by Joseph Nagle
The two men had stopped running, and Philippe began to report in a torrent the narrative of what the world now watched. “It appears as if the rescuers are trying to lift the bell themselves! They have chosen to not wait for any heavy equipment, which would surely rob them of precious minutes to get to the survivor underneath. There are six or seven men moving a long piece of iron—what looks like an iron beam, a piece of Notre Dame herself. They have heaved the iron over a large piece of stone and are attempting to use it as some sort of lever to lift up the bell! A few others are now digging frantically at the base of the bell, trying to create a hole within which to stick the piece of iron under the lip of the bell!”
The cameraman zoomed in on the strained faces of the rescuers as the men pushed and pulled the lever with all of their might. Others joined in. At first the bell didn’t move; a few more strong hands were added to the lever. A small sliver of space parted the bell from the ground; the moment that it did, dozens of fingers and hands slid under the bell and began to lift while the others worked the lever.
With each bit of newly created space, other rescuers were shoving stones and small boulders in the gap to stop the bell from crashing down.
One policeman was on his belly and had crawled halfway under the bell with the bottom half of his body still halfway out, unaware or not caring that one slip of the heavy bell would certainly end his life.
The policeman had a long flashlight and was illuminating the interior—time stood still. For a moment, there was nothing: no sound, no movement, and no clear idea of what was happening.
Philippe was suddenly aware that he might have made the most horrific mistake of his budding career. He had announced to the world that a survivor had been found at Notre Dame, when, in fact, no such concurrence had been given.
It had been a gamble.
Without warning, the policeman shouted from underneath the bell, and two other men quickly pulled him out by his legs. Grasped in each of his hands were the dirtied and dust-covered hands of another man. As the two men pulled the policeman from under the bell, the lifeless, limp and broken body of a man in a black suit appeared.
It was obvious that he was dead.
Philippe’s head sunk even lower into his chest.
The policeman let go of the dead man and dove back under the bell, shouting.
Philippe’s head rose; for the first time in a long time, he prayed and begged that it would be answered.
The policeman shouted again from underneath the bell, and the same two men pulled him from under, sliding his chest along the sharp fragments of the graveled stone.
The bare arms of another victim emerged first; the men continued to drag. The body was leaner and smaller than the other; it had a head full of long hair—it was a woman.
Two paramedics crashed to their knees alongside her body and obscured it from the camera’s view. Philippe’s cameraman moved to get a better angle.
The seconds ticked long; the world was breathless. For the second time in as many days, nearly the entire world shared the same emotion, but instead of a profound sadness and despair, the world felt hope.
Philippe watched on; everyone else did too.
Then it happened.
Her arm was a ghastly pale color where there weren’t spots or streaks of dried blood and dirt; it was bare of the sleeve that had been there two days ago. Slowly she lifted her arm but had trouble keeping it steady. She was weak but committed as she raised it toward the face of the policeman who had pulled her from her confines. He never left her side, pressing gently on both of her cheeks to keep her head steady while the paramedics worked. Reaching back, she gently touched the side of his face and mouthed the words thank you; tears streaked down his hardened face, which had been caked with grimy layers of mixed dust, sweat, and dirt.
He reached up and gently squeezed her wrist; she grasped his hand tightly, never letting go.
The two of them offered each other a wordless smile.
“Tell me you got that,” Phillipe quietly asked his cameraman.
Smiling widely from behind the camera’s lens, he answered, “Oui. I did.”
Back in the studio, the in-house producer leaned forward to obscure from the others the tears that lined the bottoms of his eyelids; smiling, he thought he couldn’t have scripted a better bit of breaking news.
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
ALWAYS HEDGE YOUR
BETS SOMEWHERE OVER
THE ATLANTIC
Senator Matthew Faust hovered between the drug-induced fog—which was quickly leaving him—and vacillating pain.
He wanted to vomit but there was nothing in his belly to regurgitate. Struck by a bit of vertigo, he could feel his eyes shaking slightly as the private jet climbed steeply. His one good hand clamped down onto the padded armrest of the chair; the other one was too wrecked and swollen to do the same.
Even so, Faust was fuming but waited for the plane to level out before unleashing his anger upon Door, and when the plane finally did find its cruising altitude, he growled, “How could you say those things to the press about Sterling—that fucking guy put a hole in my hand the size of a golf ball! He’s supposed to take the fall for all of this—for Operation Merlin and your wife’s assassination!”
Faust’s shouts didn’t surprise the industrialist. Door was sitting in the plush, leather captain’s chair opposite the senator; in his right hand, he kept steady three fingers of thirty-two-year-old Scottish single malt. He, too, had been waiting for the plane to level before taking his first swallow. Both men felt the engines find the right revolution to match the cruising altitude as the plane settled in on its filed flight path back to the United States.
Door raised the glass and, without tilting his head, tipped it for his first swallow. The burn of the spicy-sweet alcohol trickled into his stomach, and then he smiled. He waited a moment before responding, knowing that the aftertaste of sherry—from the casks in which the Scotch was aged—would blossom on his taste buds. When it did, he evenly commanded, “Relax, Faust. Things have changed. We need Sterling.”
Faust wasn’t so even in his response. “We need that son of a bitch?! For what?”
“You see, that’s always been your problem, Matthew; this is precisely why the Order never wanted you to be more than a novice and why they wanted me next to you in the White House. Your thoughts are stuck in one dimension rather than on multiple ones—Dr. Michael Sterling’s name is all over the intelligence planted in Afghanistan; we’ve got a connection between him and the assassinations of my wife and the president of France. He used his security clearance and power at the CIA to access Operation Merlin, to sell the blueprints for a nuclear weapon to those terrorists in Afghanistan. He’ll be the Aldrich Ames or Ollie North of this decade; take your pick. He’ll appear as having been hungry for money and willing to sell state secrets to get it. That is, unless he decides to play ball with us.”
Blackmail. Senator Matthew Faust leaned backward into his chair; his mouth was hanging agape slightly, but he said nothing.
Door continued, “He’s on the inside, Matthew, don’t you get it? Operation Merlin, satellite imagery, black operations with an untraceable source of nearly limitless funds, connections: that man has more power on the inside of Langley than you or I will have sitting in the White House. Sterling has access to areas you’ve only dreamed of seeing. Sterling will have no choice but to answer to us!”
Faust wasn’t so sure. “What makes you so certain that he will comply?”
Francis Q. Door eyed the senator curiously and flatly stated. “Because if he doesn’t, the Order will kill him. And then we’ll kill his wife. After that, we will eviscerate that do-gooder Green Beret and his pretty little wife, too!”
“But don’t we already have people on the inside at Langley? Why not just get rid of Sterling and stick with them? He’s the one that got us the satellite images of Afghanistan.”
“You mean Lou and the section chief? I guess you haven’t heard. Th
ey’re dead.”
“Dead?” Faust whispered in return. “Both of them?”
Door stood and walked to the Gulfstream’s marble-topped bar. Waiting for him was an array of expensive liquors and wines. “What’s your poison, Matthew? You really look like you could use a drink.”
Faust looked pale, a combination of the loss of blood, altitude, a mixture of pain medication, and his coming to terms with keeping Michael alive. He didn’t answer.
Door looked back at Faust. “Matthew! Snap out of it, man! We’ve got this under control. Trust me. Now, tell me, what will you be drinking?”
Faust took a breath and wiped the dazed look from his face with his unhurt hand. “Just give me what you’re having.”
“Very well, Springbank single malt it is—good choice.”
Returning to his seat, Door handed Faust the freshly poured glass of Scotch. “Four fingers, Matthew, you look like you could use an extra belt.”
Faust grasped the glass uneasily, and Door awkwardly tapped his against it in a slight toast. “You know, Matthew, we’ve got a paved path to the White House. You’ll be returning to a hero’s welcome, and I, the grieving husband of the former favorite president-to-be, will be at your side. The polls already have us nearly thirty-five points ahead of our opponents. With the elections right around the corner, we’ve got this thing in the bag! Now, cheer up, there’s a lot to smile about, for Christ’s sake!”
Senator Matthew Faust swallowed deeply the old Scotch. He loved the bite of the malted barley. He thought about what Door had just said. He knew the man was right, but he was worried about leaving loose ends untied.
But if—no, when—they were in the White House, they would be untouchable.
Taking another long swallow, this one emptying the glass, Faust could feel the alcohol taking rapid effect on his weakened body. A bit of confidence returned—the kind of confidence that had propelled him in business, and the kind that won his seat in the Senate. “And what of Afghanistan. Is everything in place?”
“You mean with the bankers?” asked Door through a smile, sensing the return of the more pragmatic Senator Matthew “Chip” Faust.
Faust nodded in the affirmative.
“Back to business, eh, Matthew? Glad to have you back.” Door stood up and emptied his own glass of Scotch and then pulled Faust’s empty glass from his hand. Gesturing toward the bar for another, Faust nodded again.
Pouring two fresh glasses, Door began, “Those satellite images really paid off—they show a virtual goldmine of ore in Afghanistan. The buildup of the mining infrastructure in that baked-mud of a country is already underway. I’ve arranged a very private syndicate of names to finance the first round.”
“What were their terms?” Faust inquired.
“Entirely too generous for them, but it’ll be worth it. The syndicate will put up a billion and a half in start-up commitments, but they want a personally guaranteed return of twenty-five percent.”
“Twenty-five?! And you agreed this?!” spat a shocked Faust.
“And that’s not all—they want a quarter of all profits in the first five years, plus legislative guarantees on regulatory matters affecting their respective industries. You’ll give them this by appointing them as the heads of the Treasury and the Fed, plus a few other applicable offices.”
“Holy fucking Christ; we’re being raped!”
“It is a billion and a half of someone else’s money; don’t forget, Matthew, Afghanistan is sitting on an estimated trillion dollars’ worth of iron, copper, cobalt, and gold—but it’s the lithium that’s most valuable. I saw a memo in my wife’s private files that quoted the Pentagon as saying that ‘Afghanistan will be the Saudi Arabia of lithium,’ a mineral that every BlackBerry and laptop in the world needs! And the best thing about this is that we’re not putting up any of our own money; hell, I’d give up half of the profits just to get the other half! Easiest fucking fortune you’ll ever make!”
“And the corporate structure of the venture?”
“Untraceable. Every trail leads to an off-balance sheet shell set up to look like the structure of a pension plan that is funded with asset-backed securities. And the best part is that your appointments to the Treasury and Fed will quietly guarantee those securities with a backstop.”
At this, Senator Matthew Faust, whose private net worth was near zero, smiled and thought perfect.
Door returned to where Faust sat and handed him the newly poured glass of Scotch. “The best part of all of this, with the war in Afghanistan already years in the making, is that the US already has a ready-made security force in that shithole of a country, and it will ensure the protection of the project. Those dirty, raghead cave-dwellers won’t be a problem. Most of them will probably line up for a job to work in the mines and you, Mr. President, will look like a goddamned hero. ‘Democracy Prevails!’ the headlines will read! That’ll guarantee you a second term.”
Door held out his glass, and both men toasted the proclamation and downed the Scotch.
“So,” said Door as he set down his glass and took Faust’s bandaged hand, “is it true? Did Sterling shoot you through the hand at point-blank range?”
Faust nodded weakly as he remembered that moment.
“No shit? I’ve always heard that Sterling didn’t play around much. I guess the rumors about him were true. That stunt he pulled—throwing himself and you out of the window—took some real, man-sized balls. I’ll give him that much.”
Not wanting to remember the heart-stopping fall from the Westminster’s fourth-floor window, Faust quickly got off the topic and onto the most pressing. “What about the Order—they’ll still want to be repaid?”
Door leaned in toward Faust; the pungent smell of consumed Scotch blanketed Faust’s face. He lowered his voice and turned up the corners of his mouth devilishly when he said, “Why, Matthew, I’m already being repaid: the time to reap has come, for the harvest of the earth is ripe.”
Senator Matthew Faust reeled in his seat; a look of fear and uncertainty fell over his face. He wasn’t sure what he had just heard, but at the same time, he was quite certain that he understood. “You?!” he mumbled meekly.
Door smiled and enjoyed the helpless look draped across Faust’s face. It was the same look of fear that a child gives a father after having been caught doing something rather naughty.
Francis Q. Door sat more upright as if he were sitting upon a royal throne. “Of course I’ll want to be repaid, Matthew—whose money did you think it was, anyway?”
Faust felt an icy fear ripple through his body as he slowly realized that he was sitting in front of a high-ranking member of the Order. He whispered, “Revelation 14:15.”
Door nodded. “Very good, Matthew.”
“But I don’t understand.”
“Did you think you alone would sit in the White House? I may be your vice president, but that is just a man’s title; you will answer to me! Three years ago when the director met a most unfortunate fate, it opened up the role for me; gladly, I filled it. I run the western half of the world, Matthew, and quite soon, I will have the other half—so don’t go filling that head of yours with the arrogance and power that comes with the presidency!”
“A coup?” Faust questioned through trembling lips. “What about the crown and the shroud; what about Sebastian’s bones? I don’t understand. We—the Order—now have the ability to connect them.”
There was a new look on Door’s face, one that Faust hadn’t seen before. It was as if he were now a different man. There was a fire, filled with hatred, in the man’s eyes.
Door repeated the question, turning it into a matter-of-fact statement. “Connect what, Matthew? The world doesn’t care about some bones, a blanket, and wood fragments. Who’d believe us: a handful of right-wing, Bible thumpers and some fundamentalists? The majority of the population is too lazy and too stupid to understand what it means; their biggest concern is what’s playing next on TV. You know what I call those people, Matt
hew?”
Faust didn’t answer.
“Voters,” stated Door.
Door paused for a moment while staring at the newly ashen face of Faust. “Bringing in the History Thief killed two birds with one stone. I needed to keep the Order and that half-wit Primitus busy; watching them chase fairy tales and relics did just that. The upper echelons of the Order are so preoccupied with history they can’t see the future! So, you see, Matthew, stealing the crown and the shroud, and trying to find a dead king’s bones, did just that. I’d say it worked brilliantly, wouldn’t you?”
Faust didn’t answer the question, but instead asked, “You said it killed two birds with one stone—what was the other?”
Responding, Door said, “The Primitus didn’t trust me—after all I have done for that pretentious prick! They had someone close to you, someone who watched and reported your every move to them. That would mean in the White House, they would be watching me, too, and I couldn’t have that, Matthew—the other bird was…”
Faust reeled backward into his seat; a small pit of nausea lined the bottom of his stomach, and weakly he finished the sentence. “Justine. It was you—you killed her.”
Door responded matter-of-factly. “No, Matthew, I had her killed—there’s a difference; the History Thief was the one who did it.”
Senator Faust felt pain, not physical pain, but the pain that wells in one’s pit when feeling the loss of someone close. Faust had loved Justine; he loved her deeply. He wanted to kill the man in front of him, but he hadn’t the courage or strength to do so. Instead, he sunk even further into his seat. “I don’t…I don’t understand! Why go through all of this trouble?”
Door sipped his Scotch slowly, never taking his eyes from the senator’s as if sensing the man’s desire to lash out. “Why?!” he shouted as he sat forward in his chair. “It has been my life’s mission to get back what was stolen from my family, from me!”
Door relaxed his posture a bit and continued. “In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, my family was one of the richest in Europe and one of the most powerful. One of my forefathers, Armand-Charles de la Porte, was a French noblemen and a high-ranking general. He was also duke of La Meilleraye. In 1661, he married a young girl name Hortense. She was fifteen at the time.”