“But you had the dogs search for bombs before.”
“Yes, and we found nothing, but we have a new threat.”
“What kind of threat?” she asked.
He pointed over his shoulder to Benson Crow who was being held by the two security officers. “This man claims to have knowledge of a bomb. As soon as they’ve cleared the area we will resume.”
“That’s absurb,” she snapped “No one could possibly have known we were here. That is,” she turned to Lorenzo, “unless someone on your end was less than discreet. We went to great lengths to—”
Officer Lorenzo held up a finger and looked at the ground, listening intently to his ear piece. He turned to the two agents holding Crow. “Arrest him.”
Travis tilted his head awaiting an answer.
“We just found spent shotgun shells all over the floor of his car,” Lorenzo explained to his British colleague, “along with a bag of live ammo.”
One of the officers holding Crow started to put cuffs on him. Crow squirmed and looked frantically around. That’s when his eyes met Marcus Foster’s standing there like any other curious tourist in the crowd.
“That’s him!” Crow cried out, breaking a hand free and pointing. “That’s the killer!” His protest was ignored. He had exhausted his last ounce of credibility.
Both Spanish officers were trying to subdue him when the noise caused them to stop in mid-motion. It started as a low rumble like a train was coming or a jet was taking off in the distance, but the rumble quickly turned to a deafening roar. The ground began to rock. The rectangular red pavers looked like the rising and falling of small swells in the sea. Members of the wedding party screamed and people watching scrambled in panic, thrown to the ground as if God had tossed the earth like shaking the dust from a dirty rug. The terror of the earthquake washed over the crowd. Rotating metal racks at a little shop across from the church on tiny St. Peter Street rolled and tipped and finally tumbled to the floor sending postcards scattering out onto the street. The horse attached to the carriage on loan from the king reared violently sending its handler to the bricks, desperately trying to hold on to the reins.
The security team was not immune. They clung to the fence of the monument to Catalan philosopher Francesc Pujols that stood between the church and the Dalí Museum as if they were on a roller coaster. Glass shelves inside the Surrealist Bookstore next door crashed to the floor and books landed in jumbled piles. A statue of a figure wearing a diver’s helmet on the front of the Dalí Museum lurched clumsily forward. Beatrix Cambridge and everyone else around her, including Benson Crow, were thrown to the ground. She cried out, but the tremor of the earthquake muted her cry and all other sounds. Alarms from nearby buildings tripped. Security vehicles on the plaza banged against one another, their occupants looking wide-eyed out the windows in terror. It seemed an eternity of horror. Then, as quickly as there was chaos, there was calm.
The wedding party groaned and cried and hugged one another. The security detail ran to their charges to make sure they were unharmed. Shaken up, some minor injuries, but there were no casualties. Crow was all but forgotten. Bewildered, he staggered over to the church. The Spanish security chief, satisfied that his people were safe, took off after him. Crow opened the doors of the sanctuary. Just inside the foyer the Dalí painting brought from London lay face-up atop the collapsed easel that had held it. Crow looked up at the magnificent ribbed arches of the Gothic structure. Great chunks of stone had slammed to the floor, one smashing the altar completely. Pieces of it lay strewn in several sections. More large stones had crashed down on many of the pews and left them in splinters. Crow tried to absorb the devastation until he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Come,” Officer Lorenzo said. “We must leave at once. It is not safe.”
He escorted Crow back out onto the plaza. By then fire truck and ambulance sirens blared. Frantic voices buzzed in the distance. Crow surveyed the area. Some sections of pavers were warped or split. The bookstore and several shops looked as though they’d been looted. The odd figures that stood atop the Dalí Museum stood fast barely noticing anything was amiss except for the leaning diver. Crow looked about frantically for Marcus Foster. No sign of him.
Security officers once again closed in around Crow. The King of Spain emerged from the front door of the church and walked over to the officers and Crow, half-dazed having just seen the devastation inside for himself.
“Is this the man who warned you?” he asked of Officer Lorenzo.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
He held out his hand to Crow. “I want to thank you for saving us. Had you not come along,” he looked back over his shoulder at the church, “we would all have surely perished.”
Crow nodded in appreciation.
“What about your people?” Lorenzo asked Officer Travis who was just joining them.
“All accounted for and safe,” he answered.
All eyes were again on Benson Crow.
“I have to ask you,” the king said, “how did you know?”
Everyone waited with equal curiosity. He didn’t know how to answer. He was as astonished as anyone.
“I, uh, I’m not sure, Your Majesty. I just knew.”
“We found shotgun shells in his vehicle,” Lorenzo said.
“Did you find a weapon?” the king asked.
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Then I see no reason to treat this man like a criminal. He just saved our lives.” He turned back to Crow. “What is your name?”
“Benson Crow.”
“Benson Crow? The author?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“How could someone possibly know there would be an earthquake on this day at this exact time in this exact place?”
Crow smiled sheepishly and shrugged.
The king mused for a moment. “Señor Crow,” he smiled, “you must be some kind of modern-day Nostradamus.”
Chapter Forty-Two
“The latest headlines from BBC News, I’m Catherine Brown. More details on that earthquake measuring 6.8 on the Richter scale that hit the Catalonia region of Spain two days ago near the border with France. The epicenter was near Girona, Spain, three miles outside the town on Figueres. There are still no reports of casualties although dozens were injured. Most of the injuries are not life-threatening. Authorities are now reporting damage to the Church of Saint Peter in Figueres where a British royal wedding was taking place between Reginald Wentworth, the Earl of Stockland, and Lady Grace Rich. It was a private affair with friends and relatives, including the earl’s close friend, the King of Spain. Also in attendance were the earl’s college roommate, Daniel Mercer, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and the earl’s third cousin, Prince Oliver. Miraculously, the noon wedding was postponed due to a security alert and the entire wedding party was outside the church when the earthquake hit. Pieces of the massive ceiling crashed to the floor. According to authorities, had the wedding party been inside the church all would certainly have been killed. Figueres is the birthplace of Salvador Dalí and both the earl and Lady Grace are huge fans of the artist. The earl presented his bride-to-be with a rare Dalí painting that was on display in the church. It was unharmed in the quake. The wedding went on as planned on the plaza that separates the ancient church from the Dalí Theater and Museum, much to the delight of the lucky tourists who were allowed to view the ceremony. The earl joked that he hoped this didn’t mean the marriage was off to a rocky start. This is the second marriage for both. The newly-minted Earl and Countess of Stockland departed for their honeymoon at an undisclosed location. Here in the UK, the Prime Minister says the Middle East conference—”
Crow pulled the earbuds from his ears and draped them over the arm of his first-class seat. The flight attendant asked him if he’d like another drink. He nodded and gazed out the window recalling all that had transpired. The experience was as surreal as a Dalí painting. Barely a week prior, he had never even heard of the First Face of Janus or the
Custos Verbi. Now, it was all he could think about when he wasn’t thinking about Sidney. And he did that until it ached.
He had tried her cell number again before leaving Spain. Disconnected. And why not? She thought he was a murderous lunatic. Would she believe him now? Now that the prophecy had been thwarted? The first Nostradamus prophecy ever to be short-circuited and he had done it. They had done it. Together. He smiled to himself. A powerful clandestine organization like the Custos Verbi had tried for nearly 500 years and failed, and he, an author at a low point in his career, had managed to pull off what everyone told him was impossible. He remembered how so many had urged him to give up, to turn back, to forget about ever defeating the mighty forces of the First Face of Janus. He persevered. He always had. He fed on it. He trudged forward in relentless pursuit and now had the satisfaction of knowing he had saved countless lives. Would the First Face of Janus now turn on him? Somehow he didn’t really care. He was exhausted. Tired of running. Tired of deception. The only thing that genuinely concerned him was Sidney Rosenfeld.
Guilt gnawed at his belly that couldn’t be suppressed by a stiff drink of bourbon. Or three. She had looked so devastated when she thought he was behind the murders. The ugly story she had concocted in her mind. Could she ever trust him again after believing so deeply that he was capable of such unspeakable horror? Could she ever look at him the same? The same as she did that night in Valencia?
Crow deplaned at Logan International and headed for the taxi stand. He gave the cabbie the address for Rothschild’s and stared out the window at the Boston skyline. What would he say to her when he saw her? If she would see him. Would she laugh at her wild imagination that turned out to be untrue? He certainly held no grudge. Her reaction was understandable under the circumstances. The pressures of being hunted, not knowing who to trust, coming so close to death only to be pulled from its grip at the last moment. Exhaustion, passion, anger, they all played a part. And if she would simply blush at her silly outburst and put the matter behind them, could they take up where they left off? What if the excitement of the chase was what attracted her to him? Relationships born of adventure often die of boredom. Like finally reaching the end of a good book, as interesting and intriguing as it was the first time around, the last thing one wants to do is read it again. That had been his pattern. Maybe it was his defense mechanism. When the titillation was gone, so was he. There was no way of knowing why. He didn’t even understand it himself. How could he let anyone else close enough to try? But he was willing to let Sidney try. If she still wanted to. If she ever wanted to.
He dialed her cell number one more time just to make sure now that he was back in the States. Same thing. He heard three annoying tones and a message that the number was no longer in service. What was she going to do when he showed up at her doorstep? Kick him out? Call the police? Would she even emerge from behind the key-carded security to face him, or would she leave him hopelessly longing for another chance to hold her? Hold her as he had in Valencia.
As soon as the cab rounded the corner, he knew something wasn’t right. The stone etching of Rothschild’s was gone from the facade of the building. Odd. He checked the address. This was it, but it looked different, far more than just the missing lettering.
He paid the cabbie and walked to the front door. Locked. On a Monday? Strange. He cupped his hands to block the sun and put his nose directly against the glass peering inside. There was nothing there. No pilasters. No tapestries hanging on the walls. No walls at all. No marble floor. No security entrance leading to the rear. No receptionist. No receptionist’s desk. No colleague’s offices with cluttered tables. No busy conference room. Nothing but an empty shell all the way to the back of the building.
“It’s bizarre, isn’t it?”
In the second it took Crow to process the voice, to match it to a face, terror and panic seized him. He paused momentarily then whipped around to see the face he knew belonged to that voice. His mind raced through the possibilities of how he had tracked him there, then it occurred to Crow that he didn’t need to track him at all. He merely needed to wait. He knew Crow would eventually come looking for her. He must be quite satisfied with himself, with his powers of deduction.
Until that moment, Crow had all but put him out of his mind, but there he was. Forgetting him had caused his guard to drop. A deadly mistake. He allowed the hunter the opportunity he had patiently waited for: for the hunted to walk willingly into the trap. And this was that moment. Standing just a few feet in front of him was the thing of nightmares. Crow’s eyes met the steely gaze of Marcus Foster.
Chapter Forty-Three
The very sight of him terrified Crow. His heart was pounding. He gave a fleeting thought to running but cut his eyes in either direction only to see two bulky suited men with sunglasses standing on either side of him casually looking out at the traffic. It would be futile. They had him penned in.
Marcus Foster reached in his coat pocket. Crow thought he was producing a gun, or worse, a knife. He’d never considered the choice. A quick headshot now seemed infinitely preferable to being stabbed in the gut and left to bleed to death on the streets of Boston. But there was a third option. Instead, Foster pulled out a bifold wallet, opened it up, and handed it to him.
“Officer Marcus Morello,” the man said with almost a smile in his voice. “CIA.”
Crow took the wallet and examined the identification. He’d seen enough official IDs in his research to spot a phony. This was the genuine article.
“If I can buy you a cup of coffee, I’ll explain everything,” Morello said.
They sat at a small metal table outside. Morello knew he must have a thousand questions, but he didn’t even know where to begin.
“Not to sound too cliché,” Crow said, “but how about at the beginning?”
“Well, we were tipped off by the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. They’d been watching the homeless man in Montreal as a suspected First Facer. Their man in Montreal saw him make contact with you in the bathroom, so they picked him up.”
“That was Canadian Intelligence?”
“Yeah. They found nothing on him. After a couple of hours of questioning, they had to let him go.”
“Well, then who killed him?”
“I’m getting to that,” Morello said. “Apparently, he knew they were closing in on him. That’s why he chose the moment he did to give you the book, knowing they would grab him and you would see it. It was all part of the plan. As to who killed him? The short answer is nobody.”
“What do you mean ‘nobody?’ I saw them fish him out of the river. On the news.”
“That was all staged for your benefit. You were meant to see what they had fabricated as a news story.”
“What? You’re not serious.”
“Yeah, they’re pretty thorough.”
“They?”
“The First Face of Janus. That phony news story was shot weeks ago. We know that because one of their front companies applied for a permit to shoot a movie scene. We heard your description of it on the phone to your publisher and it matched up with the location they used. They simply fed it to your TV in your hotel room.”
“This is crazy,” Crow said.
“Yeah, well buckle up. It gets crazier. Then, of course, seeing the report of the man murdered on TV only enticed you more, which led you where they wanted you. Here to Boston and Sidney Rosenfeld.”
“But I googled Rothschild’s. That’s how I found Sidney.”
“That’s how she found you. They controlled everything you saw on that search engine. Your only logical path was to Rothschild’s and Dr. Sidney Rosenfeld, or whatever her name really is.”
Crow’s heart sank. “Wait a minute, what are you saying?”
Morello gave him a sympathetic look.
“She’s a First Facer,” Crow said sadly.
“I’m afraid so.”
Crow remembered Sidney’s words when they first met. You know, it’s dangerous to jump to
conclusions. Things aren’t always as they appear. That explained her phone being disconnected.
Officer Morello waited for Crow to absorb the blow. “I’m sorry.”
“So, she set me up to witness Dr. Grumbling’s murder?”
“There is no Dr. Grumbling.”
“What do you mean? I met him. I talked to him. I watched him die.”
“That was all staged for your benefit as well. I’m telling you, these people are thorough. Like a major movie production company, only a lot faster. They used an old abandoned house. Brought in their own stuff. Props, costumes, the whole works. Set everything up. Staged their actors. The only thing missing was a director yelling ‘action.’ Rosenfeld sends you to Grumbling or whatever his name really is. Grumbling gets you all lathered up about the First Facers. You’re just curious enough to bite. Then you call Rosenfeld to tell her about Grumbling and that’s when I get involved. After Canadian Intelligence found nothing on the old man in Montreal, they figured he’d passed the book along to you. They used the convention center’s surveillance cameras to identify you. They wanted to detain you in Montreal, but we asked them not to.”
“Why?”
“Because the First Facers wanted you to have the book. We wanted to see how this thing played out. We got a warrant to tap your cellphone. Unfortunately, that didn’t come through until after you left Montreal, but once you called to warn Rosenfeld after the drone attacked Grumbling, we had you on the radar. We dispatched a man in Boston to Rosenfeld’s office, but she gave him the slip. Another of our guys put an electronic tag on her car and tailed her to the train station. She headed for the rendezvous with you in Washington and I hopped aboard the train on her stop in New York.”
“So you’re serious. The whole Grumbling murder was staged?”
“All of it. Grumbling. The housekeeper. The drone. All of it.”
“No wonder Tom said the police didn’t find anything.”
The First Face of Janus Page 28
