by Seeley James
Immediately, she looked up at the Japanese guy and understood.
“Run!” I said. “Get help. Go! Now!”
“Bloody bastard!” Mr. Baldy’s voice on the speakers returned. “You’ve brought help. Now I must kill the lot of you and regroup. Ten months of hard work destroyed!”
“Who is that?” Jenny screamed.
“Mr. Baldy,” I said. “Get out of here now. Go get help.”
Jenny looked at the bag. Then she looked at me and tugged my ear. The action I told her to use when she wanted me to listen to her. She said, “Let me be the hero for once.”
She ran to the pack.
“NO!” I shouted.
She picked it up and slung it over her shoulder. She was fit and strong, but it was heavy. She staggered a step as the weight swung to her shoulder and threw off her balance.
“NO!”
She looked back at me with a sad smile. “You were the one who said it: She who can, must.”
She ran down the low tunnel toward the dim blue light. That much ANFO would kill anyone near it. The only way she could survive would be to throw it off the edge of the cliff five hundred yards away. She stumbled and cursed and regained her pace.
“NO!” I yanked my arms against my chains. I twisted and writhed and pulled and strained. The bindings were tight; I couldn’t find any slack.
Two hundred yards away, she tripped and fell on the uneven rock floor. She struggled to her feet and kept going.
“Jacob, where did your little tramp go?” Mr. Baldy shouted through the speakers.
“NO!” Tears streamed down my cheeks.
Miguel appeared at my side. His head swiveled to the camera, the light, the Japanese guy, the dim shadow of Jenny growing smaller in the distance. He tried to process the scene but missed one critical piece of information.
“Damn it all!” Mr. Baldy shouted. “Did you bring everybody down here?”
“She has the bomb,” I shouted at Miguel. “You have to take it from her. Throw it over the edge.”
His eyes snapped to mine.
Suddenly, I realized what I was asking of my best friend: to die in Jenny’s place. In that same instant, he understood the same thing and took off running.
Jenny neared the tunnel’s far end—yet was still a hundred yards short.
Major Pavard reached me next. He tugged at my chains.
A blizzard of French and German security officers flooded into the cave. Pavard shouted at his men in French. Luca Brandt shouted at his in German.
Pavard looked down the cave at Miguel and beyond him, Jenny. Pavard took off running.
The bright light reached me first. Then the shockwave. Then the sound.
CHAPTER 57
“NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!” I couldn’t hear my own voice. Or anyone else. I couldn’t hear the German officer shouting in my ear. I could only feel the strain in my neck and vocal cords as I raised my voice to its greatest volume. Futile.
Pain electrified my entire body.
Pavard was running down the tunnel toward the damage. Miguel was ahead of him, picking himself up off the ground after the blast knocked him back ten feet.
I didn’t hear as much as feel the snap of bolt cutters. The tension in my chains slackened on my right hand. Another snap and the same result for my left. I wrenched myself free of them and scrambled to my feet.
Brandt tried to push me back. As if he were far away, I could make out his words as my hearing slowly returned. He was saying, “It is not safe. The rock may not be stable.”
I shoved him aside and ran.
Miguel and Pavard stood a hundred yards short of where the daylight spilled in the opening. Their faces were downcast.
I shoved between them.
She lay mangled on the stone. Her broken body blown from the remaining backpack fragments. I dropped to my knees and cradled her in my arms. Limp. I felt for a pulse. Nothing. I touched my cheek to hers. Cold.
I kissed her.
She was never going to kiss me back.
She was exceptionally beautiful. Even more so in the peace of death. Maybe she had finally found solace from her life of pain and hardship. What were the last words I said to her?
“Jenny, Jenny, Jenny,” I said, “what did you do? Risking your life to save others is my job.”
It was a selfish thing to say. Everyone who joins the military, from the generals on top to the mop-and-bucket guy at the bottom, signs up for the ultimate sacrifice when called upon. Service is in the blood of volunteers. And she had volunteered for the Navy.
It was my fault. My life had endangered hers far too many times. The car chase that ended with us impaled on a tree came to mind. My luck had covered her for a while, but now it had run out.
I choked. Tears fell from my cheeks to hers.
Memories of our moments together flooded into my head. We read books on my sofa. Did I tell her how much I loved Sunday afternoons when she leaned against me and read her trashy romance novels? No one loved my cooking more than Jenny. Did I tell her how much her compliments meant? She listened politely while I played my jazz collection. I never listened to her hip-hop; maybe I should have. We went to her therapy sessions together. We worked our way out of her rape-trauma. Those were scary times for both of us. I learned a lot about what she’s made of and what she had endured.
That’s why it can’t end like this. This can’t be real. Someone has to make time go backwards and start over. There are things I need to tell her.
I became dimly aware that I had been sitting with her for several minutes. Neither Miguel nor Pavard had moved.
Mercury knelt an arm’s length away.
I said, You have to fix this. You’re a god. If you’re real—FIX THIS!
Mercury said, You already pushed fate, my brother.
I said, No more riddles. You can bring her back. You have to bring her back.
Mercury said, Don’t put this on me. Don’t you dare give yourself a way out. This is about you.
I said, How can you play stupid guilt trips when I’m in this much pain?
Ain’t no guilt trip, bro, Mercury said. Her fate was to die in Basel-Stadt, Switzerland. But we gave her a pass. Her fate was to die from sarin gas on the Black Sea, but we were merciful and gave her another pass. What did you do with the extra time we gave you, Jacob? Did you argue with her? Did you fight? Did you tell her how you feel about her? Did you trust her with the strange things in your head? Did you cherish every extra minute we gave you with her?
I hated that he brought all that up. Lessons I thought I’d learned after losing good friends in battle. That every minute of your life and every person in it is precious beyond measure. That any opportunity to express love and gratitude cannot be ignored. That every minute of every day is a minute that should be filled with appreciation and thanksgiving. I knew all that and still I took it for granted that we would grow old together.
Emergency people arrived with a mountain rescue stretcher. Pavard stayed them with an outstretched arm.
In my head, Jenny said, You can be the order to my chaos… I longed for another moment of her chaos. We had our partnership worked out. How could it end before it began? I closed my eyes and saw her repeatedly smashing the door into the face of our attacker in El Remate. Who has that kind of spirit? To take on an armed man with nothing more than a door? She was the one who got us out of that hotel in the water taxi. No one could think as fast on her feet, knowing what was at her disposal and how to use it. Did I tell her how smart that was? She put her Navy training to use on Lake Michigan, expertly piloting the getaway boat. How did I react? Did I say thank you for being there?
I remembered her little speech about symbols and saving China when she didn’t believe in the Stone. She believed in helping people. An honorable baseline of principles. I couldn’t remember if I said anything about it. What about the time she told me to feed Zafar? It turned out to be the key to turning him. As ill-fated as his life was, without him, we would never hav
e found Mr. Baldy’s lair. She made that happen. She got Dalsgaard and Brandt to rock the gondola like rambunctious teenagers. So vigorous and full of life.
Lost.
I let the technicians take her from me and put her on the stretcher. I stood there with Miguel, Pavard. Brandt joined us, and together we watched them carry her away. No one said anything. No one moved.
One more memory of her surfaced: she worried I’d go to jail if I killed Mr. Baldy.
I was going to kill Mr. Baldy. I didn’t care if they put me in jail.
Miguel gave me a look of solidarity, followed by a quick glance at our two companions. He knew my thinking. He knew what I would do next. His glance was a warning to me: Premeditating murder in front of two high-ranking police officers is a bad idea.
They were men sworn to the rule of law. They were professionals who lived to serve justice. In court. Before a jury. And a judge. They would never condone vigilantism.
I didn’t care.
I snarled, “I’m going to kill that motherfucker.”
Brandt looked at me with sympathetic eyes and sniffed and looked into the distance. He remembered the pretty woman who rocked the gondola. He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nein. The BND will handle this.”
Pavard put an arm around my shoulder. In a whisper only I could hear, he said, “Soon, my friend. Patience.”
CHAPTER 58
Griffith took a deep breath and followed Pia Sabel. She was ten feet ahead of him in a room filled with bankers, executives, and politicians. Everything was red and white. A nearby table featured a pyramid of maple syrup bottles. Another table was stacked with autographed hockey sticks. Beer bottles from Molson, Moosehead, and Labatt’s topped another. And the maple leaf covered every surface.
Pia and the Prime Minister were frozen mid-handshake with sparking smiles while photographers flashed a thousand pictures. They held the pose for a ridiculous length of time before breaking it off. The photographers took the hint. They turned their lenses to Griffith. A couple flashes went off before they realized he was no one, and away they went. Even the young man who’d ushered them from the entrance turned his back.
He squeezed his eyes shut and screwed up his nerve. His life was on the line. Should he lose to Amanow, a sniper would end his life in an instant. There would be nowhere to hide. The only question he would contemplate was when. This was it. Pia got him in the door, as promised. He had a prepared statement. He was ready.
But Sabel was hogging the conversation. She was supposed to introduce him. Instead, she turned her back on him.
He recalled the words of his school’s motto: Audentis Fortuna iuvat, Fortune favors the bold.
Griffith moved to form a triangle between Sabel and the Prime Minister. They were deep in a discussion about building the next generation of Canada’s communications satellites. Her concerns centered around building a science and engineering college near the factory. The Prime Minister assured her it could be done. She argued there were better resources closer to Montreal. He countered that the rural areas had a larger under-employed yet highly educated population. And few unions. Sabel took a moment to consider this.
Then she turned to Griffith as if he’d surprised her.
“Oh, yes,” Pia said. “Have you met Joe Griffith, Mr. Prime Minister? You might have heard of him. He uses his wealth to lure young women to his home in Chicago where he keeps them as sex slaves in bedrooms that lock from the outside.”
Griffith choked. How did she know about that? What the hell was she doing?
She went on, an icy stare cutting him like a knife. “He has a meteorite for you.”
What the hell was she talking about? Why did the Prime Minister have a smirk on his face?
“How unfortunate to meet you.” The Prime Minister leaned back without offering a hand. “I will not accept a gift, no matter how well-intentioned.”
Griffith glared back at Pia. If he had a pistol, she’d be dead right now. As it was, his life was on the line. Amanow would gladly kill him. It was now or never. He had to push on. Fortune favors the bold.
“She’s making fun for some reason,” he heard himself say. Good recovery. “It is an offering for the people of Canada. Allow me to show you. It is a stone of great beauty.”
Griffith set his bag down and quickly donned the gloves and pulled out the Poison Stone and thrust it into the Prime Minister’s hands. The Prime Minister stared at the gold flakes in the fathomless black stone. Pia didn’t. She stared at Griffith.
Pia said, “Not her best work, to be sure. It looks rushed. The finish doesn’t have that smoothness she’s so famous for. Turn it over and see if it has her signature.”
The Prime Minister turned the stone over as if it were a funny joke and he were about to read the punchline. The bottom was smooth as silk. A button carved in the center had Gu Peng chiseled in immaculate letters across the face. Her trademark signature found on all her works.
Griffith reeled back. Obsidian art by Gu Peng? Where did that come from? Amanow was supposed to leave the real thing, not a fake. Had Amanow tried to burn him in public? What purpose would that serve? It couldn’t have been Amanow, Pia knew in advance. So did the Prime Minister.
They both smiled at him. They were in on it. Pia must have called the Prime Minister and set this up just to make him look like a fool.
Griffith looked up at Pia. “You fucking bitch!”
“Hey!” The Prime Minister shoved the stone in Griffith’s stomach. “There’s no call for such language.”
The young man who ushered them in appeared at Griffith’s elbow with two Canadian officers. The young man said, “I’ll see the stone is returned to the art gallery where it belongs. These gentlemen will see you out.”
The officers grabbed his arms roughly. As he tried to shake them off, Pia said, “The $28 million is part of a Treasury Department trace operation designed to flush out Yeschenko’s shell companies. The exception to the sanctions bears President William’s signature. Your intelligence—if you can call it that—let you down. As for the Stone, I couldn’t be sure Jacob could make the switch until after you presented it. We owe Major Pavard our thanks for helping out at the last minute.”
The officers shoved him toward the door. He could hear Pia and the Prime Minister laughing at him. They went back to their discussion of satellite manufacturing.
The officers quick-marched him down the hall and outside to an empty snowcat and tossed him in and slammed the door and patted the hood. The snowcat chugged forward.
He had never been so humiliated in his life. His first worry: How did Sable know about the young women he kept? Who told her? But he would worry about that later. He knew the call he had to make right now. He had to report to the Protector. The call was expected. No, it was required. He dialed the number and closed his eyes.
“Griffith, is that you, old boy?” A familiar voice answered the phone. The voice indicated he was in far better health than the Protector.
“I’m trying to reach the Protector,” Griffith said.
“This is James.” The voice paused, waiting to be recognized. “We met. At White’s? James, Duke of Kingston. You were meeting with that dreadful Sabel woman. Terrible thing I couldn’t reveal our connection at the time. But then, it wouldn’t be a secret society if we didn’t keep secrets, eh?”
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry, you caught me off guard.”
“Quite alright. Listen, your friend the Protector … he’s not made it, I’m afraid. He arranged some sort of contest between you and that Eurotrash captain of his. We had to do something.” James snickered. “So, we’ve gone and pulled the plug, you see.”
Griffith felt his neck twitch. “I’m sorry, I don’t see. What happened?”
“Oh, I’ve gone and left out a rather crucial detail. Sorry. I’m the Chairman of the Board. We were—that’s the board of the Knights, not the royal ‘we’ this time—unhappy with the Protector’s choices of late. This whole business of setting up Capta
in Amanow as the next Protector just didn’t match our expectations. Imagine, a Muslim running the Knights of Mithras. Heaven forbid.”
Griffith sifted through the man’s words about the Protector and came to the phrase, pulled the plug. Literally?
“Yes,” he said quickly. “I found that prospect hard to swallow myself.”
“Ah, good then. We shall install you as the 312th Protector of the Knights of Mithras on an interim basis. A full search for the permanent Protector will commence forthwith. There were some concerns about you, to be frank. Some of our members are concerned you are unwilling to be brutal when brutality is required. Nonetheless, we are unanimous that our foray into the ways of Caspian Sea is at an end. You will be good enough to take the helm in these trying times?”
A thousand thanks to Mithras, god of order, rolled through his mind. Timing is key in life. Failing was no longer an issue. James had not brought it up. Amanow was suddenly a problem of the past. They needed him. Now was the time to negotiate.
Griffith said, “Before I commit, I have a few questions.”
“By all means, go ahead.”
“I was thinking the Knights should be drawn from—how can I put this delicately—a more northern race?”
“Do you have a chapter in mind?”
“I’d like to interview before making a determination, but I know some Scots, Welsh, and Norwegians who I feel better suited to the role.”
“Indeed. There is a good deal of Asian blood mixed in with those Turkmen, after all. Then it’s settled. You are the right interim.”
“About that. As interim, would I be considered for the permanent position?”
“Young man, since the Reagan-Thatcher era began, we have made great strides toward ending the wasteful pursuit of equality and charged straight ahead to rewarding each according to his birth and station. We did this without relying on sixteenth century myths. If you can get us past this ridiculous pursuit of the Poison Stone, you’ll be our front-runner.”