Friedman spun on her heels and exited the front door with the other three agents. She stopped just on the other side of the threshold and rounded on the couple. “We will be posting an agent here around the clock until this time tomorrow. If your son isn’t back by then, you know what will happen.”
The last of the agents closed the door behind them as they left the house.
Mr. and Mrs. Ellerby exhaled together.
“I don’t think she was with the FBI,” Mr. Ellerby said.
“Pretty obvious,” his wife agreed. “Whoever they are, we’re going to need some help. I don’t know what they’re really after, but we can’t let them get to Desmond and his friends.”
“I’m on it.” He raised his phone, called Desmond, and held the device to his ear. It went straight to voicemail after the first ring. Mr. Ellerby frowned and left a quick message instructing his son to call him back as soon as he could. Then he entered a different number and held the phone to his ear again.
“Well, hello there,” the woman answered. Her voice was sharp. “What do I owe the honor of a call from the esteemed Ellerbys?”
“Hey, Emily. I was wondering if you could help us out with something.”
“Sure. I’ll try. What’s up?”
Mr. Ellerby looked at his wife as she tried to listen in on the conversation. “We just had someone here claiming to be FBI. They said they wanted to talk to Desmond.”
“And they weren’t FBI?”
“How did you know?”
Emily let out a hum. “Well, first of all, I can’t imagine why the FBI would need to come to your home unannounced. Second, you wouldn’t be calling me about it if you believed they were really with the bureau. You’d probably just cooperate. Lastly, what could they possibly want with a seventh-grader?”
“True.”
“I take it they’re gone?”
“No,” Mr. Ellerby corrected. “The woman left, but she posted a guard outside the house.”
“I see.” There was no hiding the concern in Emily’s voice. “I’ll send one of my assets over right away. Is your son there?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t call him. Don’t text him. They may try to track his phone.”
“They can do that?” Mr. Ellerby looked shocked.
“Of course. My agent will be there right away. We’re just lucky she’s in town. The rest are out on assignments, all deep undercover.”
“Who is she? Do we know her?”
“You know her husband,” Emily said. “Not sure if you’ve met her. Depending on what she’s doing, it could be a few hours before she arrives. Just keep an eye out. Her name is June Holiday. And just in case, I’m going to be there too. I want to handle this personally.”
23
Stockholm
Sean stopped the car at the iron gate between two sandstone columns. The black metal fence stretched around the estate and disappeared out of view behind the hills surrounding Magnus Sorenson’s mansion.
Rolling down the window, Sean reached out his hand and pressed the call button on the entry panel.
The phone rang twice before Magnus answered. “Took you long enough,” the Swede joked. A second later, the gate started to swing open.
“Ran into some traffic,” Sean lied with a smug laugh. He stepped on the gas and drove the vehicle up the winding hill to the top where the eighteenth-century manor sat on its perch overlooking the vast property.
Sean knew a little about the history of this place, as shared by Magnus on at least two occasions. Lights shone on the façade, highlighting the contrast between the cream-colored exterior walls and the black roof that sloped at a slight angle before rounding off at the top.
He veered around the curved driveway and parked the stolen vehicle facing toward the gate. Sean knew that Magnus kept his cars in a massive six-car garage down below and around back. The setup wasn’t totally unlike his home back in Buckhead near Atlanta.
After locking the SUV, Sean trudged up the wide set of steps leading into the home. Just before he reached the top, a servant opened the tall black door. The man wore a white button-up shirt with a black tie and matching pants. His shoes gleamed in the light shining from the house.
“Welcome back, sir,” the butler said.
“Thank you, Christian,” Sean said. “Good to be here again. You’re looking good. Been working out?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for noticing.” The butler appeared to be sincerely appreciative of the compliment.
Sean slapped him on the shoulder and cast one last look out to the circular driveway. The fountain in the center featured an angel pouring water from a jug into a thirsty traveler’s mouth, though at the moment no water flowed. Sean imagined they cut off the water during the winter to keep the statue from being damaged in the inhospitable Swedish cold.
Stepping into the lavish mansion’s foyer, Sean sucked in a gulp of warm air. It was laced with cinnamon and spruce, and he immediately felt like he’d walked into a Christmas party.
“They are waiting for you in the study,” Christian said. “Shall I show you to it?”
“No thanks,” Sean answered. “I remember where it is.”
Sean left the butler to his tasks and continued forward. His shoes tapped on the gleaming tiles. Portraits of Sorensons down through the ages filled the walls with regal figures. Most of the men were dressed in their finest military attire. A few stood atop wooden ships, signifying their roles in the Swedish navy. The women’s portraits displayed the female members of the family in extraordinary gowns and dresses fit for a queen. While the Sorensons hadn’t been royalty, at least as far as Sean knew, they lived a life that could have easily been mistaken for it. While their mansion was grandiose, it was also no royal house. The palaces of the kings and queens from most nations dwarfed the place, making it look like little more than servants’ quarters for their obscenely massive castles.
Turning to the left, Sean entered a hallway with a twelve-foot-high ceiling. The dark blue wallpaper was broken up by white stripes every ten feet and more picture frames—though smaller than those in the hall. These portraits featured children from the Sorenson line, and some of the pets that had belonged to the family throughout the centuries. There were dogs, cats, and several horses, all with their names attached at the bottom via a placard.
Sean could hear laughter coming from the other end of the corridor as it drifted through an open door. He smelled an intoxicating mix of scented candles and a wood fire burning in the hearth.
Not wanting to make a scene, Sean stepped into the study quietly. His stealthy entrance was dismantled by a creaking floorboard under his shoe. He grimaced at the sound.
Everyone in the room spun around and looked at him. His lips spread into a boyish grin. “Glad you guys could make it here in one piece.”
Magnus stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Sean as a father to a prodigal son. “I’m so glad you made it out of there alive,” Magnus exclaimed.
Sean returned the hug, albeit with less vigor, and patted the older man on the back. “I’m okay, Magnus. I’ve seen worse.”
The Swede took a step back and assessed his American friend with an arched eyebrow. “Worse? Those gunmen were literally pouring out of the stairwell. And they were armed!”
Tabitha stood in the corner with arms crossed. She had a look of concern mixed with utter astonishment on her face. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything like that,” she drawled.
“Like what?” Sean asked. His question was innocent enough, at least to him, but he sensed something akin to fear in her eyes.
“You killed those men, armed men, without any weapon of your own.”
“I think Magnus covered that already.”
Tabitha shook her head. “They looked like they were trained. Probably mercenaries.”
“They were. But not all mercs are as lethal as you might think.”
“They’re professional soldiers, Sean. And you executed them like
they were training dummies.”
“It wasn’t as easy as it might have seemed,” Sean insisted.
“Either way, you’re alive, and I assume they’re all dead.”
Sean nodded reluctantly. “They gave me no choice. And when they started firing at the helicopter, that sealed their fate in my mind. I had to make sure you guys could get away safely.”
“An admirable trait in a soldier,” Magnus said.
Sean only let out a short “hmm” then said, “I’m not a soldier anymore, Magnus.”
“Well,” Tommy said, clapping his hands together. “I’m glad you made it okay. But we have a lot of questions to answer.”
“Right down to business, then,” Sean said cheerfully. “Good. I was starting to think you guys were going to start crying or something.”
Magnus chuckled and walked over to the fireplace. The wood popped a few times as he neared, walking across the huge fur rug. He reached up to the mantel and plucked a glass half-full of scotch from it.
“Before you arrived,” Magnus began, “we were discussing the mysterious message on the tablet Dr. Clark discovered." He gave a nod to Kevin, who had, up to that point, been silent.
Kevin stared awkwardly at Sean as if he were an alien, suspicious and untrusting of the bizarre creature. “Yes. Thank you, Magnus. And I appreciate you bringing us here. I know I said that several times already, but you’re taking a big risk letting us come to your home, especially if those goons are still out there.”
“Well, those goons aren’t,” Sean corrected. “But I’m sure there are others.” He winked wickedly at Tabitha, whose gaze remained fixed on him. He knew why she was looking at him like that. He’d dismantled an entire assault team with ease, or so it must have seemed to her.
Still, she wasn’t entirely wrong. Something had felt different. Sean wondered if the sudden burst of energy and clarity he’d felt was from seeing his unarmed friends being attacked. He’d been invigorated with a sort of rage-fueled adrenaline. That was the only way he could describe it. He tried to think back on other times over the years when he’d been compelled to use lethal force on enemies. In recent memory, Sean had done his best not to kill— whenever possible. It required a conscious effort, he realized, which concerned him about his own psychological issues—issues he’d been working through since he first realized they were there.
Sean had been a weapon for the government, a precision tool called upon to take care of the most difficult problems. Little did he realize at the time that his actions as an Axis agent were turning him into something he never imagined.
In times like these, though, he was glad for it. Sean needed that feral beast inside of him to take over and defend himself and those he cared about. He leaned on that wild animal for salvation when it seemed hope could not be found.
“Were you able to get any information out of them?” Magnus asked, hopeful.
“Unfortunately, no,” Sean said. “The last one—he killed himself with a pill. Initially, I thought it was sodium cyanide, but it could have been curare based on how quickly the man died.”
Sean wandered over to the bar, took a glass, and dropped a couple of pieces of ice in it. Then he removed the top from a decanter and poured an amber liquid into the glass, letting it slowly spill over the ice.
“I did get a few other tidbits from the guy,” Sean went on. “That hit squad, and probably all the others who work for the cult, get paid directly to new accounts. At first, the man told me they were paid in cash, but after a little extra interrogation, he came clean about how it really works. They’re given an account—I assume, by the cult—and money is sent to it upon completion of missions or assignments. He said they don’t know who sends the money, but he did mention the leader of the group was a man.”
“That narrows it down,” Tommy said sarcastically.
Sean snorted at the comment since he’d made the exact same observation. “Yes, and unfortunately I couldn’t get much else out of him except for his vain threats. He said there are fates worse than death and some other cliché stuff before he bit into a pill in the back of his mouth.”
“Like the Nazis did at the end of World War Two,” Kevin acknowledged. “But you got nothing about the tablet?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean we can’t figure it out ourselves.” Sean replaced the decanter and picked up his drink. He ambled over to the coffee table near the hearth and looked down at the strange tablet. The Mongolian style of writing was beautiful, he thought, and filled with mystery. “Tell me the riddle again.”
Kevin shifted around the coffee table so he could be in a better position to read the script without making any mistakes. Translating Mongolian to English was, it seemed, a complicated pursuit. He began reading from the beginning of the inscription, but Sean stopped him.
“Wait. Just the part about the rose stone. What was it again?”
“That old photographic memory failing you a little, buddy?” Tommy asked.
Sean passed him an annoyed glance. “It’s eidetic, first of all. Secondly, I just want to make sure I’m remembering it correctly. Okay, Shultzie?”
Tommy flashed a grin. “Just making sure.”
Kevin, having ignored the barbs flying between the two friends, read the passage out loud. “The saint guards the rose stone. But be warned. The power of the gods can it unleash, for those who mean to rule.”
Magnus looked at Tommy, then Sean, expecting an answer right away. Fortunately, Tommy had a good direction.
“Who is this saint the clue refers to?” Tommy asked the group. “The biggest hurdle in finding an answer is that Jani Beg was a Muslim. They don’t really use that term to refer to great masters of Islam.”
“Which means that Jani Beg must have either converted or befriended someone who was later sainted,” Sean offered. “Do you know if that happened?” He turned back to Kevin.
“I don’t believe he ever converted from Islam,” Kevin answered. “There are rumors about his abandoning the religion, but not joining another. There is, however, one story that involves Jani Beg with an important Christian.” His eyes widened. “Wait. That has to be it.”
Kevin took out his phone and entered a search phrase. Several articles filled the screen, and he chose the first one. He bobbed his head in confirmation as he read through the paragraphs.
“What?” Tommy asked. “What is it?”
“Saint Alexius,” Kevin said, turning his phone so his peer could see. “During Jani Beg’s reign, he had returned to Sarai. His mother was sick, and they feared she would be blind for the rest of her life. The Khan had heard of a man in Moscow with a reputation as a healer, able to perform what many considered to be miracles.”
“And that man was Saint Alexius,” Sean said.
“Yes. Alexius was the Metropolitan of Russia. By the end of his life, he wielded a considerable amount of authority across the entire Grand Duchy of Moscow.”
“I take it this metropolitan was able to help the Khan’s mother?”
“Yes,” Kevin confirmed. “She regained her sight and survived the ordeal. I’ve seen no mention of the techniques Alexius may have used, but whatever he did worked.”
Sean took his phone out of a pocket and looked up the same information about Saint Alexius. He stared at the painting of the man, a mural from centuries ago that depicted the metropolitan bending over the bed of the Khan’s mother. He held a candle in one hand and a sagebrush in the other, wafting it over the ailing woman in what must have been a religious rite. Sean studied the picture for a minute and then scrolled to the next. The second displayed the same setting, though without the detail of the first. He scrolled again, and this time was shown a mural of Jani Beg in a green robe and sitting atop an orange pillow. His left hand rested on his lap while his right held a strange scepter, keeping it propped up on his shoulder. The top of the scepter looked almost like a fountain with a cone at the top. The hand in his lap held on to a golden orb that reminded Sean of the famed Fabergé eggs
.
He fixated on the scepter. It was a familiar image, but he couldn’t immediately recall where he’d seen it before.
Tommy cracked the silence. “If Alexius is the saint entrusted with protecting the rose stone, then we need to find out where he is buried.”
Tabitha jerked her head back. “Wait. Buried?” She held up her right hand. “I’m sorry, but I’m not doing any grave robbing. That’s disgusting. What is wrong with you people?”
“It’s not like that,” Tommy defended.
“It’s kind of like that,” Sean joked, making things more difficult for his friend.
Tommy fired an ungrateful scowl at him. “We’re not grave robbing. We do this kind of thing all the time.”
Tabitha recrossed her arms and tilted her head at an angle, begging for him to keep digging himself into a deeper hole.
“What he means is,” Kevin said, coming to Tommy’s defense, “is that as archaeologists, often our jobs entail digging into the past. Sometimes that means burial sites. However, in this case, we don’t have to do any digging.”
“We don’t?” Tabitha and Tommy said together.
“No,” Kevin reaffirmed. “The bones of Saint Alexius are kept in a cathedral in Moscow. I see no reason why we couldn’t get special permission from the church to have a look at the bones. After all, they put them on display once a year during one of the religious festivals. With our credentials, I’m sure whoever is in charge of the cathedral would be willing to help us with our…investigation.”
“Assuming they let us in the country,” Tabitha countered. “Right now, you might still be considered a suspect in the attack that happened on your dig site.”
“Me?” Kevin jammed a thumb toward his chest. “A suspect?”
“I’m just giving you the information. But yes. The Russian authorities have you on a list. I don’t think they believe you did it either. You have an alibi. And the scope of the attack tells us it was a sizeable group.” As relief settled in, she forced it back by adding, “That doesn’t mean you couldn’t have coordinated the attack.”
The Milestone Protocol Page 20
