Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  He looked down, sniffed indifferently. His hands were clasped. "Yeah. It's hard, I guess. But it was always hard. I'd just forgotten, is all."

  "Are you alright? I'm not a psychiatrist or anything, but I know that sort of thing can have a hard impact on a person's state of mind."

  He shrugged, frowning. "I try not to think about it. I... did what I had to do. If I could have found another way, I would have gone with it. But everything happened so fast. It was just split-second decisions, training. There was just no..." His voice trailed off.

  Motionless, Sarah waited, a calming and perceptive gleam in her green eyes.

  "Thank you for saving my life," she said finally.

  Casually she brought her knees up, laying her forearms across them, staring out over the forest, the glade. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

  "It's difficult," she said, "finding right and wrong in all this."

  Releasing a hard breath, Gage shifted. "There was only one right and wrong to it, really. And that was the decision to get involved in the first place. From then on there was just surviving. Just a dangerous game. Because, really, none of this is different from police work or standing on a wall in the military. I'm putting myself between you and some very bad people." He shook his head, looking away. "I'm rusty, is all. I'm having a hard time getting back into the mindset. It's almost got me killed already. I can't seem to get back into it. My heart isn't in it."

  "Was it easier when you were a soldier?"

  He shook his head. "It was never easy. But I had a different attitude then. I was a lot colder. More efficient. I didn't make mistakes like I've made so far. Back then, when I was in combat, I didn't look at people like they were people."

  She blinked. "What were they?"

  "Targets," he said simply, turning to her. "Back then, like I said, I was efficient. Surgical. I didn't hesitate or let men live when I knew that tomorrow I might walk into a rifle sight and they would be behind it. It was kill or be killed. Everybody on all sides understood it. That's just how it worked in the field. If you lost in the situation, you died. No questions. But now I'm hesitating. I'm letting people walk away, or trying to give them a chance to back down." His jaw tightened, his face harder. "I need to get the scent back in all of this or I'm going to make another mistake, get myself killed. And if I'm dead I'm no good to anybody. I've got to stop thinking so much and just do the job."

  She watched him, unblinking. "Not everyone could do that kind of thing."

  "No," he said somberly, "not everyone could. Or should. But I'm different. I'm trained to operate like that. I'm just having a hard time getting it back together. I've got to get my head straight and put all of that right and wrong stuff in its place. I mean, there's always going to be right and wrong. But not in combat. In combat there's just good moves and bad moves. Good moves kill the enemy. Bad moves get me killed."

  Leaning forward, she touched his arm with her hand, eyes narrow. She didn't seem shaken by his words.

  "I know it's hard for you because you're not what you were, Gage."

  "No," he said. "I'm not what I was. I don't take orders anymore. Not from no man. Now I only fight for what I think is right."

  *

  A sea breeze broke over the white, walled balcony of the granite bastille that rose like a fortress from the thundering cliff, far above the sandy air, torn and slashed with foam from the crashing tide.

  The conquering darkness of dusk was settling against the ocean-stained walls of the majestic edifice that dominated the Italian coast with an authority that was both sentient and commanding; an oppressive force that stood unchallenged on ancient stones.

  Cloaked in an elegant but simply designed purple robe, the man, crowned by a mane of shoulder-length white hair, stood on the mist-torn balcony of the structure, staring into the darkening sea. The pale sun's dying glow failed to penetrate the ocean's expanse, but danced faintly in flaming waves. And yet, still, he watched, as if reading something beyond the somber hue.

  For a long time he stood, imperious and alone, until a thin, formally attired man approached him.

  "All is in order, sir."

  Silent, the white-haired man turned at the words, revealing a face of lean aristocratic beaut y, concentrated and calm, placid to its depths, evenly tanned and aged far less than his fifth decade. The blue eyes seemed to glint deeply with immeasurable intelligence and benevolence, even challenging the obvious measure of experienced strength that graced his muscular form with masculine poise.

  Without words he nodded politely and walked across the balcony into the structure. Then, once inside the palatial fortress, he moved to a glistening black obsidian table, lightly placing a hand on the open folder, ignoring those who waited.

  In the dusk, standing alone at the end of the ageless volcanic slab, the white-haired man was outlined against the sun. In the solemnity of the moment, cloaked in the purple glow of his Romeo Giglia waist-length robe, its silver clasps shining in the faint light, he seemed regal. His cotton twill shirt was open at the collar, and his heavy-soled laceless boots blended perfectly but casually against his black cotton pants.

  Neither of the other two men in the room moved or spoke while he gazed upon the file. After a moment the man's Atlantean face was raised, patiently searching the eyes of the others present at the table. His gaze settled upon a priest.

  "And shall you illuminate this for me, old friend?" he asked quietly in a pacific, calming voice of solitude. "Will you be the one to unravel this mystery?"

  Father Stanford Aquanine D'Oncetta only shook his head, respectful, but demurring. The white-haired man nodded, equally respectful, but commanding, and gracefully turned his attention away.

  A tall man, the only other occupant in the room, stepped forward. "We have encountered grave problems, Augustus," he said with a faint British accent.

  Augustus smiled at the remark. "It does not require sensitive ears to hear thunder, Charles." He laughed lightly. "But there is no need for fear. Our forces are invisible, and our defenses complex. We are not vulnerable to attack."

  Charles Stern removed his tweed jacket and laid it across a black, lacquered rattan chair. "The situation is slightly more complicated than that, Augustus. You know about this man, Gage. He will be dealt with shortly. But there is something else." He hesitated. "We still do not know where the priest hid the manuscript. And now, unfortunately, Santacroce is dead."

  D'Oncetta raised his eyes. "Dead?"

  "Yes," Stern said, a faint trace of dejection in the tone. "After we finally located the priest we took him to secure quarters and began the interrogation. Sometime after the medication wore off, the priest attempted to grab a weapon ..." He drew a hand across his own throat. "Sato ..."

  D'Oncetta smiled serenely, leaning back. "A most masterful interrogation, Stern. Sato is a most useful operative. Does he, by chance, have access to a nuclear device? I should like to know." He motioned majestically toward the glass wall, sweeping along the expanse of ocean. "There are many, distant lands of the world that I have not yet visited."

  Stern stepped closer to the priest, tall and imposing.

  "You're a fool, D'Oncetta!" he said. "Don't attempt to blame me for this failure! Yes, Santacroce is dead! Sato is too easily capable of that! But I warned you of this man Gage. I warned you that he would cause complications. But you refused to recognize the threat that he posed. And now, not only have you allowed him into the Westchester mansion, but you allowed him to reach, to rescue, Halder and his daughter."

  D'Oncetta laughed. "I did not allow anything, my friend. As you say, Gage is a most capable man. And, in all honesty, we took every possible security measure."

  "Your people are amateurs, priest." Stern shook his head. "Gage would go through them like chaff."

  "He did." D'Oncetta surrendered the argument. “Perhaps you would pleasure an opportunity to meet with this man?"

  Stern was unfazed. "Yes, D'Oncetta, I would pleasure that opportunity. And I would e
liminate him because I would not under-estimate him. I would respect him as he must be respected. As wisdom demands that he be respected. I would not allow arrogance to blind me, as it does you."

  Augustus raised a hand for silence, focused on D'Oncetta, who had ceased smiling at Stern.

  "And the containment plan has been initiated?" he asked the priest.

  "Yes," replied D'Oncetta carefully. "Extensive arrangements are underway to insure that investigations are directed and controlled. Our resources are comprehensive. I do not foresee any impediments that might circumvent the prearranged decisions."

  Augustus nodded, looked at Stern. "Charles, what did you receive from the priest before his unavoidable death?"

  Stern's control appeared complete. "We know that he has buried it somewhere. He telephoned Father Simon the day after he removed it from the Archives and told the old man where he had re-hidden it. We obtained that much during the interrogation. Apparently Santacroce was asking for absolution, a confession. Before he died he told us that Simon requested permission to put the information in a letter, in case something untoward happened to him. If Gage reached the old man, and we have every reason to believe he did ..." He cast D'Oncetta a sullen glance, "... then Simon surely told him of the letter."

  Stern took a casual, relaxed step towards Augustus.

  "Simon was under surveillance from the beginning, Augustus, so we are certain that he never left the Cathedral of Saint Thomas until we removed him ourselves. Especially not after Santacroce was taken. Therefore we are certain that if Simon did, indeed, leave Gage a letter, it is hidden somewhere in the cathedral. And that is where Gage must come to retrieve it." He paused. "As of this point, our staff, who have penetrated the basilica, have informed me that Gage has not entered the grounds. Of that they are certain. They are watching for him."

  Augustus's glacier-blue eyes glinted. "And can we locate this letter, discover where it is hidden within Saint Thomas, before the American arrives?"

  Stern continued, "Saint Thomas is exceedingly large, Augustus. It would take months, perhaps even years of random searching to uncover it. Such an action would immediately attract the attention of Rome. And, as you know, that is something we must avoid. Clement is already angry."

  "So what do you suggest?"

  Stern walked closer to speak face-to-face with the elegantly robed figure. "Gage will come for the letter, Augustus. He would come for the letter if hell itself stood in his path. My plan is to allow him inside the church. Allow him to retrieve the letter for us. Then we capture him to obtain the letter and interrogate him to discover the location of Halder, his daughter, and the translator."

  D'Oncetta interrupted, smiling. "A wild plan, Stern. A method of the truly desperate. It seems that you have gained nothing but desperation from all your exacting labor and toil."

  "We have deception and confusion serving us." Augustus descended upon D'Oncetta. "And those are always our greatest weapons. Together they have sustained us since the beginning, and they are sufficient to protect our purpose until its consummation."

  A gigantic ocean wave smashed into the cliff, reaching halfway up the wall to slash the air with a foaming, thunderous roar.

  "Only one step remains between sea and land, my friends." Augustus glanced solemnly upon each of them before centering his gaze into the distant darkness. "And to hasten that end we must find the manuscript. It will consolidate our forces, revealing the master plan hidden from us for these many years. It will illuminate the secrets of our ancestors, teach us the methods of their power." His voice fell quieter. "Then Israel will fall, and the world will be purified."

  Reaching, Augustus slowly removed a large, glossy photograph from the file on the table. It was a photograph of a man, aged into his late twenties, taken at some point of heavy training in the desert. Eyes cold and focused stared off the page.

  "No one can prevent our victory," he continued. "We have gained too much ground. But you are correct, Charles. This man, this Jonathan Gage, has already complicated matters. And if old Father Simon sensed that his life was finally forfeit, he might well have left something for his 'adopted son.' We know, by our unknown communion with Simon in his private prayers, that he believes Gage is destined to serve some divine purpose in all this. The old priest has prayed for Gage often enough to annoy even me with his ceaseless requests for grace. But Simon's mystical vision for Gage will be their undoing. Because Gage will indeed come for the letter, even as Simon asked. He will feel compelled to fulfill his loyalty to the old man. And then we shall have Gage, the letter, and the location of the manuscript."

  Augustus turned with superior benevolence to D'Oncetta.

  "Return to Rome, my friend. Smooth over our peculiar activities with those at the Palace. Do what you can to placate Clement's wrath. Simon was his friend. If he wishes to speak with me, advise him that I shall be pleased to obey his desire. Then rest. You have done well. Charles and The Order will deal with Gage."

  D'Oncetta rose, bowing respectfully, and with only a slight, condescending glance at Stern, turned away.

  *

  THIRTEEN

  Kertzman frowned.

  He was in a foul mood. An Army 201, the standard military record of training, assignment, commendation, and distinctive service was open on his desk... the file of ‘Gage, Jonathan M.’

  Kertzman's ugly, gray concrete office in the Pentagon's E Wing was Spartan and, after seven years, still largely unfurnished; a working man's office.

  Two photographs decorated the room. One was a Vietnam-era picture of him carrying a badly wounded soldier to a medical chop-per. The other, displayed prominently on his regulation-issue green metal desk, was an actual posed photograph of him and his wife. Taken three years back, it revealed a smiling Kertzman embracing his wife with the relaxed happiness of their thirty-third wedding anniversary. Kertzman stared at the photo a moment, remembering.

  He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes.

  Ten minutes before Radford and this new guy, Milburn, would arrive. He didn't have much time. But he was almost a bona fide expert at reading, writing, and even, when the rare occasion had compelled him, falsifying files.

  Kertzman's conscience had never been troubled by the rare and successful deceptions he had committed since he became a law enforcement officer over 34 years ago. He reasoned that when you're dealing with snakes you sometimes have to think like a fox. And he had never really crossed the line of what he thought was right. Oh, he had come close a few times, had maybe even danced across it for a second to snatch someone who really needed snatching. But these were isolated instances, not a way of life.

  Kertzman remembered "Wild Jack" Stormcloud, the full-blooded Navaho who ran heavy crack traffic through the Dakotas from Texas for five years. As a South Dakota trooper, Kertzman worked for two years to build a case against Wild Jack, and had constantly failed. Not enough evidence. The Indian was crafty. But it had all come down in flames when Kertzman planted enough cocaine in Stormcloud's vehicle to justify an arrest, and then a search of his property. After that, enough legitimate evidence was eventually uncovered to buy Wild Jack a long prison term. Good enough. Kertzman had never regretted the act. He wasn't above stooping down to pick anyone up. But, he told himself, he had never hurt someone who was truly innocent.

  Kertzman grunted; there weren't too many of the truly innocent left.

  Frowning, Kertzman concentrated on the information before him. He skipped the preliminaries, initial assignments, inprocessing, and immediate basic courses. His sleepy, lionlike gaze swept down the page to find something more interesting, searching...

  ‘Gage, Jonathan M.’

  -Graduated Northern Warfare School in January, 1979, Fort G, Greely, Alaska.

  -Received Master Parachutist Badge in February, 1979.

  -Graduated Special Forces, Pathfinder, in March, 1979. Earned Master Parachutist Badge.

  Kertzman shifted, unimpressed. He hadn't found anything yet that would make this
guy so special, but he knew there was a lot more to come. He flipped the page, scanned past stations and basic language schools until he found a more interesting section.

  -July, 1979, trained in Special Warfare Tactics with British SAS, earned British SAS Badge.

  “Uh-huh,” said Kertzman softly to himself, “here we go.”

  -Graduated from three-week Sniper course at classified site in Nevada, September, 1979.

  -Entered Advanced Demolition School at Fort Devons, Massachusetts, in January, 1980. Graduated top of class.

  -Completed HALO (High Altitude Low Opening) School in April, 1981, at Fort Benning.

  The HALO listing reminded Kertzman of the startling and mesmerizing moment he had watched a Navy SEAL practicing a low altitude opening after falling 11,500 feet from a 12,000 foot jump. The poor guy's main chute had flagged and there was no time to deploy the backup—a primary danger with high altitude, low opening jumps. Kertzman could mentally replay the ten-year-old moment like it was yesterday, the body striking the ground at over 100 miles an hour, rebounding limply from the impact to soar over 30 feet into the air, falling again. A sickening and hypnotic sight.

  Kertzman grunted sympathetically with the memory, went on.

  -Entered Basic Special Forces Scuba School, January, 1982. Graduated top of class.

  -Entered Covert Warfare School, February, 1982, under joint U.S.-Israeli Command Center. Course taught by agents of Israeli Secret Service, United States Army Delta Force. Graduated third in class.

  There it was. Kertzman's gaze centered on the listing.

  That explained the seminary.

  -Entered Advanced Tactical Warfare School, March, 1982, at the National War College. Graduated second in class.

  -Entered Underwater Demolitions at Norfolk, May, 1982. Eight-week course taught by Department of Navy Special Warfare Unit designated as SEALs.

  -Recruited for Delta Force in August, 1982, and began eight-week qualification course. Graduated top of class and assigned to Delta Command, Fort Bragg, North Carolina, in October, 1982.