The Monarch

by Jack Soren

  “Deal,” Jonathan said.

  3:20 A.M.

  CANTON GEORGE LED Lew, Jonathan, and Emily down a staircase hidden behind a gun display. The passageway was tight and smelled moist.

  “How do you know Kring?” Jonathan asked as they walked down. After Kring’s psychodrama of sending him in here, Jonathan had no idea if all, part, or none of what Kring had told him was true. Not that he thought he could trust George any better.

  “We were business partners—­friends, actually. It was many years ago and we were both very different men back then,” George said. Jonathan detected something else in George’s voice—­regret?

  “You boys have a lovers’ quarrel?” Lew goaded.

  The billionaire gave that little almost-­smile again, showing he despised the fact someone would talk to him like this. Especially Lew. He stopped, turned, and looked Lew dead in the eye over Jonathan’s shoulder.

  “Actually, I left him for dead in the Papua New Guinea jungle. But the man just doesn’t know when to die,” George said. Jonathan recalled his discussion with Sophia and knew what George meant.

  “Move,” Jonathan said, shoving George ahead.

  “Why the hell would you . . . Holy crap,” Lew said as they rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs. At the end of a short hallway was the door to the vault. But this was unlike any private vault door Jonathan had ever seen. The door was round, six feet in diameter, and made of some kind of blue-­green metal, trimmed with copper. The metal shone even in the dim lighting. There were two combination tumblers set into the door, and a standard vault wheel. It looked more like the door to a bank vault. George’s smile grew slightly, obviously proud of the impact his baby had on his unwanted guests.

  “I hope you understand if I ask you to wait here while I open it,” George said. Jonathan didn’t see the harm and stood with Lew a few feet back while George approached the behemoth. From the looks of it, the door weighed in at over a ton, so there was little chance George could pull the door open faster than they—­or their bullets—­could traverse the space between them.

  Jonathan looked at Lew and nodded toward George. He wanted Lew to continue their conversation about Kring, prying out every morsel of information that he could. Lew got the message.

  “So you were saying, you left your best friend to die in the jungle. Why?” Lew said.

  “It wasn’t quite that simple,” George said as he spun the first combination lock. “We were best friends back then and we’d made the same mistakes. We’d both played the part of billionaire playboy, ignoring the companies our fathers left to us. It was almost a competition to see who could destroy their family heritage first. As it turned out, we tied.

  “Nathan heard about a cache of gold lost in the Papua New Guinea jungle during the war. If true, it was a treasure that could have saved both of us. Seeing our way of life coming very quickly to an end, we teamed up and went after it, spending every dime of what we had left. It was a foolish endeavor and I don’t think we really expected to find anything. It was more a final adventure before reality came crashing down,” George said, moving to the second combination lock.

  “Let me guess, you found the gold and left your friend to rot so you could keep it all,” Lew said.

  “You’re partly right,” George said, turning to face Lew. “We found the gold, all right. But what I didn’t know was that Nathan had made an arrangement with our guides. Halfway down the mountain, tribesman surged out of the jungle. They spirited Nathan away and then proceeded to kill everything that moved. I lost most of my party, but our firepower managed to turn the tide. When it was over, I assumed Nathan was either dead or doomed—­the Papua New Guinea tribes back then still heavily practiced cannibalism—­and I wasn’t about to wait around for the tribe to regroup so they could attack again. We left with the gold.

  “Two years later, Nathan surfaced. He wanted his share. By then I’d learned what he’d tried to do, so I told him to go to hell. The only thing he had left was that island of his. I figured he’d retreat to it and die like he should have done years ago.”

  “But he didn’t,” Emily said.

  “He found his father’s collection,” Jonathan said.

  “Yes,” George said, his face showing he was as surprised as Lew and Emily that Jonathan knew that part of the story. “The collection was more valuable than all the gold we’d found.”

  George finished opening the second lock and then spun the vault’s pegged wheel, clanks and scrapes echoing in the small space.

  “You can imagine my surprise and delight when Nathan came to me six months ago. Apparently I had something he needed. He offered me millions, but I turned him down. Then I realized a man like Nathan, his network, and how he did business, was the answer I was looking for.”

  “What was the question?” Lew asked.

  “How to get revenge on The Monarch,” Emily said.

  “Exactly,” George said, pulling on the massive vault door. Perfectly balanced, it didn’t seem to take much effort at all to open it. As it swung open, lights inside the vault flickered to life. “But if I can’t have that, I’ll take solace in helping you destroy Nathan.”

  “The enemy of my enemy,” Jonathan said, not really buying it. You didn’t spend the time and money George had, just to suddenly abandon your goal for something else entirely.

  “Maybe not friends,” George said, stepping into the vault. Just inside the door, he turned around and spread his arms. “But I’ll settle for cohorts.”

  They stepped inside, making sure to keep themselves between George and the door. Getting caught in here would be a final mistake.

  The inside of the vault reflected the door’s opulence and shine. Blue-­green metal edged with copper lined the walls and ceiling. Halogen bulbs ran in semicircles around the ceiling. The floor was bright alabaster marble. Even the few chairs and stools scattered here and there continued the color scheme. There were a few tables around the grocery store-­sized confines of the vault, presumably for viewing items. Controlled and cooled air flowed inside, a slight breeze wafting out of a few vents around the room.

  But this was like no collection Jonathan had ever seen before. There were no paintings or sculptures, no gold or jewels. Not even any antique documents. The entire collection consisted of about a dozen pedestals, displaying their treasure beneath glass cases. The treasures themselves were not immediately identifiable.

  “What the hell is this?” Lew said, as he and Emily leaned in close to the first case by the door. Inside it was a blackened, misshapen item, held in place by copper prongs, the entire contents of the case immersed in some sort of clear fluid.

  “My collection has changed somewhat since your . . . cleansing. I have you to thank, really,” George said, his hands behind his back as he rocked on his feet, like someone waiting for a recipient to guess what present they’d just been given. The smile was back too.

  “Thank? Thank me for what?” Lew said.

  “For the clarity you gave me. My previous collection consisted of works produced by others. By-­products. Waste of the true treasures.”

  “True treasures,” Lew repeated. Jonathan could tell by the look on his face he had no idea what George was talking about. Jonathan wished he didn’t. “This . . . briquette is a treasure?” Lew said, hitching his thumb at the item.

  “Most assuredly. It’s the first and, for obvious reasons, the closest to my heart. Though nowhere near the most valuable in dollars.”

  “But what—­”

  “Oh my God,” Emily said, stepping back from the case.

  “It’s his hand,” Jonathan said.

  “His . . .” Lew trailed off as George raised his artificial hand so Lew could get a good look at it. “You mean?” Lew looked closer at the item again and recognition fell across his face as he apparently discerned the fingers and thumb at the top of the
burnt appendage. “Jesus Christ!” Lew jumped back from the display.

  Instead of being offended, George was titillated, laughing as he walked deeper into the vault.

  “And all of these?” Lew asked, pointing at the rest of the displays in the collection.

  “Human body parts,” Jonathan said.

  “Oh, but they’re much more than that,” George said. “These are pieces of genius. Think about it, what would have more value—­van Gogh’s paintings, or the ear he cut off? A scroll from the 1200s, or the actual heart of a Templar? The cup that caught Christ’s blood at the crucifixion, or the actual blood the cup held?”

  “This is sick,” Lew said.

  “Actually . . .” Emily began.

  “Don’t tell me you agree with this lunatic?” Lew said.

  “It’s not something new. The sale of famous, historical body parts has been around for hundreds of years. Probably longer,” she said.

  Emotionally, the idea turned Jonathan’s stomach as much as it did Lew’s, but logically, he could understand the concept.

  ­“People actually pay money for this?” Lew asked.

  “A great deal of money, trust me,” George said. “But commerce aside, almost every Catholic Church has relics, usually embedded into their altars.”

  “Relics?” Lew asked.

  “Pieces of saints’ bodies. The Vatican distributes them as a kind of reminder that miracles, at least at one time, actually happened,” Emily said.

  “And let’s not forget the mummies. Egyptian body parts are on display in every museum around the world,” George said.

  “Whatever,” Lew said shaking his head.

  “What did you promise Kring?” Jonathan asked George, all too aware of the time slipping away from them. “Where’s item CS–231?”

  George remained silent, obviously having second thoughts.

  Jonathan nodded to Lew.

  Lew walked up to a display case with what looked like a lump of clay in it, and tapped the barrel of his gun against the glass.

  “How much did this one cost you?” Lew asked.

  “You wouldn’t! You promised—­”

  “So did you. Play hardball and you’ll have a steel box full of garbage. The choice is yours,” Jonathan said.

  Canton George’s face turned lobster red, his hand clenching and unclenching. He paced back and forth, panting like a caged animal. He was powerless and he knew it, but he was so used to being in control it must have been like a foreign flavor on his silver tongue.

  Without pretense, Lew smashed the display. Glass shattered and fluid rushed out onto the floor, the item flopping to the ground like a dropped oyster.

  “No!” George screamed, moving toward Lew. Jonathan raised his gun and stopped him.

  “Uh, uh, uh. The item.”

  When George remained stubborn, Jonathan nodded to Lew and he stepped over the mess to the next display case, a larger one with bits of bone in it. Lew tapped the glass. Emily turned away, apparently preparing for another crash and splash.

  “Going once, going twice—­”

  “Stop! Fine, I’ll give it to you. Just take this maniac out of my house.”

  George went to the back of the vault and unlocked a cabinet. He took out a contraption and brought it over to one of the tables.

  “What is it?” Emily asked.

  “It’s a transport case for Kring’s item, nitrogen cooled,” George said. He punched a code into it and the contraption hissed open, oozing cold vapor. Then he reached around behind a nearby display and pressed something. The glass around the item also hissed open, more cool fog blossoming as the interior mixed with the vault’s room temperature. Using a pair of copper tongs, he took a small lump out and put it into the cryocase, sealing it inside. “There. Now go.”

  “What is it?” Jonathan asked as Lew picked it up.

  “The anterior prefrontal cortex from the greatest mind in human history,” George said, his mood seeming to lighten at the prospect of telling someone about one of his treasures, even if he was about to lose it.

  “Whose mind?” Emily asked, moving closer to the item.

  “Albert Einstein’s,” George said, his chest practically swelling with pride.

  Jonathan’s, Lew’s, and Emily’s mouths dropped open simultaneously. Lew took the case out from under his arm and held it out in front of him with both hands, like it might explode if he wasn’t careful. A long time seemed to pass before anyone spoke.

  Incredulously, Emily said, “The Albert Einstein.”

  “Is that even possible?” Lew asked, shifting only his eyes to Jonathan.

  “Back in the fifties,” George said as he paced, the gun pointed at him unable to deter his lecture, “when he died, Einstein left instructions that stated he was not to be autopsied. He wanted to be cremated and his ashes secretly dispersed. He was not fond of the rock star attention he’d garnered by that point and was afraid that he’d become an even bigger postmortem celebrity.”

  “So how—­”

  George cut Lew off. “He left instructions, but it’s very difficult to make sure the world follows your wishes when you’re dead. The pathologist on duty that night in the Prince­ton Hospital lied. He said he had permission to perform an autopsy. No one is sure why. In any case, during the autopsy the doctor removed Einstein’s brain and eyes.”

  “His eyes?” Jonathan said.

  “Yes, apparently they’re still in a safety deposit box somewhere in America, but no one knows for sure. It’s all just rumors. But the really interesting thing is that the pathologist didn’t even have the skill or training to remove and preserve a brain, much less a brain revered by the world as the epitome of genius.

  “Einstein’s son did end up giving his permission after the fact. Again, something that didn’t fit what everyone at the time expected to happen. Isn’t that delicious?” George asked, grinning widely now.

  “As a phlegm sandwich,” Lew said.

  “Yes, well, in any case, the legal issues were handled. The extracted brain was sectioned and kept in a basement for years before anyone agreed to do any kind of study of it. When it was finally examined, the results showed that Einstein’s brain was just an average brain. In fact, a little less than average in size, weight, and density.”

  “Huh? But how could someone that supersmart be—­”

  “Aha, because it wasn’t his brain,” George said, appearing incredibly pleased with himself. “The sectioned brain wasn’t Einstein’s. The theory is, there was a switch, and Einstein’s brain—­the real one—­was extracted and preserved by a true expert who later sold it at auction. The supposed pathologist of record was just a paid-­off stooge. Sometime after that, someone cut the real brain into pieces so they could sell it several times and make more money. Over the years, the pieces have vanished.”

  “Jesus,” Jonathan said.

  “This is the last known piece in existence,” George said, waving his hands and practically saying, Ta-­da.

  “How do we know you didn’t just give us a lump of cheese?” Lew asked.

  “There’s a letter of authenticity in the base of the cryocase. Beyond that, I’m afraid you’ll just have to trust me,” George said.

  Jonathan worked to process everything they had just been told. That story plus the cryocase, which meant the item was still viable, explained why Kring wanted it. If what Sophia had told him was true, it was the extra step Kring needed for a cure. A permanent cure. It was the last thing Jonathan wanted to give the bastard, but the only thing on the planet that could save Natalie’s life.

  If they weren’t already too late.

  43

  Tartaruga Island

  9:30 P.M. Local Time

  SOPHIA STOOD JUST outside Nathan’s office, summing her courage to confront him about Jonathan’s daughter. She knew he’
d be mad that she’d slipped past her guard, but she didn’t want to risk asking to leave, only to be denied. She also knew she was in the right, but even with her recent revelations, facing off with the man who had been posing as her father all these years practically terrified her. She’d almost calmed herself enough to enter when she heard something that terrified her even more. It froze her to the spot where she stood.

  “Call Thomas. Tell him Mr. Hall and Miss Denham are coming and they’ve got the item. He’s to meet them on the tarmac,” Nathan said.

  “You’re not really going through with this, are you?” Lara asked.

  “And tell Sophia to be ready with the DNA profile from the eyes Thomas brought back from Pensacola. I have no doubt George’s item is authentic, but we have to be sure,” Nathan said.

  “But—­”

  “Enough! The future—­our future—­hinges on what we do in the next few hours. I need you to listen and obey. To the letter. Do you understand?” Sophia had a feeling “our future” didn’t mean her future.

  “Yes. I understand,” she said.

  “Good. The exchange will occur in the courtyard. I want you to position our two best sharpshooters on the roof around the courtyard. When I give the signal, they are to open fire.” Sophia put her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp.

  “Their targets?” Lara asked.

  “Everyone but you and me. No one gets out of that courtyard alive.”

  “Even the girl? Natalie?” Lara asked, sounding more surprised than shocked.

  “Especially the girl. Give orders to shoot her first. I want to see it in Hall’s eyes. I want to see him realize who the best man is. Just before The Monarch dies.”

  Sophia pressed back into the shadows as Lara left her father’s office, a determined resolve in her stride. When Lara reached the elevator and the door had closed, Sophia ran the other way. If Lara was going straight to the lab, she had only a few minutes.

  I have to get Natalie out!

  At the end of the hall, Sophia gripped the grating covering the access way to the bowels of the complex and pulled it open. She hurried inside and pulled the grating closed behind her.