Descendant: A Mira Raiden Adventure (Dark Trinity Book 2)

by Sean Ellis

  “Nice,” she muttered. “You got any idea what that was about?”

  “Somebody doesn’t want us finding Shambala.”

  “Obviously. Who?”

  “Atlas, maybe? He went after the Trinity before. I can’t think of anyone else who might even be aware of what we’re doing.”

  She leaned her head out and looked behind them. There was a flash of silver as the car that had tried to run them down emerged onto the street and headed after them. It was a mid-sized hatchback, possibly a hybrid fuel/electric, which would explain how it had been able to get so close without the giveaway noise off a revving engine. Even shot up as it was, the Ferrari would easily be able to outdistance it on open road, but in the more crowded environment of city streets, its superior handling offered only a marginal advantage.

  “Atlas had the Trinity,” she said. “He left it behind in Libya, like he didn’t even care about it anymore. There’s something else going on here.”

  Booker shrugged. “Worry about it later. Let’s just lose these losers.”

  Directly ahead and coming up quickly was another intersection with a major artery. Mira recognized it as the highway they had used to enter Ludwigsburg. Once they reached that road, there would be no catching them. She looked back again. The pursuing car had vanished into the snarl of traffic behind them. She eased off the accelerator.

  “Uh, no. I meant go faster.”

  “I want to get a look at them,” she said. “Use your phone and try to get a picture of them.”

  “That’s a bad idea. They have guns.”

  The silver car broke into view once more, surging ahead of the traffic jam and racing to close the distance. Mira kept light pressure on the accelerator as she steered into the right turn that would take them north on the highway designated Bundesstrasse 27.

  “If we can figure out who they are now, they won’t be able to sneak up on us next time,” she stated.

  Booker said nothing, but merely pursed his lips in irritation and settled back into his seat.

  Mira kept the sports car at a sedate fifty miles an hour, sliding between slower moving cars on the frontage road that ran parallel to the highway, and checking every few seconds to see if the silver car was taking the bait. A moment later, she spotted it, about a hundred yards back and gaining on them.

  She veered onto the highway and gave the Ferrari a little more gas. No sense in making it too easy.

  The road curved to the left, momentarily taking them out of the line of sight of the chasing car. Mira backed off again, and over the rush of wind, heard Booker growl in irritation. She waited a few more seconds, then took the sports car up to seventy miles per hour, matching the flow of traffic. The buffeting increased to tumultuous levels, making any conversation completely impossible, which under the circumstances was not such a bad thing, but Mira felt her eyes going dry and had to squint to keep them open at all.

  Booker moved beside her, reaching behind the seat to tear away the ruined rear window. The buffeting immediately ceased as the rushing air was now drawn into the car and out through the window, but that was merely a serendipitous side effect of Booker’s action. The road behind them was now visible in the rear view mirror, and Mira could see the silver car weaving through traffic, racing to catch them. The other driver had to be doing at least eighty.

  A short wooded stretch passed by in a blur of green and then they were once more in a populated area. “There’s an autobahn coming up!” Booker shouted. “Take it.”

  She nodded. Letting the pursuers get close enough for her to catch a glimpse of them was fine, but only if they could then use the Ferrari’s vastly superior speed to get away after. The wide open lanes of one of Germany’s famed motorways would be the perfect place to leave the silver car in the dust when the moment came.

  Or maybe turn the tables on them.

  Mira put the half-formed thought on a mental back burner and focused on the cat and mouse game at hand. Blue road signs alerted motorists to the upcoming interchange. The autobahn itself became visible a moment later, an elevated highway cutting across the horizon. Then, without any warning, Mira saw a long line of bright red brake lights in front of them.

  Ahead and to the left, across the lane of oncoming traffic, a cloverleaf ramp branched off the highway at a right angle and circled south before curling back around to join the northbound motorway.

  Mira didn’t dare slow down or wait her turn, but swerved to the right of the stopped cars and rocketed toward the front of the line. As she neared the turn, she eased of the gas again, letting compression braking slow the sports car to a more manageable fifty miles per hour, and then started her turn.

  In a repeat of what had happened near the Bundesarchiv, Mira found herself once more trusting her psychic intuition to get her through the maneuver without losing control or killing anyone. Beside her, Booker had gone pale and gripped the dash so hard that Mira thought he might tear it away. G forces pushed her toward him, and plastered him against the passenger door, but Mira never lost control. As the entrance to the interchange became visible ahead, she hit the gas pedal again and accelerated out of the drift.

  “Holy shit,” Booker shouted, but from the corner of her eye, Mira saw a ridiculous grin on his face.

  The shape of the cloverleaf and the scattering of cars ascending it forced her to slow down a little, but the low-slung sports car hugged the road and in a matter of just a few seconds, they reached the autobahn and the Ferrari smoothly joined the flow of traffic.

  “I see them,” Booker shouted. He dug his phone out and got it ready.

  A glance at the rear view showed the silver car surging onto the motorway. It closed so quickly that Mira guessed it had topped a hundred miles per hour. For the Ferrari, that was a nice cruising speed, but the hatchback had been designed to move around city streets and country roads at a nice safe sixty or seventy mph. At its currents speed, the limitations of its design would become glaringly apparent as the vibrations from the road surface and minute variations in the air currents would seemingly transform from molehills into mountains. The driver too would be facing an extreme and unfamiliar set of inputs requiring him to think and react almost twice as fast as he would in everyday driving.

  Mira eased down on the pedal, accelerating just enough that the other driver wouldn’t get wise to what she was planning. The Ferrari picked up speed, but the other car was still getting closer.

  Mira swung into the right lane, right ahead of a slow-moving—relatively speaking—minivan, and eased off the accelerator again. The chasing driver, sensing an opportunity, charged ahead, closing the last few yards to pull up alongside them. Mira kept her focus on the road ahead, but in her peripheral vision, she could see the silver vehicle draw even with the Ferrari. Over the rush of wind through the opening where the door had been, she thought she could hear the soft hum of a window lowering.

  “Smile, you bastard,” Booker growled, and then a moment later. “Got him. Go!”

  But Mira did not go. Instead, she turned to look.

  Less than ten feet separated the two cars. Ten feet of open air, through which the vehicles flew at nearly one hundred miles per hour. To divert her attention, even for an instant, was to flirt with disaster, but Mira looked anyway.

  Her eyes were naturally drawn to the gun first, since it was the closest thing to her. The man in the window opening had his arms out, one gripping the pistol, the other bracing the gun hand so that he wouldn’t miss.

  “Mira.” Booker tried to adopt a tone of casual reproof, like a parent telling a child to stop making faces at a sibling, but there was an undercurrent of real panic in his voice. “I got the pic. Let’s go.”

  Jet black hair, whipping in the wind. Asian features. Chinese or Korean, she thought, but before she could digest that revelation, the alarm bells started sounding.

  She punched the accelerator and felt the Ferrari surge ahead. The gun twitched, the suppressor completely masking the report and flash, but the
re was no mistaking the resounding crack of something punching into the fender right behind her head.

  She sensed rather than saw the gun barrel move to track her, but before the gunman could fire again, she swerved into the path of the silver car.

  The other driver reacted exactly as she knew he would. He panicked. A reflexive jerk of the steering wheel, a foot on the brake, and suddenly, the car was out control, careening into the guardrail, tumbling sideways and rolling down the autobahn.

  The carnage filled the rear view, yet because the Ferrari was accelerating, and already traveling faster than the rolling wreckage, none of the debris caught up to them.

  When the scene of destruction was no longer even a spot in the mirror, Booker spoke in a subdued voice. “You didn’t tell me you were going to do that.”

  “It just sort of came to me,” Mira replied.

  “Oh.”

  28.

  New York City

  His Eminence, the archbishop of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New York, became aware of the man sitting in his private office by degrees. He must have caught a glimpse of the man in his peripheral vision, an incongruity in the familiar tableau that wasn’t quite significant enough to register immediately in his conscious mind, but nevertheless started worrying at his subconscious until he felt an overwhelming compulsion to look again. When at last he made eye contact with the visitor, a middle-aged man with strong features but a bland expression, his first impulse was to apologize. Had he forgotten an appointment? No, this man was dressed in street clothes—an unthinkable breach of etiquette for a meeting with someone of the Cardinal’s station—and he sat in the chair with the casual indifference of someone waiting for a bus.

  Embarrassment quickly gave way to anger. “Who the devil are you? How did you get in here?”

  The man seemed impervious to the archbishop’s outrage. “My name is Eric Collier. I walked in.”

  “Well then, I’ll see that someone helps you walk out.” He reached for the phone on his desk, but then caught himself. Collier? This was the man who had convinced the United Nations to call for a grand interfaith summit.

  “You’re the….” He groped for the right word. “The prophet.”

  “A prophet is someone who sees the future. Or claims to, at any rate. I am a more of a…you would probably use the word nuncio.”

  “Nuncio?” The archbishop found Collier’s use of the term offensive. This man wasn’t a Catholic; no believer would ever be so disrespectful to a cardinal of the Holy See.

  “A diplomatic envoy. A spokesman.”

  “A spokesman for God?” The archbishop made no effort to conceal his contempt. “When God chooses to speak to me, I think he’ll choose someone worthier.”

  “Is that why you’ve disdained the invitation from the United Nations? I’m not good enough to do God’s will?” Collier’s expression was some undefined mixture of irritation and amusement. “If you knew your Bible, you’d remember that God most often chooses those of humble station to speak for him.”

  “How dare you lecture me on scripture. I’ve been a student of the faith longer than you have been alive.”

  “And yet you’ve learned so little.” Collier raised a hand to stifle the archbishop’s retort. “Stop judging the messenger Eminence, and listen to the message. The Wise Father has called for all his shepherds to come together to hear of the Great Work; you should be honored to be counted among them.”

  “The Church is the only source of revelation. We take a dim view of these interfaith schemes. But we’ve already agreed to send a representative; I’m not sure what more you want.”

  “A representative?” Collier was openly scornful. “A Vatican scholar or parish priest that’s about to be put out to pasture won’t do. I want the Pope.”

  The archbishop gaped in disbelief. “That’s preposterous. The Holy Father would never deign to—”

  “He must. The Pope is the single most important religious figure alive today. When it is announced that he will personally attend the meeting, the rest of the world’s religious leaders—even the non-Christians—will beg for an invitation. Simply being in his presence will elevate their own status.”

  With a deep breath, the archbishop brought his ire under control. “I think you have overestimated my influence. Even if I agreed with you, I don’t dictate what His Holiness must to do.”

  Collier stood abruptly. “Walk with me, Eminence.”

  The Archbishop had no intention of doing so, and was surprised to find himself on his feet and moving. He led Collier from the private office and into the magnificent vaulted nave of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. He was faintly aware of heads turning and he acknowledged the greetings of the handful of people they passed—clergy and visitors—without really registering their bewildered expressions. The two men passed through the front door, down the steps and out onto the sidewalk that bordered Fifth Avenue. Here too, heads turned; even if passersby did not recognize his face, they certainly could not help but notice his distinctive cassock. Only when they were away from the cathedral did Collier speak again.

  “Do you know why I came to you?”

  “I imagine you realized the futility of trying to get an audience with His Holiness.”

  Collier seemed not to have heard. “You are an ambitious man, Cardinal. Many believed you would become the first American Pope. Some say it still may happen.”

  “If it is God’s will, I would not refuse, but I am quite content to minister to the See of New York.”

  “I can’t imagine the child molestation scandal helped much.”

  The archbishop felt his face go hot and red. Although he had dealt with the misconduct of some priests in a way that had seemed both just and expedient, even in the judgment of the Holy Father, outspoken critics of the Church had been relentless in accusing him of trying to sweep the matter under the rug, even going so far as to accuse him of criminal wrongdoing.

  “I can make the world forget about all of that,” Collier went on. “You will be the next pontiff, if that is still what you wish.”

  “You think to bribe me with this…this empty promise of the papacy? As if it is within your power to make it happen? And all I need to do is convince His Holiness to attend your interfaith summit?” The archbishop wagged his head. “If you have the power to work such miracles, then you have no need of me.”

  “Miracles,” mused Collier. “Your church teaches that a person must perform two miracles to be canonized as a saint. I am asking you for a miracle, one that will ultimately bless all mankind.”

  “First you would make me a pope, and now a saint?”

  “You misunderstand, Eminence. I’m not going to make you anything. I’m simply giving you the means to create your own destiny.”

  “If I do a favor for you. I keep telling you, I can’t just snap my fingers and make it happen.”

  “Are you so sure?” Collier smiled.

  And vanished.

  The archbishop stared at the empty space where his uninvited guest had stood a moment before, and then realized that Collier’s disappearance wasn’t the only thing that had changed.

  Instead of the sidewalks and storefronts of Fifth Avenue, he now beheld the verdant foliage of Central Park. He hadn’t been paying attention during their walk, but they had only been speaking a few minutes; surely not long enough to walk a mile and a half.

  Yet, here he was.

  This was the part of the park known as The Pond, a small manmade body of water situated near the corner junction of Fifth Avenue and 59th Street. There was a picturesque stone bridge at the north end of the Pond, and one shore was dominated by trees that came right down to the waterline. On the opposite shore the bench-lined sidewalk was crowded with people and there was little question in the archbishop’s mind that they were all staring at him. Some were pointing, and more than a few had their mobile phones held up, no doubt recording video footage for later viral dissemination on YouTube. The nearest camera was at least twen
ty feet away, close enough to ensure that, even if his vestments were not sufficient to establish his identity, his face would easily be recognized. No one attempted to approach him.

  He looked down, just for a second…just to confirm what he already knew.

  Collier, it seemed, was as good as his word.

  With a beatific smile on his face, the archbishop of New York began walking across the surface of the Pond to greet the astonished onlookers, all witnesses to his first miracle.

  PART THREE: ENLIGHTENMENT

  29.

  Beijing, China

  Xu returned the telephone to its cradle and folded his hands on the tabletop. His mild expression barely concealed the tempest raging within him. The world beyond the Middle Kingdom was spinning out of control, and his efforts to impose order on the chaos had been a spectacular failure.

  He blamed himself, but only because he had evidently underestimated Mira Raiden. Atlas had warned him of her precognitive abilities; Atlas had warned him about many things. He saw now that he ought to have taken that particular warning more seriously. Now Mira was in the wind, alerted to the hunt and, unless the Western intelligence services were completely incompetent, aware of whom it was that hunted her.

  For a moment, he considered calling Atlas again. The industrialist had taken an apartment in Beijing to await news of Mira Raiden’s death. If anyone could advise Xu on where Mira might go next, it was he. However, asking for help would make him seem weak in the other man’s sight, and that was something Xu could not bear.

  To make matters worse, the world was abuzz with news of the “Miracle in Central Park” and now the topic of the interfaith conference in New York would dominate the global news cycle for the foreseeable future. With the Catholic pontiff now expressing an interest in making a personal appearance, all of humanity it seemed was divided into two camps, those who insisted on being included, and those who saw the conference as an affront to their iconoclastic visions of faith. Either way, religion and belief were now the only things that seemed to matter to anyone. It wasn’t at all difficult to imagine that rising tide of faith becoming a destructive wave that would sweep away secular governments in favor of some new global theocracy.