Frowning at the gale-swept night, he gathered his waist-length tan leather coat more tightly, wishing he'd brought gloves. He buttoned up as Maggie and Mary Francis approached.
They carried small bags that Soloman took and quickly tossed in the trunk. Then Marcelle got behind the wheel and gesturing for Soloman to sit on the left side. Maggie and the old nun settled in the backseat.
"We must go north," the priest said as he pulled into traffic. "The Castle of Calistro is far from here on the coasts of Northumberland. But since it is almost dark I suggest we find a place to stay overnight and proceed in our attempt to rescue Amy tomorrow."
Soloman turned to him. "Tomorrow is Samhain, Marcelle." He thought of Maggie but couldn't temper his words. "Amy dies tomorrow night."
"But we cannot reach the castle tonight," Marcelle grunted. "We must take the M3 highway to Lancaster and that will be as far as we can travel before we're too exhausted. But from there it is only a four-hour drive to the castle. We can arrive by early afternoon. That is the most sacred hour of sacrifice, and Cain will not violate the ritual of the Black Mass. We will have time to reach her and we will have the advantage of reconnaissance." The priest paused, measuring Soloman's hard gaze. "But if you do not wish to take time for this approach, we can be flown to Newcastle in the morning. It's only an hour's drive from the castle."
Soloman said nothing as he stared out the windshield. He didn't like a lot about this. For one thing, he felt they were already being followed, and Cain shouldn't have known that they were arriving. He turned his head, scanning, searching, waiting for his intuition to help him.
Yeah, something was wrong . . .
It came to him more solidly moment by moment, though he didn't know why; it simply felt like a trap.
"Soloman?" Marcelle asked. "Did you hear me?"
"Yeah, yeah, I heard you, Marcelle." He concentrated, trying to find the faint danger, sensing it in front of him. "Marcelle, who knew we were landing in Birmingham?"
"Only Rome and their old friends in the intelligence community," he answered, his brow hardening. "But Aveling would not have used them if they were not of the highest possible trust."
"And at the Vatican?"
"There is Monsignor Balcanza. He is also an old friend of Aveling's. They fought together in World War II against the Nazi regime, and most effectively."
"He can still be trusted?"
"Yes," the priest answered quickly. "Completely. But ..."
"But what?"
"But the Vatican is a house of cards," Marcelle said. "It is a shadow waiting for someone to turn on the light. There are many forces which fight within, although they maintain a divided house with remarkable skill. If Balcanza has lost any of his old skills, if he made a single mistake, then there may be many who are aware of our flight." A pause. "What do you perceive?"
"I don't know." Soloman's gaze roamed over the crowd as he drove out of the airport. "I just feel like someone's on us." He scowled. "Cain will anticipate us, but he shouldn't know where we're landing. He could find out, but he couldn't do it alone. He hasn't had time to get wired in."
"As I said," Marcelle replied, "I do not think Cain is alone. I believe he has recruited help from someone. Those who will begin building the army he needs to fulfill his dream. As powerful as Cain is, he must still have vassals to execute what he considers beneath his princely standing."
"Maybe. But he's—"
It was Soloman's killer instinct that made him spin, snapping his head around at the last second to catch a glimpse of the face he'd already seen three times inside the crowded corridors of the airport. He glared between Maggie and Sister Mary Francis, watching as the man casually hailed a cab.
Soloman studied the man, memorizing every detail.
He noted a pale face, close-set eyes above a long, straight nose, dark hair, muscular but lithe. Large hands, strong. About six feet, one-eighty. He was wearing a black sweater beneath a black overcoat, no discernible style, as if he wanted to blend into the crowd, utterly unmemorable. The man reminded Soloman of someone he'd seen in his past.
Then he entered the cab and was lost from sight, hidden by traffic. And Soloman knew the cab wouldn't be following. If the man was really a hitter, there would be another vehicle waiting outside the airport, a second member of the team who was probably even now in communication with the man in the cab, receiving a description of their car. It would be the second man that picked them up.
Soloman turned in the seat, scanning the road, feeling it deep in his gut, where it mattered, and he knew it was coming. He felt a spiraling rage but shut it down immediately because it was too early for adrenaline or rage. Rage had a place in battle, but not before. Excitement was the enemy of tactical thinking.
"What is it?" Maggie asked. She had turned her head to follow his hostile glare. He said nothing.
"What is it, Sol?"
"Find a place where we can hole up for the night," Soloman said quietly to Marcelle. "Find something isolated. In the country. We'll go north for a while, then we'll settle in. We need some rest and food before tomorrow."
"Why should it be isolated?" the priest questioned. "If we find something more prominent, it may deter an attack."
"I'm not trying to deter an attack," Soloman replied. "They're already following us and we'll gain a little bit of advantage if we can weed 'em out before we reach the castle."
Maggie leaned forward. "How do you know they're following us, Sol?"
"I saw that guy three times inside the airport and it's too big for that," Soloman answered. "He left by the same door we used, and there's more than twenty doors. He didn't have any luggage. No briefcase." He paused, convinced. "He's somebody. I can feel it."
"An assassin?"
Soloman searched the rearview mirror. "Probably, and there's no doubt more than one. They'll try to kill us at the first opportunity because they'll think we're easy prey."
"What are you going to do?"
Soloman's laugh was frightening.
"I think I'll give 'em a wake-up call."
***
At midnight they checked into an isolated hotel beside a shallow river on the edge of Luvern. From there, if they took the M3 and then the narrow English back-roads that ran through the thick, dark woodlands of Northumberland, they could reach the castle in three hours.
The night was shrouded in a cold English mist as they drove through the iron gateway. Then, while Marcelle made arrangements for a suite, Soloman took care of the trunk. Maggie and Mother Superior Mary Francis were close beside him as he laboriously carried all the luggage at once, not daring to leave anyone alone. After they checked into their room they were graciously provided with a late meal.
Leaving the suite, always keeping the door in sight, Soloman made a quick reconnaissance of the halls, the fire escape, all windows and possible points of entry. Then he returned quickly to find Maggie finishing off a bowl of cream of parsley soup. This pleased him: she had eaten so little since Amy had disappeared.
As always, Marcelle was pacing, a cigarette burning in his hand. He had a troubled look on his face as Soloman removed weapons from the duffle, placing four grenades on the belt at his waist. "What is it, Marcelle?" he asked, chambering a round. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I have seen a demon, Colonel." Marcelle's tone was not friendly, and Soloman had expected that it would come sooner or later. This ordeal was getting on their nerves, wearing all of them down.
He remembered Karl von Clausewitz's instruction in On War. In essence, the lesson stated that, as a battle wore on and on it was fatigue and domination of will that decided the outcome. Tactics were inferior to the iron resolve of an indomitable opponent.
"Stay cool, Marcelle," Soloman said quietly. "We're closing in on this thing and it'll be over soon." He paused. "One way or another."
The priest turned and looked at him solemnly. "I have something to tell you, Colonel. Yes. Something to tell all of you."
Soloman stared, instantly nervous; this was no time for surprises.
Marcelle's pause was so profound that Soloman began to wonder whether the priest had snapped. Maggie was also watching him nervously, though Mary Francis retained composure. Then, after a hauntingly silent moment that continued far too long, Marcelle bowed his head.
"I do not know," he began, "whether I precipitated this tragedy or not. But I feel that I am responsible."
"How can you be responsible?" Maggie asked. "I'm the one who created Cain. I'm the one who created this virus. If anyone is guilty, it's me."
"Perhaps in the realm of science," Marcelle conceded. "But there is more than science, as we have all seen." He shook his head. "Many years ago I discovered a skeleton in the desert of Megiddo. It was buried beneath the Temple of Dagon. It was the skeleton of a giant – a warrior. And the grave had been sealed with a Hebrew curse that warned men not to violate it at the peril of mankind. But I did not heed. I broke the seal and descended to find the dead man laid upon a huge stone slab. It was then, and remains to this day, a phenomenal archeological discovery – indisputable evidence of an empire lost to this world for five thousand years. The bones and armor were perfectly preserved but the head had been severed with the curse of a dead man that lives, the Golem, carved deeply into the forehead.”
Marcelle glanced at Soloman. "In the battle within the basilica in New York Cain told me that I had released him in the reckless moment when, in my intellectual arrogance, I feared neither God nor man. And . . . and I believe his words." He shook his head. "It is my shame. I was not a godly man, though I presented myself as such. No, in those years I was too proud to be godly or to even serve God. And I feel that none of this might have happened if I had heeded that sacred warning, sealed by the mark of David. But these, then, are questions that man can never answer – questions that can only haunt."
His hands clenched as he looked vaguely around the room. "I apologize for my lack of control. Forgive me. My guilt is my own. And make no mistake: I adamantly stand behind all of you, and Amy, to the end. God alone will decide my guilt."
Soloman knew Marcelle was too intelligent to be persuaded one way or another. The priest had too strong a mind and too formidable a will. But he felt the need to say something encouraging.
"Maybe you're right about one thing, Marcelle." He met the priest's troubled eyes. "Maybe I am in this for a reason. Maybe all of us are in it for a reason. And maybe that reason is Amy. Maybe she's the only reason we're still alive."
Soloman waited and resisted the surge of emotion as he remembered his dead child, so much a part of his life. "You might want to think about that."
Maggie stared at Soloman and her eyes revealed that she saw his pain. But he resisted the impulse to share it. One day, he knew, he would. But not tonight.
Tonight he had to stay focused.
After a tense moment, all of them lost in the heavy silence, Mother Superior Mary Francis rose, walking slowly and purposefully to the priest. Without permission she took the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and his lighter. Then she lit one, drawing a single breath and expelling before she handed it to him with a smile. She patted him on the shoulder, a grandmotherly gesture that said simply, "Let it be."
"There is good food here," she said, turning away. "I hate airplane food."
Marcelle smiled faintly, watching her sit calmly. And Soloman knew the worst of the tension had been defused. He glanced at Maggie before coldly setting his mind against what he knew was coming with night. He drew the Grizzly, ensuring that a round was chambered, and Maggie followed the move with sudden concern.
"You're certain they'll come after us tonight?" she asked.
"Yeah. As soon as they get a tactical plan."
"But how can you fight two of them?" She rose. "You said earlier that there were probably two. Or even more." She looked at the shotgun. "Give me that. I know how to use it."
"Where'd you learn to use a shotgun?"
"My father used to take me duck hunting when I was Amy's age." Lifting the M-3 without hesitation, Soloman set it on semi-auto for rapid fire. He showed her the safety, the lever that switched it to pump action.
"You've got eight rounds," he said. "One's already chambered."
She hefted the shotgun, feeling the balance. "Okay." Fear vanished in her fierceness. "I've got it."
Soloman stood. “Keep the lights on. And if anything comes in the door or window just start firing and keep firing until it goes down." He watched her to determine if she could actually kill a man. "You understand what I'm saying? Don't stop shooting until you're sure they're dead. They might be wearing vests."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going outside. I'm going to try and take them out before they can get close." Soloman turned back as he put on his jacket. He stared at all of them in turn, felt an eerie tension.
Marcelle was grim. Mother Superior Mary Francis had her hands on the table. She didn't move at all. And Maggie was also unmoving, her mouth locked in a determined line beneath green eyes.
"We can win this," Soloman said, raising his chin toward Marcelle. "It's been won before."
***
Beneath the Castle of Calistro, Cain rose from a well of dark water rushing silent and hidden, flowing out of the cliff far beneath the edifice to meld land to sea. His left arm, swollen with the herculean effort of raising the treasure chest from the deep, bulged even more with the effort of lifting it onto glistening black stones.
Torches burned in a walled circle to illuminate the abysmal depths from which he'd descended only to rise again, dragging with him the treasure he had coveted, the treasure that would give him the power to launch his claim over this resistant dominion. Then he lifted himself from the flood, alone in the deep tunnels hidden beneath the dungeon.
He shattered the lock easily, breaking the rusty chain with a hand. As he lifted the lid the torchlight struck fire from the heavy mound of gold secured within – gold hidden and relocated from monarch to monarch for thousands of years only to be secretly concealed here in the end, below the rushing black water that no man would dare to defy. And there was much more concealed beneath these stone towers – enough gold to build a hundred armies, a hundred nations, a hundred continents.
It was a memory that struck him as he had stood over the child, staring into the current. And when he beheld the castle walls outlined against the gray winter sky, broken battlements standing like skeletal sentinels against storm clouds, he had been certain.
After a thousand years the Castle of Calistro was as formidable and im-pervious as it had ever been with huge granite slabs resisting weather and time together. The interior was ravaged and rotten, leaving nothing but cold stone to line the edifice in the dust of deserted years, but it was still sound, built on a foundation laid as deeply as his purpose. Nor did he prefer more luxurious accommodations, for this haunt was old with blood – a companion to the black rage that burned within him.
Already he had sent three of The Circle into New Castle to obtain necessary items: food, clothing, and the ever-vigilant bodyguard that would serve as his unsleeping guardian. When they returned he could begin rebuilding the castle to a level of relative comfort, eventually re-creating the splendor of a lost and glorious age.
Reaching out, he lifted the medallions, pentacles, amulets and denarius marked with the seal of Caesar. He saw the gold pendant of Ostelli of Regnarald, lost to the world for two centuries, and gently touched the enormous diamonds sunk deeply into the crest – diamonds that flowed in a sharp white line to encircle the ruby eye locked in the center.
With a dark laugh he threw back his head.
Yes!
This was the wealth he would need to begin, though he would certainly gain more and more. Eventually he would become the richest ruler of this world and these sheep would beg him to direct their lives. For the fools cared more for money than anything, rarely realizing that the price paid in the end was greater than the gain. Yes,
they would enjoy the day and night and not live to see the dawn. And, best of all, the wealth would return to him in their deaths, to be used again. Then, frowning, he thought of Soloman and The Circle.
He knew two of the assassins were already at Birmingham airport, awaiting, for Kano had discovered the destination of the flight after contacting servants secreted inside the Vatican. Nor was he surprised at the discovery. He had been certain that Soloman would pursue just as David had pursued so long, a battle the warrior-king won by the matchless skill of his arm and that great sword taken from the dead hand of slain Goliath .. .
Yes ...
Soloman was an enemy worth fearing. But now he had The Circle to serve him, to protect him.
Warlocks, they called themselves.
How fascinating, he mused. They held a small understanding of life and death and unseen powers. But they knew nothing of the true scope of his galactic might. No, in that knowledge they were merely pawns in a contest greater than they could ever imagine, though he would use them well.
Still, they were supremely skilled in their secret devotion. They could kill like lightning only to vanish into night without casting a single shade in the darkness. And although they preferred to use the straight swords of Elohim Gibor, those used by Hebrew masters of sorcery, they bolstered the blades with modern weapons.
He smiled, amused that they had discovered the ritual in the sacred pages of the Verum; Thou shalt take a sword – a tapered blade thirty inches in length with a hilt of seven inches, and polish it on the Day of Mercury at the first or fifteenth hour, and thou shalt write upon the side the divine names Yod He Vau He, Adonai, Eheieh, Yayai; that thou preservest me in adversity against mine enemies …
Recounting the ritual, he was again troubled that his memory was so uncertain. Some things he remembered well, and had begun to perceive things about Soloman himself; his past, his sins, knowledge he would use against him should the moment come. But he could not remember what he truly needed.
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