Grimly, Kertzman turned the page, read over a list of combat missions. Finally, he scanned the list of badges, service awards: Master Parachutist, British Parachutist, Ranger TAB, Pathfinder, Sniper, Jungle Expert, Demolition Expert, Special Warfare Expert, Scuba, Air Assault, Silver Star, two Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star...
-Resigned at rank of Staff Sergeant in July of 1986.
Sighing, feeling a vague depression, Kertzman read the list of commendations over and over again, puzzled. Then, tiredly, he laid down the file. For a long time he stared at nothing, wondering. Then he leaned back, gorilla arms hanging limp at his sides, and gazed sullenly at the steaming coffeepot across from the desk.
A still small voice told him; this is as wrong as it gets.
This guy wouldn't betray his country. Sure, Sims and Myrick would. Even high-ups like Kim Philby of Britain or Edward Lee Howell of the CIA would. But Sims and Myrick were just under qualified spooks playing high-tech spy. And Philby and Howell were only soft-gut rich boys who liked easy lives and overcomplicated beliefs, who had never had to bloody their hands for what they believed, guys who never had to put it all in the wind, hoping against hope they would survive the storm.
This guy, Gage, he was different. He'd been there and then some; twenty combat missions, 36 confirmed kills in Delta, eight from Sniper and the rest on fast-entry assaults in classified missions. Kertzman knew that the actual number of non-confirmed kills was probably three times that much.
A soft whistle escaped Kertzman's lips. Gage had paid for what he believed. It didn't make sense that he would turn.
Still, if anyone could be the man, Gage could. But it didn't feel right. Didn't even look right by the statistics.
Gage would have passed psychological tests out the kazoo, so he was wrapped tight. Had to be. Kertzman didn't know what Delta Force was using now, but they had begun using night vision, laser-optic surveillance, and satellite location of individual troops long before any other branch of the military had even heard of the technology. And that was 15 years ago. No telling what they possessed today. It was all classified, top secret or above. There were discreet rumors of cyborg-type armor that enhanced strength and endurance, lightweight clothing made of ballistic materials that changed colors automatically to match surroundings, like a chameleon, and other rumors of Star Wars-type weapons. But, whatever, Gage was part of it, and that meant he had received the highest clearance, the highest trust.
An old jungle instinct, 20 years gone but strangely alive of late, alerted Kertzman to the approach at his door. He was on his feet before the two men entered without knocking.
Radford entered first, his charcoal gray, wide-lapeled Seville-Row suit announcing him. And Kertzman took a second to size up Milburn; just under six feet, light-medium build with a military haircut gone long and shaggy. Kertzman shifted to the face, saw the bland, ubiquitous, carefully cultivated expression of a professional federal agent. He saw the customary, slight smile, wide-open eyes, and knew there was a whole world of lies behind those eyes. Milburn extended a hand.
He shook the hand. "Mr. Milburn."
"Call me Bob." A beaming smile.
"OK," said Kertzman curtly. "Have a seat. Let's get on with it."
Radford appeared comfortable in the green, plastic-covered metal chair. Milburn settled in, shifting his coat, loosening his tie with a slight twist of his head.
Nervous?
Kertzman logged it like he logged everything. Just another incidental nothing he would keep back there in case he might need it later.
"So," Radford began, "I guess you know, Kertzman, after our little meeting the other day I did some checking." He gestured to the file. "I would never have thought of it if you hadn't led me to it. But there it is. Plain as day."
Kertzman muttered an indescribable sound, not a grunt, but more of half-word grunt something that intimated what his brutish decorum prevented him from actually saying.
"Maybe," Kertzman added slowly.
"If anybody could cause problems, it'd be him. Bob, here, knows Gage better than anybody in the world." Radford placed a hand on Milburn's shoulder. "I think we can use him, Kertzman. He was in Gage's unit in Delta, all of them fast-entry types. Cowboys. He knows how Gage thinks, how he moves, what he's trained to do. He knows what Gage prefers, his weaknesses, his friends. And with any luck, he might even be able to second-guess him."
Kertzman stared at Milburn. "Fast entry, huh?"
Kertzman had never reserved any profound respect for these elite, specialized units. In Vietnam he learned that most of the time they parachuted themselves into white-hot zones they couldn't EVAC out of and were forced to radio for the regular grunts, like he'd been, to rescue their specialized little teams from annihilation.
"Is there any other way?" Milburn replied, a truculent gesture of his chin.
Kertzman almost smiled, resisted the impulse.
"I don't know. Tell me about it."
Milburn had obvious pride in what he had been. "Fast entry means no warning, Kertzman. Delta doesn't believe in warnings. We never have. That stuff is for the FBI or ATE. When we move on an objective, we do it without warning and it's explosive. It's maximum force from the first step, finished in thirty seconds. That's the only way to stay alive. That's the only way to keep the objective alive. All of that 'throw down your gun' stuff is for the movies. Warnings defeat your entire purpose, just like hesitation. If we go in, we hit everything armed or unarmed. No hesitation. No prisoners. No mercy. It's maximum force from the first step. No exceptions. We neutralize everyone and then we secure the objective."
"Like Gage did, if it was Gage, in the professor's house," said Kertzman. "Or at the seminary."
Milburn nodded. "That's what he's trained to do. And I can promise you that he'll react like he's trained to react. He can't stop himself." He leaned forward, gesturing. "Would you like for me to explain to you specifically what Gage did in Delta?"
"I'd like to know why you two are so certain that it's Gage," said Kertzman. "From the way I see it, it could be anybody with this kind of training."
Radford was quick. "We've done some additional investigation, Kertzman. We have some ... people ... who have informed us that Gage is somehow involved in this. And the physical description that police and bystanders provided at the campus fits him." Radford lifted his hands expressively. "We have some depositions. I haven't had a chance to show them to you."
Kertzman fixed him with a dead gaze, a wisp of anger faintly visible. "Well, I need to see those depositions," he said flatly, adding a slight growl to the sentence.
Radford had already removed them from his briefcase.
"They don't say much," he said, apologetic. "But it's enough. I think it would be prudent to pursue the investigation."
Kertzman was aware that his gaze had settled, unfocused, on the depositions, realized his mind was trying to put together what he had heard with what he had learned from Gage's file. No need to read them now. He could get to them later. He looked at Milburn and leaned back, studying the CIA man.
"Alright, Mr. Milburn," Kertzman said slowly, folding massive arms over a bull-of-the-field chest, "why don't you tell me what you know?"
*
Concealed in somber light, Augustus gazed upon the open military file of Jonathan Gage. A single lamp, subdued and soft, illuminated the room while Stern, arms folded, waited patiently to the side.
"How many men did Gage dispatch, Charles?" Augustus asked.
"Six," replied Stern rigidly. "He wounded a seventh."
Augustus looked up sharply from the file, his face concentrated.
"Wounded, you say?"
"Yes."
"And why did Gage allow this man to live?"
Stern shook his head. "I don't know."
An ice-blue stare fixed on him. "Was it an error, Charles? A mistake?"
Stern took his time to reply. "Gage is not the kind of man who makes mistakes," he said slowly. "I believe he made a conscious dec
ision not to kill the operative. I don't know why. It goes against his training, against the actions of his past. But it is the only explanation that aligns with facts."
Augustus's face reflected deepening thought. He looked down again, his fingers resting lightly on the face in the photograph as if to somehow capture thoughts of the mind contained within.
"Members of The Order are already in New York," Stern continued. "Within hours they will be waiting for Gage at Simon's cathedral. And then they will wait for him to come retrieve the letter that reveals where Santacroce hid the manuscript. At that point we will capture him, as I said, and obtain the letter. Then we interrogate him to find the location of the rest. And after that we eliminate them all according to the containment plan."
Augustus continued to focus on the face in the photograph. He asked softly, "And why do you believe Gage takes a stand against us, Charles?"
The voice was so quiet Stern strained to hear it against the waves roaring beneath the cliff.
"Vengeance," Stern replied. "He wants to avenge the old priest. Or, perhaps, Halder has convinced Gage that destroying the manuscript will also destroy our plans. It is difficult to know, for certain. But, for the most part, I believe it is vengeance. That's why Gage never worried about us monitoring his meetings with the old priest. He knew that Simon was involved in something and wanted us to know that Simon was under his protection. The old man only met with Gage to talk with him about spiritual matters, to encourage him not to return to his old life. I am convinced that Simon did not even know we were monitoring their meetings. But I believe Gage knew. He would have seen the surveillance team. He sees everything. And he met with the old man, anyway. To send us a message."
"Yes," said Augustus meditatively. "He was telling us that Simon was family. And that is why you believe Gage comes against us? For vengeance?"
"Yes," replied Stern, considering. "But vengeance is an uneven motivation. Gage's emotions will make him less effective. Although he is still proficient enough to neutralize D'Oncetta's toy soldiers, The Order will eliminate him."
"Perhaps, old friend," Augustus said quietly, still not looking up from the file. "But I do not believe it is vengeance which motivates Gage."
Augustus stared at the photograph even longer, finally breaking his silence in a cryptic voice. "No, not for vengeance does Gage come against us. It is absolution that he seeks."
Stern stared at the robed form. "Absolution, Augustus?"
"Yes, Charles. Absolution. Freedom. His own redemption is the treasure Gage seeks, and not vengeance."
His aristocratic face hardened in concentration.
"Yes, Old Simon taught him well. It is for his own salvation that Gage takes a stand against us. And he will not stop until he finds it. Not for fear, or pain, or however much suffering he must endure. His love for Simon was great, but his love for his newfound God is something more. Something more altogether."
Augustus gazed into the cold gray eyes.
"Yes ... a very dangerous man."
*
FOURTEEN
"A grand conspiracy, professor?"
Gage tossed another stick of wood into the fireplace with the skeptical question, sending a shower of sparks upwards into the chimney.
Malachi laughed softly, amused. "There are no grand conspiracies, Gage. Only small ones. And even the servants and emissaries, who perform their tasks so readily, do not themselves truly understand what dark forces have mastered their fate. The truth is an apparition within a fog, a specter hidden behind a haze of ancient and modern legend."
Gage settled onto the floor, leaning against the couch where Sarah casually reclined, nursing a cool glass of wine. Hours earlier they had gathered in the rustic cabin's front room, watching the somber night settle beyond the windows with oppressive cold.
Barto, a pacific calm gracing his wildly bearded face, munched meditatively on a marshmallow that he had roasted in the fire with a straightened coat hanger. A half-bag of marshmallows rested on the floor beside his chair.
Malachi leaned against the mantel, staring into the flames.
In the glow of the fire the old man seemed younger than his seventh decade. But Gage knew that the strain of their ordeal had extracted a sure measure of strength from the tall, thin frame.
"That's really not much to go on, professor," Gage muttered, not looking up. "I sort of need a name."
Malachi shook his head, apologetic. "I have none, Gage. There is a priest. Father Stanford Aquanine D'Oncetta. He is the emissary of a small, unknown consistory of cardinals. But the cardinals are only the servants of someone else, and D'Oncetta is, in truth, the lackey of whoever that may be. He is the only one I can identify. Simon could never persuade Pope Clement to tell us anymore."
"So you don't know any of these people?"
Malachi sighed. "No. I do not. I have tried. But I do not know. Neither Simon nor I have ever been able to discover even a single name besides D'Oncetta. It might be an entire council of people, or it might be only a single man. No one knows."
"Someone knows," Gage said.
Malachi looked at him. "Who?"
"Clement," replied Gage coldly.
"Yes." Malachi raised an eyebrow, regarded the muscular form reclining against the couch. "Yes, Clement knows." He stared at Gage a moment, as if divining the intention behind the quiet words.
Gage shifted, staring into the flames. "Tell me why this group wants this manuscript so badly."
A soft, bitter laugh echoed from Malachi. "That is not easy to say."
"Why?"
"Because you must first understand what they believe, Gage. Then you will understand more clearly why it is that they want the manuscript."
Gage was indifferent. "Alright. Tell me what they believe. We can start from there."
Malachi was silent, considering. "It seems clear to me sometimes," he began, "and then sometimes it becomes obscured by the complexity of a million moving parts." He stared at the crackling, hissing fire, his old face bright with flame. "Did you know, Gage, that the ancient Egyptians considered the Pharaoh to be God?"
Gage nodded.
"How easy it has been for men, even from primitive times, to seek immortality in themselves," Malachi continued. "Immortality. Power. Freedom. Strength to accomplish whatever man's will would desire."
Outside, an owl's booming howl echoed in the night.
"We have traveled so short a distance in so many years," he said. "Today men stand on the shoulders of formulaic logic that leads them, without alternatives, they say, to the ultimate decision that man alone, within himself, contains the power and the secrets of Godhood. And they lean heavily upon their complicated reasoning to explain why such a decision is the only true destination of high and critical thought. But if that is true, then why have profoundly primitive cultures, inhabiting vanished civilizations long lost to the Earth, forever held this same conviction? Why? I will tell you why. Because fearful man is forever destined to approach the void, to move towards that verge which separates the now from the unknown. It is the human tendency, as Kant explained. Yet man, because he is inherently selfish and self-serving above all things, will travel no road without the full measure of what he might possess. In his self-centered dominion, man will surrender nothing that must not absolutely be surrendered. So he is faced with the dilemma of entering the next world without losing what he has gained in this one." Without humor, Malachi laughed. "A difficult thing, to be sure.
"So in ancient times men studied the Cosmos to find the bridge across the ocean of death. And he saw that the sun, in all its life-creating power, was what gave the Earth continual sustenance. Therefore, to him, the Cosmos became the source that he might use to escape death, creating within himself the power to claim eternal life while at the same time possessing all that he loved, surrendering nothing."
Malachi glanced at them.
"A powerful temptation, if primitive. The Pharaoh was considered to be God because of his soul's divine unio
n to the sun. He was considered more than mere man, and more than Nature. He was the ultimate Sun-Man, or Man-God, in the most natural sense. He was one with the Cosmos, holding the keys of life by the power of his will and by the power of the sun. For his very will was his life, both for the here and the hereafter. Seemingly, it was the ultimate escape from death and from moral limitations.
"You see, evil did not exist, at least not for the Man-God who found his freedom in the vast and infinite universe, for Nature itself was neutral to good and evil. The only moral limitations that might be imposed on the Man-God were the limitations of his own, divine will. And evil could be defined as that power that prevented him from exercising that free moral will. The end purpose of his existence became, therefore, the power to create that thing that was the object of his desire.
"But at the emergence of the Hebrew God, the Man-God was confronted by his ultimate nemesis. An enemy that perfectly defied his deific claim. So Yahweh, the Ancient of Days, became the scorned and rejected scourge of the world, despised as an enemy of the ultimate free man. The ageless collision of forces. Man and God. And men who would not kneel accused the God of Israel of being the waste product of a condemning moral code propagated by foolish men who must create an imaginary God that is beyond themselves. And Yahweh was condemned in the old world as the foolish false creation of weak men who were simply unable to survive or rule by the power of the Cosmos and by their own hand. A conflict of decision, of decided faith or non-faith. And it was on this ground of the unknowable that the battle first began."
Malachi cast Gage a frowning glance.
"I call it unknowable because this ground is ultimately the dominion of faith, Gage, where nothing can be completely understood empirically, and a man must decide for himself alone to believe as he would believe," he continued, solemn. "I am old, now, and I have forgotten much of what I knew. But I still understand the limitations of empirical thought. I recall all the questions of fundamental certainty that evaded the critical reason of Descartes, Augustine, Hegel, Pascal, and Kant. So I do not claim to completely understand ultimate truth, nor do I stand alone in my ignorance of it. I know that I can defend my faith as far as reason may ascend in any discipline of thought be it philosophy or theology or science or archeology. And I am certain that I hold a perfectly and ultimately reasonable faith. But, in the final plain of human reason, faith is faith and knowledge is knowledge. God always has been, and always shall remain, the ultimate mystery.
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