“Each culture speaks of eternity, each culture has fables and myths. And like the story of the great flood, there is one underlying story found universally. A story about the Tree of Life. It is central to Kabbalah, the mystical studies of the Jewish Torah. It is a recurrent theme in the Assyrian religions and the ancient Greeks’ earliest religious forms. Egyptian mythology says that Isis and Osiris emerged from the Tree of Life, which they called Saosis. It is spoken of in Revelations twenty-two, in which the Tree of Life bore twelve fruits that would heal nations. In the Norse legends, it is known as Yggdrasil. In China it is a tree that yields a peach every three thousand years and renders those who partake of it immortal. In Arabian mythology there are jewel-encrusted trees surrounding the fountain of life. And of course, the Tree of Life spoken of in Genesis, adjacent to the Tree of Knowledge from which Adam and Eve nibbled the apple. This tree, though, instead of imparting knowledge, bore fruit that would provide eternal life to those who partook of it. But God feared that man was unfit for this gift, for it would make gods of men. And so he set angels to guard the tree, to prevent man from ever acquiring this gift.”
“Angels? You have got to be kidding me.” Busch stood and looked at Michael. “You’re not seriously listening to this, are you? Look, I know you and I have seen some strange things but I’m not sure I can believe this.”
“I’m not really concerned with what you believe,” Michael said, cutting Busch off. “It’s what Julian, the man who has my father and Susan and Genevieve, believes. I need to know everything about that box, fact or fiction. So, please, sit down and shut up.”
Busch reluctantly sat back down.
Simon didn’t acknowledge their exchange as he went on. “The angels were charged with guarding Eden and the secret of eternal life, but they grew tired, they grew rebellious. They placed the secret at the bottom of a golden box and surrounded it with death in order to trick man.”
“Are we still talking fables here?” Busch asked sarcastically, holding up his hands in question. “I just want to be clear.”
Michael’s eyes bore into Busch until he put his head back and closed his eyes.
“And this box was hidden away,” Simon continued. “Its legend grew as a warning: whoever seeks out the secrets of God shall perish in doing so.
“For countless centuries it lay in the hands of priests and kings, those who grasped its fatal implications, though some could not resist its temptation, its allure, and watched in horror as their kingdoms were laid to ruin. It was sought by conquerors and armies, emperors and thieves, taken as the spoils of war only to lay the unsuspecting marauders in their graves for their greed and imprudence when they foolishly opened the lid.
“The golden box finally came to rest in Byzantium where its existence was only known by each successive king; kings who heeded the warnings of death, wise men who knew the implications of untempered desire. And at the fall of the last of the ancient empires, it was deemed it should be moved as far from civilization as possible. It was sent to Russia with the Byzantine Liberia, where the box was buried below the earth, forgotten to history, lost to legend and myth.”
Busch sat there, his eyes closed, his leg pumping in frustration.
Michael sat forward. “I need to know, Simon. No myths, no bedtime stories. I need to know what exactly is inside the box.”
Simon took a moment, composing himself, as if reaching back into his mind to reveal a horrible truth. “Eternal life for those who open the box…but at the ultimate cost. It is wrapped in the darkest of evils. An evil that can never be allowed to escape. It has always been followed by death; those who have not heeded its warning have opened it and watched as those around them perished, their kingdoms befallen by plague and pestilence, war, drought, and eventual death. Their worlds destroyed, their empires devastated. It is an evil that has not been visited on the world since before Ivan withstood its temptation, a temptation that he was only able to resist through his faith and fear. Michael.” Simon paused. “This box contains never-ending darkness.”
“Once released, can it be contained?” Michael asked with hesitancy, dreading the answer.
“I don’t know…”
“So, what are you saying, this is apocalyptic?” Busch asked dismissively, his eyes still closed, his leg pumping faster. “Tell me it’s disease, a plague, a bad case of the flu, I can deal with that. But some mythical, God-willed Armageddon? Give me a break.”
“Just so you know what those big words you toss around in that small mind of yours mean, apocalypse translates as ‘revelation,’” Simon said, trying to contain his anger. “That which is uncovered. It comes from the Greek word which literally means to pull the lid off something. You call it what you want.”
“So, we’re low on options,” Michael said, trying to pull the dueling personalities back from the edge. He sat there, his eyes unfocused, his mind trying to digest what he was up against, but it was like reality became an icy slope and he was slipping away. They were up against a man who literally killed his family, the people he was closest to—his wife and father-in-law—to take over and inherit their billion-dollar ministry; who exploited God for his sheer greed; who preached, but hypocritically contradicted his every sermon. Michael sat up in his chair, leaning in. “There is no chance he is going to let anyone go,” Michael said with resignation.
“Such a man could never afford anyone to know the atrocities he has committed; it would tear his empire down, leaving it in nothing but ashes. He is going to kill your father, Michael. And he is going to kill Susan and Genevieve.”
“I say we grab Susan and your dad,” Busch said. “And get the hell as far away from that guy as we can.”
“I wish it were that easy,” Simon said. “He will stop at nothing to prevent his death. His holy words are nothing but duplicitous, hiding his malevolent and twisted mind, Julian is darkness personified. And now, with that box, the power he will unwittingly possess, it would be like raising the Devil and placing all the world’s bombs in his hands.”
Michael looked out at the ocean five miles below, the beauty of the moonlit surface masking its depths, its mysteries and dangers. It reminded him of the box, of its beauty and allure, and its death within. He felt as if he were trapped below the surface, futilely struggling for air, fearing that he would never breathe again.
“Remember one thing, Michael,” Simon said, leaning forward, looking at his friend with uncommon sympathy. “Even in the darkest of moments there is always hope.”
Michael listened to Simon’s words, unsure how he could ever regain hope. His life was without direction since Mary’s death. And now a father he never knew and a woman who saw into his heart were about to die; he felt completely powerless.
Martin emerged from the cockpit and picked up the cordless phone on the jet’s front cabin wall. He spoke quietly in a burst of questions and then began jotting down notes, nodding his head. His actions caught Michael’s attention, stopping their conversation.
Finally, after a full minute, Martin walked over to Michael and held out the phone.
Michael looked at him questioningly. “For me?” Michael looked around; the only people he really considered friends were on this plane. “Who is it?”
Martin stared at him. “Your father.”
The plane touched down on a small hard pack landing strip that dated back to World War II; but for the occasional private jet shepherding the rich and famous to the Corsican coast, it didn’t see much use. Surrounded by Quonset huts and tin metal hangars that looked as if they would tip in a summer breeze, the airport’s clientele consisted of a small biplane acrobatics team and an aviation school with five single-engine 1960s-era Piper Cubs. Its air traffic controller operated out of his living room, ran the air-fuel depot, and, three times a week, was the town butcher.
Martin exited the plane as everyone else remained in their seats. Michael watched him walk across the runway and up to a waiting limo where a driver stood manning the rear door. Martin
spoke to him briefly, slipped him some cash, and nodded. The driver opened the door and out stepped Stephen Kelley.
The two men stood silently for a moment, an unspoken relief exchanged before warmly shaking hands. Martin actually broke out in a grin and it was the first time that Michael had seen him smile. Kelley was dressed in a black security outfit—it looked more natural on him than the Brooks Brothers suit Michael met him in—and looked no worse for wear. He glanced toward the plane as he and Martin walked up the ramp. Kelley looked much different than Michael had recalled from six days earlier. Of all things, he looked rested.
Kelley stepped through the door, walked straight past Michael, Busch, and Simon without a word or a glance exchanged, and poured himself a Macallan from the bar. He downed the Scotch whisky, threw some ice in the glass, and poured himself another. He finally turned around and looked at the crew before him. Kelley stared at Simon and then Busch as if examining a case file and then his eyes finally fell on Michael.
They looked at each other a good thirty seconds, a world of thought passing between them.
“We’ve got a conversation to finish,” Kelley said.
“That’s an understatement.”
“Now’s not the time, though,” Kelley said as he looked at Busch and Simon.
Michael nodded.
“Martin said Susan showed you my safe room?” Kelley said, referring to the mementoes he kept on Michael.
“Yeah,” Michael said, looking at the man as if for the first time. A man whose room and drawers catalogued Michael’s life in pictures and articles, the life of a son he had given up not out of irresponsibility but out of love, to ensure his newborn child would be provided for in a way that he couldn’t as a single teen parent. He was a father who shared his son’s upbringing only through photos and written words, never through conversations or warm embraces. Susan took it upon herself to share Kelley’s prideful keepsakes with his son; she wanted Michael to know that he truly wasn’t forgotten. Michael was at a loss as he continued to look at the man, not knowing what to say as the air grew thick with tension.
“OK, well…” Kelley said, trying to change the subject. He turned to Martin. “Did you let her know I’m safe?”
Martin said nothing.
“Martin…?” Kelley said.
Martin cast his eyes down.
“Where’s Susan?” Kelley asked, looking around. A hush fell over the group. “Martin?”
“She’s been taken, sir.”
Kelley’s face ran through every emotion: confusion, fury, rage. “What do you mean?”
“A Russian general took her, one of Zivera’s men, a plane left Russia yesterday, we’re pretty sure he brought her here.”
Kelley had seen the business jet when he was escaping; he watched it taxi, he watched as a man and two women exited the plane and were quickly hustled into a car. The anger that washed over him was not directed at Zivera or the men before him, it was at himself. Susan was in his reach and he let her slip away. If he had just waited. “I saw her. My God…” He hung his head. “I didn’t know…”
Martin looked up at Stephen. “There was nothing you could have done.”
Kelley looked at him, his emotions turning to anger. “What do they want with her?”
Everyone was silent.
“What the hell is going on, dammit? Somebody tell me!”
“I would imagine they are going to kill her,” Simon said in his characteristic fatalist fashion.
“Kill her?” Stephen said, awash in confusion. “Why, what did she do?”
“She was with me,” Michael said as he walked up to the man he had only recently learned was his father.
“With you? Michael, what have you done?” The anger quavering his voice. “Why would they kill her?”
Michael looked at Stephen, his conscience overwhelmed by the sadness in his father’s eyes, of Susan’s situation, and all of the things that Stephen had yet to learn: of the box and its contents and of Genevieve’s kidnapping. And though Michael was relieved to see his father, glad that he no longer felt responsible for his life, his determination had not diminished, his job was far from complete. His emotions were on fire in all directions as he fought to calm his mind. And as he regained focus, he finally reached out his hand and rested it on Stephen’s shoulder. “You may not know me beyond surreptitious photos on a wall, but I’m not going to let Susan die. I promise you this, I’ll get her back even if I die in the process.”
Chapter 53
The lab was on the far side of the compound. Thirty feet below ground, behind walls of alternating concrete and steel. Twenty feet thick, they were capable of withstanding anything short of a nuclear blast. The advanced ventilation system exchanged the air every twenty seconds, forgoing scrubbers and recirculators for fresh intake. Each room section was individually sealed and remained under negative pressure.
Its design was more advanced than the United States’ Centers for Disease Control and the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control, and was able to contain the deadliest of agents both chemical and biological.
But as advanced as the facility was, there were certain rudimentary methods that man had still embraced despite all of the advanced technologies. Adjacent to the central lab was a small room, separated by a viewing window. The ductwork was directed through this room and could release whatever toxins were to be evacuated from the adjacent section for further experimentation. It was crude science, dating back centuries, but its brutal method had proven effective. And so the adjacent room was filled with varying degrees of wildlife, from birds to rodents to small primates, each cage monitoring the health or decline of its respective animal: the canary-in-a-coal-mine approach to science.
Three scientists rode the elevator down, wearing expressions like children at the gates of Disney World. Each of them was the top expert in his field of expertise. Hal Jenkins—biological vehicles with a concentration in germ warfare—trained at Johns Hopkins, with twenty years in the U.S. military. He was the foremost expert in the analysis, construction, and destruction of biological agents. Madris Habib possessed a similar aptitude in chemical agents and the design of their countermeasures. Schooled at MIT, he brought his expertise back to the Middle East for eighteen years of success in his desert land. Dr. Bill Lloyd, a former professor at Oxford and a top surgeon, was said to possess an analytical mind that exceeded the high-speed computers he used for his medical research. He was known for his cutting-edge breakthroughs in cancer treatment and an insatiable appetite for conquering disease.
The three men entered the lab, showered, and donned protective suits that were more fitting for outer space than a medical facility. They stood over the gold case with a mixture of fear, curiosity, and pride. The craftsmanship and beauty of the box far exceeded their expectations. It was literally a work of art that none had seen the equal of; the intricate pictures carved into the surface rendered by a master craftsman whose abilities had not been matched in thousands of years.
The three scientists understood the potential of the box before them, having spent the last year reading every stitch of paper that Zivera was able to unearth. Legend spoke of eternal life, of secrets long lost, of God’s hand. As scientists, their skepticism ran deeper than the ocean. They accepted nothing short of substantive proof. While they responded and acted as professionals to Julian’s instructions, they had murmured among themselves about this man at the edge of sanity.
But Dr. Lloyd secretly held out hope. He had seen biblical myths manifest themselves in modern-day reality. He knew full well the Bible’s reference to manna, the revered food of gods. The ancient Mesopotamians called the powdery substance shem-an-na and the Egyptians described it as mfkzt, while the Alexandrians venerated it as the Paradise Stone. Made into cakes, the mysterious powder was ritually ingested by ancient kings and pharaohs. It was revered as the food of the “light body, the ka” and was said to heighten awareness, perception, and intuition, and was considered to be the key
to eternal life. And Lloyd had seen its rediscovery in the modern era as m-state gold with many of its mythical properties borne out as fact. What was thought of as a fanciful, almost laughable, substance of magical powers was, in point of fact, real. And so Lloyd held out hope for the box before him. He prayed that the legend was indeed true, and was prepared to accept myth as fact. Lloyd was prepared for a miracle.
But Julian had them prepare for disaster, the worst of the worst-case scenarios: disease and darkness, death and Armageddon. As they each looked at the gold case, they couldn’t help but feel a bit of humor at the implausibility of such a horror being contained in such a small, beautiful box. But each of these men had seen atrocities both man-made and natural. And they knew not to underestimate the ability of something so small to wipe out millions. After all, each of them had created or fought against death agents with similar capabilities that could be held in the recess of a thimble.
They had run the box through multiple scanners, chemical sniffers, and spectrometers but found nothing out of the ordinary that would give them pause. The lock was examined, measured, and understood. They would need only a screwdriver to open it.
Even with the protection of their bio-suits, they opted to open the box remotely, from behind the safety of three feet of glass, and with the benefit of a high-speed ventilator. A clear high-impact containment case was placed over the golden box. Extractors were attached; anything escaping after they unlatched the lock would instantly be recaptured and held in a container certainly more secure than a gold box whose age was beyond comprehension.
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