by Brett King
She interlaced her fingers, staring at the presidential symbol emblazoned on the table. “The Radix is a medicinal plant that went extinct. The last remaining stalk disappeared centuries ago, but was rediscovered. Taft-Ryder is interested because of its pharmaceutical potential. We plan to identify the genetic markers of the plant genome. Analyze its biochemical properties.”
“You could do that?”
“It’s already been done with another plant. Ancient healers used the date palm of Judea to create medicine. The date palm is a powerful symbol of Israel, showing up on ancient coins and modern Israeli currency. The Bible and the Koran praised the plant for its medicinal properties. In ancient times, it represented the Tree of Life. Crusaders destroyed this Judean date species during the Middle Ages.”
He nodded. “Another plant with healing properties that disappeared centuries ago.”
“But listen to this. While excavating King Herod’s palace at Masada, archeologists uncovered seeds from this ancient date palm. Radiocarbon dating placed the seeds at around two thousand years old. Back in 2005, a botanist named Elaine Solowey at the Arava Institute for Environmental Studies in Israel took one seed—she nicknamed it Methuselah, after the 969-year-old grandfather of Noah—and fertilized it.”
“What happened?”
“The Methuselah seed sprouted. After about six months, it was a foot-tall plant with six leaves. Last I heard, it was four feet tall. If the tree is female, it could bear fruit some day. Solowey believes the ancient plant could be useful as a modern medicine.”
The president considered the possibilities.
“Think about it,” she continued. “Researchers succeeded in germinating a two-thousand-year-old seed. Imagine what we could do with the Radix sample. We could manufacture the ultimate drug. Maybe it could cure diabetes, Alzheimer’s, depression, or cancer. Taft-Ryder would crush the other pharmaceutical houses.”
A knock came on the door to the briefing room. An attractive woman in a white lab coat peeked inside. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President, but I have an update on your brother.”
“Deena, this is Dr. Jenn Shaw. She’s a White House doctor.” He moved around the table. “Any word on Dillon?”
“I talked to the ER clinical ops director,” Dr. Shaw explained. “Shattered glass and shrapnel caused injuries and burns. Metal fragments punctured two organs, so it’s touch and go. They rolled your brother into recovery. We’ll see how he progresses from there.”
“How bad is he, Jenn?”
“Right now, I’d say your brother has a fifty-fifty chance of pulling through.”
Deena closed her eyes, absorbing the information.
President Armstrong looked at his watch. “Secret Service can try to stop me from going to that hospital, but it won’t do them any good.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Airborne over the Midwest
12:35 P.M.
On the Gulfstream, Brynstone started to call Cori. Before he could dial her number, a call came in. It wasn’t Kaylyn.
“Guten Morgen, Herr Doktor,” the man soothed. “You have a beautiful family.”
“Who are you?”
“Let me assure you, I am not your enemy. Not yet.”
“First things first. You need to prove that my family is alive and you need to do it now.”
“As you wish.”
A muffled sound. In a crackling voice, Kaylyn said, “John, please hurry—”
“Satisfied?” the man asked, coming back on.
“I’ll be satisfied when I put a bullet in your head.”
“Remember, Herr Doktor, I’m the one in charge.”
“I want my wife and daughter,” Brynstone growled.
“That’s a possible outcome. Are you in the air?”
“I should land at LAX a little after one thirty.”
“Excellent. I will contact you then.”
“Wait. Tell me who you are.”
“A fair request,” he said. “I am known as Erich Metzger.” He ended the call.
Shaking his head, Brynstone tossed the phone into the seat beside him.
Jordan studied him. “John? Are you okay?”
“That was the man who abducted Kaylyn and Shay. He claims he’s Erich Metzger.”
“The assassin? That Metzger? Did the Borgias hire him to target your family?”
“Maybe.” He watched Banshee jump from the top of one chair to the next.
“John, I know people on the West Coast who can help. I took point on a few jobs with them before I came over to the SCS. All three are former Emergency Reaction Team agents from the Special Operations Unit.”
“I don’t need NSA’s Men in Black. I can handle Metzger.”
“He’s a machine, John. A butcher. You are a formidable thinker and a resourceful warrior. But you’re no match for that psychopath. Mind if I call them?”
He looked out the window. After a pause, he answered, “Make sure they’re good.”
Airborne over the Atlantic Ocean
Time had disappeared during the flight to Switzerland. Cori immersed herself in the world of her mother’s scholarship. After a good three hours of intensive study, she wandered out of the bedroom. Journals and stacks of papers surrounded Wurm at the oval table.
“Nice nap, sleepyhead?” she asked, patting his shoulder. “I see you found coffee.”
Wurm raised a black mug. “I’ve consumed enough caffeine to kill a small child.”
She laughed nervously. She wasn’t sure she wanted this guy wired on coffee.
“What happened to your locket? The one with the plant engraving?”
“Decided to not bring it.” She pointed to his notebook. Wurm had scrawled the word Wotan beneath Jung.
“Jung had a dream about Wotan taking away his mother on the night she died,” Cori said. “What do you know about Wotan?”
“The Vikings called him Odin. The god of gods in Northern Europe. The chief divinity of Norse mythology. Early Germans called him Wotan. Sometimes Wodan or Woden.”
“Never heard of Wotan.”
“Sure you have. You honor his memory every week.”
She gave a puzzled look as she took a chair across the table.
He shoved aside journals. “Wednesday is named after him. It means ‘Wotan’s day.’”
“Guess I never knew that.”
He gave her an amused look. “Wotan’s not the only one. Thursday is named after Odin’s son. You know, Thor, the thunder god?”
She laughed at Wurm’s exuberance. He was caffeinated and totally engrossed in his ideas.
“It doesn’t stop there,” he said. “Wotan’s wife gets a day of celebration too. Frigga was a love goddess in Germanic paganism. That’s where we get Friday.”
She pursed her lips. “Is every day named after a deity?”
“Crazy, isn’t it? You know Saturday? Best day of the week, right?” Wurm said, rambling. “It was named after the Roman god of agriculture and harvest. It’s an Old English translation of the Latin Saturni dies, or day of Saturn. Tuesday honors the Germanic god Tiu. He’s like the Roman god, Mars.”
“Edgar.”
“Some people think Mars inspired Monday, but they’re wrong. Monday comes from an Old English corruption of the Latin lunae dies, or day of the moon. Monday means ‘moon day.’ Ancient pagan societies set aside a day for ritual moon worship.”
“Edgar. Slow down, buddy.”
“But the big one is Sunday. A pagan cult of Mithras worshiped the Roman sun god Sol Invictus on his special sun day. It was a big thing. Now, you might know the Jewish Sabbath day is the period from Friday sunset to Saturday nightfall. But what you didn’t know is that Constantine changed everything in 321, when he moved the Roman day of rest to Sunday. He was the first Christian Roman emperor, but he also respected the pagan solar god. It helped set the precedent for the Christian day of worship. You see, most people have no clue they celebrate pagan gods and rituals seven days a week.”
Cor
i raised an eyebrow. “Celebrate is a strong word.”
“Maybe when it comes to days of the week,” he admitted. “But pagan traditions had a huge impact on Christmas celebrations. Early Germans believed that Wotan rode around on Christmas Eve giving fruit and nuts to good children. You can see how that influenced later ideas about Santa Claus. Then, there’s the Tree of Life.”
“Hey, Edgar. Let’s stay focused on the—”
“Wotan plucked out his eye to gain the wisdom of the ages. He hung for nine days on the World Tree to learn the secrets of the magic runes. Later, Wotan’s followers commemorated their December holiday by hanging ornaments on Tannenbäume. When you hang an ornament on your Christmas tree, you’re actually paying homage to Wotan. It has little to do with Jesus, that’s for sure.”
“What does Wotan have to do with Carl Jung?”
“He had an interest in the Wotan legend.” Wurm gave a hard look. “He found inspiration in many places. Jung had mystical experiences that revealed forgotten truths to him. During one episode in December 1913, he perceived a snake coiling around his body. While sweating in the viper’s grip, Jung envisioned himself transforming into a pagan god.”
“Let me get this straight. This famous psychiatrist thought he was a pagan deity?”
“Some might claim that, but that’s not the way I see it. Whatever the truth, we do know that Jung had a powerful mystical experience. During a visionary journey, he joined an ancient mystery religion, one that flourished in Greco-Roman times.”
Wurm explained that ancient mystery cults were secret societies dedicated to a deity, such as the Persian sun god, Mithras. The cult of Mithras arose around the same time as Christianity and shared similar traditions. Mystery cults even celebrated Mithras’s birth on December 25, paralleling the Christian holiday of Christmas.
He added that the Mithraic brotherhoods practiced the unio mystica, a union of humans with a god. It was this kind of self-deification that Jung experienced during his 1913 altered state of consciousness. Wurm explained that during the trancelike vision, Jung perceived himself transforming into a lion-headed god.
“Wow,” she remarked. “Pretty trippy.”
He sipped coffee. “A published account of Jung’s self-deification based on a closed seminar he gave in 1925 appeared in 1989. Psychologist Richard Noll claimed that Jung’s deification was withheld from most followers for more than sixty years. Prior to that, the only way you could read about Jung’s transformation was to undergo at least one hundred hours of ‘approved’ analysis, and only then after you secured permission from your analyst.”
He pulled at his beard. “Jung exerted a significant influence on the people in his circle. Several called him a new light. Around 1916, when he delivered the Seven Sermons to the Dead, his interest shifted from the Mithras cult to Gnosticism. In later years, he incorporated these interests into his study of alchemy.”
Almost unconsciously, Cori stood and began pacing, absorbing the fabric of the conversation. Wurm studied her.
“Your mother interviewed one of Jung’s closest followers, a woman who was the daughter of European royalty. She claimed that Jung believed his spiritual destiny would be fulfilled if he found the Radix. She compared him to Wotan, who sought knowledge by hanging from the World Tree.”
“That’s the same as the Tree of Life?” Cori asked, brushing away bangs.
He nodded. “The tree is mentioned in every culture from Greek to Russian to Indian to European to the Indonesian islands. Like Christmas celebrations, the Church was careful with Wotan’s tree. Pope Gregory the Great advised a missionary in England to exercise care with pagan communities who worshiped a sacred tree. To avoid offending the pagans, he instructed the abbot to not cut down the tree. Instead, they attributed the tree’s mystical power to Christ.”
“Is there a connection with the tree in the Garden of Eden?”
“Genesis 2:9 describes two trees. The Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Adam and Eve sampled fruit from the latter one. They were expelled from Eden so they wouldn’t eat from the Tree of Life. Cherubs and a flaming sword guarded the path to the Tree of Life in the center of the garden.”
“What would have happened if they had eaten from the Tree of Life?”
“Immortality,” he answered. “Adam and Eve would have lived forever.”
She returned to her chair. “Did Jung believe the Radix was the last remaining piece of the Tree of Life?”
“Whatever he believed about the Radix, he shrouded it in secrecy.” He unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth. “Jung knew the Scintilla was worth little without the Radix. I think he waited to reveal the Scintilla’s hiding place until the Radix was discovered. That didn’t happen in his lifetime. Careful to the end, he gave clues to finding the Scintilla. As far as we know, none of his followers discovered it.”
“We know he never found the Radix. John Brynstone did.” She held the vial under the table, sensing the Radix’s power. “You think Jung found the Scintilla?”
“I suspect he concealed it at Bollingen Tower. That’s why we’re flying to Switzerland.”
Airborne over Kansas
2:22 P.M.
The private jet blasted over lonely prairie farmland. Brynstone leaned back in a leather club chair, working on a computer. He was watching real-time surveillance of a home, broken into a matrix of small windows. Jordan bent down, staring at his screen. She pointed to a window that displayed an office with the NSA emblem on the wall behind the desk.
“Is that DIRNSA’s office?” she asked.
“Yeah. When I was at Delgado’s home, I broke into his computer and created an operating system backdoor so I can monitor his activity. Didn’t get time to establish audio, but I can access the closed-circuit television cameras around his house. Even the camera inside his computer.” He frowned. “I admit. That part is a little creepy.”
“Isn’t that a violation of his civil liberties?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “Ask me if I care.”
“It’s sort of funny,” she said. “Eavesdropping on the director of the National Security Agency. It’s like interrupting a telemarketer’s dinner with a sales call.”
“Did you learn anything about Metzger? Any physical description?”
“He’s like a phantom. An Egyptian journalist described Metzger as five-five, pale complexion, and heavy, with long brown hair. Then I found another description from a few years ago when he assassinated the leader of Yamaguchi Gumi, one of the biggest Yakuza groups.”
“Wait a minute. Metzger killed a Japanese Mafia boss?”
“Guy’s got balls. The Yakuza boss’s wife spotted Metzger in Kobe. The ane-san said he was about six-one, dark, and one hundred forty pounds, wearing short blond hair. I found three more eyewitness descriptions, all contradicting each other. I even called an old boyfriend who worked CIA. When I asked about Metzger’s physical ID, he just laughed.”
“The CIA didn’t give you anything on him?”
“He did tell me that the Company refers to Metzger as the Poet.”
“Yeah?” he asked. “Why do they call him that?”
“The poet Dante used contrapasso to describe the punishments of different sinners in his Inferno. Metzger kills using a contrapasso theme, the idea that punishments reflect the crime. He has a reputation for assassinating people in the same manner they use to kill their own victims. As sick as it sounds, they say he has the heart of a poet. I’m sorry, John. That’s all I know about him.”
Brynstone turned away, thinking about Metzger pulling a hit on a Yakuza boss. Then, he thought about his wife and baby girl in the hands of that monster.
Chapter Thirty-four
Potomac
3:52 P.M.
In the studio at the back of his spacious house, the Knight studied the canvas on his easel. Something wasn’t right. He wasn’t capturing the strain in the abdominal muscles.
Since childhood, he had been obsessed w
ith the crucifixion of Saint Andrew. The apostle’s fate had been sealed when a Roman governor named Aegeates sentenced him to death. To prolong Andrew’s suffering, Aegeates had the disciple bound—not nailed—on an X-shaped cross. Like his crucified brother Peter, Andrew was posed in an upside-down position.
The Knight dabbed his brush into a swirl of Payne’s-gray paint. He glanced at the canvas, then ran a gray line beneath the rib cage, giving shadow to the apostle’s stomach. He had perfected it now. Although far from complete, his painting of a man crucified on an X-shaped cross was already remarkable.
He turned from his canvas. He spoke to his subject for the first time in hours. “This is a great honor, you know,” he called to the homeless man ten feet away. “Andrew was the Protocletus. That means the ‘first called.’ Jesus summoned Andrew as the first apostle.”
Bound with arms and legs spread in opposite directions, Andy’s body formed an X. Blood glistened on the ropes encircling the homeless man’s wrists and ankles. Every muscle quivered. Blood had rushed to Andy’s head, giving his face a scarlet cast.
“Do you know why Saint Andrew was crucified in an inverted position? He thought himself unworthy to be martyred on the same type of cross as Jesus. Nailed in an upside-down position, Andrew could train his gaze not on his executioners nor on the earth, but on the heavens above, where his beloved kingdom awaited.”
Andy didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The laryngectomy prevented him from speaking. Without his voice box, Andy couldn’t muster a sound. The Knight insisted on the surgery because screaming distracted him from his painting.
“More blood.”
Max Cress came over with a glass syringe. “In the red?”
“Please.”
Cress stabbed the syringe’s needle into a dab of paint on the Knight’s palette. He pushed the plunger, squirting Andy’s blood into the red ochre.
“Stop,” the Knight said. “Enough.”