Secret of the Seventh Sons

by Cooper, Glenn

  AUGUST 1, 2009

  LOS ANGELES

  The navy operated a single G-V, the C-37A, a luxury, high-performance business jet favored by the Secretary of the Navy for his personal travel. The twin Rolls-Royce turbofans put out neck-snapping thrust on its steep-angle takeoff, and out its windows, in seconds, the endless incandescence of the Los Angeles night disappeared behind sheets of low clouds.

  Harris Lester was running on caffeine after a stressful, time-zone-stretched day that had begun before dawn in his Fairfax, Virginia, home and included stops at the Pentagon, Andrews Air Force Base, and LAX. After a brief layover in L.A., it was wheels up again for the return flight to Washington. His facial tone was slack and unhealthy and his breath was stale. The only things about him that were crisp and fresh were his dress shirt and pressed tie, and they looked like they had just been unwrapped from Brooks Brothers tissue paper.

  There were only three people in the passenger cabin, a paneled interior configured in club style, with pairs of plush dark-blue leather seats facing each other over smooth teak-wood tables. Lester and Malcolm Frazier, whose chiseled block of a face was contorted into an immutable grimace, were staring at the man seated across from Lester, who clutched his armrest with one hand and a cut-crystal glass of scotch with the other.

  Will was bone-weary but the most relaxed person on board. He had played his cards, and it appeared he had the winning hand.

  Hours earlier he had been scooped off the street in Hollywood by Frazier and a team of watchers who were jetted in from Groom Lake to make the pickup. They bundled him into a black Tahoe and sped off to a private aviation terminal at the airport, where they kept him on ice, uninterrogated, in a conference room until Lester arrived. Will had the distinct impression that Frazier would have preferred to kill him outright, or at least inflict a punishing dose of pain; he supposed if someone had shot up one of his FBI teams, he’d have wanted to do the same. But he could also tell that Frazier was a soldier, and good soldiers obeyed orders.

  Now, Frazier opened Shackleton’s laptop and after a few keystrokes he spat out, “What’s his password?”

  “Pythagoras,” Will answered.

  Frazier sighed. “Fucking egghead. P-I?”

  “P-Y,” Will said sadly.

  Then, in seconds, “It’s here as advertised, Mr. Secretary.”

  “How can we be sure you made a copy, Agent Piper?” Lester asked.

  Will pulled a receipt from his wallet and tossed it on the table. “Radio Shack memory stick, bought today, postincident.”

  “So we know you stashed it somewhere in the city,” Frazier said contemptuously.

  “It’s a big city. On the other hand, I could have dropped it in the mail. Or, I could have given it to someone who may or may not have known what it was. In any event, I can guarantee you that if I don’t regularly and frequently make personal contact with one or more unnamed parties, the memory stick will be sent to the media.” He forced his mouth into a thin smile. “So, gentlemen, don’t fuck with me or anyone I care about.”

  Lester massaged his temples. “I know what you’re saying and why you’re saying it, but you don’t really want this ever to get out, do you?”

  Will put his glass down and watched its sweaty bottom make a wet ring on the wood. “If I wanted that, I would have sent it to the papers myself. It’s not for me to say whether the public should know. Who the hell am I? I wish I never learned about it. I haven’t had a chance to give it a lot of thought but just knowing it’s there changes—everything.” He suddenly chuckled, punch drunk.

  “What’s funny?” Lester asked.

  “For a guy named Will, the concept of free will is kind of important.” On a dime, he turned serious again. “Look, I don’t know if free will even exists now. It’s all laid out in advance, right? Nothing’s going to change if your name comes up. Am I right?”

  “You got that right,” Frazier said bitterly. “Otherwise you’d be in a thirty-thousand-foot free fall as we speak.”

  Will let the man’s venom slide off him. “You’ve lived with this. Doesn’t it affect the way you go about your life?”

  “Of course it does,” Lester snapped. “It’s a burden. I’ve got a son, Agent Piper, my youngest boy. He’s twenty-two and he’s got cystic fibrosis. We all know he’s not going to have a normal life expectancy, we accept that. But do you think I like knowing that the date of his death is set in stone? Do you think I want to know that day, or have him know? Of course not!”

  Frazier had a different take, one that left Will chilled to the bone: “For me, it makes things easier. I knew that Kerry Hightower and Nelson Elder were going to die when they did. All I did was pull the trigger. I sleep okay.”

  Will shook his head and had another drink. “Therein lies the problem, don’t you think? What the hell would the world be like if it was out there and everyone thought like you?”

  The high-pitched whine of the engines was the only sound until Lester gave a politician’s answer. “That’s why we go to the lengths we do to keep the Library a secret. We’ve had a remarkable track record for over six decades, thanks to the work of dedicated men like Frazier here. We only mine the data for geopolitical and national security purposes. We don’t willy-nilly make person-specific queries unless there’s an overriding security reason. We are responsible stewards of this miraculous resource. There have been minor—I’d say trivial—breaches and indiscretions in the past that have been dealt with surgically. This Shackleton affair is the first catastrophic breach in Area 51’s history. I hope you understand that.”

  Will nodded and leaned as far forward as the table would allow. He bore into the Secretary. “I understand completely. I also understand leverage. If you ever get your hands on my copy of the database, you’ll stick me in the deepest hole you can dig, and to be on the safe side, you’ll make sure everyone I’m close to disappears too. You know it, I know it. I’m just protecting myself. I’m not a theologian or a philosopher. I’m not interested in big moral issues, okay? I didn’t ask to get involved in your world, but it happened, because thirty years ago I was randomly assigned to be Mark Shackleton’s roommate! All I want is to be left alone, retire, and live my puny little life until at least 2027. Your big adversary is a good old country boy who just wants to go fishing.” He reclined and watched Lester’s sagging face fixed in a passive frieze. “Which one of you boys wants to freshen my drink?”

  Back in Washington, he was voluntarily held for a two-day debriefing by Frazier and a group of sweethearts from the DIA who made Frazier seem like a humanitarian. They got him to regurgitate everything he knew about the affair, everything except the whereabouts of the memory stick.

  When they were done with him, he agreed to execute the same daunting confidentiality agreement that all Area 51 employees had to sign, and he was released, free and clear, into the waiting arms of his brethren at the FBI.

  The FBI director ordered that he not be required to undergo further agency questioning or file a report on the last days of the Doomsday investigation. Sue Sanchez, flummoxed and clueless, offered him a package—paid administrative leave until he had his twenty years, then full retirement. He accepted the deal with a smile, and on her way out he gave her a playful pat on the bottom, and winked when she turned in anger.

  Will sat back and listened to the dinner table conversation with quiet satisfaction. There was a domestic feel about it, something traditional and archetypal that put his internal rhythms in harmony. There hadn’t been many Piper family dinners when he was growing up, nor could he recall them during the brief time he provided his daughter with a nuclear family.

  He slowly chewed his steak and listened to the repartee. His apartment was a pleasant wreck, piled with moving boxes, suitcases, women’s clothing, new pieces of furniture, and bric-a-brac.

  Laura tried to refill his wine but he put his hand over the glass to stop her.

  “Are you feeling, okay, Dad?” she joked.

  “I’m pa
cing myself,” he said smugly.

  “He’s definitely cut down,” Nancy said.

  He shrugged. “The new me. Same as the old me but slightly lower blood alcohol levels.”

  “Do you feel better for it?” Greg asked.

  “Off the record?”

  “Yes, sir, off the record.”

  “Yeah, I do. Go figure. What’s up with the book, Laura?”

  “All systems go. I’m waiting on the galleys and preparing myself for a life of fame and fortune.”

  “As long as you’re happy, I’m okay with whatever the future’s got in store for you. Both of you.”

  Greg lowered his eyes, nonplussed by the kindness. The reporter in him still had a burning curiosity about the Doomsday case. He had asked Laura the questions out loud, rehearsing them in case he got the nerve to try to interview Will, but knew the subject was taboo. He seriously doubted he’d ever be told, even if he became Will Piper’s son-in-law.

  Why had Will been removed from the investigation and declared a fugitive? Why had the case faded from official discussion with no arrests and no resolution? Why had Will been rehabilitated and gently put out to pasture?

  Instead he asked, “So what’s in store for you, Will? You going to do a little fishing, put your feet up awhile?”

  “No way!” Nancy interjected. “Now that I’ve moved in, Will’s going to be taking in plays, museums, galleries, good restaurants, you name it.”

  “I thought you hated New York, Dad.”

  “I’m already here. Might as well give it a try. Us retirees got to keep our minds active while the womenfolk solve bank robberies.”

  Later, when they were leaving, Will gave his daughter a kiss on the cheek and pulled her out of Greg’s earshot. “You know, I like your guy. I wanted to tell you that. Hold onto him.”

  He knew for a fact that Greg Davis was BTH.

  Will lay on the bed watching Nancy personalize his bedroom with pictures, a jewelry box, a stuffed bear.

  “You okay with this?” she asked.

  “It looks nice.”

  “I mean, okay with us? Was this a good idea?”

  “I think it was.” He patted the mattress. “When you’re done redecorating you should come here and check out your new bed.”

  “I’ve slept in it before,” she said, and giggled.

  “Yeah, but this is different. It’s communal property now.”

  “In that case, I’ll take the window half,” she said.

  “You know, I think you’re my type.”

  “What type is that?”

  “Smart, sexy, sassy, pretty much all the s’s.”

  She crawled beside him and cuddled up, and he wrapped his arms around her. He’d told her about the Library. It was something he had to share with one person in his life, and the secret glued them together.

  “In L.A., I looked up something else on Shackleton’s computer,” he said softly.

  “Do I want to know?”

  “On May 12, 2010, a child is born named Phillip Weston Piper. That’s nine months from now. That’s our son.”

  She blinked a few times then kissed his face.

  He returned the kiss and said, “I’ve got a pretty good feeling about the future.”

  9 JANUARY 1297

  ISLE OF WIGHT

  The hem of the abbot’s white robe was soaked with blood. Each time he stooped to touch a cold forehead or make the sign of the cross over a supine body, his garment got bloodier.

  Prior Felix was at Baldwin’s side, supporting him by the arm so the abbot wouldn’t tumble on the blood-slicked stones. They made their rounds through the carnage, pausing over each ginger-haired writer to check for signs of life, but there were none. The only other beating heart in the Hall of the Writers belonged to old Bartholomew, who was making his own grim inspection at the opposite end of the chamber. Baldwin had sent Sister Sabeline away because her hysterical crying was unnerving and preventing him from collecting his thoughts.

  “They are dead,” Baldwin said. “All dead. Why in God’s name has this happened?”

  Bartholomew was systematically going from row to row, stepping carefully over and around bodies, trying to keep his footing. For a very old man, he was moving briskly from one station to another, plucking manuscript pages off the table and making a stack of them in his hand.

  He made his way to Baldwin clutching a ream of parchments.

  “Look,” the old man said. “Look!”

  He laid the pages down.

  Baldwin picked up one and read it.

  Then the next, and the next. He fanned the pages out on the table to see more of them quickly.

  Each page carried the date 9 February 2027, with the identical inscription.

  “Finis Dierum,” Baldwin said. “End of Days.”

  Felix trembled. “So this is when the end will come.”

  Bartholomew half smiled at the revelation. “Their work was done.”

  Baldwin gathered up the pages and held them to his breast. “Our work is not yet done, brothers. They must be laid to rest in the crypt. Then I will say a mass in their honor. The Library must be sealed and the chapel must be burned. The world is not ready.”

  Felix and Bartholomew quickly nodded in agreement as the abbot turned to leave.

  “The year 2027 is far in the future,” Baldwin said wearily. “At least, mankind has a very long time to prepare for the End of Days.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m not sure this book would have seen the light of day without the intercession of Steve Kasdin, of the Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency, who took a shine to my letter in his query pile and helped shape the manuscript into its final form. He’s very popular in the Cooper family. Thanks too for the soul-lifting encouragement from my early readers, Gunilla Lacoche, Megan Murphy, Allison Tobia, and George Tobia, my friend and lawyer. I’m also delighted to be part of the HarperCollins family under the experienced wing of my delightful editor, Lyssa Keusch. Finally, a big shout-out to my wife, Tessa, and my son, Shane, who gave their support every step of the way, and a special mention to my sister, Gale Cooper, and my mother, Rose Cooper, for a life-long discussion of reading and writing.

  In Secret of the Seventh Son, FBI agent Will Piper trailed a series of murders that took him across centuries back to medieval times and traversing the country, with the U.S. government hot on his heels.

  But if Will thought that case was a whirlwind ride, he has no idea what he’s in for when a mysterious book from 1527 turns up and launches him onto a dangerous journey to solve the greatest riddle in the history of mankind….

  THE SECRET CONTINUES SUMMER 2010

  After thirty-odd years in the rare books business Toby Parfitt found the only time he could reliably and deliciously muster a frisson of excitement was the moment when he would delicately stick his hands into a packing crate fresh from the loading dock.

  The intake and catalogue room of Pierce & Whyte Auctions was in the basement, deeply insulated from the rumbling traffic of London’s Kensington High Street. Toby was content to be in the silence of this comfortable old work-room, with its smooth oak tables, swan-neck lamps, and nicely padded stools. The only noise was the pleasant rustling of handfuls of shredded packing paper as he scooped them out and binned them, and then, disconcertingly, asthmatic breathing and a thin-chested wheeze intruded.

  He looked up at the blemished face of Peter Nieve and grudgingly acknowledged him with a perfunctory bob of his head. The pleasure of discovery would, alas, be tainted. He couldn’t tell the youth to bugger off, could he?

  “I was told the lot from Cantwell Hall was in,” Nieve said.

  “Yes. I’ve just opened the first crate.”

  “All fourteen arrived, I hope.”

  “Why don’t you have a count to make sure?”

  “Will do, Toby.”

  The informality was a killer. Toby! No Mr. Parfitt. No sir. Not even Alistair. Toby, the name his friends used. Times had certainly changed—for the
worse—but he couldn’t summon the strength to buck the tide. If a second-year associate felt empowered to call the Director of Antiquarian Books Toby, then he would stoically bear it. Qualified help was hard to find and young Nieve, with his solid second in Art History from Manchester, was the best that twenty thousand pounds could buy nowadays. At least the young man was able to find a clean shirt and a tie every day, though his collars were too generous for his scrawny neck, making his head look like it was stuck onto his torso with a dowel.

  Toby ground his molars at the deliberate and childlike counting out loud to fourteen. “All here.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “Martin said you’d be pleased with the haul.”

  Toby rarely made house calls any more. He left them to Martin Stein, his deputy director. In truth, he loathed the countryside and had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, out of town. On occasion, a client would have some real gems and Pierce & Whyte would try to wheedle itself in to snatch business away from Christie’s or Sotheby’s. “Believe me,” he assured his managing director, “if I get wind of a Second Folio or a good Brontë or Walter Raleigh out there in the provinces, I will descend on it at warp speed, even if it’s in Shropshire.” From what he was led to understand, Cantwell had a trove of fair to middling material, but Stein had indeed told him he would enjoy the diversity of the consignment.

  Lord Cantwell was typical of their clientele, an elderly anachronism struggling to maintain his crumbling country estate by periodically selling off bits of furniture, paintings, books, and silver to keep the tax man at bay and the pile from falling down. The old boy sent his really good pieces to one of the major houses, but Pierce & Whyte’s reputation for books, maps, and autographs put it in the leading position to land this slice of Cantwell’s business.