At first Scott didn’t know what it was he was looking at, and then he realized it was someone’s personal file.
His heart froze in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. His muscles bulged and his face grew red, veins surfacing in his neck.
There was a picture with the printout.
Jennifer May Cavanaugh.
His wife.
In order to keep her safe from the possibility of anyone using her as leverage to find him, he’d gotten rid of any and all pictures of her. This was the first time in over ten years that he was actually seeing an image of her. She looked older than he remembered, naturally, but she had aged considerably well. She was beautiful.
Lifting his eyes from the only person he ever really cared about, or that had cared about him, he stared at the man before him, daring him to even mention her name.
“I guess you recognize her,” he said, crossing his arms.
Scott didn’t respond.
“She’s in a camp. Picked up yesterday after Martial Law was declared in her city.” He looked at him sardonically. “That would be Buffalo, New York. I’m guessing not far from where you were hiding. She moved in with her sister when you never came home. She thinks you’re dead.”
He still said nothing.
“Don’t worry, we took the liberty of informing her of your wellbeing. Though, I think she may have gotten the wrong impression… about why you left her, I mean. She’s a very attractive woman, and I’m sure she’ll be making all kinds of new friends.” He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed.
Scott’s evaluation of the situation changed. They weren’t here to kill him. They needed him to get the ring back. And that meant the guy with the shotgun wasn’t really a threat after all.
The unmasked man said, “Have your friends come pick you up, and just snatch the ring when you get a chance. You’re wife will be let go. You can have a happy reunion and spend the rest of your lives together out in a log cabin somewhere.”
It would be tempting if it were true.
“What do you say?”
And before he could stop himself, Scott was lifting his leg and planting his foot right in the guy’s chest. The guy, probably NSA judging from his CIA comment, flew backwards and tumbled off the other side of the bed.
And then Scott was suddenly on the ground again, his face being pressed into the floor.
Rubbing his chest and wincing from a cracked rib, the guy walked over to Scott and kicked him in the face, spitting on him afterwards. “Your friends told you to toss the phone once you contacted them. Don’t. Keep it and call us when you have the ring. You have three days. By then your wife will be of no value to us.” He turned toward the door. “If you waste the time trying to look for her, I’ll see that whatever you do find will be in really small pieces.” Then he left the room, the soldiers following after him.
Scott got to his feet and ran after them, reaching the stairs just as the last of the soldiers was walking out the front door. It slammed shut, and the house plunged into an eerie silence.
“Isaiah!” Scott called out, running down the stairs with his hands still bound behind his back. “Mayhew!”
No answers.
He continued to call out for them as he went into the kitchen and retrieved a steak knife from a drawer by the sink. After cutting through his bonds, he took off through the house, searching for Isaiah and Mayhew.
Isaiah was still in his bed, the pillow and surrounding area soaked with blood. As he approached the bed, he saw that Isaiah’s throat had been slit. Scott closed his eyes as a whirlwind of emotion erupted inside him. And then he left the room in search of Mayhew, sure he’d find him in the same condition.
But there was no sign of him anywhere.
He collapsed on a couch, his mind tripping over itself, questions reeling in his head. How did they find him? How did they know about the Mossad and the phone they’d given him? How did they know about his wife?
And then it clicked. He knew exactly how. He just couldn’t believe it.
Going back upstairs, he pulled on the rest of his clothes and grabbed Isaiah’s book. Oddly enough, the priest’s two books were missing.
He got the phone and activated the preset number with a trembling hand.
PART IV
ORDER OF SECRETS
It is therefore our duty to surround them with its [the Illuminati’s] members, so that the profane may have no access to them. Thus we are able most powerfully to promote its interests. If any person is more disposed to listen to Princes than to the Order, he is not fit for it, and must rise no higher. We must do our utmost to procure the advancement of Illuminati into all important civil offices. By this plan we shall direct all mankind. In this manner, and by the simplest means, we shall set all in motion and in flames. The occupations must be so allotted and contrived, that we may, in secret, influence all political transactions.
—Adam Weishaupt, founder of the Illuminati.
The water looked like an infinite sheet of glass reflecting the brilliance of the hanging moon as the three ships gracefully cut a pioneer’s path through the silver waves. They were being propelled by a steady wind filling their white sails — sails splashed with the Red Cross of the Knights of Christ — while an esoteric knowledge of the earth’s great circles, of the lines of power, acted as their secret guide through the night.
The three ships that were sailing had been acquired in Palos de la Frontera, two of which came through an order issued by the Royal Council. The command ship was named la Callega. At least until the Captain renamed it after a monastery in Huevla — the monastery where he’d met Father Juan Perez de Marchena, the humanist astrologer and cosmographer. The ship was a three-masted square rig that carried about forty men, and though Juan de la Cosa was the owner and master of the ship, he was not her captain.
The second ship in size was a three-masted square rigged caravel carrying twenty-six men, Martin Alonso Pinzon her captain. A four-masted caravel carrying twenty-three men and around sixty tons of cargo was the third and smallest and was captained by Vincente Yanez Pinzon.
The Captain of the first ship was sitting over one of his logbooks. He had two in fact, one that recorded the truth and the other one his clever tales of deceit. It was important that his men not know how far they had actually traveled. With no real place to sleep or any proper food, things were getting tense. The crew had already asked him to turn back a couple of times, and so a false account of the journey was essential in preventing their mutiny. It was October eleventh now, and they left from Palos on August the third, the only course he’d given to his sailors that of a westward direction. They eventually reached the Canary Islands and remained there for several weeks due to unfavorable winds. They finally left on September sixth after the ships were repaired.
He looked back through his log to the ninth.
Sunday, 9 September. Sailed this day nineteen leagues, and determined to count less than the true number, that the crew might not be dismayed if the voyage should prove long.
They had sailed sixty leagues on the tenth, but he told the crew it had only been forty-eight. If they discovered his lies, they would for sure throw him overboard. He shuddered at the idea of trying to stay afloat in the middle of the Atlantic while watching his ships sail off into the horizon. Shaking the thought from his head, he glanced at the previous day’s account.
Wednesday, 10 October... Here the men lost all patience and complained of the length of the voyage…
Thankfully, he was able to convince them to continue on for three more days. Rubbing his weary eyes, he prayed again for land, swearing that it had to be close. Shutting the true logbook, which he intended to give to the King and Queen, he then hid it carefully in the desk, leaving the false one out on top for all to see.
Pulling a key from his pocket and unlocking another drawer, he went about retrieving a cluster of old maps and charts. After spreading them out across the top of the desk, he stared at them beneath the candlelight.
The maps and charts had come from his father-in-law, Bartolomeu Perestrello, the first governor of Madeira and, more importantly, the Grand Master of the Order of Christ — an offshoot of the Templar Knights. The Captain had collected them and other writings via his father-in-law’s death as part of his inheritance. Having been passed down through the Order for centuries, they contained directions believed to lead to a secret land, a land ripe for molding… for putting to practice an ancient philosophy.
After a few more minutes, he returned the secret maps to their drawer and stretched. It was almost ten o’ clock, and he decided to return to the deck, though he wasn’t looking forward to the plethora of unpleasant looks that would be made at his back.
As he returned to the cool night air, he approached Pedro Gutierrez, making small talk with him while gazing out over the black, rolling sea. His thoughts were not on the conversation however, but were fixed on the question concerning the amount of time he had left before the dark void around him proved to be his fate.
And then they saw it, both of them.
A light.
“Did you see that?” asked the Captain.
“Yes, I did,” Pedro answered, peering intently into the night.
But it was gone. They looked for it a while longer but saw no other sign of it.
“Strange, was it not?” The Captain sighed and was about to turn when suddenly it appeared again. “There!” he pointed.
“I see it!” yelled Pedro.
The strange glimmering light was some distance away, shooting up and down in quick streaking motions.
Excited by the bizarre phenomenon, they found Rodrigo Sanchez of Segovia and begged him to look, but by that time it had vanished again. Disappointed, the Captain walked back to the deck and stared once more to the spot where the mysterious light had shown itself.
He saw it again. It was like the light of a candle moving up and down through the sky.
By now, others were beginning to see it too. It was appearing and disappearing out over the ocean, far in the distance. Or perhaps over their destination.
The Captain instructed a strict watch to be kept upon the forecastle, everyone to be looking for any sign of land.
Turning to the waters behind them, he could make out the two other ships following in their wake, and he smiled. He retreated back to his quarters and hurried to his logbook. He had something fascinating to write about on this eleventh day of October, 1492.
Fumbling about, trying to retrieve the genuine logbook from its secret compartment, Christopher Columbus finally had it resting on top of his fraudulent copy. Finding the correct spot, he began to record history.
While he wrote, the Nina, Pinta, and the Santa Maria crept closer and closer to a land that would indeed be considered new to the world. However, it would not be the first time that the white flag bearing a red cross had made the journey across the Atlantic.
And despite the evidence of prior visits to the New World (dating all the way back to the time before Christ), though the Vikings were there five hundred years before him, and completely disregarding the natives who already lived there, history would record Christopher Columbus as being the one who discovered America. A statue of him would stand in Washington DC with an inscription declaring that his “faith and courage gave to mankind a New World.”
34
Scott was told to expect a helicopter in three hours, so he set out to burry Isaiah in the meantime.
Blisters from the wooden handle were telling him to slow down, but he couldn’t. And even though it was snowing, he was stripped down to his bare chest and dripping with sweat. So much death. Tears were running off his chin as he tossed shovel after shovel of loose earth on top of Isaiah’s body. It seemed like every person he’d met over the last couple of days had ended up this way, starting with Edward. The priest, Daniel, Cindy, Benjamin, Isaiah… would he have to add his own wife to that list soon? He covered Isaiah’s face with dirt.
Ten minutes later, he was leaning naked beneath a stream of hot water while a torrent of conflicting emotions had him paralyzed against the shower stall. Once he could bring himself to move, he turned off the water, screamed, and threw a punch at the tiled wall, shattering one of the squares.
After dressing, and borrowing a hooded sweatshirt from Isaiah’s bedroom closet, he sat heavily in the chair Isaiah had been sitting in just a handful of hours ago, talking about Rosicrucianism. He was facing the window and watching the falling snow cover the fresh mound of dirt that sat in the yard, the shadow of a makeshift cross — made from the shovel he’d broken in half once he was finished with it — cast down across it.
As he sat there, his mind drifted away from all of the recent global developments (the nuclear bomb in Texas, the President and Prime Minister assassinated) and even the aforementioned list of dead associates. Everything was beginning to pale in comparison to who was now at the center of his universe.
Jennifer.
She was alive, thank God, but she was a POW in a war she had nothing to do with. She needed him. And this was his chance for redemption — not for all the destroyed lives billed to his account, but perhaps at least for his marriage.
Who was he kidding? The dreams he’d had over the years, of a happy reunion someday, were just there to taunt him now. There was no way they would let them live once they had the ring. But if he didn’t get it for them, they’d kill her anyway. Or worse. Maybe he should just kill himself now to remove her from their equation. But that would be pointless. If she was already in a camp, they wouldn’t go through the trouble of releasing her just because he was dead. The guy was right, she was beautiful and there was no doubt as to how she would be treated in such a place.
The tears came again as he looked at the photograph the NSA guy had left on the bed. It was like he was seeing her for the first time, the reality of her having slipped away from him over the years. But here she was. She was real. They were real. Or had been. He ran his fingers over her face, remembering the feel of her skin. But even if some miracle did place them back together, would she forgive him? Did she even remember them?
He tried to clear his head of all these distractions. He had to think.
And then the sound of rotors came beating the air, rattling the few pictures hanging on the walls. Scott stood up and wiped his eyes. Get it together. Picking up Isaiah’s composition book, he grabbed his jacket off another chair, and walked out the front door, reverently closing it behind him.
The helicopter was an old UH 60 Blackhawk with a red cross inside a white box on its door, indicating its designated use in medical and evacuation roles. It circled the house once before setting down, the grass beneath it suddenly green again. Its wheels barely touched before Scott was up and in. There were three men waiting to offer him wordless greetings, but he wasn’t interested in formalities at the moment. The earth fell away, and Isaiah’s grave spun quickly into the distance.
The man next to him was asking him something, his mouth moving.
“Where’s your partner?” he shouted over the sound of the chopper.
Scott just shook his head.
One of the two pilots turned and looked back for instructions, and the guy who had just asked about Mayhew signaled for them to leave. The pilot gave a thumbs up, and the old Blackhawk evened out, settling into a course leading to yet another mysterious part of Scott’s strange new existence.
Scott could tell they were heading northeast, and though the ceiling for the Blackhawk was 19,000 feet, they remained steadily at one hundred. He closed his eyes as the white mountains faded into the soggy countryside, and he began asking himself if there existed a line he wouldn’t cross in order to save his wife. Assuming it was even possible. “How far we going?” he asked, forcing his eyes open.
The man beside him leaned closer.
“How far?” Scott repeated louder.
“About two hundred miles,” he shouted back.
Scott did the math in his head. One hundred
and seventy-three miles per hour was 2.9 miles per minute, which would make the ride around an hour and ten minutes long. Heading northeast would take them somewhere in Pennsylvania, maybe near Lake Eerie.
The guy leaned over again and more or less confirmed his guesswork. “McKean, Pennsylvania,” he said.
It was a few counties away from Eerie.
“What’s there?” Scott asked.
“You’ll see!”
This time when he closed his eyes, he let himself drift away. His last cognizant thoughts were about whether or not he should ask for Malachi’s help, or try to steal the ring from him.
A rough nudge against his shoulder brought him back from sleep, the sound of the rotors whipping the air suddenly banging in his head again. The Israeli guy still beside him was pointing down to something on the ground. Scott leaned over and peered into the wilderness passing beneath them. The helicopter was climbing another few hundred feet, giving him a better view of whatever they were flying over.
“Over there!” the guy yelled, still pointing. The other two men were focused on the same spot.
And then he saw it, too — a railroad track stretching across the wilderness floor and leading to a huge compound.
“Here!”
There was a tap on his shoulder again, and taking his eyes off the compound, he turned to see an outstretched hand offering a pair of binoculars. He took them quickly, bringing them up to his face and focusing on the sight below before it was gone.
Razor wire.
He moved the binoculars to the left and saw boxcars lined up next to a huge gate. People were being prodded off them like cattle. There was only one memory that such a scene provoked, and shivers raced up his spine. Looking closer, he could see NAU troops forming the people into lines and moving them through the gates. There were a few bodies sprawled out on the ground by the last box car, and he watched as four more bodies were tossed out of it. A military truck was pulling up, and soldiers were jumping out to load the bodies into the truck. He spotted a Buffalo Bills jacket on one of the corpses.
The Solomon Key Page 25