The Crimson Code

by Rachel Lee

  This opening chapter of the Koran, the Fatiha, began each of the three cycles that composed the sunset prayer. With each cycle, Ahmed stood, then knelt, turned his head to the right, then to the left, and finally prostrated himself to manifest his submission and devotion to Allah. Although no one was near enough to hear him, he concluded the sunset prayers with the traditional benediction: May the peace, mercy, and blessings of God be upon you.

  Hoping that a merciful Allah would guide his eyes, Ahmed decided to forgo dinner and return to the sheaf of papers on his desk. It was then that he found the series of transactions from a private bank in Frankfurt, via an intermediary in France, to the terrorist cell his men had attacked in Vienna.

  Berg & Tempel AG.

  Ahmed could not help but to chuckle at the way the bank's founders had hidden their secret in the open. Berg was the German word for "mountain" and Tempel the word for "temple." Mountain & Temple. Temple Mount. Veltroni had been right after all.

  Ahmed had found the heirs of the Knights Templar.

  His search grew far easier now, as he focused on the transactions and messages to and from Berg & Tempel. It was all there. The disbursements for Black Christmas. The transaction in Vienna that Yawi had found, which had led Ahmed to send him to his death. And, three weeks ago, the disbursement to Prague. Each funneled through an intermediary in France, a different intermediary each time. Doubtless those were single-use accounts, set up for and closed immediately after each transaction. He knew there was no way to track down the intermediary. The men behind this would be far too clever for that.

  But perhaps he could track down the final recipients. He had done so in Vienna, after all, although he now realized that information had been bait. Ahmed had snapped at that bait, and Yawi had died for it. But now Ahmed was inside their information loop, and what he had was not bait but critical intelligence, evidence of their involvement in murder on a global scale.

  Ahmed briefly considered taking the evidence to the authorities, but only briefly. He had no good reason to be in possession of it, and no wish to explain his own role in the events of the past months. Nor did he wish to burn his source at the Saudi bank, a dedicated young Muslim whose only crime had been to peel back the layers of secrecy that shielded money and those who moved it.

  No, this was something he would handle himself. As he continued to scan the documents, he spotted a second set of disbursements ending in Prague, dated four days ago. A second payment for the ricin attack? Perhaps, but not likely. The first payment had been substantial, more than Ahmed had spent on any single target on Black Christmas. Ricin, it seemed, was an expensive weapon.

  But if not a second payment for the subway attack, then what? Obviously the same terrorist cell had been paid for another attack. He checked again the dates for the first payment to Prague and the subway attack. Twelve days apart. The pattern was consistent with Ahmed's own practice of shifting funds as late as possible, lest a bank auditor get suspicious and investigate the transaction before the operation could be launched.

  Ten days. At most. And probably less.

  That was how long Ahmed had to find the cell and organize an operation against them. He picked up the telephone and called his deputy.

  "We must go to Prague," he said without preamble. "Make the necessary arrangements. We leave tomorrow."

  Vatican City

  Monsignor Veltroni looked across the tea table at Pablo Cardinal Estevan. Both sipped Earl Grey, and ate biscuits and cakes in the English style, a custom the cardinal had adopted a generation ago. It was one of the many ways Estevan used to put his guests off guard. Veltroni had long since learned to withstand the charm and the food.

  "So, what are you hearing from your young priest in Guatemala?"

  "Nothing," Veltroni said, wondering why they were once again covering this ground. "I still believe he must have died during the raid on the village where he was assigned."

  "But surely that would have been reported to the bishop."

  "I doubt it, Your Eminence. Why would the Guatemalan police want to tell a bishop they had killed one of his priests? No, such a thing would be conveniently overlooked."

  "Perhaps. Perhaps." The cardinal nodded dubiously. "But you will tell me if you hear anything?"

  "Of course." Then Veltroni could no longer hold in the question that had been plaguing him since the outset. "Eminence, why are we concerned whether some Mayan codex indicates that the Savior might have married and had children? I understand it would shock people, but it would expose no flaw in our faith."

  Estevan frowned as he nibbled on a small biscuit. "No, you're right. It would expose no flaw in our faith. Merely a flaw in our story. It makes us appear liars."

  "Not if the information was presented in a positive light. The Holy Father could announce that we had learned something new and wonderful about our Lord."

  Estevan sniffed. "That codex must come into the hands of the Church. Only the Church can rightfully judge its contents and decide what, if anything, needs to be made known to the world."

  "Yes, Eminence."

  Estevan smiled, but there was little warmth in the expression. "Remember your vows to the Stewards, Monsignor. We will protect the faith with our lives, if necessary."

  "I remember."

  Indeed, he remembered very well. But protecting the faith with his life was a far cry from lying about it. Veltroni hoped he concealed his feelings for the rest of the visit, and when he at last escaped he felt as if he were emerging from a dungeon, rather than the well-appointed apartment of a senior member of the Curia.

  The stroll back to his own much less impressive apartment would take about ten minutes unless he encountered someone he knew…which on any given day proved nearly inescapable. On this late, rainy afternoon, however, he met no one and reached his apartment without delay.

  Once inside, he indulged himself by stripping off not only his coat, but his cassock, as well. He donned his favorite pair of pajamas, though it was still too early, and made himself a cup of rich hot cocoa, even giving in to the temptation to top it with whipped cream.

  The blustery weather seemed to justify the indulgence, along with the fact that he had no further appointments or duties that day. It was a rare occurrence indeed when a monsignor in the Vatican could simply put his feet up at five in the afternoon and declare the day over.

  The decadence of the hot chocolate satisfied some deep craving. He chose a novel rather than television, which might actually intrude on his perfect moments of escape with reminders of reality, and the rattle of the cold wind against the elderly windows made him feel snug.

  But the novel couldn't hold his attention. His thoughts persisted in drifting back to his conversation with Estevan and his inescapable sense that there was more to the Codex than the Cardinal was telling him.

  After all, he thought, his gaze drifting from the printed page to the gray world beyond his window, an ancient Mayan codex probably only hinted at things that could be interpreted as referring to Christ. It couldn't prove anything. Not even all of the legends that Cortez had encountered—and the crosses to go with them—had been taken as proof. Why should a codex, containing the roots of a myth, be considered powerful enough to weigh against the gospels?

  Gospels that, he knew, were utterly silent on whether Jesus had married. Gospels that had clearly been edited. And all of which revealed at least some political purpose.

  The Word of God, as he knew from his studies, had passed through the minds and hands of many men before reaching its final form. The truth was still undeniably within the pages of the Bible, but one had to make allowances for the times in which they were written, the men whose hands held the pen, and the audiences for whom they were intended. The Codex, if it were ever found, would probably be accorded even less status than the Nag Hammadi gospels, which the Church actually suggested that the faithful read for purposes of comparison.

  So…again his mind balked. Rain rattled at the windows now, a wintr
y rain with little gentleness. His apartment was growing chilly, and he wasted a moment or two trying to decide whether to light the fire or just wrap up in a blanket. At the moment, either one seemed like too much effort.

  Sighing, he set his book aside. Estevan was up to something, and a poor monsignor would probably never know what it was. All he knew for certain was that he regretted sending Steve Lorenzo into that hornets' nest, and his prayers morning and night begged for the life of his young friend.

  A rap at his door startled him. He wasn't expecting anyone, and friends always called first, because they were all so busy most of the time.

  Putting aside his beverage, he went to answer the knock. Outside his door, in the yellow of the overhead hallway lights, stood a young man wrapped in a heavy coat.

  "Monsignore," he said in accented Italian, "I have been asked to give you this letter."

  "Thank you." Veltroni's hand automatically went to his pocket for a tip, but he was in his robe and pajamas, and the young man disappeared before he could ask him to wait a moment.

  Curious.

  The monsignor closed his door and returned to his sofa, where he had enough light to see. Outside, the wind and rain blustered almost angrily.

  His name was typed on the envelope. The return address was that of the Vatican press office. Interesting.

  He tore open the flap and pulled out a thin sheet of paper.

  Under the letterhead of the press office he read:

  Monsignore, we received this message in error. It appears to be personal. Forgive our intrusion.

  Salvio Viglio, O.F.M.

  Another sheet lay beneath it, smudged and dirty, but clearly addressed to him.

  Monsignor Giuseppe Veltroni, the Vatican. Joe, I am alive and well, but you will not see me again. I am committed to my work here. That which was hidden is hidden once again and must remain so. Steve.

  Veltroni read the missive three more times, then decided that he needed a fire after all. It had been well laid by the person who cared for his apartment, and in a few minutes the blaze in the fireplace was bright. Without another thought, he threw both sheets of paper and the envelope into the flames.

  Then he offered a prayer of thanksgiving, both for Steve Lorenzo's safety and for the young priest's decisions. Veltroni was but a monsignor, bound by vows of obedience and too exposed here in Rome to keep secrets. But Lorenzo was half a world away, far removed from overseers. The good father had apparently reviewed the Codex and decided, for reasons of his own, that its exposure might bring harm to his flock.

  Lacking any basis to second-guess Lorenzo's decision, Veltroni could both accept and celebrate it. That night, for the first time in months, he slept the sleep of the righteous.

  Rome, Italy

  The Poisoning in Prague, as the media had dubbed it, had Office 119 teams in Eastern Europe scrambling, but so far their efforts had been hampered by the more direct and visible work of the Czech and EU authorities. Crackdowns on mosques and madrassas had been swift and unrelenting, yet thus far they had made no headway in identifying the attackers.

  That in itself had begun to trouble Renate.

  It was unrealistic to expect as lucky a break as the FBI had received after the 9/11 attacks. On the evening of those attacks, Boston airport authorities had found two suitcases that were to have been on one of the hijacked aircraft, but which had missed the flight due to a late connection. In those suitcases, FBI agents found complete plans for the attacks on New York and Washington, including pilot training materials, the names of the terrorists and the journal of the lead hijacker, Mohammed Atta. The evidence had literally fallen into the FBI's lap, courtesy of an airline baggage-handling screwup.

  Neither the FBI nor Interpol nor the national and local authorities—nor Office 119—had been as fortunate after Black Christmas. Two months had passed, and, despite hundreds of agencies fielding tens of thousands of agents worldwide, there had been no arrests. There had been only a single raid in Vienna…a raid that, for all the media hype, had developed no new evidence, nor even confirmation that those killed had been involved in Black Christmas.

  It was maddening, and yet, for Renate, it was something more than that. It was suspicious. She knew it was impossible to commit a perfect crime, and certainly not on a scale such as Black Christmas. That operation had doubtless involved hundreds of planners and operatives, and yet, if any of them had boasted to a wife or friend, it had not reached any investigator's ears. The physical evidence—the remnants of the bombs themselves—pointed in too many directions to point anywhere at all. On the one hand, there had been near-surgical operations aimed at industrial and economic targets. On the other hand, there had been indiscriminate killings in the church bombings. Thousands of potential witnesses had been interviewed, but none of the stories correlated on enough relevant facts to convey any significant information.

  Yes. Something was very wrong.

  The ringing of the telephone distracted her.

  "Yes?" she asked.

  "I have good news," Assif said from Frankfurt. "I have decoded a transaction from almost three weeks ago. A substantial transaction. To Prague."

  Renate quickly ran through dates in her head. "The ricin attack. We've got them."

  "Hold on," Assif said. "There's more. There was another transaction to the same account two days ago."

  "A final payment?" Renate asked.

  "Maybe, but given the amount of the first transaction, I doubt it." Assif paused for a moment. "I think they're planning something new."

  "Send me copies of everything," Renate said.

  "Already sent," Assif replied.

  "Good. I'll take it to Jefe as soon as I print it. Good work, Assif. This time we have the jump on them."

  24

  Guatemalan Highlands

  You had to be a mountain goat to live here, Steve thought. The mountains were rugged, the result of volcanism, almost all steep cones, except where they ran together. The soil was fertile, the gift of the eruptions, creating thick growth everywhere. The rain had let up, though. The dry season finally seemed to be in full swing.

  But even those in flight had to rest, especially the children, though despite the ruggedness of their path, Steve could have traveled another few hours. His body was better conditioned than it had ever been.

  But not the children. They wearied faster, and their parents could carry them only so far. One of their party, acting as a scout, had found a sheltered place beside a brook that appeared to be steadily drying up. For tonight there would be enough water, however. A gift from the rains and the mountains.

  Men and women, older children in tow, scattered outward around the camp to find edible fruits and plants, and perhaps, if the men were fortunate, some meat for tonight.

  Steve and two women were left behind to watch the youngest of the children. The women tended the infants, while Steve provided the daily lessons as best he could, a few minutes each of reading, writing, basic arithmetic and catechism. It was not, he knew, an adequate curriculum, for he was well aware of his limitations as a teacher. But it was better than nothing at all.

  Later in the evening, after the day's gatherings had been prepared and shared, the adults settled into the tasks that had consumed Homo sapiens for tens of thousands of years before the advent of agriculture and civilization. They preserved the uneaten food as best they could, wound strippings of vine and animal sinew into twine, fashioned bone and wood and stone into tools to supplement what little they had picked up along their journey, set watch, laid out pallets and slept.

  Steve found it difficult to fall asleep that night, however. Three years ago, he would have attributed that to the uneven ground that seemed to provide bumps and hollows in all the wrong places, but he had long since become accustomed to such privations. No, it was his mind and not his body that lay uneasy in the darkness. A vague but certain foreboding seemed to hover in the air like the silk of a spider's web.

  Miguel had never rejoined them
. Steve kept his sorrow quietly in his heart, for there was nothing else he could do. He watched Miguel's sister, Rita, grow daily quieter, but she never brought the subject up, and he felt in some way that as long as no one ever commented that Miguel was missing, she could cling to her belief that he must still be alive.

  But his absence most likely meant one thing: the stalker had killed Miguel. In which case the stalker was still following them. For days Steve had cherished the hope that the Hunter hadn't been able to follow them after they exited the caves on the far side of the mountain, but he didn't really believe it. Anyone good enough to move silently and unseen through these mountains would be able to figure out what they'd done and pick up their tracks again.

  Now, trying to sleep, with the feeling of uneasiness seeming to grow with every drip of dew from the leaves above…

  He was failing, he thought. He was failing these people. He was failing his church. He had refused to complete his mission.

  Odd, he thought, how things seemed to change out here in the jungle. He believed in God, of course, and in Jesus, but…out here, all the rules changed. In fact, almost all the rules became superfluous. They depended on God and each other for every little thing. There was no time for anything else. No time for finer points of theology and doctrine.

  Everything had boiled down to the very basic. "Love God above all else, and love your neighbor as yourself." The most important commandment of all.

  The thought brought him comfort somehow, and he began to drift off at last. And as he drifted away, he felt himself rise above his sleeping body, then above the canopy of the forest that sheltered them, and then he flew among the stars.

  Such a beautiful dream. Peace flowed through him.

  You have been chosen.

  An empty plain materialized around him, and twelve people, men and women, clad in shimmering robes. He looked down at himself and saw that he, too, wore such a robe.

  "Paloma chose you as her successor."

  He looked up into a wise, ageless face. "Who are you?"