Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  Still smiling, the driver moved hastily out the door with the suitcase. Kertzman followed, scanning left and right with a wary, tired air. He moved outside into the cold wind as the driver loaded the suitcase into an old, beaten beige Hyundai.

  In the winter's late evening light, Kertzman stared at the tiny car, the narrow backseat and low ceiling. He shook his head. "Figures," he mumbled.

  A voice came from behind him. “Perhaps I can be of service."

  Kertzman turned slowly, no expression. "Hello, Sir Stephenson."

  Smiling, Sir Henry Stephenson stepped up beside him. He was dressed sharply in a black chesterfield, the collars of a white starched shirt barely visible underneath. His luxurious black overcoat was casually unbuttoned, and his black cotton pants were perfectly creased above a pair of polished lace-up Oxfords.

  Stephenson was cordial. Two old friends meeting in a faraway place. "Can I give you a lift into the city?"

  Without waiting for a reply Stephenson nodded toward the parking lot. Kertzman turned to see a large black four-door Mercedes with a diplomatic plate pull away from a reserved parking place. It drove smoothly through the broken traffic to stop at the curb.

  The driver didn't get out.

  Kertzman felt that he was losing control of the situation. He focused on Stephenson. "Maybe I don't want a ride," he said, low.

  "Well, Mr. Kertzman, perhaps you don't," Stephenson replied courteously, his voice also suddenly low. "I certainly have no wish to impose on you, my American friend. I only thought we might discuss a rather delicate situation involving a mutual acquaintance. And, just perhaps, as opposed to our last meeting, I might be of some use to you."

  Kertzman noticed two Italian, white-shirted uniform police watching them suspiciously.

  Make a decision.

  Kertzman knew he was in the badlands, where nothing was safe and nobody could be known for certain. It was a place where one had to make instant decisions about who to trust, and where actions spoke far louder than words. Then he remembered that Stephenson was just about the only person who had helped him so far.

  He sniffed, nodded slightly. "Alright," he said, a tone of caution. "But make it quick. I got some place I gotta be."

  Stephenson smiled. "Of course." He walked to the cabdriver, who had watched it all with a disappointed gaze. But his expression changed to one of gratitude when Stephenson handed him a large note, speaking quickly. Then, without complaint, the driver placed Kertzman's suitcase in the trunk of the Mercedes.

  Kertzman walked to the formidable black car, which seemed to be armored even though he could see no armor. With only the slightest hesitation at the open back door, he climbed in.

  Stephenson climbed in behind him, and the door shut with reinforced strength.

  Locking.

  *

  FORTY-SEVEN

  A winged dragon with red eyes and grinning fangs crouched in the nightmares of Father Stanford Aquanine D'Oncetta, hovering over him, hungry, reaching out with taloned hands for his soul.

  Father D'Oncetta sat up rigidly in his silken bed, instinctively bringing one forearm up across his face. Breath hard and fast, he stared wildly into the darkness at the foot of his bed. He was clammy with sweat.

  Trembling, he grasped his chest with one hand, felt his panicked, racing heart as, suddenly lightheaded, he gasped for breath.

  He scanned the surreal shadows of his darkened bedroom, watching through eyes still thick and heavy with sleep. After a moment he caught a breath, his near invulnerable control quickly asserting itself. Groaning in relief, he looked closer, more confidently, into the shadows.

  No, he thought, there is nothing.

  "A dream," he said aloud. "Only a dream."

  Bowing his head, D'Oncetta rested upright, hands flat on the soft white silk.

  Then D'Oncetta glanced up to behold the nightmarish shape beside him. And for a skipped heartbeat he searched for voice or breath but neither voice nor breath would come and the horror seemed to be choking him.

  Black shape in shadow, poised at the foot of his bed, the stygian form was outlined before the faint light of the distant curtained windows.

  D'Oncetta froze; it was no dream.

  Slowly, with difficulty, D'Oncetta's keen intellect recovered his racing heart, his nerve. His cunning eyes narrowed slightly, estimating. Casually, he moved toward the side of the bed.

  "Don't," the voice said almost sadly. "This belongs to me."

  D'Oncetta ceased moving. He gazed at the intruder with a gathering calm, revealing himself as a man of some courage. After a moment D'Oncetta leaned forward, hands relaxed, open on the sheets. His voice was steady, strong.

  "So," he said. "You have come."

  A pause of ominous silence.

  "Yes," said Gage.

  D'Oncetta's chin lifted slightly, a thin smile glancing across the tanned face. "And will you kill me?" he asked strongly, no fear traceable in his tone. "Is that why you are here? To kill me?"

  Gage seemed to shift; D'Oncetta could not be sure.

  "Not yet," he replied.

  D'Oncetta's gathering composure contained an element of contempt. "No," he replied bitterly. "Not yet." He paused. "So what do you want? What will be your vengeance?"

  Thick, condensing silence.

  D'Oncetta saw the black-gloved hands, the hue of a dark leather coat.

  Face in shadow, Gage bowed his head slightly forward. "I have the manuscript," he said.

  D'Oncetta thought that he perceived a hint of fatigue in the dry, cracked voice. "And I am supposed to believe you?"

  "You'll know soon enough."

  Gage seemed to sway slightly and D'Oncetta thought he perceived the faintest lessening of the strong tone.

  "Bring the woman unharmed to the Catacombs of Priscilla in the Villa Ada," Gage instructed. "Midnight tomorrow. If you don't come or if I see police or military, I'll destroy the manuscript."

  D'Oncetta nodded and leaned forward, fully recovered. "Gage," he began almost warmly, "you must listen to me. You must listen to reason. If—"

  "Enough," said Gage. "Tomorrow night."

  A pause.

  D'Oncetta nodded again. "As you wish," he replied. "But I would impose a request. I do not wish to be with you alone, not after you have Ms. Halder at your side. I do not mean to transgress upon your honor, but I would insist on bringing an escort to insure that I do, indeed, depart from this."

  No reply.

  D'Oncetta repeated, "I will not meet you alone in the night! I am not a fool! Once you have Ms. Halder, you may commit something ... precipitous. If you do not agree to this reasonable request, then you may destroy the book."

  A swaying hesitation.

  "Alright," Gage replied quietly. "Bring the men from the cabin."

  D'Oncetta's face was curious, concentrated.

  Cautiously, Gage backed away, moving with soft steps. He was halfway across the room, completely lost in the gloom, when the almost indiscernible footsteps disappeared.

  D'Oncetta turned his head slightly, listening.

  "I know you are still there," he said calmly, driving back the intimidating darkness with the strong tone. "You have not deceived me."

  "There was a time..." the voice came back, soft and whispering, "when I would have killed you for this."

  Rigid lines of control in D'Oncetta's face relaxed in a suddenly absorbing thought, or shock. But he recovered quickly, fluidly.

  "Yes," replied the priest indulgently, with a priest's patient, understanding demeanor, "but you are not the murderous butcher that you once were, are you, Gage?"

  Silence.

  D'Oncetta's tone reached out again, slightly impatient, faintly edged. "Gage?"

  Wind and darkness whispered in the shadowed room.

  D'Oncetta's strong tanned hands clutched involuntarily at the silken sheets of his bed.

  "Gage?"

  *

  Stern stared moodily at the ocean from the windows of the palatial fortress
by the sea, seemingly mesmerized by waves crashing against the cliffs in a gathering, rhythmic force of night.

  Stately and composed, the white-haired man approached him from the side, elegant and regal in a long purple robe that swept the salt-stained stones of the balcony. The imperious figure hesitated as he drew near, ice-blue eyes focused and patient, infinitely calm.

  Stern looked away from the cliffs, and his gaze settled on the man's aristocratic face. His voice was low and brooding. "Carl is dead, Augustus," he said, waiting. "Sato came in this morning and reported."

  Stern looked again, dejectedly, to the ocean. "Gage reached the tomb last night before we arrived," he continued with a sigh. "There was a battle, and now Carl is dead. Gage is also dead. Or at least I hope that he is dead." He paused, shook his head. "We can never be sure with him. He has survived so much. In any case, I fear that we may have lost the manuscript. Possibly forever."

  A momentary concentration passed across the face of the man called Augustus. He nodded solemnly. "A sword may also wound the hand that wields it, Charles," he said. "From the beginning, we were certain to sustain injury. That is the hard rule of war."

  Stern looked upon Augustus with respect. "Sato says that Gage slid into an ice-fall with Carl," he continued, morose. "And Gage was in possession of the prophecy." He waited. "Which means the manuscript has gone into the glacier. Lost."

  Augustus smiled. "Nothing is lost, my friend," he added. "We must only reorganize for another attempt to claim what is rightfully ours. Remember, Charles, that genius in war is nothing more than the ability to maintain a calm mind in the excitement of conflict."

  "Yes," said Stern slowly. "I wrote the manual on generalship, Augustus. I know these things. But in reality it is a difficult thing to do."

  Augustus nodded. "Difficult, yes, because perception is always accompanied by pleasure, or pain. And the ordinary mind is tragically influenced by both. But we must rise above the ordinary, Charles. We must become more than mere men in order to claim the destiny that is ours. We must not stumble at pain, and we must not fear because fear, even as pain, lays the foundation for confusion. And confusion is the mark of the weak."

  With consummate composure Augustus stepped forward. "Pain and fear are the masters of inferior men, Charles. They are the curse of ordinary minds, the minds of the defeated, and the foolish; minds that fulfill meaningless, fearful lives and are not missed by the world when they pass. As we both know, that is not our destiny. We were born to rule."

  There was a slight relaxing in Stern's rigid stance. He nodded slowly and for a long time. "Yes," he said, "but still, I fear the book is lost."

  Augustus smiled encouragingly. "Great wealth can accomplish great things," he said stoically. "Nothing is lost as long as it is on the Earth. The book shall, in the end, be ours. And then we shall discover the name. Of that you can be utterly certain. Nothing can prevent it. Our intellects are superior. Our plans are infinite. There is nothing we cannot overcome."

  Stern gazed at him with a solidifying confidence.

  "For example, our original containment plan was unsuccessful," Augustus continued. "But that was merely the first step. There are worlds within worlds, Charles. There were many, many more plans designed and prepared to serve our purpose, should that one have failed, as it did. It is only a minor inconvenience."

  Stern regarded him calmly. "Very well. But the professor and his daughter still pose a security risk, Augustus. They must be dealt with."

  Augustus nodded solemnly. "Yes, they must be silenced. But Gage is gone now, so their deaths shall be far simpler to accomplish, and far more merciful. Yet the professor must not be eliminated too quickly or it will arouse attention, and provide some evidence to his wild accusations which no one truly believes as yet. No, we shall wait for a suitable time, until he is released from protective custody. Then we shall do it quietly. And his unfortunate death, as usual, must seem providential." He waited, considering. "The woman, Ms. Halder, will be the most delicate matter. She must be dealt with immediately. And yet I hope that the act, unseemly as it is, is accomplished in a manner that appears quite natural. If possible, it must appear accidental, with witnesses to verify that no malevolent forces were at work."

  Stern nodded. "It will be done, Augustus." He waited a moment. "And Kertzman? What shall be done with him? He has discovered a great deal."

  Almost brooding, the austere, white-haired man turned his head slightly away, meditatively placing both hands in the front fold of his purple robe. A troubled look passed across the lean, careful countenance. "This man, Kertzman, is he a danger?" he asked.

  Silence between them, waves crashing.

  "He is a hunter," said Stern. "He arrived in Rome an hour ago. We believe he was planning to meet Gage. But that won't happen now, of course. Still, I don't think that Kertzman will stop his investigation. He is a hard man and he will continue hunting for the truth."

  Thunderous wind swirled with white slashing mist below the fortress. Augustus nodded. "Death is a terrible thing," he said softly.

  Suddenly an elegantly crafted phone positioned on a black rattan table rang softly.

  Augustus stared at the intrusive device. Stern was also strangely still. Then the white-haired man picked it up, listening closely, his expression studious, concentrated. After a moment he replaced it, turning back calmly.

  "Our friend, Father D'Oncetta, has visited the domain of dragons," he said quietly.

  Inhaling a sudden breath, Stern stepped forward. "When?"

  "A moment past," replied Augustus.

  Stern's control seemed tested by the emotional intensity of the situation. "I knew he was alive! I knew he would not die! He wants an exchange, doesn’t he!" He looked at Augustus with the words. It was not a question.

  Augustus nodded his head, solemn. "Yes."

  "When?"

  "At midnight tomorrow," Augustus replied, without emotion.

  Stern shook his head. He clenched his fist, half-raising it as if to strike an unseen enemy, and he gazed about, like a man searching for an invisible foe.

  Augustus smiled, blinked softly.

  "Do not fear, my friend," he said, complete in his enduring calm. "Even dragons must die."

  *

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Kertzman gazed out over Rome's sprawling city lights that pulsated dimly in the mid-darkness of night. He was all too aware of Sir Henry Stephenson, composed and patient, standing beside him.

  "So," said Kertzman, with a trace of gathering anger. "Stern is MI6."

  Silence.

  "He was MI6," Stephenson replied finally, like a man constantly pained to speak with exactitude. "As I said, he disappeared from operations over six years ago. At first we suspected that he might have defected, as Philby. Then we came to a more thorough understanding of Stern's philosophical principles and we reached quite a different conclusion. Since that time we have searched for him throughout America and Western Europe."

  Kertzman didn't look at the Englishman. "But now you know that Stern has gone to work for someone else," he said. His voice wasn't friendly. "And you're trying to find out who. That's why you came to New York. You weren't there to make arrangements for Maitland. You couldn't have cared less about Maitland. You were there trying to figure out what your man, Stern, is up to nowadays."

  Stephenson replied quickly and easily. "Yes."

  Turning fully to face him, Kertzman's tone became genuinely angry. Hostile. "Does my government have all this?"

  Stephenson held his ground against Kertzman's imposing force. Then, finally, he shook his head, noncommittal. "Who can say, Mr. Kertzman?" He sighed. "This profession can be somewhat tedious. But I would presume that, yes, they do know. I, for one, believe that someone knows everything."

  Nervously Kertzman clenched his empty left hand, wishing he'd brought the .45. But International jurisdictional disputes had interceded and he was forced to leave his hogleg in Washington.

  Technically, if Gage would
come in, Kertzman was supposed to escort him "without incident" to the American Embassy. Or, if Gage refused to come in, Kertzman was supposed to pinpoint his location and notify the Embassy's resident FBI special agent who would, in turn, notify the Italian police for an official pickup order. The official word was that if Kertzman or any other Bureau special agent used a weapon on Italian soil while searching for Gage or Sarah Halder they would be prosecuted as an American civilian in violation of and under the jurisdiction of Italian law.

  In reality everyone knew that there would never be any prosecution of an American federal agent for using a weapon on Italian soil, even if the weapon was used without permission. But the political repercussions would be profound, far-reaching and, though the situation certainly wouldn't come to imprisonment, it would assuredly end in a prompt and sacrificial termination once the agent returned to the States.

  But as far as Kertzman was concerned, Sarah Halder was priority, and if he needed to use a weapon to get her back, then he'd use a weapon. If he could get his hands on one.

  Gage had become a secondary issue. Kertzman didn't know if the Delta commando would come in, not with the situation as dirty as it was. And, somehow, he felt that Gage wouldn't live long if he did, indeed, come into protective custody. He almost wished that the soldier would take to the high country, get clear of it all. But Kertzman knew that he wouldn't; Gage had to finish this. He had to bring an ending to this part of his life, and the only way to truly do that was to come in, to testify.

  And as bad as things were, they would get a lot worse before it was over. Kertzman couldn't remember a time when he wanted a gun as badly as he wanted one now.

  He met Stephenson's even composure.

  "So why didn't you tell me about Stern earlier?" he asked coarsely.

  With a disappointed air Stephenson answered, "Mr. Kertzman, we do not flag our defections and disappearances before the scornful winds of the intelligence community. At the least, it is embarrassing. At worst, it could profoundly injure relationships."

  "But you said it wasn't a defection."

  Stephenson took out a silver case of long, thin cigarettes, offered one to Kertzman. Kertzman shook his head, took out a pack of Marlboros. Stephenson lit his cigarette with a small gold lighter. Kertzman used a match.