Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  Soloman violently snatched a portable radio from one of the shocked Apache pilots and raised the second gunship. He instructed it to set down far from the basilica, and at the pilot’s defiant objection Soloman released a stream of direct orders from a colonel that left no room for mistake.

  In thirty seconds the gunship landed in the moor.

  Obviously able, Cain settled Amy in the tandem seat and took over control of the Apache. Soloman sharply raised a hand as one of the grounded pilots inside the courtyard appeared to consider a move, stopping him in midstride. Together they watched helplessly as Cain took control.

  Concentrating coldly, Soloman tried to ignore Maggie’s cries, her pleading voice that begged Cain to leave her daughter behind. And within seconds the Apache was airborne with Soloman screaming immediately into the radio, warning the pilots grounded in the swamp:

  “Get away from the ship! Get away from the ship now! He’s gonna launch missiles! I repeat! He’s gonna launch missiles! Get away from the ship now-now-now!”

  Cain immediately angled the Apache across the moor and within seconds Soloman heard the hot-liquid ignition of a Hellfire, a fire-and-forget laser-guided missile. He knew it would detonate with twenty-four pounds of LX-14 to send the Apache across the blackened night in a continuing series of explosions.

  The distant impact sounded like a 747 crash landing in the swamp, demolishing trees in a sweeping white firestorm that roared and rolled in mushrooming blasts, rocking the walls of the basilica as a wall of flame rose hundreds of feet into the night, blinding and deafening.

  “Get inside the building!” Soloman screamed, shoving Maggie and Marcelle as the two pilots also turned and ran wildly for the door. Soloman was the last man to the portal and spun to see Cain’s Apache sweeping in low over the wall, coming back for the kill.

  He dove desperately through the door as Cain fired the 30-mm cannon, reducing rock and stone at the open archway to dust, rounds chewing the building to cinders, and then the gunship passed low over the roof, roaring into the night.

  Stunned and lost in a world of pain and fighting madness, Soloman rolled over and somehow gained his feet, sweating and breathless. He searched with hazy focus to see Maggie holding her hands over her head, lying against a far wall. Marcelle had thrown himself on top of her.

  Neither of them moved.

  “Maggie!” Soloman shouted, rising to his knees. “Maggie! Are you all right? Are you hit?” He paused as a vivid fear seized his chest. “Maggie! Are you hit! Talk to me!”

  Soloman felt his heart skip a beat as Marcelle slowly rolled to the side, and Maggie shook her head, stunned, rising with effort to her knees. She raised a trembling hand to wave vaguely before she was overcome with emotion, bowing her head and moaning. Her slim body was bent and wracked with the hideous cries of a mother who had lost her only child.

  Standing in silent rage, Soloman grimaced. Then he shook his head violently with a hateful shout, scattering sweat, and his right hand locked, clenched in a fist, trembling. He closed his eyes as he raised the fist to his face, all his heart there in the bloodless grip.

  The night roared with distant flame, death.

  Finally regaining a measure of control Soloman turned his head to the bright burning night, but he already knew: There was nothing in the air, and he knew Cain was gone. Just as Soloman knew that he could raise NAV-SAT for a radar identification, but Cain would be smarter than that.

  He would be flying at treetop level and inside an hour would down the gunship in an isolated field. Then he would simply appropriate other means of travel and take Amy with him ... to her death.

  Marcelle staggered across the smoke-filled, demolished basilica, shocked by the fantastic scope of the conflict. He held a hand to his head, and Soloman saw blood but there was no time for compassion. Reaching out hard he grabbed the priest by the collar, screaming into his face, “Marcelle! Marcelle! Listen to me! We’ve got to know what Cain took from the Archives! Do you understand? You’ve got to tell me where he’s going!”

  Swaying, Marcelle shook his head. “We ... we don’t know, Soloman! We don’t know!”

  “There’s no more time for that, Marcelle!” Soloman was enraged. “We’ve got to know where Cain is going or Amy is going to die! Do you understand me!”

  “Yes... yes,” Marcelle responded, grimacing painfully as he collected a measure of composure. “We will find it!” He staggered toward the door. “We will find it tonight!”

  CHAPTER 20

  Taciturn and stern, Aveling hung up the phone and stared down. He had heard it all but revealed nothing, his austere face inflexible and pale in the half-light of the room.

  Attendant priests, standing close, exchanged uneasy looks as the old man paused, his head bent in dark thought as though he were somehow displeased with the Almighty. Finally his old voice broke the gloom.

  “Bring me my cloak,” he said. “Advise Sister Therese to prepare my breakfast. And awaken Father James, the Librarian Superior, as well as Father Barth.”

  “But, Father,” one of the priests answered, “it’s only two o’clock in the morning. They will be sleeping until mass.”

  “A little sleep,” Aveling said gravely as he washed his face in a white porcelain bowl. “A little sleep, a little folding of the hands to rest, and poverty strikes as an armed man. Poverty ... or death.” He shook his head. “Go now! Tell them to meet me in the Archives!”

  Quickly the youths left the room, and Aveling made a phone call, listening to the dull ring until a very powerful man answered.

  Aveling spoke in terse sentences, knowing the man despised extemporaneous speech. His face grew grim as he listened to the reply, and he nodded. He hung up and turned as the attendants re-entered the chamber.

  In moments they settled his white frock over his lean shoulders and with a curt gesture he dismissed them. Then, with steps of remorse and quiet purpose, he, too, left the chamber.

  Father Barth, his stern face revealing that he sensed something terrible had happened, came down the stairs to the Archives. Steady, holding his composure, he crossed the room and approached the august form of Aveling, alone and unmoving in the open doorway of the vault, staring inside at the thousands and thousands of documents still to be inventoried.

  Standing behind the silhouetted Superior General of the Jesuits, Barth said nothing, waiting patiently. He knew that Aveling would speak when he would speak. And whatever final concentration bent the bald head seemed to have totally mesmerized the old man. His eyes were set like flint against the far wall; his hands were folded into the front pocket of his hooded white cloak. Finally he shook his head. Barth held silence.

  “Has Father James been summoned?” Aveling asked, not turning to see who was behind him.

  “Yes, Aveling. He has been summoned.”

  “Good.” Aveling glanced away from the far wall and stared downward, and Barth turned slightly to observe thousands of documents laid carefully on the table. There was also a series of larger books opened for referencing and indexing.

  Unnerved, Barth asked a question he could already answer, knowing something was in the air. “Has the librarian not yet discovered what Cain stole from the Archives?”

  “No.” A grim answer in the atmosphere. “No, not yet. But, as of this hour, we have no more time.” Aveling turned to the documents, only a third of the vault’s totality. “We must know what has been taken, and quickly, for Cain defeated Marcelle and this soldier, Soloman. There are many deaths. They have lost the child.”

  Barth staggered. “And Marcelle?”

  “He lives.” Aveling revealed no emotion. “He was wounded in the encounter, but he lives. And now, to give them any chance of victory, we must know what Cain has taken from us. There are only four days remaining before Samhain when he will sacrifice the child.”

  For a moment Barth’s hands clenched, and he
turned, staring angrily between the vault and table. “So many documents . . . “ he murmured. “Even if we used a hundred men it would be impossible in so short a time.”

  “Yes, impossible.” Aveling’s eyes narrowed. “But only impossible if we continue as we have continued. We must use wisdom, and not force, to solve this mystery.”

  “What are you thinking, Aveling?”

  “I perceive, perhaps too late, that a powerful opponent can sometimes be more easily defeated than a weak one.” Aveling tilted his head slowly, as if listening. “I perceive that, perhaps, the means of defeating our enemy lies within his own strength.”

  “How can such a thing be accomplished?”

  “By understanding the symmetry of his decisions.” Aveling moved into the vault and gazed about. “That has been our mistake from the beginning. We have attempted to defeat Cain without understanding him. But to be understood is to be defeated.”

  “When did this occur to you?”

  “When I knew desperation,” Aveling said plainly. “A young thing for an old mind. But desperation has bred more ideas than complacency, and I have been complacent too long.” He slid a pale hand down an overflowing shelf. “There is a point where it begins and ends, and multitudinous points between. Yet there is also . . . yes, ex hypothesi—a man revealed by the peculiar subtlety of his decisions. And it is in the symmetry of those decisions that our enemy has revealed his destination.”

  Barth was clearly confused, turning slightly as the Chief Librarian of the Archives came quickly down the stairs. The librarian stared at Aveling, respectfully awaiting instruction.

  “Imagine it thus,” Aveling continued. “Two opponents join a game on two lines that began far apart, but which converge in the distance. Yet, between and above these lines, is a three-dimensional plane with connecting lines arising, all connections representing opposing strategic decisions. It rises as a pyramid, stone upon stone. But, yes, at each convergence of lines, there is a stalemate. And as long as we are playing strategy to strategy, line to line so to speak, we continue to meet at a point of stalemate.” He paused. “In order to understand and defeat Cain we must enter his strategy quadrilaterally. There, we can begin another line that intersects the stones at re-entered . We must begin in the middle, and proceed across.”

  “I don’t understand, Aveling.” Barth shook his head. “But I trust your superior wisdom.”

  Aveling smiled slightly, turning to slowly exit the vault. “It has less to do with wisdom than mathematics, old friend. Cain’s words have a symmetry that reveals his lie. It is the sum that we have failed to perceive, and which will surely reveal the means of his defeat. It will be in understanding the totality of his strategy, piecing together the squares to begin in a new place, that we may claim victory.”

  “Of course.” Barth’s face was troubled. “But what does all of this mean—I mean, practically speaking? How does this theory, in a pragmatic sense, allow us to outthink this man called Cain ... who is no man?”

  “First we must acquire more information, but not of the vault. A thing too simple that I have not perceived until now.”

  Barth nodded, “Yes ... Yes, I see. Then tell me what you need. I will do anything you request.”

  Aveling laid a slender hand on his shoulder, smiling, “Of course you will, Father. Your assistance has already been magnificent.” He pondered. “First, I want you to call Vatican City. Instruct the Curia and College of Cardinals to authorize release of the last surviving copy of The Grimorium Verum from the Secret Archives. And instruct them to do it quickly, no matter the objections. Call Monsignor Balcanza if there are protests. He is an ally of mine, a friend in the camp of our mutual enemies. Then tell our managers within the intelligence community to prepare for severe requests. And no one is to know—especially not the Americans.” Suddenly he was fiercer. “Tell them that no one sleeps until this conflict is finished with life or death.”

  “That ...” Barth appeared stunned. “That is a serious request, Aveling. The Americans will be enraged if we use our power to circumvent their authority. There will be retribution. Perhaps even severe retribution.”

  “A price we will certainly pay in time,” Aveling answered, gazing up as if he could see the intersection of lines. “But I see a situation that will require a test of global power.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Aveling frowned. “This incident involving the child will assuredly end in the dismissal of Marcelle and his colleagues. I know the world of politics too well to be mistaken. And we must be prepared for the complications.” He tilted his head toward Barth. “Further, advise Monsignor Balcanza to contact his covert sources in the State Department. I wish to know what persons are coordinating this ... team . . . that Marcelle has joined.”

  “Monsignor Agoni Balcanza has such abilities?” Barth appeared stunned. “I knew that he was a priest during World War II and worked sporadically with the French Resistance but. . .” He looked away.

  Aveling laughed, “Agoni was more than a mere priest during the war. It was by Agoni’s intelligence contacts with MI5 that the French Resistance established an underground railroad for the Jews, moving them out of Germany in 1944. We transported entire trainloads, moving them through enemy territory, with Pius playing from the Vatican for both Hitler and the Americans, covering all contingencies. Later, of course, the OSS was disbanded and many of our old friends were absorbed by what came to be known as the CIA.” He paused. “But loyalties forged between men during that eventful time continue to endure, some even stronger than the loyalties we retain for our respective countries whether they are England, America, or the Vatican itself. And I am still capable of obtaining information. But Agoni is, in truth, a truly diabolical son of a bitch, if the term may be used, and a master of the game. He is the one who actually dealt with those Germans who said things like ‘Ve have vays of making you talk.’” He laughed again before turning more serious. “Yes, Agoni and I were as devious as any SS agent ever to bear the Roman Eagle, and God will no doubt judge us as reprobate heathens for many of the things that we did. But it was war, and a time for difficult decisions, even as now. It was my own time ... in the desert.”

  Recovering, Barth asked, “But why do you need this information?”

  “Because I perceive that this American, Soloman, has been somehow betrayed from within.”

  “Why do you believe this?”

  “Because our enemy has already done to us what I intend to do to him,” the older priest said. “Colonel Soloman was thoroughly prepared for this confrontation. He should not have been so completely defeated unless, of course, Cain possessed foreknowledge of his strategy.” He paused. “It is a game I know too well.”

  “Yes, of course,” Barth said. “But your skills were honed during the war, Aveling. Marcelle does not have the benefit of such experience. Do you believe he is equal to this task?”

  Aveling answered, “I love Marcelle as I would love a son, but Marcelle is... he is like a hammer that crushes stone. And now, I believe, is the hour for more experienced minds, minds honed by years of deception and illusion, to enter the fray. In short, this cannot be fixed with a sledge hammer. One must use a scalpel.”

  Barth assented with a nod. “Very well, Aveling. I will contact Rome and tell them to begin. And I will advise someone to brief the Archbishop on this horrible development with the child.”

  “There is no need to advise the Archbishop,” Aveling said. “I have already done so.”

  Paling, Barth waited. “And?”

  Aveling suddenly seemed to assume a greater mantle of authority, frightening even for him. He took a deep breath and then released it. His voice was sad and troubled.

  “He said that from this moment ... my word is as his.”

  ***

  Working in silence, accessing everything that could be accessed beneath and above his classifi
cation or need to know, Ben scoured the records, listing all the rogue agents Soloman had tracked. It was a tedious, bitter job, and he saw nothing.

  All of them were elite hunters that Soloman had beat at the game, outsmarting them in the field to arrest most of them without violence. But there were a few who forced him to go tactical, and kill.

  But Ben had an intuitive sensation that something tied it all together, knew just as well that Archette was a master of deception, and that truth, if he could find it at all, would be buried in a labyrinth of lies.

  He had never truly understood how Soloman could have been right about Archette, but he felt in his soul that he was: Archette was somehow involved; he had to be.

  Archette had authorized Genocide One, but he’d also authorized the fail-safes that had failed to contain Cain. Only Soloman’s phenomenal mind and the unforeseen assistance of the priest had given the team the faintest chance of success—something Archette could never have anticipated.

  So Ben continued a dogged search, finding nothing and still nothing as he let the computer do the work. He had another meeting within two hours to discuss Soloman’s horrific defeat in the basilica, and the theft of one thirty-million-dollar, fully armed Apache and the destruction of another, but he tried to ignore the pressure, knowing there was something here. Yet as the Cray-hooked computer finished processing he still had nothing to confirm his suspicions.

  Archette ... so clever.

  Very, very clever.

  But Archette’s too-clever-by-half desire to see Trinity dismantled at any cost had given him away, so Ben knew something was there. He leaned back from the desk, staring balefully at the screen. How would he hide a conspiracy if he were at the center of it?

  The answer was so simple it was almost stunning.

  By not being at the center of it.

  At the thought, Ben remembered one of Soloman’s rules of prey: If you want to go under and stay under, cut connections with everyone. When hunting a rogue operative, never try to follow lines because lines have been severed. Get inside his mind and anticipate. Move ahead of him and wait for him to come to you. Hunt from the trees.