Radford seemed to be figuring a better way to do things. "What makes you think Gage is still in contact with anybody in his old Army unit?"
Kertzman scowled, shook his head. His gaze wandered the room for a minute, face concentrated. "Gage ain't perfect," he said slowly. "He needs help. He's like everybody else. Somewhere, he's made a mistake. You can count on it. Just find it. Then we'll find him."
"That's a lot of work, Kertzman."
"Use some of the NSA staff," Kertzman said. "They don't have anything better to do. And they don't have to know anything about what they're doing, anyway. Tell 'em to crunch numbers. They're good at it. It's probably all they're good at."
Radford opened his mouth to show offense.
"Save it," Kertzman growled, a tone of granite. "Just tell them to find some number that can link one of Gage's old teammates, somebody who went out before the big showdown in the desert, with some company associated with the Cavalier or the bullets or the Hi-Power or anything else."
Radford was quiet, reluctant.
"Alright," he said, after a moment. "I'll get some people on it. What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to New York. The British are sending over somebody to claim the body of their guy. They seem a little peeved. He'll be in today. Leaving tonight. I want to talk to him."
Radford looked at him a moment, thinking. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea. Maybe you can find something. You want me to tell Carthwright?"
Kertzman rose to his feet. "I'll tell him. He's still in Washington. I've got to meet him this morning, give him a status report."
Radford also rose. "You want me to tell Milburn anything if I see him?"
Kertzman shook his head, reached for his keys. "No."
Radford nodded, started for the door.
"Hey, Radford."
"Yeah?" He stared back at Kertzman, ready to please.
Kertzman's impassive face was stone. Dead flat eyes focused on Radford. The voice was abrupt.
"How come you got volunteered for this operation?"
Empty hands were raised in the air.
"No reason, Kertzman. It sure ain't because I like looking at your pretty face, I'll tell you that."
*
Sarah cut off Gage’s black cotton shirt that had become stiff with blood, made certain he was sleeping soundly and left him in his small bedroom. She took a shower, put on a clean pair of Gage’s jeans and one of his black T-shirts. Then she found an old Army belt that was infinite adjustable and fixed the jeans tight so that they fit her slim waist.
The cabin, not large, was silent. The three additional bedrooms were tiny and used mainly for storage, particularly the one in the back of the house that was crammed with crates, a desk with a small computer that was hooked into a telephone modem, and a small Army cot. She knew that most of Gage's more dangerous high-tech combat equipment was stored in the garage under lock and key. The battered LTD and Jeep were also in the adjoining building, which was almost as large as the house itself.
She entered the front room, the only room of any real size in the entire cabin, to find Barto and Malachi sitting quietly at the kitchen table. She smiled faintly at them as she entered and poured herself a cup of coffee. Her pale face revealed dark circles under the jade green eyes. Her hands trembled.
Malachi stood as she entered, walked to her for a solid, comforting embrace. She held him for a moment, then separated to walk towards the table, sitting down. Malachi followed and sat down beside her, wordless.
Barto said nothing, stared out the window. She reached out and took his hand.
"You did what was right," she said tiredly.
Barto made a sudden movement of his head. "I didn't know what else to do. He wouldn't go to a hospital."
"Well, I think he might still live," Sarah said, removing her hand, leaning back. "You did all you could. We all did."
"What about his injuries?" Barto's voice was edged.
"I used up all the silk," she replied wearily, sweeping a trembling hand through her hair. "He had a lot of cuts. But the only really serious one was on his forearm. It missed his radial artery by a half-inch. Probably missed his major nerves too because they run along the inside of the arm, not the outside, where the cut was. But I can't tell for sure. There was a lot of venous bleeding. That's his main trouble right now. He needs a transfusion. Closing the wounds took a lot of stitches. I cleaned out the incisions as best I could with the time I had but ..." She paused, sighing. "I think he might have a couple of broken ribs. I can't tell. There's some swelling, some tenderness. But they might just be bruised. Even a doctor couldn't tell without an x-ray."
Barto seemed shaken again. "You really think he might make it?" His eyes were widened behind the glasses.
"He might," Sarah answered. "He's been hurt like this before. Worse. It's a way of life for him. Surviving, no matter what. Or it used to be. He's strong. He's trained to deal with this kind of physical trauma. I've given him something to help him sleep. That's all I can do right now. But I think he's got an infection. And I don't have anything to treat it with."
She paused, face pained, and took a slow sip of coffee.
Tense silence reigned.
Slowly, Barto bent over the letter laid on the table, scanning the page, eyes moving with a minutely focused, discerning concentration.
Dully, Sarah looked at the page. "Can you read it?"
"No." Barto shook his head. "Only Gage can read it. It's some kind of code. A mixture of numbers, some Latin. From the Silver Period. It doesn't make any sense. The letters and numbers are just code for other letters or words or entire sentences or God only knows what." He studied the page a moment more. "It must be something Gage and Simon came up with together."
Malachi agreed. "Yes. Simon would have taken every pre-caution. He did not underestimate our enemies. But as you said, Sarah," he nodded gently to her, "Gage will live. That is the most important thing."
Sarah said nothing, nodded. She took a deep breath, then rose, walking toward the bedroom. "Excuse me, I need to check on him."
"Will you be staying beside him?" her father called after her. "I will prepare something to eat."
Sarah glanced back, continued forward. "Yes, I'll be with him."
Her last words were so faint Malachi couldn't be sure of what he heard, but he thought he understood.
"I've always been with him ..."
*
Rose-colored wine rested on the table, and Stern reached out to receive it. Augustus gazed down at him, ice-blue eyes understanding and patient, and set the decanter aside with a cultured appreciation for both wine and the intricately molded flagon.
"Misfortune merely delays victory, Charles," the white-haired man said encouragingly. "Our hands shall yet write the denouement."
Stern took a sip of the wine, swirled the liqueur in the crystal. "Mine was the error, Augustus. I should have used more men. The Order is consummate soldiers, and we anticipated his moves. But Gage has great courage. And courage alone can sometimes decide a situation."
"Even the bravest men know fear," Augustus responded, smiling. "Even the wisest men become confused by the chaos of war. That is certain."
Stern nodded, "Yes."
"Arkady and Samuel will be replaced when this situation has passed," Augustus added. "Tell me of Milburn. He has been useful to me for many years."
Stern stirred, as if fighting off fatigue, his voice remaining calm.
"He survived the accident. He was sitting in the passenger's seat, in the vehicle that contained Gage. He managed to jump clear before the car collided with the embankment. He was injured, sustaining a few cracked ribs, some contusions. But he is still capable of functioning in his purpose. I am certain that it was the language student who forced them into the wall. He obviously followed Arkady and Milburn after they put Gage in the car. Then he somehow managed to free Gage and escape."
Augustus nodded, respectful. "Gage is a formidable foe," he said. "His allies demonstr
ate considerable loyalty."
"Yes," Stern said. "Gage understands offense and defense as one. He does not consider stages. It is all a mosaic, a unity. For him tactics are not a science, but an art, an almost mystical blend of knowledge, intuition, and imagination. An extension of his personality. He can virtually create a situation, simply by the power of his will and his knowledge, combined with his courage. Sato is unstable and sometimes difficult to control. But if he had not located the car, Gage might well have escaped us completely."
"Yes, Sato is a valuable man." Augustus nodded with the words, took a sip of wine. "How are his wounds?"
Stern released a short laugh. "I never thought that I would see the man who could injure Sato. But he is healing. In a week he will be well. He suffered a loss of blood. But he had prepared for it. He is always prepared."
Augustus seemed relaxed, stood before the windowed wall, gazing out at the ocean growing steadily deeper with the dusk. A reddish glow stretched across the horizon, spreading scarlet threads over the dancing, waving sea; dark waters bloodied with a crimson tide.
"Is Milburn continuing to search for Gage's stronghold?" he asked slowly.
"Yes. They will locate him soon enough. This man in the Pentagon is quite skilled. A hunter, they call him. That is why he was selected. Then, when Gage's safe house is located, they will all be eliminated. Everything is arranged. Containment will be complete. The investigation shall begin and end with the American, and with the Pentagon. None of our forces will be exposed."
"Then all is well," Augustus remarked, bearing teeth in a strangely savage smile. He turned, walking to the obsidian table, glistening in the scarlet glow. "And you are certain that Gage is badly wounded?"
"Yes," Stern replied. "He must retreat to recover."
"It is to our advantage."
"His wounds will heal, Augustus."
"Yes, Charles, his wounds shall heal," the robed figure replied. "But wounds change the will. And that shall change the man. War is more than casualty, old friend. It is defeating the spirit of your foe. Gage will heal, but the healing will wound him, also. And then we shall wear him down even more. We will make him exhaust so much of his strength that he will begin to show the strain of the conflict in his decisions, in his actions. And that will be the beginning of his defeat. Piece by piece, we shall claim what is his. We will see his defeat approaching because we will watch him deteriorating before our eyes, ravaged by the wear and tear of resisting our superior strength. That is what will ultimately finish him; a long, relentless strain on his will and strength until he is unable, finally, to meet us any longer in combat. Then he will be ours."
Stern stared at the white-haired man, the wine goblet ignored in his hand. "Yes, I see." He hesitated a long moment, then spoke with a bitter edge. "Yes, you are right, Augustus. It will probably be the wear and tear of combat that truly defeats him, not a sudden, strategic move. But, sudden defeat or not, when we find Gage's location we will attack with every confidence of finishing him there."
Augustus nodded, frowning, then he turned to the window, suddenly moody, staring at the sea.
"Remember, Charles, Gage is the purest of his kind. We have already lost two valuable men – men who were of the highest order, the sixth ascendancy. They, too, were the best at what they did. But it is written that the sword devours one side as well as the other, so there is no reason for dismay. And yet we must admit that the price we have paid for the manuscript is great. Clement remains enraged and has banished D'Oncetta from the Vatican. And our Middle Eastern allies have begun to question the wisdom of our actions. It is clear that Gage must be stopped. But it must be done quietly. No more attention must be drawn to our affairs. You must use wisdom. We can attract no more attention."
Augustus's icy gaze centered on Stern.
"Gage is wounded and in retreat. But beware, Charles. It is the retreat of a wounded lion. And a wounded lion is twice as dangerous."
TWENTY-THREE
Alone in a howling cold, standing morosely between two faintly tarnished marble lions, Thomas Blake Carthwright waited patiently on the sidewalk, centered at the entrance of the Smithsonian Institute's Museum of Natural History.
Carthwright turned as Kertzman approached, shoving his hands deeply into the pockets of his black, cashmere Armani overcoat. Its broad, heavy collar was turned up against the freezing wind. Kertzman continued to walk forward, moving with the crowd until he stood in front of the CIA man.
"I'm here," he said, adding brusquely, "Looks a little different than our last meeting."
Carthwright smiled. "There are a few complications."
Kertzman waited, expressionless.
Carthwright motioned to the street. "Walk with me, Mr. Kertzman. I understand that the Lincoln Memorial is almost deserted this time of day."
"It is," Kertzman said gruffly and followed slowly as Carthwright crossed the wide metal grating, over Pennsylvania Avenue and onto the sidewalk of the park, walking south into the cold wind that tore leaves from the trees and the ground with equal indifference. In the distance, Kertzman saw the Memorial, white marble glowing massively in the early morning.
An icy, invisible wave swept across the park, blasting through the pores of Kertzman's coat into his bones. He found it brutal and comforting; nature separating the weak from the strong. It was his place.
"Does it get this cold in Dakota?" Carthwright asked casually.
Kertzman nodded. "A lot colder."
"Your people must be hardy."
"We do what we gotta do," Kertzman replied. "Ain't no sense in complaining."
"Yes." Carthwright pulled his coat more completely around him and glanced over, seeming to take notice that Kertzman wore only a thin, cheaply-cut sports coat for protection against the howling cold front. "As I said, there are complications."
"I figure," Kertzman replied with a short, humorless laugh.
"Some people are concerned about the progress of the investigation."
Kertzman glanced at him, saw only professional concern. "So what?"
"That's not the type of concern I'm talking about. This concern is unofficial."
Slowing his stride, Kertzman focused on the words.
"And who might these people be?"
Carthwright shook his head. "I am not certain. But it seems that it is someone who has considerable influence. Perhaps a number of people."
Kertzman stopped walking. Carthwright took two steps and then also stopped, turning to look back. His thin blond hair was tossed by the wind.
"You know, this is getting uglier and uglier," Kertzman said after a moment. "Did you know what Gage did for the Agency?"
"In a manner," Carthwright replied with a nervous sigh.
Kertzman thought he saw a trembling. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I knew that Gage was one of the animals out of Covert Operations. I didn't know, exactly, what Black Light did. It didn't matter to me. And, honestly, Black Light was never a very well-respected unit in the intelligence community. Just soldiers. Not players. Not people who understood the craft. They were just people who knew how to blow things up, steal things, kill people. All that cowboy stuff. But anybody can do that. It takes a different breed to be a spy. Someone who can work the game. Someone who can sacrifice." Carthwright hesitated, bunching against the wind. "Besides, I knew you had access to the files."
A sudden gust of wind almost moved Carthwright up a step. He swayed. Kertzman felt his face going numb, fingers tingling, hurting from cold. He felt tempted to put his hands into his coat, decided to let it go. Part of it was because he didn't like giving in to the cold, part of it was Carthwright. Kertzman had already decided he wouldn't show any weakness around the NSA man, not to anything. Not ever.
Kertzman glanced at the Memorial, still a long way off. He looked back at Carthwright.
"You lied to me," he muttered, hard and unforgiving. "You could have told me more when I walked into this thing. So I could have gone in with my eyes open. Y
ou could have. But you didn't. That's the same as lying."
Carthwright seemed to consider that. "Yes," he said after a minute. "I suppose I could have. Secrets and a culture of secrecy can sometimes cloud judgment. It was my mistake. I apologize."
The wind was cold, the silence colder.
Kertzman laughed without humor, shook his head. "You know," he said slowly, "I've just about had it with secrets."
"It can become tiring."
Kertzman waited a moment, trying to figure it out. "So is that why you called me here?" he asked. "To tell me that some people you don't know are concerned about this thing, but you don't know why they're concerned?"
For a while Kertzman wasn't sure Carthwright was going to respond.
"Yes," the NSA man said finally. "It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?"
"It sounds like a lie," Kertzman rumbled. "And I've just about had it with lies, too."
"Please, Kertzman, I want you to listen to me," Carthwright said, seeming to take it personally. He stepped forward until they stood face to face. Kertzman calculated that Carthwright was only six inches shorter than he was, but outweighed by about 150 pounds.
Kertzman stared into the face, saw the skin pale with cold. "Alright, talk."
"This place is not secure," Carthwright began in a lowered voice. "But, with these people, no place is secure. So I'll just tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"You just do whatever you have to do to find Gage," Carthwright mumbled through the cold. "Concentrate on Gage. Don't start rolling over stones on this conspiracy theory. It might become unsafe. I can't tell you more." He waited. "I'm going to have to ask you to trust me on this, Kertzman. I don't want these people to do something."
Kertzman scowled. "Do something!"
A nod.
"You gotta be kiddin' me!"
Carthwright shook his head, a quick movement.
Kertzman stared. "Is Talbot in on this?"
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