“Ah, there you are,” he said, which was a strange way to begin a conversation, but it guaranteed the line would be kept open. A voiceprint was checking his identity. A short beep told him to continue after the click.
“You’ll never guess what I just saw,” he said. The other end was silent. “What I saw a photograph of, that is.”
The voice responded with a question.
“Yes, it’s an item I’ve seen on a short list of such items, the kind that raise eyebrows at certain levels.” He described the statue in detail, recalling the photos on Straker’s phone. Couldn’t help shivering a little. Cold.
The person at the other end breathed for a few seconds, then asked another question. A leading question.
That’s interesting…
He said, “Not sure about that. I haven’t heard anything official, anyway, not yet. But my source is trustworthy…I think he has the item in hand right now, and is looking to find the buyer, whoever’s interested. He knows there’s an organized effort to that end.”
He listened, nodding. “Yes, I’m told there has already been collateral damage.” He described Straker’s piracy scenario. Details could be checked in seconds. In fact, they were.
“Is there more?” He listened as the voice responded tersely. “No, I haven’t heard about a train incident…” The voice went on at length.
Also interesting. If Straker and his girl Bella had been involved in some kind of massacre on a train, they hadn’t said so. They looked in pretty good shape, so maybe it wasn’t true? But then again, if it was true, then Straker was right and there were targets on their backs. Was the train incident another attempt to grab the item? Made sense for Straker to play some things close to the vest.
“What do you suggest? My source indicates he wants to locate whoever’s expending this effort to acquire the item, possibly in order to exact revenge…” He listened. “Yes, I can probably convince him to meet…yes, I think it might be a tense meeting, but it would have to be—my source is highly motivated to defend his life and…others.”
By the time he hung up, he had his instructions.
He started up, turned on the heater, and let his hands thaw out by holding them in front of the nearest vent.
Then he drove out of the parking garage and headed for mid-town.
Moments later, a black Continental pulled out after him.
Chapter 58
NYPD 107th Precinct
Queens, New York
He rubbed his bleary eyes and drank some of the truly wicked coffee brewed in the break room, trying to convince himself it wouldn’t poison him. It would wake him up.
Sure, it’d wake the dead. But was that good?
For once, he really wondered if it were a question worth debating.
Vandenberg shook his head, as much to clear it as to express his frustration.
Hardly anyone was around in the middle of the night and that was the way he liked it.
But the place had been a hotbed a couple hours ago, when he’d caught another homicide.
Fuck me. Not just another homicide, but in the same exact fucking place as the weird one.
Sure, this one was a more typical GSW to the head, handled plenty of those, move along there’s nothing to see.
But it was a stone’s throw from the first scene, a shooting probably done from the rear of a car. The CSUs were still there, but there wasn’t much trace. Hell no, it had driven away. But he was sure the ME would find all sorts of shit on the vic. The guy looked like some kind of ex-military hard-ass, and also like he’d just gotten dressed. His ID turned up nothing, anywhere. No hits from IAFIS, but waiting on other print databases.
And after that all had come home to roost, Vandenberg had started a deeper search for Father Simon Pound.
That priest (if he was even a priest at all) was the key to this thing, he just knew it. But he couldn’t come up with much. The diocese had confirmed his existence and vouched for his credentials, but in such a strange manner that left Vandenberg more suspicious than before. Father Simon was a little too smooth, a little too glib. He was more like a cop than a priest.
That’s it.
He’s acting like a cop on a case.
Vandenberg sneered. Bit of a pretty boy, a little too smug, and what was with that car? How many priests have wheels like that?
He’d done searches on exorcism, exorcists, and possession, but not surprisingly he had gotten reams of schlock—not a single serious website. The Church had a position on exorcism, and it seemed they didn’t want anything to do with it, as if it were a relic from the past. But he couldn’t get away from the persistent thought that Pound was more than he said, more than he appeared to be, and that he was more than eccentric.
Pound’s reaction after the bombing had convinced him.
He rubbed his eyes until they stung, then got back to it.
Salotto and Karniak huffed their way into the squad room, tossing their coats aside.
“Fuck, that was a bizarre one,” said Salotto, a hefty twenty-year man with a sergeant’s stripes on his tight uniform.
Karniak shrugged. “I don’t know how to write this one down.”
Vandenberg only half-heard. He was still looking at websites and Google searches. There were numerous hits on a hundred Simon Pounds, but they’d take time to sort through.
Salotto scratched his head. “Never had a car chase with no cars, a fiery car crash with no burning car, dead bodies not there, about a hundred witnesses and—pfft, nada!”
Now Vandenberg started listening intently.
The two cops went on bantering.
“Where was this nonexistent car chase?” Vandenberg asked finally. He felt a shiver of excitement. He was tired of brick walls, and this Pound guy was like a brick wall. There was surely something strange about him, but Vandenberg was astute enough to guess it was not that he was guilty of these murders.
But he knew more than he was saying. Vandenberg was sure of it.
Salotto called out, “Hey, Vandy, what you still doing here? Sleep much?”
“Sleep when I’m fuckin’ dead, Sal, know what I mean? No, I was wondering about this car chase of yours. Sounds…interesting.”
“Yeah, you got that coffee there and you’re still breathin’? Now that’s interesting!”
Karniak guffawed and Vandenberg joined in.
“No, really,” he said, “tell me about this disappearing chase.”
“Why does a homicide dick care about a car chase? We get lots of those.”
“Sounds maybe related to a case I caught. Just tell me where it was.”
Salotto told him, explaining they’d had witnesses along the whole fairly long route.
Could be…
“Any of those witnesses tell you what kind of cars?”
Karniak piped up. “Uh, ’parently it was some kind of black SUV chasin’—get this—a dark Mustang from, and I quote this one witness, fuckin’ fifty years ago. That was as much as we could get.”
Vandenberg almost spilled his cup getting up from the desk.
Chapter 59
Midtown Manhattan
New York City
Simon slipped out of bed without waking her. He dragged a corner of the rumpled silk sheet over the bare bottom, eliciting a purr that became a soft snore.
They’d made love furiously at first, then gently, and then furiously again, wallowing in the newness of their closeness. Caressing each other’s skin, kissing all the hidden places, nuzzling the less-known erogenous zones like experienced lovers but doing it all for the first time.
He looked at her sleeping form for a long moment.
This loft was one of several he owned under different identities, the only one with more space on the upper level than below, where the living room and kitchen lay. He padded softly into the hallway, to a second bedroom that had been converted into a walk-in closet. The triple full-length mirrors caught his hard angles and bulging but graceful muscles, and the terrible scar sti
ll visible—at least to him—in the solid belly.
Running a hand through his messy dark hair, he walked on into the double bath. After flushing he completed his morning routine, culminating in the hot, stinging shower. Once out, he slipped into a thick robe, went down to the narrow galley-style kitchen and rustled up a platter of scrambled eggs and bacon, toast, and two halved grapefruits. He brought them up the metal girder staircase and found her stretching, sitting up with her breasts bared and pierced nipples flushed with satisfaction.
“You brought me breakfast?” she cried out.
“Oh, you’re eating too?” he said with a straight face, teasing her with a slice of bacon he held just out of her reach.
He remembered when bacon would have been so frowned upon he could have been killed for even holding it.
Fuck that, bacon’s delicious.
“You’re mean!” Lissy said, tossing a pillow at him that missed.
He laughed and sat on the bed’s edge, sharing the food with a second fork. He watched her eat hungrily, her breasts swaying, as she enjoyed the surprise meal.
Her ink was a lovely, colorful tapestry and he remembered the first time he’d explored the figures with his tongue. She wasn’t completely covered, but rather certain portions of her skin were a canvas for meaningfully enigmatic designs. She had left her breasts mostly ink-free, except for a couple small designs based on Native American spirit guides.
“It was lovely, Simon,” she said, scraping up the last of the eggs. “Thank you. For everything.”
When she handed back her fork she reached up and kissed him sweetly, although it lasted a bit longer and threatened to distract. He pulled away, but gently. He glanced wistfully at the nightstand, where her lipstick-scrawled cocktail napkin rested like a certificate of authenticity. It had been a real date—he’d called her out of the blue and picked her up, and they’d dined on delicate sushi and sake, and then on each other.
A fine night’s work, he thought, and yet he sensed frustration boiling up in him. Lissy was a wonderful person and he had adored her every inch with sincerity, but he was thinking of another now. Though he felt guilt, he couldn’t help himself.
Lissy got up to use the restroom, awed by the repurposed space, then watched him getting dressed. A navy blue sweater over khakis, a brown bomber jacket similar to one he’d worn during the Korean War but worth a small fortune due to its tag, and an expensive silk scarf, both an affectation and a bit of disguise achieved with its removal.
Cat was probably in deep Skype conversation with Martin by now, comparing notes on last night’s events. She’d insisted on a hotel room, claiming that separating made more tactical sense. He’d relented, and his silent tantrum after dropping her off resulted in the call he’d made to the number on the napkin.
“Sure you don’t want to come in and…scrub my back?” she said from the tile and glass enclosure.
“I have to see a man about my car.” The regret was real.
“You men and your toys, you’re all the same!” She posed very lewdly for him and he almost stripped off his clothes and joined her, but then his resolve flared up.
“Yes, well, some men are worse than others.” He was thinking of whoever wanted to use the statues to free a demon whose main hunger was humanity’s death.
He gave Lissy an air kiss and she waved, adding a last wink and subtle hip thrust. He was out of there, grinning, before he could change his mind.
He did have to see a man. McQueen’s Mustang had taken a bullet during the chase and although it was only a glancing blow that had dented but not quite punctured the body, Simon wanted it fixed. He had a “guy” upstate, where he rented a hangar at a small regional airport that he used to garage his collection. The magic Mike Hughes could do with damaged bodywork had to be seen to be believed. Hughes knew Simon only as an eccentric wealthy playboy—he’d already repaired several of Simon’s cars, taking the bullet scars as evidence of their owner’s risky dalliances with women whose jealous husbands might take warning pot-shots. So Hughes was led to believe, with some pushing, and so Simon implied whenever he brought in a car.
Simon was grateful the assassins in the SUV were such monumental bad shots. Or more likely it was his evasive driving. But the damage could have been worse.
Later, he would get Vandenberg and Cat together and blow the cop’s mind. But now he retrieved the beloved car from its protected underground space, setting off on his jaunt out of the city.
Saving the world could wait a couple hours.
Chapter 60
Edificio Nuovo, Comitato per Interventi
Vatican City, Rome
The youngster sitting in for Caterina Galassi was still learning the ropes, but when he told Martin that the New York office had gotten a blip about one of the statues thus far unaccounted for, Martin could have hugged him. He settled for a verbal back-pat.
“Very good, Manuele.” He picked up his phone. The system was digitally scrambled, so he wasn’t worried about hacking or eavesdropping. “Director Voltano.”
“Director, this is Albertini in New York.”
“You have news for me?” Martin wasn’t in a chatting mood.
“Yes, Director. One of our local assets works for Mossad as a cover. He’s ex-U.S. military Intelligence with experience in antiquities and art.”
Martin felt a sense of excitement. “Yes?”
“His name is Don Walton. He was approached by a friend and ex-colleague from one of his tours in Iraq with the American military. A Dev Straker, ex-Ranger, Silver Star, Purple Heart, various commendations. He claims to have one of the statues in hand, and in fact to have been attacked in Florida. We think he was also attacked by assassins on a train while en route to New York.”
“The train massacre in the middle of the tobacco fields?” Martin kept up with news in the States—that incident had popped out at him as something unusual to check. Middle of nowhere, no motive, many victims, perps disappeared…he had been intrigued.
“Yes, apparently Straker didn’t mention the train, but does state he and his girlfriend were on their way north, with the statue, which their salvage company located while diving on a Spanish wreck off the east coast of Florida—”
“Wait…I have that,” Martin interrupted. He remembered Caterina had sent him particulars. He shuffled some papers, then checked a file on his computer screen. “Yes, a pirates’ attack on a diving vessel, off the coast of, uh, Vero Beach? Several brutal killings?”
“That’s it.”
“Which statue—can you describe it?”
The VSS man in New York gave Martin the description Walton had given him. “He saw photographs on Straker’s phone. It’s definitely one of these lost statues…”
“Not so much lost as deliberately divided and removed from circulation,” Martin corrected. “Centuries ago, some of them. But they seem to be bubbling up just now.”
When someone’s figured out how to use them.
Perhaps the adept working for the opposition was responsible. Whoever was pulling the strings was wealthy—not only was no expense being spared, but the assassins used to attack Simon and these other people…only money and real power could buy this kind of brutal loyalty to the death. He was certain now that all these incidents were connected.
“Director?”
“Sorry, I was woolgathering. I may be getting too old for this.” He glanced at the bright lights on the “demon board.” A shiver passed through him, and he gazed out the window. Winter was indeed coming early, as the usually amazingly inaccurate forecasters had been predicting, and the rain was falling down hard and cold. “I’m trying to think of a logical move, here,” he confessed to the faceless man in New York.
This isn’t like me. I usually always know what the next move is. Or should be…
I’m losing my edge. Isn’t that what the athletes say?
He made a decision.
“All right, Albertini. Get your man to set up a meeting between this ex-soldier,
Straker, and our agent, Simon Pound. I’ll work with his handler to smooth things. If possible, Pound will relieve him of the statue. We’ll authorize some kind of payment, but if he is seeking revenge, money may not enter into it at all. We don’t usually do this kind of thing, but I have a distinct feeling time is running out…”
“Yes, Director.”
“Not a word of this to anyone else there, Albertini.” A meet was tantamount to breaking Simon’s cover and he wasn’t sure either Simon or Caterina would go for it. But if time was short, what choice did he have?
“Yes, Director, I understand.”
No, you most certainly do not.
Martin broke the connection. Then he squinted at the green lights again. If you looked just right, they changed color. He shook his head, preferring to avoid seeing it happen.
I’ve come to believe Father Martin is a sort of puppeteer behind the many masks he wears, for he has somehow managed to orchestrate various bloodless coups during his tenure. But he has also soaked his hands in the occasional bloody coup, and I’ve been his instrument—his puppet—on more than one occasion. But his greatest feat of orchestration might have been his ability to locate those humans adept at the use of magic (and magick), the special people we call “adepts,” and shaping them into instruments for the VSS to use in its continuous covert campaigns on behalf of the Church’s political arm. And he has managed to orchestrate the acceptance of such talented warlocks and witches—to use their more ancient, more accurate terms—by the powerful people under which he serves. Finally, he has orchestrated my reunion with the soul of my beloved Magdalen—or so I fervently believe. Caterina must be a descendant of Magdalen, or a reincarnation, or she is the same person, because she displays the same personality and, more importantly, the same abilities. And she knows how to handle me. Which has never been easy. Or simple.
THE JUDAS HIT Page 18