Cornelious Kessler was a tall man with wavy hair worn longer than average and a large body mass that appeared to be mostly muscular.
But Simon could not quite make out the man’s features.
What sort of flim-flam was this?
Simon glimpsed Cat in the crowd, standing out not only for her beauty but also the incredible reflections of the diamonds she wore. Perhaps Kessler’s features were indeed being cloaked, but not by a novel pixilation technique—no, there was another adept in the crowd, maybe more than one, and some sort of spell was being maintained around their host.
Could a talented adept keep such a spell working? Cat would know.
Simon mused that perhaps the spell allowed people to see Kessler clearly enough in person to avoid suspicion, but magically disrupted the photographic process.
Kessler was still on the platform as the musicians ended his introductory fanfare, and then the crowd broke into wild applause.
Simon joined them, grinning and clapping as if he’d never seen such a thing, while privately reflecting that even second-rate Las Vegas magicians routinely did better.
A voice boomed over their heads. “Ladies and gentlemen, your host, Cornelious Kessler.”
“Thanks, I never would have figured.”
“What?”
It was one of the muscular suited thugs, who had sidled up to him and heard his muttered remark. Despite the well-cut jacket, Simon spotted the telltale bulge of a weapon.
“Nothing for you, Ned,” Simon said.
“Ned?” The man’s blunt features showed puzzlement.
“Never mind, I thought you were someone else.”
“I’m in charge of security here tonight, sir. Do you have a question?”
“Ah, I was looking for someone named Ned or Ted. But since you’re here, where is the boss’s inner sanctum? His office?” Simon pushed and saw the man’s eyes widen. His mouth opened but nothing came out.
Simon pushed harder. “Where is Kessler’s main office?”
This time the logjam was broken.
“Down the hallway behind the bar. The offices are on Penthouse One, this level. There’s a private elevator to the penthouse levels above us. The personal quarters.”
“Guards?” Another push. “You can tell me, I’m checking security levels throughout the building for Mr. Kessler.” He flashed his NYC Metro card and simultaneously pushed again. Simon thought the thug wasn’t going to answer, but then he did.
“Guards are posted only at the main doors, but there are cameras in the hallways.”
“Thank you, Ned.”
The guy blinked rapidly. “My name is not Ned.”
“Oh, sorry.” Simon checked his Rolex Daytona Platinum, then he gave out a strong push that turned his next words into an order. “Meet me at that main door in fifteen minutes.”
The crowd was still clapping as the music faded to a tympani roll. Faces were star-struck, awed by the man, the myth that was Cornelious Kessler. Simon surveyed the invited guests as well as he could with the fog’s obscuring interference. A security detail surrounded the rising platform, all stone-faced thugs like his Ned. The stylish suits barely made up for their mercenary’s hawkish look.
Kessler raised a hand and the crowd slowly hushed. His suit seemed to be a blend of current style, perhaps Armani, with a large dash of Nehru.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his words blaring to the room’s far reaches. He wore an invisible microphone. His voice was authoritarian, but seemed softened for the occasion. “Welcome to you all. It’s a great night for a charity ball, is it not?”
The crowd roared.
“You all know why we’re here. The children of New York depend on us, and I know you will be generous. But you don’t need me to convince you. You are here of your own free will! Despite what some say, I am a sensitive person.”
Laughter.
“But I am not here to lecture. I am here to ask you one thing—have fun tonight! And if you think of it, drop a check into our special stations at the doors. Cash works too, if you remember what that is.”
Clapping, laughter, a few shouts of PinnacleCash!
“Yes, PinnacleCash is up and running, thanks to my wonderful staff. Use it for even faster donating. We are on the brink of great things together, and I hope the children will be the first to benefit.” The slightly distorted features split into what might have been a smile, but seemed more like a skull’s rictus grin to Simon. There was definitely some magick in the air tonight.
“Let the party continue!” Kessler concluded, and everyone clapped and cheered loudly.
The lighting pods above him dimmed and then he was gone. Just like a magic trick of the most basic kind. Or of the base kind.
Simon glimpsed a dark-haired beauty just behind Kessler in the moments before the lights went out. Red, red lips and dark brows as sharp as scalpels, glittering blue eyes and her adoring gaze fixed on the Kessler image she was aiding and abetting. A form-fitting black dress that displayed her assets with ample generosity. The enemy adept? Perhaps he should warn Cat. But then again, they’d expected the adept would be nearby if Kessler was their man. And Cat could look out for herself as well as anyone.
Simon checked the time. Heads began to bob as groups in the crowd started dancing to some new crashingly horrible blend of styles. Kessler’s platform had disappeared back into the floor. Where was he now? He had to be mingling, he couldn’t just make an appearance and leave. No matter how sociopathic he might be, he’d want to soak up the adulation and respect of all the powerful people who’d turned out for him.
And there Kessler was, standing at the side of the room with bodyguards stationed around him in a square formation, as a stream of well-dressed party-goers filed past to press the flesh and bask in the man’s presence.
Simon set a course, splitting the partiers in front of him like water molecules, and made his way toward his quarry.
Chapter 83
The Ballroom
The Pinnacle (Kessler Building)
Pinnacle Industries International Headquarters
Manhattan, New York
Forcing his way through the line was easy for Simon. He pushed an image at people, making them step aside without realizing why. It wasn’t guaranteed, but it usually worked, especially when the targets were imbibing or indulging in other distractions. Confused, some of them stepped out of his way in a daze, while others seemed to remember they had somewhere else to be and ambled away, their purpose redefined. The line grew shorter in length and then mostly dissipated.
Soon Simon found himself standing before the great software magnate, making his cool appraisal. The man had appeared taller while on the rising platform, but it was an illusion—again—for they were about the same height and faced each other directly.
Kessler’s eyes, which were small and deeply-set in hooded skull caverns, widened perceptibly.
This close, Simon had no trouble seeing Kessler’s features clearly. He wondered if Cat were trying to counter the enemy adept’s cloaking.
Simon smiled rakishly. “Mr. Kessler, Simon Pound.”
They shook hands.
“Welcome to the evening’s festivities, Mister—Pound, was it?”
“Indeed.”
“You are attending as a guest? You don’t look familiar, and I know almost every face here.” The magnate’s tone was stiff, much more than his public words had been.
“Well, almost leaves some room, doesn’t it?”
“Are you on the list?” Kessler persisted, a fake smile pasted on his slash-like lips.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I am here on behalf of the archdiocese of New York. You do a fair amount of charity work with them and also on their behalf, don’t you?”
Kessler laughed forcedly. “Yes, of course, I’m just being facetious. Mister Pound of the archdiocese, or is it Father Pound?”
“No, I’m more of an accountant, not a man of the cloth at all. I take care of the bo
oks, square accounts, make sure figures add up.”
“I leave numbers to my mathematicians and code writers.”
“Yes, I’m sure you do.”
Kessler’s already tiny eyes seemed to shrink and his nostrils flared. Simon was reminded of moray eels retreating inside their reef lairs.
At that moment Simon felt convinced not only that Kessler was their man, the snake’s head, but that he knew all about Simon.
His silver flake seemed to tingle on his skin. Tonight he was wearing a Rolex Daytona with a thin capsule tucked into the special pocket in the band. But his usual leather bracelet holding the Holy Flake, as he referred to it, was on the opposite wrist. Its tingle, real or imagined, indicated the danger was real. He had entered the assassins’ den voluntarily. But would he be allowed to leave?
Or were his instincts wrong?
“What do you mean?” Kessler said.
“You’re surrounded by employees,” Simon said smoothly, cocking an eye at the bodyguards. “I just meant you must have people for all sorts of tasks.”
“I’ve built a huge enterprise here at Pinnacle, Mr. Pound. I’m proud of it.”
Simon couldn’t help himself. “You must have worked like a demon, Mr. Kessler.” He winked at the man who might be the world’s greatest enemy. Trying to draw him out.
“If that’s the worst charge you can level at me, Mr. Pound, I’ll take it. This charity, for instance, knows I’ve worked like a demon to help them help real people. Homeless children, abused children, undereducated children.”
“Yes, I’m sure they are indebted, and you’ll collect some day.”
“It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Simon Pound. Such an interesting name!” Kessler’s mouth resembled that of a child who has bitten into a lemon. “Please enjoy the food and the music tonight, and please be generous.”
“Absolutely,” said Simon, and they parted without a handshake. Kessler’s goons made a square around him as he moved back into the crowd. Simon felt he was still being watched by the beady little eyes deep in their caverns.
If he was certain Kessler was indeed the snake’s head, he could kill the man sometime tonight, right in his lair.
But if he was wrong—that was when the Vatican’s special dispensation wavered. He would be disavowed by the VSS. If Simon were arrested and his effects taken from him, including the bracelet with its silver flake, he would probably die before the arraignment. He couldn’t push everyone. They’d find ashes and empty clothes in his cell. He had learned to love his immortal life, so he wasn’t ready to take chances. A gang of assassins he could tackle, but the justice system would kill him altogether more swiftly.
He’d thought he was certain, but now a twinge of doubt nagged at him. The man seemed to be a typical anti-social, aloof snob, but so were most wealthy people.
He needed solid proof. Not just a hunch.
He needed to find an office and some vile statues. Or to be attacked by assassins right here in the snake’s den. Lair or den?
“All right, Ned or Ted,” Simon muttered as he headed for his rendezvous with the guard, “it’s show time.”
Chapter 84
Best Western Plaza Hotel
Long Island City
Queens, New York
The rental Walton had provided was about as inconspicuous as it could be, a recent but not new champagne Camry. Straker drove it now after retrieving the statue that had started all their problems—ruined their lives, actually—from where he had stashed it, a locker at the New York Port Authority.
Walton was convinced this guy Simon Pound was legit, and even though his connection to the Vatican sounded sketchy, Straker had decided to play along. After all, he had sought out Walton—if it had been the other way around, he and Bella would be running right now. But he had gotten a good feeling about the agent—a secret agent for the Vatican? Who knew? But it made some sense if you thought about it…His gut feeling was echoed by Bella, who was a good judge of people. She thought Simon was a hoot, a serious soldier-type who pretended to be vapid and superficial.
“Kind of like The Scarlet Pimpernel, you know?”
Well, Straker had seen a movie, and he guessed she meant Pound was faking being a dolt. He’d seen Pound handle a gun and it wasn’t a fake—this guy knew his stuff as well as any ex-Ranger.
So Straker had listened to the plan, such as it was, and agreed with their part of it.
Simon and Caterina—the most beautiful woman Straker had ever met, with the exception of Bella—would check out this Kessler guy, see if he was the Bond supervillain who’d been after them and their damned statue, by attending the big charity event.
Guess the Vatican’s a good reference to have.
Anyway, they’d recon the Kessler dude and see if he had any of those other funky statues. Straker could barely believe there were others, or that they held some sort of power, but he’d seen some shit in the desert, then elsewhere, and now here. He wasn’t altogether discounting the whole story, even if he tended to fall on the skeptical side.
Meanwhile, he would collect their statue and Walton would secure it.
Whatever that means.
Well, it would be out of his hands. Truthfully, he wanted it out of his hands. He was only sticking around until he knew who needed to pay for what had been done to him and Bella and their little family. He’d made that clear.
Walton assured him that Simon was the real deal. They could trust him to handle things with the Vatican’s interests—and theirs—in mind. In the end, Straker had gone with his gut. And Bella’s. He wanted to help heal the hurt in her eyes, and so far they’d not done any of the grieving they needed to do. His soul ached thinking about it.
He parked the Camry in the bland concrete structure at their hotel in Queens, and took the statue zipped up in its duffel bag. It feels dirty even through the fabric! He wanted never to see it again. The aged elevator took forever to collect him from the lobby and then deposit him on their floor.
He started to feel that sixth-sense tingle, the same one that had saved his ass innumerable times, but there was little he could do other than keep going. He pulled his pistol and held it next to his thigh as he approached the door. He was about to knock using the prearranged signal, but changed his mind. Instead he dropped the duffel and stepped sideways with his gun ready, then slipped his key card through the lock and when the green light blinked on he shoved his way through the door from a crouch, to present a lower, smaller target.
No one was waiting. No one was alive.
The stench of blood and feces whisked Straker back to the desert for a moment.
Barely breathing, he took in the blood splatters on the walls and the generic furniture. He swept his gun muzzle around, but all he saw was bloody remains on one of the twin beds. Head pounding, he scouted the bathroom to the right, but there was no one hiding in the shower.
Heart thudding, mouth dry, he approached the ruined bed.
Bella! The voice in his head was screaming: Bella!
It was Walton, though at first Straker could hardly tell.
He’d been sliced open as if they’d been doing an autopsy. They had left an obsidian dagger behind, buried in his chest cavity. They didn’t care if Straker knew who had done it, and they weren’t afraid of his wrath.
They’d better be.
But…Bella?
Her things were still there. All he could do was hope that none of the blood was hers.
Mind racing, Straker pulled the heavy duffel in from the corridor, and that was when he saw the paper that had been tacked to the inside of the door.
The girl is with us, alive for now. Bring the statue…
Straker scanned the parchment-style sheet and the further instructions listed in brown ink. He sniffed the paper. They’d written the message in blood.
He checked his watch.
“Goodbye, Walton. I’m sorry about this…”
Straker grabbed a few things, then hustled the cursed bag out the door.
Chapter 85
Edificio Nuovo, Comitato per Interventi
Vatican City, Rome
“How’s the new bird flying?” Director Martin and Ferro were the only occupant of the secret drone control chamber. He blew on his espresso and then sipped it.
Perfect. Sometimes it’s the little things, after all.
He was much calmer now.
“Everything is in order, sir.”
Father Ferro seemed to have matured—or aged—a decade under Martin’s direct supervision, despite it having been only days. His face sported a light coating of stubble. His hair was lank and greasy, and his eyes hooded with fatigue. “It’s a good thing we shipped enough drones to our base in advance, sir,” he said.
“Indeed.”
Martin Xavier Voltano could afford to be smug. He was making it all up as he went along. No one in his position had ever had access to such technology.
“We are almost there.”
“Good, let me know.” He drank the espresso without blowing on it. It was perfect now.
The Vatican has plenty of money to spread around, and it hadn’t been difficult to arrange it so the drone crash accident was blamed on a local amateur drone pilot—still being sought—and his easily available but sophisticated aerial vehicle. Forensics would have detected the true nature of the drone that had caused the SUV to explode, but a few payments in the right hands were altering the nature of the filed reports. Business as usual when the help is underpaid.
But now they were nervously—and helplessly—about to watch as Simon and Cat entered the lion’s den and tried poking him with a sharp stick.
Advisable?
Probably not, but Martin had just informed his inner council that the enemy—Kessler?—had apparently acquired another statue. Local assets discovered a prominent mid-level Egyptologist had located it in a previously opened tomb, only to be killed and relieved of it. The treasure hunters still had one, there was another in play somewhere in the world, and the enemy only needed those to perform the Astaroth ritual.
THE JUDAS HIT Page 25