by Alex Lukeman
"I still have to be careful, but yes, I can go back."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
Harker nodded. "Good. For now, just work on the translation."
"I'd like to take the file home with me. I can get most of it figured out before I need to work with Stephanie."
"All right. Nick, you stick close to Selena, in case someone decides to make another try at the manuscript. Consider yourself a high priced bodyguard."
He smirked at Selena and stroked an imaginary moustache. "I will guard your body," he said in a deep voice.
"Jerk," she said.
CHAPTER THREE
Marcel Sarti sat on the terrace of his hillside villa on the outskirts of Marseille, savoring a pastis and watching a yacht under full sail glide across the sparkling blue waters of the Gulf of Lion. The boss of L' Union Corse was in a good mood. It was a beautiful day, one of those days in the south of France when everything seems possible and new. The licorice taste of the drink formed pleasant heat on his tongue.
He watched preparations for his daughter's sixteenth birthday taking place on the green lawn below. A large tent was up, the tables set, the caterers on the scene. The bar was ready. Marcel expected 200 guests. An invitation was more than an honor, it was an unspoken command. It was not wise to offend Marcel Sarti by refusing. Six of the mayors of the city's arondissments and several council members would be in attendance. The Chief of Police was expected. And of course the CEO of the Grand Port of Marseille would be there. Smooth operations at France's busiest port were essential to the flow of drugs that formed a cornerstone of Marcel Sarti's empire.
If there was one bothersome thought to spoil Sarti's day, it was his failure to secure the manuscript in Paris. Marcel didn't know who had hired him to get the book. The contract had come through an intermediary, an American he'd dealt with in the past.
The targets had turned out to be more than tourists, which complicated things. One of his contacts in the police had learned the woman was a former consultant with the American NSA and worked for one of the American intelligence services. So did the man she'd been with.
The last thing Sarti needed was to piss off NSA or the CIA. Retrieving the book was more trouble than it was worth. He'd cancelled the contract and wired the money back to the Swiss account, less a reasonable compensation for the loss of his men. He wanted nothing more to do with it. The American had been insulting when Sarti informed him of his decision, something only a fool would do with Marcel.
He finished his pastis and stood. After the party he would decide what needed to be done about the American.
CHAPTER FOUR
Indian Island was a little over five hundred rugged acres of rock and trees, fifteen minutes by motor launch from the Maine coast. A deep cove on the leeward side formed a small, natural harbor. A long, wooden pier stretched out from the rocky shore into the water. Anchored in the cove was a white motor yacht shaped like a hunter's arrow.
The main house was a three story structure of Maine timber, built in 1851 with profits from the slave trade. A wide gallery ran around the second story. The roof was capped by a widow's walk. A manicured lawn sloped from the house to the dock, green and perfect. The lawn was bordered by beds of brilliant flowers and half a dozen trees that had been saplings when the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock.
The island provided a secure setting for special events of America's ruling class. One was about to begin, the annual meeting of the Cask and Swords Society. The majority of the members would be present. They would bring their wives, their fiancées and their mistresses. There would be good food, conversations, good liquor. Important decisions would be made.
It was a perfect June morning. The caterers had almost finished setting up on the lawn. A large tent sparkled white in the morning sun. Barbecues were already smoking. Inside the house, three men sat at a table in the library. Through the library windows they could see the yacht riding at ease in the cove.
The three men were meeting to discuss progress in their plan to trigger war in the Middle East.
Phillip Harrison III owned the island. He was a wiry man in his mid-sixties. He wore a soft, casual shirt open at the collar, pressed tan slacks and comfortable Clark loafers. His face was an old New England face, a face that lacked humor, the kind of face seen in 18th Century portraits of colonial clergymen and wealthy merchants, narrow and unsmiling. Harrison had gray hair and hazel eyes and hands with long, narrow fingers. His family had controlled a large portion of America's wealth since the early days of the Republic. He owned and managed the largest private investment bank in the country. No one opened an account with his bank for less than five million dollars. Harrison considered that a small account.
Harrison often thought he would have been more at home in the 18th or 19th Century, when leaders of men were expected to apologize to no one except God for their actions. Harrison believed in God. He believed God had set him on earth to become rich and use his wealth to spread the true faith of an austere and judgmental Christianity. He believed God had given him a mission to wrest control of the Holy Land and the Middle East from Islam. It was the overriding motive in his life. It was why the three men were meeting, although they all had different reasons for wanting the same result.
The second man was Stephen Boyd. Boyd was a round-faced, round-bellied man. His features showed a hint of dissolution. His lips were distended, almost purple in color, a sign of digestive problems that sometimes embarrassed him in company. Boyd's family had been a dominant force in oil since the start of the industry in Pennsylvania. He'd been recruited into CIA right out of the University. He was currently inactive except as a deep source of information. There was no public record that his relationship with Langley had ever existed. It was better that way.
Allen Croft, the third man, owned the yacht at the end of the pier. Croft ran an international consortium of arms manufacturers. If there was a weapon in the world, one of the companies in his consortium had probably made it. He had the look of a predator, with black eyes that glittered under thick eyebrows. Women of a certain type found him attractive. For Croft, war in any part of the world was good for business. He was always looking to create new opportunities and a big, regional war was the best business opportunity of all. The one they were planning would provide handsome profits.
All three were members of Cask and Swords, a secret society that had formed in the early days of the University. Every nation in history had a ruling class based on wealth, connections and power. In America, many of that class belonged to Cask and Swords. Past and present swordsmen included presidents, cabinet officials, governors, military leaders, senators and congressmen. The financial direction of the country was currently in the hands of Cask and Swords members.
The exercise of power and the accumulation of wealth required sacrifices by the masses. The common people had never understood that, but Harrison and the others did. All three men considered it their birth right to shape the destiny of nations and wield power.
They had been making small talk while a servant laid out a light lunch and drinks. Harrison waited until the man left the room.
"The attempt to secure the Nostradamus manuscript failed," he said.
"Who did you use for the acquisition?" Croft asked.
"Marcel Sarti. The boss of L'Union Corse."
"I could have recommended someone better. The French mob is unreliable. They are much too crude."
"It makes no difference now. Needless to say, I am disappointed in Sarti. He had the arrogance to keep part of the fee, even though he failed. He thinks he's in control."
"What do you intend to do?" Boyd asked.
"About Sarti?" Harrison glanced at his watch, a gold Patek-Phillipe. "He won't be an annoyance much longer. I am more concerned about the manuscript. Bertrand sent it to a woman who works for the Project."
"Ah. The President's pet intelligence unit."
"Yes. She was a friend of Bertrand and happened to be visiti
ng Paris. Bertrand sent it to her before he died. She is an accomplished martial artist. When Sarti's thugs tried to take it from her they ended up in a French hospital."
"Do you think she knows what's in the file?"
"Not yet." Harrison sipped white wine from one of his Italian vineyards. "She's an expert linguist. She'll be able to translate it. Once she does, she'll take it to her Director. It complicates things."
"What do you think they'll do?"
"I expect they'll follow up on the quatrains. It's what we'd do."
"What if they discover what we're looking for?"
"What if they do? It may work to our advantage."
Croft said, "This could all be a waste of time. I think we should go ahead with the alternative plan."
"We have to be patient," Harrison said. "It's been over 3000 years. We can wait a little longer."
"The election in Israel is getting closer and Weisner is still behind in the polls."
"As I said, Arthur, be patient. An opportunity will present itself, one way or another. If we need to take a different approach, we will. Everything is in place. It's much better if it works out the way we hope. The discovery will make Weisner a popular hero in Israel. His election will be assured. The rest will follow."
Boyd took a sip of water. "The EPA is causing trouble for me again. President Rice takes the law seriously."
"When the war starts there won't be any more problems with the EPA. Rice will need the oil." Harrison said.
The men began eating.
CHAPTER FIVE
Marcel Sarti stepped out of his favorite restaurant into the Marseilles evening, lit a Gitane and gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. Blue smoke from the cigarette curled upward in lazy spirals in the still air. From here Marcel was heading to one of his clubs, where there were discrepancies in the finances. Sarti didn't like discrepancies. He'd found out who was responsible and now intended to send a graphic message to anyone else who might have creative accounting ideas. For the moment, he was enjoying the night air and the afterglow of an excellent meal. The unpleasantness to come would keep a little longer. A bodyguard stood by the open door of Sarti's black Mercedes.
Down the street, two men sat on a dark blue BMW motorcycle. The bike idled with a soft rumble. The passenger held a MAC-10 machine pistol concealed under his jacket. Both men wore full face black helmets with smoked visors. The man at the controls was named Eric. The man with the gun was called Peter.
They watched Sarti emerge from the restaurant and light his cigarette.
"There he is."
Peter slipped the gun from under the jacket. Eric put the BMW in gear and pulled away from the curb.
Sarti glanced over at the motorcycle as it came alongside the Mercedes. Peter raised the gun and fired a long burst. The sound ripped a hole through the night. A bright red pattern appeared on Sarti's elegant yellow silk shirt. The cigarette fell from his fingers. He pitched forward onto the sidewalk.
The bodyguard fired as the bike went past, the shots echoing off the apartment buildings lining the street. The bike swerved. Peter grunted and let off another burst. The guard stumbled and fell. Eric twisted the throttle and the bike roared away.
Half an hour later, the BMW was parked in a rented garage on the outskirts of the city. The space was lit by a single, fly-specked bulb hanging from the ceiling. Peter lay on the oil-stained cement floor, his jacket slick with blood. The round had gone in low on the side. He'd managed to stay on the bike until they'd reached the garage. Now he was in shock, half conscious. His face looked white and pinched in the weak light. Blood leaked out from under him. Eric took out a cell phone and called.
"It's done," he said. "There was trouble."
"What trouble?"
"Peter is badly wounded. He needs a hospital."
"That's not possible."
"I know."
"You know what to do. Get back to the Embassy." The call ended.
Eric turned off his phone and knelt down next to the man on the floor. It was too bad, he'd started to like him.
"I'm sorry," he said. His voice was soft.
The knife was a silver flash in his hand. He drove it up under the sternum and twisted. Blood gushed from Peter's mouth. His eyes went wide, shocked. The body went rigid, then settled into stillness. A sewer stench filled the room.
Eric stood. He wiped off the knife on Peter's shirt and put it back in his pocket. He left the garage by a side door and walked to a car parked nearby. In six or seven hours he would be in Paris. By the time the police found the bike and the body he would be out of the country. The authorities would assume Sarti's death was part of a struggle for control of L'Union Corse. They would assume the dead man had been killed to keep him silent.
They would be right about that part, but they would never know the real reason behind the night's work.
CHAPTER SIX
The pages of the Nostradamus file were spread out on a work table in Selena's luxurious Washington condo. Nick spent a lot of time here, but he'd kept his apartment. Every time he thought about moving in with her, something held him back. Selena hadn't pushed for something more permanent. Whether that was because she was afraid of what would happen if she did or if she was as wary as he was, he didn't know. They didn't talk about it.
Lately, it felt as if something was changing between them. A sense of distance. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, exactly. Just a feeling. Sometimes he thought being with her was like being one of those rubber balls on a paddle that kept bouncing away and coming back again.
He looked at the manuscript pages on the table. Someone had tried to stick a knife in him on a Paris street because of them. Selena's friend was dead, because of them. What made them worth killing for?
"Do you think Nostradamus could really see the future?"
She brushed her hand across her forehead. "People have argued about that since the prophecies were published in 1555. A few seem to predict real events. Listen to these two."
She read from her notes.
An island in the New World: Danger
The young Eagle stands before the Bear
Thunder over the waters
Shadows beneath the sea, more fierce than dragons
"So?" Nick said.
"The bear is a symbol of Russia. It was like that even back then. I think this is about the Cuban Missile crisis in 1962. The eagle and the bear could be America and Russia. Thunder over the waters could be jets. And shadows beneath the sea could refer to submarines."
"You think he predicted an event 400 years in the future?"
"It's possible. He predicted the rise and fall of Hitler and the Nazis. If he got Hitler right, why not Cuba and the Russians?"
"Maybe. You said two. What's the other one?"
The Sun touches the Earth
In an instant, all is gone
The people of the land
Cry unheeded to the flower throne
"There's only one flower throne," she said, "the Chrysanthemum throne in Japan. That would make this about Hiroshima. You could make a case that the Japanese people were unheeded by the Emperor after the bomb was dropped. It took the second one before Hirohito gave up."
She looked at the pages. "I've translated two more but they don't make much sense." She picked up a piece of paper covered with notes and handed it to him.
A dark prince seeks this which is stolen
With the sound of trumpets
The golden cherubim shake the heavens
They will stand or fall, the outcome in doubt
Where water is bartered as gold
A small castle guards treasure beyond price
A cross and dome point the way
Beware the Red Horseman
"None of these make any sense," Nick said. "A dark prince. He could be talking about Darth Vader, for all we know. You can interpret these any way you like."
Selena smiled. "That's always been a problem with the good doctor."
"Nostradam
us was a doctor?"
"Sort of. He never graduated from medical school. He was famous for treating the plague, but his cures didn't work very well."
"You look like you're enjoying this," he said.
She nodded. "It's exciting. Do you realize what it's like for me, having this to work with?"
"Do you realize what it's like for me, to have you wrapped up in a 16th Century manuscript?"
She laughed. "Maybe I should take a break."
"How about dinner at that new Indian restaurant?"
"I'm not very hungry."
"We could do something to work up an appetite before we go out."
"What did you have in mind?"
"I have to show you."
He led her into the bedroom. They kissed. Selena started to unbutton her blouse. She stopped.
"Oh," she said.
Nick was about to take off his shirt. He stopped, his hand on his belt. "What?"
"I just thought of something."
She left the bedroom, doing up buttons.
Nick stood by the empty bed for a moment. There was a downside to living with Selena's mind. He sighed and followed her into the other room. She went to a bookcase and pulled out a Bible and walked over to the table with the manuscript. She sat down and began turning pages in the Bible.
"What are you doing?"
"I had an idea about what Jean-Paul meant when he wrote EX 25. It could be a biblical reference."
She found Exodus and turned pages to Chapter 25. "Oh, my," she said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Former gunnery sergeant Ronnie Peete, USMC, sat on the couch in Harker's office with Lamont and Stephanie. He had on one of his quieter Hawaiian shirts, a scene of white and red flowers on a light brown background. The shirt almost picked up the tint of his skin. Ronnie was Navajo, raised on the reservation in Arizona. He had a large nose and dark brown eyes. People thought of paintings and photographs of the Old West when they saw Ronnie, unless he was holding a weapon pointed at them.