by Brett King
He looked over. “Can’t what?”
Wurm handed the vial to him. “Can’t take it.”
Brynstone glanced at the backseat. He handed the vial to Cori. “Guess that makes you the Keeper of the Radix. Take it, Cori.”
Apprehension creased her face. She took the vial, then unscrewed the lid, tipping the end. The Radix slid down the glass tube toward her hand. She raised the vial, stopping it from coming out. She didn’t want to touch it.
Not yet.
Many times she’d doubted the truth behind the Radix legend. Ariel Cassidy had never convinced her. Neither had John Brynstone. In this solitary moment, her skepticism washed away. Even without touching it, she sensed the ancient root’s hypnotic power. She indulged a fantasy in which her mother had never died but instead worked in her study. She visualized herself placing the Radix in her mother’s hand. She flirted with that image, watching Ariel Cassidy’s face brighten. She wished her mother were alive to experience this moment.
Cori glanced up. Wurm was staring at the Radix. The burning look in his charcoal eyes troubled her. He wanted it back. She slid the vial into her jeans pocket. Their eyes locked in a fierce gaze. Wurm’s face twisted into a weird mix of relief and bitterness. He turned around, leaving her to stare at his long gray hair. She glanced down at her trembling hands.
Cori was still shaken, minutes later, as she waited inside the private hangar at Teterboro. She looked up as Jordan walked over.
“Our jet’s almost ready, John,” she announced. “Cori and Edgar better go soon. Ariel Cassidy’s archives are already on board.”
Brynstone looked puzzled. “Aren’t you’re going with them to Europe?”
Jordan shook her head. “I’m going with you, John. I want to help you find Kaylyn and your daughter. After that, we’ll reunite and help them look for the Scintilla.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“I’ve made up my mind,” Jordan interrupted, closing his lips with a press of her slender finger. “I want to help you. Don’t waste time trying to change my mind.”
“I’m disappointed with your decision, Jordan,” Wurm cut in, “but I now have a reason to do this.” He pulled her in and kissed her. Her eyes widened in surprise before she pushed away.
“Always wanted to kiss a woman with a beauty mark. What did you think?”
She wiped her mouth. “I think you need a shave.”
“It’s my way of thanking you for the new shirt,” he said. “Reminds me. I need to ditch my bloody sweatshirt.”
“C’mon,” Jordan said. “I saw a men’s room. I’ll point it out to you.”
As they walked away, Cori stepped closer to Brynstone. “I’m glad Jordan is going with you to Cali. It’ll be nice to have someone you can trust.”
As Banshee curled around their legs, Cori wondered if Brynstone was thinking about taking back the Radix, his mind playing the alternatives. She reached in her pocket, then pulled out the vial, holding it in her hand. “I don’t know if I should take this.”
He shook his head, closing fingers around hers. “You keep it, but don’t tell anyone you have it. And don’t let Wurm bully you. He’ll try to dismantle your mind. Pick apart your brain, neuron by neuron. Don’t let him.”
“Gee, thanks. I’m not scared at all now.” She unchained the heart-shaped locket from behind her neck and handed it to Brynstone. “This belonged to my mother. Can you hang on to it while I’m in Switzerland?”
He studied the golden locket. “You don’t want to take it?”
“I saw Wurm staring at the plant symbol engraved on front. You know that crazy look he gets? Kind of freaked me,” she said, rising on her toes and wrapping her arms around his neck. “Good luck finding your wife and daughter.”
He kissed her cheek. “Good luck finding the Scintilla.”
Brynstone looked up as Wurm ambled over with Jordan. The big man looked better in his new black shirt.
“It’s time for your flight,” Jordan told Cori.
He hugged her again. She held tighter this time, as if she were siphoning his strength. He shook Wurm’s hand as Jordan embraced Cori, who stooped and petted the cat.
“Let’s go,” Jordan said. “I’ll show you where to find the jet.”
“Go ahead, Cori. I’ll catch up.” Watching them walk away, Wurm lowered his arm across Brynstone’s shoulder. “I want you to take the Radix, John.”
“I’m not taking it back.”
“I told you I can’t keep it.”
“I understand. That’s why Cori has it.”
“But she shouldn’t have the Radix,” Wurm growled. “You know how much is at stake.”
“Don’t you trust her?”
“She is bright like her mother. A good kid, but she can’t be the Keeper. She doesn’t comprehend its power.”
“That’s why she’s the best person to keep it.”
“John, listen to me—”
“You listen to me.” Brynstone stabbed his finger into Wurm’s chest. “Do all you can to help Cori. And you sure as hell better not hurt her. Understand?”
Wurm drew in a hard breath and nodded.
Brynstone softened his voice. “Good luck, Edgar. God knows you’ll need it.”
Chapter Thirty
Potomac
9:30 A.M.
The Knight slid into a chair at his dining table. Seated opposite him, the homeless man was dressed in a silk designer robe. A ponytail restrained his clean brown hair. After a fresh bath and shave, he looked like a new man. His weathered face brimmed with character. The homeless man attacked the sumptuous meal with the appetite of a beast.
“I instructed Dante to prepare any dish you requested,” the Knight said, amused. “I assumed you wanted breakfast.”
“I wanted a real meal,” the homeless man said. “Got ketchup?”
“For what purpose?”
“For this.” He pointed at the filet mignon.
The Knight sighed and turned to Cress. “Bring the man ketchup.”
“Sure appreciate this, mister.” The man gulped his wine, leaving droplets on his beard. “But why’d you invite me?”
“Credit the holiday spirit. What is your name?”
“Andy.”
“That’s perfect.”
“Sure is a big place you have here,” Andy said, looking around as he placed foie gras on bread. “You famous or something?”
“I am a knight.”
“Don’t mean to be insulting, sir,” the man said, as Cress placed ketchup on the table. “But the way I see it, the world don’t need knights no more.”
“Many share your misguided opinion, Andy. But we can’t be blind to the truth. More than ever, our world is lapsing into dark times. My fraternal order offers hope and salvation.”
Andy dumped ketchup on his steak. “Don’t follow, mister.”
“The world teeters on the edge of apocalypse. Sinners must be eradicated to make way for forward-looking ideas.”
“Sinners?” Andy asked. “Like the church—”
“The Church has lost its way, like everyone else,” the Knight interrupted. “The Church begs for my renaissance. It needs an avenging angel.”
“A knight needs a sword,” Andy said, changing the subject. “You got one?”
With a stiff formality, the Knight flicked his hand. Cress nodded, then moved to an adjoining room. With eyes like dark glass, he stared at his guest. “You’re going to enjoy this.”
Cress returned with an oblong box. He moved Italian black truffles, then placed it on the table. Sliding on white gloves, he opened the box and removed a sword.
“Sure is a beauty. Can I hold it?”
The Knight nodded.
“Gotta be strong to use this thing.” Andy raised the golden handle with both hands, studying an eight-pointed cross in the hilt. “What is that?”
“The Maltese cross. The symbol of the Sovereign Order of the Knights of Malta.”
Cress took the sword and returned it to t
he case. He removed it from the table.
“Eat. You’ll need your strength.” The Knight studied him. “I must ask you something, Andy. Are you a sinner?”
“Who isn’t?” he smiled, revealing a mouthful of decayed teeth.
“What would you do for redemption? For immortality?”
“Haven’t given it much thought.”
“What do you think, sir?” Cress looked at his watch. “Does he meet with your approval?”
“I’m not happy about the teeth, but I can correct that. He’ll do.”
At Cress’s signal, two men in dark suits marched into the room. One pulled back the chair. The other grabbed Andy’s arm. The homeless man lunged forward, clamping his hands on the chair, struggling to stay seated.
“Hey, why you doin’ this?” he protested. “I’m not done eating.”
“Yes, you are,” the Knight said. “Take him.”
Andy reached for a table knife, but his hand was batted away. He kicked his feet and tried to fight, but proved too frail to resist. The men dragged him from the dining room.
“Begin the procedure,” the Knight told Cress. “Call me when the anesthesia wears off. Andy must be lucid during my work. I want him to experience everything I do to him.”
Part Four
Land of the Dead
It is by going down into the abyss that we recover the treasures of life.
—Joseph Campbell
Chapter Thirty-one
Airborne over Pennsylvania
10:25 A.M.
Brynstone peeked out the jet’s window, glancing at the snow-streaked Appalachian Mountains. He had expected exhaustion to hit after boarding the Gulfstream luxury jetliner back in Jersey. Instead, adrenaline burned inside whenever he thought about Kaylyn and Shay. Had Adriana’s family kidnapped his wife and child? The House of Borgia would do anything to get the Radix. But did they know he’d found it?
Banshee played in the aisle, kneading her paws.
He pulled out the cista mystica, containing Wurm’s replica of the root. His hunt for the Radix felt incomplete without the Scintilla. That had to wait until he had his family back.
Jordan noticed the stone box. She cleared her throat, then pointed at the flat-screen TV.
“John, check this out.”
A cheerful anchorman stared into the camera. “Maryland authorities describe the woman as an escaped mental patient from the Amherst Psychiatric Hospital in Baltimore. Police are calling her a person of interest in the homicides of two hospital employees. She is also linked to the assault of her roommate.” A picture from Cori’s Facebook profile appeared on the screen, showing her with long blonde hair. “Cori Cassidy’s whereabouts are unknown. Now let’s return to our top story.”
Brynstone rubbed his face, relieved that Cori and Wurm had made it out of the country. Their transatlantic flight had taken off almost an hour ago this Christmas morning.
“I knew about the hospital staff,” Jordan said. “I hadn’t heard about Cori’s roommate.”
“Tessa Richardson. The Borgias broke into Cori’s home, searching for Ariel Cassidy’s notebook. I’m guessing Tessa got in their way.”
“Seems like the Borgias are always one step ahead,” she said.
“I know what you mean. How did they know to find Wurm at Amherst or about the notebook at Cori’s house?”
“John, look,” she pointed at the television. “It’s the president.”
A cable news network was airing highlights from President Armstrong’s press conference. The banner at the bottom of the screen reported, BREAKING NEWS: PRESIDENT’S BROTHER TARGET OF CAR BOMB. The network cut to footage showing Dillon Armstrong trapped beneath a twisted car. While addressing the media, the president’s stony temper cracked when he discussed Dillon Armstrong’s situation.
“A car bomb,” Jordan said. “Who would do that to the president’s brother?”
Brynstone didn’t answer.
Television crews captured Armstrong’s grimace as he walked from the news conference without taking questions. Outside George Washington University Hospital, a female reporter added, “We’re told Dillon Armstrong is in surgery. According to our sources, President Armstrong has not visited the hospital because a heightened alert was issued at the White House. We have no word on any leads about who planted the car bomb.”
Brynstone shook his head. Everything was going to hell today.
Airborne over the Atlantic Ocean
On the flight to Switzerland, Cori explored the Airbus Corporate Jetliner, finding it crowded with amenities more lavish than at any hotel she’d stayed in. The Armstrong luxury jet boasted an exercise room, conference center, and wine alcove. She tried to imagine the first family flying on this plane. She couldn’t help but be impressed.
She wanted to check on Tessa, but Brynstone had advised her to wait. She thought about his cat and realized she missed Banshee. Wurm had crashed on the couch in the front cabin. To escape his snoring, she grabbed her mother’s journals and a bowl of fresh fruit, then headed to the jet’s bedroom. Peeling open a banana, she curled on the bed and started reading.
Ariel Cassidy had dedicated several journal pages to Carl Jung’s paternal grandfather and namesake. The elder Jung had been a German-born medical student when his radical political beliefs led to his arrest in his early twenties. After serving his prison term, the elder Jung moved to Paris in 1821. A short time later, he moved to Switzerland to become a professor of surgery at the University of Basel. A staunch Freemason, Jung’s grandfather became the grand master of the Swiss Lodge. During this time, he developed a deep appreciation for alchemy. In later years, that heritage helped to inspire his grandson to create a kind of spiritual alchemy.
Cori’s mother noted that alchemists had used Decknamen or cover names to disguise and protect their secret craft from outsiders. In fact, alchemists had coined the word arcanum to describe secrets revealed to loyal followers. It had been suggested that Carl Jung cloaked his concepts with psychiatric code words like collective unconsciousness and archetype. Whatever secrets he might have coveted, Jung did refer to the unconscious mind as the Land of the Dead. Coming from her dead mother, those same words had haunted Cori’s nightmares.
In his autobiography, Jung described having a “frightening dream” in January of 1923. His nightmare involved the German god Wotan, who appeared in a primeval forest and ordered a gigantic wolfhound to carry away a human soul. The next morning, Jung learned that his mother had died. The experience inspired him to build his Swiss retreat, a castlelike complex in Bollingen, Switzerland. Two months later, he began constructing a stone tower beside the shallow upper end of Lake Zurich. Over the next dozen years, he worked on the complex. He had dedicated it as the Shrine of Philemon, but it was better known as Bollingen Tower. In her journal, Ariel Cassidy wrote that Jung’s “dream castle was a stone personification of his unconscious mind.”
Cori had to figure out what Jung knew about the Radix and the Scintilla. What better place to crawl inside Jung’s mind than at his Bollingen retreat?
Chapter Thirty-two
Washington, D.C.
11:42 A.M.
The United States Secret Service had transported Deena Riverside to a nondescript office space three blocks from the White House. Between interviews, she found a new text message from Pantera:
The DA tragedy adds a wrinkle to our deal. Multiple parties are interested in the Rx. Do you have sufficient funds to complete the deal in time?
She replied that she had the money. She made plans to have a contact meet Pantera to collect the Radix. Pantera had never mentioned additional parties before, but it didn’t bother Deena. She had locked in the price. Business as usual. Taft-Ryder’s future rested on acquiring the Radix. With Dillon in a coma, she was more anxious than ever to get her hands on it.
A man in a blue suit approached her. “Ms. Riverside, I’m Special Agent Antonio Casañas with the United States Secret Service.”
“Sorry, Agent
Casañas. I already told your investigators everything I know.”
“We have a few more questions,” he said. “Then the president wants to meet with you.”
Potomac
12:05 P.M.
“What’s the latest on Brynstone?” the Knight asked, pressing the phone against his ear. Standing in his study, he looked out the window as afternoon light filtered over the scenic riches of Montgomery County.
“I’m setting a trap for him,” Metzger reported.
“Your cat-and-mouse games tire me. You need to understand the urgency of this matter.”
The assassin chortled into the phone. “I’ve never heard you sound frustrated before,” Metzger said. “It’s refreshing.”
“It is my destiny to become Keeper of the Radix. Find it.” He slammed down the phone.
Cress knocked on the door, then entered the study. “The procedure was successful. You won’t notice the incision. Andy is ready for you.”
“Good,” the Knight answered. “I am ready for him.”
Washington, D.C.
12:47 P.M.
Deena had taken an elevator deep beneath the White House. After Secret Service Agent Casañas drove her through a long tunnel, she arrived at the Presidential Emergency Operations Center beneath the East Wing. Alex was waiting in a conference room. He hugged her, then pulled back a chair for her.
“Last night, you talked to my brother on the South Portico. Mind telling me what you discussed?”
“A confidential business deal.”
“Involving the Radix,” the president added.
“How do you know about that?”
He leaned back in the chair. “Tell me what it is and why Dillon wanted it.”