The taxi had an official-looking strip of black and yellow checks under the windows on either side and a light on the roof that said taxi. But Henry’s clone told her it was a hyena , which was some kind of widespread scam aimed mostly at tourists.
“The scam also works on anyone too drunk to see straight,” he said as he motioned at the driver with the Glock. “Yeah, that’s right, buddy, take the rest of the night off. And tomorrow, find a new line of work,” he called after the fleeing man. “Any cab without a company logo showing on the doors or the hood is a hyena,” he went on to Danny. “That’s how you can tell the honest taxis from the scammers. Now get in, you’re driving.” She did so and he climbed into the back seat directly behind her.
“Okay, buddy, where to?” she said with a nervous laugh.
“You’re not a real cab driver,” he said sourly.
“According to you, neither was the guy you chased off,” Danny said evenly. “Either way, you still have to tell me where we’re going if you actually want to get there.”
“Jaki Chapel,” the clone said in a low voice that was practically a growl.
“Jaki Chapel, huh? Sounds nice. You’ll have to direct me,” she told him.
“I can’t do that unless we’re moving.”
Danny started the car and put it in drive. Hungarian taxis weren’t much different from most other cars, although when she shifted gears, it felt like she was using a crowbar to move thick, heavy chunks of metal. Steering was even more of an effort. Fortunately the Budapest streets were deserted at this hour so she was unlikely to hurt anyone except herself and clone-Henry. Most likely herself; she had a feeling this model hadn’t come with airbags.
“Taking this cab was a smart move,” she said after a bit, adjusting the rearview mirror so she could see him. “Where are you from anyway?” His eyes met hers. “Your formality—it sounds Southern to me.”
Clone-Henry looked annoyed. “No disrespect but I’d prefer not to chat just now.”
“There it was again,” she said, stubbornly cheerful. “Georgia? Texas?”
“It’s better if we just don’t talk.”
Danny didn’t ask him if that was because a butcher never made friends with cattle; there was no need to rile him unnecessarily. But she had no intention of making things easy for him, either. She wasn’t cattle.
“Look, if you’re going to use me as bait and possibly murder me, the least you can do is indulge me with some conversation.” She gave his reflection a brief, pointed stare.
The clone let out a heavy, resigned breath. “I was born just outside Atlanta.”
“I knew it!” Danny hit the steering wheel with one hand in triumph. “You and Henry have a lot in common.”
“I doubt that,” the clone replied.
“You’d be surprised,” she assured him. “You know, I started out surveilling him, too. Then I got to know him. He’s got a big heart.” Pause. “Like you.”
She practically heard his hackles go up. “What would you know about my heart?”
“I know you have one,” she replied. “And I know it’s telling you that something about this job you’ve been given isn’t right.”
There was an almost imperceptible moment of hesitation before he said, “A job’s a job.”
“This is nice, actually,” Danny said as she parked the taxi in front of a church. “Usually when I travel I don’t get to do much sightseeing.” Clone-Henry yanked her out of the driver’s seat without bothering to close the car door. “And I love old churches,” she went on inanely as they went in through the front entrance. “So this is Jaki Chapel. It’s Romanesque. Beautiful. Ow,” she added as he poked her in the back with the Glock to make her walk faster down the main aisle.
When they got to the communion rail in front of the altar, the clone yanked her into an alcove on the right and pushed her toward a set of stone steps going down.
“Basement?” she said, forcing a light tone. “You must really know your way around Budapest churches.”
“I watch a lot of Nat Geo.” He motioned at the stairs. “Down.”
The steps were narrow and uneven and she was afraid of losing her balance and falling because he kept prodding her with the Glock. That would be another two weeks added to his agonizing death, she thought poisonously.
When they reached the bottom he gave her a nudge into a passageway lined with shelves and lit by bare bulbs strung overhead, spaced about fifteen feet apart. Were they five watts? Less? She could barely see, and if clone-boy poked her with that Glock one more time, she was going to shove it up his nose sideways—
Her toe hit something and she stumbled, nearly falling on her face before she caught hold of a steel rod sunk solidly into the floor. Which, she saw now, wasn’t hard-packed dirt as she had originally thought but concrete covered with ages of dust and grime. She looked up and suddenly found herself staring into the dark, empty eye sockets of a very, very old skull. It was one of many on the shelf in front of her. No, actually one of thousands on a multitude of shelves on either side of the passageway, all stacked one on top of another, from the gritty cement floor up past the string of bare light bulbs and disappearing into the shadows above.
“Wow,” Danny breathed, staring upward. The clone gave her another push. “I wonder how many people are buried down here.” He didn’t answer and she resisted asking him if he had missed Catacombs Week on Nat Geo.
There was a rusted iron gate ahead; as they got closer, Danny saw part of a broken padlock hanging from the hasp. Signs in four different languages, including English, declared, This Area Strictly Off Limits.
The clone gave her another poke with the Glock, motioning her forward. Whoever had raised him to respect his elders had obviously failed to mention it was rude to poke them with a handgun. Instead of giving in to the urge to stick the Glock up his nose, however, she pushed the gate open. “But it says off limits.”
“That’s very funny,” he said, his voice flat.
The passageway ahead was even narrower and more dimly lit. He caught her arm. “Stand over there,” he said, pushing her up against another steel support rod. “Don’t move.”
Danny watched as he wedged a grenade into the mouth of a skull on a shelf one up from floor level, then attached a tripwire, which he connected to another skull on the shelf opposite. It was about six inches off the ground and, in this light, invisible.
Messing with the dead like this had to be some kind of serious desecration, Danny thought, the kind of thing even a hard-headed non-believer would want to avoid. But clone-Henry wasn’t fazed in the least. Maybe he really was a stone clone. Or maybe he’d just never seen a horror movie.
He reached up with the Glock and shattered the bulb above them. As they continued along the passageway, he broke the rest of them so that the only illumination came from his flashlight.
“If you knock out all the lights,” Danny said, “how are you going to see your own tripwire on your way out? A grenade is no joke. I mean, I get what you’re doing—darkness neutralizes his biggest strength. And close-quarters favors you, right? He can’t throw a grenade without killing me, too. But what if he uses tear gas? Or a sleep agent?”
He shoved her through another doorway into a large round area with a few dim naked bulbs dangling well out of reach. This must be the Quartz Chamber, Danny thought. It, too, was lined with shelves of skulls and bones bolstered every few feet by metal support rods. As far as she could tell, there was no other way in or out. The clone dropped his backpack on the cement floor and pulled out what seemed to be a compact gas mask equipped with night vision. He put it on but left it sitting up on top of his head.