by Brett King
Silence for a beat until Delgado said, “Are you talking about Erich Metzger? The assassin? He kidnapped your family?”
“Stop playing games.”
“I’m serious, John. I had no idea. You know I adore Kaylyn. I would never—”
Brynstone cut in. “I used to believe your lies. Not anymore. If anything happens to my wife and daughter, you’ll never get the Radix.”
“Oh, I’ll get it,” Delgado vowed, his voice revealing a fracture in his composure. He growled, “If you don’t give it to me, I’ll send a team to apprehend you.”
“I’ll take out anyone you send my way. Then I’ll come for you.”
“Is that a threat, John?”
“It’s a guarantee, Jim.”
He closed the phone and returned to his seat, grabbing his computer. He didn’t like to bluff with his family on the line. He didn’t have the Radix with him anymore, but he was willing to try anything. The stakes were too high.
Jordan walked up. “You okay?”
“I will be after we find my family. First, we need to find Metzger.”
Brynstone felt as though he could trust no one except Jordan and Wurm and Cori. Chances were good he wouldn’t come out of this alive. No matter what, he had to make sure Kaylyn and Shay survived.
Paris, France
3:57 A.M.
The jet made a final approach toward Charles de Gaulle Airport. Cori closed an alchemy book and searched for the Eiffel Tower. Green lights strung across the tower formed the image of a Christmas tree.
“First time in Paris?” Wurm asked.
She nodded. “Mom came here all the time, but always alone. Dad joked she had a French lover.”
He gave a sly grin. “Did she?”
She blinked. “Of course not.”
“Did your mother ever speak of a 1926 book called The Mystery of the Cathedrals?”
“Yeah. By a mysterious figure writing under the name of Fulcanelli. He claimed the great secrets of alchemy are revealed on the walls of Notre-Dame. The so-called parole perdue, or lost word.”
“Fulcanelli believed the most famous alchemists of the Middle Ages held secret conferences at Notre-Dame. He claimed they spoke in a secret language Jesus taught to his apostles. The Freemasons called it the green language, which Fulcanelli says ‘teaches the mystery of things.’ Did your mother believe in his ideas?”
“She was interested in Fulcanelli’s discussion of the cabalistic Tree of Life. She did find alchemical symbols on Notre-Dame, like a salamander enveloped in flames. You don’t see symbols like that in Christian iconography. Fulcanelli claimed he decoded the cathedral’s alchemical messages but never revealed what great mysteries he discovered.”
“Does that surprise you? Alchemists seldom reveal their secrets.”
“True, but there are many shady things about Fulcanelli. I’m not even sure he was a real person.”
“I think he was real. Like Fulcanelli, your mother was secretive because she understood that powerful people want the Radix. The root was at the heart of alchemy, but the alchemists weren’t the only ones who hungered for it. Over the centuries, the Radix was seen as an elusive, almost ephemeral relic in Western society. To this day, people are out there who will do anything to possess it.”
She grabbed a bouclé pillow from the sofa. “You mean other than the Borgias?”
He nodded. “My psychiatrist back at Amherst was a man named Albert Usher.”
“Mack Shaw pointed him out. Usher knew about the Radix?”
“He’s a knight in the Sovereign Military Order of Malta. It’s the world’s oldest order of chivalry, founded in Jerusalem in 1099. Originally called the Knights Hospitaller, they have over ten thousand members, and fifty-four priories, including the Federal Association in Washington, D.C.”
“How is the Order of Malta involved?”
“They have a long interest in the Radix,” Wurm said. He explained that their more famous rivals, the Knights Templar, had succumbed to greed and power, inciting the Vatican’s wrath. In 1314, Jaques de Molay, the grand master of the Templar order, was executed at Notre-Dame. After the Templar order was crushed, the Knights Hospitaller flourished.
“The Hospitallers, or Knights of Malta, have flown under the radar,” he said. “Not glory hogs like the Templars.” Whereas the Templars were sometimes perceived as greedy, the Hospitallers enjoyed a more heroic reputation. Legends told of their bravery during the Crusades. When their enemies tossed glass bombs containing naphtha and other flammable chemicals, the Hospitallers put out the fires. To this day, numerous American firefighters used the Hospitaller’s Maltese cross in their eight-point insignia.
He mentioned that the Hospitallers moved to the island of Malta in 1530, taking with them sacred relics, like the hand of John the Baptist. But they mourned their most prized possession. Twenty-eight years earlier, the Pope’s son, Cesare Borgia, had stolen the Radix from their grand master, Pierre d’Aubusson.
“A handful of knights and dames of Malta know about the Radix,” he continued. “But Usher belongs to a small contingent obsessed with finding it. They plan to strengthen the Order of Malta’s power base by delivering the Radix to the Pope.”
“Makes sense,” she said. “Using the Radix, the Vatican could heal millions, but they’d need to keep it secret. If someone—say, John Brynstone—used it to cure blindness or cancer, the credit would go to the Radix, not Brynstone. People would worship it as the perfect drug. But if the Pope secretly used the Radix to heal, then he would get credit for the miracles.”
“In the eyes of millions, the notion of papal infallibility would be restored,” Wurm added. “It would be the supreme triumph of religion over science.”
She nodded. “At the same time, new followers would flood the Catholic Church.”
“If you turned on the television and saw the Pope walk through an ICU healing people or watched him raise a man from his deathbed, wouldn’t you be the next convert?”
Cori frowned. “Maybe we’re being paranoid about the Church’s motives.”
“Don’t get me wrong. The Order of Malta is a benevolent organization that helps countless poor and sick people. Believe me, they’ve come a long way from the Hospitallers of old. The order has power and influence. Not to mention ties to the CIA.”
“The CIA?”
“Two founding members of the Central Intelligence Agency were Knights of Malta,” he said. “William ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan and Allen Dulles. A guy named John McCone was Kennedy’s CIA director. He was a Knight of Malta. So was William Casey, Ronald Reagan’s director. Then there’s the current administration. You know about Mark McKibbon?”
She thought for a beat. “The CIA director. The one President Armstrong appointed?”
“McKibbon’s a Malta knight,” Wurm said as the jet touched down on the rain-streaked runway outside the airport’s remote T-9 terminal. “Like I said, you have no idea how many powerful people want the Radix.”
Part Six
Archetype
Formerly, when religion was strong and science weak, men mistook magic for medicine; now, when science is strong and religion weak, men mistake medicine for magic.
—Thomas Szasz
Chapter Forty-four
Paris
4:13 A.M.
The Charles de Gaulle Airport seemed stark and lonely at this hour. Feeling out of place, Cori watched as Wurm embraced Nicolette Bettencourt. In her early thirties, the woman was dressed in a wool coat with a knit cap pulled over sweeping raven hair. Her complexion accented high cheekbones and soft brown eyes. Her boots were gorgeous. Seemed like all the French women Cori saw wore amazing shoes.
Wurm shared that Bettencourt had been a French kickboxing champion in her teens. Somehow, she didn’t seem like a caretaker for a cathedral.
Cori patted her coat pocket. Since her borrowed yoga pants didn’t have pockets, she had transferred the vial containing the Radix to a pocket inside her peacoat.
Raisin
g an eyebrow, Bettencourt pinched Cori’s chin in her gloved hand. “Beautiful, but so young. Are you his lover?”
“A friend,” Cori stuttered. “We’re friends.”
“Good. You are far too young for Edgar.” She gave a disgusted look at Cori’s running shoes, still damp from Bollingen. She glanced back at Wurm. “When you called this morning, Edgar, it was shocking. It has been almost two years since I’ve heard from you.”
“I had to drop out of society for a while,” he answered. “I was working on something important. That’s why I need you to open the cathedral.”
Nicolette Bettencourt gave a Gallic shrug, raising her shoulders and holding up her hands, palms out. Sticking out her bottom lip, she said, “I could lose my job as concierge. You know the Préfecture de Police is across from Notre-Dame.” She removed a Gauloises cigarette from a flat blue box, but didn’t light it. “But for you, dear Edgar, I will do it.”
4:23 A.M.
First time in Paris. Nighttime deepened the lamp-lit romance of the city. Riding in the back of the Peugeot sedan, Cori paused for a moment, imagining Édith Piaf singing “Sous le ciel de Paris.” She drifted back as Nicolette Bettencourt chatted with Wurm up front.
“Still live in the Marais?” he asked her.
“Sold my house,” Bettencourt said, punching the Pug’s V-6 engine. “As concierge, I now live on the Notre-Dame grounds.”
Wurm leaned back, bringing Cori into the conversation. “Her father owns several Left Bank properties, including the Hotel Montalembert. Nicolette had this amazing mansion overlooking the Seine’s Right Bank.”
“Enough distraction.” Bettencourt looked into the rearview mirror. “I insist you explain your little adventure now.”
“Where should I begin?” Wurm said. “For the past few decades, I’ve—”
“Just a minute, Edgar,” Cori blurted, cutting him off. She was thinking about Jung’s second cryptic message. “Nicolette, you know Notre-Dame. Maybe you can help. Do you know how we can find ‘paradise’?”
Chapter Forty-five
Las Vegas, Nevada
7:41 P.M.
After the jet landed, Brynstone was happy to leave the chaos of ringing slots in McCarran Airport. The lights of the Strip flashed across their windshield as they navigated congestion on Las Vegas Boulevard. Cloud and Tilton complained about how the desert shouldn’t feel this cold, even in December. Jordan quieted them when Metzger called.
“Welcome to town,” the German assassin greeted. “Bring your friends? I like the redhead. More pleasing to the eye than your thugs.”
“Do you have my wife and daughter?”
“They’re here. Kaylyn is anxious to see you, and your baby is here in a safe place. We’ll meet at nine.”
“We meet now.”
“You must understand, Dr. Brynstone, I am a man who enjoys control.” He paused. “But you have earned my respect, as strange as it feels to confess that. Meet me at the Helios Tower.” He hung up.
“Where do we go?” Tilton asked.
“Place called Helios Tower,” Brynstone said. “Check GPS.”
“Already on it,” Jordan replied, tapping keys on her notebook computer. “Got it. Stay on the Strip and go to Harmon Avenue. Helios Tower is a condominium-hotel tower under construction. It’s part of the MGM CityCenter complex. Behind the Monte Carlo.”
Erich Metzger stood inside a maze of exposed steel girders that formed the Helios Tower skeleton. The unfinished condominium hotel reigned as the tallest building on the Las Vegas skyline. Peering out from the sixty-fifth floor, he studied the dazzling vulgarity below him.
The tower stood behind the southwest end of the City-Center. Like a city within a city, the complex spread out over sixty-plus acres sandwiched between the Bellagio and Monte Carlo casinos. Back in 2006, MGM Mirage had razed the aging Boardwalk Hotel and started construction on a hotel casino, two nongaming boutique hotels, and two glass towers surrounded by a retail district.
While purchasing the Mandalay Resort Group in April 2005, MGM Mirage had acquired underdeveloped property behind the Monte Carlo and New York-New York casinos. The Helios Tower was designed as a third tower to capitalize on the Strip’s demand for luxury residential units. Management had halted construction for the holiday. Work would resume in the morning. On this Christmas night, however, the tower was abandoned. Metzger tapped his fingers on a red steel girder. A perfect place to meet Brynstone.
Metzger turned, then walked across the floor, cluttered with sawdust and orphaned nails. People like John and Kaylyn Brynstone gave meaning to his work. They made life worthwhile. Their deaths would bring even greater fulfillment.
Chapter Forty-six
Paris
4:45 A.M.
Victor Hugo had once called Notre-Dame the “aged queen of French cathedrals.” Crafted from two centuries of sweat and labor, it was a breathtaking archetype for Gothic architecture. Cast in amber light, the western facade reached into the night with majesty. Twin bell towers framed the limestone cathedral. A rose window on the western face sprayed out in a bouquet of reds and blues, forming an enormous halo behind a statue of the Madonna. Above the rose window, gargoyles lurked in spotlights around the towers.
Cori knew it could guard a million secrets. Where would they look for answers?
A brilliant Christmas tree greeted them on a plaza known as the Place du Parvis.
“Our Lady is magnificent, non?” Nicolette Bettencourt asked.
“Très magnifique,” Cori answered, attempting French. “She shames all other cathedrals.”
Bettencourt shrugged. “You will find many who do not agree. Our Lady has beautiful sisters around Europe. But for me? They do not compare. That’s my view.”
“Tell us,” Wurm interrupted. “How can we find paradise?”
“You’re standing on it.” She waved her arms. “This is paradise.”
“The parvis?”
“Oui. Parvis is a medieval French word for ‘paradise.’”
Remembering Jung’s message, Wurm asked, “Know anything about dragons raining down on the parvis?”
“Hang on, I’m thinking,” Bettencourt said. “Perhaps this is it. A seventh-century legend claims that a dragon named La Gargouille crawled from a cave near the Seine. He destroyed livestock and attacked villages in Paris. The dragon also capsized ships and devoured sailors. Each year, villagers sacrificed a criminal to appease him. A brave priest named Saint Romanis slew La Gargouille and hauled him back to Paris. He set the dragon ablaze, but the head and neck would not burn. Romanis pulled it from the fire and nailed the head to a church wall.”
“Making La Gargouille the first gargoyle,” Cori said.
“Non,” she corrected. “The first grotesque.”
“What’s the difference between a gargoyle and a grotesque?”
“Gargoyles serve as rain spouts,” Bettencourt explained, “directing water away from the cathedral on nights like tonight. So, we have the inspiration for the old French word gargouille, meaning ‘throat.’ It refers to the sound water makes passing through the gullet.”
“Like gurgle in English,” he said, “or gargle.”
“Grotesques don’t have waterspouts?” Cori asked.
Bettencourt shook her head. She pointed to the cathedral walls. “See up there? Grotesques have lined the cathedral walls since the Middle Ages. Some crumbled after centuries of watching the city. After deterioration, they dropped from their perches onto the parvis. In the olden days, the stone creatures crashed down, killing the citizens of Paris. The stories inspired a dread of gargoyles and grotesques. Can you imagine?”
“The dragons raining down on paradise refer to those grotesques outside the cathedral towers.” Wurm stared at them. “They don’t seem primed to fall.”
“They are not original. Viollet-le-Duc added the ones you see. He was the architect who supervised Notre-Dame’s restoration.”
“Let’s see,” Cori said, “parvis means ‘paradise,’ a
nd those grotesques are the dragons. Do you have any idea where we find something called the zero of paradise?”
“Hmm? Oh, you mean the kilomètre zéro? Come on, then.”
Bettencourt led them to a worn bronze marker embedded near the parvis’s northeastern corner. A sun symbol filled an octagon, its eight sharp tips pointing out. Like a Jungian mandala representing the center of the self, this plaque represented the center of Paris. The Notre-Dame marker—known as Point Zero—was the spot from where distances were measured in France, even to its most remote boundaries.
Cori remembered the words from Jung’s Bible: Where once dragons rained down, God with us towers above the zero of paradise. A smile traced her lips. They had found Point Zero on paradise, where stone dragons had once rained down. She looked at the cathedral’s twin towers stretching into the night sky. “Any chance you have an Emmanuel up there?”
Bettencourt nodded. “Follow me.”
They climbed more than two hundred and fifty steps of aged stone inside Notre-Dame’s north tower. Cori followed Bettencourt up the spiral staircase as Wurm trailed behind. Moving past the darkened bookshop, they took more stairs to a small doorway. Emerging from the tower, they were treated to a breathtaking view of the Paris skyline. On boulevard after boulevard below, monumental architecture and freestone buildings with gray slate roofs boasted the old Second Empire style. But beyond the Île de la Cité, skyscrapers crowded the aging architecture, threatening with their brand of Parisian urbanism.
They walked across a colonnaded gallery featuring an army of grotesques. Cori remembered Bettencourt saying that an architect had replaced older deteriorating grotesques with the current ones. She joined the others inside the south tower, where they climbed a creaking wooden staircase to the belfry. Even with flashlights, the place was creepy.