The old woman didn’t comment immediately. She glanced at the sunset now coloring the sky at the far edge of her garden. Finally, she said, “My dear, I believe you’ve just had an epiphany.”
“If by ‘epiphany’ you mean I finally saw the big picture, then yeah. Let’s call it an epiphany.”
“I find it interesting that your first impulse was to put yourself in Hannah’s place—to experience the world from her perspective.”
Cassie shrugged. “I did what anybody else would have done.”
“You did what only an empath would do, my dear young friend. While the ability to view the world from another’s perspective is a trait that all pythias possess to some degree, it’s far from instinctive in the general population.” Faye’s eyes twinkled in the dusky light. “It amazes me that for one gifted with the second sight, you so often fail to see your own uniqueness.”
Cassie blushed at the observation. “Maybe because things that should be as plain as the nose on your face are just as hard to see.” She grinned. “Thanks for being my mirror.”
The conversation was cut short when Hannah emerged from the house bearing a tray in her hands.
“I thought you might like some apple cobbler. I made it myself,” she offered hopefully.
“Then it’s bound to be good.” Cassie took one of the plates from the tray. “See that was another compliment. You’re supposed to reply with ‘thank you’ and accept it when people say nice things to you.”
The girl drew up a chair. “I have so much to learn.”
“That’s what makes life intriguing,” Faye observed, casting a sly glance at the pythia. “There’s always some new insight waiting to pop out at you when you least expect it.”
Cassie smiled wryly at the memory guardian and then dove into her cobbler.
Chapter 21 – Tactical Oversight
Chopper Bowdeen had been sitting in the airport waiting for his flight to Munich to be announced when he received a call from somebody who sounded like he wore a black suit. Obviously a Nephilim emissary, the man politely asked him leave the terminal, climb into a waiting limo and head back to the compound. It seemed the diviner had other ideas for Chopper’s next mission.
Bowdeen did as instructed, but he wasn’t thrilled at the change in his itinerary. He had been looking forward to a trip overseas—out of reach of those cozy face-to-face chats that Metcalf seemed to enjoy so much. Never mind that he had been on his way to train yet another batch of fanatical foot soldiers. The less direct contact Chopper had with the diviner, the better he liked it, even at the price of furthering the hidden agenda of a lunatic.
As he gazed vacantly out the tinted limo windows, the mercenary asked himself for the thousandth time why he was cooperating at all with the Nephilim’s plans. Why not just take the money and run? Two compelling reasons—fear and greed. Chopper knew that if he bailed on Metcalf’s scheme now, there was no chance the old coot would let him live. Bowdeen had seen too much of the inner workings of the organization—far more than most Fallen. Jesus Christ! Even in his own head, he was talking about the outer world using Nephilim terminology. He didn’t like the way their crazy notions were seeping into his brain. All the more reason to run, but he knew that no matter where he hid they would find him. The brotherhood had a global reach that would have made the mafia jealous. No, escape was out of the question.
Deep down, Chopper knew that fear of capture wasn’t his biggest motivator anyway. As long as he worked for the Nephilim, money grew on trees. For the first time in his life, he had cash to burn. Literally. Just last week, he’d lit a cigar with a hundred-dollar bill even though he’d quit smoking years before. These days he could buy anything he wanted or anybody for that matter. To a dirt-poor kid from Alabama, it was quite a rush. Chopper decided he enjoyed the feeling. So, there it was. Greed trumped everything else—right down to the last scrap of moral compunction he had left. He didn’t like himself very much at the moment, but conscience was a luxury he figured he could afford to live without.
The limo slowed as it passed through the gates of the compound. Much to his surprise, the vehicle came to a complete stop, and the driver signaled him to get out. He stood hesitating by the car door for a few seconds when a voice called from on high. “Up here, Mr. Bowdeen!”
He followed the sound of the voice to the top of one of the sentry towers that flanked the iron gates. Metcalf was standing on the catwalk and motioned for him to ascend. Chopper shrugged and started climbing.
“I’m very glad Brother Samuel reached you before your flight left,” the diviner said. “In here, please.” He indicated the interior of the guard room.
Bowdeen noted that Metcalf appeared more gaunt and haggard than the last time he had seen him, even though it had only been a matter of weeks. The purple circles under the diviner’s eyes meant that he hadn’t gotten much sleep lately either.
Chopper transferred his attention from the preacher to the room itself. The design was octagonal with windows fitted into the upper half of each wall. This would allow the occupant a 360-degree view of everything going on for half a mile in any direction. The mercenary figured that a cricket hopping around in the grass by the back fence could be spotted from this vantage point.
A single guard manned a control console in the center of the room. He was watching half a dozen monitors which appeared to be hooked to video cameras. Some displayed the area around the gates, others showed the entrance to the main building, and a few were interior shots of the foyer and corridors.
“Leave us,” Metcalf instructed the sentry.
Without a word, the man got up and exited the room.
“Have a seat,” the diviner told Bowdeen.
The mercenary dropped his duffle bag in a corner and took a chair at the console. Metcalf sat down beside him.
“I imagine you’re wondering why I interrupted your next mission,” the diviner began.
“Yes, sir,” Bowdeen replied noncommittally.
“I have a more pressing need for your expertise here,” the diviner explained.
“But I’ve already trained the boys at this location,” Chopper objected.
“Your other area of expertise,” Metcalf countered. “You have experience setting up surveillance systems, do you not?”
“Yes sir, I do,” Bowdeen agreed cautiously.
“Then you’re the man for the job.” Metcalf gave a fleeting smile. “I need you to improve the security at this location before you go on to provide weapons training at any of the other compounds.”
“Sir?” Chopper asked mildly. “It seems to me you have an extensive security apparatus already in place.”
“Extensive, yes. Adequate, no.” Metcalf chose his next words carefully. “We had an incident recently which alerted me to the need for more surveillance.”
Bowdeen perked up his ears. “You mean somebody tried to break in?”
The diviner hesitated for a second. “No, not that. Someone is missing.”
Despite Metcalf’s delicate wording, Chopper got the picture. Somebody had broken out. He guessed it wasn’t just anybody either. “One of your family, sir?”
“One of my wives, in fact.”
Now the pieces were falling into place. The last thing an old rip like Metcalf could stand was a woman besting his state-of-the-art security system. No wonder he wasn’t sleeping well. Of course, Bowdeen’s face betrayed none of the conclusions that were leaping into his head. He cultivated an impassive expression the way some people, Leroy Hunt, for instance, cultivated a wave in their hair. “What would you like me to do, sir?” he asked blandly.
“I want you to make sure that every square inch of the compound which could constitute a means of escape is monitored. Price is no object, and I’ll double your usual fee if you can finish the task quickly.”
Bowdeen blanched. He’d been on the payroll of some paranoid dictators in his time, but this beat anything he’d ever seen. “Every squ
are inch, sir?”
“Every square inch. No gap in our defenses can be suffered to remain.”
“You’ll need to beef up your sentry staff to accommodate that kind of surveillance.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” The diviner waved his hand airily. “You’re already familiar with the skills of the young men you’ve trained. Choose those who were the best marksmen and assemble as big a team as you need.”
Bowdeen hesitated before posing the next question. “You want them to shoot at anybody who might try to escape, sir?”
“Yes, Mr. Bowdeen. I want them to shoot to kill.”
Chapter 22 – The Maltese Owl
A blast of bright Mediterranean sunlight hit Cassie right between the eyes as she raised her window shade to watch the plane make its descent. Even though she and her teammates had been in transit for more than eighteen hours, it was still only mid-afternoon on Malta. They had flown from Chicago to Heathrow and, after a tediously long layover, were now en route to their final destination. Once the plane taxied to the terminal and disgorged its passengers, the trio moved to the baggage claim area to collect their suitcases.
Cassie yawned. “I don’t know about you guys, but I feel like a zombie.”
“You get used to it,” Erik replied.
“What? Jet lag or being a zombie?”
“Take your pick.”
No one seemed in the mood to talk, so they waited for their luggage in silence at the baggage carousel. Only after they’d retrieved their belongings did Griffin turn to survey the milling crowd behind them. “She should have been here by now.”
Cassie gave him a quizzical look.
“The Maltese trove keeper,” the scrivener explained. “She sent me an email offering to meet us at baggage claim.”
Cassie followed his gaze toward the exit doors. A trio of businessmen were standing together and conferring over a map. Eventually, they moved off to reveal a woman positioned against the wall, holding a hand-written sign with the words “Cassie - Griffin - Erik” scrawled on it in magic marker.
“Look,” the pythia pointed. “That must be her.”
The woman appeared to be in her late-twenties. Though she was of average height, her slight build made her seem fragile and delicate. She wore a demure floral sun dress with cap sleeves and her shoulder length brown hair was pulled away from her face and secured by a barrette. Although her overall appearance suggested that she was about twelve years old, her eyes completely contradicted that impression. She wore glasses whose lenses were as thick as the bottoms of Coke bottles mounted in round black frames. Her unblinking gaze through those glasses mimicked a wise old owl.
Cassie walked directly up to her, but the woman didn’t appear to notice. She was murmuring to herself and staring off into the distance.
“Hello, I’m Cassie.” She extended her hand in greeting.
The woman blinked once. “Who?”
“Cassie Forsythe.” The pythia jogged her memory. “You came to meet us?”
Her eyelids fluttered rapidly. This action seemed to refocus her attention on the present. “Oh, I am very sorry.” She smiled and pumped Cassie’s hand energetically. Her English was perfect with only a slight accent—a cross between Italian and Eastern European. “You see, I was working on a word puzzle in my head. I was trying to make a palindrome of your names, but all I could come up with was ‘Eissac’ and ‘Kire’ and ‘Neffirg.’ Very disappointing. So, then I tried to see if I could make any other words out of your names but without much better luck. It helps to pass the time when one is waiting, don’t you think?”
Cassie stared at her in bemusement.
Griffin stepped in to finish the introductions. “Cassie, Erik, this is the newly-appointed Maltese trove keeper. Thea Xara.”
“Shara?” Erik repeated the last name. “Is that Maltese?”
“Yes,” Thea replied. “But it is spelled x-a-r-a. The Maltese alphabet pronounces x like sh.”
“That’s odd,” Cassie said.
“No, that’s phonetics,” the scrivener chimed in. “Every language has its peculiarities. How else can one explain the pronunciation of ‘light’ in English?”
The trove keeper turned to shake hands with the men. Now that she had shrugged off the effects of her word puzzle, she grew increasingly animated. “I am so very glad to meet such important people—the chief scrivener, the pythia and her bodyguard.”
Erik frowned slightly at the description of himself as a mere bodyguard.
Thea continued. “Let us go out to my auto. It’s in the car park just across the way. Please follow me.”
The trio hoisted their luggage and did as instructed.
The glare of sunlight outdoors was even more intense than when viewed from the plane window. It jolted Cassie out of her jet lagged state. She shielded her eyes. “Is the sun closer to the earth here or something?”
Griffin squinted upward. “In terms of latitude, and given that we’re approaching the autumn equinox, I think not.”
“That was a rhetorical question,” Cassie grumped. Her gaze followed the trove keeper who had gone ahead of them. The woman was steadily bearing down on something that looked like a circus clown car.
“Holy cats!” Cassie exclaimed, stopping dead in her tracks.
Erik collided with her back. “Hey, watch where you’re walking.”
“Dude, look,” she whispered.
The security coordinator mirrored her amazement. “What the hell is that?”
Griffin, who was bringing up the rear, said, “What are you two going on about? Haven’t either of you ever seen an electric car before?”
“Not one that was made for hobbits,” Cassie replied.
The car was squat, square and a bright orange color. Its front grille seemed to be leering at them below wall-eyed headlights.
“How are we all gonna fit?” she asked in dismay.
By this time, Thea had unlocked the doors and was motioning them forward. “This way, please.”
Apparently, Griffin’s complacency evaporated the closer he got to the car and compared its relative size to his own. “Good goddess!” he exclaimed. “It’s a physical impossibility.”
Thea overheard him. “You mustn’t worry. Everything will be alright. This vehicle is built to hold four people. Perhaps with the luggage, it will be a bit snug, but it is only a short drive to your hotel. I think it will be best if the ladies sit up front. That way, we can pull the seats forward and allow the gentlemen to be more comfortable.”
“Never gonna happen,” Erik murmured under his breath as he waited for Griffin to slide in.
Cassie sent a pitying glance to her teammates. Griffin’s knees would have been touching his chin if not for the duffle bag wedged onto his lap. Even though Erik was shorter, he didn’t fare much better. One bag was pressed behind his head with another on his lap and a third sandwiched sideways on the seat between himself and Griffin.
The pythia sighed and squeezed herself and her bag into the passenger side of the front seat. “You drive on the wrong side of the road here,” she observed to the trove keeper.
Thea squinted hard at her, trying to understand the comment.
Griffin, his voice muffled by his hunch-backed position, explained. “You’ll have to forgive Cassie, Thea. Like all Yanks, she believes that a car should be driven on the right side of the road instead of the correct side.”
“Oh, I see.” Thea laughed airily. She punched a few buttons on the dashboard, and the car sprang noiselessly to life. Maneuvering the vehicle out of the parking lot, she explained, “For a long time, Malta was part of the British Empire so when automobiles first came here, it was natural that we should drive the way the English do.”
Within five minutes they were beyond the airport environs and on the outskirts of a large town.
“This is Valleta, yes?” Griffin hazarded a guess.
The trove keeper happily fell into the role of t
our guide. “You are correct. Valletta is the capital, and it is very crowded.”
“Malta has the highest population density in Europe,” the scrivener observed.
“Really?” Cassie noted the swarm of cross traffic and pedestrians. “I can understand that most cities are super-crowded but what about the rest of the island?”
“The island itself is only one hundred and twenty square miles,” the trove keeper said.
“So, what is that?” Cassie asked. “About the size of Rhode Island?”
“No,” Griffin corrected. “It would be about half the size of your Cape Cod.”
“And yet almost half a million people live here,” Thea said. “That is without counting the tourists. People come here on holiday from all over the world. Every year we see two million visitors.”
“That explains the overcrowding.”
“Perhaps it also explains the size of your vehicle,” Griffin murmured, shifting his face toward the other end of his duffle bag to ease his neck.
“I can see why a little car would be a good idea,” Cassie admitted.
“Oh, yes,” Thea agreed seriously. “Parking is very difficult, especially in the old section of the city.”
The tiny auto zipped nimbly through traffic. Fountains, plazas, churches, and harbors whizzed past.
“All the buildings here look like something out of Renaissance Italy,” Cassie noted.
Thea nodded. “That is because so much of the city was constructed during the sixteenth century.”
Abruptly she swerved the car into a parking spot reserved for valet service. “We are here. This is your hotel, is it not?”
Griffin peered turtle-like up at the marquee, “Yes, quite right.”
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