by J. R. Rain
Here, Draken found a man tied to a chair in the center of the room. A woman lay on the bed, bound by tight ropes. The man’s eyes widened with recognition as he saw Draken enter.
“Senator Draken?” the man asked. “What the hell is going on here? I demand you release my family!”
Draken casually leaned back on the closed door. “Where’s the coin?”
“The coin?” asked the bound man. “The Roman coin? That’s what this is about? You can have that cursed coin. Just please don’t hurt my family.”
One of Draken’s henchmen appeared in the doorway. “Sir,” he addressed Draken with due respect. “Sir, we found a safe...and we found this.”
He opened his gloved hand. Resting in the center of his palm was a gleaming Judas Iscariot coin. An eyeless coin. Draken understood that it was indeed a cursed but powerful coin. And finding it had brought him one step closer to his plan...
Preston Draken smiled, inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes. As he did so, the coin rose from the henchman’s open palm, levitating toward the Senator.
Draken calmly unbuttoned his tuxedo shirt, revealing something similar to a gunslinger’s bandolier crisscrossing his pale chest. Instead of holding ammunition, this bandolier was rigged to hold coins—silver coins. The man in the chair and the woman on the bed watched the hovering coin with open-mouthed astonishment. Draken’s men barely gave the scene a second glance.
Of its own volition, the coin spun slowly through the air and settled into an empty slot across Draken’s chest. The Senator exhaled and opened his eyes, which now blazed with supernatural fire. He calmly buttoned up his shirt again.
The bound man and the woman on the bed gave him a pleading look, but he turned to his men without a second glance at them. After he’d gotten, of course, what he wanted.
“Leave no witnesses,” Draken commanded. “Burn the house to the ground.”
* * *
It was true that only a handful of people on God’s earth understood the powers of the Judas Coins. Some understood that the coins could be used for powerful and evil purposes. Likewise, some knew that the coins must be contained and kept safe to avoid use of such powers.
Most of those interested in the Judas coins, however, were merely drawn to them, unaware that the coins could forge a purpose of their own. Most of those who gathered them had no idea of the powers the coins could hold over them, and the dark purposes.
One such person was Eve Friday. Eve owned a fairly successful coin and memorabilia shop called Pennies From Heaven in Philadelphia. She bought and sold coins and other trinkets, and truly enjoyed it.
It so happened that Eve Friday was in possession of one of the Judas coins, perhaps not so coincidentally. She had been instantly mesmerized by it, and kept it in a safe in her apartment above her shop.
On this night, Eve startled out of her sleep, gasped, breathing heavily in and out, in and out.
She broke the room’s darkness with the flare of a match for a cigarette. It was late, dark, and the streets had been long emptied. She was hungover already.
Eve pulled a beaded chain to turn on the single, dim bulb. She was sweating from drinking too much, her tank top soaked through. She sat up, cigarette in mouth. As she exhaled she drew a hand to her face, rubbed her eyes and scanned the room, blinking hard.
Eve’s pretty but somewhat drunken, haggard face glanced around, as if reminding herself where she was. She took in her cluttered desk, her old-fashioned safe, a vanity mirror, and toiletries. Her eyes settled back on the safe.
She stood and padded, barefoot, over to the safe. She fumbled in the faint light with the combination, and after a few attempts, the tumblers fell into place with a small click. Eve turned the handle and opened the door.
Inside were a few small bundles of cash, paperwork, and a leather satchel. She reached inside to remove the satchel, carrying it over to her desk. She sat her cigarette in a nearby ashtray. Slowly, reverently, she pulled open the leather drawstring. She tilted the small bag so its contents tumbled into her hand.
Eve couldn’t hold back a sigh of contentment as she stared, almost hypnotized by the Judas Coin. It sat squarely in the center of her palm like a silver stigmata, glowing softly as if with its own inner light.
The Coin clearly had some kind of power over Eve. A ghostly hint of fire blazed just behind the woman’s irises, not different from the fire in Senator Draken’s eyes.
The cigarette burned out, forgotten, as Eve held the thing, mesmerized. She thought she drew strength from the Judas Coin. But like many others, Eve was unaware of its addictive nature. How could she have known that one of the greatest forces on Earth lay in her palm, binding her to it with its subtle but vicious powers?
Finally, Eve shoved the Coin back into the satchel and returned it to the safe. She slammed the heavy door shut, and made sure to spin the dial to lock it again.
Without it in her hand, the young—and up until recently, happy and healthy woman—felt an emptiness that nothing else could fill. She returned to her desk and opened a drawer. Eve reached for a bottle of vodka, unscrewed the cap and took a long, hard pull. She shuddered, scrunched her eyes closed, and did it again.
Chapter Six
About the same time that Eve Friday lit her cigarette in the middle of the night, Trey Jordan was awakened by another cigarette. He cracked one eye open slightly like a cat, and caught a glimpse from the red ash as it illuminated a blurred pair of eyes, a nose and mouth.
The face faded, leaving only the moon’s reflection to light the room. Then another puff revealed the same eyes — now revealing two men seated nearby. Both were dressed immaculately. One of the men wore a black Catholic cassock; the other wore an expensive Italian suit.
“He’s waking,” the man in the cassock declared in a heavy Italian accent.
Trey lay on a small cot in a small cell, he realized. Smoke wafted out the barred window into the night. He opened both eyes now, rubbed his eyes and tried to sit up.
“Ah, shit,” he mumbled as a piercing bolt of pain shot through his head. He felt as though he’d been hit by a train.
The man in the cassock spoke again. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Jordan.”
Trey squinted up at them through the pain in his head. The man in the expensive Italian suit offered him a cigarette. Trey accepted, and the man in the cassock lit a match for Trey Jordan.
Trey inhaled deeply, finally able to sit up. He leaned his aching head against the cool wall and asked from the darkness, “Where am I, and who are you?”
“I’m Carlo Franzini,” replied the man in the suit. He harshly added, “And you’re in prison, where you belong.”
Trey used his forefinger and thumb to pinch between his eyes, quelling the pain somewhat. “Oh, Lord. Not the good cop/bad cop routine.”
The other man in the Catholic cassock was more pleasant. “No, Mr. Jordan.” His accent was also Italian. “We are not here to extract information from you, nor are we here to arrest you. In fact,” he paused for effect, “we are here to offer you a job.”
Franzini, however, was clearly disgusted and looked away.
Trey mentally discarded him. He dragged on the cigarette, trying like hell to get his throbbing head back into gear. “Okay, I know one name. I’d like to know the other.” He indicated to the man in the cassock. “But let me be more specific. Who are you to me? What do you want, and what am I doing here?”
“I am Camerlengo Antonio of the Vatican,” answered the pleasant man. He gestured to his sour-faced partner. “Carlo Franzini is the head of the Vatican Intelligente.”
Trey raised his eyebrows. “Vatican Intelligente? You’re a spy?”
Franzini ignored Trey’s question. He brought a briefcase onto his lap, opened it and handed Trey a sheet of paper. Trey held it up to the window. The sheet had an enlarged copy of a silver Roman coin. His attention was immediately drawn to Caesar’s eyeless profile.
“Do you know what that is?” Franzini ask
ed.
“It’s a Judas Coin,” Trey answered, handing back the paper.
“How do you know this?” Franzini’s demeanor was meant to intimidate him. Apparently, he didn’t know Trey Jordan.
Trey leaned back again and smoked. “I make it a point to know my treasures, Mr. Franzini. Especially the cursed ones.”
Camerlengo interceded. “Judas Coins around the world are being stolen, Mr. Jordan. Individual collectors are being murdered, museums looted, and coin shops burglarized.”
Trey merely nodded. He would offer the bait, not take it.
“The theft of the Coins sparked our interest,” Franzini said. “We investigated, and one man’s name kept coming up. A man who has made searching for the coins a lifelong obsession.”
Trey dismissed Franzini’s dramatic tone. “Hey, we all need our hobbies.”
“His name is Preston Draken,” Franzini told him.
That got Trey’s attention. “Senator Preston Draken??”
Camerlengo and Franzini exchanged glances. “What do you know about the Judas Coins, Mr. Jordan?” Franzini asked.
Trey regarded the two men. Sure, he was a world-renowned thief. He considered himself one of the finest art and relic hunters. He was wanted in many countries and high on the FBI’s Top Ten list. Some might have considered his reputation questionable to say the least, but Trey Jordan had the luxury of choosing his own work. Did he want to be involved in a case tied to the Vatican? A case that might include dealing with a Senator? Perhaps a crack case to boot?
Franzini’s returned gaze was dead-pan serious. But Camerlengo’s held a pleading quality that portrayed faith and trust.
“I know what any good antiquities thief knows,” Trey began. “The Coins are considered the most cursed artifacts on Earth, marked forever by an eyeless Caesar. After Judas returned them to the Temple Priests, they were considered cursed blood money, and used to buy the Potter’s Field. They are never mentioned again in the New Testament. One assumes they were spread far and wide, creating havoc for whoever came into possession of them.”
“Over the centuries,” Camerlengo told him, “the Vatican has collected various prophesies. Many are correlated directly with the Coins and the coming Apocalypse.”
Trey nodded. “And if the Coins all join together again, all hell will break loose. Yes, I’ve heard this bedtime story before.”
“It’s not a bedtime story, Mr. Jordan,” Franzini said.
“Well then, tell me something I don’t know,” Trey countered.
Camerlengo spoke patiently. “Additionally, we have on record documented proof that some of the greatest disasters in the world can be traced back to the Judas Coins.”
“Do tell.” Trey crushed out his cigarette on the floor.
“Did you know that a man by the name of Alfred Nobel discovered nitroglycerine, hence dynamite? His work has contributed to the deaths of hundreds of thousands, if not millions of people.”
“The Nobel Prize?” Trey asked.
Camerlengo nodded. “He started the funding for the Nobel Prize. He also used Judas Silver Coins to pay for his research.”
“The Black Plague could have been prevented if the monarchies at the time hadn’t used valuable Judas Coins for their own wealth and gain,” Franzini stated. “The Coins have invariably been used throughout history for greed. Evil purposes.”
“What do you think really drove King Henry insane?” Camerlengo asked. “More recently, what do you think caused these disasters: the Titanic. The Hindenburg. The Twin Towers.”
Trey masked his realization of the power of the Judas Coins these men had just explained to him. Serious business, indeed.
“I get it,” he said simply. “The coins are creepy as hell. So, what do you want with me?”
“We want you to find the Judas Coins,” Camerlengo said, as if their intent wasn’t yet crystal clear. “Every last one of them.”
“And what do I get in return?” the businessman in Trey demanded.
“Your freedom,” Camerlengo told him. “We have made arrangements with the Irish government to release you to Vatican Security.”
“I’ve broken out of three prisons, Camerlengo. You’ll have to do better than that.”
“And ten million U.S. dollars, paid when the coins are delivered.”
Trey didn’t bat an eye. “To stop a homicidal maniac with supernatural powers bent on destroying the world, the price is fifty million. Anything less, and I’ll take my chances escaping from jail.”
Trey helped himself to another cigarette from Franzini’s shirt pocket as his bargain set in.
Franzini glanced to Camerlengo, and Camerlengo nodded.
“What do you know of your father, Mr. Jordan?” Franzini asked nonchalantly, lighting up again himself.
Trey’s cockiness slipped away. Suspicious now, he snapped his head around to face Franzini. “He died in prison a dozen years ago. Why?”
Franzini leaned forward, looked Trey Jordan dead on. “What if I told you he is not dead?”
“Then I would say you’re a damned liar,” Trey spat.
Carlo Franzini, the Head of Vatican Intelligente removed a piece of paper from his pocket, opened it and offered it to Trey.
Trey Jordan, no longer flippant about the whole situation, regarded the Intelligente a moment before accepting the page. Franzini lit another match for Trey to read the small, neat handwriting with perfectly formed letters:
Tres,
I’m alive, although not well. Don’t give the bastards what they want, boy. Screw them all. And don’t worry about your old man. I don’t have much to live for anyway.
D.J.
The match went out, but Trey Jordan had already recognized the handwriting and memorized the words. He was stunned, and for once, was at a loss for words.
The two Italians gave Trey Jordan, master thief, a moment to digest the fact that his father, his father, was still alive. “He always called me Tres,” Trey remembered. “Spanish for three. Said I was more trouble than three boys combined. I was told by prison officials that he had died of a heart attack.”
“You know some governments do that,” Franzini said quietly. “Some prisoners just disappear. Especially the dangerous ones. And your father was the most dangerous of all.”
“Hey, I learned from the best.”
Camerlengo laid his hand on Trey Jordan’s. “He’s dying, Trey. The doctors have given him just a few weeks to live.”
Trey rubbed his eyes, hoping to hide welling tears. “Just a few weeks?” he asked weakly.
Even Franzini could not help but feel compassion for the thief. “You help us,” he told Trey, “and we will make arrangements for you to see him before he dies. But you must hurry.”
Trey regarded the Vatican representatives in a new light. This was no ordinary job. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. For all.
“Gentlemen,” Trey’s voice conveyed more conviction now, “you have a deal.”
The Italians leaned back in their chairs, satisfied. But...
“Just one more thing,” Trey said.
“Yes?” Camerlengo asked.
“How did you find me?” It was an important question.
Franzini grinned now. For him, a Vatican Intelligente, this was his chance to be self-satisfied, to con a great con man. “We set an elaborate trap,” he told Trey Jordan.
Trey thought back and shook his head in stunned amazement as he realized just what that trap was. “And what became of the Staff of Saint Patrick?”
“Oh, it’s on its way back to the Vatican, where it will be safe. Safe even from the likes of you, Mr. Jordan. Job well done.”
For the second time in one night, Trey searched for something to say. “Christ,” was all he could come up with.
Camerlengo motioned with his hand, a guard approached and opened Trey’s cell door. Light spilled into the previously darkened room.
Trey Jordan accompanied the two Italian men out.
He was a free
man.
Chapter Seven
Two days later, Trey Jordan—rested, fed, cleaned and sporting expensive Italian wear—walked alongside Franzini and Camerlengo through Saint Peter’s Square. Throngs of tourists wandered about. Trey would have liked to explore as well, but Franzini constantly scanned the area from behind his black shades and guided them quickly into Saint Peter’s Basilica.
Franzini and Camerlengo led Trey past security, through the great halls. Trey knew he had a job to do but he was even more fascinated with the interior architecture. He would have given anything for a day to explore the magnificent and historic building.
However, he stayed in stride with the two men as they moved through the great hall and into a restricted area. This hallway was equally beautiful, with intricately carved ceilings and ancient art covering the walls.
Camerlengo stopped at an archaic elevator, and they entered. After a slow descent, the doors slid silently open to a lower level, and the three men stepped out.
Trey could not disguise his wonder. Before them was a hallway filled with enough treasures to put even the best museums to shame. Trey’s eyes bugged out as he tried to take in everything at once, keeping pace with his new clients. He was like a kid in a candy store. Except these candies are worth millions, he thought. He did pause briefly to relish an exquisite original Michelangelo sculpture. His mouth actually watered, and he tried not to drool.
Franzini maintained his quick pace. “Don’t even think about it,” he told the thief.
Trey pulled himself away from the magnificent artwork and followed the two men through the Hallway of Treasures. He couldn’t help but try to puzzle out a way to break back into this secret hallway.
The three made their way through the private halls, eventually coming to a circular stairway leading further down.
“God, I love my job,” Trey exclaimed as they wound down and down into the mysterious bowels of the Vatican. They came to another passageway, this one made of old stone, set together with amazing preciseness. As they moved along the polished stone floors, they passed priceless work of art after priceless work of art: paintings, sculptures, and religious relics of all types. Of all people, Trey was one who truly appreciated the wonders he beheld.