He looked up to see the man standing impassively, watching him through the thickening smoke.
“Names of friends. Friends you visit museums with.”
Branko coughed, peering desperately over the man’s shoulder to where flames were now cracking as the timber rails caught fire. He couldn’t string this out. “Gus,” he blurted out frantically. “Gus and Mitch. That’s all I know.”
“Mitch who?”
Branko couldn’t say the words fast enough. “Adeson. Mitch Adeson. That’s all I know, I swear to God.”
“Mitch Adeson.”
“That’s it. That’s how it was done. It’s like a chain of command, blind cells, you know?”
The man studied him carefully, then nodded. “I know.”
Thank God, the sick fuck believes me. “Now get me out of these fucking cuffs,” he pleaded. “Come on!”
“Where can I find this Mitch Adeson?” the man asked. He listened intently as Branko spluttered out what he knew, then nodded and said, “There was a fourth man with you. Describe him to me.”
“I didn’t see his face, he had a ski mask on, he never took the damn thing off. He had it on under the armor and the rest of that shit.”
Again the man nodded. “Okay,” he murmured. Then he turned and walked away.
“Hey! HEY!” Branko yelled after him.
But the man didn’t turn. He proceeded down toward the far end, pausing only to pick up the sack containing the stolen relics from the museum.
“You can’t leave me here,” Branko pleaded.
Then he realized what the man was doing. He was releasing the last of the horses.
Branko screamed as the panic-stricken dappled filly led the other two horses out of their stalls. And then they were thundering toward him at a headlong gallop, eyes wild, nostrils flared, the flames behind them making them look like they were coming at him straight out of the mouth of hell.
And he was strapped across their only escape route.
Chapter 25
“So tell me more about this chick.”
Reilly groaned at the question. From the moment he’d mentioned his conversation with Tess to his partner, he knew this was a conversation he’d have to suffer. “This chick?” he deadpanned.
He and Aparo were headed east, through the choked streets of Queens. Apart from its color, the Pontiac they had been allocated was a virtual clone of the Chrysler they had wrecked in nailing Gus Waldron. Aparo made a face as he edged the car cautiously around a stationary truck with a steaming radiator, its driver uselessly kicking a front tire.
“I’m sorry. Miss Chaykin.”
Reilly did his best not to appear nonplussed. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Come on.” Aparo knew his partner better than anyone; not that he had much competition. Reilly wasn’t one to let people get close.
“What do you want from me?”
“She approached you. Out of the blue. Just like that, she remembered you from the museum, from a quick eyeball from all the way across the hall, after everything she’d been through that night?”
“What can I say?” Reilly kept his eyes firmly on the road. “The lady’s got a photographic memory.”
“Photographic memory, my ass,” Aparo scoffed. “This babe’s on the prowl.”
Reilly rolled his eyes. “She’s not on the prowl. She’s just…curious.”
“So she’s got a photographic memory and an inquisitive mind. And she’s a total hottie. But you didn’t notice any of that. Nah. You were only thinking about the case.”
Reilly shrugged. “Okay, so maybe I noticed a little.”
“Thank God. He breathes. He’s alive,” he mocked in a tone straight out of an old Frankenstein movie. “You do know she’s single, right?”
“I kind of noticed.” Reilly had tried not to make a big deal out of it. Earlier that morning, he had read the statement Tess had given to Amelia Gaines at the museum, just before he had asked a research analyst to look for any reference to the Knights Templar in the bulging files they kept on extremist groups around the country.
Aparo eyed him. He knew him so well, he could read him at fifty paces. And he loved needling him. “I don’t know, but a babe like that makes a pass at me, I’d be all over her in a heartbeat.”
“You’re married.”
“Yeah, well, I can dream, can’t I?”
They were off the Long Island Expressway now and would soon be out of Queens. The address on Petrovic’s file was out of date, but his old landlord there said he knew where Petrovic worked. The stables were somewhere around here and Reilly checked a street map, gave Aparo directions. Then, knowing that his partner would never let go, he reluctantly picked up the thread. “Besides, she didn’t make a pass,” he protested.
“Sure she didn’t. She’s just a concerned citizen looking out for the rest of us.” He shook his head. “I don’t get it. You’re single. You’re not butt-ugly. You don’t have any offensive aromas I’m aware of. And yet…See, we married guys, we need buddies like you, we need to live vicariously through you and, well, you’re really letting the team down.”
Reilly couldn’t argue with that. It had been a long while since he’d spent any meaningful time with a woman and, even though he wouldn’t dream of mentioning it to his partner, he couldn’t deny the attraction he had felt toward Tess. But he knew that, like Amelia Gaines, Tess Chaykin didn’t seem to be the kind of woman who would take kindly to being treated casually, which was just as well, given that he wasn’t exactly the casual kind either. And therein lay the paradox at the heart of his loneliness. If a woman didn’t completely enthrall him, he wasn’t interested. And if she had that special quality that got him going, what happened to his father would soon become an issue for him; his fears would inevitably kick in at some point and deny the relationship any chance of blossoming.
You’ve got to let go. It doesn’t have to happen to you too.
Looking ahead now, Reilly spotted some smoke and, with it, the flashing lights of two fire trucks. He glanced at Aparo and reached for the flasher, slapping it on the roof as his partner hit the siren and floored the gas pedal. They were soon weaving in and out of traffic, barreling their way through the nose-to-tail barrage of cars and trucks.
AS THEY TURNED INTO the stable’s parking lot, Reilly could see that in addition to the fire trucks, there were a couple of black-and-whites and an ambulance. Parking well clear of the exit, they left the car and walked over toward the scene, badging up as they went. One of the uniforms started toward them, arms spread wide, then saw the badges and let them through.
Although the fire was almost out, the smell of burned wood hung heavily in the air. Three or four people, stable staff by the look of them, were stumbling around in the drifting smoke, trying to control frightened horses amid the tangle of fire hoses that snaked across the ground. A man in a charcoal raincoat was standing with a grim expression on his face, watching them approach.
Reilly introduced himself and Aparo. The cop, a sergeant by the name of Milligan, didn’t look thrilled. “Don’t tell me,” he said sardonically, “you just happened to be in the neighborhood.”
Reilly nodded toward the charred stables. “Branko Petrovic,” he simply stated.
Milligan shrugged and led the way into the stable, where a pair of paramedics were crouched over a body. Propped nearby was a lightweight stretcher.
Reilly glanced at it, then at Milligan who got the message: this had to be treated as a crime scene with a suspicious death. “What do we know?” he asked.
Milligan leaned over the body that lay blackened and crumpled amid splintered pieces of wood. “You tell me. I thought this was gonna be an easy one.”
Reilly looked over Milligan’s shoulder. It was hard to tell what was smoke-blackened flesh from what was blood mixed with soot and water from the fire hoses. Another gruesome detail that added to the macabre setting was that the man’s left arm was lying there by the body, no longer attached to the tors
o. Reilly frowned. Whatever it was, the mess that had once been Branko Petrovic was barely identifiable as human.
“How can you be so sure it’s him?” he asked.
Milligan reached down, pointing a finger at the side of the dead man’s forehead. Reilly could see an indentation that, even among all the other damage, was clearly not recent. “He got clipped by a horse, years ago. On the force. Used to be proud of it, surviving a kick in the head.”
As Reilly crouched down for a closer look, he noticed one of the paramedics, a dark-haired girl in her twenties. She seemed eager to chime in. Reilly met her eyes for a moment. “You got something for us?”
She smiled and held up Petrovic’s left wrist. “Don’t tell the ME I jumped the gun on this, but someone didn’t like this guy. His other wrist’s scorched through, but see this one here?” She was pointing at the detached arm. “The contusions on it are still visible. He was tied up.” She pointed up at the doorway. “I’d say he had one hand tied to each side. Like he was crucified across the doorway.”
Aparo grimaced at the imagery. “You mean someone let the horses stampede over him?”
“Or through him,” Reilly added.
She nodded. Reilly thanked her and her partner before walking away with Milligan and Aparo.
“Why were you guys looking at Petrovic?” Milligan asked.
Reilly was studying the horses. “Before we go there, you got any reasons to think someone might want him dead?”
Milligan inclined his head toward the smoldering stable block. “Not particularly. I mean, you know how it is with these places. Wise guys like their horses, and given Petrovic’s past…But no, nothing specific. What’s your take?”
He listened intently as Reilly filled him in on the link between Gus Waldron and Branko Petrovic and their link to the raid at the Met.
“I’ll ask for all this to be prioritized,” Milligan told Reilly. “Get the crime scene guys over, ask the fire chief to run the arson tests today, push the autopsy to the top of the file.”
As Reilly and Aparo reached their car, a fine drizzle had started to fall.
“Someone’s tying up loose ends,” Aparo said.
“Looks that way. We’re gonna need to get the ME to take a closer look at Waldron.”
“If that’s what this is, we need to find the other two horsemen before whoever’s doing this gets to them.”
Reilly looked up at the darkening sky before turning to his partner. “Two horsemen, or just one,” he countered, “if the last of the four is the one doing the killing.”
Chapter 26
His eyes stinging from the strain of many hours spent poring over the ancient manuscripts, he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes gently with a wet towel.
How long had it been? Was it morning? Night? He had lost all track of time since returning here after his mounted foray into the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Of course, the media, that pack of dysfunctional, semiliterate creatures, were probably referring to it as a robbery or a heist. None of them, or even anyone in higher places, would ever understand his way of thinking of it as an exercise in practical research. But that was what it was. And the time was not too far off when the whole world would know Saturday night’s incident for what it really was: the first move in something that would irrevocably alter how many of them looked at their world. A move that would, one day soon, remove the scales from their eyes and open up their petty minds to something far beyond their feeble imaginings.
And I’m almost there. Not long to go now.
Turning, he looked at the wall behind him on which hung a calendar. Although the time of day was unimportant to him, dates always had significance.
One such date was circled with red.
Glancing again at the results of his work with the multigeared rotor encoder, he reread one passage that had troubled him from the moment he had decoded it.
Very puzzling, he mused. Then he smiled, realizing that, unconsciously, he had used the exact right word. It had not been enough for this manuscript to be set in code; before encoding, this particular passage had first been designed as a puzzle.
He felt a flood of admiration for the man who had written this document.
Then he frowned. He had to solve it speedily. So far as he knew, his tracks were thoroughly covered, but he wouldn’t be so foolish as to underestimate the enemy. Unfortunately, in order to work out the puzzle, he needed a library. That meant he would have to leave the security of his home and venture aboveground.
He thought for a moment, then decided with reasonable certainty that it was evening. He would visit the library. Carefully. Just in case anyone had made a connection and alerted those working there to report people asking for materials of a certain nature.
Then he smiled to himself. Now you’re being paranoid. They weren’t that clever.
After the library, he would return here, hopefully with the solution in hand, and then complete the decoding of the remaining passages.
He glanced again at the calendar with its encircled date.
A date seared into his memory forever.
A date he could never forget.
He had a small but important—and painful—duty to perform. After that, all being well, and with the manuscript fully decoded, he would fulfill the destiny that had been unfairly thrust upon him.
Chapter 27
Monsignor De Angelis sat on the hard rattan chair in his bedroom on the top floor of the austere Oliver Street hostel where the diocese had arranged for him to stay while he was in New York. It wasn’t all bad. The hostel was practically located for him, being only a few blocks east of Federal Plaza. And from its upper floors, the view of the Brooklyn Bridge couldn’t fail but inspire romanticized visions of the city in the hearts of the purists who normally occupied these rooms. But the view was wasted on him.
He wasn’t exactly in a purist frame of mind right now.
He checked the time, then flicked open his cell phone and dialed Rome. Cardinal Rienzi answered, balked a little about disturbing Cardinal Brugnone, then acquiesced, as De Angelis knew he would.
“Tell me you have some good news, Michael,” Brugnone said, clearing his throat.
“The FBI people are making progress. Some of the stolen objects have been recovered.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“Yes, it is. The Bureau and the NYPD are keeping to their word and devoting a lot of resources to this case.”
“What of the robbers? Have they arrested any others?”
“No, Your Eminence,” De Angelis replied. “The man they had in custody passed away before they could question him. A second gang member also died in a fire. I spoke to the agent overseeing the case earlier today. They’re still waiting for results of forensic tests, but he believes the man may have been murdered.”
“Murdered. How terrible,” Brugnone sighed, “and how tragic. Their greed is consuming them. They’re fighting over the spoils.”
The monsignor shrugged. “It seems that way, yes.”
Brugnone paused. “Of course, there is another possibility, Michael.”
“It has occurred to me.”
“Our man could be cleaning out his house.”
De Angelis nodded imperceptibly to himself. “I suspect that to be the case.”
“This is not good. Once he’s the only one left, he’ll be even more difficult to find.”
“Everyone makes mistakes, Your Eminence. And when he does, I’ll make sure we don’t miss it.”
De Angelis could hear the cardinal shuffling around uneasily in his seat. “I’m not comfortable with these developments. Isn’t there anything you can do to expedite matters?”
“Not without what the FBI would deem to be unwarranted interference.”
Brugnone was silent for a moment, then he said, “Well, for the moment do not upset them. But you must ensure that we are kept fully abreast of the investigation.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Brugnone’s voice took on a more ominous tone. “You understand how important this is, Michael. It’s imperative that we recover everything before any irreparable damage is done.”
De Angelis knew exactly what the cardinal’s stress on the word “everything” meant. “Of course, Your Eminence,” he said. “I understand perfectly.”
After he had hung up, De Angelis remained seated for some minutes, thinking. Then he knelt beside the bed to pray; not for divine intervention, but that personal weakness might not cause him to fail.
There was far too much at stake.
Chapter 28
When the printouts from Columbia came through to Tess’s office that afternoon, they appeared to be disappointingly thin. A quick skim confirmed the disappointment. Tess couldn’t find anything that was of use. From what Clive Edmondson had told her, she was not expecting anything on the Knights Templar. It wasn’t William Vance’s official area of expertise. Mostly, he had concentrated on Phoenician history up to the third century before Christ. The link, though, was a natural one and seemed promising: the great Phoenician ports of Sidon and Tyre became, a thousand years later, formidable Templar strongholds. It was as if one had to peel through layers of Crusader and Templar history to get a peek at Phoenician life.
Furthermore, nowhere in his published papers that were sent to her was there any mention of the subjects of cryptography and cryptology.
She felt deflated. All the reading and research she’d done at the library, and now Vance’s papers—none of it had helped her get any closer to figuring this out.
She decided to do one last trawl online, and the same several hundred hits came up again when she entered Vance’s name into the search engine. This time, though, she decided to take her time and study them more carefully.
She had run through a couple of dozen sites when she came across a site that only mentioned Vance in passing and in an unashamedly mocking tone. The article, a transcript of a speech given by a French historian at the Université de Nantes almost ten years ago, was a scathing review of what its author considered less than worthy ideas that were, in his view, muddying the waters for more serious academics.
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