“I thought the Mandan were extinct.”
“Not completely.” January filled his lungs with air. His story was nearing its end. “And now, today, another 40 generations have passed. Another cycle is complete. It became time to refortify the bloodline.”
Thorne blinked. “Astarte.”
“Yes, she is the Fortieth Princess.” January straightened himself in his chair and steeled his voice. “To Astarte’s mother’s royal bloodline, I have added the blood of the Prophet, Joseph Smith, my great-grandfather.” There, he had said it. Admitted he had fathered Astarte. His own earthly father had almost killed him when he found out. But January had been obeying his heavenly father, who had appeared to him in a dream and decreed he mate with the Mandan princess.
The significance of his message empowered him, adding timbre and resonance to his voice, causing his words to reverberate and echo around the room. Thorne could not fail to heed their import. Or their divine inspiration. “Think what Astarte embodies, Mr. Thorne. She is the true princess of the Western world—more royal blood flows through her veins than through anyone else alive. Her kingdom shall be here in America, in God’s New Jerusalem. The world is ready for a female spiritual leader—just as the world was ready to accept Jesus as the Age of Pisces began, so too will it be willing to accept a female messiah as the Age of Aquarius dawns.”
Thorne looked at him blankly.
“Don’t you see?” January said. “Aquarius, the sign for water—water is where life begins inside the womb. A woman is destined to rule!” He banged the table with an open hand. “Astarte. She unites the bloodlines of Judaism, Christianity, Islam and Mormonism with the ancient Egyptian cult of Isis and its worship of the Sacred Feminine. In fact, her very name—Astarte—is an ancient version of the Isis name. It is Astarte’s destiny to bring the true word of God to all the earth’s inhabitants. And that word is the Book of Mormon.”
He sat back, exhausted, his sermon having sucked the energy from him.
“So that’s what this is all about.” Thorne shook his head. “You expect me to help you help her, what, take her throne? This is crazy. I promised to hear you out. Well I have. And you promised to free Amanda once I did.”
“Help her take her throne?” January repeated. Somehow Thorne did not understand. “No, God will do that. I just want you to show the world these artifacts, to recover the ancient scroll the Templars left hidden in the Catskills. That is your destiny; God has chosen you for this mission. The artifacts themselves are compelling and convincing. All they need is a champion. You, Mr. Thorne, shall be that champion.”
Thorne rolled his eyes. “God didn’t choose me for anything. The only reason I’m here is because you kidnapped Amanda.”
January took a deep breath. How had his words failed to convince his guest? He leaned forward. “No, Mr. Thorne, you are wrong. From the very first day you began to study the history of this continent God has been leading you down this path.” He locked eyes with the young man. “You must not deny your destiny.”
Thorne stood. “I promised to hear you out. And I have. Now I expect you to keep your promise and free Amanda.”
January had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. But God, in his infinite wisdom, had made sure January had a backup plan. With a sigh he bent slowly and removed a Glock 22 revolver from a paper bag under his chair, realizing as he did so that this had been God’s plan all along, that Thorne was never going to be convinced by mere words. So be it. He waved the weapon a few times, Thorne’s attention drawn involuntarily to the polished metal. Guns had a way of ending a debate that words could not resolve.
Thorne eyed him, his handsome face blanching. Did he fear the dying man would shoot him? His mind would reject the possibility, understanding that January needed him alive. But fear was a funny thing—like faith, it played by a different set of rules, ignoring reason and logic. January lifted the gun, the barrel flicking back and forth like a serpent tongue. Slowly he turned the weapon away from Thorne and toward his own mouth.
January had prepared for this final resolution for weeks, fought to keep his body alive just to get to this point. Instead of trepidation he felt only elation, as if the spirit of God had already cupped his soul in His gentle hands in preparation for the journey ahead. “You may not approve of my methods, or of my religion, but in the end you cannot ignore the evidence. The truth is here, in the artifacts and in this Clairvaux Codex and in the ancient scroll you will retrieve. And you are the one who is destined to reveal this truth.” He held the gun steady. “Read the document and my notes, Mr. Thorne, follow the clues, climb the mountain and recover the last few artifacts and the scroll I am too close to death to recover. And then tell the world.”
Thorne swallowed. “You’re a sick man.”
January nodded. “In fact, I am terminally ill. But that is irrelevant. You will see that what I have told you is true. I want your help. You’d prefer me dead—yes, I can see the contempt in your eyes. And, of course, you want your fiancée back. Well, perhaps we can both have what we want, Mr. Thorne. So here’s my offer to you. A death wish, if you will.”
With a theatrical panache January yanked a dishtowel away, revealing a small video monitor resting on the table between them. “Recognize anyone?”
Thorne leaned in, his face registering first relief and then fear at the sight of Amanda sitting at a kitchen table sipping tea. “Where is she?”
“She’s close by, and she’s safe. For now. But if you look closely, you’ll see a small suitcase under the table near her feet.” Of course, Astarte was being kept far from the kitchen.
Thorne nodded, swallowing.
“That case contains a dozen sticks of dynamite. And note the electric cord running from the wall to the case.” January looked at his watch. “In precisely 43 seconds an electronic impulse will detonate the dynamite. I have no doubt it will be fatal to anyone nearby.” He removed his watch, which was set to display in the timer mode, and dropped it on the table in front of Thorne.
Thorne’s jaw tightened. “Make it stop.”
January smiled. “Actually, you have that very power.” He pointed to a light switch on the wall behind Thorne’s chair. As he did so, he licked the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and inserted his wet fingers into an electrical socket on the wall next to his chair. “The circuit to this outlet is currently off. That light switch does two things—it closes the circuit running to the dynamite, and opens the circuit to this outlet.”
As Thorne cocked his head, January spoke. “So here is my offer: My death and Miss Spencer’s life in exchange for your help. You have 12 seconds to decide.” He inserted the Glock deep into his mouth, the barrel pointed up toward his brain. The wet fingers of his free hand remained in the outlet. The taste of metal spread thickly in his mouth.
Thorne’s eyes darted between the monitor, the watch, the light switch, the outlet, and the gun. January sensed Thorne had figured out that flicking the switch would send an electric shock through January’s body, causing January’s muscles to contract and his finger to pull the trigger. Thorne had also figured he didn’t have time to both disarm January and get back across the room to the light switch before the timer reached zero. Thorne half-stood. “Don’t make me do this. Put the gun down.”
January choked out the words. “Five seconds. Deal?” He closed his eyes. Glory be to God.
Thorne’s chair scraped across the floor. January took a final breath before a piercing flame ignited his fingers and flashed through him. He felt a stab of cold pain in his head, but that was quickly washed away by the salving, gentle voice of God informing him that Thorne had accepted the deal.
CHAPTER 8
Cam dove across the table, hoping to yank the gun away from the deranged January. “Stop!” He felt nothing but contempt for his adversary, but no one should die like this. Yet January’s simple engineering trick worked perfectly—the force of the shot snapped January’s head back, showering Cam with bloody skull fragments.
Slowly the lifeless body slid off the chair and crumpled to the floor.
Cam rolled off the table and stared at the monitor. He held his breath, a blood-red zero aglow on January’s digital watch. Amanda sipped her tea, oblivious to the bomb at her feet. Cam peered at the monitor for a few more seconds before finally exhaling. He found a dish towel hanging on the refrigerator door and wiped January’s blood off his face with a shaky hand. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, fighting to keep from fleeing the carnage around him.
Opening his eyes slowly he checked the monitor again, not trusting that in the next few seconds the earth would not shake and his world be shattered forever. But, gloriously, the monitor displayed Amanda continuing to sip her tea. Another deep breath and he edged toward January, reaching tentatively for his lifeless wrist. No pulse. Now what? He lifted the phone off the counter, dialed 911 and gave the address. “Jefferson January just shot himself in the head. He’s dead.”
The security guard rushed in as Cam hung up. Seeing his boss crumpled on the floor, he pulled his revolver and leveled it at Cam. “What happened?”
Cam kept his voice calm and made sure the guard could see his hands. “January shot himself in the mouth.” He swallowed. “I just called 911.” He steadied himself against the refrigerator.
The guard was young, maybe early twenties, possibly just back from a tour of duty in Iraq or Afghanistan. Composed, but clearly in battle mode as he studied the scene.
Cam took a deep breath; he felt clammy. He hadn’t eaten in a few hours and was starting to get shaky, probably from the adrenaline rush. “Look, you searched me and my car when I came in. You know I’m unarmed. And the gun is still in his hand.”
The guard nodded. “That’s his Glock all right.” He lowered his weapon.
A commotion in the parking lot drew their attention. Cam moved past the guard and pulled open the front door. A large muscular woman—presumably another member of the security staff—sprinted toward him. Amanda, hand-in-hand with the little girl, followed. She spotted him. “Cam! Are you all right? Someone said they heard a gunshot.”
He moved aside for the female guard and folded Amanda in his arms, his heart thumping against her chest. “I’m fine.” He moved his mouth to her ear. “Keep the girl away,” he whispered. “January shot himself.” He inhaled her scent. At least she was okay.
Amanda’s body went limp for an instant. “How horrible.” She kissed him tenderly on the mouth. “You’re shaking.”
He closed his eyes, his joy at seeing her irreconcilable with the gruesomeness of January’s suicide. Or was it a homicide? He fought to control his breathing, the floral scent of her hair slowly calming him. He squeezed her to him.
She recoiled. “Easy. I hurt my rib.”
He pulled back. “Are you okay?”
“I am now.” She leaned back into him, her fingers digging into his back.
He smiled sadly. “Me too.”
After a few seconds she gently pulled away. “Cameron, this is Astarte.”
He did his best to smile. “Nice to meet you.”
She stared up at him with dark, questioning eyes that belonged on an older face. “Hello.”
Cam and Astarte stared at each other for a few seconds before Amanda re-grasped Astarte’s hand and began to lead her away from January’s house.
“Wait,” Cam said. “Take these with you. Put them in the trunk of my rental car out there; it’s unlocked.” He handed her the wheeled carrying case containing the stone artifacts and the leather-bound folio. The gesture seemed at once both petty and crucially important. He whispered, “They were important enough for January to die for.”
She nodded and kissed him again before turning back to Astarte. “Come with me honey.” She pulled the case. “We can’t stay here.”
The girl looked up sadly. Somehow she knew. “Is Uncle Jefferson dead?”
“He may be hurt. But the police are coming and they will take care of everything. For now we need to go back to your room.” She spotted Venus, her nose pressed against the car window and her paws scratching excitedly at the glass at the site of Amanda. “Better yet, come to the car so you can meet Venus. Though I’m not sure how she got here.”
“Does she bite?”
“No,” Amanda smiled. “But she licks.”
The text message came just as Judith bent over January’s dead body. This was not how she expected this mission to end. Not that she even understood what the mission was all about. All she knew was that her bosses in Virginia had arranged for her to take a mundane security job with some crazy Mormon, to gather as much information about his activities as she could, and to wait for further instructions. That was two months ago. And until this week it had been about as exciting as watching someone play solitaire.
She displayed the message. “Eliminate Amanda Spencer. Eagle777.” What? She stared at the screen. There was nothing ambiguous about it, and the Eagle777 sign-off attested to its authenticity. But it made no sense. Orders to murder, especially civilians on U.S. soil, were almost never given—and only then to protect national security. She walked into the living room and texted back. “Please repeat.” She had helped out with the kidnapping because she didn’t want to blow her cover, but this….
Her supervisor, a man named Jabil Hayek whom she spoke with weekly but had never actually met, would not appreciate her insubordination. She had killed in combat before, but she wasn’t going to assassinate a civilian unless she was 100% certain of the order. And even then she might have second thoughts.
The response came seconds later. “A matter of TOP national security. Eliminate Amanda Spencer.”
Shit. What in the world could Mary Poppins have done to deserve this? Judith had reported to Hayek that the girl and Amanda had snuck into January’s bunker full of artifacts. But did that warrant death? She sighed. She had signed on for a life in the intelligence community. And that meant secrecy and violence and ugliness. And most of all it meant blind obedience to orders coming from Virginia. Even if they seemed to make no sense whatsoever.
She peered out the window. The local police had just arrived; Eliza was leading them to January’s kitchen. They would want to interview Thorne, which would take a while. But apparently he hadn’t killed January so at some point he and Amanda would get in the car and drive away. Which meant she only had a few minutes to carry out her orders and then get the hell out of there. Slipping out a side door, she walked as casually as she could across the compound before sprinting up the stairs to her bedroom above the garage. She quickly packed everything she would need to survive in the woods into a small backpack.
Descending the stairs three at a time, she barged into the garage and grabbed a pair of bolt cutters hanging with the other tools on the back wall. She sprinted through the rear yard and along a path toward the security fence, stopping at an area of fencing brushed by the low branches of a pine tree. She snapped at the metal, grinding and twisting the blades; she folded back a section of fence. Once on the other side she would fold the fence section back into place and camouflage the breach with the tree branches, hopefully delaying her pursuers. After that her superior fitness and survival skills should keep her alive. She checked her watch. Nineteen minutes had passed since she received her orders. She sprinted back to her bedroom above the garage.
Sweat ran down her armpits and pooled along the waistband of her blue workpants as she pulled the curtain aside and rested the stand of her Remington M40 sniper rifle on the window ledge. She had a clear shot at Thorne’s car parked 100 feet away. It was a shot she could nail from five times the distance, her biathlon training making her an expert markswoman even with an elevated heart rate. She rubbed a clammy hand over her face and exhaled slowly. What in the world had Mary Poppins done?
Jabil Hayek sat behind a nondescript desk in a nondescript office within a nondescript office building in suburban Virginia. He sucked his cigarette—his fifth of the morning—down to the filter and crushed it in
to a navy blue “World’s Best Dad” coffee mug he now used as an ashtray. Some dad. He’d be lucky to make it to Thanksgiving dinner at this rate. And he wouldn’t feel much like celebrating if he did. If heavy hangs the head that wears the crown, then heavier still hangs the head that keeps the secrets—and makes the difficult decisions—that protect the peace. But maintaining the peace was paramount—no child should have to grow up the way he did, or witness the things he witnessed, after Lebanon exploded into civil war in 1975. If a few must die so the rest can live in peace, well, such is the ugly but unavoidable cost of living in a civilized society. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one.
He rubbed his face and lit another cigarette. He had chosen this career, chosen to serve his adopted country in this way. Life as an intelligence officer was good work, necessary work, honorable work. Even if sometimes, like today, he had to make decisions that might leave blood on his hands.
Not that he had expected today to be the day the Clairvaux Codex resurfaced after more than 60 years, in the possession of a nut like Jefferson January no less. But that’s the way things often worked in the intelligence world—information bubbled to the surface from strange places at strange times. And then it had to be dealt with.
McDevitt had warned him the Clairvaux Codex might someday reemerge. The crusty, steel-eyed World War II veteran had called him into his office on a warm fall afternoon in November, 1989, the day the Berlin Wall fell. “I always said I’d stay at my desk until we finally beat the Commies. Well, they’re done. So I’m off to do some fishing. Just a couple of things you should know about before I go.”
McDevitt had held up a yellowed manila folder, with the words CLAIRVAUX CODEX written in block letters on the tab. “For your eyes only. Nobody else knows about this.”
“Why me?”
McDevitt was a near-legend at Langley for his instincts and insight—he had the rare ability to see three or four moves into the future, to see what was coming around the corner. But he tended to work alone, and Hayek had only limited contact with him.
Thief on the Cross: Templar Secrets in America (Templars in America Series Book 2) Page 11
