The Prophecies Trilogy (Omnibus Edition): A Dystopian Adventure

by Linda Hawley

  “Saundra thought I was dead?” I reluctantly asked.

  “No, ma chère. Your aunt told Elinor that she knew you were alive and that you needed the Herkimer crystal. She told her to get it to you, that it was important that you have it immediately. Of course, Eliott sent a special courier to me with it, and now you have it in your hand.”

  “I can’t believe it. I thought it was buried with my dad.”

  There was a minute of silence between us, Jean-Pierre being sensitive to my natural emotions. He put his hand up to cradle my cheek, as I looked into his eyes.

  “Now you have three of these special Herkimers. I wonder what you’ll do with them, ma chère.”

  * * *

  “It must be that all three Wisdom Keepers are supposed to have one,” Chow guessed, as I showed him my father’s crystal.

  “I agree. What’s so astonishing is that all of the Herkimers came through extraordinary means. First, I brought mine back from a dream. It was the one I had lost as a child. Second, through a dream, I remembered the importance of Armond’s crystal from the Brazilian shaman and then found his Herkimer among his things. Now I’ve received my father’s original Herkimer that we’d discovered together.”

  “I did not realize how important the Herkimer you found would be, when we were in Shanghai. Now we must identify the third Wisdom Keeper and hand over your father’s crystal.”

  Chapter 7

  I woke early, dressed, and was brushing my teeth when I heard a knock on the bedroom door.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened, and Françoise’s head popped in.

  “Oh, good morning,” I said with a smile.

  “Good morning. I thought I heard movement up here.”

  “I’m not exactly a morning person, but lately I’m waking up earlier. Why don’t you sit?”

  She reacted by snuggling in the chaise lounge.

  “The same thing happened to us when we moved to Brest. Perhaps it’s the sea air.”

  I smiled, wanting to ask where they had moved from but knowing that I had no need to know. “I’m healing faster than I thought I would. I feel really good.”

  “You’ve made wonderful progress. Philippe said that your training went perfectly. He doesn’t think he has any more to teach you—”

  “Well, except exactness,” I interrupted with a chuckle. “He was right. It’s very different working with pistols.”

  “Philippe is in love with steel.”

  I laughed out loud. “He certainly is.”

  She looked me up and down. “How would you like to begin your training in knives this morning?” Françoise asked.

  “Yeah! That would be great. I’m certainly ready.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  “Okay.”

  I finished up and was in the kitchen ten minutes later, dressed in black yoga pants, Keen shoes, and a white cotton pullover shirt.

  “I made almond croissants.”

  “Mmm, good.”

  “As a chef, there’s nothing better than having others enjoy the food you prepare,” Françoise said as she passed me a plate. “Let’s eat in here,” she said, leading me to the dining room.

  “Oh my goodness,” I said in reaction to the three dozen knives laid out on the farm table.

  “Perhaps I too enjoy a little steel,” she said with a chuckle, waggling her eyebrows.

  “I think you and Philippe are a good match,” I said with a smile.

  Françoise giggled, then took a bite of her croissant. After she swallowed, she pointed to each of the weapons, naming them in both French and English, and then described their specific purposes. She was nearly to the other end of the table, when she picked up a shoe.

  “This has quite a history,” she said, as she held the worn, black leather shoe.

  “I can’t wait to hear it,” I said, intrigued, as I took another bite of my croissant.

  “During World War Two, female spies were common in the French Resistance. Women were often used in visible missions because the Germans distrusted women less than men. Many of these women were imprisoned—tortured for information. They then died in German concentration camps for the liberation of France. One of the reasons we chose this particular chateau for a GOG safe house is because it has a tunnel that was used during the war.”

  “You’re kidding?” I said in astonishment.

  “I’m not. There was a Resistance cell here in Brest, which informed Allied forces of German movements by sea. The children of Brest even volunteered to carry messages, hidden within the handlebars of their bicycles.”

  “Incredible,” I exclaimed.

  “The tunnel here is hidden behind a coal chute in the basement. The exit is above ground, beyond the back of the garden.”

  “Have you ever needed to use it?”

  “No. It has not been used for many years. The idea that it’s there is a comfort to me, though. The history of this building seems to have always been fighting for resistance,” she said nostalgically.

  “Tell me more.”

  “The spies of the French resistance used all kinds of hidden weapons in their espionage,” she said, handing me the shoe. “This is an actual shoe of a French female spy. In it is a concealed heel blade.”

  As I accepted the artifact, a wave of awe for the female spies in the French resistance washed over me.

  “What a piece of history,” I said, my throat tight as I examined it.

  I’d felt connected to France all my life, but I was moved by their sacrifice for liberty and everything the shoe represented.

  “I knew you would like to see it,” she said, then turned the shoe over to show me. “Do you see how the dagger fits within the sole of the shoe?”

  “Wow,” I exclaimed, examining it.

  “This string here…” she said, pulling a small string behind the heel, “pulls the knife from its heel sheath.”

  With some resistance from the heel, the knife pulled free. It was a very thin, worn, three-inch blade, made of steel.

  “Spies used them mainly to cut ropes if they were captured and tied up. These knives spared many from torture and death.”

  A shiver erupted as that image passed through me.

  Françoise took off her right black-leather hiking boot and held it up for me to see. “Seventy years later, we have a new generation of spies…and concealed heel blades,” she said, handing me her boot while taking back the vintage spy artifact.

  I turned it over but couldn’t see anything to pull a blade from. Seeing my bewilderment, Françoise pushed the manufacturer’s brand in the bottom of the shoe heel, which made the rounded hilt pop out the back of the heel.

  “This is how to release it. See the hole in the hilt?”

  “Yes.”

  She demonstrated. “You put two fingers through them.”

  The blade itself was curved upward and measured three inches from the tip of the weapon to the end of the hilt.

  Quickly, she warned me, “Don’t touch the end—it’s razor sharp.”

  I retracted my hand as she explained the weapon.

  “It’s called a Damascus blade…and is titanium. It curves upward, so that when you remove it from your shoe, you can continue in an upward motion to inflict damage to your enemy. Without, of course, having to first move your arm upward, then down.”

  “Very clever,” I said. I looked at her, asking, “Have you ever used it in combat?”

  “Twice,” she said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “What was the result?”

  “Death,” she said plainly.

  Remembering my conflict with Shubham, I said, “I can’t wait to learn how to use it.”

  “I hoped you would want to learn,” she said excitedly. “I’ve already had a pair made for you,” she said, reaching under the table and handing me a box.

  “Ooh, I feel like a kid at Christmas,” I exclaimed with a broad smile.

  She giggled.

  I unwrapp
ed my new boots, pushed the label at the heel’s bottom, and as expected, my own Damascus blade ejected. “Obviously this is not just intended to cut rope. Can you show me the technique?”

  “Stand over there,” she said, nodding to the other side of the dining room. “I’ll show you from several positions. Let’s start with a sitting position in a chair.”

  I nodded.

  Françoise was all business when demonstrating, her pretty face serious and severe.

  “First I’ll show you in slow motion, so you can observe.”

  She sat in a hard-backed chair, then slyly reached down and released the blade. Smoothly, she inserted her index and middle fingers into the large hole in the handle. With her two fingers guiding the knife, she drew the curved blade up and into an imaginary person, continuing in an upward motion. “When you stab your enemy, you will meet resistance in the gut.” She paused, considering something. “Have you ever butchered a chicken?” she asked with eyes blazing.

  “Yes,” I replied simply. “My father taught me.”

  “Then you remember the resistance from the skin?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll feel the same thing when piercing human skin. It will feel similar to a chicken as you reach the organs. You’ll twist the blade around to nick as many vital organs as possible. Then you continue in an upward motion, like this,” she said, as she demonstrated.

  I nodded. All of the sudden, I felt hyper-aware that I could one day be defending myself in close combat. A sense of awe washed over me, and I breathed deeply, finding my center. I realized that I needed to focus intently and soak up these lessons.

  “I set up a couple of dummies on the terrace. You’ll begin to understand resistance by practicing on them. Most people fail to bring down an enemy when they get surprised by the feeling of penetrating flesh.”

  “You don’t have a couple of dead American agents on the back patio, do you?” I asked her, my caustic anger towards those who fought against us spilling over.

  Françoise broke out in a cackle. Before I knew it, the image of dead agents teaching me what to expect when stabbing them was more than I could take, and I began to laugh uncontrollably. For at least a minute I continued, with Françoise joining in my whimsy. Finally, I wiped my eyes as I began to regain my control.

  When Françoise could speak, she said, “That would be a perfect training environment, Ann, but I’m sorry to tell you that these are manufactured dummies, not American dummies. I think they're made in Taiwan,” she said, then began to giggle again. I couldn’t help but join her.

  We regained our sobriety, and with it, back came reality. I sobered, thinking again of the glee on Shubham's face when he attacked and what I might have done to him with my own Damascus blade.

  Françoise had the shoe blade in front of me, explaining its design in detail.

  “Is the purpose of the hole in the hilt to get a better grip?” I asked.

  “Yes. You see, when you stab a living creature, blood will immediately begin to soak the area. It can be slippery. By holding it with your two fingers, it’s almost impossible to lose this blade. You want to have full and ultimate control of a weapon that is razor sharp,” she said, holding it. “This blade—properly used—will easily pierce your enemy’s clothing and skin and damage his organs in a way that he will not recover from. The result being one less person who is out to kill you—one less person who is close enough to try.”

  Gesturing to the outside patio where the training dummies were positioned, I said, “Show me how.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Françoise said soberly.

  Chapter 8

  Edwin, Chow, and I were sitting together on the sofa in the living room, where I would begin training them in remote viewing.

  “I’ve never remote viewed alongside anyone else, so I hope we’re able to achieve more by remote viewing as a trio,” I began. “I’m not going to cover the basics of remote viewing, since both of you know them. Let’s cover what I know is possible through remote viewing…through my own experience. When I was with the CIA, I was able to remote view a scene using only the geographical coordinates, date, and time. The trainer wouldn’t know anything about the target, in order to prevent the viewer from being unconsciously led by ESP. I was able to perceive everything as if I were present in the target location, rather than viewing it as if it were a picture. This is rare for a remote viewer. Now when I determine the perspective I want when I remote view events, I’m able to see the things in this view from different visual perspectives. It’s as though I’m looking at the scene from different angles. The different perspectives show that visual information I receive from my viewing can vary. For example, sometimes I view a scene from above. Other times, I move through the scene itself. I don’t know the view the two of you will get. In the last view I did for the Agency, I was standing behind some soldiers, as though I were in the room.” I paused, remembering how it felt. “When the first soldier was shot in the head, I was splattered on the arm with blood and brain matter during the view itself. It was as if I were actually there in the room—not detached at all. I immediately came out of the view and in horror looked at my arm, expecting to see fluids there, but there were none. In retrospect, I believe I was actually there during the view, but when I removed myself from viewing, I left the scene—detaching myself. That was certainly the strangest experience I’ve ever had remote viewing.”

  Chow was compassionate and understanding. I had once told him the details of that view, and he knew how hard it was for me to speak of it again.

  “What about changing physical things while remote viewing?” Chow asked, compassionately moving me on to another topic.

  I smiled at him in gratitude. “My trainer at the CIA—John—once told me that he’d changed something while viewing. He removed a map from a wall, and when he went back again to view the scene, the map was missing. I tried changing something in a view many years later and was also successful.”

  “The Canadian RFID job,” Edwin said, smiling.

  “Yes,” I confirmed, proud of my accomplishment. “So we know that changing things while viewing is possible, because both John and I have done it.”

  “That may prove useful,” Edwin responded.

  I nodded. “I do want to warn you about possible adverse effects from remote viewing.”

  I’d never told either of them what happened to John and the other remote viewers. I figured now was a good time.

  “Do you mean physical effects?” Chow asked.

  “Yes…there are some risks. After I left Project Stargate, something started happening to the remote viewers I’d worked with,” I said, stopping as my eyes started to tear up, as unexpected memories of John washed through me. After collecting myself, I continued. “Well…I guess it was happening while I was still with the CIA, but we didn’t know what it was then. There were adverse physical effects for all of the remote viewers…except me. The time when John changed something, the map…” I paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Afterward, he had the worst headache of his life and ended up in the hospital to recover from it. Years later—after I had already left the CIA—John became mentally unbalanced and was committed to an institution. While he was there, he died from a heart attack while he was still a young man—even though he had no genetic history of heart disease. Five years after I left the program, another viewer, Grace…well, she died from a heart attack. She had left the agency by then, but…it was the same story. She died young with no family history of heart trouble. She passed so suddenly that by the time Bob learned of it and contacted me, she’d already been cremated. I remember that when I worked alongside Grace at the agency…she suffered terrible headaches…”

  Chow interrupted. “But you…you have been fine.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “But many other viewers died too…unexpectedly…from things like heart disease or cancers.”

  Edwin asked, “Why did the other viewers get sick?”


  “My theory is that it’s got something to do with the effects of sensory overload. Too much sensory input stresses the body…”

  “Such as constant noises or lights,” Chow answered for me.

  “Yes…exactly. It may be that sensory overload caused the illnesses. But my boss at the CIA—Bob—and I talked about another possibility not long ago.”

  Both Edwin and Chow were listening intently.

  “Remote viewing uses the same limbic region of the brain that is used when dreaming. I’m sure you know there’s a natural doorway between the conscious and subconscious mind. In remote viewing, we frequently open that door—which is unnatural to the wakened mind. Bob and I theorized that for some viewers, that was too much for their mind to handle. Their bodies tried to compensate but failed. The headaches seemed to be one of the first signs that their bodies were reacting negatively.”

  “Why do you believe you have not had these side effects?” Edwin asked.

  “I believe there are a few reasons. Paranormally gifted remote viewers—those with ESP, mental telepathy, individuals practicing astral projection—usually make excellent remote viewers, as do vivid dreamers. Perhaps those of us who fall into this category have minds that are more accustomed to the doorway between the conscious and subconscious frequently moving back and forth while awake. Maybe that’s the reason I’ve never fallen sick. I’ve never suffered a single headache after remote viewing,” I said, looking at the brothers.

  “Since we are both vivid dreamers, perhaps we will be protected, as you have been,” Chow said.

  I nodded. “But some added protection can’t hurt,” I said as I pulled my dad’s Herkimer from my pocket. I turned, facing Edwin. “You know that both Chow and I wear ours on cords around our necks. I want to ask you to do the same with this Herkimer, for protection.”