Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  Before entering the estate he had predesigned three various lines of retreat, with the last and most desperate being the initial line of entry. But he had never been forced to leave an objective along the path of entry. Never. It was an unbreakable rule, though desperation in past missions had taught him no rule was truly unbreakable.

  On penetrating the security he had noted the roving patterns, the equipment, of the teams. He knew that whoever controlled the grounds had also hired military expertise for the job. Even after only a single night of surveillance he had determined that everything was done by the manual: listening posts directed outward, night-vision equipment and microwave transmitters for communications, patrol teams two by two roving interior grounds with dogs on the inside and perimeter.

  Standard Operational Procedure …

  Night concealed his dark frown.

  None of you can stop me …

  Automatically his mind locked into a familiar mode—fiercely focused, emotionless, concentrating his fear and rage and pain into physical strength and skill. A thousand calculations were formed, all turning intuitively in simplifying combinations: the mechanics of movement, light variations, background and cover, sound factors and noise discipline, tactics of evading detection while maintaining observation.

  Then, remembering and ruled by the knowledge, he closed his higher mind. His training, sharpened and alive with instinct, would direct him. The science, the art would automatically select the tactic that his physical conditioning would reflexively execute.

  Black gloves absorbed the moisture on his palms, but he wasn't accustomed to wearing gloves and unconsciously shook his hands, as if the cool night air would dry the sweat. Scowling, he noted the wasted movement, and his abrupt anger broke him from his heightened state.

  Three years …

  I've lost my edge …

  Shut it down, he thought, shutting his eyes tight.

  Concentrate on what you have to do …

  He expelled a slow, quiet breath, and focused.

  Opened his eyes again.

  No movement in the tree line, all visible listening posts facing outward.

  Clear.

  Silently, careful to keep his profile low, he moved slowly over the balcony, descending a thin rope he had lashed to the stone railing. When he reached the ground he eased against the most advantageous background, a trellis of broken ivy and high shrubs that profoundly compromised security, partially concealing him from even ambient light devices. Then, patiently, he moved forward, coldly channeling feverish adrenaline and raging emotion into silent stalking.

  An instinct, hot and fresh, that was the center of him, flowed through him. And he was hot with it; thirsty, predatory, finding a familiar way with it.

  But he knew he would not surrender to it.

  Not like before.

  *

  FOUR

  Wild, frantic strides hurled Father Nicholai Santacroce along the shadowed corridor of the cavernous cathedral; reckless strides that threw him past deeply carved images of the dead, cruel images that marked his passage with stony stares, untouched by the panic that propelled his desperate flight.

  Yet as the priest emerged from a hallway and into the cathedral, he halted. Frozen in place, he was suddenly struck by a terrible, overpowering presence – a presence that caused fear to thicken in his chest, his arms and legs, making him clumsy, awkward. With wide, distraught eyes he quickly scanned the sanctuary, his unseeing gaze passing over shadowed recesses, confessionals, and alcoves.

  Santacroce's labored breathing and pounding heart seemed to echo in the hall. He eased stiffly along the wall, chilled by an instinct of death.

  He reached out to touch the wall, attempting to brace himself. But the movement only increased his fear, for the cold lifelessness of the stones reminded him even more of how truly alone he was within this former sanctuary of God, now a sanctuary of secrets, of pain. The stony chill continued to embrace him, overpowering his will, making him weak, transferring itself from the lifeless stones to invade the center of his being with alien force.

  Blinking sweat from his eyes, fear dominating all reason, Santacroce crept slowly, stiffly, along the wall. His frenzied gaze darted between shadows, and he prayed against what he knew was there. But his faith became thinner, more distant with each cold moment of deathly silence. He knew that beside him in the darkness they were there.

  Even though he had fled across three continents in four weeks, Santacroce knew that he had only barely eluded their grasp, for he had sensed their haunting, chilling presence that would awaken him from his terrifying nightmares to his even more terrifying life. And now they had finally cornered him in this ruined rectory.

  Tormented by the fear that his sin was mortal, unforgivable, Santacroce prayed for absolution. But even as he began a supplication his mind returned to that darkened night when he had finally cast down his vows, had defiled the Secret Archives of the Church of Rome.

  Sweating, trembling, Santacroce remembered how it had ended, saw again how he had sacrilegiously violated the Archives to retrieve the apparently meaningless document. He remembered the bright promise of career advancement for his sin, the promise that would forever end his disillusionment and pain.

  And yet when his sin was full-born and he stood alone in the dusty light of the Archives, holding the ancient prophecy, Santacroce realized that he could not resist the need to know, the need to fully understand the true purpose of his betrayal. So he opened the manuscript and read the prophecy.

  In his horror he could not recall the events following that dark hour but he had not forgotten the terror that had paralyzed his reason and broken his mind. Dimly he remembered leaving the Archives, numbly clutching the yellowed pages of the dusty manuscript against his robe. Narrowly avoiding the silent ones awaiting him, he ran blindly through the Vatican's midnight corridors, sightlessly watching the brilliant, brightly colored tapestries that swept past—incomprehensible images of war and suffering and Apocalypse.

  It was his hour of madness.

  For only in the last moment of night did he finally calm, knowing he could not return the book without suffering penalty of death. So he buried it in the one place worthy of holding it and then fled as before, using what few funds he thought to remove from the office of the Archives. But no matter how far he fled or how desperate his flight, Santacroce knew they would punish him for his failure. He was a dead man, as dead as the cold stone images surrounding him now.

  As he crept stealthily forward along the wall, Santacroce shook his head, still amazed that he had been so deceived, amazed that he had believed their lies.

  No, it wasn't theological prejudice or the eclectic, soul-stealing intolerance that caused Pope Clement XV to suppress the prophecy. No, it was something far worse, something evil, final, and terrible; something Santacroce could not fully comprehend even with the knowledge he had gained in that haunting moment of translation.

  He had tried desperately to redeem himself, the guilt of his second crime swallowed unfelt within the overpowering condemnation of the first.

  Santacroce smiled wanly as he remembered the ancient tomb where he had re-hidden the manuscript, content that it would never be found again. He had called the old man, the ancient priest who knew what to do.

  Yes, old Father Simon would protect him, would save him.

  Shocked again by the deathly silence of the cathedral, Santacroce moved a shuffling step, breath catching, releasing before again catching with the fear that clutched his chest. But almost as soon as his movement began, he halted, sensing even before he heard the terrifying image emerging without visible movement from the shadowed corridor before him.

  Livid, the priest whirled to behold a second shape emerging, also without perceptible movement, from the hallway he had just fled. And though they moved as one, the darkly cloaked men did not speak, did not communicate, but coordinated their approach with a precision and skill that scorned the need for words or signs.


  Santacroce turned to run, but they seemed to anticipate the priest's thoughts and enclosed him against the wall. And as the two men moved toward him, Santacroce realized that they were, indeed, what their conquering ancestors had claimed to be: consummate in skill, inhuman in patience, makers of their own destiny and the destiny of all those less perfect in power.

  As he was.

  Then from other, darkened regions of the cathedral, four additional, somber forms revealed themselves, illuminated by the candles of communion. In his horror Santacroce saw each impassive face, each image was vague and unremarkable but for a black, gigantic shape that stood cloaked in the distant shadows. And then they were standing fully in the light as they had always stood in the darkness; waiting, confident, knowing from the beginning that they would win, in the end.

  A pale fear, white and trembling, made Santacroce light and faint with each quick gasp. And then the first man that he had seen, the tall man wearing a long, brown tweed coat, moved closer with effortless poise, closer, closer, a graceful smile appearing upon the impassive face as the man closed the final few feet.

  The tall, commanding figure was before him, and yet the man seemed to exhibit neither threat nor threatening intent. Santacroce looked into the good and kindly face, a face that might have belonged to a pastor, a father. And for a moment, with his reason defeated by fear, a thin hope flamed in the priest's heart. But then he remembered, and he knew that he would receive no mercy – not from any of them.

  Santacroce paled as the man leaned slightly forward.

  "Nicholai, my dear friend, why do you do this foolishness?" he whispered in a faint British accent. "Truly, you have nothing to fear. All is forgiven. Come, let me help you."

  A second man appeared beside Santacroce; an Oriental, young, in his mid-thirties, his heavily muscled frame apparent even through the loose-fitting clothes. Santacroce perceived vaguely that the massive Oriental was Japanese. His dark hair was cut close above an impassive face that seemed somehow unnaturally hardened, the image of brown skin drawn tautly over chiseled granite. When Santacroce looked into the man's blackened eyes he momentarily forgot his fear, or his fear increased even more; he could not be sure. For the implacable gaze revealed a cold force that did not seem to know life; a force of absolute, pure strength, merciless and cruel.

  "Nicholai." The tall man was speaking again. "This misunderstanding is not important. Remember, soon you will have wealth that most men only dream of, and as you so richly deserve. I only ask that you let me help you. Now, tell me, where is the manuscript?"

  Icy sweat beaded Santacroce's brow.

  "I won't tell you!" he whispered, unable to prevent his pleading tone. "Kill me if you will, but I won't tell you!"

  Santacroce tangibly felt the sinister sensation that emanated from the tall man. The smile remained but no longer reached the kindly eyes. With a barely perceptible movement the man leaned forward.

  "Nicholai, all games must end," he said quietly. "And this game must end now. I will help you, but you must tell me where you have hidden the manuscript."

  Distantly Santacroce heard himself speaking. "You cannot have it! Don't you understand? He will destroy us all! You must..."

  A sudden movement by the Oriental twisted Santacroce's shoulder and arm into an unbearable position. It was a movement so swift and cruel with cold skill that the priest was more shocked by the merciless indifference than by the pain that pierced his shoulder. Santacroce surged with hysterical, adrenaline strength, whirling to break away. But he felt as if he had been seized by a force of nature.

  Absolute and controlling, the Japanese moved with him. The man's steel grip seemed to obliterate the flesh of Santacroce's forearm; remorseless, destroying for the pleasure of destroying, fingers dug deeply into his bones.

  The Japanese held Santacroce for a moment more, with the priest struggling for balance on the balls of his feet. Then the Oriental moved again, and Santacroce felt something deep within his shoulder tear away, lancing pain through his neck and face. He screamed, but he knew that it would make no difference, no difference at all.

  "Sato!" The tall man's commanding voice shattered Santacroce's screams. "No!"

  The Japanese turned Santacroce toward the tall man, effortlessly holding the priest upright. He lightened the pressure on the injured shoulder, and Santacroce felt a wave of agony flow out from the joint.

  Santacroce swayed, jerking involuntarily at the knifing tendrils of electric pain that sparked along his ribs, neck, and face. Shocked, he blinked sweat from his eyes while a groan escaped his lips.

  The tall man's face was compassionate, and he leaned forward intimately to speak again.

  "Nicholai, forgive me." He lightly placed a hand on Santacroce's injured shoulder. "That was not my wish. I assure you that Sato will be punished. Please, my friend, allow me to help you. I will take you home. Only tell me where I can find the manuscript. I promise that you will not be further injured."

  Santacroce shook his head. "No!"

  Another figure stepped forward and through a white mist Santacroce saw a broad, tanned face, shaggy blond hair. But when the leader half turned his head, the man stopped silently in place. Though no words were spoken, the blond man stared at the taller, and seemed to understand. Then he moved forward again, and with the Japanese, lifted Santacroce, dragging the priest towards a nearby corridor.

  Santacroce only dimly saw lights and shadows as he was dragged swiftly along the darkened hallway. His pleading eyes swept the doorways, the adjoining rooms for someone, anyone, to intercede for him. But there was no one, even as he had known in his heart that there would be no one. He was pushed into a large, unidentifiable vehicle. A needle was thrust into his arm. And then darkness.

  *

  FIVE

  With a trembling hand, Professor Malachi Halder shut the massive and unyielding oaken portal and methodically rearmed his alarm system.

  The code activated a security circuit that cloaked exterior entrances and carefully selected interior rooms with a sensitive combination of ultrasonic and microwave frequencies, providing a defensive field that could detect the slightest intrusion or movement of life.

  In truth, the system meant little to the professor, for he placed no confidence in his own feeble abilities to preserve his life; he had long ago reckoned himself a dead man. But the alarm had been purchased with the Manhattan townhouse, and he had used it steadily, possessing no desire to make it easier for his enemies to destroy him.

  And, yes, he knew fear, as any man doomed to a violent death would know fear. So he finished the code that initiated the alarm and wearily set his heavily laden briefcase on the lapis lazuli floor.

  Disheartened by the chilled sweat that soaked his shirt; the professor removed his overcoat and stood for a moment in the entrance, lost in dark thoughts. Then, remembering, he held his breath and turned to look behind him into the brightly lit entrance.

  He exhaled slowly.

  Yes, he was alone.

  Across the expansive hall was his study. The professor's gaze rested on the distant wall, passing over the carefully catalogued books that lined his library; hundreds, thousands of works, many of the volumes lost to the world but for these few and ancient remaining editions. They reminded him of the long forgotten secrets that he had resurrected and studied for half a century. Yes, exploring the age-old mysteries hidden within those dusty tomes had consumed his life and awarded him far-reaching acclaim.

  Over fifty years ago, as a young archeologist for Harvard University, Malachi discovered the lost tombs of the kings of Ur. Then, in swift succession, he had uncovered cuneiform tablets that documented the biblical journey of Abraham. He had verified the story of Joseph through Egyptian pictographs, fixed the date of the Exodus to 1220 B.C., in the reign of the cruel Egyptian ruler Merneptah. And in 1965 he had worked with the British Museum to uncover two clay tablets from the ruins of Shuruppak, tablets writ-ten in 1646-1626 B.C. which testified to a phenomenal fl
ood that had inundated the Mesopotamia long ago.

  In his long life Malachi had excavated the underground desert civilizations of Be'er Matar. And he had, with his own hands, uncovered the bone and stone and temples that revealed the secrets of Solomon and David and those less revered, searching out over 4,000 years of history between the Hebrew God and the people of Israel.

  It was his life's work, and he had done it well.

  Remembering, Malachi could not suppress the coldness that embraced him, even within the sanctity of his home. They had long threatened to avenge his interference with their plans. For, in truth, once he fully understood their continuing existence, it had become his life's work to defy them. He hoped to ultimately reduce their measure of influence in the modern world by destroying the validity of their beliefs.

  As an adjunct professor in Harvard's School of Archeology and Ancient Languages, a distinguished scholar at Princeton Theological Seminary, or in his current post at Saint Matthew's Hall of Theology and Philosophy in New York, he had forever challenged those who claimed moral sovereignty by natural superiority, supernatural right, or intellectual might. Yes, he had challenged them all, scholar and student alike, upon their own ground, the high ground of critical reason, and he had never been defeated.

  For years he had listened respectfully, patiently, to their arguments, allowing the metaphysicists, nihilists, existentialists, and anarchists to build an aggressive defense. And then, when their arrogance was complete, Malachi would begin to speak, comprehensively and authoritatively, minutely dissecting their ideas as a physician might dissect a rotting corpse, by clinically folding back the surface to reveal the rotting logic concealed within.