke. “Were there jokes here about that?”

Lucian shrugged. “Sure. We joke about everything that scares the shit out of us or makes us want to cry. Don't you?”

Kate nodded. “Like the definition of NASA after the Challenger disaster in that same year of '86,” she said. “Oops . . . Need Another Seven Astronauts. “

No one laughed. They were not talking to amuse one another.

“In Czechoslovakia,” said O'Rourke, “the gag was that the new national anthem for the U.S.S.R. after Chernobyl was Pec nam spadla, pec ndm spadla . . . `Our oven has collapsed, our oven has collapsed.' “ After a moment off silence, the priest said, “It's a folk song.”

“Here, after Chernobyl,” said Lucian, “we asked each other what the three shortest things in the world were.”

“What were they?” said Kate, finishing the last of her tea.