by Brett King
She joined him. Cori rose on tiptoes and peeked around his broad shoulder.
She spied a ripped nightgown over Tessa’s blood-speckled leg. “Oh, no. Is she dead?”
“She’s alive.” He moved her toward the stairs. “I used her phone to call 911.”
“I need to help her,” Cori sobbed.
“Jordan texted me. Baltimore police are looking for you in connection with the homicides of two Amherst Hospital staff. Someone reported you as an escaped mental patient.”
Cori was dazed. “I didn’t kill Mack or Perez. I can explain to the police.” Her mind flashed back to Wurm in her hospital room. He had warned against calling the authorities.
“We have to go,” Brynstone said, turning at the sound of a distant siren. “Now.”
Chapter Nineteen
Washington, D.C.
2:51 A.M.
“Sorry to summon you so early on this Christmas morning, ” Alexander Armstrong said from behind his Oval Office desk. “We have a matter concerning Ambassador Zaki.”
“What’s the situation, Mr. President?” Lieutenant General Jim Delgado asked. At fifty-six, the National Security Agency director was square jawed, with a steel gray buzz cut. He looked tough, with an old scar cutting his left eyebrow down to his cheek. DIRNSA had bulbous pale blue eyes and spoke in a detached voice. Delgado didn’t talk like brass Armstrong had known, the man sounding more like that damned computer from 2001: A Space Odyssey.
Vice President Isaac Starr stood beside Central Intelligence Agency director Mark McKibbon, a lanky man with sandy hair swirled over his receding hairline. Usually a cheerful warrior, he seemed grim this morning.
Armstrong spread photos across his desk. “This man broke into Zaki’s home.”
“Do we know his identity?” Starr asked.
“I didn’t tell Zaki,” the president said, “but I know the man. His name is John Brynstone. I presented a medal to him. He’s a Special Collection Service agent.”
In 1978, the Central Intelligence Agency and the National Security Agency formed a joint intelligence organization that drew on the best of both agencies. The Special Collection Service combined stealthy CIA operations with NSA technology. As far as the government was concerned, the SCS didn’t officially exist. Neither did its secluded three-hundred-acre campus in Beltsville, Maryland. Little wonder it was the most secretive intelligence agency on the planet.
The Special Collection Service’s colorless name made it sound like an organization better suited to librarians than cyberspooks. SCS agents employed intrusive methods that included breaking into targeted facilities to steal information and installing hidden listening devices, as well as swiping computer passwords and spreading software viruses in enemy databases.
“I met Dr. Brynstone and his wife and baby daughter at the award ceremony. Anyone here know why he was breaking into Hala Ranch?”
Delgado licked his lip. “We intercepted a hot signal linking Ambassador Zaki with Islamic separatists known as the World Islamic Brotherhood. As a top SCS agent, Brynstone was sent to infiltrate the Saudi ambassador’s home last night.”
“Did he plant eavesdropping equipment in Zaki’s home?”
“Actually,” the CIA director said, “Brynstone was there to retrieve a relic.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. Historians and archeologists have been interested in this relic for centuries.”
“But not intelligence experts.”
“Let me back up, Mr. President,” Delgado said. “For years, Edgar Wurm was a top NSA cryptanalyst. His project supervisor complained that Wurm had a hobby that interfered with his NSA work at Crypto City. For the last thirty years, Wurm has studied the Voynich manuscript. It’s an obscure document riddled with ciphers and mysteries. They say it drives cryptologists crazy. That proved true in Wurm’s case.”
“But it paid off,” McKibbon added. “Wurm determined that the Voynich manuscript held clues about where to find this relic. That’s where Brynstone comes in.”
“Tell me about him,” Starr said.
“His father was a top NSA administrator. Before following in Jayson Brynstone’s footsteps, John became an army captain at age twenty-five, assigned to the Eightysecond Airborne. He distinguished himself at Fort Bragg and became an Army Ranger. Brynstone was tapped to serve as a long-range-surveillance team leader. He headed up an elite LRS force charged with clandestine reconnaissance for intelligence gathering deep in hostile territories.”
“He’s mentally tough,” McKibbon said. “Outscored everybody on military-intelligence tests. This soldier can outthink anybody in the room. He holds a doctorate in paleopathology.”
“Hold up,” Starr said. “He has a degree in paleo-what?”
“Paleopathology. The study of ancient diseases. He specializes in mummy research. Brynstone’s a risk-taker. The man never gives up. We couldn’t have designed a more perfect special operator for this mission.”
“Brynstone offered the best chance to find it,” Delgado agreed. “He’s our only agent with paleopathology experience. Wurm’s obsession rubbed off on Brynstone. They worked together until Wurm was hospitalized. At that time, an NSA agent named Jordan Rayne joined Brynstone’s team. Rayne and Brynstone ran a black op tonight called Operation Overshadow. It involved breaking into Zaki’s home to steal the relic.”
“Explain something. Why do we want this relic?”
“We believe the ambassador values this relic more than any other possession,” McKibbon said. “And we believe he will do anything to get it back.”
Delgado nodded. “Including sharing information on the World Islamic Brotherhood.”
“Brynstone takes the relic and Zaki sells out the Brotherhood to get it back. What kind of relic are we talking about?”
“Mr. President, the relic is called the Radix.”
Armstrong and Starr exchanged looks. The vice president made an expression, showing he remembered discussing Dillon’s interest in the Radix. The president flashed back to his conversation with Secret Service agent Natalie Hutchinson. He had to find out how his brother was involved.
Wrapping one hand around his fist, he asked, “Did Brynstone find it?”
McKibbon coughed. “That’s where we have a problem, sir.”
“They landed in Baltimore, but Brynstone and Rayne failed to report in. We’ve had no contact with them. We have reason to believe our OPSEC was compromised.”
“Let me get this straight. Two high-level intelligence agents are missing, and the NSA has no idea what happened?”
“That’s correct, sir,” General Delgado admitted.
“You think someone got to them?” Starr asked.
“That possibility is on the table,” McKibbon said. “We haven’t been able to track them.”
“The Department of Defense can’t track them?” Armstrong snapped. “We have satellites orbiting twelve thousand miles above the earth that can find an ant on a sidewalk in Cincinnati.”
“We’re working on search coordinates, but let’s play with an idea. What if they decided to go off the grid? If anyone knows how to be invisible to our satellites, it’s John Brynstone.”
“Can’t agree, Mark,” Delgado said. “John would never go dark without authorization.”
“We have to consider every alternative,” Armstrong said. “Can’t we use the military’s Precise Positioning Service to track them if they make a phone call or an Internet search?”
“Brynstone and Rayne are equipped with our best technology. They can block signal broadcasts on both military and civil-use frequencies.”
“That’s just great,” the president said, rubbing his stiff neck.
“We’ll find them,” General Delgado assured. “John Brynstone is like a son to me. I’m confident he’ll turn up soon.”
Baltimore
3:02 A.M.
Brynstone drove the Escalade along a tree-lined strip of neighborhood, heading toward an industrial complex. After
Jordan’s warning about the Baltimore police, Cori needed to be a safe distance from her home. After Jordan located the Hartlove Slaughterhouse to free Wurm, he planned to draw upon government connections to clear Cori with the authorities. He couldn’t risk doing that now. Not as long as he was off the grid.
Cori stared out the window. He decided to get her talking.
“Tell me about that necklace.”
She wiped her eye, then held out the locket. “Mom gave it to me before she died.”
“What’s that symbol engraved on the front?”
She traced her finger around it. “Some plant,” she sniffed.
The symbol matched the Voynich plant symbol on the cista mystica’s lid. He decided against telling her. Maybe he’d said too much about the Radix. Still, he sensed he could trust her. A little.
She looked at him with red eyes. “Tell me about Edgar Wurm.”
“Guy’s brilliant. Two doctorates and an IQ of one ninetysix. We met while working for a government intelligence agency.”
“Which one?”
“Can’t discuss it. I picked up the pieces after Wurm lost his mind eighteen months ago.”
“You’re saying the government wants the Radix?”
“I never said that. The Radix was an obsession that my father and Edgar Wurm shared.”
“Sounds like Wurm has been researching it for years. I saw his books.”
A burning realization came into his mind. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
“A book code,” he said. “That’s what it is.”
He noticed a police cruiser heading in the opposite direction. Reaching in his pocket, he brought out the business card Wurm had given Cori back at the mental hospital. He glanced at the numbers scrawled on the back of his card.
157:13:08–09/14:05:02–03/316:01:01/07:07:07 98:28:01/03:05:13/64:02:16/63:25:07/404:30:04–05/84:08:06
He handed the card to her. “See the number sequence? Wurm wrote his message in the ‘traitor’s code.’ Benedict Arnold used it back in 1779 when he conspired with the British to betray American interests. It’s a basic key-book method of encipherment.”
“Why would Wurm leave his message in code?”
“Edgar couldn’t write a grocery list without putting it into a cipher.” He looked over. “I bet Wurm used your mother’s book as an encipherment key.”
Without hesitation, Cori grabbed Ariel Cassidy’s The Perfect Medicine.
“What’s the first number string on the card?” he asked.
“Um, 157:13:08–09.”
“Turn to page one fifty-seven in your mother’s book.”
She opened it and started flipping pages. “Got it.”
“Go down to the thirteenth line. Count over to the eighth and ninth words.”
She traced the page with her finger. “It reads, ‘The general principle of alchemy—’”
He handed her a pen. “Write down the first two words on the card.”
She jotted “The general” on the back of his business card.
He frowned, spotting a Chevy Cavalier behind them. Was it an unmarked Baltimore PD vehicle? He kept driving.
“Mind deciphering the other numbers?”
“I’m on it,” she reported, flipping to page fourteen. “Two words. It reads, ‘deceived and,’” she said, jotting down both on the card.
“Keep going,” he answered, glancing at the rearview mirror as Cori searched the remaining number sequences in her mother’s book. After a few minutes, the Cavalier turned, then sped away, heading west. She positioned the pen in her mouth as she flipped pages. A couple blocks to the south, he stopped at a streetlight.
“Here ya go,” she announced, handing him the card. “It’s a strange message.”
He glanced at Cori’s flowing script. Wurm’s message chilled him.
The general deceived and betrayed you your father never searched for the Radix
Was it true? He swallowed, his eyes going blank for a minute.
He was fighting a growing sense of bewilderment. And he was a little pissed off. He had trusted General Delgado. The man claimed Jayson Brynstone had dedicated his life to finding the Radix. Was it all a lie? Why would Delgado do that? Until Brynstone discovered the truth, he had to take action, even if it threatened his relationship with his NSA mentor. All at once, Wurm’s message took on a new meaning. He had used the traitor’s code, drawing a parallel between the betrayals of General Benedict Arnold and General James Delgado.
Brynstone dropped his head, thinking over Wurm’s twisted irony. The light changed. He hit the accelerator.
“Is that true?” Cori asked. “That part about your dad. Is Edgar right about that?”
“We need to find Wurm,” he said. “I need to know the truth.”
Washington, D.C.
3:20 A.M.
President Armstrong had asked Isaac Starr to wait after their meeting with NSA director James Delgado and CIA director Mark McKibbon. After excusing the Service agents, he said, “Remember in the theater, when I told you my brother planned to purchase the Radix?”
Starr nodded. “Now we hear about it from the NSA and CIA directors. You think your brother is involved with Brynstone? Maybe he went dark to deliver it to Dillon.”
“I wondered the same thing.”
“You still worried the Radix might be a Nixonburger?”
“I’m not sure. But I’m more concerned than ever.”
Starr frowned. “I wonder what Dillon is planning.”
“There’s one way to find out.” He grabbed the phone, then speed-dialed a number, waiting for his brother’s voice.
“Alex? Is something wrong?”
“I want to speak to you,” he said in a flat voice. “In person.”
“How about in the morning?”
“How about now, Dillon?”
A yawn. “This better be important.”
“Oh, it is important,” he growled. “One more thing. Is Deena with you right now?”
A long pause. “Alex, that’s none of your business.”
“Get over here now. I’m waiting.” He hung up, then glanced at the vice president. “You want to leave before I meet with my brother?”
“And miss the fireworks?” Starr grinned. “The Service would have to kick me out before I’d miss seeing another battle between you two.”
3:27 A.M.
Deena sensed a wildfire of attraction growing between her and Dillon. He had convinced her to stay at the penthouse while he met with the president. Coming down to see him off, she emerged from the elevator. The Lafayette’s spacious lobby had an art deco theme, featuring a grand marble entrance and twin elevator banks. Two big men waited in the lobby. She wasn’t comfortable around Dillon’s bodyguards.
“Why does the president want to see you in the middle of the night?”
“He didn’t tell me. But Alex did ask if we were together.”
“I need to tell you something,” she said, bringing her hand to her chest. “You said you thought Alex was attracted to me.”
His face darkened. “You slept with my brother. Didn’t you?”
“It was a long time ago, Dillon. Look, I don’t know where this relationship will go, but I won’t start it off lying to you. You need to know about Alex and me. It was brief and it’s over. I don’t love him. That’s all there is to it.” She reached around his neck, pulling in close for a kiss. “You know, I think I’m falling for you.”
He pulled back. “I’ll talk to my brother. See what’s on his mind. When I get back to the penthouse, we’ll arrange to secure the Radix. Then we’ll celebrate.”
He marched toward the door. She craned her neck, then looked out the lobby window. His limousine was parked at curbside in front of a Honda Civic. Dillon stepped into the brisk night air. He wore a dark wool overcoat and clutched an umbrella. One bodyguard, a white guy, walked in front of him. One trailed—a smaller, African-American man.
She turned away, texting Pantera as she headed back t
o the elevator.
A deafening explosion rocked the lobby.
Coming from the street, the blast toppled her. As she plummeted, beveled opaque windows shattered behind her. Glass shards burst into the lobby. Heat seared her back and hands. Bewildered, she looked down at her reflection in the polished marble floor. Hair sprayed around her face. She groaned, sitting up and brushing away hair. She grabbed her head. Her lip was bleeding where her face had slammed into the floor.
Back at the desk, the concierge called 911. His voice sputtered with urgency. The man lurched past without making eye contact. Glass crunched beneath his shoes.
A terrible realization hit as she watched the concierge hurry toward the door. Dillon was out there. Someone had tried to kill him. Taking a clumsy step, Deena climbed to her feet and staggered toward the door, screaming as she rushed to the sidewalk.
Part Three
The Secret Church
Submit to the present evil, lest a greater one befall you.
—Phaedrus
Chapter Twenty
Washington, D.C.
3:30 A.M.
Sirens wailed in the night as Deena Riverside stepped through the crumpled green door swaying from warped hinges. Not noticing the glass embedded in her feet, she stumbled down the brick stairs onto the sidewalk outside the Lafayette apartment building. A dull ringing sounded in her ears, almost as if her head were submerged under water.
Dillon’s limousine was rolled onto its side, straddling the sidewalk. The open door pointed toward the sky. She rushed to the sedan, then peered inside. The driver’s face was pressed against the window, his cheek forming a pink oval on the shattered windshield. Spidery lines of blood trickled down the dead man’s forehead.