A Pale Horse

by Wendy Alec

  He stared down at the gearshift. It must have been at least twenty-five years since he last drove a manual vehicle.

  “Damn it, Nick,” he muttered, then stopped himself. His little brother must have had good reason.

  Shivering with cold, Jason opened the glove compartment to find a brand-new map of Ireland still in its plastic wrapping, with a yellow sticky note attached. “Post Office, EASKEY—County Sligo West” was scrawled on it with a thick red felt-tipped pen. He tore off the wrapper, unfolded the map over the steering wheel, and studied the coast until he found the M4 out of Dublin, heading west.

  He placed the map on the seat next to him, buckled his seat belt, and started the engine, then stowed his phone minus the sim card in the cubby hole. Were all these precautions necessary?

  The woman in the car opposite him was still glaring at him.

  He scowled back at her. Where were the heat controls? He turned on the old-fashioned heating system, and a blast of freezing air came through the vents. He scowled again, put the Escort into gear, and sped out of Dublin airport, following the large–format, moving-display glass signs to the M4.

  * * *

  Redgrave Medical Library, Wimpole Street, London

  Julia walked into the huge medical library, signed her name in the registry book, then walked over to the medical registry reception. She stared around the vast room. Six people sat at the long oak tables, engrossed in their research. Not a pin dropped.

  She handed the security clearance to the nondescript clerk behind the large oak desk. He studied her clearance and her request form, then disappeared.

  * * *

  Easkey, Northwest Ireland

  Three hours later, Jason turned into the coastal village of Easkey. The main street consisted of one carry-out eatery, a local pub, a butcher shop, a hair salon—hardly Nick’s usual sprawling metropolis. He grinned.

  There was the post office. And Nick, hanging out of a sky blue Jeep.

  “Follow me!” Nick yelled.

  Jason lowered the window and gave a thumbs-up. He pulled out after Nick, roaring up the R297 toward Sligo. Five minutes later, Nick made a sharp left down a rambling dirt track half covered in melting snow.

  Jason followed Nick for a full mile and a half until a low-lying thatch-roofed cottage came into view.

  He parked behind Nick, directly outside the front door, then grabbed his phone from the cubby hole, and his briefcase from the backseat and extricated himself, with some difficulty, from the front seat of the Escort. Jason stared out at the spectacular view of the Atlantic, a hundred yards below the cottage.

  Nick stood watching him from the doorway. “Hey, Jas,” he said, grinning.

  The sight of his youngest brother standing there, very much alive, still had the most profound effect on Jason.

  “Nicky . . . ” He embraced Nick, who then steered him into the hallway.

  “Welcome to our humble abode.”

  The entire far side was built on an open plan and crammed with what appeared to be extremely sophisticated surveillance equipment. Above it was a colossal holographic display screen.

  Dylan Weaver sat hunched over a server. To his left were five supercomputers, all transmitting information in real time. To his right, three Chinese youths were engrossed in algorithms.

  Nick beckoned Jason nearer. Weaver nodded at them in acknowledgment.

  “Rewind,” Weaver instructed a Chinese engineer who looked no older than fourteen.

  Jason watched, incredulous, as images of himself passing through the iris scanner at Terminal 6 transmitted onto the massive screen above Weaver’s head.

  “Alexander Monaghan . . . ” Nick grinned. “From the ever-fertile brain of Dylan Weaver.”

  He turned to Jason. “We hacked into Terminal Six’s surveillance systems. The breakfast vouchers we gave you were fitted with a camera. We knew the exact moment you paid up and headed for security.”

  Weaver thrust his plump fingers into a large bag of potato chips and stuffed a handful in his mouth.

  “We can hack into any system, thanks to our high-end hackers in Hangzhou. They’re an offshoot of the international subversives.” He grinned at Jason. “Trained up under Assange’s teenage hacking subculture. Our main servers—a very sophisticated setup—are located in Hangzhou and duplicated meticulously in the monastery outside Alexandria. What you see here is just our mobile comms unit. We’ve been working on ‘Sadie’ for over three years—we’re almost there. Then we’ll be able to override any security system.” He emptied the bag of chips into his mouth.

  “Anywhere in the world.” He looked up at Nick. “Completely undetected.”

  Nick gestured to Jason. “Pass Weaver your new phone. He’s got this entire area blacked out from their surveillance. He’ll doctor it.”

  Jason shrugged. “Go for it, but I already removed the sim card.”

  Weaver grinned. “Time for some fun with Guber.”

  Taking Jason’s cell phone, he plugged in a nano sim card, then looked up at Jason.

  “They’ll think they have your coordinates, but an independent system will be playing out from your number. Guber will assure Adrian that you’re shopping in London. I’ve added in a few credit card purchases on your phone.”

  “Hey, Uncle Jas!”

  Jason turned. The voice was more than familiar.

  Alex Lane Fox, dressed head to toe in a wet suit, leaned against the kitchen door, grinning broadly at Jason.

  “Alex!” Jason stared in disbelief. “I thought you were in New York.”

  He paused. “Don’t tell me you knew Nick was alive.”

  “Nah.” Alex grinned sheepishly. “Well, yes, but only since yesterday.”

  “Polly’s gran’s old holiday cottage is in Kinsale, near Cork. Pol and I were in Ireland. She’s still there. I’m assisting Nick—well, for the past three hours.” He grinned again. “Great surfing here, Uncle Jas. You should join us. Actually, I’m working on a story. UFO’s, government cover–ups—the kind you wouldn’t publish.”

  “That’s because we publish real news, Alex Lane Fox.” Jason hid a smile, then put down his briefcase.

  “Mainstream media is a tool of the elite.”Alex con- tinued.

  Jason rolled his eyes. “Alex, we’ve had this conversation a few thousand times.”

  The fifth display screen came to life.

  “Nick,” Weaver broke in. “It’s Amman, Jordan. The videoconference.”

  “Sorry, Jas. Have to take this—update on the Jordanian situation. Jotapa. Why don’t you stretch your legs, and I’ll join you as soon as I’m off the call.”

  Nick looked at Jason’s Armani suit and grinned.

  “Oilskins and Wellington boots are by the back door, Jas. Relax. Take your pick.

  Jason shook his head again, his eyes still on Nick. He still felt a strange elation at the sight of his brother. “You look really great,” he said.

  Nick studied Jason’s face. “I feel great, Jas. By the way, I’d take a rod if I were you.”

  Jason frowned. “It’s nearly freezing.” He looked suspiciously at his brother. He knew only one person in the entire world who would be fishing in the dead of winter.

  Jason pulled off his suit jacket, hung it up on one of the back-door hooks, then put on the yellow oilskin anorak and pulled on a pair of Wellingtons, UK size 11. He ran his hand over one of the fishing rods standing by the door, and looked over at Nick, who was now in intense conversation with Jordan.

  Jason walked out of the cottage and into the damp sea air. He walked across a field, past several grazing sheep, through brambles and slush, toward the Atlantic. Rounding a bend, he pulled up the collar of the oilskin, battling to walk against the driving winds.

  There, seated calmly on a fishing chair at the water’s edge, his expression intense, sat Lawrence St. Cartier. Jason shook his head. His instincts had been right.

  Lawrence put his finger to his lips without turning. “You always made too much noise f
or the fish, Jason,” he whispered fiercely.

  Jason stood still and watched the old man reel in a huge sea trout. He took it deftly off the hook, dropped it in the kreel on the fishing table at his right, and took a long drink from a metal mug, then turned to Jason, elated.

  “Well, don’t just stand there.” St. Cartier looked him up and down before threading a lugworm bait onto his hook.

  “Come and join me.”

  A red flush crept up Jason’s neck.

  “I haven’t done this since you took me fishing in Scotland when we visited Adrian at Gordonstoun. I was . . . ”

  “Nineteen—you were nineteen and obstreperous.” St. Cartier chuckled. “But you were still my best pupil!”

  Jason settled himself next to Lawrence.

  “Help yourself.” St. Cartier nodded at the picnic basket.

  Jason grabbed a sandwich of thickly cut bacon. A faint smile flickered on his mouth.

  Lawrence St. Cartier grinned at him. “Too much commercialism in your life, Jason De Vere. Commodities, mergers—the rat race, I’m afraid, has wearied your soul.”

  Jason followed Lawrence’s gaze out to the hills far in the distance.

  “Knocknarea Mountain. Miosgán Meadhbha—the tomb of legendary Queen Maeve,” Lawrence said. “A bit of God’s own country is just what you need.”

  Together they sat in silence.

  “Nick hasn’t told you what happened yet?”

  “Nope,” Jason said shortly. Lawrence nodded.

  Jason took another large bite of sandwich, then gazed out for a long time toward the Atlantic. Finally, he spoke.

  “Lawrence, how long have you known Nick was alive?”

  “Three years,” said a new voice. Jason turned to find Nick standing behind them.

  “After the accident,” Nick continued, “I was in a safe house in Trier, Germany, for three months.”

  “You were in Germany?” Jason stared at Nick, taken aback. His exhaustion got the better of him.

  “Why didn’t you just go to Adrian’s? The whole family was distraught.”

  Nick sighed. He looked at Lawrence, then continued.

  “After the safe house, Lawrence gave me sanctuary at the monastery in Alexandria. I stayed there for a year before flying out to China.”

  You were in Germany and then Alexandria?” Jason stared at Nick, then at Lawrence, stunned. “Nick stayed with you for an entire year. And you let Mother go to her grave thinking her youngest son was dead? Damn it, Lawrence!” Jason shouted. “She never got over it!”

  Nick and Lawrence both gazed calmly back at Jason.

  “Jason, my boy,” Lawrence said softly, “your mother saw Nick a month before she died—on his return from China to the monastery. She spent the week with us. She knew the truth the day before Nick’s funeral, three years ago.”

  Jason stared from one to the other, flabbergasted. “She never . . . ” He shook his head. “She couldn’t have . . . ”

  “She could. And she did. She knew that Nick’s survival depended on her complete silence.”

  Lawrence sighed.

  “Your mother tried to tell you before she died, Jason. You did read the black file.”

  Jason shook his head slowly. “The professor. Hamish Mackenzie,” he murmured. “He’s got to be senile, Lawrence.”

  Lawrence sighed. “You’re going to have to tell Jason the truth, Nicholas. He’s seen the documented death warrant. He’s read Mackenzie’s disclosure.” Lawrence met Jason’s gaze.

  Jason shook his head, appalled. “It doesn’t mean I believe it.”

  Lawrence put his hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Nicholas was at Mont St. Michel the afternoon of the accident. He was Adrian’s guest.”

  He sighed.

  “Nicholas, the truth your brother can bear. The other disclosures will come later.” Reeling in his bait, he stood up, folded his chair, and picked it up in one hand, his rod in the other. “I’ll be getting back to the house. See you both for tea. Don’t be late. Lamb and champ.”

  Seeing his brother’s blank stare, Nick said, “Mashed potatoes.”

  Lawrence licked his lips. “Mashed potato, indeed!” He frowned at Nick. “Much more than mashed potato. Spring onions, full-cream milk. Add the potaoes, a large dollop of butter, then mash.”

  Lawrence turned and started making his way up the bank.

  Nick winked at Jason. “Potato famine and all that.”

  Lawrence glared back at him. “Champ is an expression of the resilience and spirit of the Irish people. Not to be taken lightly.” He disappeared from the brothers’ sight.

  Nick stood silently watching the light rays from the clouds shift over the vast, heaving Atlantic. Finally, he sat down cross-legged on the bank, next to Jason.

  Jason stared out at the fishing line. “You were there? At Mont St. Michel. The day you had the accident?”

  Nick nodded.

  Jason stared at him, visibly shaken. “Adrian said you never arrived. He told me to my face. At your funeral.”

  Nick sighed. “I arrived at Mont St. Michel around eleven thirty in the morning. Spoke to Julia on the phone when I was about about forty miles out. She’ll verify it. Met Adrian in the drawing room. He had a videoconference—with the Chinese premier or some such. Dad had sent Lawrence a letter. Enclosed was a photograph.”

  He turned to Jason.

  “The photograph I sent to Julia to give you. Of Dad, Julius . . . Look, Jas, what I’m going to tell you is going to sound really far-fetched.”

  Jason stood, stony faced. “It can’t get much worse.”

  “Okay,” Nick said, “Adrian had sworn he’d never seen anyone in that photo, apart from Dad and Julius. While he was on the videoconference, I saw the third man in the photo. Dome-shaped head. Hawk nose. Silver cropped hair. His name was Kester von Slagel. I overheard a conversation between him and Guber. He more than knew Adrian. That’s when I knew Adrian had lied to me. Blatantly. So I stayed.”

  “What do you mean, you stayed?”

  “I stayed. At Mont St. Michel. I said good-bye to Adrian, then took the back road to Hilde. She was about to leave. One of Adrian’s classified gigs. But there was mention of a strange priest. Royalty—a guest in the West Wing. Everything was out of bounds. I had to stay, Jason. I had to know the truth.”

  “You stayed the night?”

  “Hilde let me stay the night in the East Wing. Pierre overrode the surveillance system. The gunships started arriving within the hour—nine of them in total. Jason, it was inconceivable. A literal who’s who of the elite: World Bank, IMF, CFR, heads of state. But that wasn’t it. It wasn’t the dignitaries.” Nick shook his head. “It was the cargo, Jas. Halfway through the evening, a ship—either a UFO or one of Guber’s Nazi flying objects—started its descent down over the abbey. It was huge—must have been a hundred feet across.”

  Nick studied Jason’s face.

  “It set down a huge crate onto the cloister grounds.”

  “You’re talking about the Ark of the Covenant. It was on the photos Weaver sent me from China three years ago.”

  Nick nodded.

  “I’m a trained archeologist, Jason. This was no fake. It was the real thing. The Ark of the Covenant. There was a power outage. The surveillance came back on. Guber and his thugs arrested me and took me to our brother and his guests. Adrian had it all worked out. He knew it was the one thing that Israel would denuclearize for: the return of the Ark of the Covenant. He just omitted one minor detail when presenting it to the Israeli president: that he and Guber and his thugs were the very terrorists who stole it from the Temple Mount in the first place.”

  Jason held up his hands in frustration. “Nick, this is like a really bad B movie. I mean, the one that doesn’t get to release.”

  Nick ignored Jason’s comment. “He became the Israelis’ hero.” He hesitated. “Overnight. They welcomed him like their Messiah. A segment of them still do—the ones he hasn’t murdered. Half of the Mossad and Sayeret Mat
kal were replaced with Guber’s thugs three years ago. The president, PM, and half the cabinet ministers still live in fear for their and their families’ lives. So they toe the Line. Adrian’s line.”

  “You have proof that it was the Ark of the Covenant?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “They confiscated my camera. The photos I managed to send out don’t prove the case. But I’m an archeologist, Jas. I knew. That’s why Adrian had to have me killed. He knew I knew. He also knew that I wasn’t going to die of AIDS. Long story for another time. His initial attempt to murder me had failed, but I signed my second death warrant that night.”

  “So Adrian let you go?”

  “I left in the red Aston Martin, on my way to Dinaud. Eight miles up, when I got to the pass, things started to get messy. Black helicopter following me . . . electromagnetic pulse. That’s when I tried to get hold of you.”

  Jason shifted uncomfortably.

  Nick grasped his arm. “Don’t, Jas. It’s water under the bridge. You and I were always so close until Lily’s accident. It’s okay.

  “I finally got hold of Lawrence, but it was too late. The black helicopter was gaining on me; I lost control of the car. Jotapa had given me her cross. Unbeknownst to me, Lawrence had embedded a homing beacon in it. I was miraculously thrown from the car before it went down the ravine. I don’t know how long I lay there. I don’t know how it happened. In fact, I don’t remember anything. I woke up in a house in Trier, in Germany, near the border of Luxembourg, on the banks of the Moselle River.” He looked at Jason. “A safe house.”

  “A safe house?” Jason frowned. “Who keeps a safe house?”

  Nick took a deep breath.

  “The CIA, for one.” He hesitated. “Pierre.”

  “Pierre? Who the hell is Pierre?”

  “Dad’s old chauffeur—now works for Adrian at Mont St. Michel.”

  Jason’s mouth fell open. “Dad’s Pierre?”

  Nick smiled. “Pierre’s ex-CIA, Jas. Black ops—been working for Dad, St. Cartier, and the Illuminus for years, since Dad was ambassador to the UK. Anyway, Lawrence alerted Pierre. Thankfully, he found me before Guber’s thugs could. He set the car on fire, released the handbrake. It rolled down into the ravine. Guber thought I was dead. Five ribs broken . . . broken pelvis . . . knee . . . amnesia. It was three months before I could be moved from the safe house in Germany to Alexandria. And another year in Egypt before I was fully recovered. That’s the limp.” He looked at his left knee and heaved a deep sigh.