by Rachel Lee
Finally his eating slowed, and he began to talk. “How much history have you studied?”
“That would depend on what kind of history you mean.”
He smiled, and finally a bit of comfort stole into his expression. “The history of civilizations. Way back. The great architecture, the stories of gods, many things forgotten by most.”
She shook her head slowly. “I’ve studied history, of course, but my concentration was mostly on recent European and U.S. history. And for the past few years I’ve been delving seriously into Middle Eastern history and culture.”
“Very typical.”
He looked down at his plate as if surprised that it was still there. Once he’d eaten enough, apparently he’d forgotten all about the food.
“I’m trying to decide how to start. I don’t want to bore you with a bunch of unnecessary information. I want to get to the point as quickly as possible.”
“Take your time,” she replied. Reaching out, she refilled their wineglasses from the bottle room service had brought.
“Did I tell you that the Church sent me to Guatemala to find something?”
“I think you mentioned something earlier.”
“Did I tell you what it was? It was called the Red Codex.”
“And the Church wanted it why?”
“Because it might establish that Jesus had married and had a son or grandson, who went to the Americas and became a teacher known as Kulkulcan, Quetzalcoatl, Viracocha…choose any of the names by which he’s known.”
“Yes,” she said. “I remember you telling me this in Guatemala. It put the Church’s knickers in a twist.”
Steve chuckled and sipped his wine. With each passing minute he was looking better. “Apparently so. While the Church has no dogma on whether Jesus married, tradition has always held that he didn’t. In the end, I suppose, it doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t matter if Jesus married?”
Steve shrugged. “Why should it? He came here to be a man and die as a man to prove God’s love for us. If he was a man, why should it appall anyone if he married and had children? That was certainly considered the right thing for a man to do in his time.”
“But people would think they had been lied to.”
“And that, I told myself, was probably the concern. Still, it remains that the Church says only that tradition and scripture say nothing of Christ having been married. If you press them hard enough, the answer will be that no one knows for certain.”
Miriam nodded. “I can buy that.”
“The worst that could be said is that there might have been some artful omissions from the gospels. That happened so long ago, it hardly seems to matter now, does it?”
Miriam pondered the matter. “I guess it wouldn’t matter to me. I mean, I believe the teachings. I believe in the resurrection. If he had a wife, so what?”
“My thought exactly. Until recently.”
“What happened?”
He sighed and shook his head. “Two things. One, the Red Codex exists. But it’s not a book.”
“No?”
“The other is…Suppose someone were to believe he was the descendent of Jesus. And just suppose he came into the possession of that codex, only the codex turned out to have…power.”
Miriam was taken aback. “Are you talking about magic?”
Steve shook his head. “I’m talking about science. Extremely advanced science. The science that built the pyramids. There’s an Egyptian legend that, in the earliest days of man, the god Thoth bequeathed an emerald tablet to men. This tablet revealed, to those who could see, some portion of the knowledge of the gods. There’s a similar legend that traces back to a gift to Abraham when Enlil sent him forth from Ur of the Chaldees into Canaan.”
“It sounds like the story of the Ten Commandments,” Miriam said.
“A little.” Steve shrugged. “There are similar legends in many cultures. The details differ, but in their essence they all describe divine knowledge being passed down to man in the form of some tangible object.”
He shifted a bit in his chair and brushed a crumb from his lap. “Miriam, those legends are real. The Tablets of Thoth are real. But they weren’t tablets.”
“What were they?” Miriam asked.
“Perfect pyramids, carved of precious jewels,” he said. “The Red Codex was carved of ruby. I held it in my hand, Miriam. And when I looked into it with light behind it, it was as if countless mathematical equations were dancing at its center. I’m no mathematician, and I couldn’t make any sense of what I saw, but in the hands of someone who could interpret it and understand its meaning…”
“How does this relate to Chancellor Vögel?” Miriam asked.
“In a library in Toulouse, I found a diary,” he said. “It was the diary of a woman who died here in Béziers, in the Albigensian Crusade. It spoke of a power being wielded by the crusader army. A power in the form of a pyramid. When the pyramid was lifted and words spoken, people inside the city heard the sound of trumpets, and the guards on the city walls suddenly began to gasp for air, choking to death for no reason anyone could see.”
Miriam caught her breath. The reports of the security agents at Vögel’s side had mentioned a hollow sound, like a distant trumpet, before the Reichstag dome collapsed and Vögel fell to the ground, gasping for breath. If this were the explanation, then a single man could be targeted. A terrifying possibility indeed.
“Unbelievable,” she whispered.
“Is it?” Steve asked. “The Old Testament describes the battle of Jericho, where Joshua ordered his trumpeters to walk around the walls of the city seven times, blowing their trumpets each time. Then the walls collapsed and the city was taken.”
“Are you saying Joshua had one of these pyramids?”
“Perhaps,” Steve said. “Perhaps not. But if we are to believe the history of the campaign to capture Judea, he had some similar power. The herald trumpet is a common theme in scripture. The Jews still call together their people with the shofar. It is said that the archangel Gabriel will announce the return of Christ with the sound of the trumpet. Similar themes abound in other cultures. And I’ve held the Red Codex, Miriam. I know it exists. And whoever wields it now is a greater threat than you can possibly imagine.”
Miriam reached into her briefcase and withdrew the sketch that Steve had e-mailed to her, along with the results of her search and the scanty information she had exchanged with Jefe in Rome, including the fact that the man in the photo had been killed a year earlier in Strasbourg. She did not mention that he had been killed by Office 119.
“And whoever killed him…they did not find the codex?” Steve asked.
“They certainly didn’t mention it,” she replied. “And I think they’d have said something about it. I’m not sure, though. They’re a pretty secretive crew.”
He regarded her warily. “Can you trust them, Miriam? Doesn’t the world have enough secretive crews as it is?”
“Yes, I trust them, Father. And sometimes we need people who can fly beneath the radar. That’s what these people do. But they do good work, Father. I know them.”
He nodded. “In that case, we know who has the codex.”
“Yes,” she said. “The man delivered it before he was killed. And now Jules Soult has it.”
“Even worse,” Steve said, “he knows how to use it.”
23
Strasbourg, France
“I n light of the bomb attack that nearly destroyed the Institutions Européens, the European Parliament must be able to protect itself,” Soult declared, looking out at the bank of reporters and their television cameras.
It was a calculated risk. He had spent the last two days meeting with the French general staff, listening as they dusted off contingency plans that most had assumed would never be revisited. Even a year ago, the prospect of a major power war in Europe would have been laughable.
But Soult knew he could not allow Germany to lead Europe off the path he had set, a
nd in the aftermath of the disaster in Nice, Chancellor Müller had made it clear that he would not enforce the removal laws. The Minister-Presidents of Baden-Württemberg and Bavaria had taken this as a cue not only to suspend removals in their regions but to return those who had already been relocated back to their own homes.
The German state of Baden-Württemberg lay directly across the Rhine from Strasbourg, and therein lay the germ of Soult’s idea. He needed only to take a small, easy first bite to set his plan in motion.
“Because the European Union must be able to protect its capitol complex, today I have proposed legislation that would mandate our Muslim Protection Act in all regions that lie within fifty kilometers of Strasbourg. I am aware that this zone includes both French and German territory. And I have received assurance from the French government that the Muslim Protection Act has been and will continue to be enforced on French soil.”
This next part was key, and he paused for a moment to allow both reporters and the television audience the chance to concentrate fully on his words.
“However, when I spoke with the Minister-President of Baden-Württemberg today, he made it clear to me that he would not comply with the removal legislation enacted by the Bundestag and signed by the German president. He has said that he will defy his Chancellor and the will of the German people as expressed by its legislature.
“As you know,” Soult continued, “we have open borders within the European Union. Anyone can cross the Rhine from France into Germany or vice versa, at any time. And we are proud of our open borders, which have become a sign of international trust and cooperation. For France to close the Rhine would both interrupt the commercial shipping on that great river, and would send a sad and even dangerous message within the Union. We considered this option, but after discussions with both French and German leaders, it was not considered a viable solution.”
Eyes widened as the implications of his plan began to settle into the minds of the reporters, and Soult took this as his cue to nod sadly, gravely, as if the weight of his decision bore heavily on every fiber of his being.
“Thus, I have no choice but to ask that our parliament declare the fifty-kilometer radius around Strasbourg as a security zone under the exclusive jurisdiction of the European Union. The President of France has assured me that, if this legislation is passed, France will cede its part of this region to the European Union. The Chancellor of Germany has said that he will not. And if he will not, the Union will be forced to assert its lawful jurisdiction over the area.
“We hope to resolve this peacefully. We pray that we can. But to Chancellor Müller, I say this. Do not test the will of the European Union. We must and will protect ourselves from terrorism. Stand with us, or stand alone and face the consequences.”
For an instant the room was dead silent. Soult knew that his steely gaze as he read the final paragraph would leave no doubt as to the subtext. Not a single mind had failed to hear the unspoken words: Under the EU flag, French troops stood ready to move into Germany.
It was tantamount to a declaration of war.
Baden-Württemberg, Germany
Hans Neufel and his men had gathered around a portable TV, listening to Soult’s speech with tightening guts.
“Stand alone and face the consequences?” Schulingen was clearly outraged. He stomped away toward the trees as if he could walk away from what they had all just heard.
They were on the move again but had paused for a meal, most likely, Neufel thought, because the lieutenant had wanted to hear this speech on his radio. So the panzer unit, stretched along a barely discernible cow path, had halted, eaten some of the horrible MREs their bosses bought from the Americans, and Zweibach had turned on his fancy new TV.
Now this.
Zweibach, just eighteen, looked up at Neufel, who was less than two years older, as if he were a wise man. “Why?” he asked.
It was a simple question, but a loaded one. Neufel hardly felt adequate to answer. This was politics, and he was still learning the ways of the army.
But his gut, clenched like a fist, gave the answer anyway. “War,” he said.
Zweibach’s eyes grew huge. Neufel ignored him and went to stand facing the thick forest, looking away from his men. The test was coming, and fear slickened his palms and dried his mouth. Would he be up to it?
A half hour later his suspicion was confirmed when the lieutenant came up to him.
“You heard?”
“Ja.”
“We are to move toward the Rhine. To the vicinity of Kehl. Be ready in twenty minutes.”
And so it begins, Neufel thought numbly. With such simple words.
Berlin, Germany
Renate was distracted from the book she was reading by cries of outrage. She was sitting in the lobby of the Berlin jail, awaiting Lawton’s release. At first she thought there had been another outbreak of violence, but when she looked up at the television firmly bolted to the wall, she saw the face of Jules Soult. The text crawling across the bottom of the screen explained the angry words that flowed around her like water.
Stand with us…or face the consequences?
Soult was threatening nothing less than war. If Herr Bundeskanzler Müller did not comply with Soult’s demand to cede Germany’s portion of the so-called “EU Security Zone,” Soult would try to claim it by force. And Renate had no doubt that he already had troops at hand to send across the Rhine at the first opportunity. He wouldn’t make such a threat if he hadn’t already arranged to back it up.
“Herr Lawton Caine.”
Renate looked up as the guard behind the counter called out the name. She rose and looked to the sally port, where moments later Lawton emerged with a surprised look on his face. Their embrace was brief and discreet, but warm nonetheless.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Not here,” she replied.
He quickly retrieved his personal effects, and they stepped out onto the street. As they walked toward the U-Bahn station, Lawton seemed relieved simply to be free. She kept her silence for a few minutes, allowing him to experience the transition, before they finally took seats at the station and she turned to him.
“Thank God for Bild,” she said quietly. “And I never thought I would say that.”
“The tabloid?” Lawton asked.
She nodded. “If they never again publish a true word, and they may well not, they justified their existence this week. Someone on the Oranienstraße had a camera and took pictures of the riot. Bild bought the pictures and, after the tragedy in Nice, published them under a shrieking headline about conspiracies in Europe. Most of their story was utter rubbish, but one of the pictures showed Paxti Lezeta throwing the firebomb.”
“Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn now and then,” Lawton said.
She looked at him for a moment, as she often did when he offered an American colloquialism. Finally she nodded. “Yes, that is a good description.”
“What really happened in Nice?” he asked. “I saw some reports on the news, but I wasn’t sure how much to believe. Some of the pundits were saying the security forces simply panicked, while others were talking about suicide bombers on the train.”
“We don’t know for sure yet,” Renate said. “Margarite has been looking into it. So far there is no confirmed evidence of a suicide bomber on the train, but we have no evidence that it was a planned event, either. My guess is that it was an accidental fire that turned into a tragedy when the train guards lost their heads.”
He shook his head. “That wouldn’t be a surprise. Even if the guards were well-trained, everyone was nervous. If you put a handful of twenty-something kids with assault rifles in with a trainload of people they’ve come to see as potential terrorists, it’s really not a matter of whether this is going to happen. It’s just a matter of when and where and how often, and how many will die.”
“Ja, leider,” Renate said. Yes, sadly.
They sat quietly until the subway train arrived, then settled in
to their seats. The train was crowded, and they were forced together in a way that Renate found both warmly comfortable and irritatingly distracting. She could not allow herself such feelings, and especially not for another Office 119 agent. But she did not resist when Lawton took her hand in his.
“I’m glad you were there when I got out,” he said.
She noticed his hand was shaking a bit, and his eyes bore a faraway look. She sensed that there was more he wanted to say and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. She was aching, she realized. War lay just around the corner of the next few days or weeks, and before it came, she wanted to just be human. Not an agent. A woman. To toss off all the detritus of the past years and find that buried kernel of herself. Needing the same from him, she squeezed his hand again to encourage him to talk.
“I used to visit my dad in prison,” he finally said. “I would try to cheer him up, and he would tell me it was all good. I knew it wasn’t. But until these past few weeks, I really had no idea what he was going through.”
“Did anyone mistreat you?” Renate asked softly. She knew that such treatment was not permitted in German jails, and especially not for those who were being held awaiting trial. She would find a way to have someone’s head if he had been hurt.
“No,” he said. “The guards were courteous. I had my own cell. The food was good enough. But still…”
His voice trailed off, and he stared out the window as the lights of the subway tunnel zoomed past. Renate gave him time, waiting for him to speak.
“I killed a man. There were times when even I wondered if I was sure he was the one who’d thrown that firebomb. I’d wake up at night, and I’d run that scene again and again in my mind. And sometimes it didn’t look the same. Sometimes I thought maybe I’d seen someone else throw the bomb instead. I thought maybe I’d be convicted and end up spending years, or even the rest of my life, in jail. It was those times—the times I tried to steel myself for the worst possible outcome—when I understood how my dad had felt.”