"Very well, Ms. Halder," he said at last, with an indulgent smile. "Let us test your wisdom."
Sarah waited.
"I believe," he began, "in strength. I believe in the strong rising above the rest. I believe, Ms. Halder, in the selection of species."
Sarah interjected, "Then you're a predator, Stern. An animal."
"Oh, not at all, Ms. Halder," Stern's voice was pleasing. "Unlike a beast, I also believe in perfect achievement in art, in literature, in music. In beauty. So it is not mindless predation. There is strength, intellect, and beauty." He smiled, challenging her. "Yes, I believe in perfection in order to glorify a freer, higher state of being and, even, immortality. However, unlike you, or Gage, I do not believe in destructive guilt or the self-immolating paralysis of a bankrupt and archaic moral bastille where you can neither please your God nor escape Him, and therefore only makes you weak in the process. No, I believe in true freedom, freedom of the cosmic spirit that makes one strong. I believe in the unity of a man's beliefs with his natural desires and actions. I believe that a man must create and create it to perfection, whether it is character, society, or the world. I believe that a superior man may rise above the infantile delusions of a Dark Age culture entombed with moral standards long since proven void of eternal substance. I believe, Ms. Halder, that what is eternal is man himself. And that only what man creates by personal perfection and his will shall last eternally. That is what I believe, and where my faith lies. I have never heard an argument that might stand against it. You may not believe as I do. But you cannot refute my argument. As your own ministers profess, every final step must be a leap of faith. In one direction or another."
Sarah was silent, meditative. A smile came to her slowly. "Guilt can be a terrible thing, can't it, Stern?"
"I would not know."
Sarah looked up, a frowning gaze. "It must be convenient to be free from moral restraints, and guilt, and sin. It must be nice to do whatever you want to do." She paused. "To satisfy all those impulses and instincts without judgment or restraints."
Stern shook his head, smiling slightly. "You intimate, that I believe as I do to escape the burden of guilt which cripples so many like yourself."
“I'm not crippled by guilt, Stern. I'm merely aware of it. There's a difference. But that's sort of a tired argument, isn't it?" Leaning forward slightly, Sarah turned to him. "But to be precise, I don't believe guilt is your motivation. I believe you are your motivation."
"I myself, Ms. Halder?"
Sarah nodded.
"How so?"
"As far as I can see, all your arguments do one thing," she said. "They permit you to do as you please."
Stern leaned back, smiling benignly.
"How arrogant of you," he said. "But you cannot know my mind, Ms. Halder. You do not know what I am thinking or why I believe the way I do. You can find nothing to refute my argument so you vainly and insultingly accuse me of manufacturing my philosophy to justify my actions against some inner moral law imprinted on my eternal soul. You infer that I believe as I do so that I may do as I wish."
Sarah remained poised. "That's about the size of it."
Stern laughed again. "These conversations are always so sadly, tragically pathetic and nonsensical," he continued. "And they always end in the same, pedestrian manner. Do you truly think I have not heard this argument a thousand times before? No, Ms. Halder, I have heard these things many times. To your surprise, I am considered quite skilled in critical reason, in philosophical thought, and in what you would call theology. Long ago I came to believe that the entire concept of a merciful God was the desperate ravings of sad, deluded people." His arm reached out in a gesture. "Look around you, Ms. Halder, and tell me, do you see any evidence of a merciful God?" He waited. "No. That is because there is no such thing. I have lived, and I have seen men who conquered by the strength of their mind. I have seen men who conquered by the strength of their wealth. But, though I have searched high and low, I have never seen evidence of someone who conquered, or even survived, because of a merciful God. I have seen only the contrary. I have seen endless rows of men and women who placed all their hopes in God only to die bitterly in the end – people who died starving, sick, and financially broken greatly preferring death to life. So, no, Ms. Halder, your God is a dream or He is insane. Because only an insane God or a Dream-God would allow so many to die so horribly. In any case, He would not be merciful. Personally, I believe that the Christian God is the dream of people who are unable to live autonomously, finding their way by intellectual argument and reason."
It was Sarah this time who laughed aloud. "The reasoning of intellectuals?" she asked. "Isn't that an oxymoron?"
Stern allowed that he was amused at her amusement. But over his thin smile his gaze was calculating, distantly angry. "You laugh," he said.
"Yes," she replied. "You amuse me, Stern."
"How so?"
Casually, Sarah leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped. Her presence seemed to suddenly intensify, somehow focusing a power that made her green eyes harden, impenetrable but penetrating, quick, acute. It was the face of a scholar, a scientist.
"Tell me about some intellectuals you admire," she said in a toneless voice.
Stern paused. Then he sniffed, moved his chin a hair forward. "In philosophy I admire Jean-Paul Sartre. He was—"
"A drunk," Sarah finished. "And a coward."
Stern blinked. "He wrote—"
"Of existentialism," Sarah said. "Define significance and strength of life by action. Except he was too cowardly to lift a finger against the Nazi occupation of France in 1942. He spoke against German occupation but he shamelessly hid himself from the SS and wrote meaningless plays while the uneducated French Resistance fighters died defending their country." She waited. "He was a sick man."
Cold, Stern hesitated.
"Give me another one," said Sarah. "I'm hungry."
A tense silence.
"In poetry," Stern began slowly, "I admire Percy Bysshe Shelly. He believed that imaginative poetry could recreate society to a higher state of being."
Sarah nodded studiously. "Ah, let me think, how does that go?" She closed her eyes, concentrating, opened them again to look at Stern, speaking pedantically, "'We want the creative faculty to imagine that which we know; we want the generous impulse to act that which we imagine; we want the poetry of life.'"
Without a pause she continued, "Shelly supposedly wanted to transform the world through intellectual beauty. And since he thought that artists were the most beautiful people in the world, intellectually that is, he thought they should lead the revolution. Do away with religion! Let the strong and beautiful direct us all! Away with the concept of God! Let the human mind, by itself alone, be the measure of everything right!"
She laughed again. "Shelly refused to believe in any absolute moral standards, so he set up his own," she continued. "But like most intellectuals he changed his moral standards whenever they became inconvenient. He valued honesty but when money was tight he stole from everybody he knew, forged their names on bills that he owed, and left his friends in crippling debt. Remarkable, isn't it, how quickly intellectuals can change what they believe?"
Amused, Stern stared at her. "So you intimate that the existence of God is necessary in order to set up an absolute moral standard, a standard outside of man that will place limitations on man's actions? You are saying that only in this way can there logically be order?"
She smiled. "Could be."
"Yes," Stern agreed. "I have studied this. But I don't believe it, Ms. Halder. Many people find it servile reasoning. In the first place, nothing in the universe demands any moral order whatsoever, so why should man be any different? What supposition ever decreed that there must be absolute moral standards at all? Your entire argument rests on the supposition that is, in itself, unsubstantiated."
"And yet you have morals, Stern."
"Yes. They are my own."
"And what if som
eone disagrees with you?"
"Then we shall be in conflict."
"And how will it be settled?"
"By dialogue, hopefully. And, if not, there are many other means. There is always the will to power."
Sarah stared at him. "I guess you think Hitler's final solution was a good idea."
"To someone who believes that only the strongest should survive and that there are inferior races of people, it makes perfect sense, doesn't it? However, I believe that Hitler was far too limited in his view. He should also have included many other peoples besides the Jew and Christian and Slavic peoples."
Silence.
Sarah stared at him. "You're crazy," she said slowly. "You're nothing but a murderer, Stern. All you really have are your illusions."
"Many of the world's leading intellectuals agree with me, Ms. Halder."
"And many don't, Stern. And many never will. All you have is money and muscle. That's your real god." She paused. "But I'm willing to bet that it won’t be enough. Because Gage is coming. And he’s coming for you."
Stern appeared unfazed by her comment.
"By the way, Ms. Halder, what do you believe?"
Sarah stared at him for a long moment. "To love mercy, to do justly, and to walk humbly before my God," she said.
"A pity," he said slowly. "I would prefer to trust my life to the strength of my own arm than to the whim of a mad God."
Sarah nodded, "Then by your own words you stand condemned."
"As do you," he said.
*
Carthwright, dressed in black and gray, resembled a vulture, and was waiting, staring pensively into the huge, empty marble Memorial when Kertzman arrived.
Early evening had cast the park in a gray twilight hue that left a thin amber streak over the Potomac. As Kertzman passed the steps towards the shadowy figure standing beside the pond, he noticed the distant scattered clouds, thin with a harsh winter, that hovered over deep red spiraled towers of a nearby cathedral.
Massive and gloomy, hands hanging in the cold at his sides, Carthwright watched the colossal image of Lincoln as Kertzman stepped up beside him. He didn't turn to Kertzman as he spoke. "I am glad to see that you're well."
Kertzman nodded. "I'm alright." He waited a second. "I've just finished talking with Acklin. He told me about the deal. Does he have it straight? Does Gage have immunity if he comes in?"
Carthwright nodded slightly but for a long time. Still, Kertzman had the impression that he really wasn't thinking about the question.
"Yes," he replied finally. "Yes, he does. As long as he gives his full testimony. Under oath. And he'll have to be willing to testify at proceedings if it's necessary."
"Then I think I can bring him in."
Carthwright smiled. He turned up the collar of his black cashmere coat with his black-gloved hands. Kertzman got a flash of a delicately thin golden watch on his right wrist, a black cufflink; an expensive taste in small things.
By reflex, Kertzman filed it like he filed everything else.
"I'll be leaving in the morning." Kertzman blinked against the wind. He needed sleep, needed it badly, but he had to finish this first. Then he'd stop by and see Barto and Malachi and head home. His flight to Rome left early tomorrow, an eight-hour hitch from Dulles International to Di Vinci.
Carthwright received the statement coolly. "Be careful, Kertzman. Something is afoot." He hesitated. "Too bad about Milburn and Radford."
"They were lost from the beginning," Kertzman said gruffly, coldly. "It was coming around." He paused. "A long time coming."
"Yes, perhaps," Carthwright agreed. A gust of sudden wind disheveled his blond hair. "And, now, what is next?" he continued. “Few people would guess it but I admit that this situation is almost out of my control. A shooting where one federal agent is forced to kill another is a delicate thing."
"I didn't kill Milburn."
"No," Carthwright agreed. "But you were on the side that did."
Kertzman frowned. "Anyway, I thought Milburn was retired."
"No," Carthwright replied. "He wasn't retired. Nobody retires from this game, Kertzman."
The words hung in the air. Brutal face appearing mean in the gray evening light, revealing nothing. "I've truly pushed my influence on this, Kertzman." Carthwright stuck his hands casually into the Armani overcoat. "How much longer 'til you can bring him in?"
"Forty-eight hours," said Kertzman gruffly. "Maybe three days. No more."
Carthwright shook his head. "That's too long."
Kertzman didn't move. "It ain't gonna be no quicker, I can tell you that. If he comes in at all." He paused. "But I think he will. He wants to do right, get free from this. I don't think he even cares about immunity. He'll probably come in, anyway."
Carthwright's face was tense. "Alright. Bring him in as soon as you can. But I want you to know that I can't keep the lid on this much longer. Pretty soon they'll replace me, and there's heat coming from sources that are going to hurt you and me, both. I can promise you that." He paused. "Is Acklin working out?"
"Yeah, he's working out," Kertzman replied. "Black Light was a for-profit company from the get-go. Somebody made a lot of money. And I don't mean Gage. It has somethin' to do with gold, takeovers, all that stuff."
Carthwright blinked, indifferent. "Yeah, I know the scenario," he replied. "I told Acklin that I didn't think there was anything to it."
Kertzman was studious. "Uh-huh. He told me. Do you know who delivered that package of information to Acklin?"
"No," Carthwright replied, "I don't know anything about the travel logs. I understand the fax came from the White House, but it was sent from the West Wing. Anyone has access to it. But somebody with weight obviously wanted Acklin working on the case because he's an old Special Forces buddy of Gage. I found out that much on my own." He shrugged. "I saw which way the wind was blowing. I didn't try and fight it. Once Acklin had done his homework I was justified to let him in, anyway. I figured you could use the help now that Radford and Milburn are gone." He paused. "What are you going to do about the gold angle?"
"Pursue it," Kertzman answered, without hesitation.
"I don't think you should."
Kertzman searched him. "Why?"
A heavy sigh. "Because there's nothing there, Kertzman. This is about foreign policy. I'm sure of it."
"I'll put your opinion in the report."
"Whatever," Carthwright said pensively. "But I want it on record that I think the crux of this is foreign policy."
"Alright," said Kertzman. "But I'm still going to search out the gold angle. If nothing's there we'll go back to foreign policy. But I think the money is the key." He waited. Carthwright didn't say anything. "We're going to find out what companies are behind some of these takeovers. Then we'll find something that will lead us to a name, somebody who could have run Black Light through a flunkey like Milburn. That'll be enough to justify a more specific investigation. With luck, something will shake loose and we can get some charges, an indictment, everything else. Our job will be done. Conviction will come down the road, but that won't be our responsibility. Justice'll do it. First we have to find a name. A head honcho. The rest just comes from shaking the tree."
"Do you think Milburn did it? Could he have been the top man? Or Radford?"
"No," Kertzman said. "Nobody would ever buy that. It would be convenient to blame Milburn because he's dead and can't defend himself. But he's a lightweight. It wouldn't fly. He didn't have the weight to set it up or keep it hidden. It had to be somebody higher. Somebody with power. Radford was never a real player. He was a gofer. A bootlicker. Whoever was running him is probably the man we want. Might even be a couple of people." He hesitated. "Could be anybody."
Carthwright just stared at the Memorial.
Kertzman studied him. His voice was old, mean. "Do you know something I don't know?"
Carthwright was turned slightly away. Kertzman thought his face was focused, intent.
"No, Kertzman, I
don't know anything," Carthwright said finally. "Just trace this organization back, find out who's behind it all, and get this over with."
*
FORTY-TWO
Manuscript wrapped in plastic and stashed deeply within the Lowe, Gage was halfway down the trail and moving fast to clear the treacherous trap created by the crevice when he saw the light.
It had been the first, farthest touch of a familiar glow that had traveled past the entrance of the graveyard in the moonlit night and then died.
He understood instantly.
Headlights!
Headlights were coming up the wide mountain road, killed as soon as the driver spotted the entrance to the tomb; the mark of someone who did not want to be seen.
With a breath Gage was in combat mode, wind delivering to him the sounds of the engine that carried in the cold and then, also, died. He bent his head a split-second, not hearing it within the icy walls but he knew the automobile was coasting now, the engine dead, closing silently on the entrance to the tomb.
Thirty seconds! You've got thirty seconds to get out of this crevice!
He ran, having turned already, back towards the tomb.
... When trapped by a larger foe, lure them into an ambush ... Move with them, not against them ... The more desperate the situation, the more you need a single decisive blow ... Fire is the quickest means of destroying a superior force.
Gage was at the crypt, down the stairs.
They would have reached the entrance to the graveyard by now. And they wouldn't take as long to come up the path as he did. No, they'd come careful, but faster, more confident.
Gage expected Sato and Carl, the German. Also, maybe, Stern and Radford. Two for certain, maybe four. At best, he had two minutes before they reached the entrance of the mausoleum.
Gage ran across the underground chamber to the tomb of the forefather of Santacroce.
Two minutes! Move!
Slinging the MP5 across his back, he reached out and grabbed the marble slab, moving it back into place. He left it barely open, jerked off the black backpack.
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