by Brett King
In the yard lights beyond the window, a stand of birch trees cast flickering shadows on the wall. Brynstone growled, “You’re wasting precious time.”
“I saved your life when that intruder killed your father. You could have been stabbed like I was, but I stopped him.” He touched the scar trailing from his eyebrow. “I’ve tried to help you throughout your career. Do you know why, John? Because there’s no one else like you.”
“Did my father even know about the Radix?”
“Years ago, I was the deputy director for intelligence for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Back then, your father told me about a young NSA cryptanalyst named Edgar Wurm. Your father called him a ‘water walker,’ the kind of analyst who finds the best path to a solution. Wurm wanted to be the first crippy to crack the Voynich manuscript. It became an obsession.”
“That hasn’t changed.”
“Rather than reprimanding him for wasting time, your father encouraged him,” Delgado said. “It worked. The more Jayson feigned interest in the Voynich discoveries, the more Wurm committed to his NSA duties. He idolized your father. And then, one day, Jayson told me Wurm believed the Voynich manuscript could lead to the Radix.”
“My dad never had an interest in finding it?”
A thin smile. “He never admitted it, but I think he did. At the time, Jayson had a son who was stricken with Perthes disease. A boy who might never leave his wheelchair. Your father taught you to expand your mind. Still, Jayson feared the disease would cripple your life.”
“He never mentioned that to me,” Brynstone said in a hushed voice.
“You represented his greatest hope and his greatest fear. Too bad Jayson didn’t live to see you climb out of that wheelchair.”
“You set me up like a pawn. You used me to get what you wanted.”
“You’re looking at this all wrong. How tragic you can’t see the importance of your mission.” Delgado licked his lip. “You called last night from Glenwood Canyon. You said you had the Radix. Tell me, John, did you witness its power? Did it make you a believer?”
Brynstone sensed movement outside the door. He pivoted, reaching for his gun. The footfalls were measured and quiet. His eyes darted left, keeping Delgado in his gaze. Sweeping the Glock, Brynstone saw a figure in the shadowy hallway.
Cori Cassidy caught her breath, her expression radiating fear.
Seizing the interruption, Delgado rose off the stool. Brynstone pointed the gun.
“Sit down,” he said between gritted teeth. He turned toward Cori. “I told you to stay in the study.”
“I know, but you have to see this.” She held up a folder stuffed with papers.
“You brought a guest,” Delgado said, turning to her. “Welcome, Miss Cassidy.”
“How do you know her?” Brynstone demanded.
“He knows me through my mother’s work,” she answered. “Remember how Mom’s papers burned at Princeton? Well, they didn’t. I found two of her folders on his desk.”
Delgado shrugged. “I needed Ariel’s archives, so I planned a fire at Dickinson Hall.”
“Where are the rest of Mom’s archives?”
“Sorry, Cori, that’s all I have.”
Unconvinced, she looked at Brynstone. He cocked his head, keeping the handgun trained on Delgado. “You’re handing over those archives. Let’s go.”
Cori followed Brynstone down the basement stairs. His gun was trained on Delgado as he led the way. She puzzled over the complicated relationship between the men. Wurm claimed that Delgado had lied to Brynstone about his father. It tore him up, though John tried to hide it.
At the landing, they entered a narrow corridor. A hint of redwood tickled her nose.
The cellar boasted row after row of wine bottles stacked in wooden racks. Each bottle had been placed on its side, label up, and had a tag on the neck. Moving around a wine rack, Cori found the men at the far end of the cellar.
“Open it,” Brynstone ordered.
Delgado moved to his knees and pulled a recessed handle that blended with the wooden floor. He opened a hatch, revealing a ladder leading down to a room.
“Go,” Brynstone told him, pointing the gun.
Delgado slid into the opening, climbing down the wooden ladder. Brynstone followed. Cori remembered John saying that he had been a guest at this home. He knew the place.
Climbing down, she saw him inspecting a stack of document boxes. Delgado’s face flashed hot annoyance. Stacked in careful rows, five white boxes were labeled in her mother’s handwriting. She almost couldn’t handle this moment, believing for so long that Ariel Cassidy’s archives had been consigned to fire. “It’s all here,” she muttered. “Mom’s Radix archives.”
Brynstone looked at Delgado. “Let’s get this upstairs.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Near Washington, D.C.
4:46 A.M.
Stuffed bookshelves lined every wall in General James Delgado’s study. His “ego wall” featured framed photographs and military commendations alongside diplomas from the Naval Postgraduate School, the National Defense University, and the United States Military Academy at West Point. An oversized NSA symbol emblazoned with an eagle clutching a key was centered behind the desk.
Delgado sat ramrod straight, handcuffed in an armchair.
Seated behind the cherrywood desk, Brynstone studied notes that Ariel Cassidy had written after a visit to the Kristine Mann Library at the C. G. Jung Center in Manhattan. Cori leaned forward on a leather divan, reading another notebook. He knew that she had given up any hope of seeing the archives again. It must have seemed surreal for her, sitting in the home of the director of the National Security Agency, reading her mother’s “lost” papers.
“It’s gratifying to see your interest in the Radix,” the general said, interrupting their work. “I’ve been studying it since you were a child.”
Brynstone ignored him. He kept his gaze trained on the notebook.
“Ariel Cassidy was critical in solidifying the role of alchemy in understanding the Radix and the Scintilla,” Delgado added. “After her book came out, I learned about her unpublished work. I had hoped to consult her, but she had the poor judgment to go and die.”
Cori shot an angry expression at the man.
Brynstone gave her a look, as if saying, Don’t let him get to you.
He dropped his head, then continued scanning Ariel’s archives. He examined a photograph of a broadshouldered man with a pipe fixed in his beefy hand. His thinning white hair was cropped like that of a Prussian soldier. Small wire glasses perched on his aquiline nose.
“That’s Carl Jung,” Cori said. “Freud called Jung his ‘crown prince’ of psychoanalysis, but treated him like an inferior son. Jung thought Freud was obsessed with sexuality. They shared a volatile friendship for years. In time, they stopped speaking.”
Delgado cut in. “Jung was a leader, not a follower. He was intelligent and charismatic, and people were drawn to him.”
He explained that Jung counted among his disciples Edith Rockefeller McCormick, the daughter of John D. Rockefeller. She had been married to Harold McCormick, the heir to the farm-equipment fortune. The McCormicks proved critical in founding the Psychological Club, a gathering of Jung’s circle for lectures and social events. Mary Mellon and her husband, financier Paul Mellon, were also followers of Jung. The Rockefellers, the Mellons, and the McCormicks were among America’s wealthiest families. Delgado added, “Without their financial backing, Jung wouldn’t be as well known today. Some claim he created a cult and they funded it.”
“What kind of cult?”
“A secret society inspired by pagan mystery cults from the Hellenistic world. It has been suggested that some of Jung’s followers used his work as the foundation for a quasi-religious sect. A kind of ‘hidden Church.’”
“Why that name?”
Delgado shuffled in his chair. “Historically, there has been the visible Church and the hidden Church. The visible Church refers to the p
ublic face of Christianity, the one you see with crosses and stained-glass windows and ceremonies. But scholars like Franz Cumont claim that centuries ago, beneath the visible Church, secluded underground chambers hosted initiations. Gathering in secrecy, members participated in mystical traditions that included everything from Hellenistic mystery cults, alchemy, and Grail sects to Rosicrucianism and Freemasonry.”
“You’re saying Jung’s analytical psychology represented the visible Church?” Brynstone asked. “He attracted a cultlike following—a sort of exclusive society—that could be likened to a secret Church?”
“That’s what some people believe,” Delgado answered. “Maybe only his closest followers knew the truth. Many in his inner circle were ‘Valkyries.’ That’s the name given to Jung’s female followers. In Norse mythology, Valkyries were the twelve handmaidens of Odin.”
“I don’t know,” Cori argued, running her fingers through her hair. “Jung doesn’t seem like a cult leader.”
Delgado winked. “Think about how Jung’s beloved alchemists guarded their secrets. To learn their beliefs, you had to prove yourself to their inner circle.”
“But alchemy was more of a spiritual quest,” she protested.
“I believe Jung was on a spiritual quest to study the mysteries of the unconscious,” Delgado countered. “Alchemy inspired his psychotherapy. Both involved transformation from something imperfect into something far better. In Jung’s therapy, a person must undergo a psychological and spiritual transformation to become an individuated or whole person.”
“It is true that alchemy inspired Jung’s work,” Cori added.
“It inspired his paternal grandfather too,” Delgado said. “He was also named Carl Gustav Jung. The elder Jung was a Freemason and grand master of the Swiss lodge. According to Masonic legend, the first Freemasons built the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem. In the following centuries, alchemy dovetailed with some Masonic ideals. That was true in the Jung family. His grandfather changed the family crest to reflect his appreciation of alchemy. Carl Jung wrote about the ‘fateful links’ to his grandfather and other ancestors.”
Brynstone’s phone rang. Stepping into the hallway, he answered it. Jordan Rayne was calling from the road after getting a lead on the Borgias. Once he’d gotten directions, he ended the call. He motioned for Cori to join him, then spoke in a whisper.
“Jordan found the Hartlove Slaughterhouse. Hopefully, Wurm’s there.”
“Let’s go.”
“I like your spirit, Cori, but this could be dangerous.”
“More dangerous than facing the Borgias in the hospital or nearly running into them after they almost killed my roommate? Or breaking into the home of the NSA director?”
“Actually, yes.”
“I need to go with you, John. I need answers as much as you and Wurm do.”
He got it. Her unquenchable curiosity overruled her need for safety. He nodded. “Let’s load up your mother’s archives.”
“What about General Delgado?”
“I’ll take care of him.”
They returned to the study. Brynstone placed a lid on a box, sensing Delgado’s hypnotic gaze. No doubt about it, he was in the mood to play mind games.
“You’ve always been the empiricist, John. Needing to see to believe. Despite your risk-taking personality, you’ve never been one to take a leap of faith. Time to stop clinging to scientific skepticism. Together we can capitalize on the power of the Radix. Join me, son.”
Brynstone placed the handcuff key on the desk. He removed a syringe and vial from a black pouch. Plunging the needle into the vial’s stopper, he flipped the bottle and extracted the chemical into the syringe. He pulled the needle from the stopper and tapped the syringe.
“That better be the BT-17 antidote,” Delgado said.
“I don’t have an antidote.”
“What? You sonuvabitch.”
“You don’t need an antidote for saline solution.”
“You injected me with saline? Then what’s in that syringe?”
“A tranquilizer.” He pinched a fold of Delgado’s skin on his arm, bringing in the needle.
“A tranq, John? All that special ops training and that’s the best you have? A needle?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. Good point.”
Brynstone placed the syringe on the desk. Reaching in his holster, he brought out a Glock. He turned to the general.
“You’re going to shoot me, John?”
“I don’t believe in wasting bullets.”
He flipped the gun around, then raised it in the air. Delgado tried to duck as the butt slammed against his head. Eyes rolling back, the man slumped against the chair.
Brynstone stood over him. “Trust me. You would have preferred the syringe.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Lambertville, New Jersey
5:05 A.M.
Edgar Wurm batted open his eyes. He felt as if he were floating. Glancing down, he realized he was suspended ten feet above a bloodstained floor. A rope binding his wrists together was looped over a meat hook. Pressure ripped at his arms, nearly dislocating his shoulders.
“Ah, you’re awake.”
Adriana Borgia marched across the slaughterhouse and stopped beneath him.
White hair clung to his sweaty face. His sweatshirt was streaked with blood. He remembered the torture now. He faked a serene expression, hoping it would piss off Adriana.
Beneath a snakeskin trench coat, she wore a wool sweater, tattoo-tight leather pants, and knee-high boots with stiletto heels. Her black hair shimmered in the arctic blue light. She grabbed a metal box, then pressed a button. Releasing a mechanical whine, the cable rolled the pulley block, lowering him. As he touched down, Santo Borgia joined his sister.
Tall and intimidating, she placed her hands on her hips. “Where is the Radix?”
Wurm frowned. “No one knows, Adriana. Especially your people. Remember, it was Cesare Borgia who lost it five hundred years ago.”
Ignoring the dig at her ancestor, she said, “John Brynstone knows.”
He peered into her gray eyes. “Haven’t spoken to him in eighteen months.”
“The time for lies has passed.” She turned to her brother. “Santo, the cattle prod.”
Taking it, she gave a frosty grin, then switched on the prod. His eyes widened at the crackling purple light. Adriana jammed the prod into his neck. Wurm’s heart hammered, sending his body into convulsions as the meat hook held him upright. Pain streaked down his chest. She grabbed his beard, jerking his face close to hers.
“Speak, old man. Where is it?”
“Go to hell,” he choked.
Santo flipped the rope and released Wurm’s tied hands from the meat hook, then restrained him from behind. Weakened from the torture, he couldn’t put up a fight.
Adriana reached for pliers, then seized his slack hand.
“After kidnapping you from the psych hospital, we administered sodium pentothal. You mumbled something about ‘removing the fingernail.’ That gave me an idea.” She grabbed his index finger. “Anything you care to tell us, Dr. Wurm?”
In a daze, all he could mutter was “Don’t.”
She squeezed the pliers around the nail on his index finger, threatening to rip it off.
She won’t do it, he told himself. She won’t.
“Last chance,” she cooed. “Where is the Radix?”
Caught in Santo’s grip, he stared with defiance. “Lost to history.”
She yanked off the fingernail. Blistering pain flooded his hand.
“I thought the Voynich manuscript held the answer,” he choked. “I was wrong.”
“I see.” She moved the pliers to his ring finger. “Give me a reason to stop.”
“I know you.” His words slurred. “Nothing will make you stop.”
Adriana cursed before tearing out the second fingernail. He yelled, trying to pull away. He was too weak to break Santo’s iron-tight grip.
She cente
red the pliers on his pinky finger. “Tell me.”
He spat in her face. She wore a cold smile as she dropped the pliers. She wiped spittle from her nose. “I’ll take that as a no,” she said. “Time for the salt.”
She grabbed a blue container, then opened the spout. He swallowed. She sprinkled salt onto his fingertips. His head dropped. Without fingernails to protect the vulnerable skin, his hand turned red and began twitching. It felt like he’d reached into flames.
Santo released him to answer his phone. Wurm slumped, fighting the pain.
“Adriana,” Santo interrupted, handing over his cell. “It’s Lucrezia. She has a question about the notebook. Something about the tower.”
She talked for a minute, then closed the phone. She turned to her brother. “I need to take off. Stay here and watch Wurm.”
“Can I kill him?” Santo asked, looping Wurm’s bound hands over the meat hook. He pressed the button. Suspended from the meat hook, Wurm’s limp body rose into the air.
“In time.” Adriana tossed him the phone. “We’ll kill both Wurm and Brynstone.”
Maryland
5:35 A.M.
Cori sequestered herself in the backseat with her mother’s archives as Brynstone headed north on I-95. During the long drive to the slaughterhouse, she found a folder marked “Radix ipsius.” It was empty. In another box, she found notes on the Scintilla. Two boxes later, she found answers in a folder marked “Philemon.”
Early in his career, Carl Jung had felt pushed to the brink of psychosis and even suicide. In 1913, Jung began practicing what he called “active imagination,” a kind of conscious dreaming. During one trancelike meditation, he encountered a wise old man named Philemon. Dressed in robes and held aloft by colorful kingfisher wings, Philemon became Jung’s spiritual guide, opening his eyes to the power of the unconscious. After ending his relationship with Sigmund Freud, Jung delved deeper into his mystical journeys. He related his experiences to those who had won his trust. He gathered a group of disciples and shared his Seven Sermons to the Dead. Some had suggested that Jung and his followers hoped to create a spiritual rebirth for humanity. It reminded Cori of the promise of knowledge and rejuvenation that had inspired earlier quests for the Holy Grail.