“Did you eat on the train?”
It hit Sidney that she was starving. “No.”
They entered the front lobby of the hotel and headed for the elevators. Crow pressed the call button. He pointed to a door. “Right through there is The Dubliner. Get us a table. Here, let me have your bag. I’ll put it in our room and meet you there. It’ll be crowded and loud enough so we can talk without anyone else hearing us.”
“Hold up a second, did you say our room?” Rosenfeld asked.
“Yes, our room,” Crow said. “Two double beds. I roped you into all this. I can’t let you out of my sight.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t bite, Rosenfeld.”
“It’s not your teeth I’m worried about.”
An expression of recognition passed across the face of the black man in the suit who walked in unnoticed through the glass door entrance of the hotel.
“My own room, Crow,” she said.
“OK, OK. I’ll handle it.”
Rosenfeld disappeared through the restaurant door and Crow watched the lights above the elevator. He got the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching him. He looked sharply to his left and saw him. It wasn’t just a casual glance or a curious gawk. The man was unmistakably looking at him. Not only that, he was walking his way.
Chapter Ten
The man they called Otto sat in his study in a high-back leather chair reading The Life of Charlemagne by Einhard with just a single reading lamp to light its pages. His senses told him something was imminent. He had an instinct for such things. Even so, he wasn’t quite prepared. He never was. In those moments of doubt, he sought inspiration. He heard the distant footsteps growing closer.
Any successful organization needs hierarchy. Hierarchy breeds respect. Respect demands loyalty. Loyalty provides discipline. Discipline promotes fear. Otto didn’t rise to the top position in the organization without a healthy dose of all, especially fear. He was known simply as Otto. No last name. No date of birth. No one dared inquire. He was referred to formerly as ‘His Excellency.’ He was born into the organization and rose through its ranks, but there was no such thing as tenure. He earned every promotion along his climb to the top. His word was final, his decision supreme. The only entity approaching his dominance was the council that placed him in this lofty position. No single person wielded as much power.
Otto was an imposing figure. His head, with its balding dome and large size, resembled that of a bull. His jowls gave him the distinction of a middle-aged executive. His gaze was penetrating and intimidating. He had a disconcertingly kind smile that turned into a terrifying scowl without warning. His temper was short. His decisions were quick. His retribution was lethal. He tolerated neither weakness nor incompetence, yet he expected no more from his subordinates than he did from himself. The operation was paramount. No one would deter him from its completion. No one.
“Your Excellency,” the messenger said softly from the doorway. He had been dispatched from the nerve center of the complex. Otto placed the leather bookmark in the page of his book and turned his large face toward the young man. The messenger waited until Otto’s attention was fully his before he spoke again. “It has begun.” He waited for some sort of body language cue before he felt comfortable enough to leave. Otto smiled slightly then turned his head forward again. Satisfied the man had heard him, the messenger disappeared back down the hallway. Otto rose with some reluctance from his warm chair and placed the closed volume on the table. He stood there a moment in silent reflection then closed his eyes. He opened them again with a renewed sense of resolve and went back to work.
THE MAN WAS only a few feet away in the hotel lobby and was closing fast. Crow did a double take. He turned to engage him, but the man pushed Crow’s outstretched hand aside and wrapped both arms around his neck. Crow was thrown off balance. The man squeezed hard. “Benson Crow,” he howled. “I will be damned.”
“Terrance Warner. Great to see you again. I was hoping I’d see you here. You working tonight?”
“Just came on.” Terrance took a couple of steps backward. “Come talk to me.” He walked behind the small check-in desk. “What brings you to Washington?”
Crow followed him over. “I’m doing some research for a book. I had reservations for just one room, but I need another. Next to each other, if possible. Sorry for the confusion.”
“Yeah, I saw her when you two came in,” Terrance said. “She’s a looker. Overplayed your hand, did ya?”
It took Crow a second to catch his meaning. He smiled, “Oh, it’s nothing like that. I’m just in charge of her safety. She’s a bit on the stubborn side.”
Terrance straightened himself. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to her here. I can promise you that. Not on my watch. We have a hotel detective. You want me to have him keep an eye on your floor tonight?”
“That would be great. I really appreciate it.” Crow signed the paper before him acknowledging the rate.
“What kind of trouble you expecting, Benson?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t exactly know. But I do know this.” He looked up at Terrance. “It’s trouble I have never seen before.”
Crow found Rosenfeld at a two-top in the corner of the crowded restaurant. The long wooden bar was lined with after-work civil servants, congressional aides, and lobbyists. Crow took a seat at the table beside the small stage that held an Irish quartet on Friday and Saturday nights. The kitchen closed at 10:30pm, but Crow arranged to have a meal prepared for Rosenfeld. He ordered a Guinness.
“I didn’t know if you were one of those vegan types,” Crow said. “I took a chance with the Capitol Hill Burger.”
“It’s fine,” she said, dipping a thick french fry in ketchup. The smile drained from her face. “I still can’t believe Dr. Grumbling is dead.”
“Well, we have two prime suspects. It was either the First Face of Janus or the Custos Verbi.”
“I thought a lot about this on the train ride down here,” she said. “I would guess the latter.”
“So you know about them, too?”
“I do.”
“How do you know so much about all this?”
“Dr. Grumbling. He was sort of like my mentor. There’s no one who knew more about old manuscripts and books than he did. When I showed a special interest in Nostradamus editions, he finally let me into his confidence. He told me all about the First Facers and the CV and how historical events had been shaped by both of them.”
“I’m sorry.” Crow looked down. “I didn’t know you and he were so close.”
“It was a professional relationship, but I did adore the man.”
“And you believe all this? This hocus-pocus about secret societies?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“It’s a matter of logic. When you look at how closely Nostradamus’ predictions line up with real events, it’s amazing how accurate he is.”
“But so many of these predictions miss the mark.”
“For example?” she asked.
“Well, I did some research while I was waiting for you. For example, Nostradamus predicted somewhere in his writings that something big would happen in 1999. He even mentioned the month specifically. Nothing happened.”
“You’re referring to Century 10, Quatrain 72. ‘The year 1999, seventh month / From the sky will come a great King of Terror / To bring back to life the great King of the Mongols / Before and after Mars to reign by good luck.’”
“Damn, girl. You are hardcore.”
Rosenfeld laughed, “The life of an antiquarian nerd.”
“But in July of 1999 there was supposed to be some king of terror who came back. It didn’t happen.”
“You think it didn’t happen because you’re looking in the wrong direction. When people hear ‘King of the Mongols,’ they think Genghis Khan. When they hear Genghis Khan, they think Chinese. The truth is, the Mongol Empire covered modern-day northern China, yes, but it was
primarily modern-day Russia and four former republics of the Soviet Union. ‘From the sky’ was a colloquialism of Nostradamus’ time. It meant roughly ‘out of the blue’ or ‘suddenly and unexpectedly.’ On August 9, 1999, Russian President Boris Yeltsin appointed a virtual unknown that nobody saw coming as acting prime minister. The announcement was made public in August. That decision was actually made in July, the seventh month. You know who that was?”
Crow looked at her with anticipation.
“His name was Vladimir Putin.”
“The hair just stood up on the back of my neck right now,” Crow said.
“And guess what he did.”
Crow finished, “Putin set about annexing neighboring countries trying to put the old Soviet Union back together.”
“Or what used to be known as the Mongol Empire. And then he cozied up to China to build an alliance there. Still think there’s nothing to it?”
“How did everybody miss that one?” he asked.
“They’re not in tune with the prophecies.”
“And did the First Facers facilitate Putin’s rise?”
“It’s hard to tell,” she said. “There’s no doubt they helped bring about the end of the Soviet Union. Whether they played a direct role in Putin’s ascent is unknown.”
“So they do some good things, these people. Like defeating the Soviet Union.”
“I guess you could say that,” Rosenfeld said. “They don’t really look at it as good or bad. It’s just what has to be done to follow the blueprint laid out by Nostradamus.”
“And the Custos Verbi?”
Her face soured as the server brought Crow’s beer.
“I’m assuming you’re not a fan,” he said.
“I guess you could say that. It’s just the motivation behind them.”
“Aren’t they stopping the First Facers from allowing some of the most horrible things in history to happen? I mean, Nostradamus doesn’t seem like Mr. Sunshine. Most of his prophecies are rather depressing.”
“If that were their only motivation I might agree.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Church is all about control,” she said. “They control what people know, and what they don’t. They were the ones who decided what books of the Bible would be included and, more importantly, which books would be thrown out. They’ve always seen Nostradamus as a threat. Anyone who can predict the future—and predict it with such accuracy—can run rings around any religion that relies on a hierarchy to tell people what to think and how to behave. In other words, each time Nostradamus is proven right it undermines their grip on their followers. They have to prevent the prophecies from coming true, and they’ll stop at nothing to do it.”
“That’s what tells me they weren’t the ones behind the Grumbling murder,” Crow said. “I’m trying to do the same thing. I’m trying to stop the next prophecy.”
“But they have no way of knowing that. All they know is you were given the quatrains. They assume you’re a First Facer yourself. And they will kill you if they can find you. Believe me, if you think the Church is powerful, you ain’t seen nothin’ like the Custos Verbi. They have agents all over the world. And these folks are die-hard zealots. They are absolutely relentless.” She took a bite of her burger.
“That’s just it,” Crow said. “They could’ve killed me today, but the drone just flew away.”
Sidney finished chewing. “Maybe they thought they got you.”
“Maybe. I don’t know, I just found that part odd.” Crow took a long drink from his glass. “You don’t buy Grumbling’s theory that the old man in Montreal was Custos Verbi?”
“Dr. Grumbling was a brilliant man, but I have to disagree with him on this. I think the guy was a First Facer.”
“What’s he doing with the quatrains?” Crow asked.
“Helping to fulfill the prophecy, naturally.”
“They just carry things like that around, quatrains from the Unriddled Manuscript?”
“Who said they came from the Unriddled Manuscript?” Rosenfeld said.
“Where else would they come from?”
“They could be his own notes shrouded in mystery just like Nostradamus but meaningful to him or whoever else is helping see to it that the prophecy comes true.”
“Why would he give me the quatrains?”
“For safekeeping maybe,” she said. “If he knew the CV was closing in on him, then maybe he passed them off to you hoping to come back later and get them.”
“Which he never did because they killed him,” Crow added.
“They killed him because he no longer had the quatrains on him,” she said, “and once the Custos Verbi realized he no longer had the quatrains on him, they figured out he handed them to you in that restroom and they tracked you to Grumbling.”
“OK, let’s go with that theory. It’s clear they know who I am. They didn’t just pick Grumbling’s place at random. They picked it because I was there, because they were following me from Montreal. Even if they think they got me, I can’t go back home. They’re apparently watching my place. Gordy, my caretaker, told me two men came looking for me.”
“Let me explain something,” Rosenfeld said. “If they sent people looking for you, going home is definitely out. Even if they get the quatrains from you, they’re still going to have to kill you. You know too much.”
“Then I have to make contact with them.”
She snickered, “Are you serious?”
Crow stared back at her.
“You are serious,” she said. “What do you mean, make contact with them? If you’re on their radar, and evidently you are, the only contact they’ll have with you is a bullet in the brain.”
“Yeah, but what if I tell them I’m on their side?”
“You won’t have a chance to tell them,” Rosenfeld said. “It’s not like you walk into the home office and announce yourself.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Come on, Crow. You’re talking nonsense now.”
“Listen to me. We have to show them that we’re trying to stop the prophecy. You know, like holding our hands out to show them we’re not armed. But we have to make sure they see that. They’re bound to have a base of operations. I know it’s not like walking into some corporate headquarters, but they have to work from somewhere. The Vatican maybe?”
“Well, I can tell you it’s not the Vatican,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“For starters, the Vatican is too obvious. The pope also needs plausible deniability. I think they’re headquartered far away from Rome.”
“Where then?”
Rosenfeld shrugged.
Crow tapped his index finger on his glass then looked up. “I have an old friend I think we need to visit in the morning. He works at the National Archives. I’ve used him as a source for a couple of my books. He’s into all this secret society stuff. Maybe he can help us.”
“In finding the CV?”
“That and decoding those quatrains. I have to prove to these people that we’re not part of the conspiracy to fulfill Nostradamus’ prophecy. We have to do something to demonstrate to the Custos Verbi that we’re on their side. Otherwise, we’ll spend the rest of our lives running.” He took another drink of beer. “If we’re going to stay alive, we only have one play. We have to stop that prophecy.”
Chapter Eleven
Kyle O’Hara was not what one would expect a deputy archivist at the National Archives and Records Administration to be. Deputy archivists are usually businesslike and buttoned down. They take themselves and their jobs extremely seriously and demand a respectful reverence around the items they study. O’Hara was none of that. He wore a rather unorthodox sport coat with no socks and no tie. He was a tad on the plus side with hair over his ears. Hard to tell if he was trying to grow a beard or just hadn’t bothered to shave for a couple of days. He was examining a document under a binocular microscope when Crow and Rosenberg came calling at his office at 700
Pennsylvania Avenue, NW. It was Tuesday morning.
“Kyle, this is Dr. Sidney Rosenfeld. She’s an antiquarian at Rothschild’s in Boston.”
“Nice to meet you,” Kyle shook her offered hand.
Crow said, “I wanted to get your opinion on this quatrain.”
“Yeah, I’ll take a look. First, check out this signature, dude.”
He led Crow over to the microscope. Crow put his eyes to the glass.
“Wow. Abraham Lincoln.”
“Is it?” O’Hara asked.
“Looks like it to me. Of course, I’m no expert.”
“Let me see,” Rosenfeld said, leaning down to the eyepiece. She stood upright. “It’s a fake.”
“And how do you know?” O’Hara asked.
“The upstroke on the last ‘n’ in Lincoln.”
“And what’s wrong with it?”
“Lincoln had more of a hook. This one’s not quite tall enough.”
O’Hara looked at Crow. “I think I’m in love.” He turned to Rosenfeld. “What are you doing later? Could we possibly get married this afternoon?”
Rosenfeld giggled.
“You’re exactly right,” O’Hara said. “Brava, Dr. Rosenfeld. Some clown wanted us to fork over seventeen grand for that.” He turned to Crow. “She doesn’t look Jewish.” He turned back to Rosenfeld. “You don’t look Jewish.”
“Kyle, we’re sort of in a hurry. Can you take a look at this?” He produced the red velvet sleeve from his coat pocket.
O’Hara donned his white gloves. He pulled the book out and laid it on the table. “Nice. Nice. Did you steal this?”
“No, I didn’t steal it. It was given to me. Some old guy gave it to me at a book signing in Montreal.”
“He gave it to you?” O’Hara turned the pages with care. “He must be some fan.” He turned another page then looked up. “Twenty grand.”
“That’s what I told him,” Rosenfeld said.
The First Face of Janus Page 7
