by Al Ruksenas
“When we realized the conjuncture of various legends and events—including diabolical conspiracies in our former Soviet state, we knew someone had to act,” Alekseev explained. He looked at Caine and said straightforwardly. “As you know, Colonel we are guests in your country. We cannot act on our own—even if we perceive it for our mutual good.”
Caine said nothing, but grudgingly understood.
“And as you know, Colonel,” Alekseev said with a wry smile. “Our reporting something like this to your government would cause immediate suspicion as an outrageous provocation.”
Caine knew. His own implications were treated warily, even dismissively when he broached the occult in their investigation.
“You had to do this yourself, Colonel.”
Laura Mitchell could only imagine what Caine had done, but she knew it would provide for the closing chapter of her uncle’s quest. Tears of relieved emotions flowed down her cheeks as she quietly hugged the man she had grown to love.
“I’m truly sorry about your car, Colonel. I’ll arrange for repairs. Privately, of course.”
Caine looked at him in exasperation mixed with diminishing fury over Laura.
“We have not been formally introduced. And these repairs may get expensive,” Alekseev added above the din of increasingly congested traffic around their vehicles.
“I must go,” he continued. His companions were moving their sedan into traffic. “I expect we’ll meet again.”
Alekseev looked both ways and stepped into the street saying offhandedly: “I’m pursuing diplomatic channels.”
Chapter 52
“I hear there was more gunplay at the Smithsonian last night,” General Bradley said.
Colonel Caine and Colonel Jones, dressed in their blue service uniforms, had just settled into the leather sofa opposite his desk at the Pentagon.
The General was leaning back in his chair, elbows on the armrests and tapping his fingertips together in contemplation.
“Let’s see—what with a ranking U.S. Senator, a Secretary of Defense designate, an esteemed presidential adviser, the manager of his Virginia estate, two multi‐millionaire socialites—a husband and wife, no less—a couple of Smithsonian guards and employees.”
He looked at the two officers.
“I’d say ‘carnage’ is the word.”
“Yes, sir,” Colonel Caine volunteered.
“You were going to just talk with Sherwyck. Do I understand that right?”
“Well, sir,” Caine began. “In a word—all hell broke loose.”
The General squinted at him past his tapping fingers.
“We’re not practicing puns here, Colonel.”
“No, sir. I’m quite serious.”
“Chasing demons?”
“No, sir. Real people acting in their name.”
“Well gentlemen,” General Bradley declared leaning forward and stretching his hands on his desk, “All I know is that we have more than a dozen bodies strewn about a couple of floors of the Natural History Museum and how are we going to explain it?”
“We found Jeannie McConnell,” Colonel Caine answered. “That’s what it took.”
“She was going to be ritually murdered inside the museum. They were making supplications to infernal spirits. They were evoking an aura associated with the Hope Diamond. That was real. They might have been demented, but that was their motive for murder,” Colonel Caine declared. “The whole thing revolves around the Hope Diamond.”
General Bradley took a deep breath in reflective frustration.
“We can’t blame it on the Hope Diamond. You know that,” he reiterated.
“What? An evil wizard leading our leaders around by the nose? Scions of high society throwing millions at altars of devil worship? The diamond pulsating calamities on our nation ever since it was donated here?”
General Bradley paused. “When was that again? Nineteen fifty‐eight?”
“We can count back,” Colonel Caine suggested. “See what’s happened to us since.”
General Bradley waved his hand in dismissal.
“Remember the gossip of a former President consulting astrologers? Most of the country went nuts about it. Wanted to drive him out of office.”
Bradley shifted in his chair. “I’m not blind. But until we have complete, indisputable evidence, we’re going to have to hold back certain information—especially on this paranormal business.”
The two officers eyed their General.
“Ongoing investigation,” Bradley explained by way of defense. “We need to follow up on what you saw in the desert.”
The officers slowly nodded their understanding.
“You were right about Jeannie McConnell. She was here all the time,” General Bradley acknowledged. “Who was holding her?”
“Terrorists,” Caine instantly replied. “A different kind of terrorists. A cabal more insidious than any we’ve ever encountered—with cells all over the world.”
“Sherwyck?” General Bradley offered.
“Sherwyck,” Colonel Caine replied. “I venture we’ll find a connection between his estate and the green van I shot at. His goons transported victims from his place to the museum, then disposed of the bodies after their rituals. Dressing them in jogging outfits was a diversion.”
“That’ll answer some questions about bodies found in the parks over the years,” Colonel Jones added. “Especially that latest one with the blue symbols on it.”
“Just like they were painting on Jeannie,” Caine emphasized.
“Likely so,” General Bradley rejoined.
He arose from his chair and began to slowly pace his office.
“Speaking of his estate,” he said to no one in particular. “You know that one of Sherwyck’s stallions was requested or offered as the riderless horse in the Vice President’s funeral procession?”
Both officers expressed surprise.
General Bradley turned to them. “We’re investigating a black stallion tied into General Starr’s horse riding accident—and someone’s trying to prance one in front of the President of the United States!”
“Probably, somebody up the line never knew about it,” Colonel Jones offered.
“That’s the problem with this ‘need to know’ philosophy.”
The General returned to his desk with his slightly perceptible limp. He settled in and leaned back.
“Well, the stallion almost demolished his stall at the Old Guard stables near Arlington. They were going to pull him. The horse was too dangerous with the President walking in the procession.”
“Then, last night, a funny thing happened,” the General revealed.
He looked warily at his officers from behind his desk.
“The horse—Blaze—I guess his name is—turned docile as a lamb.”
The General focused on Caine. “That’s just about when your wizard left this earth.”
“He was ready to stab Jeannie.”
“I understand,” General Bradley said. “I’m talking about the horse. Vets were able to check him out.”
“Cloven hooves,” Caine interposed.
“Let’s say ‘split’,” the General replied. “It sounds a little less sinister for now. It’s a condition—conformation, poor trimming, bacteria— not too common on all four legs, but treatable.”
“Well, well, well,” Colonel Jones exclaimed.
“Sherwyck’s prized sacrifice—poor Jeannie—for the ultimate hex, a runaway horse with the President walking in a funeral procession,” Colonel Caine posited.
“It makes sense,” Colonel Jones said.
“Just like poor Ben Starr and his ride down the trail,” Colonel Caine added.
“It makes sense if you’re a devil worshipper,” General Bradley snapped. “And if the occult is an accepted point of reference for public discourse.”
“For us,” he continued resignedly, “it’s like pushing a long piece of thread in a straight line. The most we can declare is ‘Coincidence’!�
��
“It doesn’t matter, sir, we, still put an end to it,” Caine asserted. ”No matter who, how or what. Their target was control of the nuclear button!”
“Yes, indeed. So it was,” Bradley answered. “The hard part is going to be the explanation.”
The General stood up.
His officers followed suit.
“I’ll need to brief the Omega Group. We have to find out how deeply Dunne betrayed us.”
“There’s a potential source, sir—a Russian diplomat,” Caine began. “He helped unravel this. He may want to establish a clandestine contact.”
“That remains to be seen,” the General answered dismissively.
“You’ll need to go back to the Middle East, gentlemen. We’ll have to see how enthused the Egyptians are in cooperating on this. A lot of these ancient countries like to protect their mystical roots.”
“Yes, sir,” the officers agreed.
“Be ready for major investigations about this bloodbath,” General Bradley said. “Desecration of our nation’s attic.”
“It needed some dusting, sir.”
Chapter 53
“I wish you could come with me, Chris,” Laura Mitchell said at Dulles International Airport. “It’s an official ceremony for Uncle Jonas at the memorial for fallen partisans. The anti‐Stalin resistance in Lithuania.”
“I’ll pay my respects as soon as I can,” he replied.
“You know, Oleg Alekseev is giving me some hidden archives. He said it’s to make amends for kidnapping me.”
Caine lifted his eyebrow in smoldering memory.
“I think they’ll fill some gaps in Uncle’s research.”
“I believe they just might,” he assured her.
He put his arms around her waist and she put hers around his neck.
“I wish I could come with you, but I’m on assignment.”
“I know, you’re going to the Middle East somewhere.”
“How do you know this?” he asked pulling her closer.
Passengers smiled as they passed them toward the gate.
“Al Carruthers told me.”
“He’s not supposed to know either.”
“It’s all right, I would have run into you anyway.”
“What do you mean?” he asked slyly as he pulled her even closer.
“I’ve applied for a Sabbatical,” she whispered intimately.
“Oh?” he replied with their lips almost touching.
“Research on Napoleon in Egypt,” she continued in a whisper.
“The Cairo Archives seem more interested in some obscure aspects of
their recent history.”
“Interesting.”
“I hope I get it.”
“I know you will,” he replied.
They kissed fervently in a warm embrace.
“I’ll be late.” She slowly, reluctantly pulled away.
“Napoleon and his soldiers found the Rosetta Stone, you know,” she said handing her identification to the gate attendant.
“Yes, they did.”
“Some researchers claim he had a familiar.”
“Do they, now?” he said with a knowing smile.
“I’ll bring you back a souvenir from the Devil’s Museum in Kaunas.”
He blew her a loving kiss and she hurried down the ramp.
He lingered at the empty gate, imagining her boarding the plane and settling in for a long trip. He wished her a silent prayer for a safe flight and eternal peace to her dear uncle.
Outside, Colonel Garrison Jones was waiting for him in the passenger pickup lane.
“Everything, okay?” he asked as Caine climbed into the sedan.
“Yeah. Everything’s fine. How about you?”
“Okay,” Jones replied as he pulled away into traffic.
“How about if we stop awhile at the National Cathedral?”
“Not a bad idea.”
Epilogue
That same week General William Bradley dispatched a personal courier to Egypt where U.S.—Egyptian joint military maneuvers under Operation Bright Star were still underway. The courier sought out an Air Force general to whom he relayed an urgent personal request from General Bradley.
Phases of the operation were battalion level with close air support east of the High Dam at Aswan. A half dozen MIG 21 jets of the Egyptian Air Force were flying in coordinated formation with the same number of U.S. F‐15’s. Except for distinct fuselages, wings, and national insignia, the planes looked similar in their tan mottled camouflage paint.
The fighters made several low flying sweeps over the maneuvering troops, then two from the Egyptian formation and two from the
U.S. wing suddenly veered off towards a line of mountains to the east. They flew for nearly one hundred miles and then, unerringly, into a narrow canyon between two mountain cliffs.
The jets flew in a single file over the ancient monastery jutting from the mountaintop. Every seam of the canyon resounded with the high pitched screams of the jets that loosed rocks from the canyon walls.
On a second pass each of the jets released two electronically guided bombs that tore into the walls and parapets of the fortress and leveled the main building of the monastery. The successive explosions sent tremors like an earthquake through the cavernous labyrinth inside the mountain beneath the crumbling fortress abbey.
Hearing muffled sounds above him, the Old One looked up from his stony throne with a knowing, defiant leer and motioned his hooded supplicants to bow and pay homage to Baal.
“Elohim, Elohim Eloah Va‐daath….” the faithful began chanting as they gathered around the glistening obsidian idol of their Prince glaring over them. A faint variation in the flames dancing from the torch in the idol’s left eye socket betrayed any effects of the violent explosions above. A large, blue iridescent diamond remained firmly set in the right socket.
A heavy mass of blinding dust ballooned upward from the ruins of the edifice above, enveloping the entire mountainside in a choking debris laden cloud. The fighter jets passed once more above the mushrooming cloud, then banked towards another dust cloud barely visible in the far distance where troops were maneuvering in mock battle on the desert sand.
***
Later that month in Washington, larger than usual crowds gathered outside the museum waiting for it to open—perhaps trying to picture the grisly scene inside the building described repeatedly on the news.
Stories still swirled of an ongoing investigation into an exclusive black tie fund raising event gone tragically wrong; the search for missing employee witnesses; the possibility that suspicious ruffians seen in the area eliminated witnesses while trying to steal priceless artifacts; that some guard or even attendee had gone berserk.
Most tantalizing was the fact that Victor Sherwyck, the legendary financier and adviser to presidents was among the dead. Was it to silence monumental corruption or investment failings? Curious was the fact that the Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, Senator Everett Dunne, was stabbed by some ancient dagger that could not be identified as any artifact under display. Investigation included relationships the respected Senator may have had with unfriendly states. The specter of foreign espionage was widely rumored.
Darker suspicions circulated on radical blogs that thrived on conspiracy. Rumors spread that Victor Sherwyck had persuaded the President to appoint Philip Taylor as Secretary of Defense against his own better judgment. Was that decision rescinded in a most unspeakable way? Responders scoffed at such an abomination.
Or was it as pathetically simple as a society love triangle ending in a rampant jealous rage?
The sensational speculation swamped a celebrity item that the daughter of the Speaker of the House of Representatives, Jeannette McConnell, was found safe and aboard a yacht that had gone aground on a coral outcrop near one of the numerous out islands of the Bahamas. A family lawyer stated she was not aware anyone was looking for her and apologized to investigators for any inconvenience it may h
ave caused.
Countless visitors filed through the Museum of Natural History, lingering conspicuously at various displays throughout the building, anticipating a chance to catch a glimpse of the gem exhibits that would soon re‐open to the public.