by Rachel Lee
He could as well have donned a cloak of invisibility, for in the manner of people around the world, those he passed on the street studiously avoided eye contact, which was precisely what Niko wanted and needed as he made his way down the sidewalks of Frankfurt's banking district. Only as he approached the bicycle Lawton had left in front of the bank did his posture straighten, and in that slight shift he became a respectable junior employee, finished with his daily labor, retrieving his bicycle so that he could return home to a young wife and child.
As he bent to unlock the chain that held the bicycle in place, he pressed the microphone button on the walkie-talkie in his shirt pocket.
"I have it."
* * *
Lawton listened to the stirrings in the corridor outside. He had no need to glance at the illuminated dial of his wristwatch, for the sounds told him the time as reliably as any quartz crystal. The employees of Berg & Tempel were nothing if not punctual.
Perhaps ten minutes had passed since Niko's brief transmission. He could only trust that the receptionist, seeing the bicycle gone when she left work, would assume that Lawton had made his delivery and departed without her having noticed. If she did not—if she noticed that a courier had entered without leaving—things could get dicey. He would simply have to rely on human nature, on the receptionist making the most logical assumption based on the evidence. After all, she had no reason to suspect anyone would try to break into her workplace. He told himself not to worry as the sounds of departing employees swelled, then slowed, and finally stilled.
* * *
Renate's thoughts echoed Lawton's. This was perhaps the most dangerous phase of the operation. Niko was stashing the bicycle in a shopping area half a kilometer away. Assif was in the utility tunnel. Lawton was hiding in the supply closet. And she was here, monitoring their radio and the police scanner.
That left no one to observe and report on the reaction of the receptionist as she left the building and saw the empty space where the bicycle had been. No one to assess whether a shrug indicated acceptance that she must have overlooked the courier's departure. No one to warn Lawton if she suddenly reentered the bank with a look of alarm on her face.
They had discussed this, and whether it might be better for Lawton to enter a few minutes earlier, giving Niko time to hide the bicycle and return to watch as the bank employees left. But that, too, had carried an implicit risk: that the receptionist, while still inside the bank, might grow suspicious at the passage of time and alert someone that a courier was in the building.
After weighing the risks on both sides, their deliberations had turned to a single, inescapable fact. This was a one-time-only attempt. If Lawton were caught inside the bank and asked to leave, the receptionist would surely remember him if he tried to return on another day. Thus, there was nothing to be gained by having Niko on hand to alert him to trouble. Either the operation worked or it didn't.
And that meant Renate could do nothing but wait for Niko to stroll past the bank and confirm that the security guard had arrived and settled into his studies. The sweep of the second hand was agonizingly slow, and she repeatedly caught herself holding her breath, as if by so doing she might be silent on Lawton's behalf. She resisted the urge to light a cigarette, although her hand repeatedly crept toward the pack in her purse as if with a will of its own. The long muscles of her legs began to burn, and she realized she was clenching them, her body preparing for both fight and flight, though her mind knew neither was possible.
"I am back," Niko's voice finally said. "All is ready. Let's go."
* * *
Lawton heard the transmission and was already slipping from his hiding place as Renate repeated the call. He pressed an ear to the door for a long moment and heard only the quiet hum of a sleeping building.
"Coming out now," he said.
The corridor, now only dimly illuminated, looked different than it had only a half hour before. Every sound seemed magnified by the absence of ambient noise. Reason told him that the sounds of his breath could not be heard through the ceiling and floor above, where the security guard would be focused on his homework. Yet still he forced himself to breathe slowly, through his nose, as he silently approached the computer room door.
He swept the key card through the slot, and even the muffled clunk of the bolt sliding back made him start. He pulled the door open a fraction and held it, listening for any sound within or without that might indicate danger.
There was none. He knew there would be none. He was not breaking into the offices of the CIA, after all. This was simply a bank, closed down for the night, with a lone security guard, whose sole job was to press the fire alarm if the smell of smoke should distract him from his reading. The guard wasn't even armed. With no vault full of cash and valuables to protect, the employees of Berg & Tempel had little to fear.
Shaking his head, Lawton opened the door and entered the computer room, letting the door close silently behind him. He tore open the parcel he'd been "delivering" and pulled out the printout of instructions that Assif had prepared, then placed it beside the keyboard of the nearest console and settled into the worn desk chair. Atop the monitor, he recognized photographs of the Hausmann family.
"Okay," he said into the walkie-talkie. "Let Assif know I'm ready to start."
But the only answer was the hiss of static.
Guatemalan Highlands
They had to take a break. Father Steve was no longer the young mountain goat he had been, and he figured admitting to his weariness would not only get him a brief rest but would get Paloma one, as well. She might be elderly and in some ways frail, but that woman had a will of steel. He could see the fatigue on her face, but she kept trudging along.
The forest had thinned, making it possible for them to advance without leaving an obvious trail. At Steve's suggestion, they had broken up into three different groups, so their tracker would have to make a decision as to which trail to follow. At least the majority could escape the Hunter.
"I have to rest," he said finally. At once the small group halted. Had he been asked, Steve would have said they all looked relieved that someone had finally suggested it.
"Not yet," Paloma said firmly. "Nearby is a cave where we will be safer."
"No argument from me." If Paloma could do it, then so could he. It troubled him a bit that he wearied this way, considering that before he had come here he had run several miles a day. But something in their way of life now had depleted him…and made him aware that his knees were aging. Or maybe it was just all the constant walking on uneven ground.
He shrugged those thoughts aside and trekked forward with the rest of his group. The increasing altitude was at least making the air drier, for which he was grateful. Hiking like this was so much more comfortable in low humidity.
Shoving a hand into his pocket, he found his rosary and began to pray again where he had left off earlier. Their little band could use every bit of divine help that might come their way.
Paloma walked beside him, steadying herself with a stout stick. She seemed to have gone far away in her thoughts, but then, so had he. He was suspended somewhere between heaven and earth, having a silent dialogue with God while he murmured the familiar prayers.
So, he said to God, I don't suppose it does any good to point out that these people have suffered enough. I don't suppose that really matters.
God didn't answer. Of course not. That might or might not come later. But God had broad shoulders, and Steve felt like complaining a bit.
I realize that these people aren't suffering by your will. Miguel made a choice that caused evil to befall them. Their flight is the only way they can protect themselves, since they fought back against the police. You know, I can understand why they fought back. The police did not come to make an arrest. They invaded a village.
God listened.
But still, there has to be some end to this. Some safety for them somewhere. As it is, I can barely help school their children, we have so l
ittle time to hold still. What future do these people have without Your intercession?
Steve quieted himself then, focusing on the familiar prayers, leaving his heart open for some kind of answer. He had long since learned that if you spent too much time talking to God, you couldn't hear when He answered.
But at the moment there was no answer of any kind. Silence and a deep-rooted ache were all that filled Steve's heart. He wanted so badly to save these people from this misery, yet he could not see the way.
Paloma's voice dragged him out of his preoccupation. "Padre," she said quietly. "The cave is just ahead."
He could not see it, but scarcely a minute later the members of his band began to disappear into some bushes in single file. Then he, too, passed between the bushes, and the mouth of the cave was plain to see.
"A lava tube," he said. As he spoke, the ground beneath his feet trembled as another quake shook the mountain. A lava tube. They were going to seek sanctuary in a lava tube on the side of an active volcano. He didn't know whether to laugh or groan.
"This is dangerous," he said to Paloma. "Do you know what this is?"
She nodded, and her eyes crinkled around the corners. "I know. Your Lord will protect us."
"Uh…our Lord also said we should not test God."
Paloma shrugged. "He has been testing us, has he not? We will be safe. If we are not…then it is meant to be. But for now, we must hide from the hunter who seeks us. There is no better place. A rabbit would get lost in these caves."
He argued no further. Everything was in the hands of God, as it had always been.
"It is good," Paloma said, linking her arm through his. "And once we are settled, I will tell you a secret. For I have not long left in this world, and I must pass it on before my days end."
She paused to look at him. "It is the secret you came here for, Padre. The secret of the Codex."
Frankfurt, Germany
"We've lost him."
Renate sat bolt upright, her heart jamming into higher gear as Assif's voice came over the radio. "Lost who?"
"Law. All we're getting is static. We can't reach him."
Oh God! For an instant something squeezed in her chest, and she could scarcely breathe. She forced it to give way to icy calm.
"Why would that happen?"
"Perhaps there's interference from the computers," Niko said.
"No," Assif said before Renate could say a word. "I can't believe I didn't think of it before. It's TEMPEST shielding…." His voice trailed off; then he said something sharp in his native dialect. From the tone, Renate guessed it was some kind of curse. "The room," Assif said.
"The room?" Renate was confused.
"Of course the room!" Assif said. "It's shielded. And it's also blocking his walkie-talkie transmission. I can't believe…"
"Assif!" Renate spoke his name sharply. She couldn't have said why. And she didn't want to admit how worried she was.
"I'm an idiot," Assif said grimly.
"No, no," Renate said as soothingly as she could. She couldn't afford to have any team member lose his head. "None of us anticipated this. We should have, but we didn't. Okay. That's done. So now to the problem at hand. Do you think Law can pull it off anyway?"
Assif was silent for a moment. "I gave him printed instructions. I went over them with him. If he paid attention and remembers everything, he can do it."
"Then perhaps," Renate said icily, "you'd better start looking for that SWIFTNET transmission."
13
Saint-Arnans-la-Bastide, France
Not very often did Jules Soult open the hand-crafted book that contained his lineage. A monk had begun illuminating it in the fourth century. Other monks had added to it with the passing years, some creating works of art, others with less talent simply inscribing names, dates, marriages.
The papers used were exquisite, the finest to be had at any point in time. The volume had originally begun as a papyrus scroll, but at some point one of the monks had transformed it into a book that contained enough empty pages so that even after all these centuries, Soult did not have to worry about beginning a new volume for his children.
The tome was heavy, decorated fancifully in gold leaf, with no title to indicate the treasure it contained. The oldest pages showed signs of aging but so far had not cracked or crumbled. Soult's father had arranged for a controlled storage environment for the book, in a well-hidden safe, so that further deterioration would be delayed even longer. And no one, but no one, ever touched these pages without wearing fresh cotton gloves.
It had been many years since Soult had brought out this volume. Sometimes he thought of trying to find someone who could turn it into a family tree that would be easier to read than this listing of marriages, births and deaths. But each time he considered it, he abandoned the notion, for he was not yet ready for anyone to know his true bloodline. There was no one he could trust to do the work and keep silent.
But later, when he had assumed his rightful position in the world, then he would have this made into a huge family tree for all the world to see.
Others shared his ancestry, and many of them belonged to the same Order of the Rose that he did. But only Jules Soult could claim an unbroken female line of descent from the earliest Merovingian kings. Therefore his blood was the purest.
Soult opened to the first pages, inscribed so long ago that even the precious ink had faded a bit. He daren't keep the book out long, but he couldn't stop himself from touching the page where the line began.
What had come before that no one could say with absolute certainty, although the Order of the Rose firmly believed that the Merovingians, also known as the Fisher Kings, had married into the bloodline of Mary Magdalene and Jesus, of the royal house of David.
One only had to look at the fleur-de-lis, as old as the monarchy in Europe, to guess the truth, for that symbol was an idealized form of the iris, a flower symbolic of the House of David. The French royal coat of arms had also contained the Lion of Judah.
Soult believed the myths. But more importantly, he had proof of his direct descent from the original European kings. A lineage so precious that even Napoleon had married into it, taking an Austrian princess as bride in order to legitimize himself.
Hah. And the Austrian royals had thought they were the purest line extant.
Slowly, Soult closed the book and for a moment sat with his hand resting on the cover, his eyes closed as he savored a dream close to fruition. Then, carefully, he restored the volume to its wrappings and placed it back in the safe.
Not much longer now, he promised himself. As soon as Frau Schmidt gave him permission to hire Hector de Vasquez y San Claro, the next, and most important, piece would be in place.
Hector was an old friend and also a member of the Order. Together, they would accomplish the impossible.
But there was one more thing, one thing that would give him the incredible personal power he would need. The Crimson Codex, also called the Kulkulcan Codex. And the Hunter was even now closing in on it.
With his eyes closed, Soult imagined holding the treasure in his hands and learning the secrets of its power. His family legend held that it was this the Magi had brought to the young Jesus, called "gold" but in reality the lodestone of Hermes Trismegistus, the writings that would allow gold to be transformed into something even more powerful, something even more valuable, something known only as she-mana.
The story that had so carefully been passed down from generation to generation held that the Magi had come from the East not simply because the stars told them that a Judean king had been born but because the stars told them that the Judean king had been born, the son of the House of David, the one who would transform the world.
And so, in the gift called gold, had come the stone with the ability to transform gold into something protective and healing and ultimately powerful, a power that nothing could defeat.
The story said that before his death, Jesus had given the tablet to Mary and told her to
take it abroad and hide it. Mary Magdalene had eventually come to the south of France, with their daughter, Sara. It was directly from Sara that Soult was descended, or so the story went. But there had been two children born of Sara, one a daughter, the other a son who had sailed with the tablet to begin a new ministry elsewhere.
For most of his adult life, Soult had been searching for even a hint that someone knew where the tablet had been taken. Then, little more than a year ago, he had learned that the Church was searching in Central America.
And now the Hunter was on the trail.
Soult smiled and lit another cigar. All the pieces were coming together beautifully. He could have asked for no better omen for his plans.
Guatemalan Highlands
They celebrated Mass again, using the remnants of the tortillas they had carried with them from their last camp. The rest had been eaten with fruits they had gathered along their way. What they would eat tomorrow lay in God's hands. They had flour but could not make a fire. Collecting fruit again would mean stepping outside this cave into danger.
Yet none of his flock appeared especially concerned. Their absolute faith that things would work out often amazed Steve. Their acceptance of the way things were was a lesson he would do well to take to heart.
He moved among them, dispensing the Eucharist, and all received it reverently. As he passed, he blessed the very young children who were not yet old enough to partake of the sacrament.
Then he ended the Mass. Gradually the villagers settled down in groups of family and friends, preparing to spend the night on the hard cave floor.
Paloma came for him then, drawing him away from the others into a small antechamber he hadn't noticed before.
"We must speak very quietly," she warned him. "Sounds echo in these caves."
He nodded.
"My time is ending," she said then, making his heart sink.
"Yes, you said that earlier. Are you sick?" he asked anxiously. "Why haven't you said something?"