by Brett King
Darting into the store with a Sunflower grocery bag, he ripped a box from a shelf, then tore it open. Plastic spoons sprayed in every direction as he grabbed one. Dropping the box, he blasted past a customer, almost knocking him over as he sprinted down another aisle.
A clerk called for the manager.
After finding pharmaceutical items and a meat tenderizer, he took a plastic bowl, then peeled off the lid. He dropped to his knees in aisle four, then emptied the bag from the health-food store. He added balsam and feverfew in the bowl, then sprinkled in salt, wood sage, aloe, figs, and other ingredients. He grabbed the meat tenderizer and crushed everything together. He stirred the ingredients, then closed his eyes. Pausing for a deep breath, he opened Cori’s locket. He dropped the Radix sliver into the bowl. He knew he’d better be right about this. Visualizing Shay’s face, he mashed the root with the mixture, then grabbed a spoon and stirred.
The paste transformed into an iridescent liquid.
As he poured it into his empty Propel bottle, an Arab-American man in a white shirt and striped tie walked up to him. “Mister, you need to pay for that.”
Brynstone handed the manager a hundred-dollar bill. “Sorry for the mess.”
He sprinted toward the door. He had the White Chrism.
Paris
6:15 A.M.
The morning sky was bitter and still as a police car bearing Cori parked outside the Préfecture de Police. A French officer opened her door, while another extended his gloved hand to help her out. He was dressed in dark pants and a light blue shirt with a red epaulette curling over his shoulder.
She saw a young man standing in a circle of officers. Dressed in a black suit, he was lean and commanding, with a precision haircut. He argued with the chief inspector. The man pointed at Cori and said something in French. The inspector nodded to the officer beside her. The policewoman unlocked Cori’s handcuffs. The man came over to her, squeezing past officers.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Cassidy. I’m taking you home.”
She was stunned. “Who are you?”
“My name is Stephen Angelilli. I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency. Give me a couple minutes more with the inspector; then we’ll be on our way to the airport. I’ll give you a briefing when we fly back to the States.”
She thanked Agent Angelilli before remembering Wurm’s claim that the CIA director was a Knight of Malta. Did the CIA know about everything that had happened at Notre-Dame?
She didn’t ask.
Chapter Fifty-six
Washington, D.C.
12:17 A.M.
After his latest surgery, Dillon Armstrong had been transferred to a private ICU room at the George Washington University Hospital. It looked inevitable that he would lose both legs. To complicate things, he had developed a septic reaction where a blood infection had caused low blood pressure and increased heart rate. His wife, Brooke, had returned to a nearby hotel to rest.
The president invited Deena to join him and the First Lady as they held vigil at Dillon’s bedside. Deena was apprehensive, but Helena Armstrong was cordial. It was difficult to see Dillon attached to tubes and medical equipment. He looked helpless. The minutes slowed, blurring into an indistinguishable haze. She wanted to call Faulkner, but resisted the urge. She hoped Pantera would deliver.
After the First Lady left the ICU to find a restroom, the president said, “Any news on the Radix?”
She shook her head, but detected urgency in his voice. “I’ll call my contact person. It’s been enough time.” Falling back into a chair, she called Faulkner. It rang until his voice mail picked up. She left a brief message. “Call as soon as possible,” she urged, then hung up.
The president had moved into the hallway to talk with a doctor. She ran her fingers through Dillon’s hair, then walked to the window. She stared down at a statue of George Washington on horseback in Washington Circle.
“Al.” Soft and drowsy, the word seemed to come from nowhere. She turned. Eyes open now, Dillon stared at the ceiling. His lips parted. “Al.” He swallowed, then whispered, “ex.”
“Alex,” she yelled, heading for the bed. “Come here.”
President Armstrong bolted in with a Latina nurse behind him. They hurried to Dillon’s bed. The nurse took a look, then hurried to find a doctor. The president leaned over his brother.
“Alex.” Dillon swallowed, forcing out another few words. “You win.” He closed his eyes. His body slumped. A flood of doctors and nurses burst into the room, shoving aside President Armstrong and Deena. First to the bed, a nurse yelled, “We got V-tach.”
“He’s crashing,” a doctor yelled. “Get the paddles.”
A man rolled a cart to the bed. Panicked, Deena tried to get to Dillon. Too many people in the way. Alex grabbed her shoulder, pulling her back as she reached for the doctors.
“Charge two fifty. Clear.”
She fought, trying to break away. President Armstrong was stronger. As Secret Service joined them, they hustled her out of the room. As they made it to the door, Deena heard a doctor say, “He’s not responding. Charge three hundred.”
Outside Fort Meade
12:21 A.M.
Riding in his limousine, the Knight was furious. Metzger wasn’t returning his calls. His mood changed when he saw a call coming in from Gabriel Bitonti.
“Good news,” the Knight said, answering it. “The Radix will soon be in our hands.”
The Vatican doctor paused. “I am returning to Rome.”
“Did you not hear? I will have the blessed Radix.”
“Enough with your fantasies,” Bitonti countered. “You are a madman.”
His right eye twitched. In a measured voice, he said, “No one calls me that. Not even an official of the Mother Church.”
“But you are mad. I say it as a doctor. I am demanding an investigation. You will be excommunicated. With God’s blessing, you will find yourself in prison.”
“What inspired this nonsense?”
“Your assistant, Max Cress, drove me around Washington, D.C.”
“It was my idea.”
“I asked to see the National Cathedral. After twenty minutes inside, a homeless man approached me. He had seen me talking to Cress before I entered the cathedral. The man had seen Cress kidnap his friend. He showed a picture of a man named Andy. I recognized the face.”
The Knight held his breath.
“You are a fine artist,” Bitonti continued. “And a madman.”
“I am a knight,” he shouted. “You would accept a homeless man’s word over mine?”
“You will not be a knight for long. I contacted the Federal Association of the Order of Malta. They told me about you and the CIA director, Mr. McKibbon.”
“What did they say?”
“They said you discussed finding the fabled Radix after an induction ceremony at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. No one believed you except McKibbon. They regard you as a fanatic. After I spoke with them, they now know you are a dangerous fanatic.”
“Nothing but lies.”
“You have brought dishonor to the Sovereign Order of Malta. They will strip you of your knighthood. Of course, I can prove nothing until the police find Andy’s body.”
“Won’t happen.”
“I’m confident it will. You will lose your knighthood and your NSA directorship.”
“Listen and fear me. I am a knight of the Lord. I am greater than your blind church. Run to the Vatican and hide. I will find you. And I will destroy you.”
Bitonti hung up.
Delgado wrapped his fingers around the phone, snapping the cover shut.
Washington, D.C.
12:25 A.M.
President Armstrong waited outside the ICU. Deena buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing. Good thing Helena wasn’t here to witness the moment.
“He’ll pull through. Dillon always pulls through.”
He couldn’t escape the thought of his brother in a wheelchair. He was active and still a decent athle
te for a man his age. It would be a blow for Dillon to lose his legs.
A doctor walked up, a small man with a pinched face and dark crescents under his eyes. “Mr. President. Can I speak with you?”
He nodded. Deena pulled back, wiping her eyes.
“It’s about your brother. I’m sorry to tell you…”
The words faded into a deadened silence, the man still moving his lips, but the words not making their way to Armstrong. He glanced at Deena, looking into her reddened eyes. And he knew. He knew that she and his brother had shared something that went far beyond business. And he knew that he had lost Dillon forever.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Las Vegas
9:30 P.M.
Brynstone had not come into this assignment as a believer. Everything changed after he saw blood ooze from Friar Zanchetti’s mummy. Now more than ever, he believed in the power of the Radix. Was skepticism even a choice right now? Not if he wanted to save his daughter.
It seemed like forever before they made it back to the hospital. He skidded to a stop in the pizza guy’s car, then darted across the parking lot to Desert Springs. He sprinted toward the ICU. Coming around the corner, he saw a man in a white coat. Tanned and balding, the doctor stopped him. Despite smile lines carved into his angular face, the man’s eyes looked haunted.
“We were about to call you, Mr. Brynstone. We tried everything. She was a courageous little fighter. I’m sorry.”
Brynstone stared at him.
“We lost her about fifteen minutes ago. We moved your daughter to a private room. Nurse Gradishar will take you. Go say good-bye to Shayna.”
Brynstone opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out.
Brynstone walked into the hospital room as Kaylyn finished praying. She knelt beside the bed, holding Shay’s little hand. She always blew a kiss at the end of her prayers. He’d never seen her eyes so red. As they embraced, he glanced over at Shay. He thought his daughter would have a peaceful appearance. She didn’t—only fragile and pale.
“I can’t lose you too,” Kaylyn said through soft tears. “I’m so confused about so many things. But I know I want you in my life, John.”
The words lingered like a melody in his ear.
“We’ll build our life back together again.”
Kaylyn nodded. “I already miss her.” She hugged tighter. He couldn’t bear to let go, but he had to do it.
“Can I”—he swallowed hard—“be with her a minute?”
She pulled away, but didn’t leave the room. He stood beside the bed. He felt empty inside looking at Shay’s little face. He leaned in, his fingers gliding through fine curls and down her soft cheek, moving toward her parched lips. He pushed down, opening her mouth. When he pulled away his finger, her lips stayed open.
Kaylyn stepped closer. “What are you doing?”
He shut his eyes. Bit his lip. “I have to try something.”
She saw the Propel bottle in his hand.
“This is the White Chrism,” he explained. “The perfect medicine. It contains the Radix. The thing I’ve been searching for.”
“Oh, John,” she said in a weary voice. “Haven’t you put us through enough?”
“It can save Shay. I believe in the Radix. You have to believe too.”
“John, I wanted to believe in you again.” Her face tightened. “I did.”
“Honey, please. Trust me. I can save her. I can bring her back.”
“You’re crazy. You know it?” she said, wiping tears from her swollen eyes.
“Kay, trust me.”
“John, stop it,” she cried. “Just stop it.”
She collapsed against the wall, sliding down before coming to a rest on the floor. She cupped her face in her hands. Lost in grief, she folded herself up, drawing her legs into her chest, melting into uncontrollable tears.
He wanted to comfort his wife, but time was running out. He was back in game mode, fixated on saving his daughter. In this solitary moment, saving Shay was the only thing that mattered. Metzger had been right, after all. He was terrified of losing his family.
This was Shay’s only shot.
Twisting open the blue lid, he touched it to her lip. He tipped the bottle, watching the liquid chrism pour over her tongue. He eased his hand behind her neck, tilting Shay’s head. When her little mouth filled up with purplish white medicine, he closed her lips.
John Brynstone kissed his daughter on the forehead, then whispered a prayer. Scripture drifted into his mind, where Jesus took a dead child by the hand and said, “Talitha, kum,” meaning, “Little girl, get up.”
Aftermath
There is no light without shadow.
—Carl Jung
Chapter Fifty-eight
Washington, D.C.
New Year’s Eve, 10:13 A.M.
With a confident stride, the Knight followed a Secret Service agent into the vice president’s ceremonial office on the second floor of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. Globe chandeliers brightened the ornamented room, hinting at the Victorian gasoliers that had hung overhead when Teddy Roosevelt had been vice president. At that time, the room had served as the navy secretary’s office. More than a century later, maritime themes and symbols remained in the oil paintings and wall stenciling. Dressed in his three-star army uniform, the Knight greeted Vice President Starr with a power handshake.
“Good to see you, General Delgado.”
Following Starr’s encouragement, President Armstrong had appointed both the Knight as National Security Agency director and Mark McKibbon as the CIA director. As the Knight settled on a sofa opposite McKibbon, Vice President Starr brought out Cuban Cohiba cigars, offering them to the Knight and McKibbon.
“I joined President Armstrong at his brother’s funeral.” Starr held a match to the cigar as he toasted the foot. “Will anyone find out you hired people to take care of Dillon Armstrong?”
The Knight wadded the cigar’s brown-stained cellophane. “Not if I can help it.”
“The president is unhappy with you. I’m running damage control. Dillon’s death pulled the focus off you. Otherwise, you’d be fired.”
The Knight shrugged off the news. He wasn’t worried. “Remember, Isaac, you’re the one who called me about Dillon.”
“The president was watching a movie when he mentioned his brother’s interest in the Radix. I stepped out of the theater and called, but I never said to kill him. That was your doing.”
“As long as I don’t get fired, no one will know you called about Dillon.”
McKibbon changed the subject. “Dillon Armstrong’s death rocked market confidence in Taft-Ryder Pharmaceuticals. Did you see what it was trading at?”
Starr nodded. “Shareholders want Deena Riverside’s head.”
“Word is she’ll step aside as CEO,” the Knight added.
“Speaking of stepping down, is the Order of Malta stripping your title as knight?”
“That Vatican doctor is making life difficult. I intend to make life difficult for him.”
“Gabriel Bitonti didn’t implicate me or McKibbon, did he?” Starr asked.
“No.” The Knight smiled. “You mustn’t worry, Mr. Vice President. I’m traveling to Italy tomorrow. I’ll handle Bitonti.”
“Be discreet.” Starr pulled out his cigar, exhaling. “On another matter, Mark, thanks for getting Cori Cassidy out of France. When is Dr. Wurm’s funeral?”
“Today at three,” McKibbon reported. “We’ll have men posted.”
“Wurm and Brynstone were our best shot at finding the Radix,” Starr said. “Guess it was worth paying for Wurm’s stay in that Baltimore hospital.”
The Knight agreed. “Amherst was a good choice. We kept a close eye on Wurm, even arranged for a psychiatrist named Albert Usher to monitor him.”
“Usher’s not NSA or CIA, is he?” Starr asked.
“We picked him because of his association with the Order of Malta.”
“Does Brynstone know what happened to J
ordan Rayne?”
“Vanished.” McKibbon shook his head. “Brynstone is as baffled as us. I sense he’d like to find her. For personal reasons.”
“Man’s been through hell. Wouldn’t blame Brynstone for being angry.”
“Oh, he’s angry,” the Knight said. “I had to triple my security. And Brynstone won’t ever find Rayne. Metzger claimed he killed her.”
“Brynstone found the Radix, but Wurm was last sighted with it. So where is it?”
“Don’t know, sir,” McKibbon confessed. “We searched Notre-Dame in case he’d dropped it. No sign of the Radix. There’s no evidence Adriana Borgia had it before her death. I’m interviewing Brynstone later today. We’ll find out what happened.”
Starr walked to his desk. He crushed the smoldering cigar and grabbed a newspaper. “Fascinating story in the Las Vegas Review-Journal. A baby girl was pronounced dead on Christmas night. To the surprise of her doctors, she was alive and well twenty minutes later.” The vice president brought over the paper. “The ‘miracle baby’ is John Brynstone’s daughter.”
“Brynstone says he gave the Radix to Wurm and Cassidy before they went to Europe. Claims he didn’t see it after that.”
“General, if this newspaper story is right, Brynstone is a liar.” Starr tossed the newspaper at him. “I want both agencies watching Shayna Brynstone for the rest of her life.”
“Already in the works, sir.”
“Someday, when I become president, we’ll have a unique opportunity, gentlemen.” Vice President Starr crossed his arms. “Never before have the Knights of Malta held positions as president, CIA Director, and NSA Director at the same time. With our high-ranking positions, we can strengthen the order’s influence. The Radix is out there. We just need to find it.”