“Here’s the fun part!” Khan shouted.
They came to a stretch of the parkway that ran straight into the darkness as far as the high beam of the bike’s headlight could reach. Then, in an instant, their world went black, except for the dim light of the half-moon at their back. Khan had killed the headlight completely, which left the road ahead dangerously dark.
“Usually a speed trap here,” Khan called out. “Can’t stop what they can’t see.”
Bondurant strained to see the road in front of them as Khan seemed to double down on her speed. He squinted to read the speedometer. The gauge now read 110. When they flew by a patrol car parked behind a set of bushes near the side of the road, Khan let out a laugh as they hurtled forward, seemingly oblivious to any peril. As Bondurant carefully shifted his weight to turn and look behind them, he was amazed he didn’t see the police car’s lights begin to flash in pursuit.
“Told you!” Khan shouted. Bondurant grimaced until she switched the headlight back on.
After another ten minutes of dodging insanely through the city streets while they bobbed in and out of lanes to avoid the slower traffic ahead, Khan pulled up in front of the Four Seasons once more and shut the motor off. She leaned the bike on its kickstand, flipped her keys and helmet to the surprised valet, and motioned to Bondurant.
“Now I’m in the mood,” Khan said.
“In the mood for what?” Bondurant said.
“To thank you. Buy you a drink. I owe you one,” Khan said. She took him by the hand and pulled him through the hotel’s tall brass revolving doors.
The next few hours in the bar at the Four Seasons passed by him in a confusing haze. He drank more Scotch, plenty more. Khan seemed to will it down his throat. Then he remembered only snippets of time. He remembered how she laughed softly as they twisted their feet together beneath their barstools. He remembered the fast, dizzy elevator ride to the fifth floor. He remembered Khan playfully shoving him from the elevator. She told him a surprise awaited him just down the hall. When he reached his suite, Bondurant found the door slightly ajar and his room hidden in total darkness. He half expected to find Juliet waiting for him, but no one was there.
As he fell onto the bed, Bondurant tried to recover his senses. He was in a deep, drunken fog, but knew that whatever might happen in the next few hours would be wrong. They had his room key, after all. Wracked with guilt, the same feeling he’d carried with him since he’d left home a few weeks before, he imagined Domenika’s face before him. He started to retch.
He rose quickly to reach the bathroom while he tried to hold back one dry heave after the next. As he stumbled forward, he saw only a faint crack of light at the bottom of the bathroom door. It was barely enough to illuminate his path. Soon to be sick to his stomach, he had no choice. He hurriedly knocked on the door but heard nothing from inside. Then he tried the knob and found it unlocked. When he swung the door open wide to rush toward the toilet and find relief, he completely froze. It was a sight that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Chapter 35
Dickerson, Maryland
When Domenika awoke from her afternoon nap to knocking at the front door, she was tempted to ignore the noise downstairs, return her head to the warmth of the pillow, and drift back into the grasp of her frightening, half-finished dream.
In her dream, she was with Jon. It was a brilliantly sunlit day. Both of them stood naked on a weathered wooden dock, their eyes focused on a distant swimming platform in the center of a placid lake. The lakeside was completely deserted except for the two of them, and she felt oddly comfortable being so exposed. They were to reach the platform together and spend the rest of the afternoon sunbathing, happily wasting the day away.
She squinted her eyes toward the floating dock, a tiny speck surrounded by shimmering water in the distance. The platform was far enough away that she feared she might not make it all the way there. She knew Bondurant was a powerful swimmer, able to cover the wide expanse with ease. He held her hand and urged her on. “Just jump,” he said. “Jump.”
When she did, she remembered being struck by how much colder the water was than she had expected. She gasped deeply as it took her breath away. Bondurant pierced the surface of the lake in a perfect dive beside her, and she watched as his long, effortless stroke pulled him ahead of her in seconds while they made their way toward the deeper water ahead.
When she recovered from the shock of the cold, she bore down. She carved through the water as quickly as she could and kicked her legs furiously to catch up to him. She grew worried. Every time she struggled to make up the distance between them, Bondurant seemed to pull farther away. The cold began to grip her, and when she stopped to catch her breath, Bondurant ignored her as he continued his pace out ahead. She looked up again and again toward their destination as she raised her head with each stroke. Hopelessly, it looked no closer than when she had begun her swim. As she turned to look behind her, the dock from which they’d leaped looked impossibly far away.
As she tired, she felt she had no choice. She cried out to Bondurant for help. Almost a hundred yards ahead, he turned. When he saw that she was dead in the water, he called back to her. But she couldn’t make out a word he said. His voice became only noise that echoed off the water’s frigid surface. Then she watched him turn from her and start out once again toward the swim platform on his own.
Amazed, and now angry, she summoned what strength she had left and turned in a desperate effort to swim her way back to the dock where they’d begun. After she’d made it nearly fifty yards, she became confused and turned around once more to head toward Bondurant. When she did, she could see that he now stood triumphantly atop the platform, a distant, faceless silhouette.
Bondurant waved his arms and beckoned for her to come. But he just stood there, a champion swimmer, and offered no help. Nearly frozen in the water and paralyzed with fear, she called out his name once more. His response was just another casual wave.
It was at precisely this moment that Domenika was awakened from her terrifying dream by the knock at the front door. The dream slipped away. She quickly reached for her robe, gathered it around her, and made her way downstairs toward the front door. Halfway across the living room, she stopped herself. She knew the pounding on the door wasn’t “the knock,” a certain one dreamed up by Bondurant, a code they’d used. It was three hard raps followed by four more. It meant it was safe to answer the door.
Domenika stood motionless with fear. She wondered whether to heed Bondurant’s words: “If you value your life, never, ever answer the door to anyone without the knock,” he had warned her repeatedly.
Domenika considered the warning, but the banging at the door only grew more intense. She thought once more about her dreadful dream and how Bondurant had left her all alone. Then she reached for the knob and slowly opened the door.
Chapter 36
St. Moritz, Switzerland
As Galerkin arrived unannounced at Meyer’s residence at eight o’clock in the evening, the lights along the shore of Lake St. Moritz where the stone castle villa sat had just begun to flicker to life. It was the first time Galerkin had intruded on Meyer’s private estate so unexpectedly. It signaled surprise news that couldn’t wait. And Meyer despised surprises. As he made his way from the dining room on one side of the manor to meet Galerkin in his study on the opposite side, he trusted the surprise was a good one. Galerkin liked to deliver good news in person.
There was a noticeable bounce in Meyer’s step as he made his way down the hallway toward the marble stairwell that led to the study below. He felt as if another five years of age had been lifted from his limbs since he’d seen Galerkin at his compound just a few months before. His private physician, who had treated him since his mid-thirties, had actually confirmed the miraculous transformation in Meyer’s physiology through extensive tests. Meyer, at age fifty-five, possessed the physique of a forty-year-old, and every aspect of his physical and mental health, from muscle to
ne to organ performance to brain function, had dramatically improved. Meyer knew his amazing makeover had nothing to do with diet or exercise. He despised rigorous physical activity and had maintained the poor nutritional habits of a bachelor that he’d followed for years. He drank heavily, still chain-smoked, and spent many evenings engaged in late-night affairs. It was the presence of the child—presumably something about his aura—that had continued to rejuvenate Meyer, and he was glad of it.
The precocious child, now eight years old, was gifted far beyond his years. He had mastered every imaginable intellectual and physical feat expected of a child twice his age, but also had more than his share of purely strange faculties as well.
He was a voracious reader who digested books written for adults. His several full-time tutors marveled at his comprehension level. He also displayed an uncanny ability to learn new languages taught to him by caretakers, including English, French, and German. He adopted accents related to their dialects with little prompting. He possessed extraordinary coordination in fine and gross motor skills and seemed to excel at every game he played. He was thrilled to win again and again at sophisticated diversions, from cards to checkers and chess. Almost like a computer, he improved with every game. When challenged by anyone in competition, he relished victory. But when outmatched and beaten by an adult, he retreated into a sullen mood and often vowed never to play again.
Among his more peculiar qualities was his diet. A finicky eater, he ate very little. He was unable to keep in his stomach food that was prepared with conventional oils, processed grains, and refined sugar of any kind. His regimen was strictly limited to basic meals that included ingredients and preparation techniques seemingly from an ancient age. Pork, served extremely rare, proved to be his favorite dish. Dried fish, uncooked and salted duck and quail, a pemmican made of dry pounded meat mixed with melted fat, goat’s milk, and coarse wheat bread made with beer were his staples. He eschewed candy or chocolate of any kind, but delighted in a crude mix of nuts and dried fruits coated with raw honey, a treat reminiscent of ancient Egyptian times.
Of all the gifts possessed by the child, it was the mystery of his command of an ancient tongue that amazed Meyer and his caretakers the most. Although he had never been exposed to Aramaic in any way, he had uncannily begun to speak it. Meyer was stupefied when the child broke into the primeval dialect without prompting one afternoon. He believed the boy had begun to speak in tongues. When he hired a language expert to sit with Hans Jr. and interpret the boy’s words, he was stunned to learn the child was fluent in the ancestral dialect spoken well before the birth of Christ. It was a language that Jesus himself likely spoke.
There was also the child’s other gift, which began with Adriana a few years before. An eight-year-old Swiss girl and the daughter of one of Meyer’s most trusted household staff members, Adriana had been afflicted with a severe form of cystic fibrosis since her birth. A cruel disease that stemmed from a genetic disorder, it had wreaked havoc with the unfortunate girl’s lungs her entire life. Not only did the child have great difficulty breathing, but her constant struggle with the disease, for which there was no cure, had left her sickly, chronically underweight, and pale. According to her doctors, it was unlikely she would see her tenth birthday. Her mother, in great distress, had hoped that some precious time spent between Adriana and Hans Jr., even if only a few minutes together, might provide her child the same kind of incredible benefit her employer had seen. Taking advantage of Meyer’s absence from the home one day, she arranged for her husband to rush Adriana to Meyer’s compound to visit with the boy. Hans Jr., delighted to have a rare young visitor inside the vast castle for an afternoon of play, spent several hours with Adriana and sat for several moments at her side.
Within a week, the young girl was totally, inexplicably cured. Her recovery was so dramatic, and the cure so unimaginable, that word of the miracle began to spread through the household staff and eventually the broader Demanian fold. When news reached Meyer that the likely source of the incredible cure was a few minutes spent alone with Hans Jr., he was furious at what his housekeeper had dared to do, but also fascinated to no end. His own doctors examined Adriana for several days and reported that there was no longer a trace of the disease to be found in her body.
This discovery led Meyer over time to execute a plan that would serve as the impetus for Hans Jr. to take his first critically important role in the Demanian Church. It would eventually mean untold riches and power for Meyer. But even more important, it would mean revenge against all Christians, and in particular the Catholic Church. It was the Catholics who had branded Meyer a “bastard,” a sickening moniker that had stuck with him since childhood, one he would never forget.
Meyer’s plan was bold. Over the course of two weeks, a dozen critically ill children from all over Europe, all afflicted with incurable diseases as hopeless as that of Adriana, arrived at Meyer’s Swiss compound. While the sicknesses they carried were varied, the children had one thing in common: wealthy parents whom Meyer had contacted with a proposal. A cure for the cancers or genetic defects that gripped their priceless children was likely possible, he told them all. They needed to spend just a few days in treatment at his compound in Geneva. If the children recuperated from their terrible afflictions, something medical science dictated was impossible, a price would be paid. A donation to the Demanian Church of a million dollars would be required. If after one year’s time their child was still in good health, enrollment in the Demanian Church and the irrevocable tithing of half their family’s estate to the church’s trust were mandatory.
While the price Meyer demanded of these families seemed absurdly steep, what was a child worth? he asked. Most of the families, wary of the offer but eager to attempt anything to save their beloved children where medicine had failed, deemed the fee worth paying. From these families alone, Meyer profited by more than ten million dollars in a matter of days. Over just a few years of healings by Hans Jr., the Demanian Church’s riches were now in the billions.
Now, when Meyer entered his polished wood-paneled study, he found Galerkin at the far end of a long conference table. On the assassin’s face was a look of immense satisfaction. The light in the room was dim, filtering down from a massive crystal chandelier that glowed faintly from above.
“I hope you brought checkbook,” Galerkin said as he broke into a broad smile. In front of him on the table sat a black leather bag just large enough to hold something the size of a bowling ball.
“I hope you brought good news,” Meyer said. He clasped his hands together in anticipation.
“I bring good news,” Galerkin said.
Meyer watched as Galerkin looked about him. All around them were books and artifacts arranged neatly on the many shelves. Among them was a large porcelain plate that displayed an intricate seal. Galerkin walked from his end of the table toward the shelves and lifted the plate gingerly off its stand.
Meyer looked at him, bemused. “That’s antique. Seventeenth century. Family crest,” he warned.
Galerkin only smiled again as he set the large plate gently on the table before him. When he had adjusted its position to his liking, Galerkin turned to the black bag beside him and slowly unzipped it from one side to the other. Then, in one swift motion, he thrust his hand into the bag, grasped the contents firmly, and slammed his ten-pound prize onto the center of the plate.
“You said Domenika Jozef head on plate,” Galerkin boasted. “Look here. Domenika Jozef, head on plate.”
Galerkin then shoved the plate so that it slid with its horrid contents like a hockey puck all the way down the length of the twenty-foot table until it came to rest only inches from where Meyer stood at the other end.
Meyer looked down at the disgusting sight of a sickly, bluish human head cut clean off at the neck. He tried mightily to ignore the fact that it sat atop his family’s sacred crest. The face oozed several thick trails of deep red blood onto the plate beneath it. Meyer’s stomach turned slightly as
he stared into the bulging eyes of the torso-less head before him. He couldn’t believe he was finally staring into the rotting skull of Domenika Jozef, half of his exposure problem for years.
“It’s almost unrecognizable,” Meyer said. The blood caked on the woman’s head and hair obscured a clean view of her face. He looked over at Galerkin, who had begun to stare at him impatiently.
Galerkin walked over to his trophy, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and swabbed as much of the dried blood from the eyes, nose, and cheeks of the lifeless face as he could.
“Domenika Jozef,” Galerkin said proudly. “I do not find Bondurant. He’s not there. I wait for hours. But I did get her.”
Meyer leaned over again to within inches of the putrid head, which had begun to decay. He stared intently for almost a minute. Then he suddenly looked up in disgust.
“You damned fool,” Meyer said. “I don’t know what long-haired beauty lost her head to your knife over Dr. Bondurant, but I assure you, the wrong girl has lost her head.”
Chapter 37
St. Bart’s
Khan knew the way to the beach from the trail they had followed for more than an hour. It was less than a hundred meters to the clearing ahead, where, for the first time, she could test both her stallion and Bondurant. He’d held his own from the mountaintop thus far, but the well-worn path they had ridden wasn’t difficult. His horse had proved sure-footed, but she figured her companion would likely lose ground to her quickly when she led them out of the shaded woods and into wide, open space.
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