“Nothing she couldn’t handle, apparently.”
“Yes, Jill is…resourceful.”
“She’s transporting the artifact herself with her university credentials and the proper paperwork—”
“Yes, our connections in Cairo run deep,” interjected Kessler. “Without the appropriate grease, the statue might have languished in a legal limbo forever. We would have mounted an operation to re-obtain it.”
You mean I would have mounted an op.
Curtis kept his thoughts to himself, still hoping mind-reading wasn’t on the menu. He was most concerned about the woman, who stared at him even from across the room as if she could scorch him with her eyes. Read between his lines. She grimaced a smile at him and stretched languorously to show off her desirable curves, clad in silk and leather. Curtis ignored her.
“I’ll inform you when she arrives. Travel out of Cairo is notoriously inconsistent. Last minute delays all the time. If nothing unusual happens, she will arrive tomorrow.”
“And we will be that much closer to our goal.” Kessler finally looked at Curtis squarely. “Any word from the others?”
Curtis peered at the woman. He still hated to swallow that she had divined the statue’s location through magical means. He was ambivalent—on one hand he had hitched his wagon to a man who believed black magic would give him great power, but on the other he couldn’t help being skeptical. Except some of what he’d seen right here in the turret, in the nearby warrens, made him almost a believer, too.
“They are nearly in place, sir. They will make the grab as soon as they can without having to kill everyone on the train…”
“Any way it has to be done, it will be done!” Kessler raged, half-standing. “I don’t care about the sheep on the train!” His spittle dotted the fine table top. “Their deaths are merely additional blood sacrifices for our ultimate success!”
Curtis nodded. “Of course, but some crimes result in a greater response from the authorities. This Straker, he can be shown to have killed the woman and then himself, or another scenario. But wholesale slaughter, that will lead to greater scrutiny.”
He steeled himself for the furious response, but it never came.
Kessler sat back. “Let me know when it’s done.”
“Yes, sure.” Curtis knew he was dismissed, so he took his leave with as much dignity as he could muster, sparing the woman no glance but feeling her eyes boring into his back.
The tall, narrow medieval stained-glass windows filtered down an eerie weak light from outside, painting the tableau with blood.
He exited the room, suppressing a shiver.
Chapter 42
The Pinnacle (Kessler Building)
Pinnacle Industries International Headquarters
Manhattan, New York
“He is not happy, that one,” she said after Curtis closed the door.
Kessler turned away from his first two trophies and leered at Stoyanova, his Adept. “I need him hungry, not happy. He comes closest to happiness when he kills in my name and when he plots what to do with his fortune—once he has it in hand.”
“You will take him along, when the ritual is ready?”
“He’s useful,” Kessler said, stroking his blond mane absentmindedly. “One day his use will end.”
That was enough for Stoyanova. She wasn’t interested in competing for Kessler’s attentions, and she couldn’t quite figure out if Curtis was in love with his boss or only his boss’s money and power. Maybe both. But she wasn’t naïve, there was a chance Curtis would be used against her when the time came—and she would be ready if that day came before his use to Kessler came to an end.
She smiled seductively.
“It’s only two so far, Cornelious, but they will make excellent bookends for us right now, right here.”
Kessler stood and openly admired her where she lay. She wore leather knee-high boots and leggings and an expensive silk blouse in black with silver pinstripes. A long silver foulard was tied loosely around her neck.
“Perhaps the energy we expend before them will work in our favor with the coming operation against that couple.”
“They don’t worry me,” Kessler said. “The Betrayer worries me. Will this help with him?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle him when the time comes. If your assassins don’t succeed first. I’ll take care of his Adept, too. But now I want to concentrate on the artifacts. Soon you will have four of the five.”
“Yes, I will,” he muttered, licking his lips.
“Take me now, Cornelious?” she asked, pouting. Posing for him as she stood from her settee.
“Come to the table, my dear,” he ordered.
She approached the massive wooden round table slowly, giving him time to enjoy her languorous cat’s walk. He watched her, seeing all of her, concentrating on the heaving swell of her breasts and the smiling crimson lips, staring into her smoky eyes.
When she was before him, he grasped her shoulders and turned her roughly to face the table’s edge. He pushed her down, folding her over the table top, then spread her legs with his feet like a policeman and jerked her leggings down around her boots. She was nude underneath the leather, and ready.
Kessler slapped her buttocks, then took hold of the foulard like the reins of a horse, pulling back her head so he could reach her lips as he hunched over her. She tasted of cinnamon and other indeterminate spices and he inhaled her scent. With one hand, he dropped his trousers.
When he took her, she was speaking in an ancient language, or maybe it was her own language, almost chanting as he grunted behind her.
She faced the two artifacts on the table in front of her and for a moment she thought the figurines were staring back. Beams of crimson light from the medieval openings created halos around them, but that might have been illusion.
Her eyes rolled back. She was weightless as she both left her body and inhabited it at the same time, but feeling Kessler’s weight behind her.
The round room echoed with the sounds of their rough passion, but Stoyanova’s chanting continued. She felt power flowing into her.
She wondered if she would need Kessler at all when the time came.
Chapter 43
Alberto’s Pizza Lounge
Midtown Manhattan
“It’s a little crazy,” the bartender said, as she listened intently to Simon’s instructions. In the background, Sinatra was crowing about doing it all his way.
She was wide-eyed and model pretty, but the piercings and tattoos screamed Suicide Girls rather than Vogue. The violet and crimson streaks in her long hair caught the light and glittered in the glittering mirror behind the bar.
“The Kalamata olive just doesn’t fit,” she went on.
Simon was used to this argument. In fact, he’d picked the savory olive specifically so he could argue its merits with attractive bartenders.
“Just try it and you’ll see,” he explained. “It makes the drink more complex and interesting.”
The bartender, whose nametag labeled Lissy, shrugged but still looked unconvinced.
Cat scanned the two from her stool, saying nothing. She watched Simon more.
“You have patrons who order dirty martinis, do you not?” he said.
“All the time.”
“What do you think of that?”
She made a face, a pretty frown, and shrugged again. “Don’t much like that drink, either,” she admitted.
“Well, mine is a little like that, but a lot better.”
She sighed. “I’ll make it for you, no problem. I’m just a traditionalist, I guess.”
“You?” Simon raised an eyebrow. “With all that ink and metal? No!” He smiled widely, and she laughed.
“Got me there.” Her smile, too, was open, and the invitation was clear.
I’d like to see how you can make my life more complex and interesting…
Simon winked at Cat after Lissy turned away a few beats later to make the Manhattan he had specified.
&nbs
p; “It’s like watching a master,” Cat whispered. “Stop gloating.”
“I’ve had time to practice,” he said. “I’m not gloating, but I like being right.”
Lissy brought his Manhattan and Cat’s expensive glass of Chianti.
“I can drink five bottles of this at home for what this one glass cost,” she pointed out as they touched glasses.
“What a scam, eh? Liquor prices are a joke.” He sipped his twenty-five dollar Manhattan with a wry smile. “Fortunately my fee is rather generous.”
“Simon, I live in Rome. Why would you take me to a pizzeria?”
“It’s more than a pizzeria,” he said, “it’s a New York pizzeria! But the main thing they make an absolute gem of a pizza. They have the oven, they have the best crust in the city. The key is always the crust, but almost no one in the States understands that. This place gets it. You’ll see.”
He motioned for a table and after tipping Lissy quite a bit too generously, they were seated in a semi-private corner booth.
“Wait, what’s that?” Cat said as Simon glanced at his folded drink napkin and tucked it away.
He grinned and showed her—Lissy had scrawled her name and number on the crisp white napkin using her violet lipstick.
“A master,” Cat confirmed.
He grinned.
After ordering from a formal-looking waiter in a starched black shirt, and enjoying some fresh bread and olive oil, a spread of three bubbling, nicely scorched thin pizzas arrived. Moments later, Cat was nodding and licking her lips.
“I give up,” she said. “This is as good, maybe better, than any pizza I’ve had.”
“I know,” he said, gloating again. She stuck out her tongue at him, then cleaned her plate.
Lissy sent over another round on the house, and Simon toasted her from afar. The bartender winked broadly.
“Another conquest,” Cat said. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you do this in person. Except on Skype, on the plane.”
He frowned. The flight attendant had been sweet. “I hate those bastards for what they did to that girl.”
Cat looked pained. “I know. We’ll get them, Simon. But that pales in comparison to stopping the collection of these statues. Martin is very concerned. Whoever is behind this seems to know a lot, but we don’t know how. Martin suspects a mole in the VSS.”
“I had the same thought, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? Someone has been gathering up information and intel and forming an organization—including at least one talented adept. This takes resources…”
“We can draw up a list of possibles, but are we limiting to the U.S. or going global?”
“That’s a million dollar question, right there.”
They sipped their drinks.
Cat looked at the nearby tables. No one was paying attention, all were focused on their groups of friends and their food, slices of pizza and wine glasses raised, happiness in the air like an early taste of Christmas. She spoke more softly. “I haven’t had a chance to get into this, but we think at least two of those statues are now with the Opposition.”
“One is the phallus Christ, right? The one found in Queens?”
“Right. The one that set off Martin’s famous sixth sense, and for good reason. The other one is a museum robbery in Milwaukee. Murders there, too, for no logical reason other than they saw the statue. Interestingly, the museum couldn’t find any real description of the statue that was stolen, only a generic reference: a ‘gold idol, circa whatever.’ But Bellucci has been in the Archives long enough to know where all the descriptions are. We think that’s the second they have, but—”
She paused, scoped the place, went on.
“There may be more. I just sent Martin some news stories out of Florida that popped out at me. There was a so-called pirate attack out on the ocean, a bloody shoot-out. The ship that was attacked belonged to a small treasure salvaging company…”
“Usually ship-centered crime around Florida is tied to drug-running,” Simon pointed out. “What makes this different?”
“I was in touch with Bellucci about this one. The last time one of the other statues was recorded and described it was about to be shipped from the New World back to Europe. It never arrived, so it was assumed lost at sea.”
“And our hardy treasure hunters may have located the treasure ship’s wreck?”
“Possibly. I’m looking for relevant information and links, but the two surviving treasure hunters who were questioned by police seem to have disappeared.”
“So the Opposition may have this one, too?”
“I’m afraid so, Simon. It would explain the massacre on the boat and the disappearance of the two after their questioning.”
“No one ever saw the statue?”
“No one still alive, anyway.” She inclined her head. “Unless they’ve disappeared because they have it.”
“Hm…If that’s the case, we might be able to get our hands on it before the Opposition. Stop the whole ritual from happening. Assuming the ritual even does what it’s supposed to.”
“We’re convinced it will achieve something, perhaps freeing the—prisoner. We just don’t know.”
“But if the two are dead, tortured and dismembered somewhere, then the Opposition has three statues out of the five…”
“Yes, and we are working on the other two. As are they, undoubtedly.”
“Let me know when you hear from Martin about this.”
“Of course. He has a lot on his plate right now, though.”
He chuckled. “That’s so American a phrase.”
“But completely apropos,” she said.
“Let’s get out of here.” Simon waved for the check. “Go for a drive.”
Chapter 44
Midtown Manhattan and Queens
New York
They were in Simon’s classic Mustang, heading east on 57th Street until he turned up and onto 60th and took the Queensboro Bridge. The East River slid quickly by below, intersected briefly by the ship’s bow of Roosevelt Island.
Cat admired the muscular car’s interior, its simplicity and its retro appeal.
Simon explained its history.
He loved the fact that Steve McQueen had grasped the same wheel he now caressed. This was the car the actor himself had driven in Bullitt, the one of the pair used that had survived the stunt work. Lore had it that the two 1968 440 Magnum Dodge Chargers that played the other car in the famous chase scene sequence were much faster than the 390 Fastback GT, but Steve himself had shown Simon—then known as Jonathan Mark—the modifications that made the Mustang’s V8 engine more powerful than that of the stock Chargers’…mods few people knew he had done himself with the help of one of his personal mechanics.
In fact, Simon knew not only what the mods were, but also where McQueen had secretly signed various hidden spots under the hood and below the Spartan dashboard.
Simon handled the four-speed manual transmission like a pro, drawing a growl from the Fastback’s engine as he pulled onto the 495 and headed east to Flushing Meadows-Corona Park and then swinging north on the Van Wyck to Flushing. The sports car ride wasn’t smooth, but it was tight—and it cornered like a demon on Hell’s highway.
Cat laughed, delighted as he simultaneously drove and gave her a rundown of his time spent in McQueen’s orbit, a brief period but one he recalled very fondly indeed. He was between assignments during the movie’s production, but Pope Paul VI had kept him busy, what with the Vietnam conflict and the many brush fires that sprang up all over the world requiring the occasional removal of one figure or another. But Simon now reminisced about that extended down-time after the Six-Day War, in which time he’d befriended actors and musicians and literary lions.
The realization hit him as he maneuvered deftly around slower traffic and roared ahead, giving the Mustang its head.
I miss those days. But like everything else in my life, they were fleeting.
He glanced at Cat surreptitiously. She was
clearly enjoying the ride through the crisp evening air, lips curled in a smile Simon couldn’t help but interpret as sexual.
He almost chuckled. She was a natural adept who worked for the Vatican and helped him with surgically clean hits against its enemies. Just the fact that the Vatican employed the magical arts for its own purposes would have knocked the world off its axis, never mind adding his own story’s details.
He broke their silent appreciation. Business calls.
“We’re taking a look at the location where that first statue, the phallus Christ, was found.”
“How did it set off bells?”
“A VSS sleeper was onto it, got out a photo. Martin knew I have a history with the Golden Dawn, but it was years ago—decades, really—and I had cut off its head then. It was a financier who planned to use magick to influence the passage of legislation.”
“You stopped him?”
“Heh, not entirely. I killed him, but his plans were already underway. Some of that legislation passed and helped lead to the recent collapse. Some legislation that would have helped avoid it was derailed. No, the GD lost its leader, but they weren’t altogether ineffective. This new version seems to have bigger, more destructive plans.”
“He doesn’t let on, but I can read Father Martin pretty well. He’s very concerned.”
“He plays a lot close to the vest, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but I have special insight.” The smile was obvious in her tone.
He flicked them off the main artery, swung around the short ramp, and headed for an area of fences and wide buildings that was outwardly too much a graveyard to be residential, although there was a normal neighborhood just beyond the security lights and the pools of darkness they barely dispelled.
Simon maneuvered a few turns by memory. He’d just been here as Father Simon.
As he slowed, Cat gazed past him out the driver’s window. “Are we there? I think…I think I can feel something in the pit of my stomach.”
“Yes,” he said, “this is the construction site.” He pointed to the fenced-off area, the place where he had parked and gone in to find the decapitated man, and met Detective Vandenberg. He was trying to relate all this when he realized something was terribly wrong.
THE JUDAS HIT Page 13