“Anything else?”
“Most of their assets are focused in the Boston area,” said Somervell. “They’re monitoring airports, parking lots, train stations, bus and metro terminals. If you’re still there, find secure transportation and get out before they find you.”
Macaulay turned to glance back down the promenade.
In the blur of the crowd, a tall, well-built man with silvery hair in a camel overcoat was standing in a line of shoppers waiting to get into a Victoria’s Secret outlet. The man appeared to be looking in his direction before his gaze moved away.
“Have you found out who ordered Langdon to meet us in Bangor?”
“The decision came from a hybrid national security team in the White House. Ira Dusenberry chairs it. . . . Word is he will be the next national security adviser to the president. The other two are Addison Kingship and Jessica Birdwell. Kingship is senior FBI. Langdon worked under him at one time. Birdwell is a rising star at Homeland Security. If there is a mole, it’s likely to be one of them.”
“Try to find out,” said Macaulay.
“I will, dear boy. I would offer you a safe house, but I can’t tip my hand while looking up their skirts.”
“I understand,” said Macaulay.
“You should know that one of my covert contacts in Paris suggests that the Ancient Way people might have something big planned,” said Somervell. “No idea what at this point. I’m working on that too.”
Macaulay looked down the promenade again. The line of shoppers had disappeared into the Victoria’s Secret store. The man in the brown suit was still there, talking into a cell phone.
“I think somebody made me, Tommy,” said Macaulay, hanging up.
He joined the slowly moving tide of shoppers on the promenade and headed away from the brown suit. Stepping up the pace, he passed two young women pushing baby strollers and looked back. The tall man was coming, his head craning above the rest.
Macaulay turned into a Patagonia outlet, walking toward the rear of the store. He glanced back as he neared a bank of changing rooms. The man was moving quickly to close the gap.
Beyond the changing rooms was a steel door with a red sign above it reading EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. When he shoved it open, an exterior alarm went off. He looked down at an iron-railed concrete staircase that led to a loading dock.
Shutting the door again, he ducked into the last changing booth and closed the curtain. A few moments later, the sound of the alarm became louder again as someone else opened the emergency door.
Macaulay slipped out of the changing booth. The tall man’s back was framed in the open doorway. He was holding a silenced semiautomatic pistol in his right hand and looking down the staircase.
Macaulay chopped down on the wrist of his gun hand while driving his shoulder into the man’s back. The pistol fell as he went headfirst down the staircase. Macaulay picked up the gun and shoved it inside his belt before closing the steel door. As he headed back past the changing area, the store manager confronted him in the hallway.
“What’s going on here?” she angrily demanded. “I’ve already called the police.”
“There’s a man out on the loading dock with a gun,” he said, watching her anger turn to alarm. “Don’t open it until the police get here.”
Once on the promenade again, he examined all the faces surging past him, looking for another one that didn’t belong, offering everyone a grim smile to show he was feeling the Christmas spirit.
FORTY-ONE
1 December
RV Leitstern
North Atlantic Ocean
Off Lubec, Maine
The prince lay huddled in his berth as Steiger administered a dose of morphine into his bloodstream. It was uncomfortably warm in the stateroom, but von Falkenberg still felt chilled.
The cancer that had been held in check for three years was now ravaging his vital organs, his once-impregnable vitality ebbing away to little more than a flickering candle. Getting up from the berth, he pulled the purple and red satin dressing gown tighter around his chest.
There was a light knock at the door and Steiger went to answer it. A tall man wearing a white lab coat was standing in the passageway next to the Lynx, who was guarding the compartment.
“May I have a few minutes with His Grace?” asked the man.
“Please come in, Per,” said von Falkenberg, sitting up and beckoning him forward. “It is always a pleasure to see you.”
In truth, the church owed the greatest debt to Dr. Per Larsen and his research team of Jurgens, Klaus, and young Ainslie, the Britisher whose parents had been murdered by Hezbollah gunmen in Beirut. It would not have been possible to launch Operation Tjikko without Larsen’s undeniable genius.
The prince remembered his first meeting with the penniless young geneticist in his unheated laboratory over the auto repair shop in Oslo fifteen years earlier. The visit had been arranged by a hereditary biologist who followed the Order, after Per’s initial breakthrough while experimenting with rhesus monkeys. Thanks to his subsequent research, they now had the tools to shape the future destiny of mankind.
Even taking into account his own physical disintegration, the prince was surprised at Per’s physical condition. Since their last meeting six months ago, his hair had gone gray and there were wrinkled pouches under his eyes.
“I think you have been working too hard, Doctor,” said the prince. “You must make time for adequate rest and relaxation. We are counting on you as we move forward with Tjikko.”
“I am here to ask you to grant me a great favor, Your Grace,” said Larsen.
“Of course,” said the old man. “We are all in your debt. Please sit down. Would you like some coffee? A stronger stimulant?”
“No, Your Grace,” he said, sitting down at the stateroom table. “I am here to ask you to stop the Tjikko operation.”
“But why?” asked von Falkenberg. “Is it a question of the soundness of your science?”
“No, Your Grace,” he said, pausing to collect his thoughts. “It is the . . . magnitude of what we are about to do.”
“Your conscience?” asked the prince.
Larsen nodded. Von Falkenberg watched the scientist’s eyes fill.
“I am haunted by its being the end of millions of unborn children . . . and its being my work that will bring this about.”
The prince deliberated on how to respond. Per Larsen was a good man, a thoroughly decent man. How could he explain to him that goodness alone could not bring an end to man’s depravity and brutality? He thought of the commando named Joachim who was guarding the door. The one they called the Lynx. That one is of the beast, he thought. In him there is no goodness at all. But both types of men would be needed in the coming battle for the human race.
“Do you know why we have called it Operation Tjikko?” asked von Falkenberg.
The scientist shook his head.
“Tjikko is the name of a Norway spruce tree in the mountains of Sweden that is believed to be the oldest tree in the world.”
“I don’t think I understand, Your Grace,” said Larsen.
“Have you ever seen the results of a ravaging forest fire?” said von Falkenberg, “the burned-out devastation that replaces a green and seemingly healthy forest? It is as ugly as anything one could imagine, but all forests reach a point where they need revitalization, and the only natural path to provide this is through an all-engulfing fire. At first the landscape is hideous, but soon new, healthy seedlings give it life again, and the forest is on its way to again becoming strong and vibrant. We are bringing that same purging fire to a depraved world.”
“It is my research that will be used to bring the fire, Your Grace,” said Larsen. “I never anticipated this when I unlocked the key to genetically breaching the autoimmune system by race.”
Von Falkenberg knew he hadn’t reached him. Per
haps it would be impossible.
“How old are you, Doctor?” he asked.
“Thirty-seven.”
“And you are married, I believe.”
“Yes, Your Grace. We have three daughters.”
“As I once did,” said the prince. “What kind of world do you want your daughters to grow up in?”
“A safe world,” said the scientist. “A peaceful world.”
“As do I and all of us who follow the path of the Ancient Way,” said von Falkenberg. “Our goal is to build that world for your daughters as well as the generations of the Larsen family to come. That is what is at stake, Per, the world itself.”
“I can’t help feeling guilt at what we are about to do,” he came back.
“This is to be expected,” said von Falkenberg. “You are experiencing the same feelings as many of the scientists who first released energy from the atom. Nothing so important comes without responsibility.”
“It is a responsibility I do not wish to have,” said Larsen. “I can only ask you to prevent this from happening.”
“How can I convince you to be proud of this achievement?” said the prince. “You have accomplished something that will guarantee a turning point in the history of man. Like you, I regret that lives will be lost, but our one and true purpose, Per, is to save humankind from its own destruction. We are not fanatics. . . . We are fighting to save the human race.”
For the first time, Larsen nodded at him in possible understanding.
“Look around you, Per. In Europe, we have watched the exponential growth of teeming slums in the great cities like Berlin, Paris, Stockholm, and London, along with growing lawlessness, street violence, suicide bombings, and anarchy. Across Europe and the United States, Islamist fanatics continue to carry out massacres of innocent people such as those who died in the World Trade Center attacks. And these same fanatics are at work to build nuclear weapons that will destroy the so-called infidel nations.”
“I agree that they must be stopped,” said Larsen. “But . . .”
“And what about Equatorial Africa? For hundreds of years it has run red with the blood of millions of innocent people from ongoing tribal warfare, their embrace of genocide, the systematic rape of millions of women, ignorance, slavery, and greed. Tell me. What has changed? Nothing. It is exactly the same today, except that the African race is spreading its depravity to the rest of the world.”
The scientist appeared to be looking at him with some degree of understanding.
“A long winter is coming, Per, a winter that portends potential disaster for the world as we have known it,” said von Falkenberg. “Just as we all must die, so too can planets die. On any clear night, we can watch the falling of stars that are billions of years old. Nothing is permanent except our place in Valhalla.”
The prince felt a sudden stab of pain in his abdomen, but it was important that he finish.
“It is natural for you to fear what is coming, but it is by no means without precedent. The plague of Justinian killed twenty-five million people in the sixth century. In 1347, the Black Death, carried by fleas on rats, killed a third of the world population. Smallpox and tuberculosis have led to millions of deaths since then.”
“But none of them were genetically engineered to eliminate specific target groups,” said Larsen.
“That is true, but typically they took the weak and infirm along with the parasites who have always fed on the corpus of humanity. This will simply be the latest in a line of diseases and viruses that provide a course correction for civilization.”
“You make it all sound so noble, Your Grace,” said Larsen.
“Tjikko will be focused on those who would hinder human progress, rather than enhance it,” said von Falkenberg. “Our goal isn’t mass extermination, but instead to take measured but significant steps to affect the birthrates of those races that would destroy us, while providing our own people with a chance to survive in the future.”
The scientist nodded again, this time with less uncertainty.
“You must continue to have faith in the Ancient Way, Per, the faith to know that we work for the deliverance of humankind from cataclysmic destruction, and for building a future world for your children until the day in the future when we reach out to the stars the same way Leif Eriksson once explored the unknown here on Earth. It is our destiny,” said the prince as another wave of excruciating pain flowed through him.
“The Nordic race,” said the scientist.
“Of which you are a vital part, Per,” concluded von Falkenberg. “Thanks to you, the human race will emerge ever stronger.”
The scientist looked momentarily invigorated, but only time would tell.
“We will talk again after this evening’s briefing by the Tjikko operational team,” said the prince, standing up from the table.
“Yes, Your Grace. Thank you for giving me this time,” said Larsen before bowing to the old man and leaving.
“Bring me brandy,” said von Falkenberg as soon as he was gone.
FORTY-TWO
1 December
The Long Wharf
Boston, Massachusetts
It was almost midnight when Macaulay got back to the wharf. No one was lingering near the downstairs entrance to Barnaby’s building or on the stone staircase leading up to the third-floor corridor. He was inserting the key into Barnaby’s dead bolt when the lock was suddenly released from inside and the door swung open.
Lexy stood there, a mixture of outrage and fear in her violet eyes. Barnaby was looming behind her, wielding a Viking axe in his right hand, his Medusa thatch of gray hair erupting in all directions. They had obviously seen him through the peephole in the door.
“Where did you go?” Barnaby demanded.
Macaulay was forced to smile at the sight of the huge old man with his axe.
“We were low on dish soap,” he said.
Macaulay thought Lexy was about to hit him. A moment later she was in his arms.
“You’re an idiot,” she said.
While she made coffee, Macaulay told them what had happened at the mall.
“Well, now they know we’re still in Boston,” said Barnaby when he was finished. “I hope it was worth it.”
“We have to get out in the morning anyway,” said Macaulay. “Have you made progress with the translation?”
“The short answer is that we are looking for an island off the midcoast of Maine,” said Lexy. “Leif Eriksson lies in a burial vault there sealed with beeswax in an underground island cavern.”
“Beeswax?” repeated Macaulay.
“Yes, beeswax,” said Barnaby. “Undisturbed, it is as good a sealant as lead or cement. They recently discovered a six-thousand-year-old cracked tooth from a Neolithic man filled with beeswax. It’s very durable.”
“Where would the Vikings have found beeswax?” asked Macaulay.
“They were probably bringing it back to Greenland along with the casks of honey they had collected in Vinland,” said Lexy.
“Amazing,” said Macaulay.
“The Norsemen were resourceful,” said Barnaby, “and they had the time to construct a secure crypt. If Eriksson’s body was exsanguinated from his wounds, he might well be in a state of mummified preservation to this day.”
“Drained of blood,” added Lexy before Macaulay asked what it meant.
“How did you narrow the island to midcoast Maine?” asked Macaulay.
Barnaby led him back to the computer lab where a nautical map of the New England coast from Massachusetts to Nova Scotia was projected on the seventy-two-inch television monitor.
“Eriksson and his men had to have sailed about a hundred fifty miles before the storm hit,” said Barnaby. “It’s one hundred forty miles from Cape Cod to Portland, Maine. We’re presuming the storm was a nor’easter. Typically, they drive up the coa
st along the Gulf Stream, so it’s likely the storm would have taken them to an island somewhere along here,” he said, pointing to the midcoast of Maine.
“So you’ve made real progress,” said Macaulay.
“There are forty-six hundred islands in Maine,” said Lexy, hitting several keys simultaneously on her laptop.
The nautical map was replaced by dozens of contoured images of coastal islands.
“We downloaded a set of LiDAR maps integrated with three-D profiles and panchromatic imagery,” she said. “We then created a computer program to generate a cross-referenced analysis of the things we know about this island, which dramatically reduced the number of targets.”
Lexy brought up the list of search criteria.
“The stonecutter described it as a small island,” said Lexy. “We decided it had to be small enough for them to take it all in visually from the sea, no longer than a mile or so in length. We know the Norsemen filled their casks before they left the island, which suggests it had a potable water supply. It also referenced cliffs, so we included a minimum elevation of one hundred feet.”
Barnaby suddenly felt the same fluttering tremor around his heart that presaged his first attack. Light-headed, he breathed deeply several times before it slowly disappeared.
“Are you all right?” asked Lexy.
“Just tired,” he said.
“Those criteria brought us down to just twenty possibilities,” said Lexy, bringing up another set of island images that showed dark clefts in otherwise-solid rock walls. “And finally we know the island had to have a natural cavern of some kind, a place that would keep the body safe until their next expedition returned to bring him home. So, the last criterion was that our island have at least one or more natural caves.”
Macaulay watched as three contoured shapes filled the screen, each with its latitude and longitude.
“These three are especially good possibilities,” said Lexy. “The one on the left is Ragged Island, and it’s in Casco Bay south of Harpswell. It meets all our programmed criteria. The one in the center is called Monhegan Island. It is twelve miles out to sea off Boothbay Harbor and reportedly has the highest cliffs on the East Coast. Captain John Smith put a settlement there in 1614 due in part to its natural aquifer. The third and last one is Great Duck, which is farther north, near Frenchman’s Bay. It also has sheer cliffs and abundant water.”
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